I remember the post office.
It was on the square. Gray stone. Tall windows. The doors were heavy, wood, the handles brass, worn smooth. I went there sometimes. To send letters. To my mother. To my sister. The same words every month. "I am well. I am working. I have money. I will come back soon." The words were not true. But I wrote them.
Outside the post office, there was a bench. Stone. Cold. The same bench where the old woman sat. The one whose son went to America. But this was a different old man. He came every afternoon. The same time. He carried a bag. Brown. Old. The strap was worn. Inside the bag was bread. Stale bread. He saved it. From his own meals. From the bakery at the end of the day. He sat on the bench. He took bread from the bag. He broke it into small pieces. He threw them on the ground.
The pigeons came.
I remember the first time I saw him.
It was winter. The snow was falling. The square was empty. The post office was closing. The doors were shutting. The old man was on the bench. Alone. His coat was gray. His hat was gray. His hands were shaking. Not from cold. From something else. He took bread from the bag. Broke it. Threw it. The pigeons were there. Dozens of them. Gray. White. Some brown. They crowded at his feet. Pecking. Fighting. Cooing. He watched them. He did not smile. He did not frown. He watched. His hands moved. Bread. Break. Throw. Bread. Break. Throw. The pigeons ate. He watched. I stood at the post office door. The snow fell on my shoulders. On my hands. On the steps. I watched him. He did not see me. He saw the pigeons.
I remember the day he spoke to me.
It was spring. The snow was gone. The square was wet. The old man was on the bench. The pigeons were at his feet. I was walking past. Going to the market. Coming back. I do not remember which. He looked up. His eyes were blue. Not bright. Faded. Like the sky when the snow has been on the ground too long.
"You," he said. "You come here. Every day. You go to the post office. You send letters. You do not send packages. You do not receive letters. You send."
I stopped. I did not know how he knew. I did not know he had been watching me. I did not know he remembered me.
"You write to your mother," he said. Not a question.
I nodded.
He took bread from his bag. Broke it. Threw it. The pigeons crowded. Gray. White. Brown. He watched them.
"My mother is dead," he said. "Long time. I do not write. I feed pigeons."
He looked at me. His eyes were blue. Faded.
"You have bread?" he said.
I had bread. The bread from the restaurant. The bread I saved for the morning. I took it from my pocket. Broke it. Gave it to him. He took it. His hands were shaking. He broke it into pieces. He threw them to the pigeons. They came faster. More of them. From the roof. From the square. From the street. They circled. They landed. They ate.
"They know me," he said. "They know my hands. They know the sound of bread breaking. They know my voice. They come when I call."
He made a sound. Soft. Low. Like a hum. Like a breath. The pigeons turned their heads. They looked at him. They did not fly away.
"You see," he said. "They know."
I remember the names.
He gave them names. Each one. He pointed to a gray pigeon with a white wing.
"That is Maria," he said. "She was born here. On this square. Under the bench. I saw her hatch. Her mother was killed by a cat. I fed her. From my hand. She eats from my hand now. No one else."
He held out his hand. Maria hopped onto his finger. He lifted her gently. She did not fly. She sat on his hand. Her head turned. Her eye was small. Black. Bright.
"She knows me," he said. "She knows my name. I am Old Man. That is what she calls me. In pigeon language. Old Man who brings bread. Old Man who sits on the bench. Old Man who does not leave."
He put her down. She went back to the bread.
He pointed to a white pigeon with a gray spot on its neck.
"That is Jan," he said. "He is new. He came last winter. From the east. He was hungry. He was thin. He stayed. Now he is fat. He eats too much. He will not leave. He is like me. He came. He stayed. He will not leave."
He pointed to a brown pigeon with a crooked foot.
"That is Wanda," he said. "Her foot was broken. I do not know how. A car. A child. A stone. She could not walk. She could not eat. The others pushed her away. I fed her. From my hand. Every day. She healed. Her foot is still crooked. But she eats. She is here. Every day."
He named them all. The gray one with the white tail. The brown one with the black head. The small one with the missing toe. The fat one with the crooked wing. He knew them. He knew where they came from. He knew who was born here. Who came from somewhere else. Who stayed. Who left. Who died.
"The pigeons," he said, "they do not leave. They are born here. They live here. They die here. They do not know anywhere else. They do not need to know. They have bread. They have the square. They have me."
He looked at me. His eyes were blue. Faded. Like the sky after the snow has melted.
"You will leave," he said. "One day. You will go somewhere else. Somewhere far. You will send letters from there. You will not come back. That is how it is. The young leave. The old stay. The pigeons stay. I stay."
I remember the bread.
