The Fourth Courier

by Timothy Jay Smith

  Her father, wiry with a full head of silver hair, turned a stiff neck and smiled at his daughter. How many false smiles had she interpreted, how many men had she dreaded, and here was a man who, with his loving smile, made men good again. She opened the gate. “Tata, this is my friend Jay,” she said in English.

  Mr. Wolnik set aside his clippers to shake Jay’s hand. “Welcome.”

  “Dzenkuje,” Jay thanked him.

  “You are American?”

  “Is my accent that bad?”

  “It was my job to know accents.”

  “Why are you outside, Tata? It is too cold.”

  “There’s too much hot air inside. You know how your mother likes to talk, and now Tolek can only talk about America. He thinks it will be so different, and easy. Is it?” he asked Jay.

  “Easy? No, I would not call America easy.”

  “Of course it is different,” the old man allowed, “but everywhere has problems. Sometimes the same problems. It’s impossible to convince Tolek.”

  “He has a dream, Tata.”

  “You think we didn’t have dreams, too? It’s not practical to dream when so much is uncertain. My wife is waiting, we should go inside.” The old man loosely tied his handkerchief around the rose hips and led them onto the porch. It swayed under their weight.

  Inside, the air was pungent with cooking cabbage that had steamed up the windows. A burly man in the corner was fiddling with a kerosene heater, and no sooner had Lilka introduced him as Tolek, her brother-in-law, than her mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She burst into a stream of Polish and kissed Lilka with loud smacking sounds. When Lilka introduced Jay, her mother, all atwitter, pulled him against her generous bosom and kissed his cheeks. “Amerykanin!” she cried. “Witamy!”

  “My mother-in-law is very excited to meet an American,” Tolek remarked.

  “I noticed.”

  “I’m Alina,” Jay heard, and turned to see Lilka’s sister in the kitchen door. Blue-eyed like her mother, she had a shy smile.

  “I’m Jay.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “Did Tadzu come too?” Lilka asked.

  “He stayed home to practice piano. He has a recital at school this week. We are very proud of him,” she told Jay, but a discreet glance at Tolek suggested she wasn’t sure about her husband.

  Martyna, as Lilka’s mother insisted he call her, organized her two daughters into carrying platters of food from the tiny kitchen. They crowded around a wobbly table with their knees touching. Everyone fell silent when the older woman crossed herself, closed her eyes, and said grace; rather, she started to say grace, which went on for so long that Mr. Wolnik gave up, poured vodka into his thimble-sized glass, and knocked it back in lieu of his “amen.” His wife scowled at him, but even that was good-natured, like everything about her, and a moment later she was exhorting them in English, “Eat! Eat!”

  Jay did, on a cold spring day feasting from a winter’s table of sauerkraut, sausage, and pickles, eating more than he thought possible, and not realizing more was to come: white borscht and veal, and a cake so sweet it made his teeth hurt. With each new dish, he conjured his best skills at pantomime to indicate that the food tasted wonderful, and Martyna chirped with pleasure, clapping and insisting that he drink more vodka. Through Lilka, she asked to know all the places he had traveled, and seemed to know something about each one, though she had been to none of them. Had he seen this church, or that icon, or visited the pilgrimage sites of saints and martyrs that she could describe in detail? Soon the first bottle of vodka was empty, and Mr. Wolnik fetched another from the cupboard.

  Everyone but Martyna spoke decent English, which they used for his benefit, only occasionally lapsing into Polish, and in those respites he had a chance to observe them. In the daughters he saw traces of their mother’s faded beauty, and in Tolek’s glances at Alina, his fretful love for her. From time to time, Mr. Wolnik cast a stern eye at his wife to check her boisterousness, which he never succeeded in doing. Martyna was a woman whose dreams had shrunk, but she could make enough of the dreams she still had.

  Jay said to Tolek, “Lilka says you hope to move to America.”

  “Yes,” Tolek said solemnly. “We hope to go soon.”

