The next time we spoke, my granddaughter asked whether I wanted to tell her more about Stanislaw.
I said yes.
There were things I had never explained because nobody had asked.
She wanted to know what our friendship had been like.
I told her it had been ordinary.
We saw each other almost every day.
We walked to school.
We shared books.
We stayed outside until our mothers called us home.
She asked whether we had ever argued.
I laughed.
Of course we had.
We were children.
But our disagreements never lasted long enough to become important.
I explained that Stanislaw had been part of my daily routine.
I had never thought of him as someone I might lose.
That was why leaving Poland had been so difficult.
I had understood that we were moving.
I had not understood that I might never see him again.
My granddaughter listened quietly.
Then she asked whether I had ever imagined what his life became.
I told her I had.
More times than I cared to admit.
I had wondered whether he stayed in Warsaw.
I had wondered whether he found happiness.
I had wondered whether he had children and grandchildren of his own.
But wondering was all I could do.
I had no information.
No contact.
No way to find out.
She asked whether I thought he had remembered my name.
I looked at her.
That was the question that had troubled me most.
The stranger had used the name Zofia.
Not Zoe.
He had somehow known which name belonged to the girl from Warsaw.
I told her that someone must have remembered.
She asked whether I thought that someone was Stanislaw.
I said it was possible.
But I could not be certain.
I did not want to give her an answer simply because it would make the story easier.
We sat together for a while.
I noticed that she was looking at me differently.
Perhaps she had never imagined that her grandmother had once been a young girl with a childhood friendship that ended without explanation.
Most people knew only the person standing in front of them.
They rarely considered all the lives that came before.
I told her that I had once been Zofia.
I had once lived in Warsaw.
And I had once believed that the boy next door would always be part of my future.
She reached for my hand.
I held it.
I was grateful that she had brought the package home instead of treating it as an ordinary delivery.
Whatever the explanation might be, I would not have wanted that message lost.
For the first time, I allowed myself to speak about Stanislaw without immediately reminding myself that the past was over.
I did not know whether he was alive.
I did not know whether he had sent the message.
But I knew that someone had remembered the promise.
And that was enough to make me listen.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: I Had Learned to Live Without Answers, but the Name Zofia Made Me Realize How Much of My Childhood Was Still Waiting Inside Me
Before America Gave Me a New Name, There Was a Boy in Warsaw Who Believed Our Childhood Promises Would Last Forever
Part 14 of 16
