The concierge waited through several rings, then put the phone down. He shrugged. “I got no instructions.”
Sarah had not scheduled any students that evening, knowing she’d be busy with her guests. She hadn’t counted on putting them up for the night, though.
“I’ll take you to my place,” she said finally. She turned to the man. “Here’s my phone number.” She handed him one of the cards she kept in her purse in case she came upon someone who wanted singing lessons. “This is where they’ll be.”
The man curled his lip, then studied the card as if it would be useful for killing cockroaches.
Sarah’s house in Forest Hill was not the large, expensive kind the area was noted for. It was a compact two-storey building, the last on a dead-end street filled with idiosyncratic one-of-a-kind houses, none of which was particularly stylish. Sarah’s front lawn had been taken over by a large elm tree, eliminating any need for a gardener. Beside her drying patch of grass, the street ended abruptly at the foot of a grey-painted garage. Its door displayed a “No Parking” sign so weathered that it seemed the owner of the large estate stretching back from Sarah’s upstairs window had forgotten it years ago. Down the street, a triplex and a few semi-detached homes sat waiting to surprise anyone who had taken a wrong turn off the swanky end of Spadina Road.
Halina clucked her tongue when they pulled into the driveway. “Such a magnificent house!” she said.
She had written in her letters that though she held an important job in Orbis, the state tourist board, life in Poland was hard. She lived with her daughter and young granddaughter in a five-room apartment, much larger than the usual, and shopped in the special stores reserved for foreigners and Communist party members, of which she was one. This meant she didn’t have to line up for her groceries like most people and could buy western delicacies like ketchup and corn flakes. Yet sometimes she ran out of butter or eggs and was forced to line up like ordinary people. She considered it an insult for someone of her stature in the party.
As Sarah inserted her key into the lock of the front door, she turned to glance back down the street. A black sedan, like the one she had seen behind her on the highway, was pulling into a driveway to turn around and head back out to the main road. Halina’s behaviour was making her paranoid.
Sarah led her guests into the living room, where a baby grand piano took up half the parquet floor.
“Of course!” Halina exclaimed in Polish. “I should’ve known.” She touched the satiny finish of the wood with worshipful fingers. “I told Natalka how talented you were, even when you were young. If it hadn’t been for the war… Natalka, she sang like a bird! A wonderful bird!”
Halina’s eyes shone at her with such admiration that Sarah became embarrassed at her ungenerous feelings.
“Do you still sing?” Natalka asked.
Sarah nodded. “My voice has changed over the years with age.” She turned to Halina. “I can’t reach the high notes like I used to.”
She suddenly felt shy and distracted them by taking them on a tour of the rest of the house: the kitchen, the small den with its sofa and TV on the first floor, the two bedrooms and study upstairs. The two guests took everything in, commenting on the wonderful broadloom, the well-equipped kitchen, the miraculous bathroom with the whirlpool, the stupendous number of telephones (three).
Sarah made some tea and served them bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon, then the coffee cake she’d made earlier in the day.
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” Halina said. “This cake is delicious. Like the ones I remember your mother used to make.”
Sarah felt her heart sink. She rarely thought about her mother anymore. She didn’t want to be reminded of her death, and the war. There were a lot of people she didn’t want to be reminded of, for the same reason. It seemed that when someone died a tragic death, it became their one defining feature, the happy times forgotten.
They ate in the dining room in full view of the piano. The guests could barely keep their eyes off it.
They seemed to be getting a second wind when Halina said to her daughter, “Play something for us, Natalka.”
The younger woman’s face clouded over. “No, please. I am tired. I will play badly.”
“It’s just for us, darling,” Halina said, the endearment sounding cold in her mouth. “Try out the piano.”
“Mama wants to show me off,” Natalka said, not looking at her mother. “But you are a musician, Mrs. Adler. Tell her one must be prepared to give a good performance. I do not want to make a bad impression.”
Halina looked away in disgust.
