by Irma Joubert
“For a boy? Against the secret police?” his chief asked. His voice was as chilly as his eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Drobner. I don’t have a choice,” Jakób answered resolutely.
“Is there no other reason why you’re being watched?” asked Drobner. “Because I assure you, they have not stopped.”
“None at all,” said Jakób.
Drobner nodded and sat down behind his desk. He sounded worried now. “Take care. You don’t want the Party to find anything against you. You’re a brilliant young man; there’s a bright future ahead of you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jakób. “I’ll be careful.”
A week later Stan came to his drawing board. “There’s a problem at my plant I’d like you to take a look at. Later, when most of the men have gone home.” He left without explaining.
Jakób frowned. A feeling of impending disaster took hold of him. Something was wrong. The correct procedure was for Stan to fill out an application form, after which a designated engineer would attend to his problem. Jakób couldn’t think of any problem he could help Stan with. He had no expertise in Stan’s field.
It was almost dark when Jakób set off for Stan’s workshop.
“What’s the problem?” he asked when he arrived.
“I’m not happy with this machine,” said Stan, crossing to one of the big machines. “I’d appreciate it if you could open it up and take a look.”
“I—” Jakób began.
“Open it,” Stan ordered softly.
They knelt beside the machine. Jakób unscrewed a bolt. He had no idea what he was doing or how to operate the machine. “Now this one,” Stan said brusquely.
Jakób loosened another bolt.
“The problem lies deeper inside—Francis Rzepecki contacted me—keep looking,” said Stan.
A shock went through Jakób. Francis Rzepecki of the Home Army? He belonged to a different time, when they had fought the Russians just as hard as the Germans. “I didn’t know he was still alive,” he said softly.
“Can you see anything?” Stan asked loudly and got to his feet.
“What do you think is wrong here?” Jakób motioned for Stan to bend down again.
“He says there was an article in a British newspaper about the things you said at the festival. With your photo, large as life. And the same article has appeared in newspapers worldwide.”
The British tourist with the wild hair. On the green hills outside Częstochowa.
Jakób got up slowly. He looked around. Here and there workers were standing around in groups. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “What are we going to do about this?” he asked.
“It won’t just disappear,” answered Stan. “I’m afraid to carry on with production. It could be dangerous.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Jakób.
“I’m positive,” said Stan.
Jakób bent beside the machine again. Stan crouched next to him. “Francis suggests that you get documents, in case you have to flee.”
“I’ll never run.”
“He could get what you need.” Stan got up. “Well, at least you know now what the problem is,” he said. “You’ll have to think of a solution.”
Jakób got up too. “I will,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any immediate danger. You can carry on with production.”
Stan shrugged. “If you think so. But the responsibility is yours if something goes wrong. And things do go wrong, listen to what I’m telling you.”
When he told Mischka that evening, she turned white.
“Jakób, you have no idea what these people are capable of!”
“The Communists?”
She nodded. “Don’t do anything to antagonize them.”
He folded her in his arms. She was rigid. “I have to testify at the boy’s trial, Mischka.”
“Don’t, I beg you! You’ll go up against the secret police!”
He stroked her hair, at a loss how to comfort her. If he, Jakób Kowalski, was to remain true to himself, he had to testify that the child was innocent, a victim of circumstances.
“Mischka, there’s something else we have to discuss.”
She stepped back, held up her hands. “Don’t! Please, don’t!”
“Someone from the Home Army has offered to arrange documents for me if I need them.”
She lowered her head into her hands. “If you have to flee.” Her voice sounded dead.
“It’s premature. I didn’t want to mention it now. But . . . I want to share my life with you, Mischka. I love you.”
“Jakób—”
“I know it’s too soon. It’s probably quite unnecessary. I believe we’re being paranoid, but I must know . . . in case . . . I’m not making much sense, am I?”
She smiled slightly. “I love you too, Jakób.”
A strange happiness settled inside him. A wave of tenderness washed over him. He didn’t speak, just held out his hands to her.
She took his hand and pressed it to her face.
When he could trust his voice again, he asked, “Can I arrange documents for you as well?”
“My documents are fine, Jakób. No one is looking for me.”
The trials began at the end of September. Right from the start a distinction was made between the workers who had been simply protesting and those who had committed crimes. The criminal trials took place in Poznań, while the political trials were moved to Warsaw.
“I don’t know how objective the media reports are with press censorship the way it is,” Jakób remarked to Stan. They saw each other only at work these days. Jakób didn’t want to expose Stan’s family, especially the boys, to unnecessary danger. Even at work they had to find excuses to talk so that their encounters would not raise suspicion.
“Francis says your documents will be ready next week,” said Stan.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jakób said firmly.
“One doesn’t always have a choice.”
