I remember the shoemaker's shop.
It was on the street behind the market. A narrow shop, squeezed between a bakery and a shop that sold buttons. The window was low. You had to bend down to see inside.
The glass was old, thick, warped. Through it, you could see shoes. Rows of shoes. Men's shoes, women's shoes, children's shoes. Brown, black, a few red ones. They stood on wooden racks, heels down, toes up, waiting. Some were new.
Most were old, brought in to be fixed. Heels worn down, soles cracked, leather scuffed. The shoemaker sat at his bench, under a yellow light. He wore an apron, leather, stained black.
His glasses were thick. His hands were small, fast, sure. He did not look up. He never looked up.
I remember the first time I stopped.
It was winter. The snow was falling. I was walking back from the market. The old woman had given me tomatoes. Three. Red. Round. Firm. They were in my pocket. My hands were cold.
I stopped at the shoemaker's window. I bent down to look inside. The yellow light. The rows of shoes.
The man at the bench. His hands moving. Needle. Thread. Leather. He was working on a woman's shoe. Red. The heel was loose. He was stitching it back. Fast. Even. His fingers were dark with polish. His nails were clean. I stood there, watching. The snow fell on my shoulders.
On my hands. On the window. He did not look up. I watched for a long time. Then I walked back to the restaurant. The tomatoes were still in my pocket. Warm against my leg.
I remember the day he spoke to me.
I was at the window again. It was late. The market was closing. The button shop was dark. The bakery was closed. The street was empty. The light in his shop was still on. The yellow light. He was at the bench. Working. I stood at the window. He did not look up. But he spoke.
"You come every day," he said. His voice was low. Rough. Like sandpaper on wood. "You stand at my window. You watch. You do not buy. You do not ask. You watch."
I did not answer.
He put down his needle. He looked up. His glasses were thick. His eyes were small behind them. Dark. Not black. Not brown. Something in between. Like the river at night.
"What do you see?" he said.
I did not know how to answer. What did I see? I saw the yellow light. The rows of shoes. The fast hands. The steady work. I saw someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who had been doing it for a long time. Someone who was not leaving.
"Work," I said. "I see work."
He looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded. He picked up his needle. He went back to stitching. The needle went in. Came out. In. Out. Fast. Even. He did not look up again.
I remember the day he fixed my shoes.
It was raining. The snow had melted. The streets were wet. My shoes were wet. The soles were thin. The leather was cracked. My feet were cold. I was walking back from the market. The old woman was not there. Her stall was empty. I had no tomatoes. I stopped at the shoemaker's window. He was at the bench. The yellow light was on. I stood there. The rain fell on my shoulders. On my head. On my shoes.
He looked up. He looked at my face. Then he looked at my shoes. The thin soles. The cracked leather. The wet laces. He put down his needle. He stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it. The bell rang. Small. Tinny.
"Come," he said.
I went inside. The shop was warm. It smelled of leather and polish and glue. The yellow light was above the bench. The shoes were on the racks. He pointed to a stool by the bench. Wooden. Old. Worn smooth.
"Sit," he said.
I sat. He took my shoes. My feet were bare on the cold floor. He turned my shoes over. Looked at the soles. Thin. Worn through in some places. He shook his head.
He put them on the bench. He took a piece of leather from the shelf. Brown. Thick. He held it against my shoe. Marked it with a white pencil. Cut it with a knife. The knife was sharp.
The leather split clean. He took a hammer. Small. The head was worn smooth from years of use. He put the new sole against the old one. Nails. Silver. Tiny. Tap. Tap. Tap. He hammered them in.
Fast. Even. The sound was small in the small shop. Tap. Tap. Tap. He sewed the edges. Needle. Thread. Waxed. The thread pulled tight. The leather pulled together.
He trimmed the edges. Sanded them smooth. He polished the whole shoe. Black. Shining. He put it on the floor. He did the other one. Same. Tap. Tap. Tap. Needle. Thread. Wax. Polish. He put it next to the first one. He looked at them. Nodded. He looked at me.
"Wear," he said.
I put them on. The leather was stiff. The soles were thick. They were not my shoes anymore. They were new. Old leather, new soles. I stood up. The floor was cold. But my feet were warm.
"How much?" I said.
He looked at me. His eyes were small behind the thick glasses.
"You work at the restaurant," he said. "You wash dishes. You have no money."
I did not answer.
"You pay when you have," he said. "One day. Not today."
He went back to his bench. He picked up a shoe. A woman's shoe. Red. He looked at it. Turned it over. He took his needle. He began to stitch. He did not look at me again.
I remember the days after.
I passed his shop every day. Going to the market. Coming back. The yellow light was always on. He was always at the bench. Working. He never looked up. But I knew he knew I was there.
I saved money. A little each week. In an envelope. Under my bed. For the shoemaker. For the new soles. For the work he did. For the way he did not ask. For the way he said "One day."
I remember the day I paid him.
It was weeks later. The snow was gone. The streets were dry. The sun was out. Pale. Weak. But it was out. I went to his shop. The bell rang. Small. Tinny. He was at the bench. He did not look up.
I put the envelope on the bench. On the wood. Dark. Worn. Next to his needle. His thread. His knife.
"For the shoes," I said.
He looked at the envelope. He did not pick it up. He looked at my shoes. The new soles. The old leather. The polished black.
"They are good?" he said.
I nodded. "They are good."
He picked up the envelope. He put it in his pocket. He picked up his needle. He went back to stitching. The needle went in. Came out. In. Out. Fast. Even. He did not look at me again.
I stood there for a moment. Then I walked to the door. The bell rang. I went out into the street. The sun was pale. The cobblestones were dry. My shoes were on my feet. The soles were thick. The leather was stiff. They were good. They were good.
I remember the shoes.
I wore them for a long time. In Warsaw. In Berlin. In Paris. In Naples. In Amsterdam. The soles got thin again. The leather cracked again. The laces frayed again.
But I kept them. Even when I could not wear them. I kept them. Because they were the shoes that walked through Warsaw. Because they were the shoes that stood in the snow.
That walked to the market. That walked to the church. That walked to the station. That walked back. Because they were the shoes that the shoemaker fixed. Without asking.
Without knowing if I would pay. He fixed them because they needed fixing. Because my feet were cold. Because he was there. Because that was what he did.
I remember the last time I passed his shop.
It was before I left Warsaw. Not the day I went to the station. Before that. The snow was falling. The yellow light was on. He was at the bench. Working. I stood at the window. I watched his hands. Needle. Thread. Leather. Fast. Even. The same rhythm. The same work.
He did not look up. I stood there for a long time. The snow fell on my shoulders. On my hands. On the window. I thought about the shoes. The rows of shoes. Waiting.
For someone to buy them. For someone to wear them. For someone to walk in them. Somewhere. Somewhere else. I thought about his hands. Small. Fast. Sure.
The hands that fixed my shoes. Without asking. Without knowing. I thought about the words he said. "You pay when you have. One day. Not today."
I turned away from the window. I walked back to the restaurant. My shoes were on my feet. The soles were thick. The leather was stiff. The shoemaker's work was in them. I walked. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like his hammer. Like the sound of Warsaw. Like the sound of staying. Not yet. Not yet.