I have had several opportunities to move into a private room. Tessa has tried hard to persuade me. She has things of mine in storage at her house that would easily fill an apartment – paintings, more framed photographs, a coffee table, two lamps, trinkets that I have forgotten about. But Becky, who visits me more frequently, knows that I am comfortable where I am. I think she also knows, although we have never discussed it, that I am staying because I feel a vague obligation to Janusz Markowicz. The man opened his soul to me – unexpectedly and, I am sure, uncharacteristically – and leaving him alone would feel like the most casual, cruel betrayal. So we remain where we remain, two old men connected by the things that we have lost and the secrets we hold.
One evening, after dinner, I venture to ask Janusz what he would say to Emil if they reconnected. We have finished eating but are still sitting across from each other at our private table in the common dining area.
Janusz looks up, startled. Why are you asking me that? There is no reconnecting.
I asked what you would say if you did reconnect. It’s hypothetical. Are you saying you haven’t thought about what you might say?
Janusz pushes himself away from the table, but he makes no move to leave. Finally, he folds his hands, stares off at something behind me, tightens his jaw. I would tell him I’m sorry for what happened, for my role in the death of his mother and sisters. It’s what I told him fifty years ago, or what I tried to tell him. But he didn’t want to hear it then, and nothing’s changed.
How do you know nothing’s changed? Maybe everything’s changed.
Janusz glares at me and shakes his head. I have gotten to where I can read his moods quite easily, and right now he is disgusted with me. But we have become friends, against both of our expectations, and I do not care.
You haven’t made an effort to reach out, have you? So how do you know that nothing’s changed? You might actually have something to say to each other – but you, at least, are too proud to try.
Proud? Janusz’s voice is loud enough to draw the attention of the three women who eat together on the far side of the room. We are, at the moment, the only ones left in the dining area. I’m not proud at all! What do I have to be proud about? You and these hypothetical questions of yours. Let’s imagine Emil suddenly materializes in front of us. Janusz looks up as if he is addressing someone standing at the table Hello, Hypothetical Emil. It’s your hypothetical father. Nice that we can have this hypothetical chat. Sorry about killing your mother and your two sisters fifty years ago. Hope I didn’t ruin your life too much.
OK, Janusz, calm down and lower your voice. You don’t want to have another heart attack. The question was hypothetical, but I’ll bet you could find your son if you tried. The fact is, you haven’t ever tried. Am I right?
Janusz sputters for a moment before collecting himself. I won’t even ask how I would go about trying to find Emil. You’re ninety-two years old, for Christ sake. You’re going to tell me how to get on the computer down at the library and get into the Internet and figure out where Emil is living, and send him a message. Hey, son, it’s your old dad.
I resist smiling, which I know would enrage Janusz even more. You’re right. I’m as illiterate as you are about computers and the Internet. But Jordan’s sixteen. Sixteen-year-old boys can do anything they’re asked to do when it comes to computers.
Janusz has nothing to say for a minute. He looks over at the three women across the room, who are nervously sipping their after-dinner coffees and trying to ignore us. Finally, Janusz speaks, his voice now calm, controlled. Emil could have contacted me, you know. It’s a two-way street. I’m not that hard to find. He had fifty years. Do you think maybe he’s said what he wanted to say and the book is closed and that’s that.
I had not planned any of this when we went to dinner, but I think maybe this has not been a bad thing that I have done. Janusz has not acquiesced, but he seems to be softening a bit. You might be right, I say. I guess you won’t know. Unless you try.
We say nothing about it that evening, or the next day. I know that Jordan will be coming with his mother and Peter on Saturday. He is the kind of boy who eagerly accepts a challenge if it has to do with technology, so I will wait and present it to him, whether Janusz likes it or not. I realize there is every possibility that Emil Markowicz has died, or been jailed, or moved to another country, or is one of those specimens who has simply made himself impossible to be found in the modern world. But if Jordan does find Emil, it will leave Janusz with the decision of what to do with the information. So maybe this business has become my concern after all.
