by Anna Patrick
Marta raised an eyebrow but said nothing while Bauer made notes. She interrupted.
‘Did you find the note from Artur?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity.’
‘There were various tapers, as you mentioned before, some by the cooker, some in the bin, one on top of the breadboard. Not a tidy person, are you?’
‘No, you are correct. It’s a terrible waste of time tidying up, but then so is looking for things because I haven’t put them away.’
‘You must be a nightmare to live with.’ Bauer pictured his own home, kept pristine by Henni.
‘Well, fortunately, I don’t live with any of my clients.’
‘Or anyone else?’
‘Or anyone else.’
‘Were you close to your father?’
‘Yes, I loved him, but I also recognised that he was a great man – intelligent, erudite, witty, interested in all the arts, great fun to be with. I miss him.’
‘And what would he have said about your current career?’
‘Not a lot. If the Soviets hadn’t murdered him, he would be in the same position as all Poles, looking for work wherever he could get it.’
‘I wasn’t referring to your tram work.’
‘For goodness’ sake, I don’t consider what I do a career but an unfortunate necessity for my survival.’
Her tone was angry, impatient and dismissive.
‘Do you possess an ashtray?’
He pulled one out of a drawer and she stubbed out the rest of her cigarette, crossed her arms and scowled.
‘And your mother?’
‘She died when I was 13 and before you ask I am sure she would spin in her grave at the thought of her beloved daughter reduced to these circumstances.’
‘So why do it?’
With arms still folded, she turned to look at him, eyes flashing with anger.
‘You don’t understand what life is like for us, do you? People shot for no reason; towns and villages burnt to the ground; schools and universities closed down; professors and teachers murdered; forced labour; deportations; families torn apart; starvation rations while you grow fat on our labours. This isn’t war; it’s annihilation.’
‘And yet you survive.’
‘And yet we survive.’ Pride surged through her, steeling her posture and illuminating her eyes.
‘Not everybody turns to prostitution.’
Marta conceded the point with a turn of her head.
‘We do what we need to do bearing in mind our individual circumstances. There is not one person who will judge me.’
‘No, apparently not,’ replied Bauer, remembering what the parish priest had said.
He continued making notes before resuming his questioning.
‘What was your previous address here in Krakow?’
She gave it to him knowing it would be somewhere in the official records he had access to.
‘Why did you move?’
‘The new apartment suited me better. It’s closer to work and bigger than the previous one.’
‘No other reason?’
‘No.’
She hoped she looked bored by this line of questioning because she didn’t want him investigating her previous accommodation or, more specifically, the landlady who had evicted her, as soon as she was well enough to leave.
‘Where do you carry out your entertainment of these men?’
‘It varies. Artur, for example, used to go to his sister’s apartment, but it’s no good asking me where that is because he blindfolded me before we got there.’
She laughed before continuing.
‘He said his sister would kill him if she found out what he was up to, so he had to take these precautions.’
‘Did you mind?’
‘No, not at all. I didn’t want to get him into trouble.’
‘Weren’t you conspicuous wondering around with a blindfold on your head?’
‘It wasn’t the black mask you read about in cheap novels. It was a very pleasant, printed scarf of a type any woman might wear. And it’s a funny thing, Inspector, but people see what they want to see. We were intertwined like lovers, my head nestling against his shoulder, my hand over my blindfold. I don’t know if we passed other people or not, but I doubt anyone would have seen the blindfold. They would just have seen two lovers and in these dangerous times they would have done nothing but wish us luck.’
‘How many times did you go to this apartment?’
‘Four or five times.’
‘In Krakow or outside?’
‘In Krakow, I guess. He picked me up from the Planty and the journey didn’t take that many minutes less than a quarter of an hour.’
‘And did you nestle against his shoulder while he drove?’
‘No, I would pretend to be asleep with my head resting against my arm like so.’
Marta showed her sleeping position.
‘Did you go up steps to get inside the building?’
‘Yes, and the apartment was on the first floor.’
‘And what was the view from the window?’
‘Sorry, Inspector, I kept the blindfold on until we got into the bedroom and only took it off once he’d closed the curtains.’
‘Weren’t you curious about the location?’
‘No.’
‘And what would happen after?’
‘Same procedure. Blindfold back on and a short drive back towards the Planty. At some point Artur would say “You can take your blindfold off now.” The joke is with my terrible sense of direction I could have done the journey without one, and still wouldn’t have had a clue where we were.’
‘What about other clients?’
‘Please don’t run away with the idea that there are dozens of clients. As I keep explaining this isn’t a career but a way of supplementing my income to buy enough food to survive.’
‘But he wasn’t your only client so where else did you go?’
‘Once or twice in the back of a car. A few times at the Hotel Europa. Sometimes out in the countryside.’
‘What was the make of the cars?’
