The candle stuck in the mouth of a bottle flickered and went out. Bronek, the waiter, lay on the bed and began to declaim. He loved to talk when he was drunk. The cook was sprawled on the second bed. On a mattress on the floor lay Antek and Józek.
Children of the Street – Chapter 8: Hero
By Janusz Korczak
The candle stuck in the mouth of a bottle flickered and went out. Bronek, the waiter, lay on the bed and began to declaim. He loved to talk when he was drunk. The cook was sprawled on the second bed. On a mattress on the floor lay Antek and Józek.
You know, boys,- Bronek began, - a life like yours—it’s just a- waste. I’m telling you, you’ve got to think about old age. You see, now you’re small, and your tricks still work. If you go, say, to Nowy Świat and kneel by the church pretending to cry, a crowd of kind souls will gather and throw you a few forty-kopeck coins. If someone starts talking to you and you tell him you’re an orphan, or whatever story you make up, you might even get some bagels. But mark my words—when you grow up, it’ll all be over. Finished.
Yes, yes,- muttered Andrzej from the other bed.
When you grow up, you’ll be able to write petitions, tell stories, but it won’t be the same. Then you’ll start stealing, get caught, and they’ll send you to ‘the hive.’ I tell you, I know people like that. My own brother—flesh and blood—was sent to a ‘settlement,’ got married there or something, and now he’s starving. You see, you have to think ahead.”
Yes, yes,- the cook repeated drowsily- .
My brother was the same. But I got out of it. You should see how the gentlemen drink with me—kiss me, even
When they’re drunk, they kiss,- added the cook- .
What do you know, you skinny skeleton? Of course, when they’re drunk. You think when a gentleman gets drunk, he stops being a gentleman? A gentleman’s a gentleman, that’s that.”
Andrzej mumbled a reply, turned over, and began to snore.
“I can’t tell you everything,” Bronek continued. “Some things are secret. Besides, you’re still kids. I’m just telling you—life’s garbage. But what can you do? That’s how it is.”
A pause.
Antek’s a good kid, - he went on. - He could start working in a café, learn a bit. Later—who knows? Józek’s a good lad too, but he’s missing a finger, and that’s a problem. Maybe he could work in a soup kitchen, not in a real restaurant. You need schooling for that.
Another pause.
And you, Antek—you can’t read. That’s bad. In a café maybe you’ll get by, you’ll learn from the letters on the jars. But in a restaurant, you’ve got to write bills, notes, all sorts of things.”
Would you teach me to read, Mr. Bronek?” - asked Antek.-
Not really teach, but I can show you. Wait till tomorrow—I’ll bring a newspaper and show you. And you, Józek—who knows what I’ll do with you
I’ll manage,- Józek snapped, angry that they mentioned his missing finger.
Well, if you’re such a big man, do as you please. I’m not your father to worry over you.
Then don’t worry. Just go to sleep—you’re drunk
If I’m drunk, that’s my business, you brat! One day they’ll hang you, you’ll see
I don’t have a thief for a brother in a ‘settlement’ like you, Mr. Bronek,” said Józek. So, when they hang me, I’ll have company.
“?Listen, you little bastard! You’ll shut your mouth, won’t you
I’d rather be a bastard than come from a family of thieves. My grandfather was an honest man! - shouted Józek, his face flushed with anger.
So was your grandfather a scoundrel
Loony Józek leapt up, grabbed the bottle with the dying candle, and hurled it at Bronek—but missed. In the darkness, only his eyes shone like glowing coals. He lunged at the man on the bed, but Bronek seized his head in both hands and smashed it again and again against the metal corner of the bed.
“There you go, you wretch, you son of a thief! Don’t raise your hand to an elder! Don’t you dare—don’t you—don’t you!”
He pulled at the boy’s hair until Antek tore Józek from his grasp and splashed water on his lifeless face. Józek groaned, then fainted. Half an hour later, he came to. The waiter and cook were asleep.
Józek dressed quietly, shook his fist toward Bronek, pulled his cap over his eyes, took his accordion, and left without a word.
The next morning, Bronek remembered the fight, spat, and muttered: “I’ll have to watch my back now.”
