For those first few weeks Asher spoke very little, and was rigid with the fear of those inhuman knocks at the front door. But the Malinowskis made him feel that there was good in the world after all. He stayed there for a year, safe and cared for, his mind and body gradually healing.
During that time, they all listened to the foreign news on the radio and heard reliable rumors from neighboring farms. Every month there was news of more German and Axis losses to the west; every week there was news of more Soviet advances in the east. There were also unpleasant rumors of what the Germans were doing to towns and villages they were retreating from.
One day, in the summer of 1944, when the Treblinka uprising was merely a memory and the search for escapees had long since been abandoned, Mr. Malinowski ran into the house, quickly followed by a younger man and woman, both soaked through and with muddy hands and feet.
Mr. Malinowski called out to his wife and Asher. Mrs. Malinowski fetched towels for the pair, then all five sat in the kitchen, where Mr. Malinowski told them there was danger.
“The rumors are true,” he said. “Asher, this is our niece and her husband. They ran a farm just across the river.”
“Ran?” Mrs. Malinowski said, confused.
“It’s just a burning wreck now,” her young niece said through tears. “They set fire to everything, killed our cattle and pigs. We only escaped by swimming across the river. We’re lucky to be alive.”
“You must be so scared,” Mrs. Malinowski said.
Her niece’s husband nodded. “But not too scared to fight.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Malinowski said. “The same is not going to happen here; they’ll have to kill us first.” He looked at them all in turn. “We’re not running. Agreed?”
Asher nodded with the rest of them.
Mr. Malinowski fetched a key from the back of a kitchen drawer and took it down into the cellar, where he unlocked a small cabinet. Asher couldn’t count the exact number of shotguns and rifles inside it.
“I knew this day would come,” he said. “Upstairs we have a window on each side, two at the front. We take one each, and shoot at anything that looks like a German, yes?”
The wait was long and boring—two days and nights. Then, just after dusk, two German soldiers approached the door and knocked on it, lifting their rifles up. There was no answer, so one steadied himself to kick the door in. Before he could manage that, both men were shot dead from above.
More soldiers quickly arrived, shooting and smashing the windows. While the wooden barn was set alight and the livestock shot dead, the battle for the farmhouse carried on. Soldiers attacked the building from every angle, but were also shot at from the upstairs windows.
Eventually, with a few dozen soldiers lying dead around the house, there was nothing more to be shot. Asher and the Malinowskis waited, looked, and listened, but only heard voices and vehicles slowly receding into the background.
“They’ve given up!” Mrs. Malinowski eventually shouted out.
“They’ve moved on to the next farm,” Mr. Malinowski replied. “God help the owners.”
The five prayed for them, and kept guard for another day and night, but the only sounds they heard were birds twittering during the day, and owls hooting and wolves howling at night.
But there was no time to relax. There was no knowing whether the guards had given up or would try again. By day and by night there were always two people on guard, and the guns were kept loaded and to hand.
Early one morning, while Asher was on guard and struggling to stay awake, he heard Mr. Malinowski, who was sharing guard duties with him, shout from the other side of the house.
“Asher! Asher! Someone’s here!”
Asher shook the slumber from his head and rushed across.
“See,” Mr. Malinowski said, pointing toward the forest. “Movement. Definitely some people.”
And yes, Asher could make out a few figures moving around in the dark forest.
Approaching.
He and Mr. Malinowski lifted their rifles and set their sights on the edge of the forest.
Three figures stepped out from the trees and into the dawn’s half-light.
“Look,” Mr. Malinowski said. “Rifles. Definitely soldiers.”
Then there were six, then ten, and soon there were too many to count.
Mr. Malinowski gulped. “My God, so many of them. Do we start shooting?”
His words registered with Asher, but Asher was struggling to think, let alone reply. It seemed too good to be true. He waited to see a little more clearly, and yes, he was right. “Look!” he said, pointing at the nearest soldiers. “Can’t you see?”
“See what?”
“The uniforms.”
Mr. Malinowski squeezed his eyes to gray slits and peered at them. Then he gasped and tears filled his eyes.
“They’re Soviet troops,” Asher said.
All Mr. Malinowski could do was smile.
By this time, with all obvious traces of the Treblinka extermination camp destroyed, Mykhail had found himself transferred back to the Trawniki camp to train other men. But that camp was eventually abandoned too, again because of the approaching Soviet troops.
From there, Mykhail became a gun. Nothing more. Not even a gun for hire, but a gun to be commanded. With the rest of the diminishing band of Trawnikis, he was transported to one place, told to shoot people, then transported elsewhere and told to do the same.
He tried not to consider who the victims were. He shut down his conscience. The excuse he gave himself was hope—hope that the Germans might control Russia one day and give Ukraine independence. Behind the excuse, he was a robot. In his head it wasn’t him who was perpetrating the killings: it was the gun he’d been given. When he was shooting, he took his mind to a better place. Some of the other Trawnikis seemed to enjoy what they were doing. Not Mykhail. Nor did he hate it. He just did it. He aimed and pulled the trigger like he was back on the farm in Dyovsta destroying pests. He considered himself a non-human.
