In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  It was as though he had been glued to that ladder. They had to prise his fingers from it. The driver was old but strong. The farmer was younger and strong; his son stronger still. It took all three of them to lift him bodily through the hatch and lower him to the ground, then half carry him to the barn.

  Now wrapped in three blankets and a quilt, with his feet in sheepskin boots, the circulation slowly returned to his body. Painfully he exercised his fingers. The barn door opened and a moment later the farmer peered over the bales. He had a long pointed nose and thinning brown hair combed straight back. He looked like an avaricious ferret but he smiled pleasantly enough and lifted a metal canteen on to the top bale and a hunk of crusty bread.

  ‘Get that inside you. It’s beef broth, home-made. It’ll warm you from the inside and put you right. Then try and sleep. We leave at ten o’clock. That’s in three and a half hours.’

  The head disappeared and, with a muffled groan, Mirek pushed himself to his feet. He prised the top off the canteen and a moment later was drinking what he decided was the best soup in the world. There must have been over a litre of it. He drank it all, washing down chunks of bread. Then he lay down on the straw and tried to sleep.

  It was impossible but he did doze a little and when the farmer came back he still ached all over but he felt rested.

  The night was dark and cold. Both the farmer and Mirek were dressed in black clothing. Black scarves were adjusted over their faces. The five-metre wooden rowing boat was painted black. Only the white licence numbers showed. The farmer draped a black cloth over them. He was confident and reassuring. He pointed at some distant lights on the lake.

  ‘Polish fishing boats.’ He tapped the globe of the light moving from a framework at the stern of his boat. ‘If we’re stopped the story is that the connection from the gas tank to the light is faulty. We’re heading for the other boats to see if anyone has a spare. Your papers are good. Leave all the talking to me.’

  He took Mirek’s bag and dropped it in the stern, then he sucked his forefinger, held it up high and grunted in satisfaction.

  ‘What wind there is will be astern. We should be there in about two hours. In you get.’

  Mirek scrambled in and sat at the stern with his bag at his feet. The farmer cast off from the small jetty, climbed in and pushed off. Quickly he unshipped the oars and set them in the heavily padded rowlocks. The oars were long and heavy.

  Mirek whispered, ‘I’ll take my turn rowing.’

  From behind his scarf the farmer said emphatically, ‘No, you won’t. On a night like this the only way we’ll be detected is by the splashing of an oar. Even if you were an Olympic rowing champion I wouldn’t let you do it - not in this boat.’

  Mirek noted that he was stroking the heavy oars through the water with scarcely a ripple. At the beginning of each stroke the blades turned to a fine angle as they slid into the water.

  The farmer explained their route. They would contour the shoreline about four hundred metres out. There was one Polish and one Czech patrol boat. Some nights they were out and some nights they were not. They always kept to the centre of the lake, looking for unlicensed fishing boats. The Polish boat was not much of a problem. The two-man crew usually just drifted and drank vodka.

  Finally the farmer said, ‘I assume you’ve got a gun in that bag. If we’re challenged you drop it straight over the side, understand?’

  ‘Sure,’ Mirek replied. He had no intention of doing so. Nor was he about to tell the farmer that also in the bag was the uniform of an SB Colonel.

  ‘Right,’ the farmer said. ‘Now no more talking. It’s amazing how the sound travels over still water.’

  So for two hours they travelled in silence. The farmer stopped rowing several times; not to rest - he appeared to be tireless - but to listen. From far away across the lake Mirek could hear fishermen calling to each other. On the first few occasions the voices were in Czech. Then Mirek began to hear voices talking in his native Polish and was warmed by it. Truly it was amazing how far the sound travelled over the lake. The lights of the boats were very distant but he heard one fisherman laughingly call to another that he couldn’t catch a cold at the North Pole.

  Several times Mirek saw the sweeping arc of a searchlight away to their right but its beam reached nowhere near them and the farmer rowed on unconcerned. Just after midnight Mirek noticed that they were gradually angling in towards the shore. Now the farmer stopped frequently to peer at the dim dark line. Finally he grunted softly and stroked the left oar a couple of rows and headed straight in.

