Beyond the Shadow of Night(94)

He took a sip of coffee and wiped away a single tear.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a waitress—who was clearing up a table—stop for a second and glance at him. Then she went blurry. He hurried to pull a Kleenex from his pocket, dabbed his eyes.

“Are you okay?” the waitress said.

He smiled at her. “I’m perfect, thank you.” He took a long breath, then noticed her still looking. “It’s just that I was here a long time ago,” he continued. “I can remember when the place was actually owned by the Barans. Mr. and Mrs. Baran baking the cakes and serving; their daughter playing the violin to give it a special something.”

The waitress frowned and glanced back to the counter, where an older woman was serving.

“What?” Asher said. “What is it?”

“That woman is Katarina Baran. She is the owner.”

Asher felt the flesh on his face tighten. He couldn’t make sense of it, and expressed this with a grunt, causing her to repeat what she’d just said. He looked at both women in turn, narrowing his eyes to slits.

“I have work to do. I will ask her to come over to see you.”

Asher said nothing.

He was still confused when the stream of customers died down to a trickle and the woman at the counter wandered over to Asher and sat down opposite him, smiling warmly.

“Katarina Baran,” she said, shaking Asher’s hand.

“Asher Kogan.”

“I hear you know my mother and father?”

Her face looked familiar; she was about thirty, Asher estimated, with a small but full pair of lips and short-cropped black hair.

“Not exactly,” Asher replied. “I’m not sure. I’m a little confused at the moment. What’s your father’s name?”

“Marek.”

Asher repeated the name. “It doesn’t ring a bell. But I did come here, during the war years. There was a young girl called Izabella who used to play the violin over there.” He nodded to the corner of the room.

She frowned. “Izabella?” Within seconds her frown had faded and her eyes lit up. “Ah, yes. I have a great-aunt called Izabella.”

Asher gasped, and had to fight to catch his breath. “How old would you say she is?”

“I’m not sure. Mmm . . . she must be well into her seventies by now. She has an apartment not too far from here.”

“Dear God,” Asher said. He was unable to say more for a minute or so.

“Are you okay?” she said. “Do you need a drink?”

Asher needed a vodka more than ever—a double at that. But he was still dumbstruck.

“Has she lived in Warsaw all her life?” he eventually said.

“I am twenty-nine. I don’t know.”

Again, Asher didn’t know what to say.

“Are you an old friend of hers?”

“You could say that. Tell me, is she married?”

“She was. Her husband, he died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. And . . . children?”

“No children.”

“None? Really? Are you sure?”

Katarina looked back toward the counter. “I have customers now. Would you like to meet my great-aunt?” She took a step away.

Asher’s throat locked. He wanted to speak, but could only nod.

Katarina nodded too. “Good. I will give her a call when I get time and tell her you are here. Asher Kogan, did you say?”

“No,” Asher said, with more force than he intended, causing a few customers to turn their heads. He lowered his voice. “Please call her, but don’t tell her my name. Just tell her I’m an old friend.”

Katarina gave him a curious look. “You want me to ask her to meet you, but not tell her who you are? That does not seem fair.”

She was right. Asher preferred the “old friend” routine because it wouldn’t give Izabella the chance to turn him down. But it was hardly fair. And if she really didn’t want to see him, he shouldn’t trick her.

“I’m sorry, yes. Please tell her my name. She might not even remember me.”

Katarina quickly called her father to get the number, then called her while Asher stood alongside. She spoke Polish, but Asher got the general idea.

“Aunt Izabella. It’s Katarina. Yes, Katarina . . . I have a friend of yours here in the café . . . yes, name of Asher Kogan . . . that’s right.” There was a long pause. Asher held his breath. “Oh, I see . . . uh . . . all right . . . are you sure? All right . . . have it your way.”

“She doesn’t want to see me?” Asher said when she hung up.

“No. She wants to see you. But she does not believe what I tell her. She is getting the tram right away.” She flapped the napkin in Asher’s direction. “You better be who you say you are, mister.”

Asher sat down.



By the time the slender figure in the long cerise coat appeared in front of the café window and stared through at him, Asher had run through all the possibilities. Would she remember him? Would she believe it was really him? Would there be anger at someone dragging her past up? Or suspicion of his motives for coming back after so long? The paper napkins on the table had come in useful for patting the sweat from his brow.

And by the time she came through the door and approached him, his heart was thumping away at what those Detroit doctors would call “an ill-advised pace.”