I have said nothing to Becky and the boys about Janusz’s family, about his life in Spokane, how he lost his wife and daughters. Janusz would, I am sure, consider that a betrayal. But fathers and sons become estranged all the time, so it is not unreasonable for a father to want to reconnect, years later, with a lost adult son.
Jordan has tossed his bookbag onto the bed and has taken out the same notebook he used when he was interviewing me about World War Two. I am spelling Emil’s name for him, waiting for Janusz to correct me.
That’s one good thing about men, Becky offers. They never change their name when they get married. The name they get when they’re born is the name they have when they die.
Janusz grunts, which tells me two things. That he heard and agrees with what my granddaughter said, and that he is now at least moderately engaged in the conversation. I don’t know where he might be living. We were living in Spokane, Washington, but he left the city and that was a long time ago. He could be anywhere.
Sometimes it’s harder for a person to NOT be found than to BE found, Jordan says reassuringly. For one of my classes, we had to find the museum where this one old Dutch painting was being kept in storage. We all worked on it together. It was hard because a lot of museums don’t list all of their artwork in online catalogues. But we figured it out. It was like being detectives and solving a mystery. It was fun.
I am afraid that finding Emil Markowicz will prove more difficult than finding an old painting that does not care one way or the other whether it is found. But this is not the time to be discouraging.
It takes two weeks, but Jordan comes back with better results than either Janusz or I could have expected.
He said he wants to come see you. Jordan hands Janusz what looks like a printout of an email. He seems rather unimpressed by his own achievement.
Janusz takes the paper, holds it close to his eyes, spends a minute reading and rereading it. When he looks up, I am unable to discern what he is thinking.
Jordan begins fumbling nervously with his hands. I had to contact him to make sure he was the right guy. It’s not a real common name, but there’s actually at least three Emil Markowiczes in the U.S. One of them was too young, but I had to contact the other two to make sure. Your son sent an email back. He lives in Pittsburgh.
I just wanted to know, Janusz says. I wanted to think about it. I guess that doesn’t matter now. Janusz hands me the email.
The note is brief: Yes, Janusz Markowicz is my father, and we lived in Spokane in the 1950s and 1960s. I would like to visit him. Thank you for contacting me. I am living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I am semi-retired, so I can make the drive to Milwaukee as soon as it can be arranged.
I see that Jordan is studying me, waiting for some reaction. I hand the paper back to him and tell him that he did a good thing.
You guys should get a computer. You could share it. Mr. Markowicz could email his son and you could email Mom and Peter and me. I could set it up for you.
I laugh softly. Maybe. I think maybe the computer age has passed me by, but we’ll see. For now, you can be our correspondent to the world. Why don’t you tell Emil he can come whenever he wants. Our social calendar is pretty flexible. Wouldn’t you agree, Janusz?
Janusz grunts again.
Jordan leaves with Peter and their mother, promising to call when he hears back from Emil Markowicz. He and I, it seems, are now on a shared mission, and Janusz is being dragged along for the ride.
Emil arrives a week later, delivered personally by Becky and the boys. The room feels crowded, and our presence intrusive, so after the introductions, Becky and Jordan and Peter and I leave for one of the upstairs lounges.
We’ve learned all about Mr. Markowitz’s son, Becky tells me. We didn’t learn why he hasn’t seen his father in fifty years, but that’s really none of our business. But we learned that, after he left Spokane, he went to California, and Missouri, and North Carolina, and Texas, and one or two other places I can’t remember. He worked in a print shop, and he did land surveying work, and he worked as a roofer and a carpenter. He finally settled in Pittsburgh and became a licensed electrician, worked for a local company for ten or twelve years, finally set up his own business. When he said in his email that he’s semi-retired, that means he takes jobs when he feels like it. That’s why he was able to take time off and drive to Milwaukee. Boys, did I miss anything?
He’s not married, Peter adds.
Right. He’s not currently married. He married twice, but neither one worked out. I didn’t ask for details. He has two daughters and one granddaughter from the first marriage. How’d we do?
