Читать книгу A Life of My Own - Donna Wilhelm - Страница 12

Discoveries, Secrets, and Deception

Art, Mermaids, and Music

At Eleanor B. Kennelly Elementary School, the “in girls” wore one of two hairstyles—flipped up or rolled under, not a strand touching a shoulder. They dressed in pastel pink, yellow or blue sweater sets and skirts over puffed petticoats. During lunch, they clustered together like a flock of geese. If one looked up, they all looked up. I sat alone at the next table, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, hair in braids. They all stared and snickered at “Immigrant Girl.”

Blocking out everyone else in my fourth grade classroom, I was hunched over the black-and-white exercise book braced open by my elbow, my right arm in constant motion until the pile of colored pencils wore down to stubs. Miss Quail, standing over me, knew I wasn’t working on our class assignment, The Ancient World. My notebook overflowed not with words, but with drawings of daily life along the Nile. I imagined slaves hoisting terra cotta water vessels; women with flowing black hair bound with different colored ribbons, scrubbing clothes in the river; children playing in the water; babies’ heads peeking from woven baskets lined up along the riverbank.

Miss Quail was like her namesake bird. I had looked it up in the school’s Britannica: Quail (bird)—small, plump and handsome of figure; moves with rapid bursts of energy and is quick to settle when interrupted. In the classroom, Miss Quail behaved like her avian twin.

“What do you have there?” Her voice was curious, not scolding. I looked up. Were her green eyes interested in me or my drawing? When the class began to study The Ancient World, my imagination had decided to stay there. Miss Quail made a decision that would change my life. She excused me from daily study period and Thursday art class, and she liberated me to work on my own. For the rest of fourth grade, I could dream by night and paint by day.

On 1950’s extra-wide rolls of butcher paper, my imagination recreated daily life in ancient Egypt, Rome, and Mesopotamia. At first, I showed my work only to Miss Quail. Until she went public with my art. My paper murals stretched across all four walls of our classroom. Fourth grade suddenly got a lot of visitors—kids, teachers, and parents. Sometimes they came over to talk to me at my desk. “Immigrant girl” had suddenly become “class artist.” If I wanted to, I could sit with the gaggle of “in girls” during lunch—they had short memories. Not me.

Miss Quail’s nurturing was like a mother bird teaching her young how to leave the nest. She knew how to inspire me to believe in myself and fly with confidence. For the rest of that year, I could see that being “different” wasn’t bad; it was about learning to fly strong.

After fourth grade, whenever my confidence dropped, I turned to my sketchbook. On a blank page, I’d draw a beautiful Q shape over and over and think about Miss Quail. And I’d put over each Q a golden halo, the same color Grandma S used in her embroidery. Both Grandma S and Miss Quail made me feel worthy and nurtured my love of beauty. Making something beautiful always made me feel secure and strong.

Fourth grade had been a time of transformation. Fifth grade would be the year of acceptance and celebration. Lotte came from Copenhagen, Denmark with her single mom to live in Hartford, Connecticut for one year. On the first day of school, we each headed for the same vacant table in the cafeteria. True to habit, the flip-ups at the next table all turned to stare at her.

Lotte’s slim figure in a simple robin’s egg blue jumper and crisp yellow linen blouse gave her an air of quiet modesty. Unless she was provoked by sarcasm or stupidity.

“Denmark,” one of the flip-ups asked. “Isn’t that where all the icebergs are?”

“No, we haven’t got any icebergs in Denmark, we have mermaids.”

I loved Lotte’s humor—like Danish butter, smooth and delicious.

It turned out we also took the same route home after school. Our houses were only a few blocks from each other. The porch of Lotte’s red brick, two-story house was clean and tidy, no clutter of dusty outdoor furniture, just two sculptured terra cotta planters overflowing with freshly watered red geraniums that flanked both sides of the front door. I could see a willowy version of Lotte standing in the doorway. “You must meet my momma,” Lotte insisted. Her momma gave me a passionate embrace laced with the heady scent of Shalimar. Right away, I knew Danish mothers were different from other mothers, especially mine.

That year in Hartford it stayed hot and muggy right through September. The second week of school, Lotte invited me to spend Saturday afternoon at her house. Asking her to mine would take a lot longer.

