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  ‘Oh Tatuś’ I kissed him on the cheek. ‘It was just an idea.’

  ‘You remember Olgierd.’ He jerked his thumb towards the headstone.

  ‘How could I not?’ Olgierd used to sit on the porch, a bottle of homemade vodka by his side as he yelled at his family: Feed the pigs, weed the garden. His wife went to town with her headscarf pulled over the bruises on her eyes and cheeks. When she mumbled a greeting, people looked anywhere but at the marks on her face. Behind her back, they said, That’s why you don’t marry a drunk. Apparently Olgierd was one of the first men in the village to sign up for the militia force that the Russians set up after the war, helping them secure their power over Poland. He rose quickly through the ranks and his wife always bought the best cuts of meat at the Peweks department store.

  ‘Now that Olgierd is gone, his wife and children are free,’ Father said. ‘I don’t want you to have to wait for your old tatuś to die.’

  A shiver travelled down the back of my skull. ‘Maybe it’s not a good idea.’ Until now, leaving Father had been a fanciful notion, like taking a trip to the moon.

  He gave a hard laugh. ‘Here’s what his wife wants on the headstone.’ He dusted off a paper and read in a mock-serious tone, ‘“We envy the angels, who have the good fortune of living with this man and his heart of gold.”’ He tossed it aside. ‘Some people are easier to love from a distance.’

  I squeezed his arm. ‘It’s time for dinner. I’ll make us bigos and potatoes.’

  I walked towards the door and then glanced back at him working by lamplight. By his side was a row of headstones, their smooth surfaces waiting for names.

  3

  As Father and I edged forwards in the post-office queue, I said, ‘I don’t have to go to university – not yet. I could defer it.’

  He took the envelope from me and muttered, ‘Academy of Arts, Plac Polski, Wrocław.’ He tucked it under his arm. ‘You know, your mother and I wanted to live there.’

  ‘In Wrocław?’

  ‘It’s true,’ he said, catching my expression. ‘That was her dream. To live in the city, where she could go to galleries and Chopin concerts in the park. We always talked about moving there but we didn’t have the money.’

  It never occurred to me that Father would want to live anywhere but here. For perhaps the first time, I looked at him as someone with a past that was independent of my own.

  ‘Who’ll help with the business?’ I asked.

  ‘To be honest, it’s not much of a business,’ Father glanced around the post office and then lowered his voice. ‘People aren’t dying fast enough!’ He gave a snort of laughter. As we neared the front of the line, he composed himself. He prodded the envelope towards the clerk, a pale man with a dark freckle on the tip of his nose.

  The clerk licked a stamp and then said, ‘Pani Ania’s leaving for Wrocław?’

  ‘My daughter’s going to university,’ Father said. ‘She’s going to be an artist. A sculptor, like Michelangelo!’ Behind me, someone clucked. There was a loud whisper as the news passed on to someone else.

  ‘A sculptor,’ the clerk said, as though Father had announced I could fly.

  I wished Father had lied and said I was going to study something normal like bookkeeping. ‘Thank you,’ I said, my voice firm. I dropped some złoty on the counter to pay for the stamps.

  On the way home, we walked past the abattoir. The front of the building was fixed with the sullen face of a cow, two black axes crossed beneath its neck. Just as I thought we had passed by unnoticed, the glass doors opened and Pani Wedel, the manager, advanced towards us. Her apricot lipstick creased under the weight of her smile.

  After exchanging some comments with Father about the weather, she turned her attention to me. ‘You like this place, do you, Pani Skowrońska? Instead of going to Wrocław, you should come work for me.’

  I couldn’t help but shake my head. How was it she knew already? ‘Maybe after university, Pani Wedel,’ I said. All lies – there was no way I was working in the abattoir.

  Pani Wedel had a faint red line across the width of her forehead, probably left behind by one of the plastic caps she wore for work. As though sensing my gaze, she touched it. ‘You’ll miss your daughter very much,’ she said to Father. ‘I’ve been lucky with my boys, both of them staying here in the village. They don’t like to be too far away from their mother.’