“I believe one usually does. Anyway, if I’m forced to go, Mischka is coming as well.”
Stan looked at him skeptically. “This is no time for a romantic interlude, brother.”
“It isn’t a romantic interlude.” Jakób ran his hand through his hair. “If she doesn’t come, I might as well rot in a Russian jail.”
Stan gave a wry smile. “I never thought I’d live to hear you speak like this! You’ll probably be taking her to the ballet next!”
He didn’t tell Stan that the tickets had already been bought.
Professor Chalasinski of the University of Łódź, Jakób read, was one of the first expert witnesses at the trial. He told the court that the march had started as a peaceful protest. Initially an almost devout atmosphere had reigned, as proved by the singing of songs and the national anthem. Then the protesters were stirred up by rumors that the secret police had fired at children, and they were further provoked by the arrival of tanks. Feelings ran high—the fiery Polish patriotism took over, so that the initial protest turned into a violent uprising that spread like wildfire.
The professor said he doubted whether anyone could have defused the situation after that.
It shouldn’t be too hard to prove that the boy was a victim of circumstances, Jakób thought. And when this was over, he’d make very certain that he didn’t get himself involved in any further trouble.
“Our young people refuse to be crushed by the Russians,” Jakób said to Mischka one evening. He folded the newspaper. “Come and sit with me on the sofa,” he said.
She closed the shutters and turned away from the window. “Your friend is waiting out there under the tree,” she said.
“It will all be over after the trial.” He tried to reassure her. “And before you say anything else, Mischka, I’ll be very careful. I have too much to lose.”
She nestled under his arm. “I’m glad. I’m on night shift for the next two weeks. We won’t see much of each other.”
He groaned. “I might not survive,” he complained.
She laughed happily.
“I’ll probably have to go to Warsaw sometime during the next two weeks for the trial,” Jakób said. “And when it’s over, we’ll put the past behind us and talk about our future. Together.”
He felt that spring was in the air. Kowalski, he thought, you’re a sad case—it’s October—autumn, the beginning of winter. Spring is a long way off.
But his heart did not listen to his head.
Over the next month unrest in Poland grew. University students organized a revolution against Stalinism. Workers demanded that the dethroned Gomulka, a politician with ties to the old Polish Worker’s Party, be reinstated as first secretary of the Politburo in hopes that he would break away from the Soviet bloc.
Gomulka is not our salvation, Jakób thought. He’s just another Communist who will keep Poland under the Communist yoke.
Soviet troops were advancing on Warsaw. A Russian delegation arrived to oversee talks about the appointment of a Polish leader. Ships from the Soviet Baltic Fleet arrived near the Bay of Gdańsk.
When Jakób heard the news that Gomulka had been reinstated, he realized that the Soviets had turned Gomulka into a national hero. The Polish people were united behind him. They believed he had shown the Russians that the Poles would not be intimidated. Students and workers gathered to show their support for their leader.
Jakób was filled with an intense longing for Mischka. He wanted to speak to her, discuss the state of affairs, just be with her. But she was on night shift. He decided to drop in on Stan and Haneczka after all. He put on his coat and went outside. But when he saw the man under the tree, he took a walk around the block and returned to his room.
He was trapped, like a caged animal.
Because he was going to testify on behalf of an innocent boy.
Against the secret police.
And because he had spoken against the Communists to a British tourist.
In October Jakób was summoned to the trials in Warsaw. On the train he read more disturbing news. The Moscow paper Pravda launched a sharp attack against Poland, and the Sunday paper from Katowice reported that anti-Communist protests were on the increase, especially in Kraków. Gomulka’s dilemma, the paper speculated, was how to take Poland forward without alienating Russia.
Poland’s dilemma, Jakób thought, was that Gomulka wanted to replace one Communist regime with another.
It was impossible to relax in the train. If only all trains didn’t smell the same. The pungent, smoky smell reminded him of other journeys he preferred to forget.
In Warsaw he found a cheap hotel within walking distance of the court building.
That evening Radio Warsaw reported, “It is spring in October, a spring of renewed hope and renewed national pride. Poland is inventing its own form of Polish Socialism. We have crossed our Rubicon. Nothing can stop the transformation of the Polish Socialist Revolution now.”
On Monday Jakób spent the day on a hard, wooden bench outside the courtroom, waiting to testify. A large group of young people had destroyed the offices of the Polish-Soviet Friendship Society, someone said. They were looting shops, damaging buildings and posters, overturning vehicles, creating havoc.
Jakób waited patiently on his bench.
On Tuesday the trials progressed even more slowly. All those involved seemed more interested in the political landscape than in events in the courtroom.
