I and My True Love (35 page)

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice more normal. “It’s just that I’ve seen what the self-styled idealists did to my country. I’ve seen what’s happened to my people. We don’t ask why, now.”

“But Minlow didn’t know what he was doing,” Kate said.

Brovic said, “No? If I kill a man, what excuse can I offer to his family—that I didn’t know a knife in his back could be fatal?”

“You don’t like Minlow, I gather,” Bob Turner said, breaking his silence.

“Minlow? I hate and despise him,” Brovic said with a cold contempt that startled them both, “I and all the millions who’ve been trapped by the Communists. Sometimes as we listen to people like Minlow, as we watch them performing, we’re filled with such a rage, such a disgust, that we—that we—” He broke off, controlled his rising temper. “Don’t they realise how much they’re hated? For it is that kind of man, living in a free country, who has helped us rot in concentration camps and prisons while he praises our torturers and executioners. You don’t believe me? What is Minlow doing now, for instance? Writing a series of articles on the ‘realities’ of Czechoslovakia as it is today.” Brovic began to laugh, a bitter angry laugh. Then, just as suddenly, he was grimly serious. “Doesn’t he realise how he’s earned the hate of millions of people?”

That would be a new idea for Minlow to consider, Bob thought, a new conception of international understanding. He looked swiftly at Kate and saw horror in her face. Was this idea so new to her, too?

“Now you will say that I hate Minlow so much that all I’ve said about him is prejudice,” Brovic said.

Bob shook his head. He was remembering the way the South Koreans had talked to him. He was remembering the stories that other United Nations soldiers would sometimes tell, stories from the war that had been over for six years, stories of secret arrests and concentration camps, of forced labour and torture. The British and Americans would listen, polite but embarrassed. But neither the British nor the Americans had known what it was to live under enemy occupation. They couldn’t understand fully, just as Kate couldn’t conceive of mass hatred now. Then later, when the men who hated so bitterly proved they were good comrades, kindly, decent-hearted, the British and Americans felt ashamed of their embarrassment.

Now, because he was beginning to understand Brovic, and partly too because Kate was so silent, he found himself talking. “Betrayal always brings hate,” he said quietly. He came away from the window, as if he wanted to show he no longer stood apart from the scene.

“Yes,” Brovic said grimly. His face was taut. “Will Sylvia learn to hate me?”

“But you can’t go...” Kate’s voice faded.

“You will tell Sylvia that I never lied to her? I may not have given her all the facts, I may have hidden much. But I never lied about us. And that’s the important truth to remember.”

Kate stared at him. But he can’t go back, she told herself. She was not only thinking of Sylvia. She was thinking of Jan Brovic. “Oh, Bob!” she said. “Please argue with him,
please
talk to him.”

Bob said to Brovic, quietly, “Then your family didn’t escape.”

“They’re under house arrest.”

“When did you hear?”

“This morning. Czernik gave me a letter from my brother just after he told me about my recall.”

“He was making sure you would return?”

Brovic nodded. “I had to open it in front of him, just to pretend I had nothing to hide. He watched me read it.”

Bob Turner was silent.

Brovic said, “He must have had the letter for weeks. It was written just after I had reached America, on the day my family was supposed to escape.”

“They weren’t caught escaping?”

“They didn’t get the chance. They were under observation and a strong guard from the first hour of my absence. The letter was written to dictation obviously: that’s why Czernik had it.”

“Could it have been a fake?”

Brovic’s face was tense. He looked from Turner to Kate and then back again to Turner. His voice became harsh with emotion. “You’ve no reason to offer me sympathy, no reason to offer me hope.” He turned away from them both, trying to hide the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He stared fixedly at the faded yellow wall until he had regained control.

“The letter was in my brother’s handwriting,” he said at last. “So they were alive, when he wrote it. He didn’t make any reference to their planned escape, so that’s still their secret. They are safe, unless I fail to return.”

“What if your brother, next month or next year, says something the Communists don’t like to hear? Will he be ‘safe,’ then?”

Brovic shook his head. “I can’t buy his safety in the future. But I can’t sell it away from him, now. If I don’t go back, if I walk out of here to hide and escape—then I have my freedom, but they will pay for it. What chance of happiness would Sylvia and I ever have, if I kept remembering that?”