Pretty good, I say. It sounds like they have a lot to catch up on. Maybe we should give them some time.
Want to take a drive? Jordan has not yet earned his driver’s license, but for several months now he has been driving around the city with his parents, on his learner’s permit. I have not yet been a passenger with Jordan behind the wheel, but it looks as if that is about to change. We walk out to the parking lot, Pete reluctantly bringing up the rear.
Mitchell Park? Becky suggests. It is a good day for a walk, a good day to sit and watch the kayakers. A good day for a cup of frozen custard.
When we get back to the room, Janusz and Emil are still talking. Becky and the boys and I walk out to the common room and wait.
Emil emerges a few minutes later. I hope you guys weren’t just sitting around waiting. I guess the time got away from us.
We went to the park, Peter tells him. It was fine. Jordan didn’t crash the car.
I ask Emil if he is going to stay in Milwaukee for a while, now that he and his father have reconnected. It seems like a long way to come, just to turn around and drive back home. But Emil has to be back in Pittsburgh for a job. Semi-retirement, he explains, is not quite the same as real retirement. He promises to return. And if Jordan can persuade his father to get a computer, and set him up with email, Emil and Janusz can keep in touch.
I told him that, Jordan says. I said that him and Grandpa should get a computer that they can share. I can set it up. It’s not a problem. He looks at me, and I shrug acquiescently.
To my surprise, Janusz takes to the computer energetically. He emails his son every evening after dinner and spends two or three hours during the day reading articles and looking at pictures on the Internet. Most of the articles deal with Polish history, Polish travel, Polish culture, current events in Poland – as if he has just discovered his heritage. Jordan asks us if we want him to set us up on Facebook. On Facebook, he tells Janusz, you could connect and chat with people back in Poland. But Janusz says that he knows nobody in Poland and would rather read about the country than interact with it. I feel the same way about Greece and the outside world in general – although after a bit of detective work on Jordan’s part, I do start a correspondence with Cassius. Pen Pals would have been the term, back in the day when people used pens to communicate. It has been more than twenty years since my trip to Greece, the year after Thea died. I am happy to learn that Cassius and Chloe are still happily married and still living together in the house in Farsala where I stayed. Cassius retired from his job at the bank three years ago. Andrew is married and living in Athens. Jace is married and still living in Farsala. The boys and their wives have given Cassius and Chloe a half-dozen grandchildren. The one piece of sad news is that Cassius’ uncle Alexandros died twelve years ago, the property on Naxos was sold, and his widow moved back to the mainland. When I asked Cassius about his uncle, I had somehow imagined, since time in Greece seems to move so glacially, Alexandros continuing to trudge out to the olive orchard at harvest time, tossing down nets, waiting for the olives to drop, collecting them and trucking them off for processing. In a strange way, I feel more nostalgic for Naxos, where I spent only a few days, than I do even for Farsala. I tell Cassius that, from time to time, I think about seeing the ancient Doorway to Nothing from the ferry, sitting in Alexandros’ van waiting for goats to cross the highway, going for walks along the property’s footpaths and dirt roads, drinking coffee with Chloe and watching the sunrise, sitting on the wooden bench looking out over the Aegean and straining to hear the sounds of partying on Mikonos.
I am not as diligent as Janusz and Emil in my correspondence with Cassius, but I do send him notes once or twice a week, and I am happy to hear from him. Of course, we do not have much news to share. But like aging pen pals, we write about our children and our grandchildren – and my great-grandchildren, since I have achieved that milestone – and we reminisce.
In November, Janusz tells me that Emil will be back next week for a lengthier visit. Over the next few days, he spends an unusual amount of time on the computer, looking for things to do in Milwaukee. He is happy to learn that his favorite Polish restaurant on the South Side is still operating. The only times he has ever left the nursing home, as far as I can recall, are for medical appointments, so Emil’s visit will be a big event.
Emil arrives shortly after breakfast. He sits and we visit for a few minutes, and then Emil helps his father with his winter coat and they depart.
