In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  Mirek thought and then said, ‘Something in the railways?’

  ‘Not something,’ Natalia said. ‘He’s the Regional Director . . . Now how do you think such a man and his family will travel when he goes by train?’

  From his past career Mirek did know.

  ‘In decadent luxury. A private carriage with its bedroom, kitchen, dining room and lounge.’

  Natalia smiled sweetly. ‘Exactly. In daddy’s case it’s such a waste. He’s impatient and hates trains. He flies whenever he can. I use it quite a lot. It’s old and lovely. Paderewski used it when he was Prime Minister. It even has a baby grand piano in it.’

  Ania had a look of disbelief on her face. Mirek was shaking his head in amazement.

  Jerzy grinned at them through his beard and said, ‘Natalia is an only child and her father’s little darling. The way he indulges her is quite disgusting. He will hold out for a maximum of forty-eight hours.’

  Ania asked, ‘And what if Natalia’s mother decides she wants to go along for the shopping?’

  Natalia answered, ‘She won’t. Mummy hates Warsaw. Both her parents and two brothers were killed in that city by the Germans in the war. She’s never been back.’

  Jerzy leaned forward. ‘It’s very safe. On several occasions we have taken shipments of our newspaper to Warsaw and other cities in that carriage. It works this way: the carriage is kept at a special siding. The station authorities are informed when it is to be used. They hitch it on to the end of a regular train. You will have already boarded at the siding. When the train reaches Warsaw the carriage is uncoupled and shunted to another special siding before the train enters the station, so you avoid normal security checks.’

  Mirek’s shoulders were shaking as he silently laughed. He said, ‘No wonder you people haven’t been caught. What do you do when you want to fly somewhere? Borrow Jaruzelsky’s jet?’

  Jerzy raised a finger. ‘Not bad. We hadn’t thought of that. Now you had better go and change your appearances. Need any help?’

  ‘No thanks. We’ll manage.’

  Mirek and Ania stood up and left the room.

  They were back twenty minutes later. Mirek walked in first. Jerzy was reading the paper. He looked up and for a second there was panic in his eyes, then he started nodding in appreciation. He continued nodding as Ania came in. The others started clapping and crowding around. Jerzy did the same, saying, ‘Had I not known, I wouldn’t have recognised you.’

  Mirek looked fifteen to twenty years older. His moustache and hair were greying in a pepper and salt way. His face was fatter. His brown eyes were now blue. Ania, too, had aged. Her hair was mousy and much longer. Her face was also fatter and her body stouter.

  ‘Hell,’ Marian said. ‘It’s brilliant. The shape of your faces is different.’

  ‘It’s the pads we put into our mouths,’ Ania explained. ‘They take some getting used to . . . and make eating awkward.’

  ‘But not drinking!’ Jerzy said. ‘A vodka to warm us for the journey while Antoni sets up the camera. Meanwhile, we ought to make you look a little less square. After all, you are travelling with the kacyki and should look more the part. Marian, try to find some heavy jewellery for Ania. Bangles, long earrings and so on. Natalia, please fetch a couple of my silk scarves for Mirek, and a handkerchief. We’ll make him look a little foppish, like all the would-be poets we have in Cracow.’

  * *.*

  They passed through five road blocks on the journey. One each side of Rabka, another before Myslenice, the fourth at the junction of the Bielsko road and finally outside Cracow itself. The pattern became obvious to Mirek at the first one. He and Ania were travelling in the back seat of a Mercedes 380 SE. Marian was driving and Natalia sat next to her. They followed Jerzy and Antoni in the BMW.

  At the first road block a young militia Corporal with a sub-machine gun slung over his shoulder approached the car. There were six of them working the waiting queue. Marian pressed the button to wind down the window and, before the militiaman could say a word, asked impatiently, ‘Is this going to take long? We’re in a hurry.’

  The militiaman looked at the stickers on the window and took in the tone of her voice. Nervously he licked his lips.

  ‘No madam, but I have to see your IDs.’

