Night Train to Kraków – Part 2: The Violin Workshop

The workshop was in a narrow courtyard behind the old market, up three flights of crooked stairs. Leon unlocked the door with a key the size of a spoon, and the smell reached them before the light did: spruce, resin, varnish, old glue.

He turned on the lamp.

Violins hung from the beams in rows, some finished and gleaming, others bare wood, ribs and necks waiting for strings. A workbench ran the length of the room, covered with chisels and clamps and a coffee cup still half full.

"He left it the way he was working," said Leon, very quietly.

Zofia walked slowly down the room, not touching anything. On the last bench lay an unfinished violin, the top plate pale and clean, a fine pencil outline marking where the f-holes would be cut.

"He started this in September," said Leon. "He told me it was for me."

"Can you finish it?"

"I am a terrible carpenter."

"You are a man who can read a violin by smell," said Zofia. "I watched you in the doorway."

He laughed, shakily, and sat down on the bench. She sat beside him, and for a while neither of them spoke. Snow fell outside the tall window, silent and white.

"Can I ask you something?" said Zofia.

"Yes."

"If you could hear him now, what would he say?"

Leon thought for a long time. "He would say," he said slowly, "that I am being very dramatic, and that a violin does not finish itself."

Zofia smiled. "Then let us finish it."

"I do not know how."

"I do," she said. "A little. Restorers know how things are made. I will hold the clamp. You do the cutting."

They worked all afternoon. Leon's hands were clumsy at first, then steadier. Zofia held the wood, handed him the chisel, wiped the dust away with a soft brush. When the light went blue, the first f-hole was cut, small and perfect.

"It is beautiful," said Leon, wonderingly.

"It is yours."

"It is ours," said Leon. "I could not have done it alone."

He turned to look at her, the lamp warm on his face.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Will you stay in Kraków a while? There is a spare room above the shop, and a very bad stove, and a violin that needs a name."

"Yes," said Zofia, and her voice caught. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Can I kiss you? Here, on the bench, with the first f-hole between us?"

"Yes," said Leon. "And if you say stop, you have to name the violin."

"That is a hard punishment," said Zofia, and kissed him.

It was warm and gentle, the taste of brandy and sawdust sweet between them, his hand rising to cradle her cheek. The stove ticked quietly in the corner, and snow whispered against the window.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Zofia. "Very green. I think we should call her Nocturne."

"That is a very good name," said Leon, and took up the chisel again.

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