Beyond the Shadow of Night(77)

“I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

“You don’t look fine.” The man glanced around at the scene Asher was scanning. “I guessed from what you said last night that you’ve been here before—in less pleasant times and more dangerous circumstances.”

Asher nodded. “I’m a little frightened, if I’m honest.”

“Listen to me,” the man said. “Walk quickly. Get where you want to go. Don’t dwell, don’t pause for thought, don’t stop to admire. That will only make you think back. You’re still a young man and you need to think of your future. Concentrate on where you’re going, not where you’ve come from.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to do that. It was . . . nice knowing you.”

“Good luck.”

Asher set off, only glancing at the square, which had been the meeting point not too long ago, shaking from his mind the memories of him and Rina chewing on raw potatoes in the rain. He headed for Café Baran—or where it used to be. But forgetting his horrible time in this place was easier said than done. The reminders were all around. Even the wall was mostly still standing, holes smashed in it at intervals to allow the free access that so many had died trying to achieve a few years ago.

As he carried on, he allowed himself to think where he and Izabella might live together. What if she wanted to stay in Warsaw? Could he bear to stay in this place, with so many images haunting him? What if they argued about it?

After twenty minutes, he turned the corner, and felt weak at the sight of it. It was different now, with a new awning, different tables and chairs arranged outside, different menu signs. But it was still called Café Baran.

He slowly wandered up to the door, his head feeling light and dizzy, and stepped inside. His first sight was of the corner where Izabella used to play the music that had enchanted him so much. In her place was just another table and chairs.

He breathed a little more easily and looked around. The interior had hardly changed. Well, of course it had hardly changed; it had been refurbished only six years ago by his own hands, among others.

“Table for one, sir?”

Asher turned around, slightly startled, and cleared his throat. “Is the owner of this café here?”

The young man shrugged as he wiped his hands on his apron. Asher’s lack of reaction must have told him this answer wasn’t enough. “You could ask the manager.” He pointed to another man, slightly older, carrying plates behind the counter.

This was better. The man looked vaguely familiar.

“Hello,” Asher said to him. “I’m looking for Izabella.”

“Izabella who?”

“Izabella Baran. She used to play the violin here.” Asher glanced to the corner. “Just over there.”

The man set down the plates he was carrying and stared into space for a moment. He started nodding very slowly and a sad smile spread across his face. “Ah, yes. Izabella.”

“You remember her?”

“Of course, now you mention it. Very happy days, when I was just fifteen and Mr. and Mrs. Baran owned the place.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

The man shook his head. “New owners. She has nothing to do with the place now.” He turned to the side. “Magda!” he shouted to the other end of the counter. A middle-aged woman looked up. He beckoned her over. “You must remember Izabella, the violinist?”

“Of course I do, so beautiful.”

“Do you know where she lives?” Asher said.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

“But I occasionally see her buying food for her family at the Banacha. Do you know where that is?”

“The market? Yes. I . . . I used to live in Warsaw.”

“Try there. Saturday or Sunday mornings.”



Three hours later, Asher had given up looking, although not for good. He took a break, eating at a café—but not Café Baran because he found the prospect of returning there disturbing, taking him back to the time it was a mere ruin. And he thought. And what he thought was that something was niggling at him, something Magda or the man at the café had said.

No, it didn’t matter. He dismissed the thought.

He returned to mingle with the crowds at the market, searching, but still he found no Izabella. He’d already considered that the council offices might know her address. But they would be unlikely to give any details to a strange man, and besides they were closed until Monday.

He settled into a cheap hostel, slept soundly, and waited for the market to open. But he felt unable—too impatient—to wait in the hostel, so walked halfway toward the apartment he’d moved into in 1936, before deciding against the idea. He bought a pastry from a street seller, sat on a bench to eat, then returned to the market, checking clocks along the way.

He was early, so the market was quiet, half the traders still setting up their stalls, talking with each other, arranging their fruit, vegetables, bread, and meat.

And there she was.

There was no mistaking her beauty. That long coal-black hair contrasted against pure white skin, the warm brown eyes, the petite strawberry lips, the strong nose. Asher wanted to look away and look back, to be sure he wasn’t dreaming, but his eyes were under the control of some other force.