In The Name of The Father (34 page)

Jerzy grinned through his beard. ‘In Cracow you stay at the house of Brigadier General Teador Navkienko, Irena’s father. She is there now preparing for your arrival. The good General is on official business in Moscow for the next two months. He is a widower and being a mean bastard doesn’t like to pay for a housekeeper. Irena looks after the place when he’s away. We have some good parties there and drink his best Nalewka vodka and replace it with rotgut. He’s never noticed the difference.’

Mirek smiled. ‘Do you have a fallback?’

‘Of course. Two apartments. They are safe and have been for two years. But not as safe as the house of a Brigadier General. . .’

‘And how long will we be there and how do we get to Warsaw?’

Jerzy flung out a hand towards Natalia. ‘You leave just as soon as Natalia here can persuade her dear papa that she needs desperately to go to Warsaw for a shopping trip. You will travel there by train.’

Mirek and Ania exchanged puzzled looks. The others were all grinning. Jerzy said, ‘You remember what Natalia’s father does?’

Mirek thought and then said, ‘Something in the railways?’

‘Not something,’ Natalia said. ‘He’s the Regional Director . . . Now how do you think such a man and his family will travel when he goes by train?’

From his past career Mirek did know.

‘In decadent luxury. A private carriage with its bedroom, kitchen, dining room and lounge.’

Natalia smiled sweetly. ‘Exactly. In daddy’s case it’s such a waste. He’s impatient and hates trains. He flies whenever he can. I use it quite a lot. It’s old and lovely. Paderewski used it when he was Prime Minister. It even has a baby grand piano in it.’

Ania had a look of disbelief on her face. Mirek was shaking his head in amazement.

Jerzy grinned at them through his beard and said, ‘Natalia is an only child and her father’s little darling. The way he indulges her is quite disgusting. He will hold out for a maximum of forty-eight hours.’

Ania asked, ‘And what if Natalia’s mother decides she wants to go along for the shopping?’

Natalia answered, ‘She won’t. Mummy hates Warsaw. Both her parents and two brothers were killed in that city by the Germans in the war. She’s never been back.’

Jerzy leaned forward. ‘It’s very safe. On several occasions we have taken shipments of our newspaper to Warsaw and other cities in that carriage. It works this way: the carriage is kept at a special siding. The station authorities are informed when it is to be used. They hitch it on to the end of a regular train. You will have already boarded at the siding. When the train reaches Warsaw the carriage is uncoupled and shunted to another special siding before the train enters the station, so you avoid normal security checks.’

Mirek’s shoulders were shaking as he silently laughed. He said, ‘No wonder you people haven’t been caught. What do you do when you want to fly somewhere? Borrow Jaruzelsky’s jet?’

Jerzy raised a finger. ‘Not bad. We hadn’t thought of that. Now you had better go and change your appearances. Need any help?’

‘No thanks. We’ll manage.’

Mirek and Ania stood up and left the room.

They were back twenty minutes later. Mirek walked in first. Jerzy was reading the paper. He looked up and for a second there was panic in his eyes, then he started nodding in appreciation. He continued nodding as Ania came in. The others started clapping and crowding around. Jerzy did the same, saying, ‘Had I not known, I wouldn’t have recognised you.’

Mirek looked fifteen to twenty years older. His moustache and hair were greying in a pepper and salt way. His face was fatter. His brown eyes were now blue. Ania, too, had aged. Her hair was mousy and much longer. Her face was also fatter and her body stouter.

‘Hell,’ Marian said. ‘It’s brilliant. The shape of your faces is different.’

‘It’s the pads we put into our mouths,’ Ania explained. ‘They take some getting used to . . . and make eating awkward.’

‘But not drinking!’ Jerzy said. ‘A vodka to warm us for the journey while Antoni sets up the camera. Meanwhile, we ought to make you look a little less square. After all, you are travelling with the
kacyki
and should look more the part. Marian, try to find some heavy jewellery for Ania. Bangles, long earrings and so on. Natalia, please fetch a couple of my silk scarves for Mirek, and a handkerchief. We’ll make him look a little foppish, like all the would-be poets we have in Cracow.’