  They bumped softly. The farmer silently shipped the oars, climbed over the bow and pulled the boat further up.

  Mirek picked up his bag, climbed forward and with a soft thud jumped onto the mossy shore. The farmer pointed.

  There’s a path there. Go up it about a hundred paces. On the left there’s a big birch tree, by itself. They’ll be waiting for you there . . . Good luck, wherever you’re going.’

  In one motion he pushed the boat out and jumped into it. Mirek whispered, Thanks,’ at the departing shadow. Then he opened his bag, took out his gun and slipped off the safety. He located the path and was about to start up it when he remembered he was still wearing the farmer’s sheepskin boots. Instinctively he stopped and turned, then smiled to himself. It was too late now. Anyway, the farmer would have been paid well enough.

  Cautiously he moved up the path which rose quite steeply from the shore. After counting off eighty paces he saw the loom of the birch tree on his left. As he got closer he saw another darker nucleus beside it. A high-toned woman’s voice called softly, ‘It’s a cold night for a walk.’

  He answered, ‘It’s a cold night for anything.’

  The woman giggled. ‘Not for anything. Follow me, Mirek Scibor. You’re in time for the party.’

  She moved up the path. Mirek stood rooted to the spot. She turned. ‘Come on then.’

  He found his voice. ‘How do you know my name? What party? Are you crazy?’

  She giggled again. ‘Some people think so, but I’ve never been certified. Who else could you be? I suppose they sent the woman back. Now come on, I’m damned cold.’

  She started moving again. Mirek had no choice but to follow. He put his gun on to safety and started to tuck it into his waistband, but then thought better of it and held it ready.

  The path veered to the left and paralleled the lake below. After about five hundred metres they crossed a dirt road. Below them were the lights of a house. In all he followed the woman for about two kilometres. They passed two other lakeshore houses. He assumed they were weekend cottages of senior party officials.

  He heard the music before he saw the place. Rock music. Fifty metres later the path turned down towards the lake and he stopped abruptly and looked at the rambling house, all the windows lit up, a bright light over the door. He heard the tinkling of laughter.

  ‘Wait!’ he called. ‘I’m not going in there among a bunch of people. You really are crazy.’

  She turned. Against the light he saw she was tall, wearing an ankle-length fur coat with the hood up covering her head. ‘Not a bunch,’ she said. ‘Just four - and they all know you’re coming.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Friends, good friends. Now do come in. There’s hot food and cold vodka and a warm bed.’

  He hesitated. She said firmly, ‘Don’t be concerned. You will be safe here. You are a hero to these people - and to me.’

  He sighed and moved forward. He really had no choice.

  At the door she paused and pulled the hood back from her face. His immediate impression was of beauty. Mischievous beauty. Blonde curly hair, vivid blue eyes radiating merriment. A mobile mouth with full red lips. About twenty-five years old. She too was studying him. Her lips curved upwards.

  ‘You are indeed handsome. I was worried that you might just be photogenic.’

  ‘Whose house is this?’

  ‘It belongs to the Deputy Commissar of the f
air city of Cracow.’

  ‘Does he know you’re using it?’

  Her eyes twinkled. ‘Of course. I’m his daughter.’

  While he absorbed that she pulled off a fur glove and held out her hand.

  ‘Marian Lydkowska. Very much at your service.’ The hand was fine-boned, soft and warm to the touch. It squeezed his intimately. He felt disorientated and she obviously sensed it. She giggled again and then opened the door.

  As he followed her through into the opulent hall she asked, ‘Do you like Genesis?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She laughed. ‘This music.’

  ‘Never heard it before.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she said teasingly. ‘It’s hardly the sort of stuff the SB would dance to.’ She pointed to a chair by the door. ‘Leave your bag there. I’ll take you up to your room later . . . and you can put that gun away.’