Walking up the porch steps, I heard waves of feminine laughter through the open windows. Lilting words in a language I didn’t understand somehow told me a lot of fun was going on inside.

Several times I pressed the doorbell. No one came. I tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Mother always locked our front door. Danish people must not worry about criminals. I let myself in and followed the laughter through the entryway into the living room. Two shiny metal fans whirring at high speed on opposite sides of the room did little to cool it down. But, it wasn’t the heat that shocked me.

Four bare-breasted women hooting with laughter were clustered around a card table. None of them had a stitch of clothing on their top parts. Each woman held a glass of sparkling liquid in one hand, and in the other, a fan of playing cards. Every card they slapped down or picked up from piles in the center of the table came with another burst of laughter. I’d never seen a group of women having so much fun together—definitely not four bare-breasted women! One of them twisted around to a tiered, metal stand and helped herself to mini-triangle sandwiches and yummy-looking cookies.

“Oh, my sweet new daughter is here!” Lotte’s mother said. I recognized her face, but not her two rosy breasts. Her joyous smile and knowing blue eyes took in my awkwardness. “Little one, come meet my girlfriends. They won’t bite you!”

“So, this is Lotte’s new friend,” winked a robust, blonde owner of another distinctive pair of breasts. “How lovely you are! Your braids remind me of our Danish girls at home.”

A third Danish woman, her bosoms so abundant that I didn’t even notice her face, held out her arms. “Come, let me hug this pretty young friend.”

I stood, transfixed, unable to move. Yet another woman stood up, placed her drink on the table and, two perky breasts bobbing, walked over to embrace me. “Don’t be shy, we’re only girls here having fun.” She smelled sweet and pungent. Her skin was silky, warm, and glowing with perspiration.

Lotte, meanwhile, was hopping around from behind one pair of bare shoulders to another, reaching for another unattended glass on the table. One sip here, one sip there, Lotte closed her eyes each time. The contentment on her face told me the lemonade in those glasses tasted really good.

During that sultry afternoon, four Danish women shared with me their joy, affection, and celebration of each other. One year of immersion in Lotte’s friendship transformed me from being isolated and different to feeling included and loved. Where Miss Quail had taught me to fly strong, Lotte, her mother, and the Danish women taught me to celebrate womanhood, friendship, and cultural identity. When Lotte and her mother returned to Denmark, I thought my heart would break. “Pen pals forever” was all we could promise.

Without Lotte, I had to face sixth grade alone. It was a dark year for me—a time of loneliness, humiliation, and betrayal. Starting with Miss Boyle, aka “The Boyle,” my sixth grade music teacher. She patrolled up and down the aisles of the classroom. Her piercing eyes missed nothing; her wrinkled apricot ears heard everything.

In the school library, Webster’s 1950 Giant Illustrated Approved Dictionary listed “Boyle” under Boyle’s Law—Physics. The volume of a gas at constant temperature varies inversely with the pressure exerted on it. The Boyle was full of gas and pressure. And she was obsessed with the color blue, wore it every day—a squared-off navy jacket over a light blue blouse that varied only in collar shape and a navy blue skirt that hung mid-calf or longer. Chunky-heeled navy pumps anchored her thin legs wrapped in baggy blue stockings.

Vocal Music with The Boyle met every Wednesday before lunch. Herds of boisterous students streamed into the music room and filed past the front podium, where The Boyle loomed like a dark bird of prey with a wooden baton gripped in her claws.

Thinking she couldn’t see or hear me in the middle of a circle of girls, I got a little cocky. “I sing pretty well,” popped out of my mouth, “but how awful that we have Miss Boyle.”

The Boyle rapped the baton so violently I thought it would crack. An ominous pall settled over the class. No one dared to make a sound. The Boyle, like a menacing guard with calculating eyes, surveyed the class and picked her victim.

“It has come to my attention,” she spat, “that a student among you has a special talent for singing.” Eyes gleaming, she continued, “Today she will have the chance to entertain us.” She smirked. “That person is Donna.”

Heads turned in unison, pairs of bullet eyes riveted on me.

“Come to the front of the room. Bring Workbook #5 with you.”

