“But this is quite the mystery, no?”

“It’s Pa’s name and that’s the year he was born, but this obviously can’t be Pa.”

“No,” Zofia agrees softly, and she stands. “But Emilia Slaski doesn’t know that.”

“How could this happen?” I whisper. “Do you think this is what Babcia sent us for? To tell Pa’s sister the truth?”

There’s no way to answer that question, and I’m not surprised when Zofia remains silent. We stare at the grave for another few minutes in silence, then she asks me, “How did your grandparents get to the US?”

“I don’t even know. All I know is that Mom was born in January ’43 and they were already settled there by then.”

Zofia frowns.

“That can’t be right.”

I stand and look at her quizzically.

“No, I’m sure it is.”

“They must have left before the war.”

“I know they were here when the war began, that’s about all I do know, actually.”

“But...they left during the occupation?”

“They must have.”

“That’s...difficult to believe.” Zofia shakes her head slowly, her eyebrows knitted. “It was all but impossible to get out of Nazi-held territory.”

“All I know is that they came on a boat from England. I have no idea how they got from here to England.”

Zofia exhales, then she looks at the headstone again.

“I’m just thinking aloud here but—do you think Emilia might have assumed her brother died, but he was actually on his way to America? She must have been very young when this happened. Perhaps she or someone else even mistook another body for his? Because if this guy died in 1942, and Tomasz fled from Poland in 1942...”

“That might be the only explanation,” I say. My throat feels tight with tears that I will probably shed later, because while I don’t understand this at all—the only thing I know for sure is that this is utterly tragic for Emilia Slaski. “This is a really strange place for a grave, right?”

“Perhaps this was just where he died,” Zofia suggests.

“Behind my grandmother’s house?”

“Plenty of people hid in patches of woods during the war.”

“And was it my grandfather who was the hero saving Jews? Or this other guy?”

I glance back at the headstone one last time, and a shiver runs down my spine. I remember Pa so well—I just can’t imagine him letting his sister think he was dead for all of those years. It’s much easier to imagine him taking heroic measures to help his countrymen, because he was one of the most giving men I’ve ever met.

“Zofia?” I ask quietly.

“Yes?”

“Do you have any idea how we can untangle this without Emilia’s input? Or whether or not we should even tell her, even if we do happen to get access to her?”

Zofia gives me a sad smile.

“I hate to say this, Alice...but I think the only way forward here is via Lia Truchen.”

* * *

I leave Zofia in the car again when I step into the clinic for a fourth time. I feel like I made better progress this morning, and maybe there were even a few moments there where Lia and I really connected. I find that she’s serving a patient when I enter the room, but her companion sees me, and he elbows her gently, then points to me. There’s visible frustration in Lia’s gaze as she stares at me, but then she fixes a smile to her face, finishes serving her patient and leads the way back to the meeting room.

“Lia...” I take a deep breath, then blurt, “I saw the grave. It’s definitely my grandfather’s name and year of birth, but it can’t be him because he only died last year. It seems to me that the only way we’re ever going to understand this is if you or even I could talk to Emilia—”

“Listen, Alice,” Lia says flatly. “I feel for you. I really do. I’ve done everything I can to help you—what you’re asking for now is simply impossible.”

“Maybe you could just mention Alina—”

“Every month we take her to visit that grave,” Lia says abruptly. “On the very last Sunday of every month she goes to Mass in her very best clothes, then she stops for flowers at the market, and then us grandkids have a roster and we all take turns driving her up there. And do you know why we each take turns?” When I shake my head, Lia’s gaze grows sharp. “Because Alice, nearly eighty years after he died, my beautiful, brave grandmother still cries sometimes when she sees his grave and it’s heartbreaking. Do you even understand what you are asking of me?”

“Imagine if Emilia was on her deathbed, and she sent you to America, and you were in my position,” I plead with her.

“We have one upset elderly lady at the moment, yes?” Lia says. “If we do as you ask, we will have two upset elderly ladies, and what do we achieve? Nothing. Most likely, my grandmother will be as bewildered by all this as you and I are, and if she never replied to your grandmother’s letters, there is almost certainly a reason for that. Please, please stop bothering me here—this is my workplace.”

I’m about to leave. I’m about to walk out the door and concede defeat. I walk all the way out to the waiting room, and I head toward the door, and then I think about driving away from this place and living the rest of my life without knowing why Babcia sent me here.

It’s too late for Babcia to tell me her story. It’s too late for me to understand all of the moments big and small that led to the family I have in America now. It’s probably even too late for me to explain to Babcia just how important she’s been to me, and how deep the love I have for her is.

But it’s not too late for me to plant my feet hard against this carpet and to give this bewildering mystery absolutely everything I have. Lia is my only link to Emilia—my only link to “understanding Tomasz.”

Sometimes you have to smash the damn door down.

I can’t walk away. I just can’t give up this easily. I sit heavily in a visitor’s chair by the door and raise my gaze to Lia. She’s staring at me incredulously.

“You absolutely cannot stay here,” she calls, paying no heed to the confused patients who sit in chairs all around me.

“I’m not going anywhere until you agree to talk to her for me.” I shrug. It’s uncomfortable for me to be this difficult. I mean, once upon a time... Well, this was kind of the life I thought I’d lead. In my idealistic youth, I really thought I’d be the sort of journalist who uncovered deeply buried truths, a woman who made a way to tell the stories that need to be told.