The Train to Warsaw Read Free

Express, the man said, rearranging the pastries. They barely heat it. And then they expect me to wear this flimsy uniform. No coat, no scarf. He shook his head. When I get home I’m frozen like an ice cube. He poured out the hot chocolate. This used to be my favorite, he remarked. Now it’s brandy. And you, sir? I want a coffee and an almond pastry, said Jascha in English. Where are you from, sir? asked the man. Jascha reached in his pocket and brought out his wallet. How much? he asked curtly. The man gave him the figure in English. Now he seemed in a hurry to leave, and thanking them, he rapidly shut the door.
    What was the point of that? she asked him. He was a harmless creature. Why do you behave like that? I cannot stand, he said, to hear that Berlin accent. And I’m tired of people asking me where I’m from. But they always do, she said. Wherever we go. She sipped at the hot chocolate. It’s lukewarm. She took a bite of the pastry. And this is hard as rock. What did you expect? he asked.
    The snowy fields lay in shadow, a pale sliver of moon rose over the snow. I’m starving, he said. She brushed her hair. I’m going to order venison. And wash it down with Polish vodka. My sweetheart, this is not the Hotel Bristol, he informed her. But I will buy you a venison dinner in Warsaw. Now that I can, he added.
    Do you suppose the dining car is open? she asked. She pulled another chocolate from her purse. I’m ravenous, she whispered. What shall we eat? What shall we eat? he replied. We’ll have cabbage and pierogi, latkes and goose liver, roasted potatoes and duck dripping with fat and drowning in sour cherry sauce. We’ll mop it all up with black bread and finish off with Black Forest cake. What won’t we have? She smiled. How delicious. Jascha, she said happily, we’ll have a banquet. A banquet in the ruins, he replied. Jascha! No darling, he said, just a banquet.
    They put on their fur hats and re-buttoned their coats. He put his hand beneath her arm. Come my sweetheart, let me escort you. Now even Jews can dine in first class dining cars.

    It happened that when the leaves on the trees turned red and gold, Jascha received a letter from Poland. It lay on the hall table in their house in London, a cream colored envelope with a Polish stamp. Jascha looked at it. What is this? he asked. News from Poland after forty years? The news can only be bad. And he left it lying there. Open it, Lilka had said. No, darling, he replied, better not. She reached for the envelope. He put a warning hand on her wrist. Let me, she said softly. What’s the harm?
    She pulled out a cream colored card. It’s an invitation, she informed him.
    An invitation? he asked. Do they miss their Jews? Are they inviting us back after all these years? Come back, dear Jews? And in writing! She read from the stiff card written in a Polish hand.
    To Mr. Jascha Kroll: We invite you, our esteemed Polish writer, to honor us with a reading of your work at Writers’ House in Warsaw on December 9th. We shall be happy to welcome you back and look forward to the honor of having you with us at Writers’ House. With cocktails and a light buffet to follow.
    Jascha went to the freezer and took out a bottle of vodka. Ha, he said, slamming the door. First they want me dead. Now I’m a native son, an “esteemed Polish writer.” Who will come to this reading, I wonder? He poured out the vodka into two shot glasses. Three spinster schoolteachers, a couple of birds, six dead Jews? What chutzpah. They haven’t changed.
    They sat together at the round wooden table covered in a dark red cloth. Why shouldn’t we go? asked Lilka. Her thin silver bangles clinked as she raised her glass. I want them to know what a great writer they lost. Who writes in Polish. Who speaks to them of all they would like to forget. And do you think, he asked, that they will want to be reminded? When you read