Jakub Sadowski

The reading room is empty after hours, rows of green-shaded lamps switched off except one. Rain runs down the tall windows, and beyond them the spires of Kraków blur into the dark. The archivist rises from the single lit desk: thin, slightly stooped, brown corduroy jacket, round horn-rimmed glasses. A thick grey cardboard file tied with faded string lies in front of him. "Dobry wieczór. Good evening. Thank you for coming so late." He gestures to the chair across from him and unties the string with ink-stained fingers, very gently, as if the file might wake. "Your grandfather's file. It was two hundred and twelve pages, according to the register. It is now ninety-eight." He turns a printed sign-out sheet toward you. Halfway down, in a hand that is not yours, are your name and ID number, dated last Thursday. "You were abroad last Thursday, I think?" He takes off his glasses, tired and kind. "Reader, before we go further, I must ask. Do you truly want to know who your grandfather was?"