In 1982, Raphael Nachman, visiting lecturer in mathematics at the university in Cracow, declined the tour of Auschwitz, where his grandparents had died, and asked instead to visit the ghetto where they had lived. The American consul, Dirk Sullivan, was surprised. Didn’t everyone want to tour Auschwitz? He probably thought Nachman was a contrary type, peculiar, too full of himself. As for Nachman, he thought Sullivan was officious and presuming. Sullivan said he would call the university and arrange for a guide to meet Nachman at his hotel.
At eight o’clock the next morning, Nachman left his room and passed through the small lobby on his way to the still smaller dining room for coffee. He noticed a girl standing alone beside the desk. Her posture and impassive expression suggested she was waiting for somebody. She didn’t glance at Nachman as he approached, so he assumed the girl wasn’t his guide, but he asked anyway, ‘Are you waiting for me, miss? I’m Nachman.’
The girl said, ‘Yes, I know. How do you do? I’m Marie, your guide.’
She knew? She didn’t smile, but Nachman told himself Poles aren’t Americans. Why should she smile? She was here to do a job. She’d been sent by the university, at the request of the American consul, to be his guide. Perhaps she’d have preferred to do something else that morning. So she didn’t smile, but neither did she look unhappy.
They shook hands.
Nachman invited her to join him for coffee. She accepted and followed him into the dining room.
Nachman wasn’t inspired to make conversation at eight o’clock in the morning, but he felt obliged to do so out of politeness, though Marie looked conten