They were silent.

“You think I’m being dramatic?” he asked suddenly. “Central Europeans are always so emotional, isn’t that it?” But there was no bitterness in his voice now. “And yet, if anything, I am understating the danger my family faces. The children will be taken from their mother, never to see her again. My sister is about your age, Kate, a year older perhaps. She will be sent to a labour camp. It could be mining that she has to do—work that would be considered hard for a strong man. Starved, beaten, locked up each night with thieves and prostitutes as well as political prisoners.” He was silent for a moment.

“My brother would have similar treatment. And my father would be useful for one of the next trials, for he was a man that Czechoslovakia once honoured. Prison, interrogation, torture—oh yes, there have been tortures although civilised people do not like to hear of such things. Execution? If he’s lucky... But life imprisonment at the brute level is a warning to make those, still outside of prison, more obedient.”

And what will happen to you, yourself? Kate wondered. “Oh no!” she said. “If you go back—” She stopped herself in time. But Jan Brovic didn’t seem to hear her.

“There’s one thing that interests me,” Bob Turner said quickly, drawing their attention to him. “A certain amount of classified information was filched from us. But how did we learn about that? I don’t suppose your Mr. Czernik was particularly pleased to see this morning’s papers.”

Kate looked up at Brovic in surprise. “Why, of course!” she exclaimed. “That’s a defeat for Czernik, isn’t it?”

Brovic still was silent. But as he watched Kate, his face softened. His nervous pacing ceased. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. And it seemed to Bob Turner as if Brovic found some enjoyment in the first long draw.

“We must have a friend tucked away behind the little iron curtain in Washington,” Bob said. “Could he be traced?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“And even if they might trace the man, you’d still go back to Czechoslovakia?”

“Yes. More than ever, now.” Now, Brovic was thinking, I must act as if I had nothing to hide, nothing to fear.

“There must be something we can do,” Kate began. “There must be something—”

“There’s nothing. I can even be arrested by your government. Wasn’t that what you were thinking?”

She nodded.

“In any case,” he said, coming over to her and taking her hand, “that would only postpone my return, not prevent it.” He pulled her gently to her feet. “Now, go,” he said. “I must leave soon, too.”

“Didn’t they watch you, today?” Turner asked suddenly.

“Czernik had to attend an emergency meeting.” There was a fleeting smile for Czernik’s troubles. “Vlatov took the opportunity to see a girl. So I slipped out.”

“Someone followed you here. The little dark fellow with the pinched eyes and the permanent smile who was with you at Miriam Hugenberg’s party.”

“Vlatov?”

“He was interested in us when we arrived here. When I last looked out of the window, he was still down on the street, wandering around, trying to pretend he was part of the scenery.”

Brovic moved swiftly across the room and stood at the side of the curtains. “Yes,” he said, and he pulled the window shut cautiously. “I was careless today.”

“He’s not particularly careful, if you ask me. That’s no way to watch a house. Or is it his method of emphasising their power?”

“Czernik might have thought of that. Not Vlatov. This kind of work is new to him. He’s just a novelist who has been made to sing for his supper. He has a lot of friends over here: that’s his strong point. Not this kind of thing.” And there was Vlatov now, pretending to be interested in used cars, no doubt cursing the fact that his own idea of a pleasant evening had been ruined. “Did he notice what bell you rang downstairs?” Brovic asked suddenly.

“I think we disguised that.”

“Then I’ll leave here first. If you were to go now, and I were to follow you, even Vlatov might make a good guess that you had been with me. It’s”—he glanced over at Kate—“it’s better if you can’t be connected with me. Better for me, too.” He pointed to Bob’s uniform. He half smiled. “You aren’t military intelligence, by the way?”

“Nothing so romantic,” Bob remarked as coolly as possible. “But what excuse will you give Vlatov for being here?” His question was asked partly to change the subject, partly to keep Jan Brovic alert. But he needn’t have worried about that.

“I’ll find something trite enough to satisfy Vlatov. I came here to meet a girl, but she didn’t turn up and so I went away. That’s Vlatov’s idea of a reasonable explanation. I may even sub-let this room to him. He could use it.” Brovic smiled wryly. Then he lifted his hat from the bed, and from his pocket he drew a letter. He came over to Kate and held it out.