  With a sigh Marian turned her head and asked, ‘Did you happen to bring along your IDs?’

  Mirek reached into his pocket and passed her his and Ania’s. Natalia was fumbling about in her handbag muttering ‘Bloody nuisance.’ Marian rummaged about in the glove compartment and finally found hers. Without looking at him she passed them all to the militiaman. From past experience Mirek could imagine what was going through his head. ‘Fucking kacyki! It’s people like me who keep the masses quiet so spoilt bitches like you in your fancy foreign cars can have a good time.’

  Mirek guessed that he was also thinking, ‘But I wouldn’t mind giving you a good screw . . . and your friend.’

  The militiaman asked, ‘And the purpose of your journey?’

  Marian replied, ‘Returning to Cracow from my father’s villa on the lake.’

  She stressed the words father and villa. The militiaman gave the papers a cursory glance then ducked down to look into the car.

  Mirek assumed a bored expression and said to Ania, ‘I hope those books have arrived from Paris. I’m just dying to read the new Montague.’

  She replied, ‘Oh, I think he’s become passé.’

  Mirek shrugged and said, ‘You would, of course.’

  The militiaman said, ‘You can proceed, madam.’

  Marian took the ID cards from his outstretched hand without a word, tossed them into Natalia’s lap and pressed the button to raise the window.

  As they pulled away she said, ‘That’s the best way to treat those people.’

  Mirek said, ‘Would you have talked to an SB officer the same way?’

  She smiled at him in the mirror.

  ‘No, I would have been slightly more polite . . . and if he was as handsome as you I might have fluttered my eyelashes at him.’

  They entered the outskirts of the city in silence. For both Mirek and Ania it was an emotional time. She had left it as a young orphan. He had left as a fugitive. He was very much conscious of still being a fugitive. She was thinking of her long dead parents. She asked Marian, ‘Do you know where the Rakowicki cemetery is?’

  Marian nodded. ‘Sure. My grandfather is buried there. It’s quite near to where we are going. Why?’

  ‘My parents are also buried there. They were killed in a car crash twenty-three years ago.’

  Marian asked, ‘Do you want to visit their grave?’

  Ania looked at Mirek. ‘Is it possible?’

  Mirek pursed his lips and shrugged.

  ‘It might be dangerous.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Marian exclaimed. ‘No one is going to recognise her and her papers are fine. I’ll drop you at the house and take her on.’

  Ania was looking at Mirek hopefully. He sighed.

  ‘Do you really want to go?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to put flowers on the grave . . . and say a prayer . . . It won’t take long.’

  He agreed reluctantly, recognising how much it would mean to her.

  They circled the centre of the city. Ania commented on the heavy traffic and the number of expensive foreign cars. Mirek laughed shortly.

  ‘It’s always been a mystery where they come from: black marketeers; returned emigrants, people with relatives overseas; and of course spoiled brats like the two sitting in front.’

  Marian grinned at him in the rearview mirror and said mockingly, ‘I detect a note of jealousy. Wait till you see the house where we’re staying . . .’

  Ten minutes later she turned down a side road and pulled up in front of a pair of iron gates set in a high stone wall.

  Natalia jumped out and pulled a bell handle set into the wall. There were just a few pedestrians about. Mirek reached out a hand to Ania’s shoulder and pressed her d
own a little, at the same time sliding down himself, saying, ‘No point in being seen.’

  Over the top of the seat in front he saw Irena on the other side of the gates. She waved and called a greeting. A minute later they moved through the open gates. Marian said, ‘The men are making a detour to check security in the city. They’ll follow in half an hour or so.’ She called to Irena, ‘Leave the gates open.’

  It was an imposing old house at the end of a short gravel drive. Mirek climbed out and looked around with satisfaction. The high wall encircled the entire property and there were no houses that overlooked them.

  ‘You’ll be safe here,’ Marian said confidently. ‘And don’t worry. We’ll be back from the cemetery in half an hour.’

  She got back into the car and Ania climbed into the front seat. Mirek leaned in the window.

  ‘Be careful, Ania.’

