by Jane Gorman
“Okay.” The commander looked around at the gathering crowd. “We need to start taking statements, talk to all these people. Someone must have seen the attackers, seen the cars they came in. We need a witness who can tell us what he saw.”
The police moved off to start their investigation as two medical technicians stepped out of the van. Between them they held a stretcher, the form of a large man on the stretcher fully covered.
Angela gasped and put hand over her mouth. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said again, “Why him?”
30
The breaking news story interrupted the regular BBC broadcast in the hotel dining room where guests were eating breakfast. Some sort of attack had taken place on the streets of Warsaw not too far out of the center of town.
Adam put his fork down as he recognized the van in the pictures. When he saw Angela sitting in the ambulance, he rose from his seat and walked closer to the television.
“Can you turn this up?” He gestured to a waitress. “Is there volume?”
She nodded and reached over to adjust the set.
Adam stood transfixed, watching the scene as his friends and colleagues were taken one by one into ambulances and driven from the scene.
All but one of them. All but Jared.
“No,” Adam said aloud to the startled diners, “no that’s not right. That should be me.”
If he hadn’t received a note from Łukasz last night, urging him to stay in Warsaw a few more days, he would have been in that van with the rest of them. And there was no doubt in his mind he was the intended victim of that attack.
Adam crumpled, leaning against a table for support, the empty dishes on its surface rattling under the pressure. It had been so easy to change his plans. A quick call to the airline’s Warsaw office was all it took to delay his flight by a few days. He had plenty of vacation days to use.
He had spent the evening with his team, watching out for them, keeping them safe — or so he thought.
He was scheduled to meet Łukasz that afternoon in the Polish Army Field Cathedral, on the corner of Ulica Miodowa. He had to get to the hospital first. He brushed past another waitress as he ran for the door.
31
Novosad’s weathered face and bushy white hair stood out through the dark glass. Even before he stepped into the vestibule, Adam recognized the man walking toward him out of the hospital.
Adam stopped in the narrow entranceway, but Novosad didn’t seem to recognize him.
Adam cleared his throat. “Minister Novosad.”
“What?” Novosad looked up, his expression distracted. Distant. “Oh, yes?”
“Adam Kaminski, we’ve met a couple of times. I’m on the delegation from Philadelphia.” He paused, watching as Novosad first recognized him, then frowned.
“Pan Kaminski. Terrible, this. Terrible.”
“I’m glad you’re here. Perhaps you’ve heard something about what really happened?”
“Me? No, no.” Novosad’s right hand seemed to tremble and he pushed it into the pocket of his coat. “No. Young Laurienty is inside. Perhaps he can help you.”
Novosad turned away, walking out the sliding glass doors to a car parked in the curved drive.
Adam watched him go, then stepped into the hospital. Just ahead he could see the admittance desk, the best place for him to find out where his friends were. And how they were. But to his left, down a hallway that ran along the front of the building, Laurienty Szopinski stood shoving a sheaf of papers into his briefcase.
Adam turned left.
Laurienty seemed focused on his efforts, which were not going well. What should not have been a difficult task was taking an inordinate amount of time, as edges of the paper kept getting caught on the side of the briefcase, folding the sheets over. He finally got the last piece in neatly when Adam stopped beside him.
“Laurienty. I’m glad you’re here. Do you have any news about what happened?”
“Pan Kaminski.”
Adam reached out and grabbed the briefcase just as Laurienty dropped it. After the effort he had put into filling it, it would be a shame to have it all spill out over the floor.
“Thank you.” Laurienty took the case back from Adam, closed the clasp and tucked the case up under his arm.
“I came to see how they are.” Adam thought that should be obvious, but Laurienty seemed surprised to see him.
“Yes, of course. But weren’t you with them? In the van, I mean.” Laurienty’s eyebrow twitched as he spoke, the sweat budding on his top lip.
“I was not.” Adam chose his words carefully. “I decided to stay in Warsaw for a few days. With my cousin.”
