The Girl From the Train

by Irma Joubert

  He stopped, gently held her back by the arm, and turned her so that she was looking at him. “It would mean a lot to me if you came.”

  Her gaze was inscrutable. She turned and walked on. “I don’t know if I could get leave.”

  He nodded. She had been at the hospital for barely eight months. They walked slowly. A tram rumbled past. Boys chased one another down the street. A horse-drawn cart clip-clopped past them.

  Everything looks so ordinary, so normal, Jakób thought, but I don’t feel the least bit normal. I have just started something that I want to see through.

  Or maybe he didn’t want to. All of a sudden he didn’t know.

  “But would you like to come along?” he found himself asking.

  She thought for a while before she spoke. “We have a good friendship, Jakób.”

  The words were like a blow to his stomach. “I understand,” he said.

  But when they reached her door, she said, “I’ll see whether I can get the weekend free. It might not be a problem after all.”

  His heart lurched back in motion. Calm down, Kowalski, he told himself. “I’m glad. And I won’t forget about the good friendship.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Jakób.”

  When she didn’t invite him in, he turned to leave. “I’ll be going, then,” he said.

  When he had taken a few steps, he turned. She stood in the doorway and waved.

  “You certainly don’t make it easy for a man, Mischka Bòdis!”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry!”

  He took a few more steps and turned again. “Will you tell me about it someday?”

  She was still smiling. “Go now,” she said, but her voice was gentle.

  The only thing that dampened his spirits that evening was a man leaning against a building across the street from Mischka’s home, smoking. Jakób had caught glimpses of the shadowy stranger all week. This one wore worker’s overalls, and he pretended not to watch Jakób, but Jakób knew better.

  Haneczka packed a picnic for the train journey. Mischka brought sweets for the children. It was a jolly affair. Usually the kids saw their grandparents at Częstochowa only once a year, at Christmas.

  The train was packed. Extra trains to Częstochowa had been arranged from all over Poland. “I don’t know where all these people are going to stay,” Haneczka said skeptically. “There isn’t much accommodation in Częstochowa.”

  “I wonder where all of us are going to stay,” Jakób said, suddenly anxious. Even with the room Turek had built on, their parents’ house was hopelessly small for seven guests.

  Haneczka shrugged. “Some of us can sleep in the stables, as we do at Christmas,” she said.

  I shouldn’t have brought Mischka along, Jakób thought. I can’t expect her to sleep in the stables like a goat.

  “Sleeping in a stable would be kind of symbolic,” Mischka said as if she read his mind.

  “Stan, don’t let that kid hang out of the window like that!” Haneczka said. “What if he falls?”

  “Come,” Jakób offered the boys. “I’ll tell you the story of how the Blessed Virgin became queen of Poland.”

  “May I listen too?” asked Mischka. She looked cool and beautiful in her soft blue dress. She had tied a scarf around her hair for the journey, and her face was relaxed and open.

  An overwhelming desire to touch her, to stroke her satiny skin, welled up in Jakób. He suppressed the urge with difficulty. “Only if you sit quietly and behave,” he said, pretending to be strict.

  The two older boys thought it was hilarious, but the youngest one frowned. “Don’t speak to Aunt Mischka like that, Uncle Jakób.”

  Jakób laughed and began to tell the story. “Once upon a time, long ago”—he looked at Mischka—“in 1655, to be precise”—she nodded earnestly—“the king of Poland”—he looked at Mischka again—“more specifically King John Casimir”—she smiled slightly, nodding again—“waged war against the Russians and the Cossacks. Then the king of Sweden decided”—he looked at her—“more specifically King Charles the Tenth—”

  “I’m listening, Jakób,” she said, laughing.

  “Who are you telling the story to, Uncle Jakób?” the oldest boy asked impatiently.

  “Good question,” Stan said from behind his newspaper.

  Jakób went on, unfazed. “Then King Charles the Tenth of Sweden decided to attack Poland from the north. The Poles were totally outnumbered”—he waved his hands—“and within months all of Poland was under Swedish rule, except for a few cities that kept the invaders at bay. Among these cities was Częstochowa, where Grandpa and Grandma live. Behind the high ramparts of the Jasna Góra monastery, seventy monks and fewer than two hundred soldiers, led by Father Kordecki, fended off one attack after another for several weeks.”

  He looked at the three dark-eyed boys—the next generation of proud Poles. “Eventually their food ran out, their water ran out, and they had no more bandages or medicine. Still they didn’t surrender. Every morning Father Kordecki knelt at the painting of the Black Madonna and asked the Blessed Virgin to protect them—not only them, but all of Poland. Then the men went back into battle!”

  “And then, Uncle Jakób?” asked the middle boy, carried away.

  “Later, when the tables were turned and the Polish soldiers had driven the Swedes and the Russians and Cossacks out of Polish territory, the heroic deeds of Father Kordecki and his group of monks became known all over the country. King John Casimir dedicated the country of Poland to the Virgin Mary, to thank her for returning Poland to the Polish people. Since then the Blessed Virgin has been our only queen.” He looked at them earnestly. “That happened in August 1656, exactly three hundred years ago.”