He polished his lacquered shoes, pressed his trousers and tailcoat, sat before the cracked mirror, laid out brushes, combs, bottles of oil and scent, and began to groom himself—rubbing in cream, perfume, and powder.
Bronek, the twenty-four-year-old ‘street boy,’ was shaping himself into the image of a refined waiter in a fine restaurant.
Józek had vanished, and Antek could not find him anywhere.
“He’s probably gathering a gang,” Bronek muttered anxiously. “Just my luck—he’ll turn out a thief. Am I to blame he’s a wild
?animal
If anyone had listened closely, they might have heard in Bronek’s voice a note of regret—or perhaps guilt.
Maybe to silence that inner voice, Bronek turned his attention to Antek. For several days he taught him to read a few words: Kurjer, Warszawski, Morning, Newspaper, Polish, Friday, Saturday, and more. The lessons went like this:
“Look, Antek, here it says Kurjer. The first letter’s K, the second U, the third R, the fourth I, and the last is like the third. See? All together: KUR-JER.”
Whether Bronek’s method was not so bad, or Antek was gifted, the boy’s vocabulary grew quickly.
Antek roamed the streets searching signs for letters he knew, guessing the meanings of words. Above a pharmacy was a sign with six letters: the first and last were A, and the one before last was K. “It must be APTEKA,” he thought.
With pain and effort, the street boy conquered the magical world of the printed word.
Many times Antek pulled books from their hiding place under the mattress. Since he couldn’t read them yet, he put them back, ashamed that he owned books.
The soul of this ‘Powiśle brat’ was complex and tangled, yet rich—like the Vistula itself: noisy, proud, many-colored, and full of sounds, like Warsaw’s own soul, full of grumbling, of good and evil.
Bronek decided to take Antek under his wing, to persuade him to work in a café—to break him in, not necessarily to labor, but to the habit of bowing his head. He wanted to show Antek what awaited him—life in all its gaudy colors—if he would submit.
When the restaurant manager went abroad for a few days, the staff were freer. No longer did his sharp eyes follow them everywhere. Just then, a wedding banquet had been ordered at the last minute.
“Come to me tonight, around one o’clock,” said Bronek to Antek. “You’ll see something interesting. Just wear clean clothes.”
Antek waited impatiently. That night he would see, for the first time in his life, bright halls, gentlemen dancing, eating, laughing. He was drawn by instinct—to know another way of life, to broaden his experience.
But if someone had asked him why he wanted it so much, he could only have said, “Because I want to.”
Clean, combed, his flaxen hair shining, his blue eyes wide, Antek stood at the doorway and gazed inside.
The music had stopped; ice cream was being served. Gentlemen in black tailcoats, white gloves and shiny shoes escorted the ladies—light, perfumed, smiling, flushed with wine. The ladies floated in gowns of silk and lace, wreaths of flowers in their hair, pearls at their throats, their bare arms white as Vistula snow.
Laughter, whispers, tinkling voices filled the air. Antek hid behind a curtain near the door, watching in awe.
A young woman in white sat lost in thought beside a man with a white ribbon on his lapel. A wreath of tiny white flowers crowned her head.
Waiters moved quietly among the guests, graceful and silent. They poured drinks, took empty glasses, and seemed to see nothing, hear nothing—machines polished to perfection.
Bronek was among them. To Antek, he looked like another person—almost not human at all, a complex mechanism in motion.
At the door stood the porter. As Bronek passed, he whispered, “See the one in pink, over there?”
Antek didn’t understand but saw Bronek thinking deeply.
The orchestra resumed; couples returned to the floor. A lady led a little girl in white by the hand; behind them walked a boy in velvet pants and a sailor’s shirt.
“What if I were dressed like him?” thought Antek.
The couples danced. The music stirred something in him—something he didn’t know or remember. It was just a dance—but so strange, so beautiful.
He had never seen or heard anything like it. The women, the music, the shining floors—it was all like a dream. The ‘street boy’ felt so small, so worthless before such splendor.
Bronek appeared. “You’re here? Did they let you in?”
“Say I came with you.”
“Good. Take a cigar. Quick, hide it.” He handed Antek a handful of cigars.
“Come to the stairs—I’ll bring you something.” He returned with a glass of wine, a slice of pie, a piece of cake.
“Bored?”
“No.”
“Like it?”
