A Day of Small Beginnings (39 page)

She was surprised by the sweet smile that appeared when he spoke of his grandmother.

“My grandmother’s best friend was a Jewish girl,” he said. “From when I was very young, she told me about this girl and her
family. The stories of the Jews are her best stories, how they played together and how wonderful it was, and the Jewish festivals.
It was my grandmother who sang me their songs. She did not know the words, only the tunes. Maybe there were no words. I don’t
know.”

Ellen was amazed and touched by this. “Do other people like your grandmother’s stories too?”

He nodded. “People don’t know how to say it, but in a way, I think they miss the Jews. Our generation does not have these
Jewish friends like my grandmother had.”

Ellen heard the contradiction between this sentiment and the anger he had expressed toward Jews like his schoolmate Kopelman,
and toward others whom he somehow held responsible for depriving the Poles of their full measure of martyrdom during the war,
and for being able to escape to Israel. She wasn’t sure he realized this. “What do people miss about the Jews?” she asked
him.

“I don’t know. For some people, it is nostalgia for another time. For me, it is something I hear in their music. It is very
powerful, this emotion they had. I hear prayers in the notes. And these prayers are hidden everywhere, like the covered-over
Jewish words, Hebrew street signs, and store names on the doors in Kazimierz. You have seen this?”

“Sort of,” she admitted. But what he was saying made her uncomfortable. It was as if the Poles, now free of the constraints
of real relationships with Jews, were enjoying a romantic, unthreatening
Fiddler on the Roof
fantasy of who they wanted them to be. It was creepy, a form of necrophilia.

A round woman, her hands and apron covered with flour, poked her head out of the kitchen and wiped her wide brow with her
wrist. Her eyes were short slits in the heavy mass of her face. She said something to Marek in Polish.

“I have to eat my dinner now, before people start to come,” he told Ellen. “Would you like to join me? The cook says she will
make you a plate too. We can sit over there.” He pointed to a small table next to the kitchen door.

“I’d like that very much,” Ellen said, relieved that they had made peace, however unsettling.

While Marek went to get their food, Ellen sat down at the table and inhaled the smells of Grandma Sadie’s kitchen, the chicken
and onions, the chopped liver, and the fried chicken skin her grandparents called
griebenes.
How she missed them.

Marek returned bearing two heaping plates of roasted chicken and cooked vegetables. Ellen liked the way he enjoyed what she
used to call “Grandma food.”

“Smacznego,”
Marek said as they began. “That is Polish for
bon appétit.
”

“Smacznego,”
Ellen repeated.

“Not so bad, for an American.” He smiled.

“The chicken’s very good,” she said. “But speaking of very good, how do you know English so well?”

He smiled slightly. “My mother teaches English. Also, when I was nineteen, I was sent on a special program to a music conservatory
in London. I learned more English there, and I made friends. We are still, as you say, in touch.” He smiled.

She wondered if the
friends
included a girlfriend and felt a jab of jealousy. “Have you traveled much?”

“Not so much as I would like. Not enough money. Too much politics. It is not easy, being from Poland.” His smile seemed less
certain.

“I understand,” she said. “Being American has a way of making traveling easier. Of course, there was the time I was the one
American around for an anti-American demonstration in Lima. That was a treat.” She rolled her eyes, enjoying the admiring
way he now looked at her. It seemed the right time to ask him on an adventure. “Marek, have you ever heard of a town called
Zokof?”

He seemed surprised but not displeased with the question. “No, I do not know it. What province is it in?”

She pulled her map of Poland from her purse and pointed to the town.

“Oh, yes,” he said brightly. “It is near Radom.” He leaned over her and the map with a gentle familiarity. “It is very possible
that your song was from there. They were famous for their music in that area.”

“My song?” She laughed, feeling the warmth of his skin. “It sounds a lot better as your song, believe me. My grandfather used
to murder the tune.”

Marek laughed for the first time since she’d arrived. She liked the sure, masculine sound of it.

“Your family is from Zokof?”

“My grandfather was born there. When my father was in Warsaw about a year and a half ago, he visited, just to see it.” She
was careful to add, “It was sort of a last minute thing,” because she didn’t want Marek to think of her father as one of those
mourning Jews. “He met an old man who lives there.”

“A Jew?”

“Yes, why?” Ellen’s nervous defenses rose again.

“Because I have never met a Jew from that region. I think they are almost all gone.”

Ellen was relieved he didn’t say they’d
left.

“He might be able to tell us something about your grandfather’s song. Did you tell your father that you heard it here in Kraków?”

“My father died last December.” It was still hard for her to say this, and she was grateful when he put his hand on hers in
a consoling way.

“I am very sorry,” he said.

“Thanks,” she responded quickly, having become unhappily used to the etiquette of condolence.

“Maybe this Jew in Zokof remembers some music from the old days. That would be very interesting,” Marek said hopefully, as
if trying to cheer her.

“Maybe,” she said halfheartedly.

“The only way to learn about these songs in the small towns is to talkto people who remember them,” he pressed on gamely.
“In the cities it is easier. For example, I can find a lot of information about the music of Mordechaj Gebirtig because he
was from Kazimierz. You know Gebirtig?”

