Beyond the Shadow of Night(93)



“I won’t be on my own, Mykhail. The rest of my family are there, and I feel I should pay my respects to them. Surely you can see that?”

Asher waited for a reply, but all he could hear was heavy breathing. The longer neither of them spoke, the more he started to accept that Mykhail might have a point. “Well . . .” he said slowly. “I guess it might be good to see what they’ve done to my old haunts in Warsaw.”

“And it would be better to see where your family last lived than where they . . .”

“Mmm . . . you could be right. But I’m tired now. I’m still recovering from the journey.”

“Good man, Asher. Listen to me, you go to Warsaw and leave it at that.”

“Oh, all right. And I promise I’ll come see you as soon as I get back, okay?”

“I’ll look forward to that.”

“Me too,” Asher said.





Chapter 30

Warsaw, Poland, July 2001

The next morning, over a breakfast of orange juice, bagels with cream cheese, and a bowl of oatmeal he had to put in a special order for, Asher came around to the idea. Mykhail had a point: visiting the concentration camp museum would only be torturing himself. He’d spent the best years of his life doing that. No, he’d wasted the best years of his life doing that.

Warsaw must have undergone many changes since the war, he figured. Like everywhere else, it was probably so much brighter, happier, and more relaxed—what the marketing people called “vibrant” these days. It would be interesting to find out. And to avoid unnecessary stress, perhaps he should steer clear of where Café Baran used to be. That would be good.

By the time he was washing breakfast down with a cup of coffee, he was positively looking forward to the visit.



He was pleased to find out that the journey was considerably quicker than it had been just after the war. Most people flew that sort of distance these days, but Asher wanted to step off a train and onto the platform again. That might put those demons down. It was still, however, an overnight train, and this time Asher treated his old bones to a sleeper ticket.

When he woke the next morning, he found himself in Warsaw once more, and was pleasantly surprised at the color, the music, the number of shops and the variety of food for sale. This might as well have been a different city, so the memories didn’t exactly come flooding back. But in time he spotted things—an ancient church here, an old council building there, a few statues somewhere else—that gave him a sense of place. It felt good. This was still Warsaw, but it had moved on. It made him think that perhaps he should too, and forget what might have been.

He spent the morning visiting the apartment his family had first lived in when they moved here in 1936. But it wasn’t there; in its place was a hardware store. He moved on to the other place they’d lived in—that single room within the walled Jewish sector. It had been torn down and replaced by a smooth-faced office block. It made him smile. Yes, Warsaw had certainly moved on.

He wandered along to the streets where Izabella used to play the violin and beg for loose change, effectively begging for her life. At least that street was still there, even if the wall behind it had long gone. If he listened hard enough he could even hear her sweet music. And he was still mesmerized by it.

As for visiting the café—or what remained of it after all this time—he was unsure, almost fearful of his reaction. And he was very tired, even though it was early afternoon. He checked into a hotel and took a nap that lasted until it was time to freshen up for an evening meal.



The next morning, over pancakes and coffee, Asher decided it would be madness not to visit the café. He’d come all this way; it wouldn’t do any harm, and might brighten him up. Warsaw had changed so much, and all of it for the better. He got the feeling the more of it he saw, the more good it would do him.

He walked more slowly this time—he’d worn himself out the previous day—but despite his tiredness it didn’t take long to reach the part of town Café Baran used to be in. And the first thing he noticed was that it still displayed the name Café Baran above it—albeit in a modern typeface. They’d kept the old name. How sweet. It brought a proud smile to his face.

Of course, everything else had changed. The street outside was now pedestrianized. There was no awning on the sidewalk sheltering three or four tables, but a huge marquee tent covering about a dozen bistro tables and chairs. Everything was either frosted glass or brushed steel or white plastic covered in advertising slogans.

He tried to rein in his smile and went inside.

He was met with more frosted glass and brushed steel, but also noticed other things: electric coffee machines, a far greater variety of pastries and cakes, strange vegetarian options, and a hundred different types of coffee, all with exotic names.

Actually, no. No, none of this was strange. It was just like any of the coffee shops back in Detroit or Pittsburgh. It just felt strange—strange for Café Baran. His eyes were drawn to the corner, to where Izabella used to play the violin, but saw only another table and chairs. He took a seat, found out that the waitress spoke passable English—much better than Asher’s Polish these days—and ordered a coffee. Then he spent a few minutes trying to imagine what the place had been like the first time he’d set foot in it as a boy. He remembered getting the mortar mix on his hands during the refurbishment, and his papa telling him to rinse it off quickly. He remembered Mr. and Mrs. Baran arguing—they often did. He couldn’t help but smile as he remembered the grand reopening, when he almost made himself sick by eating too much cake. But, above all else, he remembered the first time he heard that enchanting violin music. Yes, Mykhail had been correct—there had been good times here. Before . . .

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