“Yes.”
“Tasty?”
“So-so.” Antek didn’t want to show his feelings.
“Listen, Antek—don’t think they’re anything special. They look fancy, but they’re rabble just like us.”
A gray-haired gentleman entered. Bronek bowed almost in two. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“My good man, squeeze half a lemon into a glass of water. Make sure it’s cold, with ice. Quickly.”
Bronek ran. The man grumbled: “Damn these balls.”
Bronek returned. “Took you long enough—I thought you went to pick the lemon from the tree. And I said with ice! Are you deaf?” He drank and walked off.
“See that idiot?” Bronek said to Antek.
In the hall, a waltz began again. The gentlemen and ladies moved like figures in a dream. Antek remembered seeing such people once at the nuns’ church, where he had pushed his way in and been shoved out by the elbows. He no longer tried to crash their weddings.
“Drink,” said Bronek. “We’ll throw a better ball tomorrow ourselves. You think these peacocks know how to have fun?” There was bitterness in his voice—the bitterness of a waiter humiliated by ‘gentlemen.’
The music changed to a quick mazurka. The servants stood by, still and silent, expressionless, tireless.
The guests began to leave. “Goodnight, sir.” – “Thank you, sir.” – “At your service, sir.”
Cloaks were fetched, laughter echoed, the door closed behind the last carriage. The young couple were leaving for Vienna, Nice, and then Italy.
Antek sat exhausted, his eyes half-shut, sorry it was all over so soon.
“Antek!”
He jumped. “Quick! They say there’s a fire at Grig’s factory!”
A fire! Since childhood, nothing thrilled him more. Bronek hailed a carriage.
“How long’s it been burning?”
“Since two o’clock, they say.”
A trumpet sounded; a fireman galloped past. Flames lit the sky.
“Faster, driver! I’ll give you a ruble. I earned good money tonight—you can too!” Bronek handed him a piece of venison and a cigar. “Take a puff—it’s good. Have a drink.”
As they neared the factory, police stopped them. Bronek bribed them—a quarter of his night’s wages. They pushed through the crowd. The fire spread fast; sparks flew to nearby wooden houses. People were throwing their meager belongings into the street. Police couldn’t control the excited masses.
Then—a woman’s scream pierced the air: “My child! My child’s still inside!”
“Where?”
“In the attic!”
A ladder was raised. A fireman, wrapped in wet cloth, climbed and vanished into the flames. Three hoses sprayed water where he had disappeared. He came out empty-handed.
“Bring me my boy!” she screamed. “He’s only four!” She tore her hair, shrieking in despair.
“Who is she?” someone asked.
“A madwoman.”
“Has she a child?”
“They say she does.”
“Then we must find him.”
“The beam won’t hold.”
Suddenly a boy stepped forward: “I’ll go.”
“You’re forbidden!”
He leaped up the ladder and disappeared inside. The crowd shouted: “Get down!” But he was gone. The woman laughed wildly. “Ha! Ha! I fooled you all! You see? I’m not so mad. You think I’d leave my child in the fire? He’s safe. You fools!”
At that moment, the beam collapsed. Flames roared. In the window appeared the boy’s face, black with soot, hair singed. Antek and Bronek cried out together: “Loony Józek!”
Józek jumped, rolled, and disappeared into the cheering crowd. He hadn’t found the child—he didn’t know the woman had lied—but shame drove him to run.
He ran limping through the smoke when a hand grabbed his arm. Instinctively he pulled a knife. Seeing Bronek, his eyes flared with fury. He struck, plunged the blade into Bronek’s chest, and vanished into the dark alley.
Bronek staggered, then fell.
“Antek,” he whispered as they carried him to the carriage, “don’t tell anyone who stabbed me.”
Antek wanted to go with him, but they pushed him back. He saw him again only the next evening—on the autopsy table.
Bronek’s body lay on the slab, a knife in his heart, the main artery cut. Death—instant and final.
The ‘ball’ Bronek had promised, the one he’d planned with friends and girls, would never happen.
The waiter’s worldly possessions: a few stolen cigars, a cracked mirror, jars of pomade, brushes and combs.
The tabloids next morning screamed of two sensations: the factory fire—and the mysterious murder.
Loony Józek had avenged his family’s honor.