Talking with My Grandmothers

Seeking a way to avoid the memory of her assault, she becomes intrigued with her family history. She seeks information from her grandmothers.

Chapter 2 - Talking with My Grandmothers

            The next day, I refused to get out of bed. I felt as if a dark cloud had descended over me. The gloom wouldn't leave me.

            Momma came into my room and sat on the bed. She took my hand and brushed the hair from my forehead. "You're going to be okay. It doesn't seem like that now, but you will be. Young girls like you are often prey to men without scruples. They need protection; that's why they marry."

            "No one will want to marry me. I'm not a virgin." I pointed out to her.

            "You don't have to tell everything that's ever happened to you when a man asks. It's best not to think about it."

            "What if I have a baby? Then I'll have to talk about it."

            "Wait and see. You're so young, nothing may happen."

            "That's just it. I'm too young for this to have happened to me. Must I go to Confession and tell the priest?"

            "There's nothing to confess. You did nothing wrong. I have to leave for work. Talk to Busia. She's a mother too, you know."

            "Momma, Busia was so nice to me last night. It was as if she understood." Busia was the name we called my grandmother. It is a shortened form of "babushka" the scarf that many Russian women wear on their heads. It's meant as a term of endearment.

            Momma said, "Busia was a young wife with a baby girl when she came by ship to join your Grandfather in America. She learned a lot about life since then. Ask her, if you have any more questions."

            For the first time I thought of Busia as a young woman. That alone was enough to get me out of bed on the first day. To avoid talking about what happened to me, I said to Momma, "I want to know more about Busia's journey. What was her life like in Poland? Did she really bring a baby alone across the sea? Is the baby one of my aunts?  How old was Busia when she came to America?"

            Momma laughed, "So many questions. Speak with Busia. She won't bite you. It'd be good to take your mind off, you know."

            If anything would help me to forget, maybe talking to Busia would do that. I'd always taken her for granted. She was the grandmother who lived with us and took care of us when we were little. I didn't think of her as being young, like me. Even though her English is hard to understand, learning her story might make me forget my own concerns.

            "Besides talking to Busia, you should ask your Grandma Irene about her Mother and Father, the Kubiaks, and their journey to America. My mother pretends she was born in America, but she actually was born in Poland. She can tell you about my father's parents, too, the Zbikowski's."

            I became more and more curious. Since I refused to go to school, even though my mother agreed I should stay home for awhile, I decided I'd talk with my grandmothers. It was easier to understand my Grandma Irene than Busia. But, Grandma Irene had the attitude of a princess, which could be intimidating. I decided I'd be strong and go to her.

            Grandma was a widow who'd remarried. She lived with her second husband in our neighborhood. Busia lived with us because she was a widow and still alone. With eight children in our family, Busia was a great help to my mother.

            During the days I remained at home because of the attack, I spoke with Busia and Grandma Irene. Busia told me stories she said she shared with no one else. I felt privileged to have her confidence and learned that her daughter, an aunt I never knew, had been molested.

            On the other hand, Grandma Irene wouldn't tell me anything at all. When I first approached her, I was afraid she might ask me how I got a split lip. The wound was healing but my face was still swollen. Before Grandma could say anything about my face, I asked, "Grandma, did your Mother ever tell you anything about Poland before she arrived in America?"

            She stopped her cutting at a board. With her knife poised in the air, she said, "I'm an American. I know nothing of Poland. The history of America is what you should study. Me, I know nothing about the Old Country." My Grandmother went back to her cutting board.

I knew this wasn't true. My Momma said that her Kubiak Grandparents left Poland to escape revenue agents. I wanted to get the whole story, but my Grandma refused to speak about it.      "What about Grandpa's parents. Didn't he tell you stories about his family? I am interested in both of my Great Grandparents."

            Perhaps the memory of her first husband softened her resistance. "Olivia,  your Grandfather's parents, the Zbikowskis, had the money, but the Kubiaks had the brains."

She paused and returned to her cutting. "Strange isn't it, that both of your Great Grandparents lived no more than ten miles apart in Poland. Yet, they never knew each other until they emigrated to the United States."

            I couldn't control my inquisitiveness. "Please tell me more. What about the revenue agents. Was your Papa involved in doing something illegal?"

            Laughing, she said, "My Papa worked at a still with his wife's father. He was brought into the family business when he lost his job as a tutor. If it weren't for that, my parents might never have left Poland at all. I'm glad they did. Otherwise, you'd never been born," she said slyly.

            Even though I was feeling maybe it was better if I'd never been born, I asked, "Who can tell me about your Papa and what he did in Poland?" I persisted.

            She seemed to tire of the topic. "Talk to my brother's son, your Cousin Irvin. My brother was a small boy when our parents arrived in America, yet he often spoke about the Old Country. His son may remember some of the stories. Better to ask him than me."

            She seemed to have another thought and smiled. "If you really want to learn something, go see Great Aunt Agnes. She's your Grandfather's oldest sister and was born in Poland. Even though Agnes doesn't remember what day of the week it is, she can tell stories about the old days. She'd welcome a visit. She lives in the St. Frances Home."

            Great Aunt Agnes Zbikowski was my Grandfather's oldest sister. My Grandfather died shortly after Momma got married. I never even heard of Great Aunt Agnes. She must be a hundred. "How old is Great Aunt Agnes?"

            Grandma paused and thought. "Great Aunt Agnes was a little girl when her parents came to America. They were called Ursula and Peter Zbyk then. They changed their name to Zbikowski before your Grandfather Luke was born. Great Aunt Agnes would've been a year old in 1883, so that would make her about eighty-eight now. You should speak to her before she dies. She might not live until she's ninety."

            Busia was seventy-nine on her last birthday. I thought she was the oldest woman I knew. Grandma Irene was not yet seventy. Now, I would meet an aunt who was even older.

From my Great Aunt Agnes, my Cousin Irvin, and Busia I learned about the different branches of my family. To forget what happened to me, I concentrated on writing down what I heard. I don't recommend rape as an impetus for learning your personal history. But, in my case, it was the just the beginning of how I'd live the remainder of my life.