* *.*

They passed through five road blocks on the journey. One each side of Rabka, another before Myslenice, the fourth at the junction of the Bielsko road and finally outside Cracow itself. The pattern became obvious to Mirek at the first one. He and Ania were travelling in the back seat of a Mercedes 380 SE. Marian was driving and Natalia sat next to her. They followed Jerzy and Antoni in the BMW.

At the first road block a young militia Corporal with a sub-machine gun slung over his shoulder approached the car. There were six of them working the waiting queue. Marian pressed the button to wind down the window and, before the militiaman could say a word, asked impatiently, ‘Is this going to take long? We’re in a hurry.’

The militiaman looked at the stickers on the window and took in the tone of her voice. Nervously he licked his lips.

‘No madam, but I have to see your IDs.’

With a sigh Marian turned her head and asked, ‘Did you happen to bring along your IDs?’

Mirek reached into his pocket and passed her his and Ania’s. Natalia was fumbling about in her handbag muttering ‘Bloody nuisance.’ Marian rummaged about in the glove compartment and finally found hers. Without looking at him she passed them all to the militiaman. From past experience Mirek could imagine what was going through his head. ‘Fucking
kacyki!
It’s people like me who keep the masses quiet so spoilt bitches like you in your fancy foreign cars can have a good time.’

Mirek guessed that he was also thinking, ‘But I wouldn’t mind giving you a good screw . . . and your friend.’

The militiaman asked, ‘And the purpose of your journey?’

Marian replied, ‘Returning to Cracow from my father’s villa on the lake.’

She stressed the words father and villa. The militiaman gave the papers a cursory glance then ducked down to look into the car.

Mirek assumed a bored expression and said to Ania, ‘I hope those books have arrived from Paris. I’m just dying to read the new Montague.’

She replied, ‘Oh, I think he’s become passé.’

Mirek shrugged and said, ‘You would, of course.’

The militiaman said, ‘You can proceed, madam.’

Marian took the ID cards from his outstretched hand without a word, tossed them into Natalia’s lap and pressed the button to raise the window.

As they pulled away she said, ‘That’s the best way to treat those people.’

Mirek said, ‘Would you have talked to an SB officer the same way?’

She smiled at him in the mirror.

‘No, I would have been slightly more polite . . . and if he was as handsome as you I might have fluttered my eyelashes at him.’

They entered the outskirts of the city in silence. For both Mirek and Ania it was an emotional time. She had left it as a young orphan. He had left as a fugitive. He was very much conscious of still being a fugitive. She was thinking of her long dead parents. She asked Marian, ‘Do you know where the Rakowicki cemetery is?’

Marian nodded. ‘Sure. My grandfather is buried there. It’s quite near to where we are going. Why?’

‘My parents are also buried there. They were killed in a car crash twenty-three years ago.’

Marian asked, ‘Do you want to visit their grave?’

Ania looked at Mirek. ‘Is it possible?’

Mirek pursed his lips and shrugged.

‘It might be dangerous.’

‘Nonsense,’ Marian exclaimed. ‘No one is going to recognise her and her papers are fine. I’ll drop you at the house and take her on.’

Ania was looking at Mirek hopefully. He sighed.

‘Do you really want to go?’

‘Yes, I’d like to put flowers on the grave . . . and say a prayer . . . It won’t take long.’

He agreed reluctantly, recognising how much it would mean to her.

They circled the centre of the city. Ania commented on the heavy traffic and the number of expensive foreign cars. Mirek laughed shortly.

‘It’s always been a mystery where they come from: black marketeers; returned emigrants, people with relatives overseas; and of course spoiled brats like the two sitting in front.’

Marian grinned at him in the rearview mirror and said mockingly, ‘I detect a note of jealousy. Wait till you see the house where we’re staying . . .’

Ten minutes later she turned down a side road and pulled up in front of a pair of iron gates set in a high stone wall.

Natalia jumped out and pulled a bell handle set into the wall. There were just a few pedestrians about. Mirek reached out a hand to Ania’s shoulder and pressed her down a little, at the same time sliding down himself, saying, ‘No point in being seen.’

Over the top of the seat in front he saw Irena on the other side of the gates. She waved and called a greeting. A minute later they moved through the open gates. Marian said, ‘The men are making a detour to check security in the city. They’ll follow in half an hour or so.’ She called to Irena, ‘Leave the gates open.’

