The Place of The Three Crosses

A rollercoaster. A tornado. Whatever terms people use to describe this feeling, this situation, this moment – it’s all just right. Cliché or not. And I’ve found chamomile tea is helping ease the ride the best.

The last few days have been a series of major ups and downs. One minute, I can accept that this is happening. I know it’s for the best. I am glad that Patrick is being honest with me. And then the next second, I’m freaking out – terrified of the future. Terrified of Patrick. Terrified of everything.

In some ways, I wish I were a man. Now, I hate saying that. It sounds so silly. I really don’t believe in the bad BET stand-up ideology that “Women be this way, and Men be that.” I’ve long been convinced that most men and women were simply willing to give in to their gender roles. Men were tough and hard and mean. Women were soft and fragile and emotional. And I chose to hang out with people who refused to go those contrived routes. People like Patrick, who refused to be what people expected. But now, through this, I’m seeing things quite differently.

The story really starts in 2002, when my parents divorced. My father appeared to transform into a robot. It was all business. There was no feeling. No emotions at all. Even with his children. He had the other woman. The new apartment. He was carefully protecting his assets. Filing the papers. And my mother – she lay in bed, falling apart, worrying that she would never be able to go on. It was shocking. Incredible. I could not believe my dad was doing things this way.

Then, in 2008, it came in three neat reality checks. First, it was Erin. She called, crying. Jay and her had broken up. It was a shock. They’d been together for six years. They were making up elaborate plans for moving to Portland. And then, just like that, he said it was over. And she lay in pieces, calling him every so often, hoping he could give her an answer as to why he was doing this. Hoping he’d change and see his mistake. And he never could. And it almost seemed like he just didn’t care.

Then, two months later, it was another a friend. She’d gotten the call when we were in New York together visiting a friend. She had just moved to Philly for a new job. She was expecting her boyfriend of nine years to arrive later that week from Chicago with all of their furniture. He never came. Instead, he called her and said it was over. And for months, she reached out to him, begging him to tell her that he still loved her and that there was still a chance. And he never did.

And then again, as winter approached, I got yet another call. Yet another relationship almost as long as mine was over. He told her right before they were supposed to move from NYC to LA together. He wasn’t going to come, he said. She was heartbroken. She also waited for him to come around. And he never did.

Now, I find myself in the same place. And it’s weird, because I see how predictably men and women handle these situations. “Denise, he’s not going to do this the way you want him to,” one friend said to me.

And he’s not. He’s not calling to hold my hand through this pain. He’s not calming me down and being my best friend, telling me it’s all going to get better and that he will always love me. He’s doing it just like his biology has programmed him to do this. Right now, he is keeping his distance. I text him things like “it feels like you don’t even care. I’m scared.” And he writes back “I’m doing really well right now. Just give my space.” He will only talk shop – the lawyer said this, the law said that. Maybe a “I’m sorry you are hurting” here and there.

Yesterday, this had me balled up in fear. Today, I see it for what it is. He has to do it this way, so that he can do it at all. This is what Erin said. And she was right. And I can see that now, as I look back on all of the other break-ups I have witnessed. Men must emotionally detach themselves from the situation. They need that other woman for comfort and distraction. They have to make it all business in order to protect their assets, their own scary futures, or they just can’t go through with it. And so, I understand. And I am not against men. Not at all. In fact, I am amazed by them. Puzzled by their way. Slightly jealous. Unable to truly grasp their system. It is intriguing and sort of wonderful, in the way that I am also fascinated by UFOs or Ghosts or Supermodels.

And what do we do? We call our friends and swear we will never talk to these horrible creatures again. And then we text these horrible creatures, begging for their attention. And then we cry and scream. And then we take a walk and hope that other men are checking us out. And then we tell ourselves that we will never give our hearts away like that again. And we just keep going through the motions, until we get better. And I know that not because I am better just yet, but because YOU have told me so.

Today, I woke up and I was miserable. Then I opened my email. And there you all were. A series of beautiful, poignant emails from women who’ve gone through just the same thing. And you told me that you knew exactly how I felt. And that it would get better. In fact, it would be right. And I know that some of you are even very close with your ex-husbands again. And you all made me feel much, much better.

So, I left the house with a little bit of hope. My mother and I went to Jerzy and Hala’s apartment. I watched them as Hala straightened his jacket. As he kissed her hand. They have been married for more than 50 years. She takes extremely good care of him. And I really wished I could have done the same for Patrick, but it was so, so hard for me.

Jerzy drove us to the Jewish Cemetery. It is the only one of its kind left in Poland. Most of them were destroyed by the Nazis. We were on a very specific mission. Right before I came on this trip, my grandmother told me that she had purchased a symbolic grave for her father and the rest of her family just before she left the country for good. No one in my family had ever heard about this before. She asked that I take care of it. Make sure it was still there. That it was cleaned off and tended to again. I was so excited to uncover this secret and make it real again. Bring it back to life. Treat it like it should be treated – with love and honor and pride.

As soon as we walked through the tall brick walls, our hopes seemed dashed. It was gigantic and chaotic. It was like a forest dotted by stones, big and small. Some shiny and clean, and many broken and scattered. The tall trees blocked out the sun. The vines covered up the Hebrew script.

We walked over to the attendant and asked if she could tell us where to find our family’s gravesite. She said that she could not help us. The Cemetery’s director was away and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. He’d have to check his records. It would take some time. My heart sank.

Jerzy immediately dragged us to where his father’s family was buried and we roamed around the wild trails, full of fat, long slugs and ivy and stone, and marveled at the place. My mother kept asking, “what were the names again?”

“Rosenwasser and Mesz, but, Mom, we’re not going to find it,” I said. “Are you serious? Look at this place. I’ll come back later. After we email the director.”

We walked for over an hour, circling through the gravesites and Holocaust memorials without hope. Then, my mother shouted. “Denise!” she said. “Mesz right? Right here!”

There lay a small tombstone in the ground, covered with dirt and twigs, hidden beneath a bush. I took a look. “No, there’s no way, this says Meszow.”

But as I said this, I pulled the branch away and there it was: “Rosenwasser and Mesz.”

We screamed with delight for Jerzy to come and see. We all hugged and took pictures. I transcribed the tombstone. It was placed there in 1948, “in memory of our loving husband and father and the rest of our family who was killed in the Hitler State.” And there were my grandma and my great-grandma’s names in the corner of the dedication, “Halinka and Krishia.”

“I can’t believe you found it, Mom!” I said. “How did you do it?”

“I prayed,” she said.

We stayed a moment longer. A groundskeeper cut away the bush. Hala brushed away the dirt with a stick. Jerzy took pictures. And then we left.

Later on, my mother and I decided to walk to the Place of the Three Crosses. It’s a sort of roundabout in the City Center. In the middle is a church – the church where my grandmother converted to Catholicism in 1938, just before the war. To this day, my grandmother truly believes that it was her new faith that kept her alive. And this is the church where she was baptized.

It is a beautiful chapel – full of gorgeously carved wood and ornate paintings and sculptures. My mother and I snuck into a pew and kneeled as people came running in and out, saying their own little prayers. I kept wondering what each of them was praying for. Amazed at how they could put their trust in something so wildly unimaginable. And then I kneeled, just as I’d been taught to do in Catholic school.

And I figured, why the hell not, so I prayed, too.