On top, in weighty handwriting, it said, FOR THE MISTAKE MAKER, WHO PLAYS CHOPIN BEST OF ALL, THEN MOZART, AND BACH.
When she picked up her luggage in the morning, it was immediately, obviously heavier. She’d started to unzip it and check, when he said, “I added a small gift, for the road—and you’re in a rush.” He hurried her out the door. “You can open it on the train.”
And she believed him.
She was in a blue woolen dress with fat, flat buttons.
Her blond hair reached the middle of her back.
Her face was certain and soft.
Lastly, her hands were crisp and cool, and perfectly clean.
She looked nothing like a refugee.
* * *
—
At the station it was odd, for the man who’d never shown a spark of emotion was suddenly shaky and wet in the eyes. His mustache was vulnerable for the first time in its steadfast life.
“Tato?”
“This damn cold air.”
“But it’s not so cold today.”
She was right, it wasn’t, it was mild, and sunny. The light was high, silvering the city in all its glorious grey.
“Are you arguing with me? We should not argue when someone is leaving.”
“Yes, Tato.”
When the train pulled in, her father pulled away. Looking back, it’s so clear he was barely holding himself together, tearing out his pockets from within. He was working away at them to distract himself, to keep the emotion at bay.
“Tato, it’s here.”
“I can see that. I’m old, not blind.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to argue.”
“Now you’re arguing with me again!” Never would he raise his voice like that, not at home, let alone in public, and he wasn’t making sense.
“Sorry, Tato.”
From there, they kissed, both cheeks, a third time on the right.
“Do widzenia.”
“Na razie. See you later.”
No you won’t. “Tak, tak. Na razie.”
For the rest of her life, she was relieved beyond measure that when she boarded the train, she turned and said, “I don’t know how I’ll play without you hitting me with that branch.” She’d said the same thing every time.
The old man nodded, barely allowing her to see his face chop and change, as watery as the Baltic Sea.
The Baltic.