The Mermaid of Warsaw Read online

  The Mermaid of Warsaw

  The Mermaid of Warsaw

  and other tales from Poland

  Richard Monte

  Illustrated by Paul Hess

  The Mermaid of Warsaw copyright © Frances Lincoln Limited 2011 Text copyright © Richard Monte 2011 Illustrations copyright © Paul Hess 2011

  First published in Great Britain and in the USA in 2011 by Frances Lincoln Children’s Books, 4 Torriano Mews, Torriano Avenue, London NW5 2RZ www.franceslincoln.com

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-84780-164-7

  eBook ISBN 978-1-90766-666-7

  Set in ITC Galliard

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  In memory of the Polish President, Lech Kaczynski, and all who lost their lives in the Smolensk plane crash on April 10th, 2010

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Goats of Poznan

  The Mermaid of Warsaw

  Skarbnik’s Second Breakfast

  Jegle and the King of the Lakes

  The Turnip-Counter

  The Copper Coin of Wineta

  King Fish

  Water of Life

  About the stories

  Introduction

  In the heart of Warsaw’s majestic Old Town sits the statue of a mermaid. Tourists flock to take photos of the statue in summer. I have been among them, wandering through the cobbled streets admiring the beautiful pink, blue and yellow houses so characteristic of Polish cities.

  But go to the Warsaw History Museum in the Old Town Square, and a different story unfolds. For inside this building are black and white photographs dating from the Second World War. The Royal Castle with its orange walls, the yellow façade of St John’s Cathedral, those lovely coloured houses and medieval churches – are all reduced to rubble.

  Now look out of the museum window, and, like magic, you’ll see the Old Town restored to life again. Soon after the end of the war, the whole of Warsaw’s historic heart was re-created using the eighteenth-century paintings of Bernardo Bellotto, nephew of the renowned landscape painter Canaletto. This miraculous act of conservation is typical of the Polish spirit. Like Poland’s two mermaids (the original sits by the bank of the River Vistula), the Polish people stubbornly refuse to give in, no matter what misfortune befalls them.

  The other tales in this book are just as bewitching as ‘The Mermaid of Warsaw’. I hope they will give you a glimpse of some less well known regions of the country, and if you happen to travel there, you might see just how powerful folk tales can be. For example, in Poznan, each day at noon, a pair of silver goats emerge from a door above the clock on the Renaissance town hall and butt their heads together twelve times. It is rumoured that if you stay in the Wieliczka salt mine at night, you might see a ghost! Tales about the phantom underground Treasurer are rife – and that’s not surprising, for he’s lived there long enough. The mine has been in continuous operation since the thirteenth century.

  Stray into the mysterious mountains of Karkonosze and you might find an old, crumbling castle where a wizened little man sits counting turnips all day long. You can sail on one of the Polish lakes where the shadows of kings and fish lurk beneath the surface. If you visit the Baltic Coast, don’t linger too long, for if you do, the vision of a city drifting out at sea might tempt you to catch a boat to a place where the citizens harbour a terrible secret…

  Or you can stay in Warsaw, sit by the mermaid, and wait. As dusk falls, her haunting song will take you back to the time when this great city was little more than a fishing hamlet perched on the river bank.

  The Goats of Poznan

  The Mayor of Poznan, a plump and self-important-looking man with a curly black moustache, was standing in the centre of the medieval marketplace, staring up in wonder at the Town Hall. It really was a pearl.

  “Splendid! Splendid!” he muttered to himself. Its formal architecture perfectly crowned the jumble of timber and brick buildings which made up the square. Admiring the painted frieze of Jagiellonian kings, the Mayor congratulated himself on his decision to build the Town Hall in this style. It was so much more impressive than the Gothic building it had replaced following a fire. He surveyed the flag covering the wall below the frieze and beamed with pride. The jewel in the crown lay behind the flag and soon it would be unveiled for everyone to see.

  The Mayor clicked his fingers. Punctuality! That’s what it was all about – a rich and prosperous town which ran like clockwork. Soon, everyone would know the time and no one would be late for work, or school, or church again! And he congratulated himself on the great feast he had arranged for the Governor of Wielkopolska to celebrate the official opening of the clock. He could sit back and relax knowing that Mr Goose, the greatest chef in Poznan, was in charge of the food.

  Fat, bumbling, pompous old Mr Goose, with red cheeks the size of melons and a belly that had digested far more than its fair share of hams, sausages, dumplings and sweet poppy-seed buns and jam doughnuts, saw this as his chance to establish himself as the greatest cook in Poland.

  A yellow lamp shone in the kitchen of “The Goose”, an old, timber-framed inn standing at the corner of a cobbled street off the main town square. It was the night before the big day and old Mr Goose, humming to himself, checked that everything in the oak-beamed kitchen was ready. The work surfaces were spotless, the oven trays sparkling, the spit clean and the fire stoked with logs and coals.

