Middle-aged librarian Kat is at loose ends after her husband ditched her after a crazy misunderstanding and their daughter followed suit. When a lost time traveler appears in her Pennsylvania kitchen, she grasps at the chance to give her life meaning by helping the woman find her way home. But a mysterious stranger insists they are together for a purpose. Guided by a wisecracking medieval queen, the women slip through a portal to an 1825 Polish village, where Kat meets her own ancestors and discovers how her own mistakes derailed her life. Can she bring her new understanding of forgiveness and unconditional love back to the present and heal her family before itâs too late?
Middle-aged librarian Kat is at loose ends after her husband ditched her after a crazy misunderstanding and their daughter followed suit. When a lost time traveler appears in her Pennsylvania kitchen, she grasps at the chance to give her life meaning by helping the woman find her way home. But a mysterious stranger insists they are together for a purpose. Guided by a wisecracking medieval queen, the women slip through a portal to an 1825 Polish village, where Kat meets her own ancestors and discovers how her own mistakes derailed her life. Can she bring her new understanding of forgiveness and unconditional love back to the present and heal her family before itâs too late?
The winter Regina arrived, I had a lot on my mind. My part-time job at the public library was going nowhere. My husband had left me over a crazy misunderstanding, and our 19-year-old daughter, who had always favored him, blamed me and followed him out the door. Lonely and confused by the turn my life had taken, I stumbled into the kitchen that morning and found the back door standing open, letting in a few flakes of snow.
Get a grip. I slammed the door closed. A whimper came from behind me. I whirled around to see an old woman in a long brown skirt, loose white blouse, and a muslin headscarf. She stood beside my kitchen table, shivering. A scream escaped my throat and then hers, both of us yelling like a crazy banshee duet.
âWho the hell are you?â
She jumped back, knocking over a chair. Selene, my old gray kitty, meowed loudly and ran from the room.
âWhat do you want?â I shouted as she scuttled over to a corner, clutching a piece of cheese. Her wide eyes looked so terrified I felt for a second as if I were the intruder, not she. Her face was wrinkled parchment and her hair around the edges of her headscarf was gray, but her round cheeks, those small brown eyes above a long straight nose: I had seen them before. On my grandmotherâs face. A woman who raised me from the age of ten. A woman who had died over thirty years before. It was her. And not her. A queasy little wave traveled through my stomach.
âWho are you?â I said again, my voice shaking. I wondered if she was some sort of hallucination brought on by lack of sleep. My hands groped for the back of a chair.
She licked dry lips and held out both trembling hands, still clutching the cheese.
           âPrzepraszam, Pani, she pleaded. âProsze mi wybaczyc!â
A wash of pity flooded my heart. Her voice was soft and hoarse, and though I
didnât understand her words, I knew their rhythm, the pattern of her sentence, the rise and fall and cadence. She spoke Polish like my Babcia, and my mind responded with words from my childhood to ask what she was doing. Â
âCo ty robisz?â
The old womanâs lips trembled. âPani, mi wybaczyc,â she whispered and waved the cheese in her hands, still begging forgiveness as her gaze darted around the room as if she was expecting punishment to come from some corner.Â
I didnât know how to say, Relax, itâs okay, so I grabbed another phrase from my childhood, the one that meant Hello. âDzien dobry. My name is Kat. Katherine.â I pointed at my chest, where my heart thumped a jagged rhythm. âKatarzyna.â
She nodded and positioned her feet on the floor as if ready to run. Her iron grip on the big hunk of Jarlsberg told me she wouldnât give it up without a fight. I had to let her know I would never take it from her.
âIâm sorry,â I said, softening my tone. âI donât speak Polish very well. Do you speak English?â
Her only response was a shaky smile that made me want to put my arms around her. All the while I had been thinking of calling the cops, but my gut instinct told me she meant no harm. I looked from her to the door and back again, searching for a clue to my next move. We couldnât stay there forever, staring at each other. I had to step up and take charge. Deep breath, Kat. I picked up the overturned chair and gestured an invitation to sit. Then exhaling, I sank into a chair myself. Â Â
Her gaze went to my shelf of sacred objects in the corner near the sink. She frowned at the candles, acorns and feathers, then slowly moved her head to look at me, her frown still in place. I squirmed and gathered my bathrobe around me.
She took a nibble of the cheese and went back to sit on the chair I had righted for her. I smiled and nodded at the food in her hand and she set about eating the rest, her eyes never leaving my face. Her jaws moved quickly, both hands close to her mouth like an image of a cartoon mouse. I had never seen a person so ravenous. And for some unknown reason, she was in my kitchen. I could relieve her hunger and maybe even save her life.
