True Harvest Page 6

  “Dziekuję.”

  The girl turned to her father. “She speaks Polish?”

  “She’s trying. Maybe you can teach her.”

  They finished the game, with Magdalena pointing to each of the numbered squares and repeating their names for Marielle, who stumbled through their pronunciation.

  On the walk back to the apartment they counted in sing-song, Magdalena riding on Tomas’s shoulders.

  After supper that evening Tomas explained the sleeping arrangements. Marielle was to have the single bedroom, normally occupied by Halina and Magdalena. They would sleep on the sofa beds in the living room and Tomas planned to sleep at a neighbor’s on the floor below. Marielle, dismayed at the disruption, insisted on sleeping on the sofa and allowing Halina and Magdalena to stay in their bedroom. Despite much protesting and insistence, it was finally settled when it became clear that the little girl needed her own bed to fall asleep. After she was settled, Janosch joined them and Halina brought out a bottle of vodka and four narrow glasses.

  “It’s not Riesling, but it’s our national drink,” she said, as they toasted to the friendship between the two families.

  Around midnight Janosch took his leave and Halina said goodnight. Nyanya had long before closed the kitchen door, muttered her prayers and turned out the light.

  Tomas smiled at Marielle.

  “You’ve survived your first day.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “No. I expected you to charm all of them. And though you may not believe it or realize it, you have.”

  He took a step toward her and pulled her to him. She felt the warmth of his breath on her neck, the security of his arms around her, the press of his lean body against her own. He kissed her slowly, so many times that she lost count, and once again she found herself melting into him, the rigidity with which she had contained herself throughout the day giving way to a softness and a willingness that was new to her. She had never known herself to be so pliant. She felt him slip his arm under her and carry her to the bed. For an instant he left her there and she was bereft, thinking he was leaving. But he had moved away only to turn off the light. The immediate darkness was total. No streetlights burned outside the apartment to cast even a hazy illumination through the window and there was no moon. She felt him before he was close enough to see the outline of his face. He stretched his body the length of hers and pulled the duvet up over them. Despite the April date, temperatures still dropped at night and they had turned off the heater hours before to conserve fuel. Warmth spread over her from his closeness and her own surging blood. He began to kiss her again in silence, and then moved his hands down across her body.

  Marielle wasn’t without experience with men. She’d had a steady boyfriend at university and had stumbled through the awkward couplings that had come at the end of long hours of studying or Saturday evening gatherings where too much alcohol had been consumed. After graduation they had drifted apart, especially when Marielle had gotten the prestigious offer from Deutsche Bank. For a while she had dated another expatriate while she was living in Hong Kong. But neither relationship had prepared her for the emotional intensity of her feelings for Tomas. She felt as if every nerve ending in her skin was alive; every brain cell was firing in joy. Every part of her body—muscle, skin, blood—was attuned to this moment and Tomas’s presence and nearness. Although she had been conscious moments before of Nyanya’s snoring behind the kitchen door and her ears had been alert for the sound of Magdalena waking from a dream, now she heard nothing but Tomas’s steady breathing and his heart, beating beneath her hand on his chest.

  They made love in silence, with at first only the gentle escape of a sigh as, freed from the layers of clothing and restraint they had carried all day, their skin first made contact—belly to belly, legs wrapped around each other, arms taking each other in. In the past, Marielle had often felt as if she were outside her body when she’d had sex, watching herself go through the motions, responding to touch, following the lead of her partner, but never fully engaged. For the first time in her life, Marielle was no longer an observer, but lost in the midst of a deep pleasure that seemed to obliterate the distance she had always kept between herself and others. She was surprised by how emboldened she was, how hungry for Tomas and his body. She pulled him into her, wrapping herself tightly around him, aware of her power as she felt him respond to her with a hunger as aching and desperate as her own.