  “You’re an English teacher, is that right, Alina?”

  “I think that a native speaker would find me deficient.”

  “Not this native speaker. Would you teach English in America?”

  “Me to teach English in America? That is a funny idea.”

  “Trust me, we need teachers of all kinds.”

  “See, I told you,” Tolek said.

  “Tolek and Alina go to America,” Martyna attempted in her broken English. “I cry very much.”

  “What will you do in America?” he asked Tolek.

  “Anything.”

  “He is a scientist,” Lilka spoke up.

  “A scientist?”

  “I was a scientist. They closed the lab a couple of days ago.”

  “He’s a nuclear scientist,” Alina elaborated.

  “Nuclear? Really? Doing what?”

  “Mostly analyzing data from other studies. I’m on the Chernobyl team, or at least I was, studying the radiation’s effect on children.”

  “That sounds like important work.”

  “Apparently, not important enough.”

  “You must know Dr. Nagorski?”

  “Of course. We have met frequently. How do you know him?”

  Jay realized he should have anticipated that question and stumbled for an answer. “I’ve read articles that mention him,” he replied.

  “Lilka says you work at the American embassy,” Alina said.

  “I’m only here for a short time to help on a project.”

  “Maybe you could help with our visas?”

  “Alina!” Lilka said, shocked.

  “Does it hurt to ask for help?”

  Jay wondered if he had misunderstood something. “I thought you didn’t want to go to America?”

  “Tolek is determined to go. He won’t look for another job here. Will you?” she asked her husband accusingly.

  “To do what? Shine shoes?”

  “America’s streets aren’t paved with gold,” Jay told him.

  “At least they’re not paved with ex-communists.”

  “You only talk good about America and never about your own country,” the old man complained. “Things are changing here in Poland, too!”

  “Should I talk about your eleven-dollars-a-month pension?”

  “They raised it to thirteen.”

  “And you say I ask for too much?”

  “You do.”

  “Is it too much to want more than two kilos of sausage and a half day’s notice when they eliminate my job? My ‘important’ job?”

  An argument ensued in Polish, little of which Jay understood other than no one but Lilka thought Alina had breached a line in asking for his help. Certainly Jay did not. He’d walked enough of Warsaw’s gray streets and grim underground passages, glancing at the faces of passersby—each a map of a wounded country—and wondered if what he considered his rebelliousness, bred in America’s suburban comfort, could have survived what they had endured. Or would he have resigned himself to the half-empty glass of their existence? Tolek, apparently, had not.

  “Lukasz, more vodka!” Martyna commanded.

  Dutifully he splashed another round in their thimble-sized glasses, then lifted his and toasted, “To the Russian Navy!”

  “Do dna!” everybody but Jay shouted—To the bottom!—and knocked back their shots. They laughed at the popular joke, which Lilka translated for him, and for good measure drank a second round to sinking the Russian navy. Inevitably the conversation turned to the state of political affairs, which cheered no one. His bladder, too, was unhappy, and he looked around for the bathroom. He didn’t see one and asked where it was.

  “We go together,” the old man said.
/>
  They went outside and around to the back of the shack. Jay was surprised it was already deep twilight. They were at the top of a small rise that looked along a shallow valley checkered with garden plots. In the air were lazy threads of smoke from cooking fires. “We piss here,” Lukasz said. They stood beside each other, unzipped, and aimed for the garden. Their splatter was about the only thing they could hear until the argument started up again inside and Tolek’s fist hit the table with a growl.

  “Everybody fights now,” Lukasz grumbled, zipping up. “In the past, we knew what was possible. We didn’t need more.”

  Jay, made philosophical by the vodka, asked, “What about freedom? Free speech? The right to travel?”

  “You cannot imagine the end of the war. The Germans were very thorough. Freedom. What good is freedom in this place at such a time? More than ninety percent of Warsaw was destroyed. We needed food, houses, protection—but not too much of any of them. If they thought we had enough of something, they took some of it away. They always wanted us to work harder. Their five-year plan was to have another five-year plan. It was enough to keep alive. I suppose it is different in America.”

