Babi - Grandmother

• Marcus Papic, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2021

Piotr clasped his wristwatch, fumbling with its buttons and knobs, repeatedly tapping his feet in a discontented rhythm, an air of impatience around him. He flitted his eyes around the room, fixating his attention for mere seconds upon small details, the yellowing walls, chipped ceramic cups and pots, Polish biscuits, and framed photos of people on the bench, seemingly distant relatives, he knew nothing about, nor cared for.
“Everything fine, Piotrek?” his grandmother rebuked him, “You seem awfully impatient, do you have somewhere to be?” her admonishment was accentuated by her thick Polish accent. Piotr sheepishly looked down at his shoes.
“I just need to have this recorded babi, notes written down, I thought I told you about this, it’s for the school project, the ‘Interview your Grandparent’ task, or whatever it’s called,” Piotr murmured flippantly, lifting the hot tea to his lips, sipping, before recoiling in pain as it burnt his tongue. He caught his grandmother’s gaze, and she furrowed her brow indignantly, but he continued, “So, can you just get through this quickly? Please?”

Piotr’s grandmother began, “The Polish countryside was my joy, my livelihood, my home. I can recall how the fields had been put to sleep under a blanket of white in the winter time, the boughs glistening with frost. The air had hung silent and cold. I remembered the hills that had rolled like a casually laid eiderdown quilt, rising and falling in soft waves.” Her articulation of her country had such vigour and artistry to it, and yet Piotr scrawled lazily upon his notebook as she delivered her tale, paying no heed to her animated gesturing and attempts to engage.
“Tell me about… let’s see… your family? Sure seems like you had a peaceful time there, didn’t you?” He opined; his brazen interjections left her unfazed.
“I always loved seeing my cousins at Ciocia’s farm, a few kilometres from the village. Anastazja and Andrzej were the same age as my sister and I. Ciocia let us take care of the animals at their farm... it was a peaceful existence.”
“The arrival of the Nazis changed this,” she whispered, and Piotr’s eyes met hers, holding a certain renewed focus… intrigue, fascination perhaps.
“...The Nazis..?”
“Only Andrzej had survived when the Nazis seized the land near Warsaw. He told us that the Nazis came down to their home and set it alight, and when young Anastazja begged for mercy, she was tossed into the fire...” Piotr winced and his demeanour had irrevocably shifted, a grimly furrowed brow was painted upon his face, as any quip or witty remark he had ready slipped from his grasp.
***
After she completed her tale, an air of silence loomed over the pair, and Piotr felt a rush of emotion overcome him, flinging himself at his grandmother, wrapping his arms around her in a mutual silence. Years later, when he committed her story to paper, a great catharsis had washed over him, a poignant sense of gratitude and understanding.