In The Name of The Father (23 page)

‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘We must get off the road quickly.’

He reached down to help her up but she shrugged off his hand, determined not to show any physical weakness.

It was a bright but cold afternoon. Far away to their left were neat fields. The earth in front of them was stony and obviously not arable. It was scattered with coarse clumps of grass and small bushes.

It took them half an hour to reach the copse. After half a kilometre they joined a rough cart track. By that time much of the stiffness had left their limbs and they were in better spirits. The grass here was greener and richer and as they approached they heard the sound of running water. A tiny stream tumbled down the hill and through the trees and then meandered off towards the fields. Ania expected that at weekends in the summer it would be a popular picnic place.

They sat down beside the stream. Mirek looked at his watch and announced, ‘The first rendezvous time is in twenty minutes. I hope he makes it — I’m ravenous.’

He had put the duffle bag on the grass between them. Ania reached for it, untied the cord and rummaged about inside. When she pulled out her toilet bag Mirek grinned and asked, ‘Going to repair your make-up?’

‘No. I’m going to look after the health of my dear husband.’

She took out a bottle of aspirin, shook three pills into her palm and held them out. He took them with a grunt of approval. Next she produced a plastic bottle of water. After he’d swallowed his three pills she took two and then stood brushing grass from her backside.

‘I’m going to take a walk to try and warm up a little.’

She jumped over the stream and walked off through the trees, slipping a little on the frozen earth.

‘Don’t go far,’ he called.

She waved in acknowledgment. He was a little amused by her attitude since they had started the journey. She was determined to show how tough and reliable she could be, woman or not.

Woman she certainly was. His eyes followed her as she stepped over a fallen log. Underneath her thick anorak she was wearing well-tailored slacks and they accentuated the curves of her waist and hips. He suddenly remembered how his hand had cupped her breast in the compartment. He could feel the warmth and softness and curve of it even now. Just as suddenly he recalled his reaction when he had first met her. How he could only visualise her in a nun’s habit. In a way it was still true. When he tried to think of her sexually the tailored slacks and the limbs they moulded disappeared amid loose ankle-length white. But the feel of her breast in his hand was still warm.

She came back in fifteen minutes from down the hill, her face slightly flushed from the exertion. ‘I climbed to the top,’ she panted. ‘I could see Blovice. It’s a tiny and beautiful village, white houses and red roofs, and the steeple of an old church.’

He was about to tell her that the church would long since have ceased to serve a religious purpose when they heard the sound of a car.

He stood up and they watched an old grey box-shaped Skoda bump up the cart track. It stopped fifty metres away, close by the copse. A small man stepped out. He wore brown corduroy trousers, a large overcoat, and an old soft brown hat. He retrieved a knobbled walking stick from the back seat and then strolled towards them looking fondly around him. As he came closer they saw that he was in his middle or late sixties with a leathery, very lined face and small crinkled eyes.

Those eyes spotted them in the trees and he waved his stick cheerfully in greeting and called out, ‘Hello there. What a lovely day for a walk.’

‘Come on,’ Mirek said and picked up the duffle bag. As they walked out of the copse he said to the man, ‘Yes, but it’s very cold among the trees.’

The man’s face wrinkled even more as he smiled and held out his hand.

‘Ah, my nephew Tadeusz and niece-in-law, Tatania. I’m so pleased you’ve arrived safely.’

He shook Mirek’s hand warmly and embraced Ania and kissed her on both cheeks in a greeting befitting relatives who have been long parted.

‘How well you look.’ He chatted happily as he shepherded them to the car. ‘Your mother is well, Tadeusz, and that old dragon Alicja?’

‘Very well, Uncle Albin. They send their love - and how is Aunt Sylwia?’

‘Ah, the same, always the same; never gives me a moment’s peace. She has a little arthritis now but nothing too bad.’

In the car with Mirek in the front passenger seat and Ania in the back, the man’s attitude changed from relaxed cheerfulness to brisk efficiency. He quickly unlocked the glove compartment and took out a large, well-used leather wallet. He handed it to Mirek saying, ‘Your papers. Please check them carefully.’

