The Girl From the Train

by Irma Joubert

  And seductively neutral.

  Jakób and Stan were both employed by Stalinogród Steelworks, the flagship company of the industrialization program, but they saw little of each other at work. Stan was a floor manager in one of the workshops. Jakób was one of the engineers responsible for the complicated process through which the ore from the mines at Wrocław was processed to supply the never-ending demand for iron.

  Early one Sunday morning at the beginning of March, after a long shift, Jakób’s manager, a staunch Communist named Mr. Drobner, called him to his office.

  Jakób combed his hair with his fingers. He was exhausted—not only from a lack of sleep, but also from the intense concentration it had required to solve the complicated problem. Jakób came into the office like a sleepwalker.

  Mr. Drobner opened the top drawer of his desk, took out an envelope, and handed it to Jakób. “For you,” he said. “Tickets to a music recital. They were given to me when Workshop Three reached an output of a thousand tons last week. It’s for the extra hours you put in.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Drobner.” But at the moment all Jakób wanted was a hot shower and his bed. He put the envelope in his pocket and walked back to his apartment through the quiet, cold streets, past sparse trees and emaciated cats and rows and rows of gray apartment buildings marked with soot. Home was a bleak room with a bed and a sofa and a cold Primus stove. And a radio he never listened to, because the broadcasts were chiefly Communist propaganda, and they hardly ever played Chopin anymore.

  Two days later, when he was putting his clothes in the basin to soak, he remembered the tickets. The recital would take place Saturday night. Jakób was unfamiliar with the composers whose works were being performed, and he had never heard of the two Russian pianists either. He sighed and returned the tickets to his pocket. He’d offer them to Stan and Haneczka.

  “A piano recital?” Stan exclaimed that evening. “You mean you and me at a piano recital?”

  “No, Stan!” Jakób protested. “You and Haneczka!”

  “Not for me, thanks!” said Haneczka firmly. “Why don’t you ask Mischka? The two of you should go. It would do her good to get out. She works hard.”

  “I don’t know if she likes classical music,” said Jakób. He had toyed with the idea of contacting her, but, remembering the effect she’d had on him that first night, he had decided against it. He had absolutely no plan to get involved with anyone.

  “Hungarians love music, as far as I know,” said Haneczka.

  “Why did she leave Hungary?”

  “Who? Mischka?” Haneczka shrugged. “Who knows, some or other sad story, if you listen to the rumors. Anyway, we’re glad to have her. It’s hard to find doctors of her caliber.”

  “I see.” Maybe he should ask Mischka after all. “Will you find out whether she’s free?” he asked on the spur of the moment.

  Saturday night Jakób and Mischka sat beside each other in the theater. His eyes took in her neat figure in the stylish black dress—she looked elegant, sophisticated, lovely. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and there was a single strand of pearls around her slender neck. A strange feeling took hold of him. He was proud to be her partner.

  “I’m really looking forward to the concert,” she said. “I don’t know how you got the tickets. They’re very hard to come by,” she said.

  “I worked myself to a standstill,” he said with a wry smile. He no longer had any misgivings about spending the evening in her company. But he was annoyed with himself for not having learned about the composers or performers.

  She laughed softly. “Then I hope you’ll enjoy it too. Do you like the works of Tchaikovsky and Mozart?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know much about music,” he admitted. “I listen to the organ and the choir in the cathedral and I sing in the shower. That’s as far as my knowledge goes.”

  The lights dimmed. “You’ll enjoy it. It’s going to be wonderful,” she said.

  To Jakób’s surprise, there was an entire orchestra at the back of the stage. He had expected a sole piano. At the center of the stage were two pianos and the conductor’s rostrum. The orchestra members were already seated. The conductor entered, and Jakób applauded with the rest of the audience.

  The orchestra struck up, and Jakób glanced at the program. He leaned toward Mischka and whispered, “Is this Tchaikovsky’s Concerto number 1, opus 23?”

  She chuckled. “No, Jakób,” she whispered back, “the orchestra members are tuning their instruments. Opus 23 sounds slightly different.”

  “Oh,” he said, embarrassed. Thank goodness, he thought. He certainly couldn’t have endured this cacophony for long.

  The two pianists entered, took their bows with flapping coattails, and were rewarded with fervent applause.

  The concert began.

  The conductor waved his baton, and the two bow-tied gentlemen at the pianos played with such fervor that they were soon perspiring. It sounded good after all, Jakób decided.

  The applause was deafening, the conductor was skilled, the pianists behaved with suitable humility.

  Jakób glanced at the program again. Only one more piece before the end. Maybe they’d still find a pub open where they could have a nightcap. “Are they going to start with Mozart’s Concerto number 9 in E flat now?” he asked.

  “No, they’ve just finished the Allegro part of Opus 23, that’s the lively part,” Mischka explained. “Now it’s the Andante, the slower part. Mozart comes after the intermission.”

  “Oh.” He smiled apologetically. “As I said, I don’t know much about music.”

