‘Not really. Do you?’
‘A little. You should learn.’ She pats the space next to her. ‘I’ll give you a lesson.’
I grin and climb up.
‘Are you ready?’
I nod.
‘Cześć is Hi. Do widzenia is Goodbye. Hi. Goodbye. Hi. Goodbye.’
I join in. We speak the words like a song. We shout them out and they bounce off trees and send sparrows into the sky, louder and louder we shout until the new words tumble into laughter.
‘You know, you will have to change your name.’
‘Why?’
‘Nie wiem. I don’t know. My cousin did.’
‘But I don’t want to.’
Ania shrugs. ‘People will call you Michael.’
‘Michael?’ It sounds funny in my mouth.
Ania laughs and jumps down from the branch. She lands like a snowflake. ‘Soon Michy, the lake will be ice. Maybe this year you can wear only two pairs of socks with your mother’s skating boots instead of four!’
I jump down too. I grab a pine cone from a wet bed of leaves and throw it. She ducks, and I miss again. ‘Shall we play in the trench?’
‘No. Let’s go to town.’ We walk to the path out of the woods and cross the field of empty garden plots, until the tree with the broken arm is a mile behind us.
Monday is market day in the rynek. Across the street there are stalls selling chestnuts and warm gofry.
‘Smell the waffles Michy. Do you have money?’
I turn out my pockets and two acorns fall out. Ania gives me a shove. We stand back to let a farmer pass. The horse clops by and the cart rattles after it packed with potatoes, mumbling and shifting under a layer of icing sugar snow. We cross the street into the square and on the far side opposite the church I notice a scuffle between two men, arguing over a place in line.
‘Ania, look!’ I point to the queue slowly growing from the entrance to the store.
‘Maybe it’s chocolate? Or oranges. Or shoes!’
‘Come on! Let’s tell Mama.’ I run past the stalls and the fountain; past the old man who sits on a bench outside the church and plays the accordion without showing his eyes. I sprint over the tram lines and at the corner of my street I look back for Ania. I slam into a body of stiff green and trip backwards, falling hard against the wet cobbles.
‘Watch it boy!’ The soldier shouts, glaring at me with his palms to the sky. I try to look away from the gold tooth glinting through his spit; he shakes his head and marches on. I pick myself up and lean back against the wall; Ania finally catches up.
‘You okay?’
I nod. ‘Come on.’
It is Monday; in my street the smell of tomato soup is like oxygen. As we near my block we run faster and burst through the door of my flat.
‘Mama! There is a queue at the store …’
Babcia is sitting at the table. The soup simmers alone on the stove. She does not even mention the potatoes. On the table in front of Mama is a small pile of papers. I look at Mama and Mama looks at me. She taps the papers with her fingertips.
‘We are leaving Michal. The train leaves for Warsaw on Thursday.’
Nobody speaks. Not even Babcia. It is like a dream and a nightmare smacked together into a shadowy cloud that smothers the room.
The snow is heavy and the flakes stick to my eyelashes. My favourite jumper is tight under my jacket. Mama walks ahead with the biggest suitcase and I drag my feet with the other.
‘Hurry up Michal! The train will go without us!’ Emilja looks back for me. She clutches her doll to her chest and her feet trip along in Babcia’s wake. I have not seen Ania for two days. I waited at the lake all afternoon. I went to her flat but nobody was there. Ours has been heaving with muzyka and vodka but Ania did not turn up.
I hang behind; Mrs Kowalska huddles in her doorway and I can see the sad on her shoulders. Something heavy thumps into my back.
‘Would you leave without saying goodbye Michy?’
‘Ania! Where have you been?’
She only shrugs. ‘I found something.’ Ania pulls a stone from her pocket. It sits in her palm like a jewel.
‘Where did you get it?’
She hands it to me. ‘Keep it. Okay?’
‘Michal! Come on!’ Mama is calling.
I look at Ania. All the words are gone from my mouth. Her eyes are grey gems, like the stone in my hand. She kisses my cheek.
‘Send me some chocolate Michy.’ It is the last thing she says before turning away. Her hair flies behind her like the golden tails of a kite tossed in the wind. I watch empty footprints chase her to the end of the street; then she turns the corner and is gone.
All the heads in the neighbourhood are perched on their window sills. I look away and jog to catch up to my family. I think of Tata waiting for us in a country of warm lakes and soup that sticks to your spoon like mud. I wonder if he knows my new name. Along the white streets on the way to the station the air is full of kapuśniak. In Poland on Thursdays, there is no escaping cabbage soup.
###
Thank you for reading my short story. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.
Thanks!
Melanie Grabowski
About the Author
Melanie Grabowski is currently studying a Bachelor of Arts (Psychology and Writing) at Edith Cowan University in Western Australia. Her short stories, On The Rocks, and The Truth Is, were shortlisted for The Peter Cowan 600 Word Short Story Competition 2014 with the latter receiving third prize. Her inspiration for writing lies in the emotion found in everyday human stories, particularly from the perspectives of those who struggle to be heard.
Lessons in Eating Soup Page 2