I sat paralyzed, my bottom cemented to the chair. The Boyle glared, arms crossed against her flat chest. Silence stretched into eerie silence.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she sneered. “Don’t bother to bring the workbook.” She oozed contempt. “Donna is probably better than any of us. So, come up here, Donna, and lead the class.”

Everyone in the room watched to see what I would do. Nothing could make me follow The Boyle’s order. For an eternity of silence, I sat in my chair and watched her face contort with meanness as she decided my fate. The Boyle used silence as a weapon.

Finally she spoke. “I see that Donna has no desire to demonstrate her special talent.” Her eyes narrowed with vengeance. “By next class, she will memorize all the songs in the workbook. I will pick one. And Donna will sing for all of us.”

That time never came. I skipped the next four Wednesdays of Vocal Music class by hiding in the girls’ restroom. When I returned weeks later and slipped into the back row, The Boyle treated me as if I were invisible for the rest of the semester. In January, report cards came out. I received the only “F” of all my school days, written in bold black, next to Vocal Music, initialed HB (“Horrible Boyle”).

For years, The Boyle’s legacy stayed with me. I avoided the spotlight and never sang if anyone could hear me. But at home, in front of the bathroom mirror, I howled along with Patti Page:

How much is that doggie in the window?

The one with the waggely tail.

How much is that doggie in the window?

I do hope that doggie’s for sale.

Mother had her own idea about my music education. “Danusia, is time you take piano lessons,” she announced. “Wednesday after school, Mr. Catlin will teach!”

Had The Boyle told Mother I’d skipped Vocal Music? Or had Mother seen me sneak through the blue velvet draperies into the living room and slide onto the bench of the upright piano? Though I never touched the keys, only wiggled my fingers above them, pretending I was a child prodigy.

The first Wednesday at 4:00 p.m. the doorbell rang. I was already seated at the piano bench, waiting. The velvet draperies parted. In came Mother, followed by a rotund man wearing a brown suit and a stained yellow necktie. I stared at his puffy lips capped by a mustache that bristled.

“Danusia, here is Mr. Catlin, piano teacher of good student, Jadzia Bokovska.” She was also the obnoxious show-off daughter of our next-door neighbor. Mother pointed at Mr. Catlin. “You are paid after,” she announced and disappeared through the draperies.

Mr. Catlin flung his bulky briefcase on the ornate coffee table that Mother always warned, “Never touch! Delicate!” Plunging his hand into the depths of the briefcase, he pulled out a wooden box about the height of the kitchen’s giant peppershaker. “Meet Captain Metronome, on duty for every practice and every lesson.” Mr. Catlin positioned the little dictator on the left side of the piano, right above the keyboard.

Again he dug into the briefcase and brought out a worn red and white booklet, John Thompson Series, Book 1, Level 1, For Beginners. Mr. Catlin opened its earmarked pages and shoved the book against the music ledge. One more time he reached into the briefcase. This time, he ceremoniously withdrew a cigar box as if it were a rare treasure. On its cover was a sexy dark-haired woman with big bosoms. Above her head, bold black letters spelled out Havana Delights, Made By Hand. In smaller script at the bottom, Genuine Cuban Cigars made in Venezuela.

With gusto, Mr. Catlin flipped open the lid and surveyed the contents. His thick fingers fluttered over the cigars as if they were waiting piano keys. He selected one and raised it up to his nose. He held it between his teeth, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a gadget that clip-clipped the tip of the cigar. Then Mr. Catlin lit up the first cigar I’d ever smelled and would never forget.

Even my big imagination couldn’t have invented the way Mr. Catlin transformed into Maestro of Doom. He loomed over me, shouting drills, spewing billows of cigar smoke into a toxic fog that enveloped the Maestro, the piano, and me.

The precise moment the grandfather clock struck 5:00 p.m., Maestro of Doom roared at me, “By next Wednesday—practice, practice, practice!” while he carefully packed away his beloved cigar box. He snapped shut his bulky briefcase and yanked it across Mother’s precious antique table. Then, puffing his cigar, Maestro of Doom disappeared between the blue draperies. As soon as I heard the front door slam, I flung open the heavy drapes. Like a flapping penguin, I ran around the living room, trying to force the toxic residue into the hallway. My head ached, my eyes watered, and I dropped to the carpet and gulped in what I hoped was cleaner air.