  ‘We can’t keep our children forever,’ Father said. ‘We might as well try to hold on to fistfuls of water.’

  ‘True enough,’ Pani Wedel said. ‘Even so …’ She gave us a nod and disappeared inside.

  Father and I parted at the roadside Madonna, a wooden effigy that sat in the hollow trunk of an oak. ‘Come home before dark,’ he said. We kissed goodbye.

  In truth, I felt safe in the forest. It was a second home to me. Each summer Father and I came here to pick wild mushrooms that sprouted from the moss-covered earth. Or raspberries that bled onto the tips of our fingers. But the best days were like today, when I was alone.

  Branches cracked underfoot. I made my way further in, to the place where I liked to sit and make things. Here, pine trees grew dense around a bunker that was set deep in the earth. I sat on its outer edge, the grass tickling my calves. My fingers rested on a flat piece of branch on the forest floor. As I lifted it an ant edged towards my foot and then backed away.

  Now that the letter had been sent I could no longer deny it: I was moving away from home. My chest pulsed with excitement before I let myself feel the undertow of guilt. Father’s life would be easier if I were like Pani Wedel’s sons, content to stay in the village.

  My satchel, a canvas bag with a green and red ribbon stitched across the front, was lying next to the bunker. I retrieved a pocketknife from it and then scraped away the outer layer of bark from a piece of pine. I pushed the knife into the wood, etching the straight lines of a triangle, its three points branching into swirls. Around this, I carved a circle, completing the triskele.

  The triskele was one of the symbols that women in my village inscribed on their front doors with consecrated charcoal or chalk. From a young age, I understood that these drawings had the power to divide the world into good and evil, to designate safety or harm. Father said it was all a load of nonsense of course; he dubbed it one of the silly wives’ tales I inherited from Mother. Even so, I would hide the carving in his work shed, just in case.

  4

  The tram rattled down Nowy Świat, by the River Odra. I pressed my face to the window, taking in the majestic red-brick buildings, their reflections doubled in the water. At home we had a lake and a few half-hearted ponds but nothing like the Odra. Its blue veins looped through the city, creating little islands that could be reached from the mainland by bridge. The presence of all this water gave the city an enchanted feel, as though it were floating.

  The tram took a sharp corner and I lost my grip on the rail, bumping into the girl beside me. She rolled her eyes and shifted away. I had been at university for four months but still felt like a newcomer. Especially now, after a trip to the village to see Father for Christmas. On my return, I was struck once again by the beauty of Wrocław, by a sharp desire to belong here.

  The screech of metal against metal pulled me from my thoughts. The tram stopped outside the university and, with the other students, I got off. They bolted ahead while I paused to look at the enormous pale-yellow building with its elegant turrets and spires. Every time I saw the university, I was taken aback by its grandeur. Baroque, was how I’d heard it described. I would use that word in a letter home to Father.

  The university dormitory, where I now lived, was my first glimpse into the lives of girls. Six of us shared a room, our narrow beds lined on either side of the walls. It was winter and we kept the windows closed. The room marinated in the smell of stockings drying on heaters and bedsheets pressed by female flesh, together with the alpine notes of the deodorants that the richer girls dabbed under their arms. My roommates were always doing thing
s to their bodies: rubbing creams onto their skin, crimping their hair, doing star jumps in the hall to lose weight. I would sneak glances at them as I lay on my bed with an art book, wondering, is this what it takes to be a girl?

  The dormitory was unlocked. My roommate, Basia, was sitting on her bed, filing her nails, an open book before her. She brushed away some nail dust that had sifted onto a page. ‘I’m bored,’ she said. ‘Want to go to the park? We can watch the boys play soccer.’

  Of all the things I wanted to do in Wrocław, watching boys kick a ball wasn’t one of them. ‘I’ve got class,’ I said. ‘Art history.’

  Basia gave an exaggerated yawn and then picked up a small mirror. She primped the ends of her fair hair. ‘Do you think I would look better as a brunette?’