  “It’s different in America because we have freedom.”

  “Everything is different in America!” Tolek proclaimed, coming around the corner, three shot glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other. “Hopefully the women make more sense in America.”

  “Then I want a visa, too,” Lukasz joked.

  Tolek splashed vodka into their glasses. “I should apologize that my wife asked for your help.”

  “I’m not really part of the embassy,” Jay replied.

  “Lilka explained.”

  They tossed back those shots and Tolek poured more.

  “Can you help with their visas?” Lukasz asked.

  “Tata! What are you asking?”

  “He can quote your presidents. All of them.”

  “Not all of them, Tata.”

  “Most of them. Go on, quote Kennedy.”

  “Now you want me to go to America?”

  “Go on. He will appreciate it.”

  Tolek sighed, unhappy at being put on the spot, and felt foolish as he said, “‘We observe today not a victory of party, but a celebration of freedom—symbolizing an end, as well as a beginning …’” By the end, he never felt foolish at quoting such honorable words. “It is Kennedy’s inaugural address. I know the whole thing.”

  “He’s smart,” Lukasz said. “He could be the next American president. He already knows their speeches.”

  Tolek looked puzzled. “You’ve changed your mind, Tata?”

  “I think this is your home, but you go and find out.”

  For the first time the old man had sanctioned their departure for America. Tolek was deeply moved. His voice cracked when he said, “Thank you, Tata.”

  “I’ll ask at the embassy about your visas,” Jay offered. “Maybe I can help speed things up.”

  Lukasz held out his glass. “That demands one more vodka!”

  Tolek finished off the bottle, spilling almost as much on their fingers as he managed to get into their glasses. “To America!” he toasted.

  The three men raised their glasses in a moment of blurred camaraderie. “To America!”

  Down the hatch the last shot went. They were licking their fingers when Alina came around the corner, her teary eyes swollen. She slipped a hand under Tolek’s arm. “We should go. Mama is tired.”

  Lilka and her mother showed up next. Lilka frowned at the empty vodka bottle while handing Tolek a key. “Please don’t forget about the toilet.”

  “You see, I can be a plumber in America!”

  Everyone said goodbye with kisses and handshakes. “Moi kohani!” Martyna repeatedly exclaimed to Jay. Sweetheart!

  Tolek and Alina started down the lane. She held out her hand and he gave her the car key. They walked off, embracing, her head against his broad shoulder. They would go home and make love, it seemed certain.

  The path seemed longer and less navigable than Jay remembered, and he stopped frequently to admire the gardens in a ploy to sober up. When they reached Lilka’s car, she said, “You like Polish vodka too much.”

  “Too much tonight is right,” he agreed.

  They started back along the rutted road. Despite the chilly night, Jay rolled down his window for air. “I like your family,” he said and tried to touch the loose hairs on her neck.

  She slapped his hand away.

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to his hotel. She pulled into the circular driveway and stopped for him to get out.

  That was not how he had envisioned the end of their evening. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I did like your family. Can we have dinner tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “No is not the right answer. Try perhaps.”

  “No perhaps. No!”

  “No? Really no?”

  “Perhaps,” she relented.

  “I’ll take that for a yes.”

  He got out and she drove off.

  He staggered to the elevator, and from the elevator to his room. He made a quick pass through the bathroom before he undressed and slipped between the fresh starched sheets. He realized it was his own fault that he was alone between them. He thought about Lilka, imagining her next to him, remembering the tufts of hair on her neck. He imagined kissing her there. He thought of the many places he wanted to kiss her, and imagining his hand to be hers, he touched himself before rolling over and falling into a dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN JAY WOKE UP, HE wasn’t sure where he was. His suitcase lay open on a spare bed in the unfamiliar room. Light peeked around the edges of blackout curtains. He pulled them open to a view of Warsaw’s skyline. A nauseous memory flooded back of too much vodka the day before. Hangovers had a way of accentuating remorse, and he groaned aloud, already practicing his apology to Lilka.