On practice days when the living room was completely smoke free, the piano exercises were easy for me, and my career as a concert pianist seemed possible. I even relished telling Mother, “I’m on my way to practice the piano!”

“Finally you do something useful, instead of you silly drawing all time.” If Mother ever gave encouragement, she cloaked it in criticism.

Week after week, Maestro of Doom and his cloud of smoke came on Wednesday afternoon, for one hour. I took shallow breaths and tried not to cough. But my chest tightened, my head throbbed, and my throat burned. I was getting sicker and sicker. Finally the day came when the Maestro went too far. The grandfather clock struck 5:00 p.m., and he flicked ashes across Mother’s oriental carpet as he exited.

That did it! Holding my nose, grabbing my stomach, and ready to vomit, I staggered into the kitchen. “Mamusia, you must—” I faked a coughing fit.

Mother’s attention shifted from me back to the massive pot of kapusta with kartofle.

“Mamusia, you must listen to me!” I shouted out between coughs. “It’s Mr. Catlin. His awful cigar smoke is making me sick—really sick.” Moaning with desperation, I shifted tactics. “I love playing the piano—and I’m good at it.” Then I plopped myself into a chair, forced tears flowing down my cheeks, and positioned my hands into fervent prayer mode. “Please, Mamusia, will you find another piano teacher for me?”

Dead silence from Mother.

Even though I was bent over, scrutinizing the floor, I had to check Mother’s mood. Things looked bad, very bad. She stirred like mad, long wooden spoon circling so fast I thought it would jump right out of the pot.

“No! What is good for Jadzia Bokovska is good for you.”

The next day I had such a bad sore throat that I went to the school nurse. She sent me home, where Mother immediately shoved me into the Packard. “We go to Doctor Jacobski!”

The doctor poked and swabbed, took my temperature, and shook his head at Mother, who was sitting in the examination room. “Donna must stay home from school,” he said. “She needs complete bed rest for one full week. Nothing else.”

As ordered, I stayed home. My raw throat was so sore I couldn’t possibly swallow Mother’s lumpy cooking. For a week I ate only ice cream, and I recovered.

Maestro of Doom never returned. No other piano teacher replaced him. My dreams of becoming a classical concert pianist evaporated. But there was one happy thing—shoving Captain Metronome into the trash barrel.

Pretty Things

After Maestro of Doom left, The Imposter arrived. One day I came home from school, shut the front door, and heard sounds of a Polish shouting match coming from the kitchen. Instead of running upstairs to shed my ugly school clothes, I headed to the kitchen. On the table sat an enticing plate of Kazanowski’s fresh babka, my favorite Polish coffee cake filled with raisins and glazed with sugar. But the kitchen was clouded with cigarette smoke. Horror had descended upon 360 Fairfield Avenue!

“Danusia, I want you give big hug Auntie Geynia,” Mother ordered. “Nice surprise, she is come from Poland to stay our house.”

No way she was a genuine aunt, because none of Mother’s true family had survived the Bolsheviks. Auntie Geynia, The Imposter, was one of the Polish immigrant women Mother impulsively absorbed into our lives. Right away I didn’t like this wire thin, fake auntie whose arms moved like wooden sticks.

Reeking of cigarette smoke and settled in like she already belonged, Auntie Geynia grabbed and hugged me. “You must come to Poland,” she thrust up a skinny arm for emphasis, “to learn best Polish accent from daughter Krystyna.” She puffed up with pride when she bragged about her daughter back in Poland being “bardzo ladna.”

I didn’t care if her daughter was a “very pretty” person or not—precious Krystyna was of zero interest to me.

Overnight I became servant-to-Auntie-Geynia. As soon as I got home from school, Auntie Geynia’s commands started. “Danusia kohana, come here!” she said. I cringed each time she called me her “dear.” “Danusia kohana, you find pillows for my aching back.” “Danusia kohana, turn on Polish radio station.” “Danusia kohana, find my cigarettes.”

I handed her matches. I followed her with ashtrays as she walked through the house flicking a trail behind her. I ran for the Hoover and vacuumed like mad, trying to clean the stinky residue before I went into a smoke spasm.

