Vampires Don't Cry: The Collection

by Ian Hall

  “But my brother, my Aunt Sophia?” the tears were already streaming down my face.

  “Close your eyes for a second, and bid them goodbye,” he told me firmly.

  There seemed nothing else to do. Father lay dead, and I cowered in hiding, now a fugitive. I felt sure my complicity would soon be discovered, and frustrated that my destiny lay suddenly tied to this stranger.

  We were out of Kraków by sunset, and spent the night huddled in a barn. Deep snowdrifts covered the windows, and I shivered myself to sleep, tears cold on my cheeks.

  Winter in Poland is a somber, quiet time, and despite our pressing need to reach Warsaw, I could not help taking delight in the snowscape of the countryside around me. At times I trudged through virgin snow, and I raced by coach through murky forests. We spent snowed-in weeks in dark buildings, and hid in cellars as soldiers searched the rooms above. The memory of father’s demise soon dimmed by the excitement of this new adventure, and realizing the alternative, I took to it with enthusiasm.

  Professor Michal Wiszniewski was in his early fifties, with a hint of grey around the temples and his fashionably long sideburns. A gentle man of letters, he spoke softly to me whatever the conditions, never once raising his voice in anger.

  From the first night of flight, he spoke to me in both German and Polish, and soon determined that I had a talent for language. Once we were firmly out of Kraków, he began to teach me English. “It is the language of science,” he would say proudly. “More science books are written in English than any other.”

  On the journey, whenever the circumstances arose, Michal wrote exhaustively, sometimes reading his notes out loud, sometimes deep in silent, brooding concentration. From the satchel I carried, he proudly presented his work in progress; the Historia Literatury Polskiej, a complete history of Polish Literature. It proved an enlightening time for me, and one I did not waste. I listened to every dialogue, and asked pertinent questions when they presented themselves. The latest work he read in English, making me read and repeat some of the easier sections.

  Only two hundred miles lay between the two cities, but due to the heavy snow of a harsh winter and the constant military presence, it took us almost three months to get to Warsaw. Once Michal got amongst his friends, I was soon forgotten, often sitting in a corner, listening in on the conversation. I usually stayed awake enough to take delight in the tales of our evasion of capture.

  Michal tried to find employment in Warsaw, but it seemed evident to me that he proved far too controversial a figure for any of the academic institutions to consider hiring. Associates suggested more than once that he try for passage to the Americas, but he always dismissed it out of hand. “I am destined,” he would say with a grand sweep of his hand, “to bring Poland out of the ashes, and I cannot do that as an exile from another continent.”

  But in my boyish innocence, I took the dream of America and began to have dreams of its vastness, its wealth, and its freedom from all forms of persecution. Immediately I realized the significance of his English lessons, and the need to strive for perfect diction. I determined I would master English, as if my life rested on it.

  In these discussions, I found a new interest: cartography. Maps of Europe and the known world became my new obsession. I began to troll the walls of the dark rooms of conspiracy to find maps of any description. I searched for book titles; anything in English, be it dull manuscript or not. At the outset, I did not know exactly what kind of country America was, but I determined to find out more. A whole ocean separated it from home, and I knew I would have to cross the Atlantic to reach it.

  “What of him?” I heard one night. The voice had been quiet, and I lay almost asleep in a chaise lounge. “Do we have to transport him, too?” I held my breath, eyes closed, awaiting the answer.

  “Henryk’s father was killed in the uprising,” I heard Michal answer. “He goes with me.”

  I took comfort, and my bond to the tall man grew stronger.

  In the height if winter, Warsaw is a cold, windswept city, and as I took letters from Michal to various universities and schools, I grew to despise the wind, constantly tearing at my unkempt hair like a dervish.

  As the days in Warsaw passed, I increasingly heard the word ‘railway’ in the conspirator’s conversations, and it came as little shock when I packed my meager belongings and we took a short coach ride to the station.

  The whole journey began to take on a more magical feel that day.