  She touched his hand. ‘I will. I’m grateful, Mirek. I really do want to see the grave.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘But please don’t be long.’

  He stood watching as the car crunched down the drive and then swung out into the road. Irena closed the gates and ran up and kissed him on both cheeks. He picked up his bag and she took his arm and led him into the house.

  In the car Marian asked Ania what had happened to her after the death of her parents. Ania gave her a quick, potted autobiography.

  ‘And when did you leave the convent?’ Marian asked.

  Ania hesitated and then replied, ‘Quite recently.’

  ‘So were you ever at this cemetery before?’

  ‘Yes, after the funeral . . . but I was only three. I left Cracow immediately afterwards and have never been back until now.’

  ‘Well, there it is.’ Marian pointed ahead with her chin and then quickly swung the car into a parking space that somebody else was trying to back a Skoda into. She laughed at the stream of invective directed at her by the frustrated driver and said, ‘The benefits of power steering.’ She pointed again through the windscreen. ‘That’s the office. They will show you on the map where the grave is. Over there are some stalls selling flowers. I’ll wait for you there.’

  In the office an old woman opened a big register and ran her finger down several columns before muttering, ‘Yes, Krol. Husband and wife. Single gravestone. October 14th, 1960 . . .J. 14.’

  She gave Ania a sheet of paper with a diagram of the cemetery on it. ‘Take this path and then turn right here. It’s in this section close to the west wall. The gates close at six. That’s in half an hour.’

  Ania thanked her and went out and found Marian by the flower stall just paying for two big bunches of assorted flowers. She held one out.

  ‘Here. I’m sure you want to go by yourself.’ She held up the other bunch. ‘I’ll go and put these on my grandfather’s grave.’ She smiled. ‘If he’s up there watching that will sure surprise the old bastard . . . I’ll be waiting back at the car.’

  Ania took the flowers gratefully. She knew that at this time of the year they would be exorbitantly expensive. It was a very cold day and she was glad of the fur coat, gloves and boots that Marian had lent her.

  In recent years she had not thought so often of her parents. This had made her feel guilty enough to confess it to the Mother Superior who had been refreshingly blunt, pointing out that it was only natural that as her own life developed, those of others long dead would fade in her memory. She had also remarked that in Ania’s case this was even more natural as she had been only an infant at the time of their deaths. But now they were very much on her mind. Her memory did give her just an impression. Her mother, round-faced and cheerful and smelling of bread. Her father, dark and stern-faced but, emotionally, completely at her mercy. She knew that they had been poor but God-fearing people. She was now the same age as her mother had been when she died. She found that a strange thought.

  There were very few people about. It was late and those in the cemetery, bundled up against the cold, were moving towards the entrance. They were mostly old. She came to the turn-off on the path and checked her diagram. The grave was on the right hand side, set back a few metres from the path. She had no memory of what the headstone looked like. The graves were tightly packed and it took her several minutes to find the headstone. It looked forlorn; small and overwhelmed by the granite and marble monoliths surrounding it. But after studying it she decided that it had dignity. The headstone was simple and unpretentious, as was the inscription. The slab of the grave itself was plain but clean. She crossed herself and laid the flowers at the foot of the headstone. With that action she felt a sudden emotional impact. There were tears in her eyes as she knelt and her voice quivered as she started to cry.

  A hundred metres away, standing in a group of trees, SB Corporal Bogodar Winid was miserably stamping his feet against the cold, repeatedly glancing at his watch and cursing that he had pulled this particularly useless duty. He had been on it all day except for a one hour relief at lunchtime. No point in complaining. For more than two weeks now everyone on the force had been doing overtime. Besides, the extra money would come in useful. He glanced again at his watch. Only another ten minutes. For the hundredth time he looked across the cemetery towards the grave.

  There was a figure kneeling beside it.

