Let Me Tell You a Story Read online

  Once the water was boiling she poured it into a tin bath that stood on the floor. The clothes were thrown into the tub followed by the rubbing board. The rubbing board was made of metal, with one side that had ridges, and set into a wooden frame. Jadwiga would pick out one garment at a time from the water where it was soaking; she would soap it with a large cake of horrible-smelling yellow soap and then rub the garment quickly up and down the ridged metal, to remove all the dirt. It was not long before she had me rubbing too. I didn’t mind because it made me feel grown-up, with something important to do, and I liked the feel of wet, slippery clothes between my fingers and enjoyed hiding my hands under the slightly greasy water feeling the warmth travel up my forearms. It reminded me of doing the chores with Marynia, although that seemed like such a long, long time ago now. I was fascinated by the way my hands changed, becoming red and wrinkled after being in the water.

  When all the clothes had been washed, we wrung them out, put them back into the bucket and took them into the garden where we hung them out on a long washing line – a rope that stretched between two trees. I loved watching the drips fall off the clothes making patches of wet grass beneath. When the clothes were dry, I would bury my nose in their sweet-smelling freshness. The washing water was never wasted. When the clothes had been removed and the water was still warm, Jadwiga would strip naked and climb into the tub and bathe right in front of the stove in full view. She didn’t seem to care whether I was present and in turn I was amazed by Jadwiga’s saggy belly and hanging breasts. It was so different from my own skinny body.

  Jadwiga told me that one day my bust would grow big too. So I would carefully examine the two pink nipples on my chest that Jadwiga had said were my ‘bust-to-be’, to see if they had grown. But they remained flat. Sometimes I worried that they would never grow.

  ‘If they don’t grow, will I die?’ I asked her once.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ she had laughed. ‘They’ll grow and with it will come more trouble than you care to know.’

  When Jadwiga had finished her bath she would climb out of the tub and then it was my turn to stretch out, close my eyes and enjoy the comforting warmth as Jadwiga had done. But all too often the water was chilly and unpleasant because Jadwiga had soaked too long. Then I would have to wash as quickly as possible and get out, shivering, and rub myself warm with a towel. I wasn’t very good at that and Jadwiga never offered to help. More often than not I would climb back into my clothes, teeth chattering and half damp. Jadwiga would watch me struggling.

  ‘Anyone would think you’d never had a bath before,’ she said.

  I didn’t bother to tell her that I couldn’t remember the last time I had had a bath as I had had to make do with a strip of cloth and a bowl of cold water.

  Sometimes she hung the floor rugs on the washing line, which would sag with their weight, and it was my job to beat the dust out of them with a carpet beater made of sticks twisted into a pretty pattern at the end of a long handle. As I whacked at the rugs, dust flew in great clouds, making me sneeze over and over again. This task seemed to take for ever; Jadwiga always tested them herself to check that I had done them properly. She was very keen that everything was clean in her cottage but didn’t worry that I was covered in dust after having beaten the rugs as hard as I could.

  ‘You’ll just have to put up with it till the next time you have a bath,’ she told me when I complained. ‘Perhaps that will teach you to be a bit more careful about keeping the house clean.’

  One morning not long after I arrived, I was looking at the rows of books on her bookcases.

  ‘Jadwiga,’ I asked shyly, having spent the best part of the morning plucking up the courage. ‘Could you read me a story from one of your books? This one with the pictures?’

  I held open a book with little black-and-white sketches which broke up the solid wall of words on each page. Jadwiga had read me one or two stories before but nothing from this book. She rarely read to me and only did so when she was in one of her good moods, which only seemed to appear when the postman had called to give her a letter.

  ‘It’s high time you learned to read,’ she said. ‘I have better things to do than spend my time reading to you all day. You can do it for yourself. You’re not stupid.’