  “Goose, you’re a genius. Play this one right, and the whole country’ll be talking about you.” And picking up a small glass of vodka, he toasted his good fortune, “Na zdrowie!” Then, with a warm, lighthearted feeling creeping through his body, he made his way through the dining-room, past the round wooden tables already set with gold-rimmed menus. Mr Goose licked his lips in anticipation as he caught sight of the main meal described on the cards:

  Wild Boar spit-roast over an open fire with tender forest mushrooms and a selection of the finest garden vegetables

  He could almost smell the crackling and dripping fat. The Governor loved roast boar: it was his favourite dish. And Goose was going to serve him the best boar he’d ever tasted in his life.

  With that thought, he tiptoed up the wooden stairway to his room, pausing outside the bedroom of his young apprentice to make sure all was quiet. The young lad had a big day ahead of him and he was going to need all the sleep he could get!

  Things seemed quiet enough. What Mr Goose did not realise was that Pietrek, his young apprentice, who had been scrubbing the kitchen from floor to ceiling, was still wide awake.

  As Pietrek lay in his hard wooden bed, the threadbare blanket pulled up to his chin and his wide eyes peeping out over the covers, he couldn’t stop thinking how hard life seemed, and how tiring it was working for a master who never gave him a moment’s peace. Mr Goose had done nothing but fuss and fret about the Governor’s visit – and it was Pietrek who had done all the hard work. It was all too much for a boy – and he was lying there with all the cares in the world on his young shoulders, not getting a wink of sleep…

  The next thing the young apprentice heard was a loud rap on his door and a voice booming out into the morning like a bull.

  “Pietrek! Get up, lad! We’ve got work to do!�
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  And what a morning it proved to be. Goose, the old tyrant, didn’t give Pietrek a moment to catch his breath. His orders echoed around the inn.

  “Polish the plates!”

  “Lay the tables!”

  “Chop the vegetables!”

  “Turn the spit!”

  Poor Pietrek. He didn’t even have time to snatch a slice of bread for his breakfast, and now old Goose, puffed up and pleased as punch, as if he’d done all the work himself, decided to leave the young lad in charge while he nipped out into the square to listen to the fireman’s band which was just striking up a tune.

  “Pietrek, the brass are playing. You know how much I love brass, lad. I’ll be gone ten minutes. Ten minutes, that’s all. Just sit here quietly and turn the spit. My, that boar’s starting to smell good. Don’t do anything silly, now…”

  And with that he was gone, disappearing into the crowds gathering in the square to listen to the music, relaxed and smiling, knowing that everything was under control. Soon the Governor would be sitting down to the most delicious meal he’d ever had in his life.

  Pietrek sighed, and stared at the roasting boar as he turned the spit. The skin was beginning to turn a beautiful golden-yellow colour, and the smell was making his mouth water. Goodness me, he felt hungry. He could hear his stomach rumbling like a bass drum and he had to keep shifting his position to stop the noise. If only he could sneak a slice of bread to ease this raging hunger! Old Goose had said he’d be gone for ten minutes. It would take less than a couple of minutes to get to the bread bin and back. He could wolf down a slice in no time.

  Without a further thought, Pietrek let go of the spit and dashed for the parlour. A honey-brown cottage loaf had already been cut ready for the guests. Mr Goose wouldn’t know how many slices there were, surely. It was too tempting.

  Pietrek reached out and snatched one, but before it reached his mouth he heard a crash, followed by a strange sizzling sound.

  Oh no – the roast! He dropped the bread and dashed back into the kitchen.

  What a scene greeted his eyes! The roast boar – the golden-yellow, sweet-smelling pride and joy that Mr Goose had been talking about for days, the wild roast boar cooked to impress Governor Wojewoda, had slipped off the spit into the flames and was beginning to turn black!

  The young apprentice picked up a poker and started prodding about in desperation. Smoke was pouring into his eyes and filling the kitchen. Tears were streaming down his face. Old Goose would kill him! He almost wished it was him and not the boar burning on that fire.

  Mr Goose waddled round the corner, tapping the air with his fists and humming the tune he had heard. Brass! How he loved it! But as the inn came into view, he was met with an unwelcome sight. Black smoke was pouring out of the kitchen window.

  Old Goose’s heart missed a beat. He lurched forward, almost tripping on the cobblestones and sending himself flying. One thought, and one thought alone was on his mind: THE ROAST BOAR!

  Imagine his horror when he hurled himself through the kitchen door and saw the fire greedily devouring the remains of the roast! Enraged, he grabbed hold of Pietrek and twisted his ears, ignoring the snivelling apprentice’s tears and wailing.

  “You’ve carbonised the boar! I’ll give you a thrashing for this! What the devil am I going to serve the Governor now? Oh, my reputation! My reputation!”

  Goose’s cheeks were purple and steam was coming out of his nose. He shook the young lad so violently, Pietrek’s shirt ripped at the seams.

  “I’ll see to it that you never work again – for me or anyone else. Now, get out! Go and buy me some new meat, while I sort out this mess. Now! This minute! And make sure it’s tender. Get out!” And he kicked the apprentice through the door.

  Pietrek left as fast as he could, rubbing his sore backside, mumbling how sorry he was, and relieved to be away from the inn and its furious proprietor. The young lad knew the narrow, cobbled streets of Poznan like an old friend, but that didn’t prevent him tripping up twice in his haste to get to the butcher. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that both the bakery and the shoemaker’s were closed; their doors were shut tight and their blinds pulled down. Everyone was in the square.

