by Anna Patrick
‘Yes, don’t keep going on. When will I see you again?’ She took hold of his hands and entwined her fingers with his.
‘Tonight, I hope.’
‘How will I let you know I’m safe?’
‘Put something in the window. I’ll be able to see it from the street.’
‘Mm, I’ll put the green vase there. It’s tall enough.’
‘Oh God, if you do that, then I won’t know whether to laugh with joy at your safety or cry with shame at its ugliness. Why don’t you get rid of it?’
‘Because it’s not my vase as you very well know and I’m not about to pay money for replacing it, when my landlady notices it’s gone.’
‘What about a pile of your beloved books?’
‘Good idea. I might even do it tidily.’
‘Miracles, I don’t expect.’
They both smiled, acknowledging the one difference between them that threatened their domestic harmony.
Ludek moved away to the bed, reached under it and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.
She stepped back.
‘You brought it home last night?’
‘Yes, it was safer that way.’
Her face flushed as she glared at him. How dare he decide what was and wasn’t safe without consulting her?
‘I can’t believe I’ve been sleeping on a gun. What on earth possessed you? What if we’d had a police visit? Didn’t you think you were endangering both of us by bringing it here?’
‘Marta, this is who I am. This is what I do. It’s not a game. I endanger you every time I come here, more so when I spend the night. Would you prefer me to stay away?’
‘No, of course not.’ But she spoke through clenched teeth and her arms tightened their grip around her.
‘Have there been other parcels before?’
‘No.’
Her eyebrows shot up.
‘Trust me, there have been no other parcels. Look, I had to think on my feet. There was a drunk next to the hiding place who was starting to attract the attention of the police. It really wasn’t the best time to say “Excuse me, Officers, may I leave this parcel here?” and then walk away.’
Ludek started prancing around the room, mimicking the actions of a polite fool, negotiating with the police before they frogmarched him away, one arm up behind his back. Annoyed as she was, she giggled, and the tension between them evaporated as quickly as it had developed.
He hugged and kissed her again.
‘Thank you for doing this for me. Now I’d better get moving before your landlady returns. Good luck, my darling, I’ll be with you the whole time.’
Ludek checked papers and other belongings and glanced round the room to make sure he’d left nothing.
The door closed, and she listened for him going down the stairs, but he was always so quiet she never heard his steps. She opened the drawers of her desk, scrambling through the contents: old notebooks, some receipts, an empty perfume bottle without a stopper, a fountain pen with a broken nib. Eventually, she found it: a small knitted bag containing a mirrored compact, lipstick and mascara.
Teeth brushed at the kitchen sink, she scraped the last bit of lipstick onto her finger and coloured her lips. She spat into the mascara tablet, mixed it around with the brush and applied it.
Satisfied with her appearance, she organised her belongings. Identification papers fitted into one pocket, cigarettes into the other. She rummaged around her bag for some coins; she thought she might treat herself to a coffee at one of the local cafés when the pick-up was complete. Then she draped the cardigan around her shoulders, ran across to the desk and picked up a small box of matches she had been given by a friend visiting Berlin before the war; it bore the name of a famous nightclub and featured a stylised black cat winking against a red background.
Perfect, she thought, picked up the parcel and left. As she ran down the stairs, she kept having to stop to adjust her cardigan as it slipped off her shoulders. Exasperated, she came to a halt and put it on just as the door to one of the ground floor apartments opened.
‘Miss Paciorkowska, do you have a minute?’
Damn, thought Marta, just my luck.
‘Mrs Wisniewska, you must forgive me, I’m in a terrible hurry and I think I’m going to be late. Mass is at 10 o’clock at the Church of the Holy Trinity, is it not?’
‘Oh, well, yes, I believe it is. Another time, perhaps?’
Marta smiled her most charming and regretful smile and left the building feeling a little guilty at her duplicity although glad she hadn’t lied. After all, she argued with herself, I didn’t say I was actually going to mass at the Holy Trinity. Head held high, shoulders back, she walked briskly, overtaking dawdlers, until she reached the Planty, a green walkway of seamless gardens and open spaces encircling the old town. Krakow was busy with families and especially the elderly making their way to church and for a moment she felt a pang of regret that she wasn’t joining them.
She and Ludek no longer practised their faith; the Pope’s unwillingness to condemn Hitler and the atrocities he was inflicting on their country appalled them both, but even before that, they had vigorously debated religion in all its forms and even questioned the existence of God.
She pondered how crises seemed to affect people in opposite directions: some turning to the figure of Christ on the cross for comfort while others rejected, with bitterness and anger, the very notion of a loving Creator. But she couldn’t completely abandon a faith she had been brought up in and which had sustained her in difficult times; she wondered, ruefully, if her own rejection of religion wasn’t down to laziness and enjoying an extra hour in bed.
Once inside the Planty, she walked straight to the rendezvous, chose an empty bench and sat down. There was plenty of time. Nobody appeared to be looking for her. A light breeze caught a strand of hair and blew it into her eyes. She moved it aside and thought about Ludek and the love they shared.