On weekends, I ran errands for her. She even sent me out to buy a second copy of Novy Swiat because Dad was too slow reading our home-delivered copy. I expected she would eventually give me a nice compliment—it never happened.

During the eternity of the three months she stayed with us, Auntie Geynia never missed a chance to criticize America. “You are eating corn in this country? In Poland, corn is for pigs only,” she insisted. While all along, she kept putting on fat from eating so many big portions of American food. “Hartford, ach! Where is kultura here? A city only for … How you say? … too many insurancing peoples.”

To build up a stash of American dollars, Auntie Geynia took any job: cleaning lady, waitress, leaflet-passer. And she stole my babysitting jobs. When I was upstairs doing homework, Auntie Geyna would dash to answer the “boarders no use” telephone. In butchered English she’d filter the calls. If it was someone calling me to babysit, she’d lie, “Danusia no home, but I very good to come.”

One day, Mother told me that Auntie Geynia was going back to Poland. The Impostor’s last day was going to be one of my happiest. So I thought. The morning of her departure I gave her a good-bye hug that made her eyes tear up. After school, I came in the front door ready to whoop it up, knowing Auntie Geynia was finally gone. But when I started up the stairs to my room, a sick feeling began in the pit of my stomach. My bedroom door wasn’t closed like I always left it. The closet door was wide open. Hanging on the nearly empty rail were only my dingy school clothes. My pink chenille bathrobe that kept me cozy every morning and night? Gone! My Cinderella dream dress? Gone! My glossy black Mary Jane party shoes and the chocolate brown shoebox from G. Fox & Company? Gone! Filled with rage I stumbled down the stairs. My heart pounded as I ran to the kitchen.

“Mamusia,” I shrieked, “where are my clothes?”

Mother stood, legs splayed, facing the white enamel stove. She had one hand on her hip as she stirred something thick in a large aluminum pot. I grimaced from the smelly mystery food that sputtered over the rim.

“Ach, the clothes.” Mother didn’t even turn to look at me. “I decide Auntie Geynia take them to daughter Krystyna in Poland. Good girl deserve few nice tinks.”

The Cinderella dress and patent leather shoes were too small for me now. I’d grown. But they were still the few “nice tinks” that hung in my closet. And they were mine! When Mother gave them to Auntie Geynia to take back to Krystyna in Poland, she gave away more than just my clothes. She stole the only things that made me feel beautiful. I never forgot her betrayal.

A New Pair of Loafers

My cousin Theresa was so pretty and popular that she could’ve been on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. Her dark hair was short, sculpted, and fashionable. She wore pink lipstick. A strand of pearls circled her neck and her pastel cashmere sweater stretched over her nice, full bosoms. Because Theresa was a teenager and I was still in sixth grade, I always hoped some of her perfection would rub off on me.

Theresa in high school, 1950s

Early fall on a Saturday morning, I was in the kitchen at my desk, trying to sketch the backyard apple tree in vivid autumn colors when Mother marched past me and grabbed her canvas shopping bag from the pantry. “Theresa and Ciotka Clarcha coming for visit today.” Across the kitchen, down the back stairs she stomped. I watched her cross the yard and enter the garage where the Packard was parked. No telling where Mother was headed or when she’d be back.

A couple of hours later, I heard her come in the front door and go directly down the hall to her bedroom—odd. I decided to snoop. The bedroom door stood open just enough to reveal Mother’s back and the canvas shopping bag she’d tossed on the cluttered floor. I tried to get a better look. All I saw was a chocolate brown shoebox from G. Fox & Company peeking out of the bag. Spying on Mother was dangerous business. I hustled up the stairs to my bedroom. Soon I heard a door slam—that told me Mother was heading for the kitchen, probably to get ready for our guests. I envisioned how she’d poke into the large tin on top of the Frigidaire for krusticy. Mother bought them in bulk from Kazanowski’s, and I never saw her throw any stale ones away. I had fun watching guests try to soften rock hard krusticy by dunking them in their glass mugs of hot tea.

In my bedroom I paced and wondered what was in that chocolate brown box. Had Mother decided to buy me a new pair of shoes to make up for the wardrobe she’d stolen from me to give to “good girl” Krystyna in Poland?