Mirek flipped open the wallet and went through the papers thoroughly while going through a mental check list. It was complete. They were all there. Passports for Tadeusz and Tatania Bednarek, both properly stamped and signed with the signatures they had practised. Identity cards, return train tickets from Warsaw to Brno via Breslau with the outward section neatly clipped to denote use. Some old letters from a couple of friends. His pass for his place of work, the Pluch tyre factory. Her pass for the Kucharska clinic. Current ration coupons with the last dates stamped three days before. Everything was there exactly as Father Heisl had told them. Mirek knew that some of the papers would be genuine and others master forgeries. With all his experience in the SB he could not tell which was which. This gave him a surging feeling of relief and confidence.

‘Perfect,’ he said, closing the wallet and tucking it into his pocket.

‘Good.’ The man started the car and they bumped off. ‘I’ll drive slowly. Your train into Brno was half an hour late and in this old thing even a maniacal driver like me couldn’t be expected to cover the distance in under two hours. By the way, your suitcases are in the boot. Leave that bag in the car and I’ll fetch it out after nightfall . . . Our little cottage is on the outskirts but in a small village all eyes are curious. Especially when strangers are involved.’

Mirek was about to ask him when he had arrived in Blovice but then checked himself. Father Heisl had stressed that no one down the pipeline would ask them questions of that nature and neither should they. He knew that the cover for this old man and his wife, or surrogate wife, was that he was a retired electrician from Prague of Polish extraction who had rented a cottage in a small village in the countryside to see out their remaining years. As soon as Mirek and Ania had passed up the pipeline the man and his wife would decide that village life was, after all, too quiet for them. They would pack up, say their farewells and disappear.

The old man turned and glanced at Ania. ‘Are you very tired?’

‘No, Uncle Albin.’ She chuckled. ‘I slept all the way . . . I am hungry.’

‘Don’t worry, little one, your Aunt Sylwia will fill you up.’

Perversely Mirek felt an edge of irritation at the old man’s choice of endearment. He was small and probably weighed less than Ania. Also it was hardly necessary to keep up their cover when they were alone. Brusquely he said, ‘Is everything ready? When do we leave Blovice?’

They had come to the end of the cart truck. Albin waited until he had turned on to the tarred road and speeded up a little before answering. He glanced at Mirek and said tonelessly, ‘Everything is prepared. Tomorrow you will rest up. In the afternoon take a stroll with us in the village and have a Slivovice in the café. It would be expected. The next morning we leave on our little tour. First the museum in Brno. It is worth seeing, I’m told. Then we shall drive to Ostrava and spend the night in a small hotel. The next day we shall have lunch in one of the tavernas and then drive through to Dieszyn, where you take the train.’

They were approaching the village now, passing a few small farmhouses. There were several people in the fields tending vegetables. One by one they looked up as the car passed. Traffic was a rarity here off the main road.

Ania could see the spire of the church ahead. She asked, ‘Is the church still in operation?’

Albin answered angrily. ‘You must be joking. It’s been a transit warehouse for grain these past twenty years. These Communists are worse than animals!’

He spoke with such vehemence that Mirek guessed he was deeply religious. Perhaps even one of the secret priests who risked more in this country than any other.

‘We are here,’ the old man said and pulled up at a small cottage beside the road.

They climbed out of the car and Albin went round to the boot. The cottage was a simple two-up, two-down. It had a little patch of garden in front, a wicket gate and a concrete path leading to the front door. It opened and a smiling woman bustled out. She was the antithesis of her husband, tall, plump, smooth-skinned and looking about ten years younger. She was wearing a black dress and cardigan with a beige apron. She hurried down the path, opened the little gate and made a big fuss of greeting Mirek and Ania, hugging and kissing them. She took Ania with her up the path, while Mirek helped Albin unload the two cheap suitcases. He looked down the street. Across the street an angular old man was walking a scruffy looking little dog. It lifted its leg against a tree. The old man waited patiently, his eyes on Mirek.

Inside, the little cottage looked exactly what it was. A temporary abode. The furniture was sparse and cheap, all second-hand; but the aroma coming out of the kitchen told tales of hearth fires, old copper pots and pans and earthenware pottery.

Sylwia took charge.

‘Pour them a drink,’ she commanded Albin, picked up the two suitcases and said to Ania, ‘Follow me, Tatania.’