  He dropped the bag on to the chair and pushed his gun under his waistband, wondering what on earth the Bacon Priest was up to. As he turned Marian was slipping off the fur coat. Under it she wore a red silk dress with a short flared skirt and a bodice cut to the waist. He could see the outline of her nipples against the thin silk. The skin of her midriff was as pink as a blush. He looked up at her face. She was smiling as if in appreciation of his thoughts. She walked to a door and opened it. The music blared forth. With a sweep of her hand she gestured for him to go in. Feeling bemused and a little irritated, he walked through. It was a vast room with full-length French windows facing the lake. Twin crystal chandeliers cast light over deep plush armchairs and settees, on which the four occupants were sprawled. Two young women in their early twenties, one man of similar age, and one man in his early thirties. Both men wore beards, spectacles and faded denims. One of the women, red-headed and pretty, wore green and white striped overalls over a black blouse; the other, dark, gypsy looking, wore a red shirt dress with blue sequins on the collar. She was the first to jump up, exclaiming, ‘It is him! It is Mirek Scibor!’

  She rushed over, hugged him and planted a mighty kiss on each cheek. From behind him Mirek heard Marian say, ‘Careful, Irena, he’s carrying a gun.’

  She stood back, saying, ‘But of course he is.’

  The older man stood up and came over with an outstretched hand. ‘Welcome back to Poland. I’m Jerzy Zamojski.’ He waved a hand at the younger man and the other woman. ‘Antoni Zonn . . . Natalia Banaszek . . . Antoni, please turn that down.’

  The young man reached out and turned a knob on the console of a Sony stereo. The music subsided.

  ‘Vodka. Good Polish vodka!’ Jerzy announced. He went to a sideboard and pulled a bottle out of a sweating ice bucket.

  Harshly Mirek asked, ‘Who are you all?’

  Jerzy was pouring into a shot glass. The vodka was so cold it seemed to ooze out of the bottle like oil. He held the glass out to Mirek, smiled and said, ‘You have just met the editorial board of Razem.’

  Mirek took the glass, immediately relaxing. Razem - ‘Together’ - was one of the underground newspapers that sprang up after the suppression of Solidarity. It was unique in that apart from being virulently anti-State, it was also anti-Church. Distributed through campuses and schools all over Poland, it was also one of the few underground papers whose origins and editorial whereabouts completely baffled the authorities. Mirek was beginning to understand why.

  They had all gathered around him, holding their glasses.

  Fervently Jerzy said, ‘To Poland . . . and freedom.’

  They all repeated the toast and all downed their drinks in one shot. Jerzy turned to Marian and said sternly, ‘Now, as hostess it’s your duty to make sure our glasses stay filled.’ He took Mirek’s glass and handed it to her with his own, then he took Mirek’s arm and led him to a settee. Jerzy was obviously the leader.

  Marian brought their filled glasses and Mirek asked her, ‘What if your father walks in?’

  ‘He won’t,’ she answered. ‘He hardly ever comes here. He’s far too busy with his work and his two energetic mistresses. They happen to be good friends of mine. They let me know about all his movements.’ She caricatured a leer. ‘Even the more intimate ones.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  She shook her head. ‘She died many years ago.’

  ‘And your father knows nothing about Razem?

  Jerzy answered for her. ‘No, none of our fathers do . . . and they’re all big wheels. Mine is Vice Chancellor of the University in Cracow; Antoni’s is Secretary General of the Polish Writers’ Union.’ He gestured. ‘Irena’s papa is Brigadier General Teador Navkienko of whom doubtless you’ve heard, and Natalia’s sire is the regional director of the State Railways.’ Mirek nodded thoughtfully and remarked, ‘So a lot of senior jobs will become vacant if you’re uncovered.’

  ‘True,’ Jerzy answered soberly, ‘but they’ve chosen their paths . . . and we’ve chosen ours.’ He reached forward to the coffee table, opened a silver cigarette box and offered it to Mirek.

  ‘Thanks, I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Not even these?’

  Mirek looked more closely. The cigarettes were larger than normal, fat at one end, thin at the other. They were bound together by white cotton threads.

  ‘What are they?’

  Jerzy grinned through his beard.

  ‘Marijuana. Thai sticks; the best. Just think: a few months ago if SB Major Scibor had caught us with these we’d have been in very hot water!’

  Mirek shook his head and, with a trace of bitterness he couldn’t help, said, ‘I doubt it. One of your daddies would have pulled a string or two and got you off with a slap on the wrist.’