  He was aiming for the bathroom when his telephone rang. He reached for it.

  “Porter here.”

  “Are you on a secure line?”

  “No. It’s a hotel line.”

  “Do you think anyone is listening?”

  “You reread 1984, didn’t you? If it’s urgent, say it fast, and maybe whoever is listening won’t catch it.”

  “Don’t mock your father.”

  “What time is it there?”

  “I think two.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Your mother and I just walked in the door getting back from DC.”

  “What’s wrong with the boys?”

  “Your mother and I are worried.”

  “You’re always worried. Tell me why this time.”

  “You lose children by twelve or thirteen. After that, if they’re lucky, they manage to rehabilitate themselves.”

  “Sorry, Dad. That was too fast for me. Is this about my missing Marty’s twelfth birthday?”

  “This is about a condom in her wastebasket.”

  “Why were you looking in Cynthia’s wastebaskets?”

  “It was open. Everybody could see it.”

  “At least she’s practicing birth control.”

  “I’m not going to tell your mother that you’re joking about this.”

  “What else?”

  “Where do you want to start? Unhappy kids or Cynthia?”

  “Kids.”

  “Brett’s getting taller. Big enough to win fights, so he picks them.”

  “And Martin?”

  “Backup on Brett. He’s been getting detentions.”

  “Brett or Marty?”

  “Brett! Aren’t you listening? I’m worried he’ll get suspended.”

  “He’s only ten years old.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Cynthia never told me.”

  “And she told the boys not to tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t want you to have any ammunition against her before the final custody h
earing. And where is Martin?” his father asked rhetorically. “Even if he’s in the room, he’s not there. He has become totally withdrawn. His Little League team is playing in the regional championships at the end of next week. It would mean a lot to him if you went to the game.”

  “That depends on the situation here.”

  “He’s threatening not to play.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re not here. I overheard him tell Brett.”

  “Why?”

  “Kids often blame themselves when their parents split up. It’s a way to punish himself.”

  “Dad, please. I feel guilty enough as it is.”

  “James, you weren’t the problem in your marriage.”

  “We didn’t have a problem in our marriage. Cynthia had a problem with my job.”

  “She definitely has problems now. I took pictures to prove it.”

  “Pictures of what?”

  “A condom. Marijuana paraphernalia everywhere. Plus the place was a pigsty.”

  “Cynthia never was very neat.”

  “Try squalor. You know, I’m not a fuddy-duddy about sex or marijuana or anything people want to do that’s between them, but I don’t think these things should be done in front of children. I’ll get the photos printed and send them to you.”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Show them to the judge, of course. You need to fight for at least joint custody.”

  “Was it legal taking photos inside her house?”

  “You work for the FBI. You tell me.” His father hung up.

  Jay, worried about his sons, was grateful that his dad was pitching in when he couldn’t be there himself. Given the demands of a nuclear scientist during the Cold War, his father had missed many of Jay’s school events and birthdays. Jay had been determined not to miss his own sons’ special events. But there he was in Poland, missing his older son’s birthday, essentially still fighting Cold War battles. He could better appreciate the work pressures that had been on his father, though it didn’t make his own absence any easier.

  CHAPTER NINE

  GENERAL DRAVKO MLADIC IMPATIENTLY TOED the yellow line while the passport officer argued with a woman who had slung a baby under her arm like the potato sacks she was probably used to carrying. The baby shrieked pitifully and the general turned away, wearied by the desperation of its little claws scratching at its mother’s coat. He pulled his passport from his pocket and was bored enough to study his own identity. Born: 17/01/1943. Birthplace: Beograd. His photo showed a much younger man, but then, passport photos bore false witness to anyone’s age.