She led Ania up the steep wooden staircase and pointed with her chin to a door at the top. ‘Toilet and shower. Sorry, no tub, but the water’s hot and at least it’ll warm you up.’ She turned right, put down one of the suitcases and opened another door. Ania followed her into the room.

The room was small and overcrowded. There was a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, one white cane chair and the piece of furniture that took up most of the room: a double bed with a pink duvet; and a small electric fire with one bar glowing. As she looked at the bed Ania felt her heart sink. The older woman saw her expression and immediately understood. She said, ‘Oh God . . . you are not really married . . . We were not told.’

‘It doesn’t. . . doesn’t matter,’ Ania stammered.

Sylwia put the suitcases onto the bed and said, ‘Listen, I’ll talk to Albin. He can sleep in here with Tadeusz. You share my room.’ She gestured at the bed. ‘The furniture was here when we arrived . . . They didn’t tell us.’

At first Ania felt relief but then guilt followed. She would have to face this situation in the future. Better to get it over with at the start. Better that she and Mirek should understand each other now, at the beginning. Better that she got used to his nocturnal proximity. Firmly she shook her head and smiled.

‘No, Aunt Sylwia. Stay with your husband. It will be all right.’

Sylwia gave her a dubious look. Something had told her that this girl was pure. She had seen it in others.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure. It’s better this way.’

‘All right. Now come down and have a drink and fill your stomach.’

* * *

Dinner was a rich vegetable soup followed by rabbit stew. Fat slices of home-baked bread accompanied it all. The conversation was pointedly not personal. It was political. Albin let it be known that he had recently visited Poland. Mirek was hungry for news, not of the broad issues but on the human level. They talked of Solidarity and the clamp-down; of shortages and bitterness; of the ever-rising hatred of the Russians; of the Church. The conversation about religion puzzled Albin immensely. Before dinner as they sat around the steaming platters he had glanced at his guest pointedly and then lowered his head. Immediately his wife and Ania had followed suit. He had said a simple prayer. At the periphery of his vision he had seen Tadeusz’s head erect, a slight sneer on his face. Now as they discussed the situation of the Church in Poland and the Polish Pope in Rome, the old man was astonished at his young guest’s insight and knowledge. He was disquieted. Mirek discussed the Church much as one would debate the workings of a party. He was intimately familiar with the structure and the personalities. With the state of Party-Church relations and the pressures that were building on both sides. He debated in a slightly arrogant manner, as though from superior and inside knowledge. Albin glanced occasionally at the girl. She ate silently; the cast of her face was sombre. Once in a while she raised her eyes as Mirek made a point. Finally she interjected to change the subject. She asked Sylwia, ‘Where did you find such a plump rabbit?’

Sylwia smiled with pleasure. ‘From a local farmer. There is much bartering in the village. Firewood for vegetables, tomatoes for cooking oil, and so on.’ She pointed at the pot. ‘For two rabbits I exchanged half a side of best bacon.’

‘But where did you get the . . . ?’

Mirek coughed sharply, cutting off Ania’s sentence. He glanced at Albin who was studying the end of his fork with great care.

Ania was bewildered but then understood. The Bacon Priest had visited these parts recently. She smiled at Sylwia and said simply, ‘Rabbit stew is one of my favourite dishes. I have never tasted it so well cooked; but there is something in it I can’t quite define. A little sharp on the tongue. It gives it a richness.’

Sylwia smiled at her husband and said, ‘I learned to cook rabbit stew from Albin’s mother. She came from the far north - Lebore. There they always put a little ginger in the stew.’

‘That’s it!’ Ania exclaimed.

The two women started discussing recipes. Albin took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to Mirek. On an impulse Mirek took one. It had been a month since he had smoked. The tobacco was coarse, the smoke acrid, but he inhaled hungrily. The old man surveyed him through the smoke. Mirek had the impression that he was disapproved of; for some reason that unsettled him. It should not have. This couple were merely a cog in the wheel. A pawn to help create an opening and move the queen on. The old man should have mattered nothing, but for reasons he couldn’t define Mirek did not want his disapproval. He leaned towards him and under the voices of the two women said softly, ‘I . . . we are very grateful for your help . . . for your hospitality.’