read about: Rome, London, Paris. When she married Marcin, they settled in Kraków, and while he continued to travel and perform, Krysia made their home in the city. Their two-story apartment on Basztowa Street quickly became a hub for the city’s cultural elite, with Krysia throwing lavish parties at which she introduced some of Poland’s most promising artists and musicians to those who would become lifelong sponsors and patrons. Yet despite her prominent social role, Krysia shunned convention: she could just as easily be found in one of Kraków’s many cavernous brick cellar taverns, drinking shots of ice-cold potato vodka and debating politics late into the night, as attending the opera or a charity ball.
Krysia and Marcin remained childless; Jacob once told me that he did not know whether this was by choice or by nature. Marcin had died in 1932 after a two-year struggle with cancer. After his death, Krysia sold their apartment in the city center and retreated permanently to their weekend home at Chelmska. There, Krysia mixed solitude with sociability, enjoying the quiet of her garden during the week while continuing to throw dinner parties for those who came to call on the weekends. It was to this house that the stranger was now taking me.
Soon the forest path began to slope downward and the trees grew thinner. A few minutes later, we emerged from the woods. Below us lay the farmhouses of the Chelmska neighborhood. As we started down the road, a rooster’s crowing, then a dog’s bark cut through the silence, threatening to betray our presence. The stranger placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and we froze behind a large bush until the noises subsided. Looking carefully to make sure the way was clear, the stranger led me across the road and around the back of one of the larger houses. He knocked on the door, almost inaudibly. A second later, the back door opened and there, in the dim light, stood Krysia Smok. Before her larger-than-life presence, I felt shamed by my worn clothes and unkempt hair, but she reached out and drew me through the door and into her arms. Her scent, a mix of cinnamon and apples, reminded me of Jacob. “Kochana,” she said, stroking my hair softly. I stood in her embrace without moving for several moments. Then, remembering the stranger, I turned to thank him, but he was gone.
“Are you tired?” Krysia closed the door and drew me up the stairs into the parlor to a seat beside the fire. I shook my head. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared and I could hear her footsteps as she climbed the stairs to the third floor, followed by the sound of running water overhead. I looked around the room in bewilderment. On the mantel over the fireplace, there were several framed photographs. I stood and walked toward them. Jacob as a child. Jacob and I on our wedding day. Jacob. It was so strange being there without him.
A few minutes later, Krysia reappeared. “You need a warm bath,” she said, placing a large mug of tea on the low table in front of me. “I’m sorry we had to do it this way, there was no choice.”
I buried my head in my hands. “My parents…”
“I know.” She came to stand by my side, and her spicy scent wafted over me once more. “There was no way to get all of you out together. They will be happy to know that you are safe. And we will do what we can to help them from outside.”
I began sobbing, the months of despair catching up with me at last. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, ashamed. Krysia did not reply but simply put her arm around my shoulder and led me upstairs to the bathroom, where fresh nightclothes had been laid out beside the steaming water. When she left, I undressed and stepped into my first real bath in months. I scrubbed from head to toe, washing my hair twice, and lingered until the water had gone cold and brown with dirt.
When I emerged, relaxed and almost too exhausted to stand, Krysia led me to a bedroom. I stared in amazement at the vase of
Krysia and Marcin remained childless; Jacob once told me that he did not know whether this was by choice or by nature. Marcin had died in 1932 after a two-year struggle with cancer. After his death, Krysia sold their apartment in the city center and retreated permanently to their weekend home at Chelmska. There, Krysia mixed solitude with sociability, enjoying the quiet of her garden during the week while continuing to throw dinner parties for those who came to call on the weekends. It was to this house that the stranger was now taking me.
Soon the forest path began to slope downward and the trees grew thinner. A few minutes later, we emerged from the woods. Below us lay the farmhouses of the Chelmska neighborhood. As we started down the road, a rooster’s crowing, then a dog’s bark cut through the silence, threatening to betray our presence. The stranger placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and we froze behind a large bush until the noises subsided. Looking carefully to make sure the way was clear, the stranger led me across the road and around the back of one of the larger houses. He knocked on the door, almost inaudibly. A second later, the back door opened and there, in the dim light, stood Krysia Smok. Before her larger-than-life presence, I felt shamed by my worn clothes and unkempt hair, but she reached out and drew me through the door and into her arms. Her scent, a mix of cinnamon and apples, reminded me of Jacob. “Kochana,” she said, stroking my hair softly. I stood in her embrace without moving for several moments. Then, remembering the stranger, I turned to thank him, but he was gone.
“Are you tired?” Krysia closed the door and drew me up the stairs into the parlor to a seat beside the fire. I shook my head. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared and I could hear her footsteps as she climbed the stairs to the third floor, followed by the sound of running water overhead. I looked around the room in bewilderment. On the mantel over the fireplace, there were several framed photographs. I stood and walked toward them. Jacob as a child. Jacob and I on our wedding day. Jacob. It was so strange being there without him.
A few minutes later, Krysia reappeared. “You need a warm bath,” she said, placing a large mug of tea on the low table in front of me. “I’m sorry we had to do it this way, there was no choice.”
I buried my head in my hands. “My parents…”
“I know.” She came to stand by my side, and her spicy scent wafted over me once more. “There was no way to get all of you out together. They will be happy to know that you are safe. And we will do what we can to help them from outside.”
I began sobbing, the months of despair catching up with me at last. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, ashamed. Krysia did not reply but simply put her arm around my shoulder and led me upstairs to the bathroom, where fresh nightclothes had been laid out beside the steaming water. When she left, I undressed and stepped into my first real bath in months. I scrubbed from head to toe, washing my hair twice, and lingered until the water had gone cold and brown with dirt.
When I emerged, relaxed and almost too exhausted to stand, Krysia led me to a bedroom. I stared in amazement at the vase of
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