Self-preservation was everything.
Chapter 25
Warsaw, Poland, 1944
After welcoming the advancing Soviet troops, Asher and the Malinowskis rejoiced at the land being Polish once more. Asher stayed on the farm for a few more days, but was soon conscripted into the Red Army.
But by the summer of 1944 the war in Poland, like the German fighting machine, was on its last legs. Yes, there were battles to fight, but Asher managed to avoid those duties. A few months later, the Soviets took Warsaw, and soon after that, the rest of Poland.
Asher heard that the war was over, but didn’t dare believe it. It had been five and a half years since he’d witnessed those bombs dropping on Warsaw. The war had cost him his family and had effectively left him homeless—without a country as much as without a home.
Was he ready to believe this was the end?
He read the newspapers, listened to the radio, and got his papers to leave the army. So yes, the war really was over, Asher’s obligations to the Red Army were fulfilled, and before he knew it, he found himself being deposited in Kiev.
Kiev was, after all, the capital city of Asher’s country of birth, and as good a home as any, but only on a temporary basis. Returning to Dyovsta was an option, and there was a lure, he had to admit—a burn of nostalgia. But would Mykhail and his parents still be there after nine turbulent years? If so, would they welcome Asher? Would they even recognize him? And how would he settle there with no job and no property?
No. He had so many happy memories of Dyovsta and of Mykhail, perhaps it would be better to keep it that way. And he had another home—one of even happier memories, as well as bitter ones. There was a time he’d been content in Warsaw. Before the wall went up. And there was a compelling urge to find out what had become of Izabella. If he found her, they would talk and he would find out whether she still wanted to marry him. Now the war was over there was no barrier to them being together. He would have to be brave�
�he could no longer live on his dreams of her; he would find out whether those dreams were realistic.
So Asher found work repairing tractors in Kiev, and by summer 1946 had saved enough money to board a train bound for Warsaw.
But sitting on the train, he was having second thoughts. Perhaps he was wasting his time. Had he and Izabella really been in love? Perhaps it was only the closest thing to love they could find. Had she really been honest with him about wanting to be with him when the war was over? By now she could be a completely different person. She might not even be alive.
Every permutation of every possibility whirled around in his mind, one moment urging him to stay on the train and find out, the next moment telling him to get off—to leave his sweet memories of Izabella to be savored in future years like fine wine.
The jolt of the train made his decision for him, and for the briefest moment the jolt took him back to that other train ride—the one departing Warsaw.
An old man struck up conversation, and within a few minutes they were chatting about what they did for a living, whether tractors really were better than horses, moving on to how hard the next winter would be and what might happen to the price of vodka. And Asher’s reservations were forgotten. He was on his way to Warsaw.
The journey took a day and night—a sleepless one for Asher—but on a still Saturday morning he stepped off the train and set foot on Warsaw ground. He gasped, partly at the fresh, cooler air, and partly at his memories of this place. His first few steps were staggers.
“Careful!” the old man said, his grin showing Asher yet again all eight of his brown pegs. “I’m not strong enough to hold you up. Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
“You don’t look fine.” The man glanced around at the scene Asher was scanning. “I guessed from what you said last night that you’ve been here before—in less pleasant times and more dangerous circumstances.”
Asher nodded. “I’m a little frightened, if I’m honest.”
“Listen to me,” the man said. “Walk quickly. Get where you want to go. Don’t dwell, don’t pause for thought, don’t stop to admire. That will only make you think back. You’re still a young man and you need to think of your future. Concentrate on where you’re going, not where you’ve come from.”
“Thank you. I’ll try to do that. It was . . . nice knowing you.”
“Good luck.”
Asher set off, only glancing at the square, which had been the meeting point not too long ago, shaking from his mind the memories of him and Rina chewing on raw potatoes in the rain. He headed for Café Baran—or where it used to be. But forgetting his horrible time in this place was easier said than done. The reminders were all around. Even the wall was mostly still standing, holes smashed in it at intervals to allow the free access that so many had died trying to achieve a few years ago.
As he carried on, he allowed himself to think where he and Izabella might live together. What if she wanted to stay in Warsaw? Could he bear to stay in this place, with so many images haunting him? What if they argued about it?
After twenty minutes, he turned the corner, and felt weak at the sight of it. It was different now, with a new awning, different tables and chairs arranged outside, different menu signs. But it was still called Café Baran.
He slowly wandered up to the door, his head feeling light and dizzy, and stepped inside. His first sight was of the corner where Izabella used to play the music that had enchanted him so much. In her place was just another table and chairs.
He breathed a little more easily and looked around. The interior had hardly changed. Well, of course it had hardly changed; it had been refurbished only six years ago by his own hands, among others.
“Table for one, sir?”
Asher turned around, slightly startled, and cleared his throat. “Is the owner of this café here?”
