Page 47 of The Storyteller of Krakow

‘Come.’ She hopped up and held out her hand.

I had wanted to talk to her a little more, find out more about this man who had done this to her and to tell her that I knew men, too, who were not so good. I wanted to be able to say it – what I thought Janek was going to do to me that day, and felt this strange woman would understand.

As we reached the bottom of the steps, she re-wound her headscarf and affixed the lace back in place.

‘No,’ I said, raising my hand to the lace. ‘You are beautiful. It is fine.’

‘Kind Lena,’ she said and stroked my face so that if someone walked by, I am sure they would wonder what on earth was happening.

‘Come.’ She took my hand in hers, and we walked back the way we’d come, the night sky going from inky blue to black by the time we reached the blue door.

I knocked three times, then Heba let go of my hand.

‘No. Come with me,’ I said, not wanting us yet to part.

‘I must to go home,’ she replied, then leaned forward and kissed my cheek, the lace tickling my skin. ‘Brave Lena. Kind Lena,’ she whispered, then disappeared into the blackness.

I did not have to wait long for the door to be opened with a creak, finding a young child in front of me holding a kerosene lamp.

‘Noor?’ I asked.

The child nodded and held the door ajar for me, then closed it behind me with a thud and drew over it a bolt.

I waited for the child to walk ahead, the lamplight guiding our way to another doorway, where light shone out, where the scent of spices, of tomatoes, of chicken cooking lingered in the air.

Inside, cushions were scattered on the floor around a low table. Cushions embroidered with elephants, monkeys and peacocks. Not one cushion was the same – purple, blue, emerald; they shone and winked at me as we carried on, through another doorway towards a final door that had a large eye painted on it.

The child knocked on the door, then left me standing there.

This door seemed to open by itself, as there was no one standing waiting for me on the other side. Instead, there was a small round table covered with a white cloth, and a woman of indeterminate age, her smooth skin framed by a cascade of silver hair, sat staring at me.

‘Come,’ she said, her voice rich and chocolatey.

I went to the chair opposite her and sat.

‘Polish,’ she said and nodded at me.

‘Yes. How do you know?’ Then I realised I had my overalls on, the Polish flag quite clear on my right arm.

‘Name?’ she asked, this time in Polish.

‘Lena.’

‘I speak little Polish,’ she said. ‘More English. You not understand me, you say so, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give me hand,’ she said, and without waiting, reached over and grabbed my left hand and began to study it.

As she did, I felt slightly stupid. It was the same thing that happened at the fairs; it was the same thing when the gypsies would travel through town. There was no magic here; it was a con, just like I had thought it would be.

‘You are not like girls. You are different,’ she said, still staring at my palm. ‘You are angry inside.’

‘I’m not angry,’ I said.

‘Yes. You are. You hide the anger. You hide and hide. Because you were very scared for a time. Scared of cold, of hunger. You are left alone, and the wolf came, and you let him take you. You forget you are angry, you are strong, you are not like other girls.’

A chill went over me. Was she talking about Janek?