  “I’m glad we’re going to the festival,” the oldest boy declared.

  “Me too.” Mischka smiled. “You’re an excellent storyteller. Thank you, Jakób.”

  I had lots of practice and a very good little teacher, he thought. But he didn’t say anything aloud.

  The station at Częstochowa was crowded. People pushed and shoved and called out to one another. The streets were a teeming mass of people. In the wide Aleja Najświętszej Maryi Panny that ran through the heart of Częstochowa to the foot of Jasna Góra, not even a horse and buggy could make headway. There were hundreds of thousands of people—the newspaper estimated more than a million—in the streets and buildings, on the green hills, around the tall monastery walls. Everywhere people were pitching tents or erecting homemade shelters. The smoke of numerous fires was rising from the hills.

  “This must be what Bethlehem looked like when there was no room at the inn for Joseph and the Holy Virgin,” said the oldest boy. Jakób held his nephew’s hand tightly. If a child got lost here, he’d never be found again. Jakób also carried Mischka’s travel bag, while his own bag was slung over his shoulder. Mischka stayed close behind him. Stan and Haneczka were nowhere to be seen.

  “Goodness, what a throng!” Mischka said. “I wonder where Haneczka and Stan are.”

  He shrugged. “They’ll find their way home.” Looking into her eyes, he said, “Mischka, my people are plain folk, small farmers. Our home . . .”

  She put her finger to his lips. “Jakób, my parents are farmers, too, and I’ve slept in worse places than a stable. During the war I worked in the medical corps.”

  He let go of the boy’s hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re amazing,” he said.

  From a distance he spotted his father and Turek in the vegetable plots. Monicka came out on the porch to greet them. “Mother is inside,” she said.

  Jakób stood back and
allowed Mischka to enter first.

  Each time he returned, the house seemed smaller, more dilapidated, more cluttered.

  “Mother, this is my friend, Mischka Bòdis. This is my mother, Anastarja Kowalski.”

  Mischka held out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kowalski.”

  His mother turned to him. “She’s not Polish,” she said.

  Humiliation flooded him. “She’s Hungarian, Mother. She lives and works in Poland now.”

  His mother turned back to Mischka. “What is your faith?”

  Jakób felt himself grow cold. “Mother! Please!”

  “I’m a Christian, Mrs. Kowalski,” Mischka answered calmly. “A Protestant, but a Christian, just like you.”

  Jakób was furious. “Are you planning to make Mischka feel welcome, or should we return to Katowice straightaway?”

  Mischka put her hand on his arm. “Don’t, Jakób. Your mother wants what’s best for you.”

  His anger abated somewhat. “Mischka is what’s best for me,” he said.

  Anastarja didn’t take Mischka’s hand. “There’s coffee on the stove. Help yourselves to bread and ham if you’re hungry. I’m on my way to evening mass. There’ll be soup for supper when I return.”

  On Sunday more than a million festivalgoers converged on Jasna Góra. Only invited guests, such as dignitaries of the Catholic Church, heads of state, important church officials from neighboring countries, even delegations from countries abroad, were allowed to pass through the monastery walls. Everyone else gathered on the surrounding hillsides.

  With the children in mind, Monicka and Haneczka had packed picnic baskets. The men carried the baskets and blankets while the women tried to keep the children under control. Anastarja was the only family member absent from the group. She had left before sunrise to find herself a good place close to the wall.

  “Shall we sit here?” Jakób asked Turek. “We’ll have a good view of the proceedings.”

  “And we’ll be able to hear!” said Stan. “Look at those huge amplifiers. The mass is going to be broadcast.”

  “It’s as good a place as any other,” Turek said indifferently.

  Most festivalgoers, especially the women, were clad in the national costume: wide skirts trimmed with brightly colored embroidery or appliqué, matching vests, and white blouses with frills around the neck and sleeves. Many had flowers in their hair.

  Monicka, Haneczka, and the children were all in costume, but the big Kowalski men had declined to wear the black gathered trousers, white shirts, and embroidered vests.

  Mischka wore a simple white dress that set off her suntanned skin and gleaming black hair to perfection. Jakób couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  “Jakób,” she said with an embarrassed smile, “don’t stare at me like that. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

  “I apologize.” For just a moment he averted his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’ve tried, but you’re too beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” She seemed to take him almost too seriously. Maybe he should be careful after all. Maybe the “good friendship” was more important to her than he had thought.

  “I suggest you look at the wall now,” she said, smiling, “or you’ll miss the ceremony.”

  On top of the ancient ramparts an impressive procession was slowly moving toward them. The boys’ choir led the way with their beautiful voices. They were followed by chanting nuns, rosaries strung through their fingers. Behind them came the important officials of the Catholic Church, clad in their ornate vestments. The Byzantine painting of the Black Madonna was held aloft as they paraded around the monastery so that everyone in the crowd could catch a glimpse of it.

