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
