The Train to Warsaw Read Free Page A

from your books, they’ll be reminded. Reminded? he asked. They’ll run off into the snowy night. They won’t sleep for a week. We didn’t sleep for four years, she remarked, and lifting her throat she drank back the vodka.
    I’m not going back to that hellhole, he told her. Not for anything. Not if you paid me. Not if Churchill took me by the hand. Write and tell them that. December? he asked in disbelief. When all of Poland lies frozen beneath the snow? When the wind sings in the chimneys and the water freezes in the pipes? Well the answer is no. You can tell them that. But Jascha, it’s our last chance. Soon it will be too late. Why? he asked. Are we leaving for the next world? She shrugged. We’re no longer young. Speak for yourself, he said. We’ll go for three days, she said. What can happen? Many things, he replied. The war is over, she told him. It’s not the same Warsaw. Is it not the same Poles? he asked.
    You’ll read to them from your brilliant books, said Lilka. What’s the harm? He studied her as she drank. It’s you who wants to go back, you sly witch. Why don’t you say so? She took up the small wooden bird that sat on the table. Maybe I do, she said at last.
    The room was in near darkness. What are we getting to eat? he asked. I’m starving. She got up and turned on the lamp. I couldn’t face cooking, she replied, so everything is cold. He lit a cigarette. Cold leftovers, he said mournfully. Once upon a time you cooked for me every night. This is what happens. Women lose interest. There was a time when your dearest desire was to spend hours cooking me my favorite things. I could say the same, she replied. You used to bring me stockings with a black seam up the back. You brought me chocolates. And pink soaps tied up in little packages. And now? Do you still want all that? he asked. She shrugged. Yes. No.
    She set the table and brought plates of smoked salmon and dark bread, potato salad, beet salad, sour cream, lemons, a pot of butter, and the frosted bottle of vodka. He poured out two more shots of vodka. And spooned out a large serving of beet salad for her. Your beloved beets, he said. That’s the peasant in you. And you, she said, bending forward to light the candles, with your coarse black bread and your herring.
    Jascha raised his glass. Let us drink to two refugees from the former city of Warsaw, he said. Sometimes late at night they remember the trees, the bread, the birds of their native land, and the soft sounds of their own language.
    She pressed back her blonde hair and raised her glass. Let us drink to our return, she proposed. We’ll go back. No darling, he replied. We won’t. Outside a dog barked. Look at you, he said, your mouth is red with beet stain. Just like children in Poland before the war. When they harvested the beets the children’s faces were red with the juice of beets. Wipe your mouth my sweetheart, I don’t want to think about it.
    He smoked and ate at the same time. She helped herself to another forkful of beets. I’m the only woman who would put up with the smell of that tobacco, she said. Quite a few others did, he said. I doubt it, she said, chewing slowly, you’re too difficult. He smiled. But that’s what women love, my sweetheart. She cut into the dark bread and placed a slice of smoked salmon on top. Don’t speak to me, she said. He laughed. What a crazy woman, he said, his mouth full.
    I dream of Warsaw all the time, she told him. Sometimes it is closer to me than anything. She pried open the jar. Just once more, she said, lifting a herring out delicately from the brine, I would like to see the street where I lived when I was a girl. She placed the herring on a piece of rye bread, added a thin slice of onion and handed it to him. Is that so terrible?
    Lilka placed another herring on a piece of bread and pressed it into her mouth. If my mother could see me eating like this,