“Right. Right. Of course, your cousin.” Laurienty adjusted his glasses and a shaft of reflected light blocked the view of his eyes when he spoke again. “The cousin with accusations of murder.”
Adam turned his head, tipping it to the left. “You don’t take his claims seriously? You’re not concerned about Basia’s death?”
“Basia’s death?” Laurienty shook his head with quick, tight shivers and the lines on his forehead deepened. “I am always concerned about death, Pan Kaminski. Now Pan White’s death. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
Adam closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. “I thought as much.” He stepped to a bench that lined the wall and sat heavily. “Jared’s dead.”
Laurienty said nothing, just watched Adam and fiddled with his glasses, waiting.
Even with his eyes closed, Adam knew Laurienty stood still in front of him. He heard the tread of doctors and nurses at the far end of the hall. He heard the sound of traffic from the street outside, muffled by the thick walls, frosted glass windows, and wafts of disinfectant that hung in the purified air.
“Dammit.” Adam punched the bench next to him, sending vibrations that traveled along the wall, displacing two Styrofoam coffee cups abandoned farther up the bench. He opened his eyes. “This was my fault. My fault.”
“Yes, it probably was, Pan Kaminski.” Laurienty nodded violently, his glasses shifting again on his nose. He didn’t adjust them. “It probably was your fault. Running around asking about murder. About death.” The mottled pink of his cheeks grew darker as he spoke. “You of all people should know we have had enough of that here, in Poland.” He paused and took a shaky breath.
“What do you mean?” Adam shot out of his seat, suddenly standing toe to toe with Laurienty. “What’s going on here that I don’t know about?”
“Hah! That you don’t know about? Everything.” Laurienty threw his hands up at he spoke, forgetting about the briefcase tucked under his arm. It hit the ground with a thud, its clasp holding tight. “You know nothing, Pan Kaminski. Nothing about our country, about our history. You have no authority here, no role. What do you think you can do here?”
Adam’s voice was tight, his lips drawn close together. “Then you can tell me.”
“Oh, I can tell you. Oh, yes.” Laurienty’s glasses shifted again and this time he put a hand up to adjust them. “Murder happens, Pan Kaminski. Murder, killings that nobody ever solves. And now nobody even cares.”
“What are you talking about?” Adam took a step back.
“I’m talking about murder, Pan Kaminski, which you seem so interested in.” Flecks of spittle shot out of Laurienty’s mouth as he spoke, the patches on his cheeks now a dark red. “You care so much about poor Basia, but what about all the others? Hmm? Where have you been? Safe in America, reading about the deaths in the paper. Something distant. Something that happens to people far away. I know about your family, you see. I know they left the country, sneaking away like cowards.”
Adam gripped the windowsill, focusing on the feel of the cold steel in his hands. He took a breath and the scent of lilies faded, the image of a line of three coffins blurred. “What deaths, Laurienty?”
“People died, Pan Kaminski, fighting so that I could be here. So you could be here.” He took a breath. “People died fighting the government. They didn’t run a
way, they stayed to fight. Fighting for freedom.”
“You’re talking about the war? About Solidarity? But that was years ago.”
“Phaw,” Laurienty spit out a sound of derision. “For you, perhaps. But not for us. Not for the survivors.”
Adam looked at Laurienty in a new light. “But you’re too young, aren’t you? You couldn’t have been alive during Solidarity. And what do you think you know about my family?”
“I hear the stories, Pan Kaminski, and I do my own research when I need to. I know many things. About the war. About Solidarity. It is true, I was young. I did not fight. My grandfather, though…” Thoughts of his grandfather seemed to have purged his anger, and Laurienty sat, staring at his briefcase that still lay on the floor below the window.
Adam sat next to him. “What happened to your grandfather?”
“He died.”
Adam waited, thinking. He knew many Poles had fought for political freedom. There may not have been a war, but there was a fight. A battle fought in the newspapers, in the schools, in the coffee shops and bars, and even in the courts. He knew people had been arrested for their activities, but he hadn’t realized there had been casualties.