  “Jakób, you know nothing at all about music.” She laughed.

  “I know who Chopin is,” he said in his own defense.

  “Every Pole knows who Chopin is,” she answered.

  When the intermission came, Jakób was grateful to stretch his legs. He had enjoyed the music so far, but it certainly went on for a long time. How he was going to stay awake until the end he didn’t know. And he doubted whether they would find any pub fit for a lady open after midnight.

  During the second half he already knew he could deal with the Allegro, but the Andante would do its best to put him to sleep. He leaned back and looked at Mischka in the dim light. She sat erect with her eyes closed. She had surrendered herself to the music. At times her hands, shoulders, or head moved almost imperceptibly. She was obviously familiar with the music. Sometimes she smiled contentedly or gave a slight nod when the orchestra came to a part she had been waiting for.

  She was gorgeous.

  Jakób felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch her cheek, but he controlled the impulse. He didn’t want to spoil a hallowed moment.

  He closed his eyes and tried to immerse himself in the music, allowing it to sweep him along.

  I could easily fall in love with this woman, he thought dreamily, though it was certainly not my plan.

  The music lifted him and dropped him back on earth. It might not be such a bad idea after all, he thought as the music faded serenely into the background—this falling-in-love business.

  “Wake up, it’s almost over,” Mischka whispered in his ear.

  Jakób sat up, mortified. “I surrendered to the music,” he tried to explain.

  When they were walking back through the quiet streets, she asked, “Was it very hard for you?” He saw the smile on her lips.

  “No, the music was very good.”

  She raised her eyebrows and looked amused.

  “All right, fine,” he admitted. “Next time I’ll give you both tickets and you can take a friend.”

  For the first time
since they met he saw her laugh. It wasn’t an exuberant laugh, the way Haneczka sometimes laughed, or a happy little chortle, the way he remembered Gretl laughing. It was an amused laugh, he thought, the way one would laugh at a private joke.

  “Poor Jakób,” she said, “now I appreciate the outing even more. I found it absolutely marvelous. Thank you very much!”

  “I’m glad.” He drew her hand through his arm. He felt her presence by his side. He felt her every movement, the swing of her hip against his own, the early spring air fresh on their faces, their breath in small clouds ahead of them.

  Never before had Jakób found the street so beautiful.

  During the week that followed it was impossible to arrange a meeting with Mischka, and after that Jakób became so busy that he didn’t have time to think about her again. When a fortnight had passed, he knocked on her door one late afternoon. There was no reply. “She left about half an hour ago,” said a nurse, poking her head out of the room next door. “I think she’s on night shift.”

  Well, that’s it then, he thought as he returned to his own apartment.

  He saw Mischka at Stan and Haneczka’s apartment a few times during the following months. And despite Haneczka’s warning that it was a turnoff, politics reared its head in almost every conversation where Mischka was present.

  Sometimes Jakób walked her back to her quarters. During their walks they talked, mostly about politics. He wished he could talk to her about other topics, but he simply couldn’t think of any. Their conversations were mostly a continuation of what had been discussed at the apartment.

  One evening she stopped and turned to him. “I wish you wouldn’t get so upset about the political situation, Jakób,” she said. “It’s beyond your control.”

  “We can all do something,” he answered passionately. “Just by talking we’re already doing something. Revolution starts with the intellectuals. Think of the French Revolution; their writers didn’t remain silent. When Poland is silent, I’ll know the Polish spirit has been broken.”

  She walked on without reacting. When they reached her quarters, she didn’t invite him in.

  Jakób walked back to his own place through the quiet streets, the bright moon propelling his long-legged shadow ahead of him.

  On a warm Friday evening in the middle of June, Jakób and Mr. Drobner were standing at a drawing board.

  Jakób slowly shook his head. “We must be making a mistake somewhere,” he said. “No problem is unsolvable.”

  “Jakób, you’re just tired. Catch some sleep. Tomorrow, when we’re both fresh, we’ll continue to search for a solution.”

  “I think I will, thank you,” said Jakób and stretched.

  “Before you go, listen: I would like you to accompany me somewhere later this month.”

  “Not another piano recital, please,” Jakób pleaded.

  “Piano recital? What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. You were saying?”

  “The steelworks can send two delegates to the Poznań International Fair. All the latest products and technology will be exhibited. I want you to come with me.”

  “The International Fair? In Poznań?” Jakób asked, surprised. “I’d love to go, but surely there are more senior people who would jump at the chance.”

  “I’ve decided you should go. You’re the type of young man the Party likes to invest in. We’ll reap the rewards.”

  The steelworks might, Jakób thought, but definitely not the Party.

  Mischka walked to the station with Jakób. It was a sultry afternoon. He had stopped at her place on the spur of the moment to say goodbye. “I’ll walk with you,” she had said. “I could do with the exercise and some fresh air.”