Cheerful voices rising from downstairs interrupted my guesses. I raced down the stairs to fling myself at Aunt Clara and Theresa. Polish-English bounced between Mother and Aunt Clara. Theresa didn’t have to learn Polish. She spoke American English only.

“How’s school going so far?” Theresa wrapped a sisterly arm around my waist.

“Just great,” I lied. This wasn’t quite the moment to tell her about The Boyle. I flashed Theresa the EFP (escape-to-the-front-porch) hand signal. In seconds we were out the door, heading for the porch glider. The seats stank of mold and who knows what else. We each pinched our nose with one hand and with the other brushed off dust clearance for our bottoms. Plopping down, we enjoyed the breeze wafting across the porch. Theresa’s green eyes brightened when she talked about the latest boy with a crush on her. “I wonder if he’ll ask me to the fall sock hop?”

I’m sure my eyes didn’t sparkle when I described the boring reading list for English class. They probably lit up when I talked about my latest art project, then teared up when I launched into being under siege from the devil in blue.

Theresa squeezed my hand. “Things will get better, you’ll see.”

I doubted that.

“Danusia, Theresa—come inside now!” Mother’s voice could penetrate even a closed door. We popped up and marched inside and headed for the kitchen. “Ciotka Clarcha is going now to grocery shopping,” Mother said. “She wants make dinner for us!”

I felt bad that Aunt Clara had to buy her own ingredients. She was the disciple of healthy eating, and Mother was the atheist. Mother’s food was either fried greasy or boiled tasteless, and the only jam allowed on the breakfast table was strawberry. I vowed when I grew up, not one bite of Polish food would enter my mouth. Never ever again would I eat strawberry jam!

We’d just said good-bye to Aunt Clara when Mother announced, “Theresa, I show you something. Both wait here!” Mother sped down the hall to her bedroom. Theresa and I sat rigid in the wood chairs at the kitchen table, grimacing at the smells of food-encrusted dishes piled high in the nearby porcelain sink. Desperately I wanted Aunt Clara to walk into the kitchen laden with grocery bags of fresh food. But instead, Mother burst in, face beaming, hands clutching the chocolate brown box.

With calculated slowness, she looked back and forth from Theresa to me. Then she sat down—in front of Theresa. “I want you see what I buy!” Mother slid the shoebox at Theresa, whose quick reflexes stopped it from flying off the table. “Go ahead, open!”

With delicate fingers, Theresa lifted the lid, parted the layers of tissue paper and drew out a shiny new pair of cordovan penny loafers. The label on the box read Size 6-Medium.

“You like?” Mother demanded.

Theresa stole a quick glance at me. I aimed back a glare. We both knew that she was already wearing a new pair of penny loafers with two glowing copper pennies tucked into the leather slots, right where they belonged.

Mother’s right foot tapped. “What you think?”

“Well … um …,” Theresa threw me a hopeful look. “Auntie Hania … these are really nice loafers. Any girl would like them.”

Mother loved praise. “What size you wear, Theresa?”

“Um … I’m a size six, Auntie Hania.” Now, Theresa looked nervous. Mother looked happy. And I must have looked incensed. I bit my tongue until I tasted blood. With Mother, I had learned that showing her my tears and pain only gave her more control over me.

“Danusia size five and half.” Mother’s chin wobbled as she nodded. “New loafers too big for her—perfect for you!” She snatched the loafers out of Theresa’s hands, jammed them into the tissue paper, forced the lid back on, and thrust the box at Theresa. “You take. Is gift!”

No one refused Mother—not even Theresa.

Enraged, I wanted to dash to my room, make a fat, ugly paper doll of Mother, and shred her to pieces. After that, to draw a beautiful Theresa in my sketchbook and smear thick brown and red poster paint over every part of her. Instead I stayed silent and brooding in the kitchen.

After Theresa and Aunt Clara left, I went upstairs and got my treasured box of paper dolls, its battered lid still covered with pictures of fashion models from glossy magazines. It was stuffed with handmade paper dolls I’d been crafting for years. But I couldn’t depend on those dolls anymore. The time had come to let go of my little girl illusions. I carried the cardboard box out to the back yard, flipped open the lid, and watched the layers of bright paper dolls flutter away, carried off by the wind.