  She didn’t know herself as she felt the boundaries between her body and his dissolve, ignoring the geographic and political boundaries that had dominated her thoughts in the weeks leading up to this night. Their lovemaking allowed her to forget, if only for these few hours, what separated them. Surrounded by the dark nothingness that disguised the limits of Tomas’s life, she let those limits slip away—the bleak apartment block; the cramped flat crowded not just with furniture and belongings but also with the unfulfilled needs of the three people who loved Tomas so intently; the constant sense of struggle to meet even the most basic necessities of life. For a blissful few hours, the darkness and the silence gave Marielle and Tomas only each other, because that was all they could perceive. Heartbeat, breath, lips, hands were their only reality.

  They fell asleep briefly, their bodies slick with sweat beneath the comforter despite the chill in the room. At 3:00 a.m. they woke and made love again, but with a more bittersweet mood. He murmured that Nyanya would be awake soon and he would have to at least make the pretense of having slept on his neighbor’s sofa. He drew away, kissing her lips and then her forehead and then her now tangled hair as he rose from the bed. He pulled on his pants and sweater and eased himself out the door of the apartment.

  Marielle rolled over to where Tomas had lain, breathed in his familiar scent and hugged herself as she tried to close her eyes to the approaching dawn and the encroachments of Tomas’s life.

  Morning began early in the Marek household. It was Easter Sunday. Nyanya was up at five to begin the preparations for the meal. By six, Magdalena was chattering to her grandmother and soon after, Marielle could hear through the thin walls the sound of drawers opening. She thought about remaining under the covers longer but sensed that Magdalena would soon be out of the bedroom. She feared that whatever tentative steps Magdalena had taken toward her yesterday would be obliterated in an instant if Magdalena came bounding over to the bed normally occupied by Tomas and found Marielle instead.

  She threw back the comforter and forced herself up, taking the bathrobe she hadn’t used the night before out of her suitcase and slipping it on just as Magdalena opened the bedroom door. Marielle, toothbrush in hand, was on her way to the bathroom as Magdalena scanned the room.

  “Where’s my Papa?” she asked Marielle in Polish.

  Although she understood the question, Marielle’s grasp of the language wasn’t enough to answer.

  From the bedroom, Halina answered her granddaughter.

  “He spent the night with Anton—don’t you remember he told you when he kissed you goodnight? He’ll be back soon and we’ll all go to church. Come here now and I’ll braid your hair.”

  “Not yet, Babula. Breakfast first,” and she ran to the kitchen.

  Marielle washed up quickly in the bathroom, cautious of the limited water supply, and dressed in the living room while Magdalena ate in the kitchen with Nyanya. She brushed the tangles out of her hair, braided it and then wrapped the braids around her head. She hadn’t worn her hair like this since she’d been a little girl but something about the day and her sense of being pulled back in time by Warsaw drew her hands into the familiar pattern of plaiting.

  She made the bed and stored the pillows and linens in the storage compartment under the mattress. Smoothing down the skirt of her suit, she went into the kitchen.

  It was warm with the steam rising from boiling potatoes. Cucumbers, peeled and sliced paper thin, were draining in a colander over the sink. A bowl of pastry dough covered with a kitchen towel w
as rising at the back of the stove. Nyanya gestured to the pot of coffee on the burner and got up to cut her a slice of bread. She held out an egg as well, but Marielle replied with a “No, thank you.”

  Magdalena stared at Marielle as she poured herself a cup of the thick coffee in the pot.

  The little girl asked her something, but Marielle didn’t understand her.

  “Nie rozumiem.” I don’t understand.

  Magdalena jumped out of her seat and tugged at Marielle to stoop down to her level. When she did, she touched the braids circling Marielle’s head.

  “Who?”

  Marielle pointed to herself. “I did.”

  Magdalena then ran from the room, calling to Halina. In a minute she was back with her hairbrush and bobby pins and thrust them into Marielle’s hands. With an elaborate pantomime, she demonstrated that she wanted Marielle to braid her hair the same way.

  When Nyanya realized what was going on she shooed them out of the kitchen.

