I cut her off. ‘Why did you want to talk with me?’ I asked.
She took a black-and-white photograph from the pages of
A slender girl stood by a fruit tree turned by springtime into a cloud of white blossoms. She wore a pleated skirt – dowdy and old-fashioned – and a dark, high-collared blouse that looked as if it reeked of mothballs. Their antiquity seemed to embarrass Anna, and she’d pulled her long tresses around to her front and was holding on to them for dear life. It was a pose that troubled me; children who cling to themselves generally have no one they can trust.
Putting on my reading glasses, I spotted fierce resentment in Anna’s eyes, and saw, too, that she was leaning towards the right edge of the picture, anxious to flee. But the photographer’s finger had clicked the shutter too quickly, sending her image into the future – and here to me. Beside the girl was a figure that had been cut away except for the small hand that held hers. I guessed that the missing person had been her brother, and that he had been the anchor keeping Anna from dashing away.
‘That was a year ago,’ Dorota told me. ‘My husband took the picture in Bednarski Park – in Kraków. We were visiting my in-laws.’
I’ve learned from my patients to pay close attention to the first offering they give you. Keeping the photograph with her was clearly Dorota’s way of proving to me that she’d never leave home without a reminder of her daughter – and that she was devoted to the girl. Yet why had she chosen such an unflattering shot?
‘Anna didn’t like being photographed,’ I observed.
‘No, she hated it – at least when my husband took the pictures.’
Dorota seemed keen to convince me that mistrust characterized the relationship between Anna and her father. ‘Her clothes were an older sister’s?’ I asked.
‘No, but the blouse had been mine.’
‘Who was with her – holding her hand?’
‘Her brother, Daniel. He was seven then.’
Our coffee had just arrived, and I was eager for the clarity of thought it would give me, but it was as bitter as acorns. Dorota was gazing away from me, and fidgeting with her collar. She seemed a woman who knew she was passing through life largely unseen. Under normal circumstances I’d have said she was leading a smaller life than was necessary, but inside our enclave, being overlooked could prove an advantage.
‘Does Anna get along well with Daniel?’ I asked, catching the waiter’s eye and motioning for him to return.
‘They used to fight like devils when they were little,’ Dorota told me, ‘but they’d become friendlier of late.’ She gazed down, as though she’d already said too much.
Her retreat into silence – and use of
The waiter came to me, and I asked for a shot of schnapps. As he left, a pigeon flew in the door. Landing on an empty table, he began pecking at crumbs.
I faced Dorota again. ‘So your son is a fan of butterflies,’ I told her, testing whether she’d use the present tense when discussing him.
‘Yes, he thinks they’re the most wondrous creatures in the world,’ she replied, beaming as if I’d made her day.
So it was her daughter who resided inside the past. I handed her back the photograph. ‘What’s happened to Anna?’ I asked.
Dorota looked around the café to confirm that no one was eavesdropping, then shifted her chair towards mine. ‘She’s dead,’ she confided. ‘The Nazis murdered her. She was tossed into barbed wire. Just like your nephew.’
Stunned, I raised my hand over my eyes as though to protect myself. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ I told her. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A little over three weeks ago.’
‘And you came to the funeral because you think there’s a connection between Adam and her – from the way they were found.’
‘Not just that. When she was brought to me, her right hand was missing.’
‘How did you find out that Adam had been disfigured?’ I asked Dorota.
She took a quick sip of her coffee. ‘I’ve a cousin in the Jewish police who saw your nephew after what the Nazis did to him.’
‘So your cousin already knew about Anna.’
‘Yes, I’d told him, but he warned me not to discuss her with anyone. A man from the Jewish Council also made it clear that I was not to tell anyone about how Anna died. I almost didn’t come to talk with you.’
‘Was it Benjamin Schrei who spoke to you?’ I asked.
‘Yes, do you know him?’
‘Unfortunately,’ I replied, furious; Schrei had known that Adam’s death had not been an isolated killing and had lied to me. How many more children’s bodies had been defiled? I gulped down the last of my coffee, savouring the burn of the schnapps I’d poured in. While I filled the bowl of my pipe, considering how best to confront Schrei, Dorota gave me a hard look.
‘I’m listening,’ I told her.
