The room closed in on me. I snapped my rubber band. It smarted the inside of my wrist, but it did little to stop my mounting temper.
“I don’t badger anyone,” I said.
“They’ll have you on some list before you know it. Your father won’t be able to get you off it no matter how cozy he is with the Kremlin.”
I reached for Pietrik’s arm. “You understand—I need some say in my child’s life. Let’s find time to talk about it, alone—”
“Keep your voice down, Kasia.” Pietrik tossed his book on the bed and walked to the door. “Marthe knows enough of our business.”
He left and shut the door behind him. He enjoyed his little rebellions. The rubber band wasn’t helping me, so I filled my lungs with air to combat the anger.
Once I heard Zuzanna return from work, I hurried to change. I came out from my bedroom to see her kiss the top of Halina’s head and steal some kolaczki from her plate.
“Did you eat today?” I asked Zuzanna.
“Some greet their sisters with hello,” she said with a crooked smile. She had a dark smudge beneath each eye.
“How was the hospital?” Marthe asked.
“Good,” said Zuzanna. “We may be getting ten new beds.”
“That’s a good thing?” I asked.
“More work for the same pay,” Pietrik said.
I noticed the tin box of paints near Halina’s plate. A fancy British brand.
“Where did the paints come from?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Certainly not from a store. There were no more private shopkeepers at that point, and government shops did not sell foreign brands. These were black market paints.
“A friend got them for me,” Marthe said. “An early name day gift—”
“I told her no paints,” I said.
“Let it go,” Pietrik said under his breath.
I closed my eyes and took a lungful of air. “Give me the paints, Halina.”
“Kasia,” said Zuzanna, her hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off. That was when I noticed the brush, the sable-hair tip of it under Halina’s plate. Matka’s Kolinsky watercolor brush, the gleam of its nickel throat in the shadow of the plate.
“Where did you get that?” I said, short of breath.
“Marthe gave it to me,” Halina said.
Marthe stepped toward me. “She has such a talent—”
“Give me the brush, Halina,” I said, my arm outstretched, palm up.
Halina curled her hand around the paints and brush and put them in her lap.
“Give them to me,” I said, stepping closer.
“Let it go,” said Pietrik.
The blood rushed in my ears, heart thumping against my chest. Halina stood and ran to Marthe, paints and paintbrush in hand.
“Give them to me,” I said, following.
“It is my fault,” Marthe said, one arm around my daughter.
I grabbed for the paintbrush.
“No,” Halina said, pulling back.
“I am your mother. You must listen to me. Not to Comrade Jinda. Not to Marthe. To me.”
Halina stood her ground, clutching the paints and brush to her chest.
“No,” Halina said.
“She is—” Marthe began.
“Stay out of this. Would you once allow me to speak to my own child?” I stretched out my arm. “Give me the paints, Halina.”
“Never,” Halina said in a matter-of-fact way, looking me straight in the eye.
It couldn’t have been my hand that placed the slap there, for it happened before I could even think about it, yet I slapped her hard across the face. As soon as my hand left her face, I wished I could take it back, but nothing could fix that.
“Kasia,” Pietrik said, his tone not so much accusatory as—worse—disappointed.
Halina did not even cry, just dropped the paintbrush and paints on the floor next to her. I picked up the black-lacquered brush and, one hand on either end, cracked it over the back of a kitchen chair, which resulted in a satisfying snap, leaving the two shattered ends like cat’s whiskers.
I retreated to my bedroom, vibrating with shame, and stood in the tiny room looking at the bed Halina and I shared. Her stuffed bear sat upright against the pillow. I lay on the bed and held the bear to my own chest. It smelled of Halina. Of sweetness and honesty. What kind of a mother had I become?
Before long the bedroom door opened, and Marthe stepped in. I sat up with a groan.
Marthe shut the door. “I may be the last person you want to see, but no one else would come in.”
“Please, Marthe…this isn’t—”
“I’ve watched you for twelve years now, Kasia. I understand a lot more than you may think.”
“I’m not feeling well. My leg—”
“I understand that your mother favored you. That you lost her, and that is a terrible thing, but it’s time to move on. Time for some honesty.”
“Honestly, you get in my way. I’m the only one who disciplines my daughter. You just cook and give her things.”
“Your daughter needs love.”
“Don’t lecture me. Of course I love her.”
“You have to rise above all this and show her.” Marthe sat beside me on the bed. “And you can’t force Halina to be something she’s not.”
“Nothing good comes of art.”
“What happened to your mother was tragic, but let’s move on.”
“I’d like to rest now.”
“And your husband? He needs help, Kasia. It’s your life, but your mother would want Halina to be cherished. Your papa and I are going to stay with friends tonight. Pietrik and Halina will take our room so you have some time to think. You have a choice. To wallow in the unfairness of it all or rise above it. Fix it. Let other people in.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t feel the heavy load of it all. You’re not even a mother.”
Marthe stepped to the door. “And neither are you right now, dear girl.”
She left, and for the first night in so long, I had a room to myself. A quiet space to think and work things out. I looked at my rubber band limp on my wrist. From now on, I would use my own resourcefulness and intuition.
By the time I fell asleep, I had a plan. I would make things better. I would look for help, let other people in. Make sure I spent more time with Halina. Pietrik and I would find time to be alone together. I’d survived Ravensbrück. How could ordinary life be harder than that?
1957–1958
Mother and I traveled half the globe once we finally left Paris after the war. India and Italy. A cruise up the British coast to Scotland.
The first thing I did when Mother and I landed back in New York for good was help organize that year’s April in Paris Ball. It was an elaborate fundraiser that supported any number of charities, French and American, including my new Ravensbrück Rabbits Committee. It had been over a decade since Anise Postel-Vinay had introduced me to the cause, and Mother and I had grown terribly attached, corresponding regularly with the Polish women. Wallis Simpson, formally known as the Duchess of Windsor, the American divorcée who’d married England’s former King Edward VIII, would be attending the ball, and I planned to ask for her support.
The Waldorf ballroom had never looked better. The cavalcade of Hollywood glitterati and Washington VIPs went through endless rounds of how-do-you-dos, highballs in hand. But one woman was stealing the show. Man or woman, it made no difference—all eyes were on Marilyn Monroe.
Betty and I were worker bees on a committee that turned the ballroom into a Manhattan matron’s idea of a French wonderland. A massive dance floor anchored the center of the room, flanked by long dining tables. We festooned tricolor bunting above the stage and helped drag an enormous golden statue of General Lafayette on horseback center stage, where he reared up out of a sea of white lilies. The decorating committee was well funded, for this was a group with assets to spare. Men wore tuxedoes and ladies wore red, white, or blue. Marilyn Monroe wore a midnight-blue sequin gown that did a marvelous job of showing off her own assets.