I wave to her companion and offer a weak, “Hi.”

“Hello,” he says uncertainly. I follow Lia down the hallway, then turn into the meeting room.

“I told you—” she greets me with audible frustration, and I hold my hands up again and try to make her understand.

“Listen,” I say, very quietly. “You’re my only lead, and I can tell that you love your grandmother just as much as I love mine, so I understand why you don’t want to help me. But I hope you can understand my position too. The only concrete thing I’ve found since I arrived here is her childhood home—which isn’t giving up any secrets—and you. So—okay, there really does seem to be some confusion around my Pa and your Tomasz Slaski—but if you can spare me a few minutes, perhaps we can resolve that. You said Emilia still visits his grave, right?”

“She does,” Lia says. Sadness leaps into her gaze, and in that instant, I know she’s not lying about this. “Every month. She used to go more often when she was younger. He was her hero.”

“Okay,” I say, then I suck in a breath and ask hopefully, “So, can you tell me where the grave is?” Lia hesitates just a little, and I adjust the strap of my handbag because I’m too nervous to be still while I wait for her answer. The silence stretches some more, and I try to make a joke. “I promise not to camp out there for a month and bully my way into seeing your grandmother. I’d just like to see it.”

“Fine,” Lia sighs. She walks across the room to a cabinet, and withdraws a piece of paper and a pen. She sets both onto the board table in the center of the room, then scrawls down an address. “It’s not easy to find—you have to drive out of town. Follow the main road—it curves around behind the hill you can see to the east from pretty much any point in town. There’s an old property there—this is the street address. We drive all the way onto the farm, but my grandmother has the only key to the gate, so you’ll have to park in the driveway and jump the fence.”

I know exactly the place she’s describing—there’s no way it can be anywhere but Babcia’s family home. Still, I’m too nervous to get my hopes up, so I interrupt her gently to ask, “Is this S´wie˛tojan´ska, 4?” I say. Predictably, I totally muddle the pronunciation on the street name—but not so much that Lia doesn’t understand it, because her gaze narrows.

“I don’t understand.” She scowls. “You already know where it is?”

“That house,” I say, but my voice comes out a little husky, so I pause to clear my throat, then I ask, “Why is the grave behind that house?”

“The house is abandoned—it has been since the war, not even the communists wanted it,” Lia tells me. “But he’s not buried there at the house, he’s buried on the hill behind it. I’m just directing you to the house because it’s much easier to get to the grave from that side than from the town side now. There are new houses all along the hill on this side so the path is blocked.”

“But that particular spot...? Why there at that hill?”

Lia passes me the paper and frowns.

“I have no idea. Now tell me—how did you know that address?”

“It was my grandmother’s childhood home,” I tell her, and her eyes widen. There’s an awkward pause while she ponders this, then Lia concedes, “Well, that’s quite a coincidence.”

“Surely that can’t be a coincidence,” I say incredulously.

“This entire area was overrun by Nazis. There are unfortunate souls buried in every conceivable place around here—my great-uncle is lucky he at least has a headstone. But I’ll be honest with you—I have no idea how he came to be buried there. My grandmother isn’t exactly keen to discuss the worst days of her life on a regular basis, you know? She won’t talk about the war, and we’ve given up asking her.”

I laugh weakly as I nod.

“I know exactly what that’s like.”

“That’s actually why I can’t let you talk to her,” Lia says softly. “She’s like a different woman on the days when we visit his grave. It costs her something to honor his memory, and I won’t ask more of her than that. But if it helps you, by all means, visit the grave.” She shrugs. “I just don’t think there’s anything more I can do to help you beyond this one thing, okay?”

“Thank you,” I say, then I throw myself at her and hug her. She stiffens, then returns the hug briefly and nods toward the door.

“Good luck.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Zofia and I stand at a clearing in the woods behind my grandmother’s childhood home, staring at the creepiest thing I have ever seen.

Tomasz Slaski. 1920 to 1942

His name is etched into the polished red granite of a tall headstone. The stone is clean; clearly lovingly maintained. A semifresh set of mixed flowers is dying on the grass in front of the stone, and it’s surrounded by clean candles, the wicks unlit now but black from prior use. There’s even a few LED lanterns in various shapes and sizes. Zofia bends and turns one of the lanterns on, and it lights up without delay.

I look back to the stone and stare at the name again. This time, I notice that below the name and dates, a medal has been attached to the headstone. The inscription on the medal is in Hebrew.

Zofia and I stare silently at the grave for a while, like it’s a puzzle we can solve if we just stare long enough, but it’s not long before I find I just can’t look at it any longer. I turn away, and exhale shakily.

“Poor Emilia,” Zofia murmurs. I glance back at her, and find she’s crouching close to the medal. She runs her finger over the characters very gently. “This is the medal awarded to the Righteous Among The Nations. It indicates that this Tomasz Slaski took great personal risk during the war to aid Jewish people. It means his name is listed on the Wall of Honor in the Garden of the Righteous in Jerusalem.” She pauses, then bows her head. “It is a big deal. Truly, a huge honor.”

“This is just awful,” I say, and I stand and frown. I’m feeling suddenly irritable, as if my skin has grown too tight, and I shiver because despite the sweltering day, there’s a chill running down my spine as I stare at a grave that I know is not my grandfather’s, despite the fact that grandfather’s name is on it. “It’s just so creepy, isn’t it?” My hand twitches against the phone in my hand, and I raise it to take a photo, but as soon as I do, I lower the phone in a rush. Zofia stands and offers me a questioning glance.

“I can’t show her,” I blurt. “It would...it will upset her so much!”

Zofia inclines her head in acknowledgment.