Half Life by Jillian Cantor (easy to read books for adults list txt) 📕

in with her and her new husband in Paris, but I would need enough money to register for classes and pay my fees, and I had nothing to my name. Penniless.

“You are leaving for Paris soon,” Papa said, brightly. He walked to my window and threw open the curtains. “There is much to be done.”

“Paris?” I sat up in my bed, squinting my eyes to adjust to the sunlight streaming in. “I cannot afford Paris yet. I quit the Zorawskis, remember?”

“I have some money saved that will help cover your first year of tuition at the Sorbonne. You can begin classes in November.”

“But Papa . . . I can’t let you do that. You can’t possibly have enough money for that.”

The Sorbonne. Even the very idea of it felt like a confection for my mind, and my body hummed, alive again, in a way it hadn’t since I’d left Kazimierz in the woods, weeks earlier.

“Helena and I will get by. You need to go and get your university education,” Papa said. “You are brilliant, Marya. And you have worked so hard, for so many years. You deserve this.”

Who was right—Papa or Pani Zorawska? Was I brilliant or worthless? But Papa was going to help me get to Paris. That was enough to get me out of bed.

I stood up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” I said to him.

He embraced me, kissed the top of my head. “You will thank me by earning your degree at the Sorbonne.”

That night I did not dream about Kazimierz or the way his kisses had left the feel of sunshine upon my skin as we’d traversed the woods, hand in hand. Instead I dreamed about the beautiful laboratories that surely awaited me now. The fantasy lingered in my mind in the moments after waking the next morning, leaving a sweetness in my mouth like I’d just eaten a kolachke, the jam still on my tongue. Paris was waiting for me, only two train rides away now: everything I’d ever wanted.

Well, almost everything.

THE MORNING I WAS TO LEAVE, PAPA OFFERED TO WALK WITH me to the train station to help me with my things. Hela hugged me goodbye at our apartment door, saying it would be too hard, too emotional to say goodbye at the train. She was right. I already felt teary-eyed as Papa and I walked the short distance, mostly in silence.

I was not bringing much, and did not truly need Papa’s help, but I was glad for his quiet company all the same. I had only a folding chair to sit on—my fourth-class ticket did not come with a seat—and one suitcase of belongings. My suitcase was heavy, as it contained more books for the long ride than clothing. I only owned a few dresses, and I had sent the rest of my things ahead by freight.

“You take care of yourself,” Papa was saying now. “And remember to eat.” Papa was always saying I was too thin, and truth be told I did have a habit of forgetting food when my mind was otherwise engaged. Whether it was Kazimierz or my studies.

“Don’t worry, Papa. Bronia will keep me fed.” If Hela was my sister-twin, Bronia was my sister-mother. She was the oldest, and most responsible, and when we were younger, after our mother died, she was the one who’d stepped into the mothering role in our household. Even all these years later, even living so far away, her worry for me and Hela came through in her letters.

“And you have all your papers in order?” Papa asked, though he had already asked before we’d left the apartment. He was nervous about the Russian officers examining me too closely on the checkpoints out of Poland, a woman traveling alone and with the Sklodowska last name. Years ago, before I was born, Papa had been involved in the January uprising against the Russian army—it was how we’d lost our family’s money and property and become poor in the first place. But in the years since, the Russians had many others to worry about. The Sklodowskis kept out of their way. And Bronia had traveled this route herself several times with no trouble.

“You know I do, Papa,” I reassured him. “You worry too much.”

“I can’t help it. I worry because I love you, my dear sweet Marya,” he said as we arrived at the station.

We both stopped walking, and I grabbed Papa in a tight embrace. I couldn’t hold back tears any longer, and for just a moment, I buried my wet cheek into the stale wool of his jacket. I’d already been away from him and Hela for years in Szczuki, but this felt different. Paris was so far—forty hours by train. And Papa was placing all his money, all his trust, in me to succeed at the Sorbonne, something we’d long thought out of reach for me, growing up both poor and female in Warsaw.

In the distance, we could hear the whistle of the train approaching. I let go of the embrace, picked up my things, and stepped closer to the tracks. The city of Warsaw, majestic and gray and stifling, would be behind me now. And suddenly, I felt lighter, dizzy with excitement at what lay ahead of me.

AS THE TRAIN PULLED INTO THE STATION, I THOUGHT I HEARD my name in the distance, from somewhere across the street. I ignored it, sure I was imagining it, because it sounded just like Kazimierz’s voice.

But then I heard it again: “Marya, wait!”

I turned around, and there he was, running across the street, waving his arms. Kazimierz was tall and lovely, with a long face and deep-brown brooding eyes. Now he was red-faced, and sweating, out of breath from running. The fall air was crisp, and it suddenly chilled me. All of my skin turned to ice. My own voice froze inside my throat, and I could not respond.

Papa turned toward Kazimierz and frowned. “What is happening?” he asked, turning back to me. He knew about Kazimierz,