He said, “It’s short. I couldn’t risk giving any explanation. I couldn’t risk being searched and having them read it. But you’ll tell Sylvia everything?” His eyes searched Kate’s face. “I’ll always love her,” he said quietly.

Kate took the envelope, unaddressed except for Sylvia’s name. And then her lips began to tremble. He held her hand for a moment and then suddenly kissed it. She stood, gripping the letter, listening to his footsteps.

Bob was at the door. “Goodbye,” he said, and he put out his hand.

Jan took it. “Don’t wait here long.”

Bob nodded.

“Goodbye,” Jan said. He gave a firm handshake. He glanced at Kate, then back at Bob. He opened the door and was gone.

For a moment, Bob and Kate stood looking at each other. Bob said, “We’ll start leaving as soon as he reaches the street.”

They stood at the side of the window, drawing close together as they looked down along the street. There was Vlatov, the stiffly dressed little man, as harmless to look at as any of the Sunday strollers who passed him by. Then they saw Jan Brovic, stepping out from the sidewalk to cross the street. He was lighting a cigarette.

We are watching a dead man, Bob thought, and he turned quickly away.

25

Kate turned away from the window, too.

They stood talking. Then Jan laughed. And then he and Vlatov walked away together. She began to cry.

“Not here,” Bob said quickly, “not here, Kate. We’ve got to go out that front door looking as if we had just been having a drink with W. Hirschfeld, remember?” He took out a handkerchief and dried the tears on her cheek. “Now look,” he said, “this isn’t much good if you keep them flowing. That’s right: you freeze the flow and I’ll mop up. Come on, let’s put at least a flight of stairs between us and this room.” He pocketed Sylvia’s letter carefully, picked up two lipstick-stained cigarette ends near the chair where Kate had sat, looked round for any other evidence of their visit, and then hustled her through the door.

As they crossed the landing, the door opposite opened and a young man came out. He was short and heavily built, his hair was creamed and brushed; his face was round, as ingenuous as the broad Windsor knot in his hand-painted tie. His mild eyes looked at them uncertainly. He hesitated on the topmost step.

“Are you Carson?” he asked and risked a smile. “Glad to meet you. I was beginning to think there was no such person. I’m Hirschfeld.”

“We aren’t Carson,” Bob said. “But glad to know you all the same.” He began to go downstairs quickly, pulling Kate along with him, but he talked over his shoulder so that Hirschfeld followed closely. “We were looking at Carson’s apartment for a sub-let. Caroline doesn’t think much of the kitchen.”

“Cooking facilities aren’t what they might be, around here,” Hirschfeld agreed. “I eat out, myself, most of the time.” He looked at Caroline appraisingly as they reached a landing. Damned pretty girl, he thought, but she had been crying. “Too bad it didn’t suit,” he said awkwardly.

“Oh, we’ll find something,” Bob said.

“I’ve got a friend,” Hirschfeld said thoughtfully. “She wants to sub-let this summer. When are you thinking of moving in?”

By the time they reached the street, Hirschfeld was giving Bob his friend’s address. They stood together on the sidewalk for a minute as Hirschfeld added the last details. “Just tell her Walt sent you,” he finished and he shook their hands.

“Thanks,” Bob said, “thanks a lot.”

“See you soon again probably,” Walt added as a bonus—he said goodbye less easily than hallo—and started towards Connecticut Avenue. So they took the direction of Seventeenth Street.

Kate said, “He was a nice man even if his name wasn’t Bill.”

Bob caught her arm. “Just in case Walt looks back at us,” he said. He glanced at the others in the street: a man who walked slowly and gloomily, a woman who was airing a dog without much enthusiasm from either of them, a group of Easter-bonneted young women, three brisk young men taking the world in their stride.

“It all looks normal, innocent,” Kate said. But so it had looked five minutes ago when she had stood at a window and watched two men meet. She shivered.

“I’ll ’phone the Clarks, and then we’ll eat somewhere around here,” Bob said. “I’ve got to report in, by eight o’clock, so we haven’t much time.” Already in his mind he was arranging what they had to do.

“Will you help me draft a letter to Sylvia?” Kate asked.

“If you want help with that.”