by Anna Patrick
‘Bravo. Encore.’
The leading actress spotted him and curtseyed towards the young fan giving them a standing ovation. From that day his only ambition was to become an actor and play to audiences throughout the land.
Marek, however sympathetic he was to his brother’s dreams, put his foot down and insisted on proper qualifications first. Many late into the night arguments followed.
‘Yes, I appreciate art is important, even vital to life. It is indeed the expression of our nation’s soul… I am aware of all that. What neither of us knows is whether you have the talent to make it your career.’
‘But there’s only one way to find out, and that’s letting me try.’
‘Not without something to fall back on. I don’t want to deprive you of finding joy in your work. That’s the last thing I want.’
Ludek blushed to be pursuing his argument when his brother loathed his job, but reasoned there was no point in both being miserable.
‘If I don’t make it, I will find another career. I want to earn my living and not rely on you for the rest of my life.’
Marek sighed. These endless discussions exhausted him.
‘University is a must. If you train as an actor, you will miss the opportunity to get a degree forcing you into a rubbish job with too little money to enjoy anything, let alone the theatre.’
Inspired, he tried a different tack.
‘As you’re such an argumentative so and so, why don’t you study the law? With a legal degree you can try acting and if that doesn’t work out you can perform in the courts. Everyone says you need to be a convincing actor to be a successful lawyer whether you’re trying to defend a criminal or prosecute one.’
His brother’s lips twitched as he considered the idea.
‘I have faith in you, little brother, but I also need to see you established in a career. You see that, don’t you?’
But Ludek was already in court. Your Honour, this long and painful case would have strained the patience of Job. Brother Marek here insists on a career in the law while this beating heart desires artistic freedom like a flowering plant seeks water. He continued in this vein while he strutted, gesticulated and moved the judge to tears. When he finished, the room was empty.
‘You win,’ he whispered, rubbing his hands together and grinning.
After university, he trained as an actor and proved talented enough to enjoy regular work and favourable mentions by theatre critics. All the reviews and souvenir programmes, listing his name alongside the famous actors of the pre-war period, lived in a suitcase under the bed.
The occupation ended all artistic or intellectual employment and he was lucky to get manual work. Ironically, a carpenter who used to build stage sets found him the job.
At home he found Marek reading a book in the bedroom they now shared to maximise the income from lodgers.
‘What’s happened? Your face is ashen.’
‘It’s Tusik. The Gestapo arrested her this morning, and it’s all my fault. Oh Marek, I’m such a bloody fool.’ Hands gripped the bedstead as he stood shaking.
‘Tell me what’s happened.’ Seated on the bed, they could have passed for twins, having the same strong chin, long straight nose and high forehead.
Between sobs and self-recrimination, Ludek related the whole sorry story.
Marek paced the green walled room, frowning and chewing his lips. After all these years protecting his brother, he was helpless. Just hearing the word Gestapo knotted his stomach and made him sweat.
Could he send Ludek away? Could he hide him somewhere until the situation became clear? But where? And would he go? He could be stubborn as hell and he was no longer a child. The thoughts swirled in his brain until he was nauseous with the effort of finding a solution.
Marta’s courage moved him. Much as he loved him, he didn’t think Ludek would cope well under interrogation. As he recalled her large brown eyes shining with intelligence and her sparkling wit, he calmed down. Please God, let her be lucky. As he prayed, a sense of peace flowed through him.
‘Marta is a resourceful woman who will never betray her love. Panic is the last thing she needs. You must go to work tomorrow as normal, behave as normal. Nobody must suspect anything. Do you understand?’
He nodded.
‘Now I will go to evening mass to pray for Marta. Do you want to come with me?’
That would hardly be normal, he thought, but he didn’t want to be alone in the apartment and if prayer could help then, whatever his thoughts about religion, he would kneel humbly and contritely and ask for God’s help and the Blessed Virgin Mary’s intercession.
Later that night, lying in his bed, he watched his brother kneel and recite the rosary. Marek had never married; never had a girlfriend. Was he destined for the priesthood? A vocation would explain his monastic lifestyle. He would have to ask him, but no sooner had the question formed itself in his head, he fell into an exhausted and dreamless sleep.
The next morning he set off for the mill with the warning to behave normally at the forefront of his mind. He greeted the foreman, checked the work schedule and settled down to machining planks of wood, careful to go neither too fast nor too slow. The order was for crates again.
When he started at the mill, he assumed the crates were for weapons or machine parts to send to the front and considered ways of sabotaging the finished product. The prospect of a crate coming apart as it was being loaded onto a lorry or rail wagon, perhaps damaging the contents beyond repair, amused him. He speculated on whether the man nailing the planks together shared similar thoughts; in reality both jobs lacked the complexity to mask any deliberate faults in production or assembly.