Eventually, Theresa would make things right—we were more like sisters than cousins, too close not to forgive, but too close not to forget.

Adoption and Secrets

Horrible sixth grade was finally over and hot summer had arrived. Mother left me at Aunt Clara’s, to spend the day with Theresa at nearby Lake Compounce. Because Theresa and I didn’t like the crowds on the beach, the offshore floating swim platform beckoned. Early birds got the prime spots, but it took a 200-yard swim to get there. Theresa was fast in the water, and I was slow. Anyone watching us climb up the platform ladder would notice her nice lean body and my short chubby one. We grabbed the last two spots at the platform’s edge and settled down, dipping our toes in the water and leaving the rest of our exposed skin to roast in the sun—the more rays the better.

Theresa’s shapely limbs got plenty of attention from gawking boys on the swim platform. As if she didn’t notice them watching her, Theresa decided to tell me a big secret.

“I’m adopted … did you know that?”

Her question stunned me. If ever the word “adoption” slipped out in family conversation or gossip, everyone instantly hushed up. The topic was taboo. Didn’t Theresa know that? I stared down at my feet and started splashing them so loud that the neighboring boys switched their attention from Theresa to me.

“You’re adopted too,” Theresa’s voice rose over the splashing, “Did you know that?”

Shock and confusion filled my whole body. Stumbling to my feet, unable to speak or look at Theresa, I gulped in air at the platform edge and leaned forward until gravity pulled me into the murky water. I paddle-swam back to shore, then staggered out of the water and collapsed on the sand. Feeling sick to my stomach, I swallowed bile and stared out at the swim platform.

Eventually, Theresa stood up and dove into the lake. Within minutes, she surfaced right in front of me. Without saying a word to each other, we leaped over umpteen legs and bodies looking for our trampled beach towels. When we found them, we shook them out vigorously, scrunching our eyes shut to avoid the sandy debris and angry glares from kids who didn’t like sand showers.

Theresa in the lead, we headed toward the second most popular place at Lake Compounce: a cluster of buildings housing the snack bar, changing rooms, and the public phone booth. Theresa disappeared inside. Assuming she was phoning Aunt Clara to come and get us, I waited outside. A few minutes later Theresa came out, wearing crisp Bermuda shorts and a clean blouse. Wrapping my gritty wet towel around my too-tight bathing suit, I plodded after her. On a long wood bench next to the parking lot, we sat and pretended that the passing cars packed with noisy kids were fascinating. No eye contact, no talking between us for thirty minutes was record breaking. Eventually, Aunt Clara pulled up in her Chevy; Theresa climbed in front, and I sat in back. Aunt Clara drove two pouty, silent girls back to Bristol, probably thinking we were pooped from too much sun and swimming.

Back at Aunt Clara’s house, Theresa and I sat in the kitchen and demolished a stack of tuna fish sandwiches washed down with cold glasses of milk—until the roar of the mighty Packard sounded in the driveway. Mother burst into the kitchen. “Danusia, come, we go home!”

Giving a big warm hug to Aunt Clara, I didn’t mumble even a “good-bye” to Theresa. Slumped in the back seat all the way to Hartford, I hardly cringed from Mother’s wild driving. Could Theresa be right? Was I adopted? What came to mind were two vintage images: a photograph of Mother’s family when she was about my age, and a beautiful painting of Mother as a teenager. Both were compelling reminders of Mother’s lost world and the family legacy we shared.

No one ever said I looked like Mother, not that I’d asked anyone. But my secret wish was that I would grow up to be just as beautiful as she’d been as a teenager. When I was little, viewing the photograph of Mother’s family meant sneaking into her bedroom, standing on the upholstered chair next to her high dresser, and stretching up to reach the photograph. Its tarnished silver frame was jammed between a clutter of Mother’s hair-clogged brushes and boxes of face powder. Grabbing the frame, I’d sink into the chair below, sigh with contentment, and stare at the photograph from Mother’s lost world, the family I’d always yearned to know.