Ellen looked at him blankly.

“The man who wrote the song about the town on fire, ‘Undzer Shtetl Brent.’ It is very famous. I am certain your grandfather
sang that to you too.”

She felt foolish. “No, he only sang the ‘For-a-GirlTune.’ That’s what I called it. I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of Mordechaj
Gebirtig.”

Marek shook his head. “You should know about this history as much as you know about Auschwitz. It would give you something
to be proud about.”

Ellen made a face. “It’s not like I know so much about Auschwitz either.”

“Well, you are not going to learn that from me. But I could teach you something about Jewish music.” His smile teased her.

“I bet you could.”

“We could go together to Zokof. I could take you in my car,” he said. “A week from Tuesday maybe?”

Ellen nodded yes, her insides fluttering.

29

D
URING MONDAY’S CLASS,
E
LLEN LEANED AGAINST THE STUDIO
wall, thinking of Marek. Thinking of Marek had by then become something of a pastime, and a tension-easer. She replayed and
reexamined their conversations, minus the moments of disagreement. She thought about the tab of beard he wore under his lower
lip, the warm look of his eyes, his lovely accent, the smooth, inviting feel of his skin. This is the stuff of high school.
Too much distraction, she told herself. To no avail.

Pronaszko rose from his chair. “Ellen,” he said, with a suggestion of a bow, “the class is yours to finish.” He smiled, gracious
as a prince.

She hopped to her feet, having almost forgotten that she had asked for a half hour to work with the company that day. “Sure!”
she said, annoyed at herself for sounding like an eager kid.

The company stirred warily.

“Let’s start one at a time across the floor.” She pointed to the far corner. “Work with the idea of weight, how it pulls your
body forward, backward, or sideways.” She waited out Andrzej’s translation, making circles on the floor with her pointed toe,
purposely not demonstrating. She wanted to see how inventive they were, what ideas they had about movement. The only instruction
she added was, “As you cross the floor, increase your weightedness.”

The dancers slowly began to move, en masse, toward the designated corner, where they wadded themselves together like prisoners
trying to avoid notice. Ellen saw in their improvisations a resistance to venturing past the boundaries of their classical
training. They approached the task given them without joy or curiosity. It was evident to her that their cooperation rested
entirely on Pronaszko’s heavy presence in the room. When he finally stood and called class to an end, both he and the dancers
quickly gathered their belongings and left the studio.

Andrzej the translator stayed where he was, posed in what he must have imagined was the perfect Bob Fosse jazz stance. Ellen
found this disconcerting, especially since nothing in the flat, pale blueness of his eyes gave her any indication of why he
was lingering. She needed the time to work alone, and rifled through her bag for another pair of leg warmers, hoping he’d
get the message. Finding them, she sat down.

Andrzej stared at her. “How do you choreograph from that chaos you made with us?” he half whispered, clearly not wanting the
few stragglers near the door to see him questioning her.

Ellen, appreciating the delicacy of the moment, bunched her striped blue leg warmers around her ankles and slowly pulled them
up. She waited for the other dancers to leave. “I let things get wild so I can get to the outer edge of what I’m going for,”
she told him. “Then I shape the movements and layer them with music and words and the set. You know what I mean?”

Eyes on the door, he nodded, but Ellen thought he looked unsure. “This is interesting,” he said, not unkindly. He stole a
glance at her in the mirror. “I thought perhaps we could go for a coffee after class tomorrow.”

The invitation was so tentative it was almost endearing. Still, there was a calculated guardedness about him that Ellen did
not like or trust.

“Thanks, I’d really like that, but I have plans.” She smiled, anticipating her day in Zokof with Marek. “Actually, I won’t
be here tomorrow.”

His eyes widened at the rebuff, then narrowed as he seemed to consider whether to believe her. “Some other time,” he said,
his lips flattening into a smile without mirth.

“Definitely.”

He stretched into second position on the floor. “I am curious about the dance you are making for us.”

Ellen closed her dance bag and crossed the floor, hoping he would leave so she could get started. “I’m still working on it.”

He didn’t seem interested in leaving. “Do you choose your principal dancers from the improvisation technique?”

“No, I choose them by the type of movements they do best. When I need those kinds of movements, I put those dancers in.” She
knew he was lobbying for a lead part, and she hoped he had the political sense not to ask her.

He shook his head suggestively, letting the angle cut of his hair fly. “You have ideas about how I move best?”

“Not yet,” she said curtly. “Actually, I was planning to work on the piece now.”

It was clear from the momentary tightness in his face that he understood he was being dismissed, but he tried once more. “Maybe
I could show you how the movements look on a man.”

She smiled at recognizing this old dancer ploy, that once she saw his interpretation of a movement she would be more inclined
to give it to him. She couldn’t resist teasing him. “I always like seeing how a movement looks on a man.”

“So do I,” he said slowly.

She realized this was a confession when he jumped nervously to his feet and muttered a quick good bye.

After the door had closed behind him, Ellen faced the mirror and led herself around with an outstretched arm, like Marek in
her dream, holding the rod above his head, beckoning. She began to hum the “For a Girl Tune.”

30