Does it change you to be so loved, to love? Sophia wonders. She studies her sister’s face in the candlelight for clues, and finds unhappiness in her eyes. It’s true that Sabina is often shy and a little anxious, but this is something more. She’s about to lean across and whisper to Sabina, and ask her what’s wrong, but Krystyna has an urgent question.
‘So what will your dress be like, Sabina? It’s going to be so wonderful with Madame Fournier helping you at the salon. Imagine.’
‘Oh. Well, you see . . .’ Sabina stops. She drops her head. Two pink spots flush her cheeks.
Lutek puts his arm around her. ‘We didn’t want to talk about it today, but . . .’ he says in a low voice.
Sabina’s shy eyes look up, startled and ashamed. ‘Madame Fournier’s fired me.’
‘She’s fired you, Sabina? Why would she fire you? She’s always sung your praises. Her best model.’
‘Turns out I don’t have the right looks to be a model at Maison Française after all. They said I looked French and now I’m too Jewish, it seems.’
‘Well, that’s ridiculous,’ says Mother hotly. ‘Whatever are they talking about?’
‘Sabina was going to resign soon anyway,’ says Lutek. ‘Father will be more than glad if she can start with us in the office at the printing firm.’
Sabina smiles at him gratefully, but a quiet sadness lingers on in her face through the rest of the evening.
After supper, as the family get out the cards to begin a long game of Bezique, Sophia slips away to Rosa’s apartment across the street.
‘So you’re here at last,’ says Rosa, rescuing her from her mother who comes out to greet everyone in the hallway, prospecting for family news and cheerfully flashing the many diamond rings that never leave her fingers even as she weighs out meat in their butcher’s shop.
‘Come on. There’s someone here you’ll want to meet. He actually works with your favourite lecturer, Dr Korczak.’
Sophia groans. Now that Rosa is engaged, she has taken on the mission of finding Sophia the perfect match.
‘Please stop doing this, Rosa. That last boy you made me talk to for hours.’
The large parlour is filled with ornate furniture in the style of a Polish hunting lodge, any spaces between crowded with friends. The balcony windows stand open onto the mild night air. On the gramophone a tango is playing, the hit from the summer, ‘In a Year’s Time’.
‘There he is,’ says Rosa.
Over by the window, taller than anyone else in the room, there’s a young man with a remarkably nice smile. Sophia sees a head that is neat in the way of a cat, eyes that slant in a slightly eastern fashion. And so tall. Really, he is Mr Giraffe, she thinks and yet there’s a strange feeling of things being just as they ought to be.
Misha’s about to leave when he sees Rosa threading her way across the room towards him; a girl in a summer dress is following behind her.
He pushes away from the window frame with a jolt. Blonde hair pulled back from an open brow, the same full lips, her skin tanned against the white of her dress. It’s her.
And she must wonder why he’s grinning like an idiot as she offers her hand.
‘Rosa tells me you work with Korczak,’ she says.
‘That’s right. Yes. I’m a student helper at the orphanage. I do.’
He’s not making much sense, distracted by the impression of a soft hand in his. But her eyes are on him, enquiring, direct. She deserves a sensible conversation.
‘And so you’re training to teach too?’ he tries.
‘Oh, dear. Did Rosa tell you that or can you guess by looking at me?’
‘No, no. I saw you before, at a lecture that Korczak gave, in the X-ray room.’
‘The little boy and his beating heart! Wasn’t it remarkable? Not so much a lecture as a complete change of perspective. But I would have remembered you if you were there, surely.’
He likes that. ‘There’s no reason you should. We didn’t speak. And the lectures were cancelled so suddenly.’
She frowns. ‘Wasn’t that terrible? He must be so upset.’
‘Yes, but the thing that has really depressed him is losing the Polish children’s home he opened. The board of governors sacked him. No longer allowed to see the children he’d taken care of for years. Half his family.’
‘That’s shocking.’