It was an imposing old house at the end of a short gravel drive. Mirek climbed out and looked around with satisfaction. The high wall encircled the entire property and there were no houses that overlooked them.

‘You’ll be safe here,’ Marian said confidently. ‘And don’t worry. We’ll be back from the cemetery in half an hour.’

She got back into the car and Ania climbed into the front seat. Mirek leaned in the window.

‘Be careful, Ania.’

She touched his hand. ‘I will. I’m grateful, Mirek. I really do want to see the grave.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘But please don’t be long.’

He stood watching as the car crunched down the drive and then swung out into the road. Irena closed the gates and ran up and kissed him on both cheeks. He picked up his bag and she took his arm and led him into the house.

In the car Marian asked Ania what had happened to her after the death of her parents. Ania gave her a quick, potted autobiography.

‘And when did you leave the convent?’ Marian asked.

Ania hesitated and then replied, ‘Quite recently.’

‘So were you ever at this cemetery before?’

‘Yes, after the funeral . . . but I was only three. I left Cracow immediately afterwards and have never been back until now.’

‘Well, there it is.’ Marian pointed ahead with her chin and then quickly swung the car into a parking space that somebody else was trying to back a Skoda into. She laughed at the stream of invective directed at her by the frustrated driver and said, ‘The benefits of power steering.’ She pointed again through the windscreen. ‘That’s the office. They will show you on the map where the grave is. Over there are some stalls selling flowers. I’ll wait for you there.’

In the office an old woman opened a big register and ran her finger down several columns before muttering, ‘Yes, Krol. Husband and wife. Single gravestone. October 14th, 1960 . . .J. 14.’

She gave Ania a sheet of paper with a diagram of the cemetery on it. ‘Take this path and then turn right here. It’s in this section close to the west wall. The gates close at six. That’s in half an hour.’

Ania thanked her and went out and found Marian by the flower stall just paying for two big bunches of assorted flowers. She held one out.

‘Here. I’m sure you want to go by yourself.’ She held up the other bunch. ‘I’ll go and put these on my grandfather’s grave.’ She smiled. ‘If he’s up there watching that will sure surprise the old bastard . . . I’ll be waiting back at the car.’

Ania took the flowers gratefully. She knew that at this time of the year they would be exorbitantly expensive. It was a very cold day and she was glad of the fur coat, gloves and boots that Marian had lent her.

In recent years she had not thought so often of her parents. This had made her feel guilty enough to confess it to the Mother Superior who had been refreshingly blunt, pointing out that it was only natural that as her own life developed, those of others long dead would fade in her memory. She had also remarked that in Ania’s case this was even more natural as she had been only an infant at the time of their deaths. But now they were very much on her mind. Her memory did give her just an impression. Her mother, round-faced and cheerful and smelling of bread. Her father, dark and stern-faced but, emotionally, completely at her mercy. She knew that they had been poor but God-fearing people. She was now the same age as her mother had been when she died. She found that a strange thought.

There were very few people about. It was late and those in the cemetery, bundled up against the cold, were moving towards the entrance. They were mostly old. She came to the turn-off on the path and checked her diagram. The grave was on the right hand side, set back a few metres from the path. She had no memory of what the headstone looked like. The graves were tightly packed and it took her several minutes to find the headstone. It looked forlorn; small and overwhelmed by the granite and marble monoliths surrounding it. But after studying it she decided that it had dignity. The headstone was simple and unpretentious, as was the inscription. The slab of the grave itself was plain but clean. She crossed herself and laid the flowers at the foot of the headstone. With that action she felt a sudden emotional impact. There were tears in her eyes as she knelt and her voice quivered as she started to cry.

A hundred metres away, standing in a group of trees, SB Corporal Bogodar Winid was miserably stamping his feet against the cold, repeatedly glancing at his watch and cursing that he had pulled this particularly useless duty. He had been on it all day except for a one hour relief at lunchtime. No point in complaining. For more than two weeks now everyone on the force had been doing overtime. Besides, the extra money would come in useful. He glanced again at his watch. Only another ten minutes. For the hundredth time he looked across the cemetery towards the grave.