To get to my grandpa’s grave in the Honor Row, you have to walk all the way up the shady path by the cemetery’s main road then turn left at the very end. As a result of our weekly visits during summers in Poland, certain gravestones along the way became familiar. There was one small, well-tended plot that called out to my sister and me in particular. There was a picture of a young woman next to the inscription on the headstone that told us this pretty, dark-haired girl had died at the age of twenty. The stone statuette of an angel weeping into a handkerchief expressed the unplaced ache we little girls felt for this stranger’s family. Sometimes we furtively placed a single flower on the grave as we passed. Her name was Izabela.