Beyond the Shadow of Night

by Ray Kingfisher

  “Oh, yes. Of course. I mean . . . but . . . I wasn’t sure, it was a hell of a long time ago and I could have gotten it all wrong.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Asher? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. It’s just that . . . you did get it wrong. Yes, they were sent to a concentration camp. And it’s true that millions of Ukrainians—non-Jews—died in those places. But not your parents. They survived. Your father died in 1958, your mother three years later.”

  Mykhail let out a heavy gasp, but didn’t speak.

  “Mykhail?”

  But there was nothing.

  “Are you still there, Mykhail?”

  A few seconds later, there was a weak “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. It must be hard for you to take. It looks like they spent their later years on the same farm, quite a peaceful existence from what I can gather.”

  Mykhail took another few seconds to compose himself. “Oh, that’s . . . that’s good. And it’s very good of you to check. Thank you, my friend.”

  “That’s no problem.”

  Mykhail sniffed and took a few deep breaths. “So, what else is there to do there?”

  “Not much. That’s why I’ve decided to visit Treblinka.”

  The line went silent again.

  “Mykhail? Are you still there?”

  “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “You didn’t tell me you were planning to visit that place.”

  “I’ve only just decided.”

  “But that wasn’t part of the agreement.”

  “What?” Asher stuttered to reply. “What agreement?”

  “When I offered to pay for your flight out there.”

  “Oh, Mykhail. Why are you being like this?”

  “I’m only thinking of you, Asher. I’m worried your heart might not take the strain. Why not just stay in good old Ukraine?”

  “Because there’s not much left of the old Ukraine. You wouldn’t even recognize it.”

  “Or, better still, go to Warsaw instead. Yes, that would be better. Visit Warsaw. Anywhere but Treblinka.”

  “I have bad memories of Warsaw, Mykhail. You know that.”

  “But you have even worse memories of Treblinka, surely?”

  “Oh, of course, but Treblinka . . . well, that’s where my family are. I know it sounds strange, but it’s as if I can hear them calling. I really need to visit them.”

  “At least you have good memories of Warsaw as well as bad ones. You told me you enjoyed many happy days there before they put the wall up—evenings out with your family, meals at the apartment, there was even that café and the violinist girl.”

  “Oh, I have my memories, for sure, but—”

  “Well, go there instead. Going to Treblinka will only upset you. And, of course, you could track down the violinist girl—what was her name?”

  “Izabella.”

  “Yes, Izabella. You could see her again if you went to Warsaw.”

  “And remind myself of what I could have enjoyed all these years?”

  “No, no. To reminisce about your joyful time together, to connect with the better times of your history. If you go to Treblinka . . . well, I hear very little is left there. You’ll be on your own.”

  “I won’t be on my own, Mykhail. The rest of my family are there, and I feel I should pay my respects to them. Surely you can see that?”

  Asher waited for a reply, but all he could hear was heavy breathing. The longer neither of them spoke, the more he started to accept that Mykhail might have a point. “Well . . .” he said slowly. “I guess it might be good to see what they’ve done to my old haunts in Warsaw.”

  “And it would be better to see where your family last lived than where they . . .”

  “Mmm . . . you could be right. But I’m tired now. I’m still recovering from the journey.”

  “Good man, Asher. Listen to me, you go to Warsaw and leave it at that.”

  “Oh, all right. And I promise I’ll come see you as soon as I get back, okay?”

  “I’ll look forward to that.”

  “Me too,” Asher said.

  Chapter 30

  Warsaw, Poland, July 2001

  The next morning, over a breakfast of orange juice, bagels with cream cheese, and a bowl of oatmeal he had to put in a special order for, Asher came around to the idea. Mykhail had a point: visiting the concentration camp museum would only be torturing himself. He’d spent the best years of his life doing that. No, he’d wasted the best years of his life doing that.

  Warsaw must have undergone many changes since the war, he figured. Like everywhere else, it was probably so much brighter, happier, and more relaxed—what the marketing people called “vibrant” these days. It would be interesting to find out. And to avoid unnecessary stress, perhaps he should steer clear of where Café Baran used to be. That would be good.

  By the time he was washing breakfast down with a cup of coffee, he was positively looking forward to the visit.

  He was pleased to find out that the journey was considerably quicker than it had been just after the war. Most people flew that sort of distance these days, but Asher wanted to step off a train and onto the platform again. That might put those demons down. It was still, however, an overnight train, and this time Asher treated his old bones to a sleeper ticket.

  When he woke the next morning, he found himself in Warsaw once more, and was pleasantly surprised at the color, the music, the number of shops and the variety of food for sale. This might as well have been a different city, so the memories didn’t exactly come flooding back. But in time he spotted things—an ancient church here, an old council building there, a few statues somewhere else—that gave him a sense of place. It felt good. This was still Warsaw, but it had moved on. It made him think that perhaps he should too, and forget what might have been.

  He spent the morning visiting the apartment his family had first lived in when they moved here in 1936. But it wasn’t there; in its place was a hardware store. He moved on to the other place they’d lived in—that single room within the walled Jewish sector. It had been torn down and replaced by a smooth-faced office block. It made him smile. Yes, Warsaw had certainly moved on.