  I was pleased to think that Jadwiga didn’t find me stupid. After all, she often called me a dimwit and questioned whether I knew anything at all. Yet at the same time it seemed strange that Jadwiga said she had no time to read to me. As far as I could see, she spent most of the day doing very little and making me fetch and carry, dig and wash. Still, the idea of learning to read pleased me very much. I often picked up books from Jadwiga’s shelves and wished I knew what they were about.

  ‘I’d love to learn!’ I said excitedly.

  ‘Right,’ said Jadwiga. ‘We’ll make a start and you will be reading fluently in two weeks.’ She got up and took a book from one of the bookcases. ‘By the end of today you will know the alphabet by heart. I will test you on it tomorrow, for every mistake you make you will get a smack . . .’ She walked over to the broom cupboard and reached inside. ‘With this,’ she added, laying the carpet beater on the table.

  ‘Now, there are thirty-two letters in the alphabet . . .’

  I worked hard that day, only breaking off to do my chores as quickly as I could and then returning to my place at the table so that by the next day I had memorised every single letter and escaped the beating. I was extremely quick at putting the letters together so that by the end of the third lesson I was able to stammer out a whole page of simple words such as mysz (mouse), ryba (fish), dach (roof). I felt so pleased with myself when Jadwiga praised me.

  ‘Well, who would have thought it,’ she said. ‘For someone who didn’t even know where potatoes came from, you are a quick learner, I have to say.’

  Jadwiga had been right. I was reading within two weeks – not fluently but enough to be able to practise on my own, which I did every spare second I could find when I wasn’t expected to do chores around the house. Jadwiga was a good teacher and, better still, if I had done well the day before, she rewarded me by allowing me to pick out any book from the shelves. Without any guidance I picked out the books with the attractive covers and the ones that had the odd picture inside to help me to work out the meaning of the words.

  I wanted so badly to read and tried hard so that within a very short time I was able to read any, and every, book. It didn’t worry me that a lot of the words made no sense. In the beginning I would ask Jadwiga to explain their meaning but after a while she became impatient.

  ‘I’ve taught you the skills. Stop pestering me and work it out for yourself. I haven’t the time to be answering your questions.’

  Jadwiga had a lot of books by authors from around the world translated into Polish, including the works of Charles Dickens, who seemed to have written hundreds of books. I found a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales; the familiar stories were not the joy I had expected but brought back fresh horrors and made me remember dark, forgotten things that gave me the most awful nightmares. So I looked further until I found Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome. I was hooked at once; it opened up a whole new world, of fun and laughter and excitement. I became the fifth member of the Swallows, living their life and sharing in the adventures of John, Susan, Titty and Roger and their sailing dinghy on holiday beside a big lake in a place called England.

  Then Jadwiga suggested I read David Copperfield. As soon as I began to live through David’s miserable childhood, I forgot my own. I learned from David’s experiences to fear the idea of school. I read about the sea and sand, not knowing what they were or that they even existed until I was transported to Yarmouth. I cried at the brutal treatment of David and his mother by Mr Murdstone and in turn adored Miss Betsey Trotwood. Even when I wasn’t reading I was thinking about the events in the book. Real life seemed less important than the trials faced by David Copperfield.

  As time went by I began to read faster an
d faster. I didn’t stumble over the words as often and I was able to make sense of their meaning. After I finished David Copperfield I turned to another novel about a small boy forced to go through the most terrible unfairness at the hands of his tormentors, the grown-ups. This was Oliver Twist, a story about a boy whose mother dies and he was left an orphan. I had got no further than his life in the workhouse when I had a thought. I looked at Jadwiga sitting at the kitchen table.

  ‘Am I an orphan?’ I asked.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Jadwiga answered.

  She was reading one of the letters she had just received but this time was in a particularly bad mood.

  ‘But an orphan has no mother or father and I do have a father. Does that make me half an orphan?’

  ‘If you do have a father, he isn’t making much effort to find you or support you,’ Jadwiga spat.

  ‘I think you’re very unkind,’ I protested. ‘Marynia told me that my father is a doctor with the Army and that as soon as he can he will be back to look after me.’

