Unfortunately, neither his grandfather’s bald head nor his growling had the same soothing influence on Christmas Eve. Wearing a dress with lace collar like a girl’s and sitting on his grandfather’s knees, the boy arched his back, screamed, shoved his podgy hand into his mouth and lashed out until, in the end, he kicked the tureen of red borscht. A fountain of droplets spurted from the dish, most of them falling on the tablecloth, but a few landed on his grandfather’s snow-white shirt. Popielski did not even notice; he took his grandson into his arms and began to pace the room, which seemed to calm the little one a bit.
As those gathered there watched the idyllic scene, all their thoughts were elsewhere. Rita was smiling. Increasingly she harboured a hope that in the end her father’s relationship with her husband would work out. After a dismal wedding day from which her father was absent, after those first icy months when he chose not to see his son-in-law in the street, after that Christmas Eve, which they had spent away from each other for the first time in their lives, everything had changed once his grandson was born, and Edward was besotted with him. Finally the much-longed-for invitation to Christmas Eve dinner arrived. She was as happy as a child when her father phoned her to invite them “beneath the Christmas tree”, as he had always called the celebration. She did not know that the invitation had come thanks to her husband mentioning the name of Marian Zubik.
Leokadia rubbed her eyes in wonder. Childless herself, she was not able to kindle as much love for Jerzyk, whose crying and frequent mood changes annoyed her. Never, therefore, would she have thought that a child could change a man so much. Popielski, who at the sight of a drop of soup on his tie or jacket would once have had a fit, left the table and raged in search of a cloth, stifling coarse oaths along the way, was now not paying the slightest attention to his stained shirt. He was dancing across the room with his grandson while the little one, cuddling up to him, was also dirtying his grandfather’s collar. Leokadia was happy to see how Edward had changed. But after his destructive escapades to the taverns and his unnatural smiles after another sleepless night, she would have been happy with any behaviour.
Even though he sat calmly, Bronisław Woroniecki-Kulik was infuriated at heart. He remained silent as if under a spell, head bowed and smiling maliciously, and glowering all around. He could not forgive Popielski for his evident ill-will, nor could he understand why he was not pleased with his daughter’s happiness; she lived in such opulence and – more importantly, and thanks to his connections – she had begun to make a career for herself using the pseudonym “Rita Pop”. She had already had a small role in the film “Fire in the Heart”, directed by Henryk Szaro himself. And this bald son-of-a-whore still didn’t shake hands with him when they met or hug him when they exchanged Christmas greetings. He had simply nodded and growled something, like he was now growling to that bloody brat who was still screaming his guts out!
The child quietened down and Popielski once again sat at the table with his grandson.
“Maybe we can finally fetch the presents from beneath the Christmas tree.” Woroniecki-Kulik forced a smile. “The little one can get his present and be quiet, eh? Shall I give it to him now?”
“Bronek” – Rita glanced uneasily at her father and stroked her husband’s hand – “that’ll only pacify him for a moment. The main problem is he’s tired. He didn’t sleep this afternoon. I’ll put him to bed in a moment and Hanna can sing him a lullabye. We’ll tire him out a little longer, then he’ll be quick to fall asleep.”
Jerzyk was no longer interested in his grandfather’s bald head; he spat his dummy onto the floor and began to scream again at the top of his voice.
“Give him that present” – the count glared furiously at Popielski – “or I’ll give it to him myself!”
“You do not know the customs of our house, young man.” Popielski bounced his grandson on his knee. “Here we eat dinner first, then the oldest member of the family, meaning me – I repeat, me – distributes the presents. And that is how it will always be.”
“One moment … one moment … Customs may be customs but …” Woroniecki-Kulik gripped his spoon so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“Give Jerzyk to me, Papa” interrupted Rita. “Maybe he’ll calm down a little with me …”
“Did you have something to say, young man?” Popielski passed his grandson to his daughter. “Something about the customs of my house?”
“Papa, please,” whispered Rita, taking her son from her father’s hands.