  He wandered along to the streets where Izabella used to play the violin and beg for loose change, effectively begging for her life. At least that street was still there, even if the wall behind it had long gone. If he listened hard enough he could even hear her sweet music. And he was still mesmerized by it.

  As for visiting the café—or what remained of it after all this time—he was unsure, almost fearful of his reaction. And he was very tired, even though it was early afternoon. He checked into a hotel and took a nap that lasted until it was time to freshen up for an evening meal.

  The next morning, over pancakes and coffee, Asher decided it would be madness not to visit the café. He’d come all this way; it wouldn’t do any harm, and might brighten him up. Warsaw had changed so much, and all of it for the better. He got the feeling the more of it he saw, the more good it would do him.

  He walked more slowly this time—he’d worn himself out the previous day—but despite his tiredness it didn’t take long to reach the part of town Café Baran used to be in. And the first thing he noticed was that it still displayed the name Café Baran above it—albeit in a modern typeface. They’d kept the old name. How sweet. It brought a proud smile to his face.

  Of course, everything else had changed. The street outside was now pedestrianized. There was no awning on the sidewalk sheltering three or four tables, but a huge marquee tent covering about a dozen bistro tables and chairs. Everything was either frosted glass or brushed steel or white plastic covered in advertising slogans.

  He tried to rein in his smile and went inside.

  He was met with more frosted glass and brushed steel, but also noticed other things: electric coffee machines, a far greater variety of pastries and cakes, strange vegetarian options, and a hundred differ
ent types of coffee, all with exotic names.

  Actually, no. No, none of this was strange. It was just like any of the coffee shops back in Detroit or Pittsburgh. It just felt strange—strange for Café Baran. His eyes were drawn to the corner, to where Izabella used to play the violin, but saw only another table and chairs. He took a seat, found out that the waitress spoke passable English—much better than Asher’s Polish these days—and ordered a coffee. Then he spent a few minutes trying to imagine what the place had been like the first time he’d set foot in it as a boy. He remembered getting the mortar mix on his hands during the refurbishment, and his papa telling him to rinse it off quickly. He remembered Mr. and Mrs. Baran arguing—they often did. He couldn’t help but smile as he remembered the grand reopening, when he almost made himself sick by eating too much cake. But, above all else, he remembered the first time he heard that enchanting violin music. Yes, Mykhail had been correct—there had been good times here. Before . . .

  He took a sip of coffee and wiped away a single tear.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a waitress—who was clearing up a table—stop for a second and glance at him. Then she went blurry. He hurried to pull a Kleenex from his pocket, dabbed his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” the waitress said.

  He smiled at her. “I’m perfect, thank you.” He took a long breath, then noticed her still looking. “It’s just that I was here a long time ago,” he continued. “I can remember when the place was actually owned by the Barans. Mr. and Mrs. Baran baking the cakes and serving; their daughter playing the violin to give it a special something.”

  The waitress frowned and glanced back to the counter, where an older woman was serving.

  “What?” Asher said. “What is it?”

  “That woman is Katarina Baran. She is the owner.”

  Asher felt the flesh on his face tighten. He couldn’t make sense of it, and expressed this with a grunt, causing her to repeat what she’d just said. He looked at both women in turn, narrowing his eyes to slits.

  “I have work to do. I will ask her to come over to see you.”

  Asher said nothing.

  He was still confused when the stream of customers died down to a trickle and the woman at the counter wandered over to Asher and sat down opposite him, smiling warmly.

  “Katarina Baran,” she said, shaking Asher’s hand.

  “Asher Kogan.”

  “I hear you know my mother and father?”

  Her face looked familiar; she was about thirty, Asher estimated, with a small but full pair of lips and short-cropped black hair.

  “Not exactly,” Asher replied. “I’m not sure. I’m a little confused at the moment. What’s your father’s name?”

  “Marek.”

  Asher repeated the name. “It doesn’t ring a bell. But I did come here, during the war years. There was a young girl called Izabella who used to play the violin over there.” He nodded to the corner of the room.

  She frowned. “Izabella?” Within seconds her frown had faded and her eyes lit up. “Ah, yes. I have a great-aunt called Izabella.”

  Asher gasped, and had to fight to catch his breath. “How old would you say she is?”

  “I’m not sure. Mmm . . . she must be well into her seventies by now. She has an apartment not too far from here.”

  “Dear God,” Asher said. He was unable to say more for a minute or so.

  “Are you okay?” she said. “Do you need a drink?”

  Asher needed a vodka more than ever—a double at that. But he was still dumbstruck.

  “Has she lived in Warsaw all her life?” he eventually said.

  “I am twenty-nine. I don’t know.”

  Again, Asher didn’t know what to say.

  “Are you an old friend of hers?”

  “You could say that. Tell me, is she married?”

  “She was. Her husband, he died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. And . . . children?”

  “No children.”

  “None? Really? Are you sure?”