Gomulka himself spoke on Radio Polski: “I’m calling on the workers and youths not to do anything that could possibly damage Soviet-Polish relationships. I assure the Polish people that it will be a priority of the new government to rectify the mistakes of the past. I ask all generals, officers, soldiers, every factory worker and hospital clerk, every student, tram driver, and farmer to respect our ties with the Soviet Union, and to reinforce them where possible.”
An exceptional weariness washed over Jakób.
The local radio station at Gdańsk reported that a Soviet-minded group had compiled a blacklist of anti-Communists to be presented to Gomulka.
Jakób waited and waited on the hard bench outside the courtroom. At six he returned to the hotel.
That evening Radio Warsaw reported that the Hungarians in Budapest had begun to protest against the Russians in support of the Poles.
Shortly after dinner Jakób received a phone call from Mr. Drobner. He took the call at the reception desk.
“Have you testified yet?” asked his employer.
“No, but I’ll definitely testify tomorrow, probably in the afternoon,” Jakób answered. He tried to assess his boss’s tone of voice but the line was unclear.
“Come straight back to Katowice afterward,” said Drobner.
“I’ll be on the evening train, sir.”
Wednesday a fine drizzle trickled down Warsaw’s buildings, forming puddles on the tarred streets and concrete sidewalks. Jakób didn’t take the stand until late afternoon.
It took only five minutes for the judge to rule that the boy had been an innocent victim of circumstance. The court was adjourned. More interesting things were happening in the outside world.
Jakób walked back to his hotel through the wet streets. He felt stripped, completely drained.
He wanted to get back to Katowice as soon as possible. To be with his people. His family. Mischka.
He hastily packed his bag and settled his account with the homely hotel receptionist. “Are you on your way back to Katowice?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “on the evening train.”
He walked down the main street to the station.
From a distance he saw the crowd that had gathered in front of the Palace of Culture, waiting to hear Gomulka speak.
Jakób looked straight ahead and continued on his way.
He heard the crowd cheer when their new leader appeared on the balcony.
Amplifiers carried Gomulka’s voice across the square and into the surrounding streets.
“After our recent meeting with the Soviet delegation, we each have come to a better understanding of our respective situations,” said the new Polish leader. His guiding principles were Communist, he explained, but they differed from those of Soviet Communism. He believed Poland should remain in the Soviet bloc and maintain strong ties with Russia. It was the only way Poland could survive.
“There must be no obstacles in the path of collaboration between Poland and Russia. All efforts to incite anti-Soviet feelings will be crushed,” Gomulka said. “All persons with anti-Communist sentiments will be arrested and brought to trial.”
Jakób’s feet carried him away from the square.
He didn’t buy a newspaper at the station. He didn’t glance at the posters on the walls of the stations they were passing through.
He didn’t think of anything. He tried to think of nothing. He just wanted to get home.
It was after eleven when the train stopped at a station outside of Katowice. A child, a young girl, got on and sat down opposite Jakób. What was a child doing alone on a train at this late hour? Jakób wondered absently.
As the train pulled out of the station, the child said, “
Don’t look at me, Uncle Jakób. Keep looking through the window.”
Shock jolted through Jakób’s body. The voice belonged to Stan’s oldest boy.
With an enormous effort he managed to keep his eyes on the window.
“Daddy said to tell you not to get off in Katowice. They’re waiting for you, the soldiers. Keep going. I’ll leave this bag when I get off. Take it.”
The child got up and stood waiting at the door to get off at the next station.
Anger rose up in Jakób. He found it hard to remain seated. Who had known he would be on that particular train? Mr. Drobner? The homely hotel receptionist? Someone who had been watching him?
As the train pulled out of the station, he resolved to get off in Katowice after all. He refused to be intimidated. He would not flee from the Communists.
He would get off and go to Mischka. They would speak about tomorrow, not about today or yesterday.
But Stan and Haneczka had risked the life of their son to warn him.
He opened the bag left behind by his nephew. Inside were his documents: a new passport in the name of Józef Nikolajzcski, with his own photograph. There was money as well, Czech korun and German marks. Not a lot, but enough to start him off. And a certificate dated 30 June 1946, confirming that a degree in metallurgical engineering had been conferred on Jakób Kowalski by the University of Kraków.
He gave a cynical smile. If anyone searched the bag, his name was in plain sight on this document. He would have to hide it well, along with his existing identity card.
The bag also contained a letter addressed to him.
My darling Jakób,
My heart is filled with sorrow, but there’s no other way. I have to stop running, I know that now. I belong in Hungary—my parents are still there, my brothers too. It’s where I’ll be returning as soon as I have worked out my notice month at the hospital. I can’t do anything else.
I fled from Hungary, just as you have to flee from Poland now. But there’s a big difference. I know. My husband refused to flee, and he paid for it in the cruelest way imaginable.