“Well, of course, I’d love to hear you play,” Sarah said, “but you must be very tired from your journey. I can wait until you’ve had —”
Suddenly the doorbell rang.
Halina sat bolt upright. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No,” said Sarah, rising from the living room chair.
“Don’t answer it!” Halina said. She picked up her leather handbag and jumped to her feet, looking ready to flee.
“Don’t be alarmed!” Sarah said. “No one will harm you here.”
She stepped down the stairs to the front entrance. Through the small pane of glass in the door she could see a handsome middle-aged man. She opened the door.
He gave a courtly bow of his head and smiled. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but is there a Mrs. Nytkowa here?”
His English was impeccable with a trace of Polish accent.
“Are you a friend?”
“Yes, an old friend from Poland.” He glanced behind her to where she knew he would see nothing but a wall leading to the basement.
“How did you find her?” Sarah asked, keeping her voice pleasant.
He held up his hand to show her the card with her address on it that she’d left at the hotel. She was torn. He seemed to be perfectly harmless and straightforward. Yet Halina was dreading the meeting. She was spared the decision.
Halina appeared at the top of the stairs. “Michael! You found me!”
Sarah stood aside so that the man could enter. He quickly climbed the stairs.
“Hela!” he said. Embracing her carefully, he kissed her on both cheeks. Then he held her at arm’s length to look her over.
“You look marvellous,” he said in Polish. “Still beautiful as ever.”
He was a tall, lanky man in a navy blazer with brass buttons. Wavy light brown hair touched the collar of his champagne white shirt. His face was tanned and closely shaven, his skin giving off a hint of some expensive scent.
“I beg your pardon, Sarah,” Halina said in Polish. “This is Count Michael Oginski. We knew each other during the war.”
She began to put her hand out to take the one he was offering. Instead of shaking her hand, he lifted it delicately to his lips.
“Delighted,” he said. Then, beaming at Halina, he said, “This lady saved my life.”
At first Sarah was surprised, then confused. She hadn’t been the only one to go to Halina for help in those desperate times. And a count, yet. But then why was Halina so nervous about seeing him? What was she afraid of? Sarah remembered the handbag Halina was so protective of. She searched the room: it had been tossed carelessly beside the couch as if it were no longer important.
“Michael,” said Halina, bringing him into the living room, “here is Natalka.”
His eyes shone as he stepped toward her. He took both her hands in his, then brought one of them up to his lips. “I remember you when you were a little baby. A beautiful little baby. My father and mother were your godparents. At your christening. How you cried and cried. We had to carry you around in our arms like a little princess.”
“Was I so bad?” Natalka asked, smiling mischievously. “Mama never told me.”
“You were a sweet child,” Halina said, suddenly wistful. “He was a young boy who never saw a baby before. Still wet behind the ears, himself. Of course babies cry.”
Sara
h made more tea. Once they were all seated around the dining table, she asked in Polish, “So how did you two meet?”
Halina began. “Michael’s parents managed a large estate owned by a nobleman. They, themselves, were aristocrats —”
“— but had no money,” Michael interjected. “As you know this was common in Poland, where gentry were penniless and had to hire themselves out to the nobility.”
Sarah remembered the strict class structure in Poland, where peasants made up the majority. Jews were a different category altogether and stood quite outside Polish society.
Halina continued, “My parents dealt with the peasants directly. They farmed, themselves, but they were overseers, answerable to Michael’s parents. I usually visited my family in the summers, but during the war, when it got too dangerous to stay in Kraków with a child, I ran to their place in the country. That’s when I met Michael. He saw me pushing the baby carriage one day, obviously from the city, and we became friends.”
“Natalka was born during the war?” Sarah asked, her heart pounding. “What year was that?”
Halina took a sudden breath, glanced at Natalka. “1940,” she said.
Sarah felt her arms and legs go numb. “That can’t be right. You were pregnant that time… when I saw you? It was February.” She stared across the table at the elderly woman but saw the young, beautiful Halina she had sought out that day in 1940.