She grinned. The party was buzzing when he walked in, but she noticed him straightaway. Had it been love at first sight? It certainly seemed that way to her, but wait, now she thought about it, she remembered that when they had first been introduced, the attraction, on her part at least, had not been instantaneous. He was handsome enough, blond with sparkling eyes that held your attention, but she remembered thinking he was flawed by a receding hairline which lengthened his face.
Yet, within minutes, she was entranced and would have argued he was perfection itself. Intelligent, funny, sensitive, he made her laugh and made her think and unsettled her in every way. The conversation ranged from literature to art to politics to religion and back again. They talked for hours, sometimes on their own, sometimes inveigling friends to agree with the points they were making: ‘Andrzej listen to this nonsense, Tusik claims….’ or ‘Wanda, can you believe Ludek has never read…’ It was intoxicating and when, in the early hours of the morning, Ludek took hold of her hand they had both leapt apart, so electric was the connection between them.
They left the party together and never seemed apart. She marvelled at the way she sensed his presence even when he wasn’t there. He was her twin, her soulmate.
The bells from a nearby church struck the hour. Engrossed in happy memories she took a moment to remember why she was sitting in the park with a parcel on her lap. She wanted a cigarette and as she reached into her pocket saw them: two Gestapo officers walking towards her, unmistakable even in their civilian clothes.
2
She froze. Heart pounding, ears thrumming, she took deep breaths. So this was it. Ludek had been right. There had been a tipoff, a leak in security, who knows what human frailty or deliberate evil. She would have to brazen it out.
‘Papers.’
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she replied politely in German, reached into her pocket for her papers and handed them over. With
a pleasant smile, she continued to calm her breathing and appear unconcerned.
The older man, mid to late 50s, had a natural air of authority. He wasn’t tall and showed signs of middle-aged spread, but his posture was good and there was an economy in his movements that made him appear calm, unruffled by life’s vicissitudes. The younger one, still suffering from acne, towered over him. He belonged in a classroom; long limbs and a scowling face beneath an unruly mop of hair added to the impression of a schoolboy let loose to create havoc with his mates.
‘What’s in the parcel?’
‘I have no idea. It’s a present.’
‘A present? That’s a new one,’ said the youngster with a cackle.
‘Hand over the parcel. Now come with us,’ said the older man.
‘Why? I haven’t done anything. My papers are in order.’
‘Be quiet.’ The younger man snarled.
‘We need to ask you some questions. I’m sure you would want to assist in our enquiries.’
‘Well, it’s not what I planned for my Sunday off, but if you insist.’
‘We do.’
She nodded by way of acquiescence and stood up. The men stepped either side of her and they left the park. A black Mercedes was waiting in the street and they manhandled her into the back.
The car moved swiftly through the streets. The musty smell of leather mingled with unwashed armpits as she sank into the leather seats and looked through the windows. Two German officers, talking on a street corner, turned to look, but most people ignored the car and its occupants.
‘Goodness, there’s Halina. I haven’t seen her for ages.’ Marta beamed and tried to peer round the guard to see her imaginary friend. He did not react and did not even glance at her.
The car turned into Pomorska Street and stopped outside a tall, five-storey building: Gestapo headquarters. Before the war students from Upper Silesia used to live there and filled the rooms with talk and laughter, arguments and passion.
‘Get out.’
She did so, without undue haste, smoothed down her skirt and looked at the building with as much interest as if she were being escorted on a sightseeing tour.
‘Don’t forget the parcel,’ she said, turning and smiling at the older man who was carrying the box.
‘Get inside.’
The younger man led her across a hall furnished with swastika banners to a door marked “Duty Officer”. He knocked and marched inside. Heil Hitlers echoed into the hall. The older man scrutinised her, head at a slight angle.
Minutes later she stood before a uniformed officer and looked around the room, maintaining an air of insouciance. Instinct told her not to show fear.
‘Full name?’
‘Marta Antonina Paciorkowska.’
‘Address?’
She gave it and sighed.
‘Date of birth?’
‘29th of September 1919.’
‘Religion?’
‘Exactly as stated on my papers.’
‘Answer my questions without your arrogance, Polish bitch.’
She straightened and lifted her chin as he completed the paperwork.
‘The charge?’
‘Carrying weapons for the resistance.’
‘What?’
Her eyes popped and her head shot forward as if she couldn’t believe her ears.
‘What are you saying? I’m not in the resistance. Show me the parcel.’
Her voice was getting louder; her hands had come up to her chest and were forming fists as if she would fight them.
‘Shut up.’
The uniformed officer got up and yelled. He must have been twice her size, but she stared him down and said through clenched teeth:
‘I am not and never have been in the resistance.’
This much was accurate and she hoped her words rang true to their ears.
‘I insist you show me the parcel.’