  As Michal and his friends chattered, I walked the long platform from one end of the train to the other, soaking in details of every nut and bolt, every hammered rivet. The steam engine sat, tethered at the front like a huge, black, snarling beast with the royal crest of the white eagle of Poland on its side. “Sobieski” was under the eagle in bold, white, hammered letters; the old name for the kings of Poland. It seemed as if history itself prepared to drive us westwards.

  As Michal boarded the carriage, I gave a wry grin, almost forgotten in their embraces of farewell; an afterthought, each hug or handshake towards me just a formality, each tousle of my hair an aside to the real parting. These people were friends of Michal’s, not mine.

  Philosophy professor Michal Wiszniewski from the Jagiellonian University of Kraków finally took the biggest step of his exile and left the country; outcast, a fugitive with a price on his head. And I, lowly Henryk Wojciech, son of a dead cabinetmaker, held onto the thick hem of his greatcoat, dragged along with him.

  We got onboard the train and sat together, my trousers sliding on the dark, varnished wooden slats of the seats. I sat next to the window and peered out. The faces on the platform looked past me to Michal, but I tried to ignore their obliviousness. I had two books in my jacket pockets, reluctantly gifted from the waving faces. Unknown to them, I also had a world atlas, taken unobtrusively from the bookshelves. I hadn’t felt good about taking it, but when I saw their disregarding faces at the window, I smiled inwardly.

  Suddenly the train shook, and we began to imperceptibly move along the rails. Michal’s friends advanced a few steps, then just stood and waved. Then there sounded an almighty high-pitched screech as the train announced its departure.

  Once outside the station, we gradually gathered speed, and soon the train seemed to surge through the country at breakneck speed. The nearby scenery became a blur, and I passed my free time waving at spectators of the beast’s frantic progress.

  The black train made great headway as it pulled us along the rails, but it had to halt to be fed many times. We stopped at too many places to remember, but I recall the names Kutno and Konin. The meals there were hot and spicy. Our last stop in Poland was Poznan. Michal met with other friends, and they made me stay in the railroad car while they had dinner. Michal brought me back a bag with sweetmeats and small sandwiches filled with cold ham. I ate in silence while they all argued outside on the platform. Michal shouted at them, but all his friends were shaking their heads. Eventually they forced him back onto the train and left quickly. There were no polite leave takings here.

  Once outside Poland, Michal relaxed visibly, his mannerisms became even more gentle than before, and my English lessons were delivered in a light, carefree mood. We stayed in Berlin for a week, initially to recuperate after our extensive flight from Warsaw, but Michal saw it as an avenue to display his academic qualifications in the hopes of a new position. When he wasn’t drumming up new contacts in the city, he wrote letters; Rome, Strasbourg, Barcelona.

  But whatever he tried, it seemed London would always the best place to find common-minded Polish dissidents in Europe, and America ultimately the best option for a long-term career. The University of Berlin gave Michal papers of introduction to both Cambridge and Oxford in England, and paid his passage in advance. I felt uncertain if they were trying to be helpful, or trying to get rid of him. Either way, we took another train from Berlin through Hanover to the port of Hamburg where, despite his warnings to the contrary, Michal tried again for employment.

  But
it seemed he had fallen out of favor in Germany, and using the tickets from the University of Berlin proved our only option. To my immense pleasure, we immediately gained passage on a ship bound for London. Hamburg was not a city I’d remember well; if I’d thought Warsaw cold, I’d been mistaken, despite the warmer weather, Hamburg felt colder.

  But I do remember the port; huge vessels of all sizes waited both in the water and at the quayside. Tall masts rose into the dull morning sky, and I felt the adventure had taken a new turn. By the afternoon, we had set sail, heading down the wide River Elbe to the North Sea beyond, my stolen atlas illuminating the way.

  I spent little daylight time in our cabin, but stood leaning on the side of the ship, looking towards the shore. From the wild speed of the train, we had slowed to a sedate meander. Evening dinners were spent with the captain and the highest paying passengers, of whom we were two, and the English vocabulary I’d learned on my journey increased considerably. The voyage took only five days, but it seemed to pass in mere minutes. With a pencil, I began to chart my course on the pages of my book, then retraced the steps back to Kraków, and mapped those, too.