  Katarina looked back toward the counter. “I have customers now. Would you like to meet my great-aunt?” She took a step away.

  Asher’s throat locked. He wanted to speak, but could only nod.

  Katarina nodded too. “Good. I will give her a call when I get time and tell her you are here. Asher Kogan, did you say?”

  “No,” Asher said, with more force than he intended, causing a few customers to turn their heads. He lowered his voice. “Please call her, but don’t tell her my name. Just tell her I’m an old friend.”

  Katarina gave him a curious look. “You want me to ask her to meet you, but not tell her who you are? That does not seem fair.”

  She was right. Asher preferred the “old friend” routine because it wouldn’t give Izabella the chance to turn him down. But it was hardly fair. And if she really didn’t want to see him, he shouldn’t trick her.

  “I’m sorry, yes. Please tell her my name. She might not even remember me.”

  Katarina quickly called her father to get the number, then called her while Asher stood alongside. She spoke Polish, but Asher got the general idea.

  “Aunt Izabella. It’s Katarina. Yes, Katarina . . . I have a friend of yours here in the café . . . yes, name of Asher Kogan . . . that’s right.” There was a long pause. Asher held his breath. “Oh, I see . . . uh . . . all right . . . are you sure? All right . . . have it your way.”

  “She doesn’t want to see me?” Asher said when she hung up.

  “No. She wants to see you. But she does not believe what I tell her. She is getting the tram right away.” She flapped the napkin in Asher’s direction. “You better be who you say you are, mister.”

  Asher sat down.

  By the time the slender figure in the long cerise coat appeared in front of the café window and stared through at him, Asher had run through all the possibilities. Would she remember him? Would she believe it was really him? Would there be anger at someone dragging her past up? Or suspicion of his motives for coming back after so long? The paper napkins on the table had come in useful for patting the sweat from his brow.

  And by the time she came through the door and approached him, his heart was thumping away at what those Detroit doctors would call “an ill-advised pace.”

  And then she smiled. It wasn’t a big, wide smile—not with that petite mouth—but her eyes joined in to compensate. It was something that hadn’t registered all those years ago: the eyes smiled as much as the mouth.

  She sat down opposite him, her eyes seemingly trying to cover every pore of skin on his face. Then again, he was doing the same to her. And yes, that hair was still the darkest of blacks. Almost immediately, two fresh coffees were brought to the table.

  Izabella spoke a few words in Polish. Asher tried, but the words came slowly and soon there were more frustrated grunts than words, so he reverted to English. Without pausing for breath, Izabella switched to English too. Asher’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise.

  “I was a language teacher for many years. It’s easy to keep up my skills. English is everywhere. You live in Britain now?”

  “America. Ever since the war.”

  She smiled warmly. “Oh, Asher. I couldn’t believe it when Katarina told me. But it’s you, it really is. And you’ve hardly changed. Well . . .” She glanced at the top of his head and smirked.

  Asher smirked too, and ran a palm over his shiny head. “I must say, I didn’t expect your hair to be still so dark.”

  She leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. “It needs a little help these days—but don’t tell anyone.”

  “Whatever you do, it works.”

  “You know, my mind was racing on the way over here, wondering if it really could be you, and trying to think why you would come back after all these years, what you were like now, and . . . and . . . well, we seem to be getting on as if we’d never parted.”

  Asher’s face dropped a little on hearing the words. �
�I wasn’t sure about coming to meet you either. But it’s so good to see you. We have a lot to catch up on.”

  “We do. So, first of all, tell me what happened to you after I left Warsaw.”

  Asher drew breath. “The first thing that happened was that I searched high and low for you. I had an idea what happened to you, but didn’t want to believe it. How did you get out? One moment you were living with your aunt and her family, the next you’d disappeared.”

  She thought for a moment. “Oh, yes, now I remember. I told you that, didn’t I? I made you turn back halfway when you insisted on walking me home.”

  “You did. I hated that.”

  Her hand drifted across to his and covered it, giving it the briefest of squeezes. “I’m sorry, Asher. The truth was I was living on the streets. There was no aunt.”

  “On the streets? My God, why didn’t you say so?”

  “Does it matter now?”

  “No, no. Of course not. I’m sorry. But I guess it does explain one or two things.”

  “My black hair helped disguise the fact: it didn’t show the dirt. But a lot of people lived on the streets in that place—sleeping in doorways at night and begging during the day. Not many with violins, I grant you.”

  “Ah, the violin. How can I forget your violin-playing? That was how I found you. I heard your music and recognized it from this very café. Do you still play?”

  Izabella shook her head firmly. “I’ve never touched a violin since then. It just has painful . . .”

  “Associations?”

  “Yes. Does that seem a shame?”

  “You and I, Izabella, we’re two of the few people living who understand. Anyhow. You were telling me how you got out of the ghetto.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, one day I was heading to one of my usual begging spots, where I had a few friends I could trust, and I turned the final corner only to see soldiers emptying the place. Everybody there—both inside the buildings and outside in the streets—was being escorted away. I had no idea what was happening. Of course, now I do.”