Tired of playing in my bedroom with my paper dolls, I clomped downstairs to the front room. Dad was settled in his favorite chair, the shabby high-back, a reading lamp over his shoulder directing the light to his issue of Popular Mechanics. I gravitated to a low stool next to him. Somehow, that day, I managed to ask the right question at the right time.
“Tatush, will you tell me why you left Poland to come to America?”
Dad lifted his eyes and closed the magazine to set it aside. His glance was affectionate, as if he was pleased by my interest. “So, Danusia, you don’t know my story.” Removing his wire-rimmed reading glasses, he leaned back into the chair. “Perhaps is time I tell you. When I was young man, Tsar’s police make extreme danger for my family.” His voice was low and steady as he spoke.
“We were hard-working farmers.” He nodded as if for emphasis. “Polish farmers, whose lands on northern border by Lithuania were ruled by Tsar Alexander Nicholas II, the Russian who named himself King of Poland and claimed our lands as Russian territories.” Dad’s expression turned grim. “Speaking Polish language, reading Polish books was absolute forbidden. Tsar’s police roam the land like vultures looking for Polish prey.” Dad leaned forward and bent his bald head toward me.
“One day they arrive to our farm,” he said. “I was working in fields. They tear everything, search everything. And they find our Polish books—banned books. Tsar’s police threaten to take my father to prison.” Reaching into his pocket he withdrew his handkerchief and blew his nose several times. “Your aunt Mamie was little girl then, like you. She come running to the field, to warn about the Tsar’s police. I drop everything and rush to house. Must save my father!”
I could hardly imagine my aunt Mamie, now grown heavy and tired from serving customers at Kazanowski’s Deli, as once being a small girl and Dad’s little sister of long ago and far away. I tried hard to imagine my old and silent dad as a vigorous young man working the fields, instead of driving around in a rusty tractor at Old Glendale Farm.
“What did you do, Tatush?” I asked, even though I was afraid to know the answer.
“I tell Tsar’s police, ‘Books are mine, not my father’s. He is man who never learn to read. Take me, not him.’ Police agree. I say good-bye. Whole family crying. They see me leave surrounded by guards.”
I was shocked to learn that my aged dad had once been a courageous young man who saved his own father from an unjust fate. Yet he was the same man who never protected me from Mother’s wild and unpredictable lashings.
Suddenly, Dad stood and walked toward the living room window. He gazed out at the front lawn and barn beyond and no longer seemed to be present in the room, where I sat on a little stool by his empty chair.
“In those days I was strong,” he said, looking out at the rain, “very good runner. When we reach fields, I begin to run. For miles. Tsar’s police chase behind. I lead them into forest where I know all secret places. And then—I disappear.”
I watched my dad’s back as he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He’d never shown me his emotions before. My brain felt as if it would explode. I wanted to know so much more.
“Did you run all the way to America?”
Dad turned and smiled, then began to laugh. I started to giggle. We were laughing together—it felt wonderful. I didn’t want that to stop. Maybe now Dad and I will stay close, like this.
“Silly girl, America is across very big ocean. First, I go to Germany, work there few years, make enough money to bring whole family by ship to America—parents, two brothers and two sisters, all leave Poland. Never again we fear Tsar’s police.”
“Where did you meet Mamusia?”
“Ach, your mother, she was beautiful Polish girl, strong and brave,” Dad said. His blue eyes began to sparkle. “Has she already told you how she escaped the Bolsheviks, come to America, alone—no family, no nothing?”
I nodded. Rising from my little stool, I moved toward my dad, hoping he would draw me into his arms and hug me close. Instead, he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. With deliberate care, he rubbed the lenses of his glasses. I waited, arms limp at my sides. Dad slid the glasses into his trouser pocket, turned away from me, and walked out of the room.
Dad’s Polish Family in America, early 1900s
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