  Pietrek stopped to catch his breath, worried that the butcher might also have closed for the day in order to enjoy the celebrations. He found himself standing outside a cottage with a red wooden door. It was known locally as the House of the Argumentative Widow. A window was open on the ground floor and a high-pitched woman’s voice, screeching like an angry bird, reached Pietrek out in the street.

  “Marta! You’re not going to any celebrations until you’ve scrubbed this floor properly. I want to see it sparkle! Then get yourself cleaned up, girl. My snow-white darlings look better than you!”

  Pietrek knew poor Marta, the girl who had taken a job as a cleaner at the House of the Argumentative Widow, but he wasn’t thinking of her now. He was staring at a pair of beautiful white goats which were tied to the garden gate by a thin rope.

  Well, what a bit of luck! Convincing himself that the butcher must be closed by now, Pietrek carefully opened the garden gate and untied the rope. These two would make a delicious roast. He just hoped that Governor Wojewoda liked goat!

  He could still hear the voice of the Argumentative Widow berating her cleaner, but without further thought the young lad started back along the cobbled streets with the animals.

  “Come on! No, this way! That’s it. No, stop eating those flowers!”

  My goodness, those goats were stubborn! All the way back they pulled and strained this way and that. By the time Pietrek reached the inn, he was hot, sweaty and felt as if he’d been dragged through a bush backwards. But his troubles had only just begun. The two goats, separated from their mistress, instinctively realised that this was not where they lived, and started throwing themselves around wildly, snapping the thin rope that held them.

  “Hey! Come back!” shouted Pietrek desperately, but the two goats scampered off in the direction of the square, which by now was heaving with loud music, dancing and singing.

  A little boy broke away from the crowd and started chasing the goats, closely pursued by the Argumentative Widow, who was shrieking wildly and waving her fists.

  “My goats! My darlings! Someone help me!”

  Everyone, including Pietrek, turned to see the widow lurch forward just as the goats slipped into the doorway of the County Hall! But no one liked the old woman, and her pleas fell on deaf ears.

  “Look, that’s him over there! That wretched boy stole my goats!”

  Pietrek put his head in his hands. What was he going to do now? Suddenly the clock started chiming midday. The Governor’s carriage had arrived and the Mayor was waiting eagerly to show him the wonderful new clock. The flag fluttered in the breeze as the drum roll boomed out.

  Governor Wojewoda tipped his head back and squinted.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. They’ve got goats up there! Look at them butting their horns!”

  Before anyone could do or say anything, the Argumentative Widow leapt forward.

  “Those are my goats! In the tower, sir! That little good-for-nothing thief!”

  Governor Wojewoda looked at the woman.

  “What thief? A thief locked in the tower?” And turning to the people, he announced: “Those goats must be returned to their rightful owner and the thief must be prosecuted! Now, come on, who stole them? Own up!”

  A little voice spoke up. “It was me, sir.”

  Governor Wojewoda looked down at Pietrek, whose knees were knocking with fear. The crowd leered at the boy, as the scowling Mayor and Old Goose fumed angrily over him.

  “Goats, eh? Are you telling me that you’ve got time to play with goats?” cried Goose, purple-faced.

  But he didn’t have time to say anything else, for the Governor said, “Let the lad tell his story.”

  Everyone listened as Pietrek explained how he’d burnt the roast, and how his master had sent him o
ut to the butcher. Mr Goose shuffled uncomfortably in his shoes as the crowd looked disapprovingly at him.

  Things were now clear. Governor Wojewoda raised his hand.

  “Well, by right you deserve a damn good hiding, but on this day of celebration, to make amends for your misdemeanour you will help the master clockmaker carve two identical white goats in wood. These will be installed in the tower to commemorate the occasion. On the chime of twelve each day, they will butt each other’s horns. Now, go and collect your goats, old widow.”

  And turning to Mr Goose, he added, “I will be satisfied with chicken broth. I am sure, Mr Goose, you have a chicken or two at the ready.”

  Mr Goose blushed, “Oh of course, sir, chicken! What a splendid idea!” And grabbing Pietrek by the collar, he dragged him back to the inn to prepare the meal.

  Now, even young Pietrek couldn’t spoil chicken broth… could he?

  The Mermaid of Warsaw

  The red glow of the hot summer sun had vanished and a full moon hung over the little fishing hamlet. A young fisherman whose name was Stanislaw leaned out of his window watching the yellow stars twinkling in the black sky and listening to the gentle lapping of the River Vistula. A breeze hummed through the darkness.

  Suddenly his ear picked up a thin metallic sound, a delicate tinkling like a silver bell singing in the night.

  Stanislaw climbed into his little wooden bed. All through the night he tossed and turned, his head full of the faint melody ringing softly on the air. Finally he slept – he had to be up early in the morning to fetch salt from the castle.

  “It was a tinny sound. The wind wouldn’t make a noise like that,” thought Stanislaw, as he packed his crate into the fish cart and set off to meet his friends who were also taking their wares to the Castle of the Mazovian Princes.