“What exactly do you intend to do in Germany?” he demanded.
“I not come to stay Germany, not come to stay in your country…” stammered Kasja, in her rudimentary German. Her voice barely escaped her. “I go in Belgium for a week holiday to my cousins who live there. Here is address where I stay!” She opened her hand, stiff with the effort required to hold it steady, and gave him the paper, an envelope addressed to her with the return address in Liège in Belgium. A line of postage stamps cancelled by the Belgian Post confirmed its validity. The guard inspected the paper and again turned to Kasja.
“Holidays? And what you do in Poland? Work? You have regular job? You have family?” They were the standard questions and Kasja was perfectly prepared. All the border authorities of EU countries were trying to control the flow of migrating Poles fleeing poverty for the hope of a better life in the West after the fall of communism. Some borders had partially opened to the former Eastern Bloc countries. She did have some distant cousins in Belgium. They had escaped years ago from a tour group and had been granted political asylum there. Kasja had recently begun a correspondence with them as part of her careful plan for escape to Holland.
She had searched the internet and learned that the smiling American with the wide shoulders and square symmetrical jaw was working in the Netherlands. She had found everything very easily, even the phone number of his office. She had not sought contact with him since the night of the tragic accident. Her plan was to arrive suddenly and without warning in front of him and announce that if he wanted her in his life, she was willing to follow him anywhere. If he really wanted her, he would spontaneously answer ‘yes.’ She requested ordinary leave for two weeks from her job at the Polish Ministry of Finance, but if her American would take her as she was, she would never go back.
It was a crazy plan from any angle. But all through the grinding months of convalescence, she had planned every last detail. This project had become the purpose of her life and given her the courage to go on, to grit her teeth and do whatever it took to become completely well. She was determined to execute this plan to the letter, no matter what risks and frustrations might arise, wherever she went. The terrible train crash had taught her the great lesson that life is what it is. When it gives you opportunities, grab them, make your choices. Try always to do what you and not the others think right, without letting fears and hesitations and what people would say create doubts and obstacles to stop you. To fight tooth and nail for what you believe with all your might, with good humour and enthusiasm. And if the end is not what you had in mind, well, something else happens. To try something and fail is completely different from not trying at all. At least you tried. You never know what tomorrow's dawn will bring, but that’s no reason to shilly-shally about what you truly desire. Better to dare and risk future regret than regret that you had never dared at all. You might not get the chance again. That was it. The fact that she had met David on the same day that she came so close to losing her life was a good omen, a sign of luck. A sign that confirmed that this was the right choice.
The picture of her farewell to Poland flashed though her mind. Now she had said her last goodbye to her sister with rivers of tears as they exchanged fervent vows that they would each take care of themselves as best they could. She’d packed a small suitcase with a few clothes, three special pairs of shoes, and readied herself for the plunge. In her pocket were five hundred and eighty US dollars, all her life savings. She’d paid through the nose for that five hundred and eighty dollars on the black market. It took hours of negotiation with the shady operators who were replacing the exchange offices wherever foreign tourists were to be found.
She had no idea how to survive or even where she would be the next day. And if the American had forgotten her? Or had found another? Oh God, if he was already married? And how would he react when she revealed that the accident had left her flawed, that it would be practically impossible to ever have children of their own? She had tried all through her convalescence to reread all the English books by which she had tried to learn the language some years ago, to explain it all clearly when they met, to show him exactly how she felt about him. If he did not want her any more, she was prepared to accept ‘no’, but she must hear it from his own mouth, must see the lips so tenderly loved, pronounce it. When she had his answer, she would act accordingly. Her job and a new life back in Poland would be waiting as a backup alternative. All this passed through her mind with lightning speed, making her look faraway and unearthly. And right above her was planted the immobile German sentry, like a character from a Frankenstein movie to her travel-blurred eyes, staring into her face as though to penetrate to her innermost thoughts.
“Yes, work for Polish Ministry Finance,” she said in her best English, as these confused thoughts and memories were giddily succeeding each other. “Here my card.” She handed him her Polish official identity card complete with photograph. The guard compared it with the passport photograph and then stared at her face for a while without saying anything. At the end he pulled a huge seal from the pocket of his thick jacket and with a quick thunk! stamped her passport and handed it back with a faint smile. Kasja grabbed it and said a loud “Danke schön” with eyes that shone with joy. But she immediately tried to quell her over-joyful reaction lest somehow it betrayed her. If her overflowing delight was too obvious it could make the guard suspicious. But he did not even turn to look at her a second time. His attention was focused on the passengers sitting behind her. As soon as he had returned her passport, he was already onto them with the same questions repeated in the same robotic voice. Kasja leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Successive waves of relief and gratitude filled her as once again she thanked God, who must have been listening to her prayers and had granted her this outcome of the border check. After half an hour when all the formalities were complete, the bus started off on the rest of the journey to Berlin; the first part of her plan had been crowned with success.
