"No," said the old man.
Strand blinked. "You mean you never knew them?" she asked.
The little man shook his head. "No Polski," he said simply.
Strand was puzzled. "What do you mean by 'No Pole… skee'?"
He sipped. "They not Polski… no Polish."
Strand cocked her head. "You remember them then?" she asked hopefully.
He nodded.
"Then how could they not be Polish? Their name was Kapuscinski. I've seen their immigration papers. They came from Krakow, in Poland."
A shrug. "I see no papers. But I know… they no Polski."
Now she was irritated. "How do you know?"
He pulled out some sunflower seeds from his pocket and scattered them on the ground. Two cardinals appeared and began to forage.
"I born Warszawa… that Warsaw. Leave when Hitler come. Fight Germans in Free Polski paratroop with General Sosa-bowski. Wounded near Arnhem… before you born. Marta and me come to America after war. New York first. No like. Then come here." He looked up. "Marta pretty like you."
Strand blushed. "I'm sure she was. Please, go on."
' 'I remember. We move this house. It nice then. Not like now. I want to meet neighbor. See name on mailbox. 'Kapuscinski.' I remember. I talk to him over fence. I say, 'Dzaen dobry, aesten Jersey Woyda. Przyechalem tutay z Warszawa.' That mean, 'Hello, I Jersey Woyda. I move here from Warsaw.' That man' '— he pointed next door—"he speak Polish, but he not Polski. I remember… they leave soon after Marta and me move here.''
Strand felt a tingling sensation. "Are you certain? The man named Kapuscinski had been in this country seven years. He probably hadn't spoken Polish much in that time."
"No." He shook his head. "If they Polski they speak Polski in house… Marta and me speak Polski when alone." He smiled sheepishly. "That why my English never so good."
"No, no," she reassured him. "Your English is fine. And you made a good point. They probably would continue to speak Polish when they were alone." Strand rubbed her gloved hands together. "But if he did speak Polish, how can you say for certain he wasn't from Poland?"
His eyes were mocking. "You American. Everybody who speak English sound like American?''
She shook her head. "I see what you mean," she conceded, then contemplated what he'd said. "So if they spoke the language but were not Polish, then where were they from?"
He shrugged again. "Don't know… too long time… Ungarn… Czechsi maybe. Don't know where. Just know they not Polski."
She patted her cheeks. It was getting colder. "What about the litde boy?" she asked. "Did you ever see him? As I said, he was only seven years old when they were here."
He took one last sip, then tossed the remnants in his cup on the ground. "I remember. Marta give him piece of cake one day. He quiet. Not say much. Unhappy boy… Marta and me not have children."
Strand pulled out her billfold and held open the picture section forhimtosee. "That's my litde boy, Noah. He's eight months old."
The white-haired man peeked at the photo and smiled. "He pretty baby… like Mama."
Strand blushed a litde once more, and said, "Thank you."
"You want tea?" he asked.
She was about to beg off when the taxi's horn honked. Maybe the bikers were getting resdess. "No. No thank you. That's my cab. I have to be going. It was nice talking with you. I wish I could've met Marta."
He smiled wistfully. "She would have liked you."
Strand nodded, said, "Thank you for your time," then instinctively leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Now it was the old Pole who blushed.
She turned and began walking down the sidewalk.
"Air Force lady?" he called after her.
She stopped and looked back. "Yes?"
He had an ethereal look in his eyes now, as if trying to peer through a distant fog. "When I tell neighbor I from Wars-zawa…"He paused for a moment.
"Yes?" prompted Strand.
"He scared."
The image slowly crept into focus, the white dot growing larger and larger until it became vividly clear. He was in a tunnel, which turned into a hallway. The walls were white — completely white — their sterility amplified by the pungent smell of antiseptic and formaldehyde.
Like a robot, the young Julian walked down the hall, wearing his blue academy uniform. Beside him the butterball police lieutenant kept pace, looking drawn and weary from having done this sort of thing too many times before.
"I understand your father passed away when you were only ten years old… You must have been very close to your mother." The lieutenant tried to make his voice sound consoling, but it came out flat, without emotion — just like a written police report.
Julian only nodded.
"Sorry," offered the lieutenant as they approached the swinging door marked:
COOK COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER MORGUE
They entered and the lieutenant handed some paperwork to the white-uniformed attendant, who was sickeningly obese and was eating a Twinkie at his desk. The human white elephant thumbed through the paperwork and looked up at the plainclothes lieutenant. "Kapuscinski?" he asked absently.
"That's right," replied the cop.
The white elephant heaved himself up. "This way," he ordered. They walked through another set of swinging doors into a large room. One wall was filled with a bank of small stainless steel refrigerator doors.
The white elephant opened one of the doors and roughly yanked out a tray.
The lieutenant spoke softly. "From the crime scene it looked like she returned home from shopping and stumbled onto some burglars that were in the house. Apparently the thieves panicked and…" The cop didn't finish the sentence. He only nodded to the attendant.
The white elephant folded back the sheet covering the face.
Clinically, the lieutenant asked, "Do you, Julian Kapuscinski, positively identify this woman as Victoria Kapuscinski, your mother?"
Her brown hair had turned gray many years ago, and it fell raggedly on the tray. Her eyes were closed and her skin a flour white. She did not look peaceful — even in death.
"Is this your mother?" prompted the lieutenant again.
Julian emitted a barely audible "Yes."
The lieutenant nodded to the white elephant, who started to roll the tray back into the refrigerator. But Julian placed a restraining hand on the tray. He couldn't bring himself to let her go. "How did my mother die?" he asked, almost choking.
The lieutenant pretended not to hear.
"I asked you how my mother died." This time it was a demand.
The middle-aged cop sighed, then quietly said, "Stab wound."
The white elephant wanted to get back to the other Twinkie at his desk and tried moving the tray again, but Julian's strong hand still held it fast. "C'mon, kid," he said roughly. "Your momma's dead. She ain't gettin' up, I can tell you that."
Inside Julian's mind a dike broke, and a sea of blind, searing rage engulfed him. "You pig!" he shouted, and lunged over the tray to seize the white elephant by the throat. The scuffle knocked Victoria Kapuscinski's corpse off the tray, and the naked body hit the tile floor with a dull smack.
Julian released his grip on the white elephant's throat and collapsed against the wall of refrigerator doors, aghast at what he'd done. His mother's naked torso showed that she had not died from a stab wound, but from about thirty savage punctures that horribly maimed her delicate body.
Julian ran from the hellish morgue. Ran far and fast until his legs could take him no farther and he collapsed on the grounds of Chicago's Lincoln Park. It was dark, and he was alone with his panting and sobbing. How long he stayed there he couldn't remember, for his mind was consumed by the image of his violated mother.