  ‘Well, he’d better hurry up,’ Jadwiga replied. ‘I’ve just had this letter from your cousin’s wife.’

  ‘From Frederika? Is she coming to get me? She will be so pleased that I can read!’

  ‘No, she’s not coming to get you. More’s the pity,’ she added. ‘She’s asked me to hang on to you for a few more weeks. And to add insult to injury, she hasn’t sent the money she owes me for this month. I don’t know how I’m expected to feed you.’

  ‘Isn’t she going to send any money at all?’

  ‘She says she is. But I’ll believe it when I see it. That’s the trouble with you Jews. All big-mouth promises. No wonder everyone hates you. Well, I’m writing back to tell her that the money had better turn up in two weeks or that’s it.’

  She picked up her pen.

  ‘What if it doesn’t come in two weeks?’ I was terrified, remembering how Jan had disappeared. I still hadn’t heard whether he had found his mother but knew he must be dead – like Jusiek said he was.

  Jadwiga didn’t answer.

  ‘You won’t leave me in the street alone, like Maciej left Jan, will you, Jadwiga? Please say you won’t. I wouldn’t know what to do. Please say you won’t.’ I went up to Jadwiga and put my arms around her, looking for comfort and reassurance.

  She pushed me away.

  ‘No, I won’t leave you out in the street. I’m not a murderer like my beloved husband. But you won’t be staying here, I can tell you.’

  ‘What will you do with me?’ I spluttered, tears welling up.

  ‘I’m giving your cousin two weeks to do something about you, which is very generous of me – just you remember that. Now leave me alone before I get angry. Go and get some more firewood and then peel those potatoes I’ve put out.’ She turned to the blank sheet of paper on the table in front of her and began to write.

  Chapter Nine

  December 1943

  I was sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in my book, when Jadwiga had a visitor, the first since I’d arrived at the cottage. He was obviously expected, for Jadwiga stood up as soon as the knock sounded, and went quickly to the door, quite unworried.

  ‘Please, come in,’ she said, then turning to me, ‘Go and read in your room, Renata. I will call you when I need you.’

  Obediently and happily I did as I was told, taking my doll and my book with me. Now that I had my new friends Titty, Roger, Susan and John, I wasn’t alone. In Swallowdale, their second adventure, I found Titty in a beautiful hidden valley up on the moors above the lake. Of course, I could only imagine what their boat, or the lake, or the secret valley looked like but at that moment when the visitor arrived I couldn’t wait to find out what the strange pemmican was that Titty was busy cutting into thick slices. It sounded so special and marvellous and it was making my mouth water. Life on the boat in the company of children was far more exciting than any visitor Jadwiga might have so I took little notice of the man in the doorway, blocking out the winter sunlight, looking at me intently.

  It occurred to me that John, Susan, Titty and Roger really had very little to worry about. There were no Nazis in their lives. They didn’t have to hide. They never went hungry and were never punished for no reason. They were happy children and I wanted to be one of them. I longed for someone of my own age to play with and missed Jan dreadfully, and Zazula even more. I knew Zazula was dead. I had asked Marynia to tell me what happened to her, over and over again, until finally she gave in. Her words haunted me still.

  ‘Your aunt didn’t find anywhere to hide,’ Marynia told me. ‘The dog found Zazula hiding in the wardrobe and then the soldiers took your aunt and Zazula down the stairs and out into the street. The officer in charge told Zazula to run on ahead and she did so, of course, she was such a good girl.’ Marynia paused then she looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘I am only going to tell you this because you want to know. I am going to tell you the truth – they are your family after all.’ She paused again and took a deep breath. ‘The soldier shot her, just like that, through the back of the head as she was running down the street. She didn’t see anything, she didn’t know what was going to happen. She felt no pain.’

  I stared back at Marynia, unable to say a word.

  ‘But your aunt . . . your poor, poor aunt saw everything. She tried to reach Zazula but the soldier turned and shot her too, just like that, at point-blank range, without a thought as to what it was that he was doing.’

