I could hardly believe the picture was mine, taken only a few months ago with my braids still intact. It was the only picture left of me. The rest had been burned during the war, along with my birth certificate. I knew it had been done by my parents for my safety, but I resented it. Couldn’t they have just hidden them? Could all traces of a childhood be so completely destroyed? Well, I thought, not completely. I would never forget Poland and my life there even though my parents wanted us to behave as if we were born the day we got off the boat. New people, new lives.
I went into the alcove, undressed and lay down on the couch-bed. But sleep would not come. Words and events milled inside my head like crowds in a park on a Sunday afternoon. Was I suddenly to become an Elizabeth? What about the Slava of the past fourteen years?
I jumped out of bed and went into the corner where my suitcase stood. It seemed so long ago now that my father had given it to me, but its leathery smell and smoothness of skin remained the same. Despite the scuff marks from so much travel, it was as dear to me now as the day I received it. My fingers pressed its rusty catches and sprung them open. Right on top lay my two blond braids still tied at the bottom with red ribbons. The tops were held together by elastic bands. I laid them aside trying not to think of their history. When the ends were roots, I was only a baby.
Next, I took out pieces of a crumpled dance costume, and smoothed them out on the carpet. First, a hat with its golden petals of organdy and black velvet centre. Then a green satin bodice with more golden petals swelling out at the hips. I added the finishing touches by laying out the green satin leggings and green ballet slippers at the bottom, and placed my two braids on either side of the hat. There it was, my sunflower costume suddenly emerging like a phantom dancer.
I 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 Fleuri has chosen me to dance a solo in the ballet’s annual gala at the Grand Theatre of Warsaw. I will dance the “Oberek,” a Polish national dance. It is very fast and I love it. You have to dance many different steps and pivot and hop from one foot to the other. Madame Fleuri has explained the theme. It will be a garden where butterflies, birds, flowers and other garden things will dance to celebrate life. So I must get a costume made, and it will be in the style of my favourite flower. That doesn’t take any time to decide. I love sunflowers best.
Mother and I take a dorozhka on our way to the dressmaker. It’s a carriage driven by a horse. We can watch the streets and the people, and the clopping of the horse’s hooves along the pavement sounds like a musical instrument. The driver wears a navy-blue dash cap. He has red cheeks and a long whip. I love the dorozhka.
We are bringing packages of materials for my costume. We ride for a long time across the city and finally through a part of Warsaw that is not as pretty as my own Aleje Jerozolimskie. Finally we arrive. Mother gives the driver a few coins and tells him to wait.
We enter a building and go through a corridor into the courtyard, then down the stairs into an apartment. A woman greets us, smiling and bowing to Mother. Her apartment is dark and shabby. Mother hands the woman our parcels and the woman opens them.
Out come clouds of green satin and golden tulle, and suddenly the room is no longer dark or shabby.
“We need a ballet dress with a green bodice, a skirt of gold petals, a gold-petalled hat and green satin leggings,” instructs Mother. The dressmaker makes a sketch. How can she make all that? I wonder excitedly. On the way out, the dressmaker assures us that the dress will be ready within a week. And she keeps her word.
On the day of the dress rehearsal I put on my costume. It’s like a cloud, a burst of golden petals on a green stem. All my classmates clap in praise, and even Madame Fleuri comments, “Très, très jolie, Mademoiselle Lenska.”
On the evening of the performance, I am so excited I cannot think of anything else. Father drops me off backstage and kisses me for good luck.
My classmates are magically transformed. There is Ola the swan, Felix the bird, Joanna the butterfly and many more flowers. There is even a big red strawberry, a blueberry and a
raspberry. The stage is set with green trees and grass. With only half an hour left before the performance, I can feel goose bumps all over.
Madame Fleuri, dressed in black, her grey hair tied up in a knot on top of her head, lines us up. We enter the stage in order of performance, and sit down on the grassy floor, forming a background for the dancers.
The orchestra below the stage is making musical sounds, but the great curtain is still closed. Then all is still. Madame Fleuri reminds me that I go on first.