The older man continued to look. She held his gaze with grim determination. After a long pause, he reached over for scissors, cut the string and revealed a box of chocolates made by the renowned Polish firm, Wedel.
‘There, see. What a waste of time. Resistance indeed.’
Without taking his eyes off her, he opened the lid of the box and offered her the contents.
‘Chocolate, young lady?’
‘Thank you.’ Marta smiled at him and looked down at the selection to find a handgun wedged into the box.
‘Oh, my God. I don’t believe it. Tell me it’s not true.’ She stared at the gun and shook her head, mouth gaped open.
‘What do you want to do Inspector?’ asked the Duty Officer. ‘I can send her over to Monte and we can all get some Sunday rest.’
‘Thank you, Karl, but Henni has taken the children to visit relatives so there’s no hot meal waiting for me. I may as well start the investigation today.’
‘As you wish, Inspector. Take the prisoner.’
The youth gripped her arm and pulled her out of the room.
‘Let go. I am not a criminal and have nothing to fear from your questions.’
He pushed her into an adjoining room where a civilian blinked rapidly at the sight of them.
‘Photographs and prints and be quick about it.’
‘Of course, Sir. At once, Sir.’
The clerk, a slight figure of a man in his mid-forties, collided with the furniture and dropped things as he prepared the equipment. She stared at him. What hold did they have over the poor creature? He asked her to face to the front, to the side and then in-between. When she hesitated, uncertain of his meaning, he reached up with feminine hands and with a soft touch moved her head to give a three quarters view.
Photographs taken, he indicated the ink pad. His actions mesmerised her as he inked each digit and transferred the image onto a printed sheet. It was a strangely intimate procedure.
‘Finished, Sir.’
The youth nodded his approval, took Marta roughly by the arm and marched her along before kicking open the door to a small room. The sickly sweet smell of blood tinged with something more acrid pervaded the air.
‘Dear God in heaven, what have you done to people in here?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he said before locking the door.
Tears welling, she noted the stains on the walls, on the floor, on the table, everywhere. She knew only too well what they did to people in here.
‘Dear God,’ she whispered. ‘Be with your people in their hour of need.’
Then she took hold of herself. This is deliberate, she thought. This is designed to break you before they have even started. You must take control of the situation. She closed her eyes, focused her thoughts on Ludek’s face and his heart-melting smile and forced herself to relax.
A desk stood in the room, two wooden chairs on one side, a metal one on the other. She pulled out a wooden chair and crossed her legs. Cigarette lit, she breathed what little nicotine it contained deep into her lungs and positioned the packet and the box of matches on the table.
She heard footsteps in the corridor, but they passed by her door. She was halfway through her cigarette and deep in thought when she heard the door being unlocked and the Inspector walked in. He halted and covered his mouth.
‘Wait here.’
Sounding exasperated, he left the room and shouted down the corridor.
‘Guard the prisoner while I go to the office.’
Many minutes passed before he came back, accompanied by a different uniformed officer and an elderly peasant woman dressed in black from headscarf to flat shoes. The poor woman looked terrified.
‘Clean it.’ The officer pointed at the table.
Nothing happened.
He shouted the order again and whipped out his pistol, pointing it at the shaking woman.
&nb
sp; ‘May I translate?’ Marta asked the Inspector and at a nod did so.
‘They want you to clean the table.’
The woman made a hurried sign of the cross and whispered, ‘What with?’
She shrugged as she removed her stuff from the table. The woman hesitated, took off her headscarf and proceeded to wipe down the table, spitting at the stains as she bustled round.
Marta saw the horrified expression on the officer’s face and had a sudden urge to laugh. How ridiculous he was, disgusted by one bodily fluid when he must know how the table had become stained with another. But the thought of the suffering people had undergone within these four walls sobered her instantly.
Finally, the officer appeared to be satisfied with the woman’s cleaning efforts and, after checking with the Inspector, told her to stop and get out.
‘You can stop now. You are free to go.’
‘May God protect you. I will pray for you.’ She made another sign of the cross and fled from the room.
‘Now, Miss Paciorkowska…’ The Inspector mangled her surname.
‘If you would be so kind as to sit opposite we shall proceed.’
Marta stubbed out the remainder of her cigarette on the floor and without saying a word moved across to the metal chair and again placed her cigarettes and the box of matches on the table. She watched as he sat down and settled his papers on the table.
‘My name is Criminal Inspector Bauer and I shall be in charge of this investigation.’
‘May I smoke?’
‘No, Miss Paciorkowska, you may not.’
The tone was stern, but he did not raise his voice as he again mispronounced her surname.
‘A cigarette would help mask the nasty smell in here and please call me Marta. It will be easier for you and I don’t mind. After all, you have given up your Sunday to interview me and it seems I have given up my Sunday to be interviewed, so we may as well make the situation as pleasant as possible.’
She knew she was taking a risk answering back, but the way he had behaved so far suggested a human being rather than the monsters she knew the Gestapo to be.
There was silence as he considered the matter.