One day before Christmas, I was walking past an Asian restaurant in Warsaw. I was so hungry that I dashed inside for a bowl of chicken soup.
Two big Asian men were in the tiny kitchen, preparing everything in a few battered woks and pots, and a woman at the counter was serving the customers and taking the money. Each time a dish landed on her counter from the kitchen, she would shout its name and one of the waiting customers would come to collect.
Each time a new customer ordered something, she would complete the transaction and put the receipt on the kitchen counter for the cooks.
Some of the customers stood around waiting for takeaway and some sat on small, green plastic chairs in the dining area.
When my bowl was ready, I collected it and sat at the window. When I was finished the woman asked me where I was from.
“Ireland,” I said.
Her face lit up with joy.
“Oh, Westlife is my favourite band.”
I went off down the street thinking of her joyful face, because sometimes she looked very tired. Which is no surprise because she stands at her counter from 9am until 9pm every day. I know because I was staying in the apartment just above the restaurant.
A few times I even saw her eating her dinner standing up at the counter. The restaurant wasn’t far from the Umschlagplatz, where Jews used to be gathered for deportation from the Warsaw ghetto to Treblinka extermination camp.
Clues in the ghetto
After the soup I headed to the Museum of Jewish History, which sits in the middle of what used to be the ghetto. I was looking for my father’s grandmother, and I thought that the museum archives might offer clues or suggestions about where I should search.
While I was sitting in the museum restaurant, a woman from the US approached me and asked if I had the password for the internet. She was frail but ferocious as she glared out through enormous spectacles. I said I didn’t have the password because I was using my own internet connection.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” she said, as if my internet capability might imply a suicide bomb in my vest.
But she had already sat down beside me, with her Macbook nestled in a big, goofy leather handbag.
“Where the hell is my coffee?” she wondered. She was holding a little plastic marker with the number five on it.
“I’m waiting 10 minutes for my coffee and they still haven’t brought it.”
Fiddling with five
She fiddled with the number five in her hand. “I think I’ll just go up and ask that guy,” she said, focusing on a waiter in a white shirt who was passing by with a tray of cakes.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I ordered a coffee, and it hasn’t come.”
“It’s okay,” he said, smiling. “We know about you. And your coffee is coming soon.”
Then he walked away.
“He knows about me?” she said. “You hear that? What does that mean?”
“This is a beautiful museum,” I said. “But working in a restaurant is not easy. In fact, I know a woman here in Warsaw who works in an Asian restaurant 12 hours a day and never gets to sit down.”
“That’s terrible,” the American said. “Is she Chinese?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, knowing that there are more nationalities in Asia than just Chinese.
“Chinese people can stand longer. They weigh less. Is she a friend of yours?”
“No,” I said. “I just happen to go there for the food.”
“Oh. I thought you knew her.”
Her coffee arrived.
“So what are you doing here?” she asked. “Are you a tourist?”
I was getting alarmed at the directness of her questions.
I said, “ Actually I’m looking for my great-grandmother.”
“Your great-grandmother,” she repeated incredulously. “Is she in a wheelchair?”
“No. She died 100 years ago. I’m just doing some research on the family tree. And you?” I added, presuming she was at the same game.
“I just saw the building and came in to use the bathroom. And have a coffee. Warsaw is damned cold.”
“But at least there is no snow yet.”
“No,” she agreed, “but don’t give me that garbage about climate change. I don’t believe it.”
So I didn’t.
I said, “Please excuse me, I need to find the archives.” And I walked away thinking maybe I’d drop in for Saigon noodles at the Asian restaurant on my way home.