After that day, I brought bread for him. Every afternoon. When I went to the market. When I came back. The stale bread from the restaurant. The crusts from the kitchen. The rolls that did not sell. I saved them. In my pocket. In a bag. I gave them to him. He took them. His hands were shaking. He broke them. He threw them to the pigeons.
He told me their names. Every day. The same names. The same pigeons. The same stories. Maria. Jan. Wanda. The ones who were born here. The ones who came from somewhere else. The ones who stayed. The ones who left. The ones who died.
"They come back," he said. "The pigeons. They fly away. Sometimes far. Sometimes for days. But they come back. This is home. This square. This bench. This bread. They come back."
He looked at me. His eyes were blue. Faded.
"You will come back?" he said.
I did not know. I did not know if I would come back to Warsaw. To the square. To the bench. To the pigeons. To him.
"Maybe," I said.
He nodded. He took bread from his bag. Broke it. Threw it. The pigeons crowded. Gray. White. Brown. He watched them. He did not look at me.
"They will be here," he said. "If you come back. They will be here. I will be here. Or I will not. But they will be here. They do not leave."
I remember the day he told me his name.
It was autumn. The leaves were yellow. They fell on the square. The pigeons walked on them. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The old man was on the bench. His coat was gray. His hat was gray. His hands were shaking.
I sat next to him. I took bread from my pocket. Gave it to him. He broke it. He threw it. The pigeons came.
"What is your name?" I said.
He was quiet for a long time. He watched the pigeons. Maria was on his hand. Jan was at his feet. Wanda was pecking at a crust. The light was yellow. The leaves were falling.
"They call me Old Man," he said. "That is my name. Old Man who brings bread. Old Man who sits on the bench. Old Man who remembers."
He looked at me. His eyes were blue. Faded.
"I had another name," he said. "Long ago. My mother gave it. My father used it. My wife used it. They are dead. No one uses it now. Now I am Old Man. That is enough."
He put Maria on the bench. She did not fly. She sat next to him. Her head turned. Her eye was small. Black. Bright.
"What is your name?" he said.
"Shanhe," I said.
He repeated it. "Shanhe." The sounds were strange in his mouth. Polish sounds. Not Chinese sounds. But he said it. Slowly. Carefully.
"Shanhe," he said again. "I will remember. I will remember your name. I will tell the pigeons. They will remember too."
He smiled. Not a big smile. Small. Quiet. Like the bread breaking. Like the pigeons landing. Like the leaves falling.
"When you leave," he said, "I will tell them. Old Man will tell the pigeons. The pigeons will know. They will remember your name. They will remember you. They will be here. Waiting. If you come back. If you do not come back. They will be here."
I remember the last time I sat with him.
It was winter again. The snow was falling. The square was white. The pigeons were on the bench. On the ground. On the roof. They did not fly. They waited. The old man was on the bench. His coat was gray. His hat was gray. His hands were shaking. More than before.
I sat next to him. I took bread from my pocket. I gave it to him. He broke it. He threw it. The pigeons came. Maria. Jan. Wanda. The others. They ate. They did not fight. They ate quietly. The snow fell on them. On the bread. On the bench. On the old man. On me.
"I am leaving," I said.
He nodded. He did not ask where. He did not ask when. He did not ask if I would come back. He broke bread. He threw it. The pigeons ate.
"I will tell them," he said. "Your name. They will remember."
He looked at me. His eyes were blue. Faded. Like the sky after the snow has fallen. Like the sky when it is done.
"Go," he said. "Go far. Send letters. Write to your mother. She is waiting. Mothers wait. Pigeons wait. Old men wait. But you. You go."
He took bread from his bag. Broke it. Threw it. The pigeons ate. The snow fell. I stood up. I walked away. I did not look back. But I knew he was there. On the bench. His coat gray. His hat gray. His hands shaking. The pigeons at his feet. Waiting. For the bread. For the names. For the remembering.
I remember the pigeons.
I do not remember the day I left. I do not remember the train. I do not remember the station. I remember the pigeons. Maria with the white wing. Jan with the gray spot. Wanda with the crooked foot. I remember their names. The names the old man gave them. I remember his name. Old Man. That was his name. Old Man who brings bread. Old Man who sits on the bench. Old Man who remembers. He remembered my name. He said he would tell the pigeons. They would remember too. I do not know if they remembered. I do not know if they are still there. On the square. On the bench. Waiting. For the bread. For the names. For the old man. For me. I do not know. But I remember. I remember the bread. I remember the pigeons. I remember the old man with the blue eyes. Faded. Like the sky after the snow has melted. Like the sky when it is done. He said they do not leave. The pigeons. They stay. They remember. I hope they do.