Her eyes blaze. She barely reaches his shoulder but he feels she equals him, vital, a force to be reckoned with. And yet there’s something of the dancer in the way she holds herself, at ease, gracefully aware of her body. And those eyes. Is there a name for that shade of blue, translucent and limpid? They size him up.
‘I really envy you, working alongside Korczak, learning his methods with the children first-hand. It must be wonderful to work with him.’
‘To be honest it can be very confusing to begin with.’
‘How do you mean, confusing?’
‘He doesn’t teach a set method, you know. He believes that you should get to know each child individually. Work out what they need from there.’
‘But don’t all children need clear rules? And how can the teacher know if they are doing the right thing? Why are you smiling?’
‘I like how enthusiastic you are. Really.’
She bristles slightly. ‘You were saying, about Korczak. So he doesn’t give any instruction?’
‘He does in his own way. We meet up each evening with either him or with Stefa, the house mother, and we talk about the children. And he gives a sort of talk to all the teachers once a week, though if you’re not used to him, he seems to ramble on, make jokes.’
‘Jokes?’
‘When Korczak’s playing the fool he’s often making his most serious points. He likes to make you think. His philosophy is that you can’t learn about a child from reading a book or listening to some professor. You have to find your own way when it comes to caring for children by getting to know each child. It’s not always easy at Korczak’s home to begin with, but the children at his home are some of the happiest I know, even the little hard cases who come off the street.’
‘So you’re telling me Korczak’s a famous writer who doesn’t tell his students to read books? But what do you think about Piaget’s new book?’
‘I haven’t read it yet.’
‘He hasn’t read it. But you must. Why don’t I lend you my copy? I’m nearby. I can run up and fetch it for you later.’
‘I’d like that.’
At some point the music stops playing. They look up to realize that the room has emptied around them, although they still stand as close together.
‘Shall I get that book?’
They walk side by side under the lamplight, quietly, like two people who have settled on some understanding. He waits under the archway leading to her courtyard while she runs upstairs, the night air buzzing in her absence. A glimpse of her white dress in the dark stairwell and she’s back, a little out of breath. She places the book in his hands. It’s new, smelling of ink. He takes the weight of it and holds it against his chest. But no, she has to take it back and point out the passages he must absolutely read.
She doesn’t seem in a hurry to go. He looks down at the tiny path of pale skin in the parting of her hair, so vulnerable and exposed, and wants to protect her from the chill in the air, from the world as it is. The lamplight illuminates a fine down on her cheek. Would it feel like the down of a peach if he placed his lips there, the skin cool to the touch?
But she’d be offended, hardly knows him.
‘I was wondering,’ he offers. ‘Perhaps you might like to meet again?’ Holding his breath.
‘I’d like that.’
He can feel himself grinning broadly, never so happy before this. ‘Tuesday perhaps? Say nine-thirty?’
‘Yes. I can be free on Tuesday.’ She’s smiling too.
They will meet in Castle Square, by King Sigismund’s column at nine-thirty on Tuesday. The place where lovers meet.
CHAPTER FO
UR
WARSAW, SEPTEMBER 1937
Misha is sitting at the desk in the little office between the boys’ and the girls’ dormitories, a window and a door opening out onto each so he can keep watch. He likes sitting in this lamplit cockpit, piloting the children through a safe night’s sleep. Usually, he spends the small hours studying, but tonight the words keep dancing out of his head.
Tomorrow morning, in Castle Square.
Korczak comes in, still wearing his coat and broad-brimmed hat, smelling of cold air and smoke from the train and of his beloved cigarettes.
‘Thought I’d see if they’re all settled.’ The rustle of paper. He’s stopped at the Turkish bakery to buy his favourite raisin cakes. He offers one to Misha. Two of the boys are sitting up, watching through the glass with interest. He waves them in and lets them share the bounty before sending them back to their dormitory, important and blessed with cake.
‘You’ve been giving a talk to one of the youth groups?’ Misha asks.
‘At a Jewish community centre in a little town called Oswiecim. So many young people who want to make the journey to Palestine soon, but it’s a thorny issue.’
