Although there are many gaping holes in my knowledge of my family’s war time story, the one story that I do know is one my grandfather told me when I was about eight years old. The way I remember it, my parents and I were visiting my grandparents’ home when, during a pause in the conversation, my grandfather announced he wanted to tell me “A true family story.”  The story begins in June of 1943. My father and grandmother have been arrested by the Polish police on the streets of Warsaw. But just as Grandpa is getting going in the story, Grandma stands up and interrupts him. “Don’t tell this story. Please,” she begs, “no war stories.”  Grandpa tells her I’m old enough to hear the story, that it’s his home, and he can tell his granddaughter whatever he pleases. Grandma shakes her head; the rush of wartime memories seem to fill her mind and send her reeling. She yells at Grandpa in Polish. I don’t speak Polish, so I have no idea what she’s saying, but her voice shakes and trembles, and she’s on the verge of tears. It’s clear to me that she does not want grandpa to tell this story. Grandpa responds to her pleas with a raised and unsympathetic voice. Grandma starts crying and leaves the[Read more…]