The Girl From the Train by Joubert Irma

Author:Joubert, Irma [Joubert, Irma]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2015-11-02T16:00:00+00:00

The station at Częstochowa was crowded. People pushed and shoved and called out to one another. The streets were a teeming mass of people. In the wide Aleja Najświętszej Maryi Panny that ran through the heart of Częstochowa to the foot of Jasna Góra, not even a horse and buggy could make headway. There were hundreds of thousands of people—the newspaper estimated more than a million—in the streets and buildings, on the green hills, around the tall monastery walls. Everywhere people were pitching tents or erecting homemade shelters. The smoke of numerous fires was rising from the hills.

“This must be what Bethlehem looked like when there was no room at the inn for Joseph and the Holy Virgin,” said the oldest boy. Jakób held his nephew’s hand tightly. If a child got lost here, he’d never be found again. Jakób also carried Mischka’s travel bag, while his own bag was slung over his shoulder. Mischka stayed close behind him. Stan and Haneczka were nowhere to be seen.

“Goodness, what a throng!” Mischka said. “I wonder where Haneczka and Stan are.”

He shrugged. “They’ll find their way home.” Looking into her eyes, he said, “Mischka, my people are plain folk, small farmers. Our home . . .”

She put her finger to his lips. “Jakób, my parents are farmers, too, and I’ve slept in worse places than a stable. During the war I worked in the medical corps.”

He let go of the boy’s hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re amazing,” he said.

From a distance he spotted his father and Turek in the vegetable plots. Monicka came out on the porch to greet them. “Mother is inside,” she said.

Jakób stood back and allowed Mischka to enter first.

Each time he returned, the house seemed smaller, more dilapidated, more cluttered.

“Mother, this is my friend, Mischka Bòdis. This is my mother, Anastarja Kowalski.”

Mischka held out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kowalski.”

His mother turned to him. “She’s not Polish,” she said.

Humiliation flooded him. “She’s Hungarian, Mother. She lives and works in Poland now.”

His mother turned back to Mischka. “What is your faith?”

Jakób felt himself grow cold. “Mother! Please!”

“I’m a Christian, Mrs. Kowalski,” Mischka answered calmly. “A Protestant, but a Christian, just like you.”

Jakób was furious. “Are you planning to make Mischka feel welcome, or should we return to Katowice straightaway?”

Mischka put her hand on his arm. “Don’t, Jakób. Your mother wants what’s best for you.”

His anger abated somewhat. “Mischka is what’s best for me,” he said.

Anastarja didn’t take Mischka’s hand. “There’s coffee on the stove. Help yourselves to bread and ham if you’re hungry. I’m on my way to evening mass. There’ll be soup for supper when I return.”

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