  The entrance to the university was through a set of heavy wooden doors. These opened onto a long hallway that was crowned with a high dome ceiling. The effect would have been monastic if not for the hundreds of pairs of feet beating against the wooden floor. As I made my way towards the coat counter, snippets of conversation whizzed past me. ‘Do you have Kowalski for history? He’s a killer.’ ‘I need another holiday.’ I caught sight of a young man, perhaps a little older than me, sporting a denim jacket and John Lennon glasses. ‘Look at these first-years,’ he said to the guy next to him. ‘So fresh faced. Give them more time …’ He slid his glasses down his nose, looked at me and grinned. My cheeks prickled with heat and I turned away.

  Students waited to deposit their coats. On my tiptoes, I made out the attendants, middle-aged women with faces untouched by smiles. Obviously the term break hadn’t brightened their moods. I slipped off my coat. Father had got it na lewo, from a friend of a friend who imported goods illegally from Berlin. The coat was the colour of moss and just as soft, with dark green buttons down the front. It was the first coat I had owned that was new. When I reached the front of the queue I offered it to an attendant. She yanked it from me and then slapped down a slip of blue paper with a number on it, 999. The symmetry of the digits was appealing. I ran my thumb over the paper before fumbling with my satchel, trying to unzip the inner pocket. The attendant gave me a dark look: I moved away.

  A single lesson in art history could cover everything from the Renaissance to Modernism to the Polish avantgarde. These were movements I knew little about, but the other students approached the topics with a knowing air. I dubbed them city types. Their clothes were far nicer than anything the village seamstress could come up with, and they spoke casually about holidays they’d taken in places like East Germany or Czechoslovakia. I didn’t tell them that I had never left Poland. When the lesson commenced, I said little, sitting at the back of the class and nodding frequently in a bid to disguise my ignorance.

  After class I dashed to the baggage counter to collect my coat before heading over to the Academy. As I neared the front of the line, I unzipped my satchel.

  ‘Yes?’ said the attendant, a different one from this morning.

  ‘Sorry.’ I fumbled inside my bag. ‘I can’t seem to find my number.’

  ‘Unless Pani gives me her ticket, I can’t give her a coat.’ She turned to another student who was waving a ticket in his outreached hand. After taking it, she swung her gaze back to me. ‘Don’t hold up the queue.’

  Fine. I pushed my way out and sat on a nearby bench where I upended my bag, rummaging through the books and pencils and sheets of paper.

  ‘Hey.’ A fair-haired man towered before me, his thumbs wedged in the pockets of his trousers. I struggled to place his familiarity before realising I’d overheard him this morning, making smart remarks about first-years. Perhaps he wanted to taunt one of these fresh-faced kids.

  As though sensing my wariness he removed his sunglasses. Without them he looked younger, more sincere. His cheeks jutted out as he smiled and said, ‘You okay?’

  I brought my palm to my forehead. ‘The number for my coat. I can’t find it.’

  To my surprise, he sat next to me on the bench and helped me sift through the contents of my bag. There was no sight of the ticket. He retrieved a pouch of tobacco from his jacket and commenced rolling a cigarette. His fingernails, roughly cut, were stained with ink. ‘Where did you last see it?’ he asked.

  I thought back to that string of nines, recalling the way I’d held the ticket at the coat counter and then … ‘I can’t remember.’

  If I didn’t leave soon, I was going to be late for my next class. My professor at the Academy was brilliant but strict. On the first day he’d told us, ‘If getting here on time is too much of a challenge for you, I won’t expect you to rise to the occasion of making art.’

  I crammed my belongings back in my bag. ‘I’ll have to worry about the coat later.’

  ‘If it’s a good coat it won’t be there later.’ He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Despite my anxiety, I found myself wondering what it would be like to draw him. How best to capture the decisive slant of his nose and the inviting bow of his lips? He opened his eyes and I snapped my head the other way.

  ‘Can you remember the number?’ he asked.

  Three nines, I told him.

  ‘Easy.’ He got up from the bench and offered his hand. ‘Dominik.’

  Slightly startled, I gave his hand a brief shake and said, ‘Ania.’

  ‘Ania,’ he repeated. He tucked his rollup behind his ear and strode away.

