‘Our time together is nearly up,’ Dorotha said. A chorus of groans rang out. ‘But can I leave you with one of my favourite lines from the book?’
‘“In secret places, we can think and imagine, we can feel angry or sad in peace.” There is something to be said for just being, without worrying about offending anyone.’
She closed the book, and a cacophony of voices started up.
‘One at a time, please,’ said Miss Weiss.
‘Miss, have you been to Misselthwaite Manor?’ asked Benny.
‘No, Benny, but I have been to England and the Yorkshire Moors, and I can tell you it’s every bit as magical as the author describes.’ She remembered her trip up there in the summer of 1936, after she had completed the library summer school course. She and Joyce had hiked for miles through the windswept wilderness, talking about books, of course.
After that, the questions came thick and fast.
Are all houses in England like Misselthwaite Manor? Are robins cleverer than humans? Is there a secret place in Marysin?
Anne looked at the little boy who asked the last question and rolled her eyes. ‘No, Henriek. The secret garden is a metaphor. It is inside you and me.’
Dorotha sat back, floored. ‘Goodness, how clever you all are.’
‘Last question,’ Miss Weiss said, smiling indulgently. ‘Poor Miss Berkowicz must be exhausted.’
Anne’s hand shot up, and Dorotha nodded at her.
‘Why did you become a librarian?’
‘That’s a good question, and one myself and my dear friend Joyce, also a librarian, tried to figure out. Certainly not for the money.’ She laughed. ‘No, it was for two reasons, actually. Reading calms a troubled mind and whiles away the centuries. Why would you not want to be able to grant the gift of peace and time travel?’
Anne looked satisfied with the answer. ‘I’ll be a librarian after the ghetto.’
Dorotha touched the tip of her nose gently with the book. ‘I don’t doubt it.’
She stood reluctantly, promising to return soon to read the next chapter. As the classroom door closed behind her, she knew, more certain than ever before, that books were portals to other worlds, capable of brewing magic in even the darkest realm. And that sharing stories was a fundamental part of who she was. It went to the very core of her existence.
‘Thank you, Miss Berkowicz,’ said Miss Weiss, as she guided her back up the corridor to the front door. ‘That was, well, just wonderful.’
She pressed something into Dorotha’s hand. A small piece of bread wrapped in cloth and a tiny piece of liver sausage.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ she protested.
‘Please, I insist. This is my payment to you.’
“In which case, I insist you take this.” She pressed the radish into Miss Weiss’s hand.
Outside, Dorotha blinked, confused. The vibrant greens of the secret garden in her mind faded, to be replaced with monochrome black and white.
The gusty stench of something deeply rotten washed over her. A team of sinewy young men, strapped to a cart like beasts, pulled a cartload of potatoes from the nearby train station, watched over by Germans with guns. For a brief time, she had managed to convince even herself that she was in Yorkshire, not in this overcrowded, manmade hell.
Quickly, she ate the small portion of bread and sausage and hastened back towards the heart of the ghetto city. Her mother would be worrying about her. She felt pleased, not just with the way story time had gone, but also because that meagre repastmeant that she could give her evening ‘meal’ to her father. He had lost a worrying amount of weight and, like so many in the ghetto, had a bone-rattling cough.
But at the corner of Fire Brigade Square on Lutomierska Street, she found her way blocked by a large crowd.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked a woman next to her.
‘The chairman is about to speak.’
She remembered Mr Weiss’s words of earlier.Something is brewing.The liver sausage twisted queasily in her stomach.
Dorotha knew she ought to make her way home, but she remained rooted to the spot. There was a feverishness to the crowd. There must have been a thousand people gathered in the square, maybe more. Old people leaned on the frail arms of their children. Mothers clutched babies to their breasts. She swore she spotted little Benny Perlman sitting on a wall, his skinny bowlegs dangling down.You fool, Dorotha Berkowicz, you’re seeing things.