Sepia-toned, about the size of my small sketchbook, the scene was the Olszeski clan gathered in the garden of their Warsaw estate. Mother was in the center, a young girl dressed in a lacy pinafore over a flouncy white dress, pale stockings, and high-buttoned shoes. Gathered around her were her seven brothers—my uncles—ranging from strapping boys to handsome young men. In the second row stood my grandparents, proud and confident as if assuring the viewer that all was secure. An impressive figure stood to the far right: the family priest wearing a triangular black hat and voluminous dark robe. According to Mother, “Every rich Polish family having own priest—for when needed.”

A second portrait hung in the family parlor of 360 Fairfield Avenue. It was a gilt-framed oil painting, positioned so every visitor could see it. “I was painted by best artist in Warsaw,” Mother boasted.

To my child’s eyes, the young woman in the painting seemed life-size. She was a teenage beauty dressed in an elegant, ankle-length lace dress the color of rich cream. Her abundant hair flowed like dark honey over her shoulders. She wore a broad-brimmed, straw hat with streams of rose satin ribbons around the crown. One slender hand rested on the handle of a ruffled green parasol. The other grazed the head of the family dog, a Russian Borzoi. Such a serene and confident girl could easily have walked in the gardens of the Tsar.

Gazing at the painting always made me curious about daily life in Mother’s wealthy family. What fancy dishes were they served for their meals? How did Mother behave with the servants? Had she ever fallen in love? And what young men in her aristocratic circle would have been her eligible suitors? My soul yearned to be transported into that beautiful world, where Mother had lived—before it all disappeared.

That night, doubt planted by Theresa at Lake Compounce took hold of my dreams. The next morning, I awoke disoriented but determined to know the truth. Hunting for Mother, I found her outside at the backyard clothesline, bottom up and head down to a mountain of just-washed sheets—a sign of boarders having moved on. Not interested in talking to Mother’s rear end, I waited for her to stand up.

“Mamusia, I need to ask you something really important.”

“If important, you wait!” Hanging big sheets took priority.

Tired and grumpy, I stood for as long as I could and watched Mother bobbing up and down, sopping sweat from her face with a wet tail end of the nearest sheet. Eventually I slumped down to the top step of the laundry stoop, stretched my arms over my knees, and fell sound asleep. Until Mother, blocked from getting past, bent over to poke at me.

“Wake up!” she said, her voice irritated. “Yesterday too much swimming with Theresa—no good.”

“Mamusia, is it true that I’m adopted?”

“Ach,” she said dismissively and turned away from me to pick up the empty laundry basket on the stoop. “Who is telling you stupid stuff?”

“Theresa. She says I’m adopted. We’re both adopted.”

“Theresa is foolish girl, knows nothing. Why you listen?”

Back and forth we went—Mother defending and accusing, me persisting and demanding. Until Mother finally agreed to answer my questions. Before, I’d had only snippets of gossip that I’d translated from relatives gabbing in Polish and Aunt Mamie’s somewhat reliable but also mysterious answers to my questions. What I was about to hear from Mother was a completely different version.

So began her “absolute true” story.

That she had borne her other daughter, my sister Edith, when she and Dad were young and newly married. She claimed being pregnant with me, “Late in life and too old. Family would give shame only.” Mother looked convincing as she continued, “I’m decide to hide and have baby at farm.”

But Mother hates going to the farm. Why would she go there?

According to Mother, Edith was the attending nurse for my birth at the farm on February 2, 1943. Afterward, she and Edith returned to Hartford with a newborn baby they called Danusia. If she was hiding her pregnancy at the farm, how did they explain an instant baby to the boarders and relatives?

As an adult, I checked the Farmer’s Almanac. The winter of 1943 was the coldest on record in Connecticut. An unheated farmhouse, that frigid February, would have been a risky place even for a young, healthy mother to have a homebirth. And a preposterous place for an older mother. As a child, I didn’t connect Mother’s illogical stories to her unpredictable behavior. Later as an adult, I identified certain common elements had always been there: drama, deception, and willfulness. They had shaped who Mother was and the stories she told.

The mystery of adoption and the truth about my birth would stay buried for another decade. At age twenty-four, I would return to Arizona as a bride-to-be with joyful news. Instead of celebrating my happiness, my parents would choose that visit to tell me yet another incredible version. Would it finally be the real, true confession about my birth?