by Robert Brown
CHAPTER NINE
Heinrich and Jan hurried down a concrete ramp and into an underground parking garage. It was about half filled with cars, and those plus the square concrete pillars and dim lighting made it hard to see the whole place.
Another feminine scream and a male shout of rage told them where to look.
At the far end of the parking garage, several figures struggled. Heinrich made his way for them, readying his stick. He rounded the corner of one aisle and ran down the row of cars. As he got closer, he could see three guys manhandling a woman, who struck back at them with the fury of a tiger. A fourth guy leaned against a nearby car, holding his crotch. Heinrich figured he must have been the one who had shouted.
Before Heinrich had time to save her, she did a hell of a lot to save herself. After lashing out at one man, making him back off, she yanked a small cylinder from her pocket and pressed a button on top.
A red stream shot straight into the guy’s face. He bellowed and clamped his hands over his eyes. The woman shifted her pepper spray to the next guy who turned away and ran back several feet, straight into the range of Heinrich’s stick. He took him out with a swing to the side of the head. The stick snapped in two and the guy dropped to the pavement, out cold.
Gripping the stub of the stick, he moved in to help the woman, who was struggling with the third attacker. The guy had grabbed her arm, moving it away and only receiving a slight dose of the spray that pissed him off more than it slowed him down. A rap on the head with Heinrich’s stick proved far more effective.
Heinrich had just enough time to notice the woman was hot and begin to think of a witty pick up line when he got a fist to the side of the head. The guy leaning against the car had decided to stop holding his injured crotch and get back in the game.
Heinrich spun, lashing out with a poorly aimed right hook that winged the guy on the forehead, the least vulnerable spot on the face, especially for a dimwit like this. Heinrich dodged a swing and got into a boxing stance, letting the stub of the stick clatter to the floor. The guy swung, missed, and got one of Heinrich’s classic combos—right jab to the face, left jab to the stomach, then a right hook to the face.
The guy only managed to block the first punch. He doubled over on the second and bit the pavement on the third.
Heinrich shifted to his stance and spun to face the other attackers, to find two still down and the other, already pepper sprayed, getting another dose of the nasty gas at point blank range. Jan dove in and sucker punched him. That was enough to knock him down. Jan gave him a few kicks before Heinrich hauled him off.
“OK, Mike Tyson, time to get moving.”
“Mike Tyson? I no nigger.”
Heinrich smacked him upside the head.
“Use that word again, or whatever its equivalent is in Polish, and I’ll knock your teeth out.”
Oh shit, blew my cover.
To his surprise, instead of objecting, Jan seemed hurt and mumbled an apology.
The woman picked up a video camera lying nearby and said something in Polish. It sounded like, “Let’s get out of here,” which seemed like a good idea.
Following her anywhere seemed like a good idea. She looked in her late twenties, a bit young for Heinrich but he wasn’t complaining. She had a trim, athletic figure, ivory skin, delicate Slavic features, blue eyes, and black hair. Heinrich would have saved an ugly woman too, but saving a beautiful woman was much more fun.
She led them to a car, unlocked it and climbed in. Heinrich got in the passenger’s seat and the skinhead brat got in back.
The woman turned on the ignition, wiping her reddened eyes. She’d obviously gotten a whiff of her own pepper spray, a common hazard if the user doesn’t have time to back away immediately.
“I can drive,” Heinrich offered.
“You think a woman can’t drive?” she shot back.
Heinrich wondered how you said, “That’s not what I meant, you hypersensitive feminist” in Polish and decided to drop it. She just got away from an attempted gang rape after all.
The car peeled out of the parking lot, took the corner at speed, and shot down the street.
The woman spared him a glance. “Where are you from?”
“America.”
“We can speak English if you want,” she said in that language. She had a British accent. “I worked in London for five years.”
“I never go to London,” Jan piped up from the back seat. “Too many Muslims.”
The woman glared at him through the rearview mirror and said something in Polish that sounded unpleasant. Jan replied with something that sounded even more unpleasant.
“Shut up back there,” Heinrich ordered. He turned to the woman. “What happened? Who were those guys?”
Instead of answering, she gave him a suspicious look. “Who are you?”
“Just a tourist in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was walking along and saw a riot between two political groups. This kid was getting beaten, so I pulled him out of it.”
Jan cut in, understanding enough of the English to notice the bullshit in Heinrich’s story. “Wait, you no—”
“Shut up, Jan.” Before he could cause any more damage, Heinrich decided to play divide and conquer. He turned back to the woman and said. “I think he’s a skinhead. Wish I had known that before I risked my ass to save him. Still, he’s just a kid.”
Jan gave him a baffled look but thankfully kept his mouth shut.
The woman rubbed her eyes again, which although bloodshot still kept their sparkling blue. She drove for another block in silence and parked the car in a busy shopping street. Heinrich peered around. It seemed strange to see shoppers going about their daily business when there was a war on a few blocks away.
“Thank you for helping me,” she said.
“No problem. I’m Heinrich, by the way.”
“I’m Gabriela. And to answer your question, those guys attacked me because I was filming the anti-immigrant demonstration.”
“You Communist?” Jan said from the back.
