I stood outside in the dead of winter, breathing out graceful swirls of transparent white that momentarily blocked my view. Surrounding me were stretches of stone, silent markers that made this cemetery one of the largest I had ever known. A city of souls. A site of lost memories.
The others had walked on, now small streaks of motion as they made their way to one of the winding roads where the cars were parked. But I paid them no attention, nor to my surroundings. Strands of hair waved past my cheek like miniature whips while I stared directly in front of me. My legs gave out and I found myself on my knees. All I could see was Grandma Sarah’s grave.
Most people encounter tragic love stories through books or movies. There are few things in life more compelling than the loss or forced end of love. Yet the mass majority only know such devastatingly captivating lives through the lens of fictitious characters, alternate realities captured on paper or screen. Not me. I know and am forever tied to someone for whom tragic love was reality. And her body was resting right before me.
My fingers reached out, tracing her name. There was a distinct chill that I could not escape, despite the fact that I had on layer upon layer of clothes. I closed my eyes, and her story, the story of Sarah, began to emerge from the dark recesses of my mind.
1931
92nd Street, music and laughter filled the room— and to Sarah, it was overwhelming. Never before had she been in a room with so many young men and women. Standing off to the side, she watched in amazement at the dancing couples. They all looked so…full of life. Happy. She thought back to how nervous she had been just a few hours before.
“Dlaczego muszę iść, Papa? Mój angielski nie jest dobry.” Why must I go, Papa? My English is not strong.
“That is exactly why you must, mój skarbie. Talk and dance. Meet people, practice your English.” Ever since Papa had sent money for Sarah, her mother, and her siblings to leave their small town of Zaręby Kościelne and join him in New York, he refused to speak Polish. Sarah thought English was an ugly language and longed for Poland, where the language was so much softer, beautiful. Polish was the friend of poets. English was clunky, rough.
This was the first time Papa was letting her go out to meet people. When she first arrived, Sarah had gone straight to work. Work was terrible, but at least she listened to the whirring of machines rather than the gruff exchange of that unfamiliar language.
Now she stood, alone despite in a crowded room. Sarah glanced down at the small cup she held in her hand. The water reflected her face, pale skin with flushed cheeks and large blue eyes. Wisps of blonde hair escaped her braid and seemingly floated around her like the rays of a sunrise. She tried to brush back some of the unruly strands, to no avail.
Sighing, she looked up from her drink. In that moment, time froze. A pair of green eyes locked with her own, and Sarah almost spilled her drink, so clenched her grasp became. The young man began to walk toward her from across the room. Despite the large number of people, he strode right ahead. A lock of dark hair fell across his brow, and a small smile appeared on his lips.
“Hello.” He had a deep voice, and spoke with a slight Russian accent. For the first time, English sounded somewhat nice to Sarah. She blushed.
“Hello,” she responded.
This was her first encounter with Jack.
2008
Something wet landed on my cheek, drawing me from my thoughts. I didn’t know if it was the rain or my tears. Tragic love stories always start out so sweet, so innocent. Sarah’s story did, at least.
She hadn't known at the time, but the man she would spend the rest of her life with was at that dance. But it wasn’t Jack. It was his older brother, Harry. In an attempt to get over his infatuation of Sarah, Jack met and married another young woman named Sarah. How bitterly devastating to know the two couples spent the rest of their lives living in the same high-rise in the Bronx. How they shared deep feelings for each other but the circumstances made each forbidden fruit that neither dared to reach for.
Looking up, I let little drops fall on my skin.
“Liana!” I heard my name called from the road. It was time to go. Standing up, I placed one last pebble on her new gravestone. Sarah was finally at peace. As I began to walk towards my family, I glanced back. How ironic. I couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief at the location and placement of her grave. To the left of Sarah’s grave was Grandpa Harry. To her right, Uncle Jack.
