37

 

“THEY WOULDN’T EVEN let me see her until yesterday,” Anna choked out between sobs. Her meek voice was stretched thin as a high note on a violin.

It was Sunday morning. Mom and I had driven over to the Schimschacks’ while my father got some much needed rest. We had to leave the car parked out by Highway 2 and trudge in, since no one had shoveled Saturday night’s snowfall.

“For two weeks, I could not see my own child,” Anna emphasized. Her eyes were raw with anguish, and the rough red patches she’d always had over her cheekbones were inflamed. I’d never seen an adult so distraught, carrying on like a frightened child. It was heartbreaking and disturbing and at the same time bolstered my resolution of the previous day. I would never allow myself to grow up ignorant, at the mercy of those in power.

“How is she now?” Mom asked. Instead of responding, Anna looked hesitantly over toward Timmy. The house was so small that he sat scarcely six feet away on the couch, holding two rabbits in his ample lap. He crooned quietly as he petted them. His mother indicated concern that he might be upset by whatever she had to say, but Timmy had retreated far into the world he inhabited, seemingly unperturbed by his mother’s wailing. It was as if he couldn’t even hear.

Piotr Gorski sat at his station by a pile of stove-wood, silently smoking his pipe. It seemed odd that he hadn’t risen from his chair or even greeted my mother when we came in from the cold. He used to be so fond of her. Anna was about to speak when her father suddenly opened the cast iron door to the firebox, ostensibly to add more wood. Instead, he leaned down and peered inside, as if checking on a loaf of baking bread. The flames cast a blinding light that lit up his red face like a demon. Then he spoke in Polish, not to Anna, but as if to someone or something within the stove. He chose a stick of wood and examined it thoroughly before placing it inside, slowly, far too slowly, with his hand too close to the flames.

“Careful, Papa,” Anna shrieked. That’s when I noticed he had a dirty rag wrapped around his hand. I could see oozing blisters peeking out.

“Careful?” He turned to look at her so that his face was only lit on one side. Somehow, he looked even more frightening. “Too late for care,” he said gruffly. “I sold my soul to the devil, and for what? My sons are dead . . . and my only daughter is some Indian’s whore.”

“Oh, Papa . . . we have company. I’m so sorry, please excuse him,” Anna said in mortification.

My mother looked suitably appalled. “Why don’t you let me take you home with us for a little while, so we can talk without, uh, disturbing Mr. Gorski,” she said, pulling off a feat of discretion.

“I don’t want to trouble you . . .”

“No trouble,” she said, getting up, clearly intending to leave whether she came or not. Piotr Gorski muttered again, then shut the black cast-iron door.

“What is he saying when he talks to himself?” I asked, once we were outside.

“Cassandra, that’s personal,” Mom admonished.

“It’s okay,” Anna assured. “I can’t tell what he says . . . I’m forgetting my Polish,” she said hurriedly, still buttoning up her coat. She couldn’t get out of the shack and away from him fast enough.

“I don’t mean to pry, but it looks like your father’s injured his hand,” my mother said as we trooped through the snowy woods to the car. “I think he needs to see a doctor.”

“I know. I told him. He’ll not listen. Too stubborn,” Anna said dismissively.

 

IN THE PRIVACY of our kitchen, Anna spoke freely. “The first thing they did was cut off her braids. I hardly recognized her; her hair is like . . .” She put her hands at the level of her jawbone to indicate the length.

“Oh, no! What a terrible thing to do to a girl . . . especially a girl who sees herself as Indian,” Mom sympathized.

“I’d like to kill them,” I cried, jumping to my feet. “If I were a lawyer, I’d sue the school for a million dollars. I’d sue the state of Wisconsin for another two million!”

“It’s just awful. Not like your cute haircut.” Anna pointed at me. “Like chopped with a meat cleaver.”

I recalled with chagrin how I looked before my aunt took me to the beauty shop.

“But I’m more worried about her heart,” she went on. “My daughter seems changed already . . . very hard.” She waved her hand over her face and assumed a stoic mask. “Her eyes burned with anger, and she wouldn’t let me hug her. She pushed me away. I’m afraid she hates me. I don’t blame her.”

“She’s probably in a state of shock,” Mom offered. “I would be.”

“Sparrow is tough; they can cut her hair, but they can’t break her spirit,” I said, hoping I was right. “Mr. Cunningham has an idea to get her back. He’s a lawyer who’s helping my dad . . . helping us. I told him what they did to Sparrow, and he said he’d talk to her father.”

“This is true?” Anna looked at my mother hopefully.

“Yes, and that’s what we came to tell you. I’m not sure I understand entirely—”

“I do,” I interrupted. “At least I remember what Mr. Cunningham said. John Wind can choose to file a petition to acknowledge that he is her father, even though . . . uh, even though you two aren’t married. Her own father would have a right to go to court and try to get her back. Then she can legally change her name to Sparrow Wind. Mr. Wind could register her with the tribe, too; then her case would be an Indian affair.” I smiled with satisfaction, pretty sure I’d recalled the important details and explained the matter clearly. “Do you think he’d do that for her?”

“I don’t know. I hope so,” Anna said. “So then . . . she would have to live with him, at the reservation?”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” I said, “but I’m not positive about that.”

“I pray he will have her . . . it’s a touchy thing, with his old father. I’d miss my daughter terribly . . . but I’d be okay as long as she is out of that prison. I was in prison once. Oh God, my poor child.” She began to cry again.

“I don’t understand,” Mom said.

“They were in a concentration camp in Poland, during the war,” I said quietly.

“Oh Anna, I had no idea. I’m so sorry, but don’t worry . . .”

“They cut my hair too.” She continued to weep.

“I understand, but we don’t have anything like that in this country. No matter how bad reform school is, it’s nothing like a concentration camp.”

“What’s this about a concentration camp?” my father’s hoarse voice interjected. He had just got out of bed and was still wearing his robe over flannel pajamas.

“George, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Anna said, sniffing. Mom handed her some more Kleenex.

“Why is this being discussed in front of my daughter?” He looked expectantly from Anna to my mother; his voice had the edge of a serrated knife.

“It’s okay, Daddy. I already heard all about it from the kids at school.” My half-truth protected Sparrow from blame.

“Oh.” He absentmindedly rubbed the jagged scar at the back of his head.

“Dad, I’m getting to be a big girl. Something like that just can’t be kept a secret forever.”

“No . . . I don’t suppose it can. The evil will live on until every last human being it touched . . . and their children, and maybe even their children’s children . . . until there’re all dead and buried. Then maybe we can forget . . . maybe things can go back the way they used be.”

“I don’t think we can ever forget,” Anna offered. “I don’t think we should try.”