Digital publication | Page 26

“They’re not beautiful, but they’re mine.” 

“I found my inspiration in my papa too. Back in ‘78, my young spirit days, I spent my afternoons

down at his house. He would always cycle on his exercise bike, while he told me about his life

in World War II. He told me about my mother, Anja, before she passed.” Art swallowed. “I have

his words saved on my tape recorder, from each and every afternoon. And not one went by

without him scolding me...Bitter old man. Wonderful, just wonderful time in Queens.” There was

a chagrined smile. A hollow laugh.  

19

Liesel nodded slowly, tentatively. There remained a gap to be filled. Art continued. “The year 1939- it was an important one.”  

Her eyes widened, then she said, “1939? I could- I could say the same.” 

Art could tell immediately as a shadow crossed Liesel’s face. “Then you know.”  

“It was the year my father Vladek was drafted into the Polish army and sent to the front lines. It was the year he was captured and became a prisoner of war. He was eventually released back to Poland and went into hiding over that period to avoid being sent to concentration camps. He was eventually sent to Auschwitz, while Anja was sent to Birkenau.” Liesel’s grip on her glass of water tightened. 

“But my father always, always found his way back to Anja.”  

“Ha. You could say that.” Art looked out into the piles of snow outside and sighed. They were both merely a collection of stories, spirits time-worn and perpetually craving a human tale to fill a starved gap- and he could sense Liesel’s hunger. Art felt himself beginning to wander through his own collection, past his time as prisoner on a hell planet, past his father bleeding history, past a survivor’s tales, past where the troubles began. He truly wanted to tell Liesel all of it, the entity of sunken eyes and a pair of fists poised to fight. But this is what he said instead- the clumsy words tumbling out of his mouth:  

“The last thing she asked me was if I loved her.” 

Liesel did not offer a saccharine pity nor far flung condolences. They were both hardy with lament, and as Liesel slowly drew forward her hand, holding out her glass, Art completed the bittersweet toast.  

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Art nodded candidly to this in thanks. He picked up the glass of water and took a few silent gulps. Then he gently set the glass down. 

“You know,” offered Liesel. “Perhaps what we can agree on is that we both have had the fortuity to know people that have filled our brimming pages.”  

Liesel was poised to speak, until a waitress swooped in, filling the silence and their empty glasses with cool, clear water in two swift strokes. Two menus were placed on the table. “Good afternoon, my name is Anja, and I will be taking care of your table today.”

 Art felt a forlorn chill come over him as the name seemed to circle him expectantly. The name of the woman whose genesis all but remained within the boughs of his tape recorder, whose story first sprung from the pried lips of his father.