What most of them had on their side was that they’d left for supposedly longer time frames. Why wouldn’t they call home in their weeks away? For Penelope, it wasn’t that simple—she should have already returned. Would a call put her father at risk? Luckily, she’d loitered long enough for a man named Tadek to find her. He had a voice, and body, like the trees.
“You want to call home, young girl?”
At her reluctance to speak, he went and touched the phone booth, to prove it couldn’t hurt her. “Is anyone from your family in the movement?” And then, even more specific. “Solidarnosc?”
“Nie.”
“Have you ever bent the wrong nose out of shape, if you know what I mean?”
Now she shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.” He grinned, like he’d borrowed the teeth from the Austrian train conductor. “Okay, then, let me ask. It’s your parents?”
“My father.”
“And you’re sure now. You’ve caused no trouble?”
“I’m sure.”
“And him?”
“He’s an old tram driver,” she said, “who barely speaks.”
“Oh, well then, I think you’re okay. The Party’s in such a pitiful state right now, I don’t think they’ve got time to worry about an old Tramwaj man. It’s hard to be sure of anything these days, but of that, I’m totally certain.”
It was then, she’d said, that Tadek looked out through the pine trees, and corridors of light. “Was he a good father to you?”
“Tak.”
“And he’ll be glad to hear from you?”
“Tak.”
“Well, here.” He turned and threw her some change. “Say hi from me,” and walked away.
* * *
—
Of the phone conversation, there were ten small words, in translation:
“Hello?”
Nothing. Just static.
He repeated it.
That voice, like cement, like stone.
“Hello?”
She was lost in pine and mountainside, her knuckles bony white.
“Mistake Maker?” he asked. “Mistake Maker, is that you?”
And she imagined him in the kitchen, and the shelf of thirty-nine books—her head now against the window, somehow saying “Yes.”
Then hung the phone up lightly.