After a time, the room feels too quiet, too empty. Becky visited yesterday, so she will not be coming today. I write an email to Cassius, and then to Tessa, another one to Maggie and one to Leander. Finally, I leave the room, make my way to one of the upstairs lounges and spend an hour working on one of the unfinished community jigsaw puzzles.
After lunch, I try to nap, but one of our neighbors has the volume on his television set turned up high enough that everyone on the floor can hear it. If Thea had been able to dodge cancer, she would have been eighty-nine this year. I have a hard time imagining Thea at that age. Until her cancer diagnosis, she was always healthier than me. If she had lived, we might still be in our house in Sheboygan, taking care of each other, passing the time, going for short walks, lunching occasionally at the Atheneum. Thinking about Thea invariably leads me to this place, but not thinking about her is not an alternative.
It is late afternoon when Janusz and Emil finally return, and I can see that Janusz is both worn out and exhilarated from spending a full day outside the facility, with his son.
We’re driving down to Chicago tomorrow, he tells me after Emil has left.
Chicago! The only stories about Chicago that I have heard from Janusz were the dreary accounts of his time with the Wozniak family. I ask him why in the world he and Emil would want to make the drive to Chicago.
It was his idea. He said he’s gotten interested in knowing more about his family, where he came from. He’s done some genealogical research on his mother. Her parents came here from Portugal. And somehow he knows more about my ancestors in Poland than I do. I think he’d like to make a trip to Poland and Portugal some day. I guess he decided to start in Chicago.
And what? Look up the Wozniaks? He knows you’re not related to them, right?
Janusz gives me an exasperated look. Of course he knows we’re not related. I don’t know…he wanted to see where I lived when I came here after the war, where we went to church, where I went to school, what the neighborhood was like. I’m not nostalgic for any of it, but if Emil wants to see it, if he wants to take me for a drive…why not?
I warn Janusz that it will be a long day. I am thinking that it will be a long day for both of us, but to say it out loud seems petty. In fact, I would not mind joining them, if I were invited. I have connections of my own to Chicago. It was Chicago Greektown where Mama and Papa lived after they left New York. It was Chicago where Maggie lived and worked for years. Tessa still lives in the suburban house where she raised Becky and Kat. But I realize that this is a father-son experience, and it is one that I have no part in.
Emil calls the following evening to tell me that they will be spending the night in a hotel in Evanston and driving back in the morning. The trip, apparently, was more taxing on Janusz than Emil had expected. He sounds a little bit disappointed, but he tells me that he and his father saw everything they had wanted to see. Janusz had found the Wozniaks’ house without any difficulty. They had stopped and, against his father’s mild protests, Emil had gone up to the door and had rung the bell. A young woman answered. Her family, she told Emil, had bought the house fifteen years ago from an Italian family, who had bought it from an Irish couple. If a Polish family had lived there at one time, it was news to her. Emil made mental notes of all this so he could tell his father, who was waiting in the car, and so he could write it down in his logbook. After seeing the house, they had driven past the old church and the old school – both still standing, largely unchanged, which surprised Janusz. They had a late lunch at a Polish restaurant that Emil had found online. Then the drive back, which ended prematurely at the hotel.
My father’s in the room, napping, Emil says. I’m down in the lobby. I just wanted to let you know. Don’t wait up. And thanks for setting all this up.
I tell him that it was Jordan who arranged it all. Janusz and I…people of our generation are helpless in the hands of technology, hopeless without the assistance of our adolescent great-grandchildren.
I know, Emil replies. But you pestered him. You had to be the one to convince him. I know my father has told you about…everything. I know he still blames himself for what happened. I stopped blaming him a long time ago. But I was wrong not to tell him that. There was nothing really to forgive, but it was what he needed. And I withheld it. I lost fifty years with my father. I almost lost everything. So for that, thank you.
Emil leaves again, promising to return in the spring. He is planning to fully retire, Janusz tells me when we are alone again. I suspect that his plans are bigger than that, and I suspect that Janusz believes it as well. But we both keep our suspicions private.