  A headache nagged at my temples. I watched the other students charge in and out of the front doors. The hallway quietened as the last of them disappeared. Was Dominik even coming back? Maybe he’d bumped into someone – a pretty girl perhaps – and forgotten all about me. Or, more likely, he was pretending he was going to help. I slung my satchel on my shoulder.

  Just then he reappeared. Jogging towards me with another guy in tow. ‘Are you going out like that into the cold?’ Dominik asked.

  ‘That woman …’ I gestured to the coat counter. ‘I’ll deal with her later.’

  ‘Not later.’ He slipped me something, his thumb resting warm against my palm. I let my hand linger before pulling away. He’d given me a piece of paper with a number on it, 999. He smiled at my bemused expression and said, ‘It’s amazing what you can do with an old stamp set.’

  We went to the counter and Dominik nodded at the coat woman. She set down her crossword and heaved herself up from her seat with a groan.

  ‘Looking lovely today, Pani Rachocka,’ he said.

  ‘Pan Duwak, are you here for a coat or do you want to talk nonsense?’ To my amazement, she honoured him with a smile.

  ‘No coat for me. But my friend would like to collect hers.’

  I offered her the forged ticket, trying to keep my expression neutral.

  The woman humphed. ‘The young lady found it. Maybe next time she won’t be so careless.’ She unhooked my coat and tossed it to the counter.

  On our way back to the bench, Dominik said, ‘So what are you here for, Ania?’

  ‘You mean what am I studying? Art.’

  ‘I’m in my final year of journalism. I write for the student paper. Other papers too.’ We reached the bench where the other guy was waiting and Dominik clapped him on the back. ‘This is Krzysio. He’s our resident historian. He also knows a bit about art.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Krzysio said. He was a little shorter than Dominik and broader. His mustard jumper had a hole at the shoulder. Krzysio slowly pushed his dark fringe out of his eyes. When it fell back, he left it there. He said, ‘I know someone who’s having an exhibition on Friday night at the Pod Moną Lisą. You should come.’

  The invitation might have come from a sense of pity – they probably guessed I was new to Wrocław. Nonetheless the offer was tantalising; I had never been to an art exhibition before. ‘Maybe,’ I said. I glanced at the clock in the hallway. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Friday night,’ Dominik said. ‘I’ll hold you to it.’

  Our eyes met and I forced myself to look away. The wooden doors folded behind me as I stepp
ed into the crisp air and buttoned my coat. My palm tingled in the place where he had touched it.

  5

  For the rest of the week I tried to forget about Dominik. Yet I couldn’t help but look for him whenever I lined up at the coat counter or wandered the university corridors. He wasn’t like the boys from my village who shot rabbits and held peeing competitions on the bridge. This was a boy who attended art exhibitions.

  I mentioned the Pod Moną Lisą to Basia and Ewa, who studied bookkeeping together. They encouraged me to go and even decided they might join me. ‘I didn’t know you like art,’ I said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Basia said.

  It was Ewa who enlightened me: ‘Exhibitions are a good place to meet men.’

  As the sun set behind the pillars of the gothic town hall, we walked across the city centre. I was still getting to know Wrocław, with its narrow lanes, its bridges and medieval churches. My favourite buildings were the gingerbread houses that stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the old town square. They were tall, narrow structures with a jumble of pointed and flat tiled roofs, attic windows peeking out the tops. I looked at them as I waited for my roommates, whose heels kept getting stuck between the cobblestones. Ewa wrenched her shoe from the ground and gave an exasperated sigh. She slipped it back on, her hand on Basia’s shoulder for support.

  We located the gallery behind an office block and as I opened the door to go in, Basia stopped me. She pulled out a small mirror and touched up her lipstick. ‘Want some?’ she asked. On a whim, I said yes. The corners of her eyes puckered with concentration as she dabbed lipstick on my mouth. The smell was luxurious, like cherries and American soap. ‘There.’ Basia stood back to assess her work. ‘It’s called Red Heaven,’ she said. ‘The colour really stands out with your black hair.’