I went to the fridge, pulled out the milk carton, and crossed to the cupboard for cereal, a bowl and a spoon. The inner voice that questioned everything I did woke up. What are you doing? Have you finally lost your mind, making breakfast for a break-in? Surely not. Maybe it was still last night, and this was an extremely realistic dream. I touched my hand to the counter. The cool, solid stone felt real beneath my fingers. I put the milk down and pinched myself. Â Ouch! There was a red mark on my arm. So, not a dream. Okay, I could do this.
With more hand gestures and a nervous smile, I set the bowl of cereal on the table and invited the old woman to eat. She peered at the little Oâs floating in the milk and lowered her face until it almost touched the bowl. Then she lifted the spoon and ate without stopping. With her left hand, like I did. Like my Babcia. I stared and held my breath, waiting for the Universe to give me an explanation for what I saw: something strangely as familiar as my own hands clenched on the table before me. When the bowl was empty, the woman picked up the big yellow box, shook it, and looked inside the waxed paper bag.
Watching her, I realized she wore no coat on in the dead of winter, and wondered if she was homeless. Or perhaps she was mentally ill and might turn on me at any moment. With a shudder, I reached behind me for my grandmotherâs shawl and pulled it around my shoulders. Its bright flowers on a black background had never faded and still gave me comfort long after she passed away. My visitor touched her headscarf and stared at my shawl, as if recognizing something there. Perhaps she had wandered away from an Alzheimerâs unit. But I knew the nearest one was miles away, too far to walk without notice. I took the shawl from around me and held it out to her. She took it from my hands with a nod and a whisper, then wrapped it around her shoulders.
From the first moment I saw this lady, I was drawn to her, if for no other reason than she reminded me of my beloved Babcia, I had to get her some help. But the way my life was going, I was not who she needed. No, that would be someone who knew what to do.
Taking a deep, centering breath, I stood and walked to the wall phone. She watched me, openmouthed, as I pressed in the numbers: 911.
âIâd like to report a âŠa person in my house,â I told the dispatcher. âNo, no, not a break-in. I, uh, think she may beâŠlost.â I gave my name and address, feeling better already. The police would know how to handle this.
The womanâs eyes narrowed as I hung up the phone. With careful steps, never taking her eyes off me, she moved to the wall, touched the other side where the phone would be if it went clear through to the dining room then peered back at me. I could see it in her eyes: she thought I was crazy, talking to a wall. She backed away until she tripped over a footstool and nearly lost her balance.
âItâs okay, donât be afraid,â I said, my throat tightening. âSomeone is coming to help us.â   Â
From outside the drone of a siren came closer and louder, then cut off with a blip. Â The slam of a car door made us both jump. A few seconds later, my doorbell rang. The woman flinched and retreated, her back pressed against the granite countertop, eyes wide and mumbling something I could not hear and probably wouldnât understand. Â
âItâs okay.â I made my voice soft and held up a hand for her to wait and she trembled but stayed where she was. Think, Kat. You can do this. My mind ran back to Babciaâs house and found the Polish words. âTutaj.â I pointed to a chair. âUsiasc tutaj.âÂ
She stood frozen in place as sharp raps hit the front door, and I froze, too, unsure if I should answer it or get her to calm down first. A loud voice broke through.
 âPolice! Open up!â In a reflex, I obeyed, hurrying to unlock the deadbolt.
âHold on!â I shouted through the door, my fingers fumbling with the lock. At last, I swung the door open. And looked straight into the face of Officer Braun, the cop who had pulled me over for speeding the previous weekend. Shit. My face grew hot. Not good. Not good at all.
He squinted down at me as if he could not believe I was on his radar again. Before he could say a word, I turned away to hide my embarrassment and walked back to the kitchen.
âThis your intruder?â His deep baritone vibrated close behind me as the old woman cowered, glued to her spot against the counter.
In his black leather jacket, Braun was the biggest thing in the kitchen except for the fridge and for a second, I regretted letting him in. What if he recognized me? Would it affect how he treated this call? Hot waves of shame coursed through me. Would he help this poor woman or haul her off to jail? I scrambled for words.
âYou wonât believe it. I donât believe it.â I motioned at her with one hand. âThis lady, she was justâŠhere when I got up this morningâŠandâŠandâŠshe doesnât speak English. I donât know how she got into the house without a key but the back door was open. She doesnât have a coat or anything.â My voice was high and tense and I struggled to bring it under control. âI didnât know who to call.â
As soon as I said that, I imagined him wondering why I didnât call a neighbor. But the nearest house was a quarter mile down the road and I didnât know the people who lived there. They were probably peering out their windows right now, wondering what had brought a black and white to our stretch of the Pike. Had I done the right thing, calling 911? Shit, shit, shit. I had no friends to turn to anymore. No way to know what I should have done.