The orchestra starts playing, and the curtain slowly opens to loud clapping from the darkened theatre. I get up, but my feet feel like stones. The stage lights are blinding. I run up to centre stage and pause. Should I dance in this garden for the other flowers and creatures, or should I dance for the dark mass that I can barely see? My decision is swift. The music of the Oberek begins. I dance, and forget all about the performance, my fear and blinding lights. I fly with the music as it swells the air. I can barely stop with the music, and I make my bow, just as we rehearsed it.
There is a strange hush in the theatre. None of my classmates are clapping. Do they not like my dancing?
Madame Fleuri comes up the stage and asks me to dance again, this time facing the audience. I am embarrassed. What have I done? I turn around and all of a sudden there is thunderous clapping and laughter coming from the dark pit below. I want to run off the stage but my feet won’t move. Yet I must dance again, I must. The Oberek theme begins once more, but this time my dancing feels different. I am more aware of my steps, and of the darkness in front of me. Afterwards, I bow again, this time towards the audience. Everyone stands up and claps.
The rest of the show seems a dream. I watch my classmates perform and wish for the very beginning so that I could undo my mistake.
Backstage, Madame Fleuri says, “Très bien fait, ma petite.” Father and Mother come to take me home. “You were wonderful,” they say. No one mentions my mistake. Other parents come for their children. They look at me and smile. Perhaps my mistake was not so bad after all. Father picks me up and carries me to a waiting taxi.
At home in my room I cannot sleep. My body vibrates with the music of the dance. Through the crack in the door I see light from Father’s study across the hall. I tip-toe to his door and peek in. Father is rehearsing a speech for court. He walks back and forth speaking out loud, his hands behind his back. I turn around to go back to bed and see a square object standing next to the wall. A shiny new suitcase; in the faint light I can see that it is brown. I bend to lift it; I can just handle it, I think. But it falls to the floor with a thump.
The study door opens and Father walks into the hall.
“Aha, you found it, my little snoop,” he laughs. “Why not? It’s yours!” He puts a key into the lock and the suitcase opens. There is an envelope inside.
“Open it, since you can read now,” says Father.
I tear the envelope open, and find two train tickets to Michalin, where Grandfather has his villa. My beloved villa with its garden full of sunflowers and sweet berries.
“Next weekend you and I are going on a trip, my little one,” says Father. “I bought this suitcase so that you can pack your things in it. You’re getting to be a big girl, Slava. Who knows where this suitcase might take you someday. Do you like it?”
Do I like it! I put my arms around my father’s neck. Not at all like a big girl.
CHAPTER 3
The Sirens
(MONTREAL, 1947)
THE NEXT MORNING, Ina avoided talking to me at breakfast. She quickly excused herself saying that she had to run or she would be late for tennis.
“I don’t suppose you play tennis,” she said to me as she rushed out the door. There was no time to reply.
“Slava has had to learn to survive for the past six years,” said Father to Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg. Did I hear a slight bit of annoyance in his voice echoing my own unspoken feeling? Father continued, “She has not even been to school yet, let alone learned how to play tennis.”
The Rosenbergs looked at each other.
“Perhaps she should have an English tutor before school starts?” suggested Mrs. Rosenberg. This time my parents looked at each other, and I knew why. We could not afford it right now. All we had was a monthly check from my uncle in New York. It was just enough to cover our basic needs. Mother thanked Mrs. Rosenberg for her concern about my English, but said that this was not a good time for a tutor, since we might only be in Montreal a few weeks.
“Come on, Slava, let’s get ready for our walk,” called Father. For the moment I could forget learning English.
The quiet street was lined with trees. It was in an area called Westmount, Father explained, where wealthy English people lived. We walked past large brick houses like the Rosenbergs’ that were set into spacious gardens.
It seemed strange to see houses instead of apartment buildings on the city streets. In Warsaw people lived in apartments, and houses were to be found only in the countryside. On Aleje Jerozolimskie, there were many shops and cafes. Warsaw’s streets were always busy with people coming and going. But here in Westmount there were few people walking on the street.