  “No hair in here!” she scolded.

  Marielle took her coffee and moved into the living room with Magdalena and sat beside her on the sofa. She was surprised that the little girl wanted her attention, but she threw herself into the task, brushing out the tangles gently and then coaxing the wispy strands into neat braids. It was the first time she’d had such tactile contact with a child. With no siblings, she hadn’t had the opportunity to be “Auntie” to anyone, and she had grown distant from the women she’d gone to high school with who now had children. It was comforting to have Magdalena so near, to smell her soapy fragrance and to have her so clearly enjoying the work of Marielle’s hands.

  When she finished, she dug a compact out of her purse, opened it up and put the mirror in Magdalena’s hands so that she could see the braids. Magdalena touched the side of her head and beamed.

  At that moment Tomas entered the apartment. He was brought to a standstill by the sight of Marielle and Magdalena side by side with the same hairstyle—Marielle’s a deep chestnut and Magdalena’s golden.

  “Good morning, my ladies,” he said, his eyes lingering on Marielle as the color rose in her cheeks. She wasn’t sure how she would get through the day when she felt a sense of memory sweep over her body as Tomas took all of her in with his eyes.

  “Papa, look at my hair! Just like Janina and Kasia.”

  She twirled around.

  “You look like a very grown up young lady. Grandma must be very happy that you sat still long enough for her to braid it.”

  “Grandma didn’t do it! She did.”

  “Marielle? Did you thank her for such a beautiful job?” Halina had come into the room and touched Magdalena’s braids. She had in her hands a circle of brightly colored artificial flowers decorated with blue ribbons.

  “Dziekuję,” murmured Magdalena.

  “Would you like to wear the flowers to church?”

  Halina set the flowers on her head and Magdalena fidgeted with them till they fit comfortably.

  “Now you look like a proper Polish young lady.”

  Together, the whole family, including Nyanya in her black dress, walked to church, Magdalena’s ribbons bobbing as she hurried to keep pace with the adults. The service was long and Marielle was fascinated by the devotion of the congregants. Unlike in Germany, the church was filled not only with old women. Young families, couples, groups spanning generations like the Mareks, crowded the pews and spilled into the side aisles. It was a revelation to Marielle that the church was so viable here. Although she didn’t understand a word of the sermon, she recognized the passion of the priest in the pulpit and watched the rapt faces around her, nodding as he spoke. She watched Tomas as well, tracing with her eyes the planes of his face and body that she had caressed the night before with her hands.

  After church, Marielle helped Halina set the table while Nyanya finished the meal and Tomas and Magdalena played a game of checkers in the bedroom.

  “He has so little time with her, he must make the most of the weekends,” Halina confided. “It’s never enough for her. She’s afraid of losing him the way she lost her mother.”

  It was the first mention of Tomas’s wife. Marielle was torn between wanting to know and wanting to deny her existence. In the end, she decided that she needed to know.

  “How?” she asked.

  “She left one day for work and didn’t come back. Magdalena was four—old enough to question, to believe somehow that it was her fault. My daughter-in-law was a troubled young woman and she suffered mentally. Tomas searched for her for many months, forgetting himself, forgetting his child, blaming himself for something he couldn’t fix.”

  “Did he find her?” Marielle realized she wanted the answer to be yes; wanted Tomas to have that emptiness behind him; wanted him to be free to love her.

  “He did. She was destroying herself with drugs. She’d been a nurse and so had easy access to painkillers, which she had started to take to kill the pain in her spirit. In the end, they killed her as well. Tomas brought her home, got her help, but it wasn’t enough. She overdosed—about a year ago now. Thank God, not here, not in front of her child. They found her under a bridge on the outskirts of Ujazdowski Park.”

  Marielle was very still. The suffering of this family and their ability to put one foot in front of the other and continue on was incredible.

  “I’m so sorry, Halina. Thank you for telling me. It explains so much.”