The count pursed his lips and used his spoon to cut a mushroom ravioli floating in his borscht. He raised it to his lips and chewed slowly. He did not, however, swallow, but spat it back into the spoon. Leokadia watched him in disgust. Jerzyk was again screaming shrilly, and when his mother hugged him, he hit her in the face with his fists.
“Are you going to give him that present or not?” hissed Woroniecki-Kulik at Popielski.
“How dare you speak to my father like that?” shouted Rita. “And what in God’s name are you doing with that ravioli?”
“Probably has a toothache.” Popielski sneered and put down his cutlery. “He has to eat things which are soft …”
“Don’t get worked up, Eddie.” Leokadia looked at him beseechingly. “It’ll do you no good … Your blood pressure’s too high …”
“Please don’t call me ‘Eddie’!” With a face of stone, Popielski out-yelled the hullabaloo caused by his grandson. “I don’t want anyone calling me that now Wilhelm is dead …”
Woroniecki-Kulik tipped his spoon and slid the chewed mush into his hand. He stood up, approached Popielski and pressed it under his nose. Jerzyk quietened down and watched his father.
“Eat up, baldy!” said the count, grinning broadly. “I did tell you you’d be eating out of my hand, after all!”
Everyone froze. Jerzyk saw his opportunity. In a flash he climbed from his mother’s knees onto the table and reached for the crystal bowl of dried fruit salad. The bowl toppled over onto the tablecloth as if in slow motion, and its contents poured over Leokadia’s beige dress. When he saw what he had done, the child burst into tears, rubbing his eyes with his fists. The screams reverberated. Never before had there been such a level of decibels in Popielski’s apartment. Even the grandfather put his hands over his ears, deformed as a wrestler’s.
Woroniecki-Kulik flung the chewed ravioli onto the carpet and held the child down on the table. He grabbed its head with both hands and began to push his thumbs into his son’s eyes.
“What are you rubbing your eyes like that for, you bastard!” he hissed. “I’ll gouge those peepers out for you …”
Popielski threw himself at the count. In surprise Woroniecki-Kulik turned his head towards his charging father-in-law and received a fist on his temple. He staggered, everything was dark before his eyes, and then felt such a hefty punch on his chin that he collapsed onto the grandfather clock in the parlour. He heard the mechanism chime a false carillon as he fell to the floor. Ripped open by Popielski’s signet ring, his chin burned with pain and bled. The commissioner leaned over Woroniecki-Kulik to grab him by the collar of his suit, and yanked him into the hallway. Without paying attention to the weeping Rita as she clung to his sleeve, he opened the door and threw out his son-in-law’s slight body; his coat, hat and walking-stick followed.
Woroniecki-Kulik sat by the banister and sneered at Popielski.
“Get ready for the nick, Eddie!” he shouted.
“I’ll take you with me” yelled Popielski.
The stairwell resounded with the voices of carol singers.
In deep silence of the night, a voice is spreading thus Awaken you shepherds, God is born to us …
Popielski closed the door, went back into the demolished parlour and sat down heavily in the armchair next to the overturned clock. Leokadia and Rita were in tears. Hanna, who was carrying Jerzyk to and fro across the room and singing him the lullabye “Bałam-bałam”, was also in tears. Only Popielski’s eyes remained
dry.
LWÓW, MONDAY, MARCH 13TH, 1939 TWO O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Rita was woken by the sound of a door closing. For a year, ever since Jerzyk was born, she had been a light sleeper – like a bird. She would wake when the child sighed in his sleep, the wind blew outside or when some drunk was making a racket in the street. She knew Bronisław was home. She shut her eyes, not wanting him to catch her awake. She did not feel like fulfilling her marital duties that night, but her husband was eager, always and everywhere, and especially when he returned late from various business meetings, as he called them. He would watch her attentively, strip down to nothing and demand things of her which she disliked. So for some time now she had pretended to be asleep, even snoring, and with her acting skills she was easily able to deceive her indefatigable husband.