She shot him a look. “No. I’m a civil rights campaigner.”
“What does that mean?” Jan said. ‘Civil rights’ obviously wasn’t an important term for him in any language.
Gabriela translated it for him and got a disdainful sneer in return. She ignored him and turned back to Heinrich.
“Anyway, I am part of a film project documenting the rise of the far right in my country, and how it’s corrupting our youth. Perhaps I should interview your young friend here.”
“He’s not my friend. He’s just some kid I saved.”
“And you’re just a tourist. Yes, so you say. Thank you for helping me. Now get out of my car.”
Heinrich was taken aback. “You sure you don’t want an escort home?”
“Very chivalrous. I’m fine now. Bye.”
“Wait, um, maybe I can help you with your project or something?”
“I don’t think so. Now I really need to go. Thank you once again.”
Heinrich figured this chick might be useful, and even if she wasn’t he sure wanted to look into those eyes again when they were a normal color instead of redder than a stoner’s on her tenth bong hit.
“Can I have your number? I’d like to see you again. To, you know, make sure you’re fine.”
If an illustrated dictionary needed a picture for the term “cock block”, Gabriela’s expression would have worked perfectly.
Heinrich gave her a level stare. “Not a date. Business.”
He brought up his Polish number on his phone and showed it to her. After a moment’s hesitation she took a photo of it. She did not offer her own.
“Time to get out, Jan,” he sighed.
They climbed out of the car. Gabriela drove off without even saying goodbye.
“Ha! What a bitch,” Jan said. “We fight our people for her?”
“They were going to rape her. That’s never all right, no matter how much you hate someone. Understand?”
Jan looked confused for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s bad. They should just smash her camera and spit at her.”
“Very gracious of you.”
Jan looked him up and down. “Why you pretend you not one of us?”
Heinrich fumbled for a reply. “Well, um—”
Jan laughed and wagged a finger at him. “Ah, I know! You want to fuck the Communist bitch. She gone now. You got nothing. You have to go look at Internet and jack off!”
“You know how to say ‘jack off’ in English but not ‘civil rights’? Why am I not surprised?”
Jan’s eyes widened. “Hey! Where my coat?”
“Oh, crap. I dropped it during that last fight and forgot to pick it up. Sorry.”
Jan looked mournful. “It my favorite.”
“Keep mine.”
Jan brightened. “Really?”
“Sure. You look less like a hooligan in that anyway.”
“Hooligans fight for football. We fight for our race.”
Jan shouted out something in Polish. The passersby gave him dirty looks or quickly looked away and hurried on.
Heinrich switched to German. Jan spoke that better than English and he wanted to make his point clear.
“Don’t make a scene. Now that coat isn’t free. I want you to show me around Wałbrzych. My grandfather was from there and that’s why I came to Poland, to see my homeland. Will you show me around? I’d like to meet our brothers in arms too.”
Jan brightened. “Yeah! That would be cool. I’ve lived there all my life. It’s kind of boring but if you’ve never seen it I guess it would be fun. We have a good group there. Skinheads and the National Revival and the Purity League.”
“You know people in the Purity League?” That was a stroke of luck.
“Sure, they’re good friends,” Jan said, and Heinrich sensed it was more teenaged boasting than the truth. “You in that?”
“I went to a meeting in New York. A good group of people. They’re really getting things organized. Wait, that guy with the megaphone back at the rally said that Dieter’s whole family was here. Don’t you want to find them?”
Jan shrugged. “My parents aren’t here. They don’t understand the struggle. They forbade me from speaking with Dieter, so I had to in secret. His relatives don’t even know I knew him, or even that I’m here. That’s why I wasn’t at the front with them. But I had to pay my respects. He taught me so much.”
Tears brimmed in the Jan’s eyes and Heinrich suddenly saw the kid’s situation all too clearly. Shit parents, living in a boring town with no future, and along comes a friendly uncle who gives him a place to belong and a reason to feel proud. Of course this little dumbass fell for it. He gave Jan a soft punch on the shoulder.
“Sorry you lost your uncle, buddy. Let’s go catch a train.”
“You don’t want to stay for the rest of the rally?”
“Seeing Wałbrzych is the real reason I’m here.”
Jan made a face. “Yeah, I guess the cops have ruined all the fun by now anyway. The fighting started earlier than we figured.” Jan looked at him. “I did good, didn’t I?”
“You’re a pretty good fighter for someone your age,” Heinrich conceded. He got the impression Jan that had gotten a lot of practice.
“There’s a train in a couple of hours. Buy me some lunch. Tours of Wałbrzych don’t come for free, even for brothers in arms.”
Heinrich pointed down the street. “There’s a McDonalds over there.”
Jan spat on the pavement, narrowly missing a little old lady walking her poodle.
“McDonalds is owned by Jews. Let’s go to Burger King.”
Heinrich shook his head and followed Jan around the corner. This was going to be a long, long trip.
CHAPTER TEN
It did turn out to be a long trip, but it sure wasn’t a boring one. Jan didn’t have a ticket. Since he didn’t have any money, he had hidden in the train toilet when the conductor passed by. Heinrich didn’t want him doing that on the way back, so he had to shell out for him. The brat wouldn’t be much good to him stuck in some juvenile detention center.