“Tell me what happened.” Adam repeated his question.
“He was found. At the bottom of a staircase.” Laurienty turned his head to look at Adam, his fashionable tie now loose and twisted. “They said he fell.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
“He fell. And hit his head three times on the way down. And broke the fingers of his right hand. And somehow took a deep hit in his kidney.” Laurienty smiled down at his hands. “No, I don’t believe that. Neither did my mother. But what could we do?” He raised his eyebrows. “What could we do?”
“Why do you think he died?”
“He was part of the fight against the communist government. He published articles, using a false name. He helped organize underground meetings. Somehow they knew.” Laurienty’s frown deepened. “Not just somehow. Someone. Someone who knew.”
“Are you saying someone betrayed him?” Adam asked. “Who?”
Laurienty shrugged. “How can I know? I can’t. I don’t. I will never know.” He looked back at Adam. “But someone gave them his name. Someone told them what he was doing. Someone informed to the secret police. And then my grandfather died.”
Adam paused before responding, considering. “I’m sorry that happened, Laurienty. I’m sorry you and your mother had to go through that. But what does that have to do with Jared? Or with me?”
Laurienty smiled and blew out a sound that in another place might have been a laugh. “Nothing, I am sure. Nothing. Just more death.” He stood, patting off his pant legs and adjusting his glasses. “Just more unexplained death. We all feel guilt, Pan Kaminski, over the death of those close to us. We all seek a way to move on. To get away.” He smiled again.
“So you want the government to pursue more lustration cases?” Adam pushed, knowing once Laurienty regained control he would be less inclined to talk.
“More? No.” Laurienty waved away the suggestion. “We must move on. We must move past this. I simply tell you this so you understand.” He leaned forward toward Adam as he spoke, and Adam still saw the glint of anger in his eyes, despite his efforts to calm himself. “You must understand we all have sadness, we all have guilt. We all have deaths we cannot explain. But we must move on. We must. Or we will not survive.”
32
Spires of golden stone caught the afternoon light and the Polish flag floated above the Polish Army Field Cathedral. Across the street, mute metal men, larger than life, crawled out of an underground tunnel under the shelter of a concrete curtain. Commemorating the successes — and failures — of the Warsaw Uprising of 1944, the memorial loomed out of the gray concrete surrounding it. This desolate reminder of the bravery and loss of the citizens of Warsaw was no match for the macabre scene waiting to greet visitors inside the church.
Entering the vestibule, Adam came face to face with a memorial to war designed as only those who have faced war’s terrors could design. The Second World War had devastated Warsaw. Bombed, tortured and killed, the residents of this city had held on, through it all, to their faith. But the effects of this misery could not be ignored.
Facing the entranceway and almost filling the small space stood a crucifix like none Adam had seen before. A body hung, as on most crucifixes, but this body was one of distress and misery, not life and resurrection. Tattered rags hung off the form, the artist having creatively scraped and distressed the metal that formed the artwork to generate an appearance of torn clothes, shriveled limbs, wasted skin over broken bones.
This figure hung between two stone pillars, themselves cracked and covered in jagged edges. Embedded within the stones of these pillars lay what appeared to be human skulls, lost souls crying out for redemption. Clearly crying in vain.
Shuddering slightly, Adam walked through the interior doors to the nave of the church, trying unsuccessfully not to think of death. Or the dead.
Hundreds of votive candles flickered throughout the church, their heavily perfumed smoke hanging in the air. Fantastic painted frescoes depicted images of Poland’s victories and God’s greatness.
Adam turned his eyes from the walls and scanned the pews, searching for Sylvia and Łukasz. A few elderly women still sat in prayer, their heads covered in black lace, their shoulders bowed. It didn’t take long for Adam to spot Sylvia, her blond hair shining in the dim candlelight of the church.
