Free The Warsaw Anagrams by Richard Zimler Page B

hands. ‘I’ll do whatever you want. And I won’t tell anyone. I swear!’
    ‘Oh, God,’ I groaned, and my shuddering made her finally release me.
    ‘Our savings have run out, Dr Cohen,’ Bina told me, tears caught in her lashes.
    I wanted to shake some sense into her, or simply walk away, but what right had I to judge her? ‘Listen closely, Bina,’ I told her. ‘You’re a brave girl. And you should do whatever you need to do to stay alive. But I’m not who I was. I don’t know if I can—’
    ‘All I’m asking is a chance!’ she interrupted desperately.
    ‘Very well, I’ll send for you whenever I need a message delivered or a meal cooked.’
    I thought I was lying, but how could I be sure any more of my own intentions? Or the consequences of even my most seemingly harmless actions?
    We stared at each other for a long time, and because of what I now knew was possible between us, our solidarity terrified me. I don’t know what she saw, but I saw a girl crawling through the trenches of a long slow war, and whom I was powerless to protect – and whom I resented because of that.
    I handed her ten złoty, which made her rise up on her toes and give me a popping kiss on the cheek – transformed into a young girl again.
    ‘Now go,’ I told her. ‘Your mother must be worried.’
     
     
    As soon as Bina left, I headed to the bakery in our courtyard. Coming in from the arctic chill, the heat seemed tropical, and the workers were in their bare feet and shirtsleeves, with paper bags on their heads. Ewa wasn’t there – she was at home with her daughter – so Ziv agreed to look after Stefa.
    In the hour I had before Mikael Tengmann’s arrival, I intended to search for more border crossings, but when I reached the sidewalk I heard my name called from behind me. Turning, I saw the fox-faced woman I’d spotted at the funeral, still carrying her book. Her ears and nose were red.
    ‘Dr Cohen, excuse me for interrupting, but I need to speak with you,’ she said.
    Looking at her closely, I realized I’d seen her prior to the funeral, but I couldn’t remember where. ‘Why didn’t you knock on our door?’ I asked.
    ‘I didn’t want to impinge on your grief.’
    ‘You must be frozen. Let’s go upstairs.’
    ‘No, your niece may react badly to what I have to say. Where else can we talk?’
    ‘The Café Levone. We’ll get you something warm to drink.’
    As we started off, she said, ‘I felt I had to be at the funeral. I’m sorry if I seemed out of place. I didn’t know your grandnephew.’
    ‘There’s no need to apologize,’ I replied.
    She looked at me gratefully. ‘My name is Dorota Levine.’
    When I asked what she was reading, she turned the cover of Stefan Zweig’s Marie Antoinette to face me. ‘I take a book with me whenever I know I’m going to wait.’
    It was then that I recalled that she’d come to the Yiddish Library a few weeks earlier and asked me to help her find books on butterflies for her son.
    ‘I think we met briefly a couple of weeks ago,’ I told her. ‘At the library where I work.’
    She smiled. ‘You were very kind to help me.’
    She grew silent then, and she rubbed her hand over her lips as if to keep from making further revelations. My curiosity about her made me fail to spot a puddle in time and I stepped through its ice sheet into the mud below. Sopping, cursing under my breath, I trudged on. Once seated inside the café, I kicked off my shoes, which were as ugly as two dead bats. My toes had been stained brown by my wet socks and my nails were yellowing daggers. A waiter fetched me a towel and then produced a dry pair of socks, insisting I take them, which was so unexpected that I was struck dumb.
    The café smelled of cheap beer and cigar smoke. While we waited for our coffee, Dorota told me her cousin Ruti was married to the son of a university acquaintance of mine. The young man’s name was Manfred Tuwim, and although he was stuck in Munich, far away from