  The pilgrims sang one hymn after the other. The singing rippled over the green Polish hills and told the story of a nation anchored in its faith and its church, and of a people who would not allow strangers with foreign ideologies to sever the ropes that anchored them.

  The people got to their feet and remained standing long after the procession had passed.

  Jakób joined in the singing with his strong voice. He raised his face to the sky in praise of the Blessed Virgin who had protected Poland through the ages. He sent up a silent prayer that she would keep protecting them.

  He felt Mischka’s hand slip into his own. He looked down at her. Her eyes were shining with emotion. Suddenly he knew without a doubt that he wanted to share the rest of his life with her.

  He drew her closer.

  The procession came to a halt diagonally in front of Jakób and his party. Two priests placed the ancient painting on an altar. Beside the altar was an empty throne adorned with roses in red and white—Poland’s national colors. It was a tacit allusion to the absence of the imprisoned archbishop, Cardinal Wyszynski.

  The mass was broadcast over the huge speakers so that the sea of festivalgoers could feel themselves part of it.

  Afterward, the archbishop of Łódź solemnly repeated King John Casimir’s oath, dedicating every Polish heart and home to the Blessed Virgin. The pilgrims knelt and repeated his words: “O Queen of Poland! We renew the Pledge of our Fathers and promise that we will diligently strengthen and spread in our hearts and in the Polish Lands your honor and the worship of you, Mother of God.”

  After the proceedings ended, a hallowed atmosphere descended on the hills around Jasna Góra. People began to pack up, but the high spirits of the morning had vanished. It was as if each of those million people knew that Poland and the Polish Catholic Church were at a crossroads. Cardinal Wyszynski’s sumptuous empty throne stayed behind on the wall when the procession departed.

  “Does anybody here understand English? Does anyone speak English?”

  Jakób turned. A thin, red-faced woman with tousled hair was looking around as if she was seeking help. “I speak a little English,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  She looked relieved. “Thank goodness!” she said. “I didn’t know there was still a place anywhere in the world where people don’t speak English!”

  “How can I help you?” Jakób asked again.

  “Could you explain to me what just happened here?” she asked.

  In broken English Jakób explained to her the history behind the events and tried to answer her questions. “For centuries Poland has been trapped between Germany and Russia,” he explained. “We’ve been trampled on, we’ve even been erased from the world map, but Polish nationalism breeds a quality of patriot who always gets up again to fight back.”

  The woman seemed interested. She wrote down every bit of information, asked his name, even wanted to take a photo of him.

  “You have strong feelings about this,” she said at the end of their conversation.

  “Everyone here does, I’m sure you can see that. What happened here today is a testimony of the people’s commitment to their faith. Poland won’t bow to the Communists, you’ll see.”

  When he joined the rest of his family for the walk back home, Mischka asked, “Who was that?”

  “A British tourist,” answered Jakób. “She was impressed by the proceedings but didn’t have a clue what it was about.”

  “Then I’m glad you could help her,” said Mischka.

  “I hope she’s just a tourist, brother,” Stan said seriously.

  The sun set behind the green hills and the clouds cast the golden glow back to earth. A cold breeze came up. Jakób noticed that Mischka was rubbing her arms. “Walk closer to me, I’ll keep you warm,” he said and opened his arm.

  With his arm around her shoulder, he held her against him. Her slender body was soft against his own. “Better?” he asked.

&nb
sp; “Much better.”

  They walked slowly, alone in the crowd as his brothers’ families hurried back to the farm. The hills darkened, and the sun slipped over the horizon in a red blaze.

  “Did you like it? The ceremony?”

  “Very much,” she answered. She looked up at him. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  He stopped. “Mischka?”

  “Mm?”

  He placed his hands around her face and raised it to his own. “I’m going to kiss you,” he warned her.

  “I know.” She smiled.

  He felt his heart beat faster. He tasted her mouth, shy at first, unsure. Then her lips parted slightly, and he felt his body react. Her breathing quickened, he smelled her delicate perfume, he tasted her lips. He felt her body begin to respond. It stirred up a strange mixture of emotions inside him: ecstasy, excitement . . .

  Then he felt her withdraw. He released her at once, but he still held her face between his hands. “You’re beautiful, Mischka,” he said hoarsely. Then he let her go.

  She leaned against him. “What’s happening to us, Jakób?” she asked.

  “We’re cultivating our good friendship,” he answered with a smile.

  She laughed softly, happily.

  The next Friday Drobner called Jakób to his office. He didn’t welcome him or invite him to sit down as usual, but came straight to the point.

  “Why are you being watched, Jakób?”

  Jakób felt as if he had been doused with icy water. Drobner’s expression was equally cold.

  “I think I was watched for a while after we returned from Poznań, sir,” he answered calmly. “I doubt whether it’s still the case.”

  “Why were you being watched then?”

  Jakób pushed his fingers through his black hair. “On my way to the trade fair I found myself in the workers’ march to the city hall. I witnessed an incident involving a young boy. I offered to testify for him.”