Heinrich had checked out of his hotel and brought along his suitcase. Wałbrzych was in the far southwest of the country near the Czech border, five and a half hours away. Heinrich was impressed that the kid had eluded the conductor for that long. Obviously a resourceful little brat.
Resourceful and annoying. The kid wouldn’t sit still. He kept springing up and getting into a poor imitation of a boxing stance.
“Teach me to fight!”
“Later. Sit down.”
That would work for a few minutes and then the kid would spring up again. He kept recounting the two fights they’d been in, exaggerating Heinrich’s prowess with each retelling, and of course exaggerating his own role too.
“I throw that stick good, huh? Maybe I throw at Communist head!”
The other passengers began to stare. People moved to other seats and soon they had a whole section of the car for their own.
“So tell me more about Dieter,” Heinrich said to get him to sit down for the tenth time.
Sadness passed over his young face. “He real cool. Been fighting for our people many years.”
“Was he well connected?”
“Well connected? What is this?”
“Did he know a lot of people in the movement?”
“Yeah. Everyone.”
“I heard Dieter’s grandfather fought in the war.”
Jan perked up and switched to German. “Yeah! He was in 14th Waffen Grenadier Division, the SS Galician division.”
The name rolled off his tongue like he’d said it a thousand times, and always in German.
“What is he like?”
Jan shrugged. “I don’t know him. My asshole parents say I no see him.”
“He must be a hero.”
“Yes,” Jan said with obvious pride. “Whole town knows him.”
After a while the conversation lulled into silence. Heinrich watched the rolling hills and fields go by, wondering if Grandpa Otto passed through this same territory with his SS unit. He’d never researched his grandfather’s war record, didn’t want to. Knowing he had a war record with the SS was bad enough.
“I got to make piss,” Jan said.
“Knock yourself out,” Heinrich said, lost in his own thoughts.
After several minutes, Jan came back. Heinrich, still staring out the window, caught an acrid whiff of chemicals. He whipped around and studied Jan. The kid’s eyes were hooded and glazed, and his nostrils had red rings around them, with mucous oozing out of each.
Heinrich glanced around to make sure no one was sitting nearby and leaned over to the kid.
“Give it to me,” he demanded.
“What?” Jan slurred.
“The…,” Heinrich didn’t know the word for glue in Polish, so he switched to German.
“Give me the glue.”
“Wha???”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. Hand it over.”
“I don’t have nothing.”
Heinrich reached over and patted him down. Jan slapped his hands away.
“What you do, faggot?”
Heinrich felt a crinkly lump in one pocket. He shoved his hand in the kid’s pocket, grabbed onto some plastic, and pulled it out. It was a small plastic bag with a bit of clear, half-dried fluid in the bottom.
“Give me the rest of it.”
“Fuck off.”
“Give it to me or give I’m calling the conductor right now.”
“Asshole,” Jan griped, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of glue. Heinrich took it, opened the window, and threw it and the plastic bag out.
“Why you do that?” Jan said, suddenly remembering his English. The glue high didn’t last long. Heinrich knew.
“Because only losers do that. You want to be a loser?”
Jan shrugged and looked out the window in a sulk. Heinrich bit h
is lip. This kid had probably been called a loser all his life. Well, if he continued like this, it would be true. Heinrich thought for a moment and said,
“Look, that shit is bad for you. I used to do it.”
“You?” Jan made a surprised laugh.
“Yeah, me. I got over it. How could I be a boxer if I did that shit?”
Jan rubbed his nose. “It is fun, and train is boring.”
“Don’t do it anymore.”
“If I no do it, you teach me to fight?”
Heinrich sighed. What a major pain in the ass. “Sure. I’ll teach you to fight.”
Jan pumped his fist in the air. “Cool! Let us fight.”
The skinhead leaped up, trying to get into a fighting stance and only managing to trip over his own feet and landing in the opposite seat.
“This is why you don’t sniff glue. You can’t fight.”
“Oh, OK.”
The trip dragged on and Jan sobered up and got fidgety again. Heinrich had to throw down for some dinner in the dining car. The kid howled when it turned out they didn’t serve hamburgers and eventually settled for some sausage and sauerkraut. As they sat at the tiny counter of the dining car, Jan kept belching and making dirty jokes about the sausages. Heinrich rolled his eyes and ignored him and ignored the angry stares of the other passengers. Not that he worried what they thought. If living in New York City had taught him anything, it was that the weirder you act, the less likely people will mess with you.
After dinner he had to endure a couple of hours of juvenile anecdotes about gang fights and the far right in Wałbrzych. It reminded him why he had never had kids of his own.
He learned a few things though.
Jan mentioned that his uncle Dieter had joined the Purity League when it had formed a chapter in town last year. His uncle had been excited by the organization’s good funding and the small gifts of money they occasionally gave activists like him. Heinrich learned that Jan’s entire family was poor. Dieter didn’t have a job, and so the money came in handy. Just before Dieter was murdered, he had taken his nephew to a meeting, and the kid had become a youth member. Jan proudly showed off his membership card.