‘Oh, Inspector, only a man would ask that. For me a car is a means of getting from A to B. While I might remember the colour, I wouldn’t have a clue about the make.’
‘And whereabouts in the countryside did you go?’
‘My preference was always the Wolski forest. Do you know it?’
‘All suitably vague.’
Marta said nothing.
‘So that leaves the Hotel Europa. Where is it?’
‘It was on Wehrmachtstrasse.’
‘Was?’
‘Yes, the resistance bombed it back in January and then it caught fire. It hasn’t reopened yet.’
‘How very convenient. An apartment you wouldn’t be able to find, cars you can’t identify and now a hotel whose records, I am sure we can assume, were destroyed in the attack.’
‘Sorry, Inspector, I’m not trying to be unhelpful.’
‘No? I wonder about that. What about your apartment? Did you ever bring anyone back there?’
‘Certainly not. That’s my home, my sanctuary, the place I can be myself and forget the terrible world we live in.’
‘You read a lot.’
‘Yes, it’s a great consolation, an escape from the reality of our lives today.’
‘What about friends? Do they visit you there?’
‘I used to have friends, real friends, particularly in Warsaw, but most of them are dead now.’
‘Who was the friend you came to visit in Krakow?’
‘Henryk Skowronski.’
‘And where does he live?’
‘The last time I saw Henryk, he was hanging from a lamppost in Adolf Hitler Platz, along wi
th five other Poles you murdered, in reprisal for a resistance attack.’
‘And where did he live before they hung him?’
Bauer took the news of the death in his stride, much to Marta’s disgust.
‘In Gertrudenstrasse.’
‘When we arrested you, you had caught sight of a friend in the street, a woman called Halina.’
‘Yes. Halina is a prostitute. I can’t in all honesty call her a friend but we smile, we chat when we see each other, we exchange moans and groans about men, but that’s the extent of our friendship.’
‘And no doubt you cannot tell me where she lives or plies her trade.’
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t even know her surname.’
‘You must be very lonely.’
‘Not really. I’m an only child, so I am used to my own company. And then, when I am reading, I am in the company of thousands of different people who are sometimes more real than the people I meet or work with.’
‘I still find it extraordinary you seem to have so few friends. You are a vivacious young woman. You had friends while at university and now, apparently, you have none.’
‘That is because we live in extra-ordinary times, Inspector.’
‘What about the people you work with?’
‘Oh they’re nice enough people but they are just that, people I work with. We don’t socialise outside work.’
‘All right, Miss Paciorkowska, we’ll leave it at that for today.’ The Inspector called for a guard who escorted her back to Montelupich.
11
‘Why are you friendly with that woman?’
‘Who? Marta?’
‘Yes.’
‘I like her.’
‘She’s dangerous. For all we know she’s a Gestapo spy.’
‘Aren’t you being paranoid?’
‘She’s been interrogated and there isn’t a mark on her. Don’t you think that’s suspicious?’
‘She was arrested on a Sunday. Perhaps they thought God wouldn’t approve.’
‘Like they have consciences. What do you talk about, anyway?’
‘Not that it’s any of your business but we share memories of Warsaw and we know some of the same people here in Krakow.’
‘Humph.’
‘Look she’s funny, sensitive, probably the most intelligent person I’ve ever met. She’s never given me any cause to doubt her.’
‘Intelligent? Would you carry a parcel for someone without asking what it contained? She doesn’t have an iota of common sense and that makes her dangerous if nothing else.’
‘Well, I grant you, that wasn’t particularly sensible, but that’s typical of highly intelligent people: they often lack common sense.’
‘If you want my advice, stay well clear of her.’
* * *
Back in Cell 14 Danuta greeted her like an old friend.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘How did it go?’ asked the cell leader who dealt with the lugubrious warden at roll call.
‘Not too unpleasant so far. I dare say it won’t last.’
Everyone nodded except Helena.
‘Do you want time on your own?’
‘Yes, please, if you don’t mind.’
‘Girls, leave Marta in peace.’
With closed eyes, she went through the interview in her head. She had given so little information; would Bauer lose patience with her? The situation required a different strategy, and she needed to formulate one as soon as possible. So far, she had avoided mentioning Ludek or Wanda. It was vital to keep them out of the interrogation. Better by far to claim no friends than to deliver them to the Gestapo. But would she get away with it?
Ludek always insisted she kept nothing relating to him in the apartment. At the time she accused him of being over-scrupulous, but now she was grateful: it saved a lot of trouble during the interrogation. Imagine if she had kept his photo or the beautiful letter he had written after they first met.
‘Tusik, these are just things, objects, property. They are not important in themselves, only in what they mean to you in your head and in your heart. Surely you can see that?’
‘A photo wouldn’t matter. I could always write somebody else’s name on the back, somebody who died in the first days of the war.’
