I remember the first Polish word I learned.
Not "Dziękuję." That was the first word I said. The word I learned was different. It was "chleb." Bread. Anna taught me. We were sitting behind her stand. The snow was falling. Small flakes. Light. They landed on her hair and didn't melt.
"Chleb," she said. She pointed to the bread roll in her hand. The one she was going to give me. The one she gave me every morning.
"Chleb," I repeated.
She shook her head. "No. Chleb. The 'ch' is soft. Like in 'loch.' Not hard."
I tried again. "Chleb."
"Better," she said. She smiled. "Now you can say it. You can buy bread in Poland."
I looked at the bread roll. "I don't need to buy it. You give it to me."
She laughed. Her breath was white in the cold air. "Then you can say thank you. You already know that."
"Dziękuję," I said.
"Good," she said. She gave me the bread. "Now you have two words."
I held the bread. It was warm. The sugar on top was melting. I thought about all the words I didn't know. How many would I need? To ask for work. To ask for shelter. To ask why I was here. To ask when I could leave.
"I need more," I said.
"More what?"
"Words."
She looked at me. Her eyes were blue. Light blue. Like the sky when the snow stops.
"Why?" she said.
I didn't know how to answer. Why did I need words? To understand the customers? To understand Lin? To understand the city? To understand the sound of water in the pipes? To understand why Old Li smoked so much? To understand why Xiao Liu left? To understand why I was here?
"To understand," I said.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded.
"I'll teach you," she said. "Every day. One word."
"One word is not enough."
"One word a day. In one year, you will have three hundred and sixty-five words. That's enough to say anything."
I didn't believe her. But I said yes.
I remember the words she taught me.
"Woda." Water. The water in the sink. Cold. Always cold. The water in the pipes. Running. Always running. The water in the river. The Vistula. Gray. Slow. The water in the Jialing. Brown. Fast. The water that carried me here.
"Praca." Work. The dishes in the sink. The stacks of plates. The grease on the pots. The cracks on my hands. The rhythm. Wash. Dry. Stack. The sound of water. The clink of plates. The hours. The days. The weeks. The months.
"Sen." Sleep. The basement. The dim light. The buzzing bulb. Old Li's cigarettes. Xiao Liu's empty bed. The water in the pipes. Running. Always running. The sound that was not sleep.
"Głód." Hunger. The empty stomach. The bread roll in the morning. The spring rolls I made for Anna. The cabbage from the market. The flour from the kitchen. The taste I was trying to make. The taste I never made.
"Ciepło." Warmth. The bread roll in my hands. The soup in the church. The candles. The priest's eyes. The old woman's tomatoes. The jacket she gave me. The night I stopped shivering.
"Samotność." Loneliness. The basement at night. The empty bed. The silent kitchen. The water in the pipes. The sound that was not a voice. The words I didn't know how to say.
I remember the day she taught me "tęsknota."
We were sitting behind her stand. The snow had stopped. The sun was out. Weak. Pale. Her hair was gold in the light.
"Tęsknota," she said.
I tried to say it. The sounds were hard. The 't' was soft. The 'sk' was sharp. The 'nota' was like music. A note. A song.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
She was quiet for a long time. She looked at the street. The old town. The colored houses. Red. Yellow. Blue. The cobblestones. The snow. The people walking. Scarves. Hats. Coats.
"It's when you miss something," she said. "Not like 'I want it back.' More like 'it is gone, and I feel it gone.' Like a hole. But not empty. The hole is filled with something. With remembering."
She turned to me. Her eyes were blue. Light blue.
"You know this word," she said. "In your language. You must have it."
I thought about Chongqing. The fog. The river. The street where my father had his noodle stand. The smell of oil. The sound of his voice. The way he broke the fried dough in half. The bigger piece for me.
"Yes," I said. "We have it."
"What is it?"
I didn't know how to translate it. The word was not just missing. It was the missing that stays. That grows. That becomes part of you. Like a scar. Like the cracks on my hands. Closed. Healed. But still there.
"I don't know the word in English," I said. "But it's the same."
She nodded. She touched my hand. Her fingers were cold. The bread rolls behind her were warm. I could feel the heat on my back.
"Then you understand," she said.
I remember the night I used the word.
I was in the basement. Old Li was asleep. His cigarettes were on the bed next to him. Almost empty. The light was dim. The bulb buzzed. The water in the pipes was running. Low. Far away.
I said the word out loud. "Tęsknota."
The sound was strange in my mouth. Polish sounds. Not Chinese sounds. The 't' was soft. The 'sk' was sharp. The 'nota' was like music. A note. A song. I thought about the word in Chinese. The one Anna asked about. The one I couldn't translate. I said that word too. Out loud. In the empty basement.