“It was winter. I used to wear large sweaters. You probably couldn’t tell.”
“But you didn’t say anything…”
“I wasn’t telling people.” She glanced nervously at Natalka.
“You should’ve told me. Maybe I would’ve done things differently.”
Halina stared vacantly behind Sarah, not looking her in the eye. “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” she said, “believe me.”
Why should I believe her about anything, thought Sarah.
Michael and Natalka watched them in puzzled silence. Halina recovered first. She was adept at landing on her feet.
“You remind me very much of your father, Michael,” she said.
His face went flat, but Halina didn’t seem to notice. “Michael’s father was a very handsome man. Tall and blond, always with a joke.” She studied his face. “You have his eyes.”
Michael looked down at his hands. “He found you very beautiful.”
A tension grew between them. Sarah wondered what other skeletons were mouldering in Halina’s closet.
Finally Halina said, “In those days, you were a pimply-faced fifteen-year-old, skinny like this.” She lifted a finger into the air.
So he is older than he looks, thought Sarah.
“Well, go on,” Halina said.
Michael took a deep breath, preparing to continue his story. “Things kept getting worse,” he said. “By the time I was seventeen, I had to leave the estate. The Nazis were always rounding up young men — they shipped them out for slave labour. Some they just shot at the edge of the woods if they felt like it. I ran away. I found a group of partisans deep in the forest. Neipolomice, you may know it, some kilometres east of Kraków.”
Another little shock went off inside Sarah. Yes, she knew Niepolomice. It wasn’t that important by itself, only as the first step of her journey all those years ago. Time had buried the memories, but they were resting in shallow graves.
Michael continued. “The partisans became my family, a bunch of ragged boys and a few older men. We attacked German soldiers whenever we could. This was how we got weapons. Some of us were killed. New men joined us.
“We were always hungry. We knew which farmers we could trust and went to them to beg for food. But they had little themselves, and they were always afraid the Germans would find out. They would be shot if the Germans knew they were giving food to the partisans. We were starving. It was winter and there was nothing to eat. We decided that everyone would go out and try to find their own food and those who survived would return in three weeks. I took the chance and came back to the estate but I didn’t go to my parents. They were not young, I didn’t want to put them in danger. I went to Halina. I was nearly dead. She hid me and gave me food. In three weeks I went back to find my group. Only a handful of them returned. The rest were probably dead.”
“Your father would’ve taken you in,” Halina said.
He looked at her with surprise. “I didn’t want to go to him.”
“He was angry later, when he found out. He was your father.”
Michael’s face went pale, but he said nothing.
“Sarah knows what it was like then,” Halina said. “She was in a camp during the war.”
Michael’s eyes turned toward her. “Which one?”
Sarah never talked about the camp. She didn’t need to. It crept into her dreams regularly and seemed to live right behind her eyes.
“It was a labour camp,” she said finally. “Not far from Kraków.”
Michael nodded but left it alone. Sarah silently thanked him for his sensitivity.
Natalka began to rub one of her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You must be very tired after your journey. I’ll take you back to the hotel whenever you’re ready.”
Halina blanched. “Oh, Michael. Do you mind terribly? We’re so tired. Our bags are upstairs already. We will stay here tonight and come to the hotel tomorrow.”
Sarah had anticipated as much.
Michael tried to hide his surprise. “Janek is expecting you…”
“I’m going right to sleep.” She threw an apologetic look at Sarah. “Look at Natalka. She can’t keep her eyes open. I’ll speak to Janek tomorrow. He’ll understand.”
“Do you really think so?” Michael said, giving her a sidelong glance.
“No,” she said. “But he’ll have to wait.”