  We stayed in a boarding house in London’s Kensington Street for three weeks, until a letter came for Michal from the University of Milan in Italy. So enthused, he paced the floor until I’m sure he wore a groove in the carpet.

  My eleventh birthday was passed without my mentioning it, and I privately celebrated at the table that night. I snuck a glass of red wine from the lady next to me, and drank its acrid contents in one gulp. I looked around the table and basked in the presence of greatness – Michal Wiszniewski.

  I had built a tall tower to sit in. Little did I know how quickly it could topple downwards.

  That night, Michal made me sit opposite him in the dimly-lit bedroom.

  “The position in Milan is a tenuous one.” I knew bad news headed my way, but I had no idea of its impact. “I’m afraid I cannot take you with me, Henryk.” I began to sob. “I’m sorry, but I have to let you continue on your own.”

  “Continue?” I panted between breaths. “Where am I going?”

  It seemed that my fate had already been decided. Michal produced a folded letter. “This is from my cousin in New York. He will give you a position in his household. You have aided me to escape from tyranny; to my cousin, you are a hero.”

  With my face covered in tears, a hero was the last thing I wanted to be. I felt betrayed. Months ago I had been torn from my family, but I had a goal, a mentor, and a father figure. Now I had passage across the ocean to a mystery. Handed on like unwanted baggage to another stranger. I wiped my tears with my sleeve, and sniffed loudly. Holding my emotions tight, I went straight to bed, and silently sobbed myself to sleep.

  The parting proved both brief and sudden.

  The next morning, he left on one coach, I left on another. No tousled hair, no last words of wisdom or regret, and no handkerchief waves. I sat in the coach alone, betrayed by the man I’d thought to be my new father. I had passage to America, and I embraced it with a deep resentment. But in one respect, I felt glad to be travelling again; London had been a dark and smelly place, and I disliked it immensely.

  I was now bound for a place called Liverpool. I had a ticket in my pocket, and some money concealed in the lining of my new leather boots. By the gifts to me, it seems this parting had been planned some time ago. I now had a small wooden chest, given to me by Michal’s friends in London. Inside were various books, a calendar, and a supply of candles. The books were all in English. I recognized none of the authors or titles; Ivanhoe, Rob Roy, Robinson Crusoe, the Three Musketeers, and Colonel Jack meant nothing to me at the time.

  Liverpool proved dirty. It seems that every place in England held a coating of dirt, an ash from the clouds of smoke that emanated from every corner of the country. I felt so depressed, I remember little more. The ship was larger than the one we’d taken from Hamburg to London; The Yellow Tulip. My cabin had room for little more than a bunk and a chair, but at least I didn’t have to share; that would have been deplorable. As we set sail and left Europe, it seemed that the bonds of my very existence were breaking.

  Once land became lost to view, I went below and picked one of the books to read. I didn’t even look through them; I just picked the one on the top.

  As I began each novel, I gained a grudging respect for Michal’s friends; all of the novels were of struggles against great adversity, and some held particular relevance to my current situation. Most had young characters, and I gained resolution from every page, and became determined that this trip would not be the end of me.

  There were no dinners at the captain’s table on this voyage, just grey gruel that tasted of nothing at all. My nights were filled with adventure through the pages of my books, and each morning misery dawned with the rising sun. After six weeks onboard, we sighted land. I felt so depressed that I felt little comfort from it; just a slight relief for a land which did not move constantly under my feet.

  But I’d mastered one thing in my six weeks aboard.

  English.

  I might have only been eleven, but I knew my English was good, my diction excellent, just as Michal taught me, and my vocabulary expanded every day.

  When the ship finally settled at the dock, and the thick ropes at either end were secure, the passengers began to file onto the deck, shuffling slowly down the gangplank at a snail’s pace. It took most of the morning to get ashore, and the sky showed signs of darkening when I eventually faced the large man in the black uniform, behind the big desk.