****
The winter sun had risen and was shining brilliantly that icy morning. Light poured down on the coast road of Scheveningen, the seaside suburb of The Hague. The surface of the North Sea was a shimmering grey-green. David Kaczynski was already in his office in one of the towering glass high-rises which housed the headquarters of IBM Europe along the beach road. He was alone at one end of the bright airy room which accommodated the software development and production department, trying to complete an urgent programme implementation to replace the general computer system of the Dutch government with IBM software. Customers were continually making new demands, the pressure was intense and the agreed price inversely proportional to their claims. And if that weren’t enough, his schedule was off. He was breaking his neck trying to figure out how to shorten the production time, how to compress the pilot test period, to limit the time for the various stages of the project and achieve the first firm results for presentation to the leaders of the Dutch government on the agreed deadline. The irritating ringing of his phone demanded his attention yet again. He picked it up, ready to bite the caller’s head off.
“Mar. Kaczynski, there is a young miss here asking to see you urgently. She says she has no appointment with you.” The distorted voice of one of the receptionists downstairs was audible, speaking English with a strong Dutch accent.
“A miss? Miss what? I do not expect anyone this morning. I have no appointments in my calendar and no time to see anyone without an appointment today, my schedule is overflowing! No, no, I cannot see anyone at the moment!” said David, already losing his train of thought about the project. The tight deadlines and gruelling burden of his work left not the slightest margin of time today. He was about to hang up without even hearing what the receptionist was saying. His mind was on the final draft of the project which he must present to his clients shortly after noon.
“Miss insists, insists on seeing you right away, sir,” repeated the receptionist, this time with some hesitation, having understood that he was annoy
ed. He was about to hang up but the voice pleaded, “Please sir, just a moment. She says she has to talk to you!” He was ready to set the phone down. “Just a minute! Just a moment, please! She will speak to you!”
He had no chance to reply. “Mar – Mr. David Kaczynski? Good morning. I am Kasja, Kasja Ofianefska from Poland.” A timid, unknown voice speaking broken English. Unknown? David jumped, electrified by the voice of this ghost at the end of the phone line. How could he not be stunned? Kasja was indeed a ghost from the past. For a year and a half, he had completely written her off. When he had learned of the terrible train wreck the day after they had shared that magical half-hour, he had run back and forth asking everywhere in his poor Polish about Kasja. Had she survived? Did anyone know? He’d appealed to the dizzy blonde receptionist with the fingernails in the department which hosted his seminars. Perhaps everyone was overwhelmed by the deadly accident, perhaps there was another Kasja on the list of the dead, perhaps because of the language barrier, the receptionist gave him to clearly understand that her name was, unfortunately, on the list of the dead. He felt his soul break abruptly and dissolve into countless pieces when she confirmed two or three times, face impassive, almost hostile, that Kasja’s name was on that list. So he had wept, he had mourned, and with great effort and pain, tried to delete her memory forever from his life.
Until this morning, he had been absolutely sure of his excruciating loss. He had lost her forever, only a few hours from the moment they met, and had often cursed the time and fate that had brought them together and then wrenched them apart so mercilessly. They had not even had one day together…
“What? Just a minute! I’ll be right down!” he cried, and without a second thought, rocketed out of his chair, tossing the phone aside. At his shout, his alarmed colleagues turned and stared. Ignoring them, he made for the lift at such a speed that everyone in his path turned to stare and hastily dodged out of his way. “Is it a fire?” someone asked, as he slipped and almost fell flat on his face in the corridor, trying to catch a lift whose door was about to close…
Kasja awaited him downstairs on hot coals of apprehension. He had to descend so many floors. The lift would be stopping and starting. Squashed in a little corner of a vast and otherwise empty black leather sofa, she watched the reception area where the three girls invisible behind dark glass, were welcoming colleagues and visitors with smiles and cheerful greetings. The one who had phoned David Kaczynski to announce her was throwing behind the glass curious glances at the strange young woman with the funny accent; the telephone cross-talk and David’s reaction had irresistibly piqued her female curiosity.
It seemed like days to Kasja before one of the four lifts opened at the end of the corridor and David burst out of it like a tornado, racing towards the reception centre. He was so distracted that he did not even notice her in her little corner of the couch.
“David!” she cried in a trembling voice. Her legs felt too weak to lift the weight of her body just then. Even her own voice seemed unfamiliar, squeaky and strange to her. But it was all she could produce.
On hearing his name David froze. He turned towards the voice and looked slowly, as if hypnotised. He did not believe his own eyes. Kasja was there. Alive. A vision beyond even his most optimistic and deceptive dreams. And to verify that she was no false illusion, he ran towards her, seized her with both hands and lifted her from the black sofa. In one motion he had enclosed her in his arms and she wrapped hers around him. They stood together motionless as the Sphinx for a long, long time. Neither could find the words or the courage to say anything, but tears ran down both their faces unheeded. And, when he finally released her from his embrace to take a breath, they both sank onto the sofa as one body, eyes on one another.
The receptionist watched it all with startled fascination. She might have been unaware of the details of their story, but there was no doubt that this was a very emotional reunion.