That night, while Sarah tossed in her bed, Ulica Stradomska shimmered behind her eyes, Weinstein’s Jewellery Store, where her father and mother took turns tending to customers. When Halina was young, right up to the time she married, she worked in the store as a clerk. Then, after her marriage, she left to work in the clock shop on Florianska for her husband’s family. The Weinsteins had the best prices in the city for diamonds and gold, but some Poles would not buy from Jews. They were, however, willing to plunk their zloty down into the soft, white hands of a Christian girl behind the same counter. Sarah saw her father sitting at the table in the room behind the store, a jeweller’s loupe pressed to his eye as he squinted at some gem. She heard later that he had survived life in the ghetto in Kraków, unlike her mother, who had succumbed to the deliberate campaign of starvation and terror devised by the occupying Nazis. He had then been sent to Mauthausen, where he’d been forced into a crew lifting large rocks for some make-work project. He was a wiry man of fifty-six with long, slender fingers that knew how to fix the clasp of the most delicate necklace. He was unused to hard labour. According to a witness who managed to find her after the war, he collapsed after a week of hauling the rocks. He was in great pain with the hernia. Then when infection set in, they knew it was over for him.
Sarah hadn’t thought of that for a long time, and she didn’t thank Halina for releasing the memory.
She rolled over in bed, struggling against the inevitable. She could fight it while she was awake, with her piano, her music, her books around her. But once she fell asleep, she dropped headlong down, down the tunnel of years and landed in her old life. The familiar ancient buildings of Ulica Miodowa lean toward her, throwing long, steep shadows that swallow up the cobblestones. Where have you been? they whisper. You loved us once, why did you run away? The voices grow into reproachful shapes in darkened windows, silhouettes behind curtains with hands stretched out to her; footsteps approach, recede. Which is her house? Is her mother still waiting for her? Where are her sisters? She floats toward Ulica Stradomska, the stars of the night sky barely clearing her head. Rayzele is weeping softly in her arms. How do children know? Hush, little sweetheart. They mustn’t hear.
Her strawberry curls glint in the heart of the darkness, tiny scythes that flick at Sarah’s throat, bringing sobs. The wind blows her into Ulica Grodzka, she can’t stop the wind. She can’t stop. Hush, little sweetheart. They won’t find you. I won’t let them find you.
Suddenly the weeping stops, darkness fills the void, and her arms… her arms are empty. Does she still have arms? Rayzele — where is Rayzele? She looks and looks, but darkness flows around her like ink, she is drowning in night. Then, in a street ahead, a light wavers above a door. A soft weeping behind it. She floats toward it as if her feet know the way, have been there before. A murmur of weeping. The door flickers as she approaches; waxes and wanes in the sprinkled light. She must reach it before it dissolves in a puff. It is her only hope.
Only the closer she comes, the further the door recedes. Smaller. Smaller. Don’t let it disappear. Go faster! She pushes herself through the shadows of the street. Her heart knocks against her chest. Faster! But the door shrinks, contracts into the distance. The weeping grows louder. Sarah stops. She is losing her.
Rayzele! she cries out.
In an instant the door towers above her, so high the top wavers into the night. She puts her hand out to touch it: the wood is familiar under her fingers, thick and cold. A little push. It yields. The vast door creaks open. Her heart pounds, pounds in its cage. A sliver of light slants into the black street. Her pulse beats against her temples.
She gasps and is pulled toward a different light. She turns over and wakes up.
chapter three
Rebecca stood at the patio door in the kitchen watching the sun set on David’s garden. Stillness hung in the rosy air, a purity of light in the long moment before light dissolved. At the beginning of the summer, she had knelt in the two long flower beds on either side of the backyard and pulled the weeds. They had grown in abundance among the snapdragons and poppies and black-eyed Susans, the euonymus and rhododendrons that David had spent years planting. But she missed a few weekends, and before she turned around, the weeds had spread their tendrils and thorns among the flowers. Guilt brought her back to the flower beds a few more times, but she knew she could not tend David’s garden the way he had. Now, in the middle of a hot September, the weeds had won. A neighbourhood boy cut her lawn regularly, but David’s handiwork, like David, was gone. She could’ve gotten the kid to pull the weeds, she supposed. But it rankled that the garden had survived the man who’d created it, the man who’d loved her. It rankled that the world went on without him, as if he didn’t matter.
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