  In his sudden nervousness his fingers fumbled at the top of his coat and it took him several seconds to pull out the small binoculars. As he tried to focus them his hands shook and he had to take a deep breath and steady himself. The image cleared. Yes the figure was beside the right grave. The one next to the tall black marble obelisk; and it had all the appearance of being female. He dropped the binoculars and they swung at his chest as he reached into his deep coat pocket and brought out the small two-way radio. He quickly put the earplug into his right ear and pressed the transmit button.

  ‘Eight-ten to headquarters. Eight-ten to headquarters.’

  Four seconds passed, then he heard the tinny voice.

  ‘Headquarters. Go ahead eight-ten.’

  ‘There’s a woman at the Krol grave.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s a woman?’

  ‘Almost. She’s wrapped up in furs.’

  ‘Young or old?’

  ‘I cannot tell from here.’

  ‘Stand by.’

  Fifteen seconds passed, then he recognised the excited voice of Colonel Koczy.

  ‘Corporal, is the man there?’

  Winid swept his gaze around the cemetery and took another deep breath. He knew the importance of this moment. Knew its importance to him and his career. In a confident voice he answered, ‘I can see no one else in the immediate vicinity. There is an old couple about two hundred metres away walking towards the entrance.’

  A few seconds’ pause and then Colonel Koczy said, ‘All right, keep watch. I’m on my way with a squad.’

  Quickly Winid said, ‘Colonel, it is five to six. She will know that the cemetery closes at six. She is likely to move at any moment.’

  The Colonel made a quick decision and came straight back.

  ‘Right, Corporal. Get close. If she starts to move, arrest her. I doubt she is armed or dangerous but if the man is nearby he will be armed and is certainly dangerous. I’ll be there in less than ten minutes. She is to be taken alive. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir . . . Out.’

  Winid put the radio back into his pocket and moved out from the trees. Walking quickly but quietly he approached the grave at an angle, keeping a large monument between it and himself.

  Ania finished her prayer and stood up, wiping a glove across her eyes. Then she pulled back a sleeve and looked at her watch. It was almost six o’clock. She would have to hurry. With a last glance at the headstone she crossed herself again and turned.

  From behind a marble monument ten metres away a man stepped out across her path. He was wearing a black fiat cap and brown leather coat. His face was thin and young. She knew immediately that he represented a danger. She had been warm under the coat. Suddenly her b
ody was cold.

  He said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  She shrugged and gestured. ‘Visiting the grave of relatives. Who are you?’

  He was approaching her slowly, warily. ‘What relatives?’

  ‘An uncle and aunt.’ She raised her voice. ‘Who are you to ask me questions?’

  He was close now. ‘Show me your identification.’

  She realised what was happening. Realised that this man was SB and had been watching the grave. He was very close now. She sighed deeply and put a hand in her pocket saying, ‘Oh well I . . .’

  She darted off to her left, vaulting over a low headstone, then dodging to her right to the path.

  Two things were against her. First the warm fur boots which were heavy and clumsy. Second, the fact that at school Bogodar Winid had been the one and two hundred metres sprint champion.

  He caught her fifty metres down the path in a flying tackle which crushed the breath out of her and sent her fur hat spinning away. The next moment he was sitting on her back, twisting her arms behind her and fumbling handcuffs onto her wrists.

  The old couple were at the gate. They turned and watched for a moment and then, as is usual in such situations in Poland, hurried away from the scene.

  Marian also watched. She had been approaching the gate from another angled path. She saw the whole thing. At first she thought he might be a robber or even a rapist. She started to run diagonally across towards them. Then she saw the handcuffs and pulled up abruptly. She saw him reach forward and pull off Ania’s mousy wig; saw the jet black hair beneath it and his grin of triumph. He was reaching for his radio as she pulled up the hood of her coat and headed for the gate. She did not run but walked very quickly. As she reached the car she heard the distant cacophony of the sirens.

  Chapter 21

  ‘Have a Pilsner and stop worrying.’

  Jerzy offered a bottle and a glass. Mirek took the bottle but waved away the glass. As he moodily took a sip Antoni said, ‘They’ll be back in a few minutes. No one is looking for her. But I wouldn’t be happy for you to be wandering around outside . . . even with that disguise.’