She could hear him undress, dropping his clothes randomly. She felt his eyes on her as he stood by her bed, and she carried on snoring quietly. Bronisław walked away. She heard a chair creak lightly beneath him. The creaking then became rythmical. She opened her eyes a little – and froze. Her husband was sitting on a chair, one hand between his legs, and pleasuring himself. But it was not this that horrified her. One-year-old Jerzyk had woken and was smiling at his father.
“What are you staring at,” Bronisław’s whisper grew more and more feverish. “You want to see how a cow is milked?”
“What are you doing!” screamed Rita, and Jerzyk began to cry.
“Well?” Her husband stood up and put on an innocent face. “It’s only human … You know I need this twice a day … I had to relieve myself … And you were asleep … But you’re not asleep any more.”
LWÓW, SUNDAY, APRIL 16TH, 1939 ELEVEN O’CLOCK AT NIGHT
Rita sat at her dressing table applying cold cream to her face and neckline. She was happy because, now that Easter was over, they were going to leave Lwów to spend the summer at Baranie Peretoki. She had come to realize that it was not acting which mattered to her, but her son. When she returned exhausted after her rehearsals and auditions, Jerzyk would stretch out his arms and cry instead of being happy to see her. It was as if he bore her a grudge for leaving him all day in the care of his Ukrainian nanny who, although she loved the boy dearly, could not replace his mother.
Lwów seemed to have a bad influence on Bronisław. He had grown increasingly gloomy, secretive and cruel; he could not spend a moment with his child without either hitting or yelling at him, and at every meal he dragged Rita’s father through the mud, just to observe her reaction. At Bronisław’s side Rita was slowly losing her former spontaneity and independence. She knew that any sudden or decisive actions would be to no effect; they would clash with those of a far more hot-headed and dangerous element, one which terrified her and which she could not understand. So she tried to explain her husband’s attacks in various ways. She looked at him lovingly as he shouted and seethed with fury, and she remembered his childhood, saying to herself: “What a terrible burden, to be brought up as a genius from an early age! It can have a disastrous effect on your whole life! I’m not going to bring Jerzyk up like that! My father made the same mistake, but on a smaller scale. He didn’t want me to be great; he only wanted me to pass my final exams, whereas my late father-in-law demanded greatness of Bronek. No wonder my husband is a nervous wreck! Now that winter is over we’ll go to the country and everything will get back to normal. Bronek will find relief in nature’s bosom, and Jerzyk will breathe cleaner air.”
As she combed her long, thick hair, she wondered when it would be best to see her father before they left. She forgave him the assault on Bronek, who had been exceptionally bad-tempered on Christmas Eve. Since then she had seen her father several times, usually on their walks through Stryjski Park. Sometimes she had visited him as he was having breakfast, at around midday, and had coffee with him and Aunt Leokadia while Jerzyk played with Hanna. The subject of Bronisław did not even arise. Rita had to come to terms with the fact that they would never go to the Carpathian Mountains together; and Popielski had agreed to see her only during moments stolen from his detested son-in-law.
Rita smiled at the thought of seeing green fields and the still leafless beech trees at Baranie Peretoki the following day. She heard the bedroom door rattle. “Wait for me naked,” he had said when he left, “and I’ll be naked too when I come to the bedroom. Today we’re going to celebrate the rite of spring!” She adjusted her hair and slipped off her dressing gown. She never felt any false modesty at the sight of her naked body; she knew she was beautiful.
She entered the bedroom, swaying her hips. And then she screamed. Bronisław was lying naked on the bed; an equally naked young man she did not know was lying next to him. She ran out to her boudoir and threw on her dressing gown. She heard a murmur. Both men were standing in the doorway.
“I can’t do this,” she said quietly but firmly. “Get out of my boudoir!” she yelled at her husband. “You perverted swine!”
Woroniecki-Kulik made towards her, a golf club in his hand. He slapped it rhythmically against his open palm.
“Either you do it with the two of us,” he said, “or you do it with the club.”
LWÓW, MONDAY, APRIL 17TH, 1939 FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Popielski resolved to go to bed early. He had an important meeting the following day with the manager of the Ukrainian Land Bank, Mr Mykoł Sawczuk, who suspected one of his employees of embezzlement. A long and boring conversation about financial transactions was in store, much of which Popielski would not understand anyway.