  Jerzy lit one of the cigarettes and Mirek watched with some amazement the ritual of it being passed from one sucking mouth to another.

  Antoni said, ‘It’s clever, don’t you think? Everyone takes us for a bunch of spoiled dilettantes. It’s a very good cover for our operation.’

  Irena laughed loudly. ‘We are a bunch of spoiled dilettantes. We’re the only underground group whose cover is genuine.’ She was sitting on the arm of Antoni’s chair, her arm around his neck. They were obviously paired. He wondered whether Jerzy was paired with Marian or Natalia. Or, in this environment, with both? He drank more vodka, savouring the fire of it in his throat. He realised that he was achingly tired. He said to Jerzy, ‘Before you all get stoned out of your minds you’d better fill me in. When do you move me on?’

  Jerzy’s cheeks hollowed in as he drew deep on the joint. He held his breath and then contentedly let the smoke filter out. The last of it puffed as he answered.

  ‘It was supposed to be tomorrow but this afternoon we got a coded message from Warsaw. We’re to wait here until further notice. Apparently something’s changed.’

  ‘That’s all you know?’

  ‘That’s all. Your people are not very forthcoming - anyway you’ll be comfortable and totally safe. No one’s going to think about searching this house.’

  Mirek recognised the truth of that. He would sleep easy tonight. He thought for a moment and then asked, ‘How did you get involved in this?’

  Jerzy replied carefully. ‘We’re in arm’s length contact with other underground groups. Mostly those that distribute our paper. One of them approached us a few weeks ago. Asked us to be on standby. Told us it was unlikely we would be needed.’

  ‘But why did you accept?’

  Jerzy grinned. ‘Money, dear friend. Well, actually, a thin sheet of metal - very precious metal. It costs a lot of money to run a newspaper. We’re really very grateful to you for getting into that mess over the border. Now that we’re activated we get another twenty sheets of that shiny metal.’

  ‘I see.’ Mirek put his glass down on the coffee table. ‘And how did you know it would be me?’

  Natalia answered. ‘You’re famous, Mirek. I doubt if the Pope’s face is better known than yours in Poland today. Television, newspaper, police posters. Non-stop for the last three days. We were activated the day
you shot those pigs in Ostrava. It didn’t take a genius to work out who was coming our way.’

  Mirek nodded. ‘And where do you pass me on?’

  ‘In Cracow,’ Jerzy answered. His eyes were becoming heavy lidded, his voice slurred a little. ‘At least that was the original plan . . . I suppose they sent the woman back?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mirek stood up grimacing at the ache still in his limbs. ‘I’m shattered; I’d like to get some sleep. Thanks for everything.’

  Marian jumped up. ‘I’ll show you your room.’

  He shook hands with Jerzy and Antoni. The women gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek in an adoptive way.

  He followed Marian up the stairs. Her dress was backless. Her bottom swayed in front of his eyes. Her legs were smooth. She turned left at the landing and sashayed down the corridor saying, ‘I’ve given you a front room. It has a lovely view over the lake and . . .’ she stopped at a door and opened it, ‘. . . a big and very comfortable bed.’

  He looked in. The bed was enormous. She pointed to a door beyond it.

  ‘That’s the bathroom. Sunken bath, big enough for two. Don’t you love sunken baths?’

  He did not answer. He had never seen a sunken bath. He walked in, lifted his bag on to the bed and turned.

  ‘Thanks, Marian.’

  She was leaning against the jamb of the door. Her eyes, her posture, threw out an invitation. Her nipples had tightened against her dress in anticipation.

  He said, ‘I’ll see you in the morning then. Thanks again.’

  Her lips pouted in disappointment, then she smiled, raised her hand and pointed sideways across her nose.

  ‘My room is next door. If you need anything just let me know . . . Sweet dreams, Mirek.’

  Ten minutes later he was lying with very hot water up to his chin in the sunken bath. He figured out it was big enough for four. As the aches were soothed from his bones he wondered at what had happened to him. The Mirek Scibor of only a few days ago would at this moment have been running his hands over the soapy pink body of that blonde temptress. He was amazed that he had been able to counter the physical urge. The last woman he had been with was Leila in the desert; and that seemed a lifetime ago.