Night Train to Kraków – Part 1: Compartment Six

The night train to Kraków left Berlin at ten minutes past nine, with a hiss of steam and a long, mournful whistle. Zofia found compartment six at the end of the corridor, pushed open the door and discovered that the lower bunk was already occupied.

A man was sitting on it with a paper cup of coffee and a very large beard. He was reading a paperback with the cover torn off, and he looked up with the mild alarm of someone who had hoped for a quiet journey.

"Hello," said Zofia. "I think I have the other bunk."

"You think correctly," said the man. "I am Leon. I snore, but I apologise in advance."

"Zofia. I talk in my sleep, but I do not apologise."

He laughed, and the alarm vanished. "Then we are even."

The train rattled east through the dark. Outside the window, the lights of small towns slid by, and snow began to fall in thick, soft flakes. Zofia climbed onto her bunk with her book and found she could not read a line. Leon was humming under his breath, a tune she half knew.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, leaning over the edge.

"Yes."

"Why are you going to Kraków?"

"My grandfather's workshop," said Leon. "He made violins. He died in October, and I am the only one who can decide what to do with it."

"What will you do?"

"I do not know. I am a bad violinist and a worse carpenter. But I have a very good bottle of plum brandy for deciding."

He held it up. The label was handwritten, the liquid inside the colour of amber.

"Is that an invitation?"

"It is a bribe," said Leon. "For company."

Zofia climbed down, and he poured two small measures into the paper cups. The brandy was strong and sweet, with a smoky edge. She coughed, and he laughed, and the train swayed gently round a long curve.

"To grandfathers," said Leon.

"To what they leave us," said Zofia.

They talked until the snow was thick on the window ledge. She told him she was a restorer of old paintings, on her way to a job in the cathedral. He told her about the smell of spruce and varnish in his grandfather's shop, the shelves of half-finished instruments hanging like ghosts.

"I think," she said at last, "that you do not want to sell it."

"I think," said Leon, quietly, "that I am afraid to keep it."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me see it? When we arrive. I know a little about wood and old things."

Leon's smile was slow and warm. "Yes," he said. "But only if you will come to breakfast first."

"Green?" she asked.

"Green," said Leon. "Very green. Pour the brandy, Zofia. We have six hours of snow."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Violin Workshop.