Kasja had to say it. Now. “David, oh, David. I have to tell you…”
“No, you don’t… Don’t tell me anything. Just be here!”
“But I must. Please, listen. I was injured bad in train crash – you know?” He nodded and reached out to hold her closer. Her eyelashes were lowered. “No, let me say. Was very bad injury, much damage, all better now, don’t look so! But doctors say probably not able to have babies, David. Not give you child. Not family,” she whispered, raising her eyes and making a huge effort to look him in the face.
Without saying anything, he grasped both her hands and began to kiss her, releasing a new torrent of tears to silently run down her cheeks. The thrill and the shock of the moment had left him completely speechless, but nothing could prevent his true feelings from showing. He broke away from the kisses and pulled back to look at her and marvel, then pulled her back into the shelter of his strong arms and held her tightly without saying a word. He wanted her to know beyond any doubt that all that interested him at that moment was the fact that she was alive, again beside him; all that mattered was that he could hold her again in the gentle strength of his embrace, and keep her there with him forever. His, forever, to keep always alive this wondrous memory of an unexpected miracle, bathed in dazzling winter daylight.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Faux Pas
Helmut Weller hopped out of the lift on the top floor and peered warily around him. Trying to orient himself, he carefully inspected both of the gleaming white doors with the bright brass knobs in the lushly carpeted corridor of the Sablon area of Brussels apartment block. When satisfied that he had found the right name, he still hesitated outside the door nearest the lift. His hand hovered over the bell; what on earth was he doing? He didn’t belong here! What on earth could she want of him? Finally, he resolutely pressed the bell. The long ring resounded through the closed door. He listened for a while, waiting for an answer. Not a sign of life. He looked once more at his watch. “But it's exactly the hour we arranged. She cannot not be here!” he thought with severe German logic and rang the bell twice more at two-minute intervals. Nothing. Not a sound. He pressed his left ear to the door: still nothing. Silence was the only response.
Well, he would not give up yet. He ground his teeth and began to knock hard on the door with his knuckles. Shortly after his fifth attempt, he finally heard a rustling on the other side. Seconds later, it silently opened on the slender form of Director Anna Aggerblad. By this time, her presence was an unexpected surprise.
Helmut looked at her, bewildered. This was not the efficient executive he knew from the office; she was wearing tight jeans revealing perfectly proportioned hips and a slim waist and a white shirt clinging to generous breasts. Her wet blonde hair fell to her shoulders, curling around her face; clearly she was just out of the bath. She had reached her fifties, and her face, though well- preserved, did show her age. But the fit and shapely body could well rival one twenty years younger. Her form-fitting clothes, her face relaxed of any stress of work and her feminine behaviour, made her seem almost wanton. Taken aback, Helmut didn’t know what to make of her. She was startlingly appealing.
“Ah, welcome! Good evening!” said Anna with a wide smile. “Come in, straight along here!” She pointed where he was to go inside her flat. Helmut swallowed and tried to smile, but his embarrassment doomed his efforts to failure.
“A thousand apologies for the delay. I was in the shower,” she explained unnecessarily and, smiling, gently pushed back her still damp hair. “I just got back from work half an hour ago and had to soak in the bath for twenty minutes. I needed to rinse off the stress of work for the rest of the evening!” She waved him towards elegant armchairs and a sofa at the end of a brightly lit room. Helmut proceeded cautiously behind her slender silhouette like a dog blindly following his master. The fact that she had taken so long to open the door had discomposed him. As if that were not enough, the luxurious interior of the unfamiliar flat and the generous dimensions of the brilliant white lounge disoriented him even more.
By now he
was consumed with curiosity about the precise reason for his visit. Why had the director invited him to her home to discuss with him ‘something very important’ so seriously a few hours ago? Her seductive appearance and the friendly casual way she had greeted him seemed to confirm his initial suspicions. Everything seemed to support it. He was fully convinced that he was calling on her alone in her apartment not to discuss something serious but to do – other things. It was all too obvious that his supervisor intended to make some sort of pass at him, perhaps to seduce him then and there in her grand flat. Not that he wasn’t tempted; he was finding this lady director all too attractive, even though she had ten years on him. But however much he liked her, he was determined not to respond to any such plan, any moves into the erotic zone. On the one hand, as a younger and lusty male he was naturally flattered. On the other hand, there was absolutely no way he was going to cheat on Astrid, whom he had met just three years before loved at first sight and married a few months after their acquaintance.
He thought he had better clarify his position right away and make it very clear to Anna, with no twists and turns. He had to try and stop her in time. Verdammt! How do you fend off your superior carefully and diplomatically? He had never felt so awkward. Damn the woman! He did like her, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, or annoy her, or embarrass her, or in any way risk their excellent professional relationship. His mind raced; things had become so complicated nowadays. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned... if she took offence, she could complain about him, get him dismissed, worse, accuse him of harassment. Look what happened to Strauss-Kahn! A world-wide scandal! And how would he ever explain it to Astrid?
The Next Stop Page 12