The young man shrugged as he wiped his hands on his apron. Asher’s lack of reaction must have told him this answer wasn’t enough. “You could ask the manager.” He pointed to another man, slightly older, carrying plates behind the counter.
This was better. The man looked vaguely familiar.
“Hello,” Asher said to him. “I’m looking for Izabella.”
“Izabella who?”
“Izabella Baran. She used to play the violin here.” Asher glanced to the corner. “Just over there.”
The man set down the plates he was carrying and stared into space for a moment. He started nodding very slowly and a sad smile spread across his face. “Ah, yes. Izabella.”
“You remember her?”
“Of course, now you mention it. Very happy days, when I was just fifteen and Mr. and Mrs. Baran owned the place.”
“Do you know where I can find her?”
The man shook his head. “New owners. She has nothing to do with the place now.” He turned to the side. “Magda!” he shouted to the other end of the counter. A middle-aged woman looked up. He beckoned her over. “You must remember Izabella, the violinist?”
“Of course I do, so beautiful.”
“Do you know where she lives?” Asher said.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“But I occasionally see her buying food for her family at the Banacha. Do you know where that is?”
“The market? Yes. I . . . I used to live in Warsaw.”
“Try there. Saturday or Sunday mornings.”
Three hours later, Asher had given up looking, although not for good. He took a break, eating at a café—but not Café Baran because he found the prospect of returning there disturbing, taking him back to the time it was a mere ruin. And he thought. And what he thought was that something was niggling at him, something Magda or the man at the café had said.
No, it didn’t matter. He dismissed the thought.
He returned to mingle with the crowds at the market, searching, but still he found no Izabella. He’d already considered that the council offices might know her address. But they would be unlikely to give any details to a strange man, and besides they were closed until Monday.
He settled into a cheap hostel, slept soundly, and waited for the market to open. But he felt unable—too impatient—to wait in the hostel, so walked halfway toward the apartment he’d moved into in 1936, before deciding against the idea. He bought a pastry from a street seller, sat on a bench to eat, then returned to the market, checking clocks along the way.
He was early, so the market was quiet, half the traders still setting up their stalls, talking with each other, arranging their fruit, vegetables, bread, and meat.
And there she was.
There was no mistaking her beauty. That long coal-black hair contrasted against pure white skin, the warm brown eyes, the petite strawberry lips, the strong nose. Asher wanted to look away and look back, to be sure he wasn’t dreaming, but his eyes were under the control of some other force.
He walked toward her, his eyes locked and unblinking. This was Izabella. She was alive, and he had found her. He could finally kiss her as he had done many years ago. She was alive, and he would talk and she would talk, and they would rekindle their love and they would look back on sadder times and perhaps—just perhaps—look forward to better times together.
And then Izabella looked down, at the baby carriage her hand was holding on to. She reached in and picked the infant out, clasping it to her chest. She kissed the baby’s head, rocking the precious bundle slowly from side to side.
Then a man appeared behind Izabella, placing an arm around her shoulders. His other hand stroked the baby’s forehead, pushing aside a lock of hair. He leaned over and kissed the baby.
Asher stopped walking.
Of course. Now he remembered. The woman in the café. Magda. She’d said she’d seen Izabella out shopping for her family. Her family.
Asher felt weak, and turned his back on Izabella so she wouldn’t see his face if he were to fall. He stumbled, took a few d
eep breaths, and started running haphazardly, knocking stalls askew along the way.
Twenty minutes later, he was on the platform, waiting for the train back to Kiev, thoughts of Izabella still whirling in his mind. He could have spoken to her, he could have asked how she was and how she’d escaped the walled sector, but without a doubt he would have then told her he was still in love with her, and how would she have replied to that? What could she have said with her husband standing next to her. No, it was better to keep his memories, and not to break the spell.
On the way back Asher cursed himself and his stupidity. He could have talked to her, at least exchanged polite conversation. He should have talked to her. But no; he was on his way back to Kiev.
He would have to be content with mere memories of Izabella.
Chapter 26
Pittsburgh and Detroit, 1997
The Troy Hill neighborhood of Pittsburgh, on the north side of the Allegheny River, boasted houses of varying designs and colors, all packed together like they trusted one another with their lives. Accompanied by a well-judged smattering of trees, it could almost have been a pretty village in some hidden corner of Europe.
A car pulled up into the driveway of 38 Hartmann Way, a modest but smartly kept house, and the car door opened.
Michael Peterson swung his legs to the side. He was sprightly for his seventy-four years of age, but still had to grunt a little as he grabbed the door pillar to pull himself out.
He walked up to the front door and pulled out his house key, but the door opened and his head jerked back with a little surprise. It wasn’t a big issue as he didn’t live alone; it just caught him off guard. For a second it occurred to him that he was becoming rather easy to spook in his senior years.
“Hi, Diane,” he said in an accent that was almost completely apple-pie American. Almost. He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Diane? What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t want you just coming inside, Father, and . . . I thought it best if . . . Look, some people are here to see you.” She stood aside.
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