He sits down and takes off his wide-brimmed hat, slips off his bow-tie and loosens his collar.
He eyes Misha with a wry scrutiny for a moment. ‘And you, my friend? I take it she’s beautiful.’
‘Someone told you about Sophia?’
Korczak chuckles. ‘Your face, dear Misha, it’s as good as newspaper headlines. “Man falls dangerously in love.”’
‘She’s a great fan of yours in fact, Pan Doctor. She wants to be a teacher.’
‘And very pretty.’
Misha colours.
‘Yes, I see. I diagnose a hopeless case.’
‘Well advanced, I’m afraid. Do you have any advice for me?’
‘From me? An old bachelor? I never give advice. All I can tell you is that a beautiful life is always a difficult life. We must all find our own way. And I wouldn’t advise following mine. That was just for me.’
Korczak rises and pats Misha heavily on the shoulder like a commiseration.
Misha watches the door close. Pan Doctor will go up to his little room in the attic next to the fragrant apple store. A narrow bed with an army blanket, his father’s old desk with Pan Doctor’s notes for his next book. An oriel window overlooking the yard where the sparrows will greet him in the morning as he scatters crumbs for them. Misha has begun to think he will follow Korczak, a life dedicated to children.
Misha watches the dawn grow. Finally, finally, it’s time to turn off the nightlights.
He’s early. Misha sits on the steps beneath King Sigismund’s column and leans back on his elbows. Warsaw has never looked more beautiful, the royal castle with its red bricks and verdigris spire, a pure blue sky, the vast dome of St Anna’s guarding the road to the bridge. He’s sitting facing the broad reach of Krakowskie Avenue. He thinks that’s the way she’ll come. Trams and sleek Austin cars sweep round the square while horses and droshky cabs thread in and out like a parade.
He takes out his pocket watch. She’s a little late, but no matter. His father handed it on to him the day he left Pinsk to travel three hundred miles from Polish Belarus to the excitement of studying in Warsaw. Running the chain through his fingers, Misha can almost smell the water of the Pinsk marshes again. He’ll take Sophia there one day and he’ll row her across the endless lakes that mirror the sky, black-and-white storks taking off from their nests in the reed banks, the church spires of Pinsk rising up like a ship on the sea.
He flips open the cover again. She’s certainly late. She’ll have a good reason, she’ll come running up the steps. You’ll never guess what happened.
Every twenty minutes he checks his watch, trying to spot Sophia among the crowds along the boulevard, mistakes her several times. An hour goes by, then an hour and a half, and still he waits. This is a moment that will change his life, when Sophia walks towards him across the square.
When the bells begin to sound eleven across Warsaw, he rises in a daze, his legs stiff from sitting on the stone steps so long, blinking to adjust to this unexpected reality. She’s not here. She’s really not coming.
There’ll be a message back at the home to say why. He hurries back to Krochmalna Street.
There’s no message.
He almost calls her several times over the next few days, but a gentleman should allow a quiet refusal. He won’t pester her.
All the same, he checks each day at the gatehouse in case there’s a note or message until Zalewski finally says, ‘Listen, Pan Misha, if I hear I’ll let you know. And please, I see all the girls making calves’ eyes at you. Put one of them out of their misery and ask them out.’
But there’s only Sophia. The weeks confirm his diagnosis. It’s Sophia or it’s no one.
One foggy afternoon in early autumn, Misha returns to the home with a group of children he’s taken for a trip to the cinema.
In the orphanage hallway, Pani Stefa leans over the banisters, arms full of clean nightshirts, good-natured, middle-aged face mischievous. ‘Phone for you in the office. A girl. And she sounds cross.’
‘It’s about my book,’ Sophia’s voice says coldly. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d let me have it back.’
He’s so astonished he can’t reply.
‘I have to say,’ she blurts out. ‘I was surprised that we made an arrangement and then you didn’t turn up. I waited there until it was quite dark, and rather cold.’
‘You were waiting in the dark?’
‘What do you think? Half past nine, of course it was dark.’