When he discovered they were using the crates to transport art works into Germany, his attitude changed. He wanted none of the country’s heritage damaged, because one day this madness would end and they would get back the plundered paintings and sculptures, porcelain and silverwork.
‘What’s up, Golab?’ The foreman raised his voice above the sound of machinery.
‘What do you mean?’ said Ludek, not looking the foreman in the eye.
‘It’s nearly nine o’clock and you haven’t tried to sneak off for a quick smoke.’
‘Ha,’ said Ludek with a laugh. He finished machining the plank and inhaled the scent of fresh wood.
‘Like a fool I finished my cigarettes last night, so I’m stuck without until I can nip out during the break.’
‘Must be why your hands are shaking like that.’
He thrust them into his pockets.
‘Here, take one of mine. I know what it’s like to be desperate for a fag. Be quick though.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’
An outside toilet doubled as a smoking hut and he lit up and inhaled the smoke; tension eased and made him lightheaded.
As he knelt in church the previous night, he vowed to give up smoking, partly as a sacrifice so that, God willing, they would release Marta and partly to afford cigarettes for the parcels he intended to send. Now he realised he would have to keep smoking, at least at work, to avoid the withdrawal symptoms he’d displayed this morning. This conclusion didn’t afford him any pleasure, however; he would have much preferred to make a clean break and suffer wholeheartedly.
With a packet of cigarettes purchased from the local kiosk during his lunch break, the rest of the shift passed without incident. As he walked home, Marta’s plight loomed large; tears welled up, and he clenched his jaws to master himself. Not for the first time since her arrest he considered the premonition haunting him for days beforehand.
He recollected his training: the emphasis was on reliability, on not letting colleagues down, on carrying out the task without considering the consequences. Like any army, they taught you to trust your superior officers: their plan was the right plan; they assessed all the risks and tested
all the components, human and mechanical.
Once the job was completed, you moved on. If disaster struck, then there were clear protocols to follow: he knew, for however long it took, he had to lie low; he knew he should make no attempt to contact anybody and that nobody would contact him until they confirmed the all clear; he knew drop-off points and hiding places would all be scrapped and new ones found. He knew all that, but he still didn’t know what he was supposed to do when his instructions said one thing and his heart said no.
He whipped round certain somebody had whispered the word betrayal in his ear. There was nobody behind him. He shook his head and moved on.
So what went wrong? What gave rise to the foreboding, to that gut-wrenching sensation that something wasn’t right? Were there clues he picked up without realising? He re-examined his last contacts with cell members and leader. Was there anything strange? Was that when the premonition started? And now insidious thoughts mushroomed: they wanted him arrested; he was to be a lure for the Gestapo while others escaped; it had all gone according to plan. Oh God, was he really the victim of such treachery? But then it wasn’t him, was it? It was Marta, his beloved, his soul-mate, his everything.
Ludek turned into the street where she lived and realised his mistake. He wasn’t afraid of being recognised; he had always taken such care when he visited Marta to enter and leave her apartment without being seen. He knew her landlady’s routine which changed little from day to day and anybody watching the building would have seen a variety of male visitors, not one of them looking as he did now. He had used his actor’s training to assume characters as different from one another as suggested by a change of gait or posture, a cap or a hat.
On the other side of the road, a Gestapo officer left the building, a black Mercedes parked outside. His mouth went dry as he glanced at him and hurried home.
7
Inspector Bauer paused at the bottom of the entrance steps and considered his next move. He turned to look up at the dilapidated building and wondered what secrets it held. Had he missed anything? A question he asked on every investigation.
The search of the prisoner’s rooms revealed little of importance; there were plenty of books lying around, a few clothes hanging in the wardrobe, several more scattered about the bedroom, a yellowing newspaper in the desk, several photographs of family or friends, but nothing to offend or incriminate, certainly nothing to suggest she was a member of the resistance.
A junior officer remained behind to collect the material he’d indicated while he headed back down to the landlady’s apartment. The door was ajar, and he smiled; most people would have shut it as quickly as possible after a Gestapo visit.
He found her sitting proud and tight-lipped in a hard-backed chair, still wearing her raincoat, as if she’d second guessed his intentions. She was an attractive woman, in her late forties or early fifties; her brown hair streaked with grey; her eyes a penetrating shade of amber.
Deciding against another long day at work, he tore out a page from his notebook and handed over his written instructions. She raised an eyebrow and with the slightest nod acknowledged his order. She replaced her coat on a hook in the hallway and held the door open.
Impressed by her quiet courage he said ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ respectfully before leaving her home.
His assistant came down the stairs carrying a box of evidence and stood waiting for Bauer’s orders.
‘Did you lock the door behind you?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good, put the box in the boot and we’ll be off.’