He sighed and replaced an old edition of Horace’s Odes on the shelf. He was angry with himself. He had already forgotten a large number of Latin words and had to look them up too often in the dictionary. He lit his bedtime cigarette and entered the bathroom to apply some cream to the still firm skin of his face. As he crossed the hallway, the doorbell rang. Popielski walked to the door in surprise, peered through the peephole and opened his mouth in horror. The cigarette fell from his lips and rolled on the floor.
He opened; in stepped Rita, Jerzyk asleep and wrapped in a blanket in her arms. She herself was dressed in a Zakopane woollen jumper thrown hastily over her dressing gown. She walked slowly, dragging her legs. A dark streak of blood trailed after her.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME APRIL 17TH, 1939 SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Mock sat in the armchair struggling to put on his shoes. He found it especially uncomfortable due to his belly, which he had filled the previous evening with delicious but heavy Wiener schnitzel in the Świdnicka Cellar. Although he had overeaten, he thanked Marta resolutely for her good intentions and insisted on taking Argos out for a walk himself. Panting heavily, he wove the shoelaces through his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his German sheepdog by the door, the leash between its teeth.
“We’re going for a walk in a minute, doggo.” Mock smiled to see Argos stand on his hind legs and wag his tail at the sound of the word “walk”.
He had almost finished tying his laces when the telephone rang. Cursing all matters so urgent that they could not wait until after nine o’clock, Mock let go of the laces and picked up the receiver.
“International call,” announced a woman’s voice pleasantly. “I’m putting you through!”
“Thank you,” he muttered and pressed the receiver to his ear.
After a few seconds of crackling and high-pitched squeaks he heard a voice: it was male and not very friendly.
“Can I still count on you, Eberhard?”
“Of course,” he replied, delighted, but soon checked his joyful tone; hearing Popielski’s voice he knew there was bad news to come. “What’s happened?”
“You have to know the whole truth,” said Popielski after a long silence. “But not over the telephone … As soon as possible! Where shall we meet? And when?”
“When? Why not tomorrow!” replied Mock.
“Where?”
“That’s not so easy” Mock pondered and stroked Argos on the head. “
I know! I know!” There’s a place where friends meet over pork knuckle and a bottle of iced vodka. Do you remember the Eldorado Restaurant in Kattowitz?”
LWÓW, FRIDAY, APRIL 28TH, 1939 THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Platform 3 of Lwów’s Main Station was empty. Apart from a sleepy stationmaster and a newspaper vendor arranging papers on his stall, only one man was in sight. He was dressed in black, with a bowler hat on his head and a white scarf wrapped around his neck; the only other pale element of his clothing was a pair of suede gloves.
He gazed, lost in thought, at the fog which curled over the railway tracks and beneath the glazed steel roof above the platforms. Half an hour earlier, on his way to the station, he had passed the Church of St Elizabeth looming in the darkness. The monumental building, a replica of St Stefan’s Cathedral in Vienna, momentarily awoke in him happy memories of youthful days in the city on the Danube. Now he found himself in a city on a subterranean river, and his most recent memories were as dead and unreal as the Styx of Lwów. Popielski glanced once more at the information board to make sure the long-distance train from Berlin via Breslau, Oppeln, Kattowitz, Rzeszów and Przemyśl would indeed be arriving at the platform in five minutes.
The train emerged from fog swollen with the engine’s steam, as if it were a phantom. Popielski started when the engine roared and hissed past two metres away from him. He stood and waited. Soon the train came to a halt and doors began to slam. People climbed down, lugging chests and suitcases. A lady cast her eyes about in search of a porter, complaining profusely about their absence. Stacks of luggage piled up on the platform. Only one man of medium height yet of massively broad build had no luggage other than a small valise resembling a Gladstone bag. He approached Popielski and they greeted each other warmly. In fact they had met in Kattowitz just a little over a week earlier, but they were inordinately happy to see each other again.
The Minotaur's Head: An Eberhard Mock Investigation (Eberhard Mock Investigation 4) Page 28
