The Book Chain
A week later there was a reply. Inside *Bridge Over a Quiet River* — which Mrs Andresen had returned and Marek had taken out — was a small note in slightly shaky handwriting.
*Dear Marek. Yes. Please. The conversation has been my friend. I would be glad of you. — A.*
That was the start.
For the next two years Marek and Mrs Andresen exchanged books. He was not always sure he understood the books she chose; some were grown-up histories that took him three weeks. But the notes were always kind. *Did you understand the bit about the river? Don't worry if you didn't. I had to read it three times the first time.* Sometimes she sent him a children's book she remembered loving when she was his age. Sometimes he sent her a book he loved, with a note saying so.
Mrs Soltan kept their record. She always knew which book was due.
When Marek was eleven, Mrs Andresen invited him for tea. He went on a Sunday afternoon. Mrs Andresen was older than his grandfather had been, and slower, but her eyes were the same alert kind. They sat in her tiny garden with a pot of black tea, and a plate of biscuits, and she told him stories about his grandfather that Marek had never heard. About a man who had once carried a chair across a border, hidden inside a coat. About letters that had crossed a closed country in 1981, written on the inside of jam-jar labels.
Marek listened. He did not interrupt.