‘Thanks, so now you want me to take on a dead man’s name and character. How spooky is that? No, Tusik, whatever you did, or wrote, or said, it wouldn’t stop the Gestapo releasing a “Wanted for Questioning” poster with that image and eventually they would track me down.’
He was so eloquent, so passionate, she let him talk long past the point he had convinced her. She didn’t need a photo to remember what he looked like and she didn’t need the letter to recite every word. She took a match to them and they had both watched them burn in an ashtray.
She calculated that, on balance, she had said enough to maintain her cover; the tragic death of Henryk Skowronski, a friend of Wanda’s, had served her well, and she offered a prayer for his soul. Although she never saw his body, she’d seen others and knew the lump in her throat and the tears welling up during the interrogation were genuine.
After Henryk’s death she accompanied Wanda to his apartment and helped pack away his things and return them to his family. Morbidly, she guessed Wanda would do the same for her if all this ended badly, but now wasn’t the time to think about that. She yawned, exhausted at keeping one step ahead.
Somebody nearby lit up a cigarette, and she inhaled the smoke and pretended it was hers. Would they spare one? Better not to be a nuisance; there were worse things to endure than doing without nicotine. Zofia was a constant reminder of that.
According to the other prisoners, Zofia revealed nothing throughout her interrogations despite the mutilations and other tortures which turned her hair white overnight. When they finished, the Gestapo revealed all the information they had tried to extract from her.
Even that final insult did not break her, and she looked at her torturers with mocking eyes and sang the words of the national anthem until a blow to the head knocked her out. God, how they must hate her, although here at least everyone treated her with great respect; even the dour warden let her rest undisturbed at roll calls.
She considered how to approach her next interview and what lie to invent if Bauer checked her previous accommodation and discovered her pregnancy. She could claim it was an occupational hazard for prostitutes but a devoted father in attendance? Surely that didn’t happen in real life?
The landlady had met Ludek and might give a reasonable description. She racked her brain to remember what name he used then. More importantly, how would she explain his current absence from her life? Bauer was unlikely to accept another death and he could easily check a convenient deportation.
The door to the cell opened and three new prisoners entered to the customary welcome. Marta didn’t get up; there would be time enough to meet the women; in the meantime she needed to plan. By nightfall she was comfortable with her strategy of a wild goose chase and joined the rest of the group for a meagre supper.
12
‘So, you are a prostitute.’ He spat it out leaving a glistening line of spittle on his lower lip.
‘That is not a word I would use.’
‘Really?’ The scorn withered her, but she gathered herself.
‘Perhaps you should reserve your disgust for the men who exploit prostitutes. The weakness is theirs, is it not?’
She kept her voice calm but winced as he cracked his knuckles again. The Inspector interrupted.
‘We are not here to discuss ethics. Move on.’
‘So how would you describe what you do?’ Friedman’s tone was chilling.
Bauer had introduced this rangy man as his assistant but allowed him to do all the questioning. She guessed
the relationship strained both men, and when she glanced at Bauer, he was suppressing a yawn.
‘I provide companionship. The men I meet are lonely. Some have lost their wives; others have parted from them, for whatever reason; others – and here she chuckled – can’t stand them and want to be apart as much as possible. I talk to them. I make them laugh. And, please be clear, I have to enjoy their company otherwise “Goodbye.” Life is far too short to spend time with bores even if I get a decent meal in the process.
‘As for sex, we only proceed to that by mutual consent, attraction and respect.
‘One client, a German officer as it happens, has never sought a physical side to our relationship. In fact, I rather suspect he is of a different persuasion.’
Marta observed her new interrogator. Coal-black eyes seldom blinked. The slightest twitch, in an otherwise granite face, gave her the opportunity she needed. No doubt he considered her beneath contempt, but a homosexual officer would be a real prize to pursue.
‘I would never describe myself as a great beauty, but I am young and healthy. Does it not seem strange that a strong, handsome man with opportunity should be so reluctant to explore the possibilities?’
‘Perhaps he finds sex with a prostitute too disgusting to contemplate.’
‘Well that is a possibility, certainly, but if he’s happy to wine and dine me in public then my suspicions seem more likely, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What is his name?’
‘Ah. There you have me. He introduced himself as Hans, but I had the impression he was teasing me. It’s quite a common name in Germany, isn’t it? And he had a twinkle in his eye when he spoke.’
Marta’s smile vanished; she leant on the desk, fingers steepled in front of her mouth.
Friedman recoiled. The scent of cologne wafted towards her.
‘I’ve just remembered what led me to suspect he was homosexual. He possessed a beautiful cigarette case, made of silver, which must have cost the earth.’
Another twitch.
‘On the outside it had the letters FJ or possibly SJ. The engraving was intricate and stylised so I wasn’t sure about the first letter.
‘But here’s the strangest thing: inside, when he offered me a cigarette, the inscription struck me as false.’