Sliding next to her, he put his hand gently on her leg. “Shh,” he said as she jumped and started to speak. When she looked up at him, he saw that she had been crying.
“I know, I went to the hospital, I saw the others.”
“What’s going on, Adam? What happened to Jared?” She looked away from him as she spoke, her eyes moving upward as if studying the display of Polish Hussar armor that hung near them, two long, curved wooden frames lined with ostrich feathers.
The famous wings of the Hussars. Strapped to the back of the armor of the cavalryman, the wings would catch the air as the horse galloped forward, creating a fearsome sound. Adam could imagine an entire unit of cavalry storming forward, the wind wailing through their giant wings. It would be enough to scare any enemy force.
“I don’t know for sure, Sylvia,” he answered slowly. “I think they were looking for me. I think they got Jared by mistake.”
“By mistake?” Sylvia inhaled sharply and wound her hands together around the rosary that lay in her lap. “How could anyone kill someone by mistake?”
Adam nodded and looked down at his own hands. “Łukasz is on to something, Sylvia. Whatever we’re digging up, we’re scaring somebody. They’re willing to kill to stop us. I’m in the middle of this now and I’m not even sure what it is.”
Sylvia sat staring at him, her hands finally still. “What are you talking about, Adam?” she whispered. “What’s going on? Was Jared involved as well?”
“No, damn it!”
Sylvia shushed him harshly even as the words escaped his lips. A couple of black-laced women glanced back at them from a few pews in front.
“Sorry. No, Jared wasn’t involved. I think whoever killed him was looking for me. You know Jared and I look alike, at least to anyone who doesn’t know us.”
Sylvia frowned and shook her head slightly, so Adam continued, “I was supposed to be on that van, Sylvia. And if I had been, I’d be dead by now.” He paused, looking at her closely. “And Jared would be alive.”
Sylvia shook her head sharply. “No, I can’t believe what you’re saying. I don’t know what trouble you’re in, but it can’t be because of Basia Kaminski or anyone at the Sejm.”
“Are you sure?” Adam watched her, but her expression didn’t falter.
She gestured slightly to indicate the grand nave of the church and all of its artwork. “Do you see all this? All this beauty, all this history?”
Adam looked around once again,
at the colorful icons painted on the wall, the stained glass that tinted the light within the church. The giant wings of war.
“Yes, it’s beautiful.”
“But it’s not real. It is a reconstruction, like every other building in the Old Town.” Sylvia smiled, a sad gesture. “It was all destroyed, you know. First the war. Then the German occupation. Most of the city was rubble by the time it all ended.”
She looked around as she spoke, her voice picking up. “But we reclaimed our land, you see?” She looked at Adam, smiling now. “From all over the country. Children collected tin cans to donate… churches throughout Poland gathered funds… tradesmen donated their time.” She smiled. “Warsaw was rebuilt.”
“That’s a beautiful story, a proud history.”
“But that’s my point. We have struggled. But to move forward. Not backward.” She cast her glance once more up at the apse, then looked at Adam. “Not backward.”
Adam glanced at his watch. “We’ve been here for an hour. Łukasz should be here by now.”
Sylvia continued to examine the beauty around them and didn’t respond, so Adam continued. “I don’t know what Łukasz is digging up, but it must be big. He told me he thought he had stumbled onto proof of corruption in the legislature. He thinks Basia found it, too, and it got her killed. I don’t know. I suppose that could be it. It just seems like it must be bigger than simple corruption. Would someone kill to hide that?”
“Perhaps” — Sylvia shrugged — “if the benefits he received from it were important enough to him. Or to her.”
“Or to her,” Adam repeated. “We need to dig deeper. Łukasz and I — we need to look farther into the past. I’m convinced there’s more there, we just need to find it.”
“Why?” Sylvia finally looked at Adam. “Why do you need to? I understand that Łukasz wants to find the truth about what happened to his daughter. He believes that truth lies in our history. Perhaps it does. But why is this so important to you?”