continued to rummage through the suitcase and came upon two tattered books: the Canadian novel
Anne of Green Gables
, and the Russian novel
Princess Dzavaha
, both in Polish editions.
At the bottom of the suitcase were several poems and stories I had written, and then some photos: one of Father before the war, another of dear Babushka, my grandmother, and finally a snapshot of my other little sister Basia, lost somewhere in an unmarked grave in Poland.
I thought of the destroyed pictures of my childhood and tried to rekindle them in my mind, like the candles that people light in memory of the departed. And I could see them before me rising out of flames.
CHAPTER 2
The Ballet
(WARSAW, 1938)
TODAY I AM FIVE years old.
It’s my birthday, and Father is taking me out for a walk. Masha, my nanny, buttons my coat and hands me over to Father.
“Be good,” she says.
Father and I walk hand in hand down our street, Aleje Jerozolimskie. It is a wide boulevard lined with trees still green in September. There are many cafes and shops where we stop to look in windows.
A small boy dressed in ragged clothes stretches out his hand and asks for money.
“Children shouldn’t handle money. Wait here,” says Father to the boy. We walk into a delicatessen and Father buys bread, some oranges and chocolate. He hands the parcel to me.
“Here, you give it to him.”
The boy’s dirty hand takes the parcel; his big eyes brighten and he runs off pressing the food to his chest, as if he had just won the biggest prize of his life. I take Father’s hand and hold it tight.
In the evening after a lovely birthday and many gifts, I kiss Mother and Father good night, and go off to my room with Masha. It is time for bed.
“Don’t forget to say a prayer for all those who love you, your mother and your father,” says Masha. “Especially your mother,” she adds mysteriously.
Lately, Mother’s stomach has been getting bigger and bigger. One day she disappears without an explanation, and I do not see her for several days. I ask the cook and the maid if they know what had happened to Mother. But all they do is look at each other and sing silly songs.
Finally I ask Father.
“Tomorrow I will take you to her,” he promises. I can hardly wait for the big secret to be revealed.
The next day Father and I walk into a grey stone building. There are people in white everywhere, as well as people in ordinary clothes. Father explains that we are in a hospital, a place for the sick. Is Mother sick? I wonder. We go up the elevator and down a spotless corridor into a white room. Mother is lying in bed. She does not look sick. She is smiling. There is a little bed next to her big one.
“This is Basia, your new baby sister,” says Mother.
A baby lies in the crib, all wrapped up in a blanket.
Finally Mother comes home with my new baby sister. Everyone tells me that a stork brought her.
In the mornings I sneak around the crib to observe the minute red face, toy-like hands, curly hair and round cheeks. She is much prettier now.
I want to go to Mother and ask her if she still loves me, but I can’t find her. The baby keeps her busy, so I spend a lot of time with Babushka, my father’s mother. She lives on Marshalkowska street. She is my favourite grandmother, and I love her very much.
Now that I am five, Babushka has decided that I am big enough to learn how to read and write. Every day at four o’clock in the afternoon, we sit at the big dining room table, and I learn how to read and write the alphabet. It is a whole new world.
Ballet school is another new world, and in it I am learning to speak French. I feel silly each time I have to curtsy to the head mistress, Madame Fleuri. But my parents tell me that this is how well-behaved young girls should act. Only French is spoken here. “
Bonjour, Madame
,” and “
Au revoir, Madame
,” I say, trying to roll the r’s to the back of my throat.
One day I come home with exciting news. Madame
Anne of Green Gables
, and the Russian novel
Princess Dzavaha
, both in Polish editions.
At the bottom of the suitcase were several poems and stories I had written, and then some photos: one of Father before the war, another of dear Babushka, my grandmother, and finally a snapshot of my other little sister Basia, lost somewhere in an unmarked grave in Poland.
I thought of the destroyed pictures of my childhood and tried to rekindle them in my mind, like the candles that people light in memory of the departed. And I could see them before me rising out of flames.
CHAPTER 2
The Ballet
(WARSAW, 1938)
TODAY I AM FIVE years old.
It’s my birthday, and Father is taking me out for a walk. Masha, my nanny, buttons my coat and hands me over to Father.
“Be good,” she says.
Father and I walk hand in hand down our street, Aleje Jerozolimskie. It is a wide boulevard lined with trees still green in September. There are many cafes and shops where we stop to look in windows.
A small boy dressed in ragged clothes stretches out his hand and asks for money.
“Children shouldn’t handle money. Wait here,” says Father to the boy. We walk into a delicatessen and Father buys bread, some oranges and chocolate. He hands the parcel to me.
“Here, you give it to him.”
The boy’s dirty hand takes the parcel; his big eyes brighten and he runs off pressing the food to his chest, as if he had just won the biggest prize of his life. I take Father’s hand and hold it tight.
In the evening after a lovely birthday and many gifts, I kiss Mother and Father good night, and go off to my room with Masha. It is time for bed.
“Don’t forget to say a prayer for all those who love you, your mother and your father,” says Masha. “Especially your mother,” she adds mysteriously.
Lately, Mother’s stomach has been getting bigger and bigger. One day she disappears without an explanation, and I do not see her for several days. I ask the cook and the maid if they know what had happened to Mother. But all they do is look at each other and sing silly songs.
Finally I ask Father.
“Tomorrow I will take you to her,” he promises. I can hardly wait for the big secret to be revealed.
The next day Father and I walk into a grey stone building. There are people in white everywhere, as well as people in ordinary clothes. Father explains that we are in a hospital, a place for the sick. Is Mother sick? I wonder. We go up the elevator and down a spotless corridor into a white room. Mother is lying in bed. She does not look sick. She is smiling. There is a little bed next to her big one.
“This is Basia, your new baby sister,” says Mother.
A baby lies in the crib, all wrapped up in a blanket.
Finally Mother comes home with my new baby sister. Everyone tells me that a stork brought her.
In the mornings I sneak around the crib to observe the minute red face, toy-like hands, curly hair and round cheeks. She is much prettier now.
I want to go to Mother and ask her if she still loves me, but I can’t find her. The baby keeps her busy, so I spend a lot of time with Babushka, my father’s mother. She lives on Marshalkowska street. She is my favourite grandmother, and I love her very much.
Now that I am five, Babushka has decided that I am big enough to learn how to read and write. Every day at four o’clock in the afternoon, we sit at the big dining room table, and I learn how to read and write the alphabet. It is a whole new world.
Ballet school is another new world, and in it I am learning to speak French. I feel silly each time I have to curtsy to the head mistress, Madame Fleuri. But my parents tell me that this is how well-behaved young girls should act. Only French is spoken here. “
Bonjour, Madame
,” and “
Au revoir, Madame
,” I say, trying to roll the r’s to the back of my throat.
One day I come home with exciting news. Madame