Page 24 of The Storyteller of Krakow

‘No point getting up.’ Stanisław nodded at me. ‘What’s the point?’

‘Oh, there are points!’ Grażyna was still grinning. ‘You can go swimming, or go on holiday, or go to a dance with your beau! And then there’s school and sometimes dinners. Sixteen is a wonderful age to be. I can’t wait to get up in the mornings.’

‘You’re ninety-one years old, Grażyna,’ Stanisław said, then shoved a piece of toast in his mouth, spraying crumbs all over the white tablecloth.

She kept grinning for a moment and looked to Agnieszka and me. Then her smile faded. ‘Ninety-one?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Agnieszka said firmly.

I could see that Grażyna was about to cry – she often did.

‘They’re joking,’ I told her. ‘You’re sixteen. Of course you are.’

‘Lena, don’t,’ Agnieszka warned. ‘It’s not right telling her these silly stories. We have to keep her grounded in reality.’

‘Says who?’ I asked. ‘As far as I can tell, reality isn’t that great.’

‘Here, here!’ Stanisław raised his coffee cup in agreement.

‘You’re sixteen,’ I said, stood, and picked up my plate of toast and eggs, and my coffee.

Grażyna smiled. ‘I know that, silly. My parents will be here any minute to pick me up. Did I tell you’ – she leaned forward conspiratorially – ‘we’re going skiing in Switzerland this holiday?’

As I retreated, I could hear Stanisław asking Grażyna about skiing, and I was glad that Grażyna wouldn’t be dragged back to reality by Agnieszka anytime soon.

Making my way back to my room, I thought of how lucky Grażyna was in a way, her mind turning to the happy, younger days. She sat all day smiling, delighting in the small things, the petal of a flower, the touch of a soft wool blanket as it’s wrapped around her shoulders. I understood that she had lost some other good, more recent memories, but at least she seemed to have forgotten the bad ones.

I often wondered if I could do the same. Will myself to lose my mind, then I’d forget all the terrible things, the deaths, the guilt. Then I shook myself out of my maudlin thoughts. Because, at the end of the day, who was I without the good and the bad? And quite frankly, would I have ever felt happy about a scratchy blanket, a wilting petal? I certainly hoped not. I hoped there was enough of me left to say pah! and grimace at such things. Because that was who I was. And who cared about memories anyway? They were not the truth; they were but glimpses of possible scenarios of the past. They were our fictions – the good and the bad – they were what we let torment us or comfort us. It was up to us which one we chose, when and what really happened.

I was quite happy with how I had summed the past up and told myself to write it down as soon as I got back to my room, when I saw Kasia in the hallway, picking up some linen that had fallen from one of the maids’ carts.

‘Kasia,’ I said.

She turned, and for a moment it was as if she did not recognise me. I was about to tell her my name when she suddenly gave a quick nod of recognition.

‘Lena, how are you?’

‘Fine,’ I said, noting that her hair had a greasy sheen to it and black bags sat under her eyes, weighing her skin down. ‘You?’

‘Oh, you know!’ she said, the cheeriness of her voice not quite ringing true.

‘How’s Hana?’ I asked. ‘You know I’ve been meaning to say⁠—’

Kasia cut me off. ‘She’s fine. Not at school today. Not been for a week. But she’ll be okay.’

‘So she’s not fine then,’ I corrected her. ‘What is it? Sick?’

‘No, no.’ Kasia looked up and down the hallway, then took a step closer to me. ‘She’s being bullied,’ she whispered.

I knew it, but I didn’t let on that I did and instead asked her why she was whispering.

‘Because,’ she started, then stopped, and I then saw why.

From a few metres away, where the hallway curved round towards the nurses’ station, and where a pair of armchairs sat that no one sat in, a face appeared – Hana.

‘Mama,’ she said.

‘Ah, sweetheart.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘You just sit back down with your book, and I’ll be done soon.’