The next morning at ten o’clock precisely Mrs Wisniewska, accompanied by her parish priest, arrived at Pomorska Street. After a short delay they were both escorted to Inspector Bauer’s office.
‘Good morning,’ said the priest, in fluent though heavily accented German. ‘Father Michal Nowakowski from the Church of St Teresa. I hope you don’t mind my attending this meeting, but my knowledge of German might be helpful to you.’
‘We welcome any assistance offered to the Gestapo,’ replied Bauer, smoothly. He had been so convinced the landlady would turn up with her own translator he hadn’t bothered to organise one.
‘At this stage of our enquiries my interest is less in your parishioner than in her tenant, Marta Paciorkowska, even though that may change as more information becomes available.’
Bauer trusted the implied threat would ensure co-operation.
‘If you would translate my questions and your parishioner’s answers, we can proceed. When did Miss Paciorkowska become your tenant?’
‘About a year ago.’
‘Why did she move to your establishment?’
‘I didn’t enquire.’
‘That seems strange.’
‘Why? She was looking for an apartment and I had one available. It was a straightforward transaction.’
‘Don’t you check your tenants’ backgrounds or demand references?’
‘Not if they are Polish.’
‘What do you know about Miss Paciorkowska?’
‘She is a polite young lady who pays the rent on time and works on the trams. That’s all I know.’
‘Did you know she also works as a prostitute?’
Bauer had maintained eye contact as his questions were being translated, but this one did not provoke the shocked response he expected.
‘No, I didn’t and I don’t believe it.’
This wasn’t immediately translated although Bauer understood the response well enough. The priest spoke to her in Polish.
‘Stop. As you are here to translate into German, kindly do so.’
‘Apologies, Inspector Bauer, I only added, as a priest to his parishioner, that we must not judge others.’
Curious, thought Bauer, she doesn’t believe it and yet he does.
‘I see. Tell me, Father, is Miss Paciorkowska your parishioner as well?’
‘No, not as far as I’m aware.’
‘Are there many prostitutes in your parish?’
‘I… I don’t know.’
He enjoyed putting this scrawny, bald priest on the spot.
‘Oh, but surely they come to you for confession, do they not?’
Bauer raised his hand to silence the priest as he protested about the sanctity of the confessional.
‘I’m not interested in what they say to you, merely pointing out you must have a feel for the number you deal with, purely on a professional, or should I say pastoral, basis.’
‘Well, maybe a handful of women have lost their way.’
‘A handful? What four or five? Less than ten?’
‘Yes, I would say less than ten.’
‘How many churches are there in Krakow? Ninety? A hundred? So you have something between nine hundred and a thousand women breaking the law in the capital of the Central Government. Perhaps we need to do something, what do you suggest Father? A suitable fine for each parish, how does that sound?’
The priest sat silent, chewing his lower lip, fearful of unleashing further retribution on his beloved church.
‘Well, leaving that aside for the moment, would you ask your parishioner when she last saw her tenant?’
‘Sunday morning.’
‘What time?’
‘Shortly before ten.’
‘That’s very precise.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she told me, she would be late for mass at the Church of the Holy Trinity which starts at ten.’
‘Was she a regular churchgoer?’
‘I would imagine so.’
‘Was she carrying anything?’
Mrs Wisniewska frowned, then closed her eyes trying to remember the encounter.
‘Yes, a brown paper parcel.’
‘Did she have many visitors to her apartment?’
; ‘No, I don’t recall seeing a single visitor.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as strange? A young woman with no visitors?’
‘Inspector, perhaps you are under the misapprehension I have nothing better to do than spy on my tenants. I lead my life while they lead theirs. As long as they pay their rent I leave them alone.’
‘And yet you seem unwilling to accept your tenant is a prostitute?’
‘Well, that would require visitors, wouldn’t you say?’
Bauer allowed himself a small smile.
‘So tell me about your life.’
‘I work for the butcher’s in Jacob Strasse. I start early and finish late unless the Gestapo come visiting.’
‘Would you have preferred us to break down the door to Miss Paciorkowska’s apartment? Some of my esteemed colleagues are keen on that approach.’
Mrs Wisniewska pursed her lips.
‘Please continue.’
‘On Sundays I attend early morning mass at St Teresa’s. Then I relax: take a walk in the park, read a book, listen to music.’
‘What does your job entail?’
‘Serving customers; scrubbing counters; sweeping floors; balancing the ledger. I do whatever needs doing.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Widowed.’
‘What did you do before?’
‘I was a teacher of mathematics.’
‘And your husband?’
‘He was a professor at the university. He died at Sachsenhausen.’
Aktion Krakau to rid the city of its intellectuals had prompted international protest and Bauer looked away as he cleared his throat.
‘Are we finished here?’
‘Not yet. How did you acquire your premises? I cannot imagine academic salaries would run to the purchase of a three-storey house.’