To my great relief, Officer Braun ignored me, nodded at the woman and took a step toward her but stopped when she let out a high-pitched squeak. He held up both his big stubby hands, exposing the handcuffs attached to his belt. I hoped he wouldnât try to use them. Putting this helpless old lady in cuffs would be the worst indignity. I wouldnât let him do it.Â
âGood morning, Maâam. Mind telling me why youâre in this ladyâs house here?â Silence followed by a whimper. He modulated his baritone. âIâm not going to hurt you, but you canât stay here.â The womanâs face flushed pink as she turned to me. I cleared my throat, conscious of my state of undress. At least I had put on my robe. Â
âShe doesnât understand you. I think she speaks Polish, but my skills are rusty.â I pointed to the empty cereal bowl on the table. âShe was starving, so I gave her something to eat.âÂ
Braunâs full lips curved in a smirk. Frantic to explain myself, my voice came out louder than I meant.
âShe was eating a piece of cheese and I thoughtâŠâ I sounded ridiculous. âI meanâŠshe didnât look threatening. But she canât stay here with me, she needs help.â And so, too, do I, but you donât know the half of it, nor would you care.
Braunâs face was blank, his voice steady.Â
âOkay, Iâll take her in.â
The old woman flinched as he took her arm and pulled her away from the counter. Her look was stoic, as if she had expected exactly this, and my heart ached, feeling her resignation as if it were my own, as if it was me so helpless in the policemanâs grip.  Â
I waved my arms in the air. âI donât want her arrested. I just want her to get some help: a place to stay, if sheâs homeless. I donât knowâŠâ
As usual â as in all my life - I wanted to direct the outcome of the situation but I had no idea what that should be, and it frightened me beyond words. When I bit at my thumbnail Braun looked away.
âOkay. Iâll take her in to the station and call the language line.â He took the womanâs arm above the elbow and guided her to my front door.
âLanguage line?â This was news to me.
âYeah, they have interpreters twenty-four seven. They can ask her who she is, what she was doing here, et cetera, et cetera.â His voice was deep, strong and all business.
They were at the door now, his hand on the knob. She looked over her shoulder at me, her large brown eyes unblinking as Braun ushered her outside. At the patrol car, she hesitated a moment, but he put his big hand firmly on top of her kerchiefed head and guided her into the back seat. Then he stepped around front, got in and started the engine. Â
Her round face stared at me through the rear window as the car moved past the bare trees bordering my driveway. I opened the glass storm door and stepped out into the crisp winter air. Wait. The car turned left onto the Pike, the words Plumstead Township in sharp black letters on its spotless white side. I thought of running after it, a thread of longing pulling me forward, the same longing I had felt when I was only ten. Â Â
Its become a norm in books that adventures are what happens to only teenagers or young adults. This is especially true in the fantasy genre: be it the Harry Potter series or Lord of the Rings or the Chronicles of Narnia.
But Where The Stork Flies by Linda Wisniewski is different in that sense. An adventure awaits the protagonist, Katherine Kowalski, a 50 -year-old woman whose family life has turned completely upside down after both her husband and her daughter suspect her of cheating in her marriage. It was kind of refreshing to see a middle-aged protagonist going on an adventure. But wait, what adventure? Hasn't her life turned upside down?
Yes, it has.
But right at the beginning of the novel itself, something strange happens: an old Polish woman has appeared magically in Katherine's backyard. So from the first chapter itself, the novel grips the reader's imagination and fills the reader with so many questions: Who is this woman? Where did she come from? Is this magic?
You would be turning the pages to know more and get to the bottom of this strange mystery.
The old woman isn't an alien, or from outer space, who is left behind when the spaceship goes back. No, Where the Stork Flies avoids such clichés.
Katherine herself is completely surprised by this mysterious appearance and does try and help the woman to find her way back home. In trying to do so, Katherine meets another mysterious figure, Aniela, who acts as a translator because the old woman speaks only Polish and Katherine, though Polish in descent, only knows a few rudimentary Polish phrases.
Katherine tries to help the old woman because she reminds her of her late grandmother. Her actions also give her some purpose in her otherwise void life. Without giving away any spoilers, I would say that the adventure that Katherine goes on is part sci-fi and part fantasy involving a rollicking time travelling ride, a lot of wisdom, glimpse into a simpler past and lessons learnt by both Katherine and the mysterious old woman.
What I absolutely loved about the story was female bonding and the sense of a community that the author portrays in the subplots.
One downside however was the overly descriptive writing at times. When reading those parts, it felt that the writer was only telling, and not showing. The novel is filled with a lot of parts where it is only telling: describing Katherine's pasts, her mistakes, her family life or her surrounding. It is not showing them but just listing them out.
Other than that though, Where The Stork Flies, is a loving tale that dips into importance of traditions, customs, family and love and also the importance of change and learning to sustain relationships.
Get ready to learn about Polish food and Polish life, and learn some Polish phrases, while you potter around with Katherine and help the old woman find her way back home.
Come, an adventure awaits! :)