‘But I was there in the morning. Half past nine. I waited for you for hours.’
‘Oh.’ A silence on her part now. ‘You were waiting for me? But who makes a date at nine-thirty in the morning?’ She’s still cross, but her voice has a note of hope in it now.
‘Sophia, I’m so very sorry. I thought I’d explained. I always work in the evenings. I’m only free in the morning.’
He puts down the phone, his face lit up by a huge smile. It was all a misunderstanding. He’s going to see her again.
They meet by the fountain in Saxon Gardens, at midday. No mistaking midday. The autumn sun is cold but there’s a small rainbow arcing in the mist above the great bowl of the fountain. The palace windows glint yellow and gold through the colonnades of Saxon Square. She’s wearing a coat with a small fur collar, her cheeks pink with cold.
After a moment’s hesitation they carry on almost where they left off the night of Rosa’s party, all those long weeks ago, both talking at once – no, you go first, no, you, please. They walk through the avenue of winter trees, the white statues each side gesturing mysterious messages. Before they realize it they’ve walked across Theatre Square and on into Old Town.
He reaches out and finds her small hand in his, its shape there behind every thought as they wander on down the stone steps of Old Town that lead to the riverbank.
He says her eyes are the same colour as the sky. Poetry, she says. She must think of something poetic to describe his. She stops on the steps down to the river and examines his. They’re piwne, she says, beer-coloured, with tiny flecks of green glass.
The sun is lighting the wide expanse of river with gold and lilac bands. Behind them the medieval outline of old Warsaw, in front of them the chimneystacks of industrial Praga beyond the trees. The wind comes in from the east, undeniably cold, taking the last leaves from the willows on the opposite bank. He puts his arm around her, opening his jacket to shelter her inside as best he can.
In the space of a moment she’s stood on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his cheek, her softness against his rougher skin. A magnet drawn across his body.
He answers with a kiss and then another. Everything that passed before a hint, a shadow. He will always want these kisses.
CHAPTER FIVE
WARSAW, SPRING 1938
The light stings his blue eyes as eight-ye
ar-old Erwin leaves the factory. All night he’s been watching the metal press, the hiss of hot air as the plate came down with a thump, big enough to squash him flat. And each time, it was he who did it, who pushed the black button to set it all in motion.
It was Erwin’s idea to get a job in the factory. Now, he can feel the weight of coins in his pocket as he walks down the cobbled street. Shopkeepers in their long gabardine coats and side locks creak back their wooden shutters to let the light into small caves of cloth, or metal pans, or rye bread. Above them are hand-painted signs for all the things people need – and for all the things people don’t have money to buy these days.
Mother will be awake by now and will realize he’s missing – but when she sees what he’s going to bring her…. He buys a loaf of dark rye bread and a large smoked fish. His stomach begs him to break into the bread now but he wants to give the loaf to her whole and beautiful.
He saunters into the dim coal shed. It’s as dim and dusty as the bottom of a mine. Gritty anthracite particles hang in the cold slices of light coming in between the planks. His sisters, wild-haired and grimy, are still sleeping on sacks by the black stove. His big brother Isaac is sitting and looking about.
A thin sad mother, coal dust in the lines of her face, is feeding small lumps into the red heat of the stove. A couple of feet away from the stove the shed stays as frosty as the street outside.
When Father was alive Mother was pretty and soft. Father made them all laugh with his tales of the people he met as a porter on Nalewki Street, the things he had to carry on his back. They had food every day and they had beds.
Mother doesn’t shout when she sees him come in. She looks at him sadly. He takes out the loaf and the fish and puts them on her lap.
Such a noise from his big brother and sisters. They cook the fish and tear it up with the bread. Such smiles. And he did it. His big brother Isaac wouldn’t know how to find food for them, with his soft brown hair and his love of books. All Isaac wants is to go back to the Yeshiva and study. It’s sturdy little blond Erwin with his ready fists and quick wits who has to take care of everyone. At eight, he’s already a little hustler.
The Good Doctor of Warsaw Page 3