  ‘And Mrs Posadzka?’ I asked, feeling light-headed and sick. ‘Did she get away?’

  ‘I don’t know what happened to her,’ Marynia replied softly. ‘I only know what the neighbour told me. Her body was found lying at the foot of the stairs. He saw what happened in the street. He was fond of Mrs Posadzka but didn’t know about you all hiding in her back room of course. Renata, I am telling you all this so you can remember, because no one else will tell you. This is your family and one day when the war is over and things are back to normal most people will want to forget but there may be a few who want to know what really happened, and if you remember you can tell them. Not all of us Poles hate the Jews and there are many people, many ordinary everyday people in Poland, helping to save you and the gypsies and other people the Nazis hate. Remember this, Renata, so you can tell your children and your grandchildren what it was really like. If you forget, everyone forgets.’

  I had clung to Marynia, shocked into silence. At the time I couldn’t think of anything to say but now I wanted to see her and ask how she knew about Aunt Adela and Zazula and how she knew to come and find me under the table. I wondered if I would ever know.

  Although there was now no doubt about Zazula, I still held onto the slight hope that both Jusiek and old Piotr were wrong and that Jan would come back, that all the people I loved would come back. Maybe, a miracle would happen and a fairy godmother would appear, wave a magic wand and all would be well. I would be with my Mamusia, my Tatuś, Babcia and Marynia. Things would be as they were long ago. We would be living happily together in our beautiful apartment. Babcia’s room with her secret stash of sweets and chocolates that she always kept there, just for me. Our lovely ceiling-high stove would be glowing with warmth and we would sit on the sofa, Mamusia, Rabbit and I, and whilst Babcia busied herself in the kitchen, Mamusia would reach for her big fairy tale book. But then I would take the book from her and I would read the stories to Mamusia and she would be so happy, so proud of me, and she would hug me and hug me . . .

  Lost in Titty’s adventures, I didn’t hear Jadwiga calling until she appeared in the bedroom doorway.

  ‘How many times do I have to call? Come into the living room at once.’

  ‘Sorry, Jadwiga,’ I said. ‘I didn’t hear you. I was reading.’

  ‘I’m perfectly aware you were reading, but that’s no excuse for not coming when I call you.’

  Jadwiga pushed me into the kitchen ahead of her.

  ‘Now say good afternoon to Mr Policky.’ I looked at th
e man now seated at the table.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I repeated.

  He didn’t smile. He just sat there staring at me hard through a pair of round, wire-framed spectacles.

  ‘A pretty, blonde child,’ he said, looking at Jadwiga. ‘When will you bring her?’

  I felt a cold shiver run up my spine. I was afraid of this man but didn’t know why.

  ‘As soon as it is convenient for you, Mr Policky.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s say a week from today at two o’clock. By then all arrangements can be made.’ He got up and for the first time spoke to me.

  ‘I am sure you will settle quickly with us. You may bring one toy and one book with you, no more. Do you understand?’

  I didn’t understand at all.

  ‘Please, where am I going?’

  ‘You are going to the State Orphanage.’

  ‘An orphanage?’

  Immediately I thought of Oliver Twist. He had been an orphan and he had had a terrible life in the orphanage.

  ‘Yes, an orphanage.’

  ‘But I’m not an orphan, am I, Jadwiga? I have a father who is away with the Army and my cousin Frederika is coming to fetch me to live with her very soon. I would far rather stay here with Jadwiga.’ I turned to her. ‘Jadwiga, please, let me stay. I know my cousin is paying you to have me here.’ I felt my heart beating very fast.

  ‘Your cousin wrote to me last week to say that she can’t pay me at the moment and can’t offer you a home just yet. I am not a charity. I can’t afford to keep you and feed you. Mr Policky is the Warden of the orphanage and has, as a special favour, kindly agreed to take over the burden of keeping you until such time, if it ever comes, that that cousin of yours turns up to shoulder her responsibilities.’

  Jadwiga’s voice was cold and hard. But as she spoke she didn’t look at me but over the top of my head, at something on the far wall.