  “Name?” his tone sounded as bored as the thoughts in my head.

  “Henryk Wiszniewski,” I said clearly. The papers in my pocket announced me as Michal’s nephew, and I had to play my part in their deception.

  “What?” the man looked up. “You on your own, sonny?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Name again?”

  “My name is Henryk Wiszniewski.”

  I have no idea how he got “Howard Weeks” from my clear pronunciation, but that’s what got entered into the ledger, and that’s the name on my immigration papers.

  “Howard Weeks, 11 years, Krakov, Poland.”

  I left the immigrant officials at Castle Garden Immigration Depot as the sun set, the gates closing noisily behind me. Lower Manhattan loomed ahead, another dirty street, and I turned left as my memorized instructions came firmly to mind.

  But my first day in America proved a disaster; Michal’s cousin did not live at the address given me. He had moved out months before when his wife died. The lady told me she had no idea where he had gone.

  So my new adopted homeland left much to be desired. I had lost both my own family name and my new adopted one. I stood destitute and unloved at the door of a woman who showed no delay in closing it in my face.

  As the tears welled up in my eyes, I wondered how Michal had been welcomed in Milan.

  I hoped he’d fallen worse than me.

  Bastard.

  As I huddled into a shop doorway that night, sitting on my small, wooden chest, I gave thanks for the constant rain that kept thieves and footpads from my poor, wet frame. I endeavored to work more diligently the next day to secure my future in this blossoming land.

  In the bright daylight of an autumn morning, I set to finding more Polish immigrants in the town.

  “Polish?” I asked at every street corner, ready to run or fight if anyone tried to wrest my small chest from my hands.

  Soon all the fingers pointed in one direction, and I followed them to the door that read “Polski.”

  With trembling fingers, I slammed the brass knocker hard onto the black door.

  The door opened to a matronly old woman. “Yes?” she asked, looking down at me.

  “I’m Polish, from Kraków,” I said in fine English. “My name is Henryk Wiszniewski.”

  Her brows clouded for a moment, then she looked up and down the street.

  “Kraków?” she asked, her face lo
oked at me sternly.

  I nodded. “Forced out by the coup this year.”

  I felt my collar suddenly grabbed from behind, and driven into the house, past the bemused lady.

  “What do you know of the coup?”

  The man let go my collar and turned me round. He looked young, but had a face full of fear. His thin features emphasized his emotions, and gave him an aura of total panic.

  “I was in it. I passed messages. My father died,” I said, somewhat woodenly.

  In one day I got passed between three houses, finding myself in front of a large gentleman, who puffed on a long-staffed pipe with the regularity of clockwork.

  “Henryk Wiszniewski?” a long cloud followed his words.

  “From Kraków, sir.”

  He held a book in his lap, then opened it to me. Inside the first page lay a printed portrait, an etching of Michal, albeit badly done.

  “Do you know who this is?”

  “Yes, sir.” I held my tongue from further embellishment.

  “So you have met Wilhelm, then?”

  I recognized it as a test, and told him such. “That is not any Wilhelm I know of. That is a badly done picture of my uncle Michal.”

  I stood for a second, then, as he smiled, I relaxed slightly. It seemed that I had passed the test.

  “Welcome to New York, dear Henryk. Or should we be calling you Howard?”

  I sighed with relief. I had landed with Polish people. And I had been neither robbed nor killed. Truly a miracle.

  The principle of schooling in the Polish community proved simple; you turned up, you got taught. I attended every day, rain or shine, and every night, I ran errands for the heads of the families. I had served my apprenticeship back in the old country, but I still learned more. I learned to avoid the Irish sectors, and the Italian ones. I learned which streets to avoid, and which were common thoroughfares.

  By my sixteenth birthday, in July 1852, I’d had enough beatings on the street to learn from them, and given out too many to remember. The town grumbled. The whole province expected war, and we altered our behavior accordingly. One week, we’d be expecting a fleet of English warships, the next, newspapers would tell of unrest in the southern states.