The water in the pipes kept running. Old Li kept sleeping. The light kept buzzing. The words hung in the air. Then they faded. Like smoke. Like Old Li's cigarettes.
I closed my eyes. I thought about Chongqing. The fog. The river. The street where my father had his noodle stand. The smell of oil. The sound of his voice. I thought about the woman with the spring roll cart. The brown paper. The oil soaking through. I thought about my mother's hands. The way they were always red. From the cold water in the market. The way she packed the doubanjiang in my bag. The way she didn't cry when I left.
I opened my eyes. The basement was still there. The dim light. The buzzing bulb. Old Li's cigarettes. The water in the pipes.
I had the word. That was something.
I remember the day I taught Anna a Chinese word.
We were sitting behind her stand. The sun was out. The snow was melting. Water dripped from the roofs. The cobblestones were wet. Black. Shining.
"Teach me something," she said. "A Chinese word. One word."
I thought about all the words I knew. The words my father said. The words my mother said. The words my sister said. The words I said before I left. Before I stopped saying them.
"Jia," I said.
She repeated it. "Jia."
"Close," I said. "Your tongue is too flat. Make it higher."
She tried again. "Jia."
"Better."
"What does it mean?"
I looked at the street. The colored houses. Red. Yellow. Blue. The cobblestones. The snow melting. The water dripping. I thought about the basement. The dim light. The buzzing bulb. Old Li's cigarettes. Xiao Liu's empty bed. The water in the pipes. Running. Always running.
"It means home," I said. "But not the house. The place where your people are. The place you want to go back to. Even when you can't."
She was quiet. She looked at her hands. Her fingers were cold. She put them in her pockets.
"Do you have it?" she asked. "Jia?"
I didn't answer. The water dripped from the roofs. The cobblestones were wet. Black. Shining.
"I don't know," I said.
I remember the last word she taught me.
It was spring. The snow was gone. The streets were dry. The light was different. Not gray. Almost yellow. She was behind her stand. The bread rolls were in the basket. She was leaving. Going to China. To Shanghai. To teach.
She gave me a bread roll. The last one.
"One more word," she said. "I promised you one a day. I owe you many."
"You don't owe me anything."
She shook her head. "One more."
She looked at the street. The old town. The colored houses. Red. Yellow. Blue. The cobblestones. The people walking. Scarves off. Coats open. Spring.
"Do widzenia," she said. "It means 'until we see each other again.'"
She said it slowly. The sounds were soft. Not like goodbye. Like a promise.
"Do widzenia," I repeated.
She smiled. Her eyes curved. Like a moon.
"Now you can say it," she said. "You can leave Poland."
I held the bread roll. It was warm. The sugar on top was melting.
"I don't want to leave Poland," I said.
She touched my hand. Her fingers were cold. The bread roll was warm. The sun was out. The light was yellow. Her hair was gold.
"Not forever," she said. "Just until we see each other again."
She let go. She picked up her bag. She walked away. The street was wet. The cobblestones were black. Shining. She walked to the corner. She looked back. She waved.
I stood behind her stand. The bread roll was in my hand. The sugar was melting. The sun was out. The light was yellow. Her hair was gold. She was gone.
I remember the words she taught me.
"Chleb." Bread. The bread she gave me every morning. The bread that was warm. The bread that had sugar on top. The bread that was free. The bread that was not free.
"Woda." Water. The water in the sink. The water in the pipes. The water in the river. The water that carried me here. The water that would carry me away.
"Praca." Work. The dishes. The plates. The pots. The cracks on my hands. The rhythm. The sound of water. The clink of plates. The hours. The days. The weeks. The months.
"Sen." Sleep. The basement. The dim light. The buzzing bulb. The water in the pipes. The sound that was not sleep.
"Głód." Hunger. The empty stomach. The bread roll in the morning. The spring rolls I made for her. The cabbage from the market. The flour from the kitchen. The taste I was trying to make. The taste I never made.
"Ciepło." Warmth. The bread roll in my hands. The soup in the church. The candles. The priest's eyes. The old woman's tomatoes. The jacket she gave me. The night I stopped shivering.
"Samotność." Loneliness. The basement at night. The empty bed. The silent kitchen. The water in the pipes. The sound that was not a voice. The words I didn't know how to say.
"Tęsknota." Missing. The hole that was not empty. Filled with remembering. Filled with the ones who were gone. Filled with the places I could not go back to. Filled with the words I could not say.
"Jia." Home. The place where your people are. The place you want to go back to. Even when you can't.
"Do widzenia." Until we see each other again.