  The sun was bright in the lush green treetops. Jakób was intensely aware of her presence next to him, the slender line of her neck, the golden skin of her bare arms, the graceful swing of her hips in the flared skirt. She walked easily, as if she was used to walking long distances. As soon as I’m back, he thought, I’ll ask her out, to the theater, maybe.

  “Enjoy your few days away, Jakób.” He couldn’t get enough of her accent.

  “Actually, I’m going for work,” he said.

  “I know. But it will be stimulating, with the whole world exhibiting there. Not all of us get an opportunity to see what’s happening in the West.”

  Jan Drobner was waiting at the station when they arrived. His wife and two teenage daughters had come to see him off. When the train pulled away, they waved excitedly. “Bring us something from Poznań!” the daughters cried. “Remember to take your medication!” his wife called out.

  Mischka wasn’t on the platform.

  Jakób leaned his head against the seat and stared through the window. Buildings and factories flashed past, then houses, then small farms, fir plantations, blue rivers, tall cliffs. It grew dark. He stretched his long legs in front of him and surrendered to the train’s rocking motion.

  He wondered about the woman called Mischka Bòdis. How did he really feel about her? Was he more than just physically attracted to her? One thing was certain: every time he saw her, every time he was in her presence, he felt his body respond. He found her company stimulating, interesting.

  At times he longed to be with her, but when he saw her, she always kept her distance.

  At Poznań station he and Mr. Drobner got a horse and buggy, a droshka, to take them to the hotel. “It’s chock-full of foreigners,” the old cab driver said, trying his best to get the two tired horses to step lively. “They’re from all over—Germany, England, Japan, America, and of course Russia!”

  It was very late before Jakób fell asleep at last in the strange bed. But it was a restless sleep, because he dreamed of a tall woman with long dark hair who kept turning her face away.

  Monday morning Jakób and Mr. Drobner visited the factory of Zispo, the largest in Poznań, before the exhibition opened.

  “Impressive,” said Mr. Drobner in the hearing of their guide, and “Take note, Jakób!” But privately he said to Jakób, “Our own systems work better, don’t you think?”

  At ten the manager excused himself. An important matter required his attention. The chief engineer would accompany them on the rest of their tour.

  “There’s been an unexpected development,” the chief engineer explained. “Last Saturday the workers demanded that a delegation of thirty men be sent to Warsaw to negotiate with the Central Union Council. I suspect it’s what this call is about.”

  “What are they unhappy about?” asked Jakób.

  “Not unhappy, really,” the chief engineer said hastily. “They want to discuss the usual stuff—working hours, wages. Nothing serious, I assure you.”

  But the afternoon newspapers told a different story. The Przegląd Kulturalny carried a report on the country’s serious economic dilemmas: enormous problems in agriculture, chaotic conditions in factories resulting from bad management, discrepancies in the supply of materials. The people at ground level were suffering, the paper said.

  Jakób turned to the center spread, dedicated to the Lenin Steelworks, which was established in the late forties near Kraków as part of the industrialization program. On the surface it was just another propaganda piece: see how well the Party looks after the people of Poland? Long live Communism, Jakób thought cynically.

  But the last paragraph grabbed his attention. “The decision to build an enormous industrial complex near the country’s most historic and conservative city seems suspect,” the journalist wrote. “Could it be that the Party wants to create a strong socialist working class that will eventually transform the structures and relationships of an established, conserv
ative society like that of Kraków?”

  Jakób felt the words echo in his heart, felt them growing in his mind. I agree, he thought. How wonderful that a newspaper has the courage to say it.

  He opened a second newspaper. Po Prostu dedicated its entire front page to a conference that had taken place in Warsaw over the weekend. It had been attended by seven hundred Polish economists.

  Bull’s-eye! Jakób thought. The Poles were fed up. The sooner these Communist leaders realized it, the better. He considered taking the article home to show it to Mischka but decided against it. His plan was to talk to her about other things.

  At dinner that evening Mr. Drobner said, “The Party will have to jack up the media censorship. The papers are getting bold.”

  They spent all of Tuesday and Wednesday at the trade fair. Jakób found it enormously interesting—the innovative ideas, the new technology, the revolutionary approach to certain products. He had a long conversation with a British engineer, a Mr. Wilson, who was from the steelworks in Liverpool.

  “Tomorrow I’d like to spend some time at the Japanese exhibition,” Jakób told Drobner as they walked back to their hotel late that evening. “Mr. Wilson says it’s very interesting.”

  “Spend some time at the Russian exhibition instead,” his employer advised. “It will look better.”

  But on Thursday morning, when they were trying to get a droshka to take them to the trade fair, the city was in turmoil.

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Drobner asked a group of bystanders.

  “The delegation members who negotiated with the Central Union Council in Warsaw were arrested and thrown in jail!” said a woman with a nose as sharp as a wedge of cheese.

  “No,” said a thin man next to her, “some of them are on their way back, but the negotiations have failed.”

  “The workers are furious,” a third person said breathlessly. “They’re marching to the square in a ’peaceful and orderly’ way. What a joke! Chaos is going to break loose!”