We turned onto a street called Sherbrooke. It looked more like a proper city street with its larger buildings, dress shops and streetcars. There were more people too.
I heard two languages spoken. I guessed that one of them was English. The other sounded similar to the French I had learned in Warsaw but not quite the same. Still, just knowing that there was French spoken here made me feel closer to home.
Soon we came to another busy street called Peel Street. It was fun reading the different street names: some in French, others in English.
The streets were getting busier and Father announced that we were finally “downtown.” We had been walking a long time, and decided to stop for lunch.
“There is a restaurant somewhere on Peel street called Child’s,” said Father consulting his map. “It was highly recommended by the Rosenbergs.”
We found Child’s along Peel street just off St. Catharine. It was a strange looking restaurant, compared to the elegant cafes of Warsaw. The narrow tables had high-backed benches on either side. You had to slide into them, and ended up sitting next to a wall. A waitress came and asked us something in English. Father ordered using a new word taught him by Mr. Rosenberg: “pancakes.”
The waitress brought two plates, each filled with a stack of five flat round cakes. There was melted butter floating on top. Then she put a glass container filled with thick, dark liquid on the table We looked at it not knowing what it was for.
“Maple syrup,” said the waitress, pointing at the dark liquid container. “You put it on top of the pancakes like so,” she said tilting the container and pouring the liquid over my cakes. Father thanked her. She was kind, I thought, and must have understood that we were foreigners.
They were oozingly delicious, these “pancakes,” covered with the sweet, golden “maple syrup.” We also drank a dark sweet fizzy liquid, called Coca-Cola.
After lunch, we continued our walk in downtown Montreal, passing movie theatres, shops, restaurants and churches. Stopping at a street corner, I looked up and saw a mountain in the distance. On top stood an enormous cross, like a beacon in the bright July sun.
It was getting hot and crowded in the streets. Father was wiping his forehead with a hanky, and my clothes were sticking to my body, but we continued our walk. Soon we came to an older part of the city, with cobblestone streets. The buildings looked similar to the ones in Warsaw before the war. They were narrow and very close together, built of grey stone and red brick with slatted wooden windows, high doors with arched entrances and black iron gates.
Further down the street there was a throng of people in front of an old building. As we approached, we could smell smoke. Flames were shooting from the roof of the building and people were standing at the windows, screaming and gesticulating. I grasped Father’s hand and held it as tight as I could.
“Papa, it’s an air raid,” I screamed tugging at his hand. I wanted to drag him away, but we could not move because we were wedged in between masses of fascinated onlookers. A long red truck pulled up across the street, and men in steel helmets began to unravel a long hose. Soon it squirted water at the furious flames, while more sirens sounded.
My head was exploding with visions of burning buildings and thunderous crashes. I caught a glimpse of a man who was laughing. Why was he laughing? I let go of Father’s hand.
“Slava,” he shouted, “this is Canada! There are no bombs here. It is only a fire, the war is over!” But all I could hear were sirens wailing in my ears.
I ran past blurred faces and windows, tripping over the holes in the pavement, seeing only dark cellars and faces of frightened children.
CHAPTER 4
The Soldiers
(WARSAW, 1939)
I AM SIX.
I hear airplanes in the distance, and I am running towards a building for cover. I pass a baby in a carriage under a tree. I stop to look at her. She is wearing a pink bonnet, and her blue eyes look up at the sky. I can’t see Father. Where is he?
An airplane roars above; people are running. The baby starts crying. I don’t know what to do. I try to stop several people to tell them about the baby, but they just rush past me.
Suddenly masses of planes thunder over the city. Father appears out of nowhere, running. He picks me up and carries me into the building and down the stairs to a cellar. Although there is whistling and crashing above us, it feels safer inside this dingy place, even though it smells of dampness and mould. The temporary shelter is crowded with people, some sitting on wooden benches, others on the floor. All look terrified. The men have their arms around the women and children. A woman is weeping; a child wails.
The Old Brown Suitcase Page 2