  “I wouldn’t have told you, wouldn’t have betrayed my son’s privacy, if I hadn’t witnessed what has passed between you in this short time. Tomas does not know how to protect himself in love. He suffered greatly with the loss of Krystyna. I can’t bear to have him suffer again. I want you to understand that before you go any deeper into this relationship. He will not abandon his child.”

  “I know that, Halina. I will never ask that of him.”

  “Then, unless you abandon your mother and your vineyards, I don’t understand what you two are doing to each other.”

  “I don’t understand it either. But I’ve never loved anyone the way I love Tomas.”

  “Then God help you both.”

  Chapter 9

  At two in the afternoon, Janosch arrived with his wife, their daughter and her husband and their two daughters, Janina and Kasia, whose hairstyle Magdalena had been delighted to emulate. The family crowded around the table and ate and drank, including the newly bottled wine Marielle had brought from the 1975 harvest—a wine that would soon be described as “phenomenal” by experts. The meal stretched out over several hours, with vigorous discussions punctuating the gaps between the courses. Nyanya clucked over everyone and smiled with satisfaction at the feast she had produced with the gifts Marielle had carried across the border and her own bartering and haggling. Tomas had told Marielle how Nyanya would head out of the apartment in the morning with an empty net bag and some treasure she could trade. She traveled across the city on three trolleys to the bazaar and negotiated and cajoled at open stalls for black market meat and fruits that were not to be had with ration coupons at the government stores. Somehow she had always managed to feed them, even when shortages and soaring prices had put even the most basic necessities out of reach. Her pride at this Easter meal was palpable, and the family was rewarding her with the highest praise—their vociferous enjoyment of everything she put on the table. Pierogi stuffed with potatoes and cheese, wild mushroom soup, ham, potatoes baked with eggs and sour cream, stuffed cabbage, and for dessert, pastry twists and cheesecake.

  It was past eleven when the last of the pastries had been eaten, the vodka bottle was empty and the three little girls had fallen asleep on the sofa. Janosch and his son-in-law each carried one of the cousins down to the car. Halina carefully slipped Magdalena’s dirndl off and tucked her into bed while Marielle and Tomas cleared the remnants from the table.

  By midnight Nyanya had turned off the light in the kitchen and closed the door. Halina bid them goodnight, but with a pen
etrating glance at Marielle that Tomas didn’t miss.

  “What was that look for?”

  “She’s a mother who loves her son and doesn’t want to see him hurt.”

  “Does she think you are going to hurt me?”

  “She thinks we are hurting each other—that it is madness to continue when we cannot be together.”

  “Is that what you believe.”

  “I did in the beginning. No, wait. I still think it’s madness. But I can’t stop loving you. It’s too late.”

  “It’s too late for me as well.”

  He took her in his arms. Their lovemaking that night had an elegiac quality to it, a consciousness that this touch, that kiss, would be the last for many months. Marielle wanted to commit to memory the sound of his voice whispering her name, the hollows of his body into which her curves fit, the scents of both of them mingled on his skin. She clung to him afterward, unable to sleep or to let him go until it was nearly dawn.

  In the morning, Marielle said goodbye to the three women. Nyanya blessed her and put a small packet of herbs in her hand.

  “For the zupa,” she directed.

  Magdalena kissed her on the cheek and stepped back. Halina embraced her silently.

  With Tomas, she reversed her trip of Saturday morning, traveling by trolley to the city center and the train station. Tomas had arranged with the clinic to have the morning off so that he could spend these last few hours with her. They sat in silence in the stuffy trolley, a light rain spattering the windows. He held her hand.

  “Thank you for coming. It was a lot to ask.”

  “Thank you for asking. There was nowhere else I wanted to be.” She hesitated, then asked the question that was hovering between them.

  “Will you come for the harvest?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. They rode in silence again until the transfer point, where they changed lines.

  “Is this what our lives will be from now on? A few days of bliss each year punctuating a lonely existence?”