“But what evidence can there be against him after all this time—especially if all the victims died in 1941?”
“Yup, that’s the problem. The Wiesenthal people themselves have just one witness, a very good one, in fact, pretty reliable, I’d say; but this witness for some reason is very reluctant, indeed refusing, to come and give evidence in court. This witness, would you believe…” Avery paused, “is Kuczynski’s sister. Lives in America. Somewhere in Virginia.”
His sister! Kuczynski had never mentioned having a sister. Russell tried hard to remember. He’d mentioned a brother, an older brother, who had been jailed by the Communists, but had never mentioned a sister, let alone that she was still alive and living in America. Why not?
“Uh…curious…why should his sister suddenly come forward and inform on him after all this time?”
“And why should she then seem to take fright and refuse to follow through by coming to give evidence against him?” agreed Avery. “Makes very little sense at all.”
Another secret that Kuczynski had been keeping bottled up, thought Russell. Maybe this sister would know something about the manuscript. Maybe she could tell him if Kuczynski’s story about how he had gotten it was true, and whether or not the book was a fake. He had to get to her.
“Uh, Avery, could you do me an enormous favor and let me have the sister’s name and whereabouts?”
Avery was wary. “Why, you thinking of making a show about this guy? Can’t do anything till the trial’s all over, contempt of court otherwise, you know that.”
Russell swallowed hard. “Sure, sure, don’t worry about that. Erm…thing is, doing something not on him but pre-war Poland, the experiences of people under first communism and then Nazism, and so, well, this woman sounds just up my street. Not many of that generation still alive, after all, and so she’d provide invaluable firsthand evidence. Not often you can get hold of that!”
“Ah, I see. Bit of a change from your usual fare of bashing HMG, har har. Well, okay then—but you didn’t get it from me.”
23
HIS PHONE BUZZED. Another text from Alice.
now Rosa saying wants to change name!!!
Shit, he thought. His daughter was renouncing her father. Alice had poisoned her against him. She was abandoning Wolfe for…
to what?
Ruth
Ruth?
biblical yr fault next she’ll be bloody converting
at least same initial so less confusion?
brainwashing you failing fatherly protection exposing yr daughter to raving lunatics appalled
He texted Rosa.
what’s with name change?
yr people r my people remember?
Dimly, he recalled the Biblical story in which Ruth left her Moabite background to join up with the Hebrews.
anyway rosa crap name who wants to be called after raving communist loon
so whats with new boyfriend?
honestly!! friend not boyfriend Udi teaching me hebrew.
What was wrong with Alice, he wondered; not for the first time.
24
THE HOUSE WAS in West Virginia, near Charleston. He hired a car, and drove from his hotel in Washington through lush green forests. His GPS took him into an area where the houses were large and set well back from the road with well-kept, deep front lawns, separated from each other by up to half a minute of driving. Not for the first time, Russell marveled at the sheer size of America. Here they had land, space. Here there was room to breathe.
It was a large, low, well-kept, grey clapboard house with the windows and verandah picked out in white.
A woman answered the door dressed in a pink overshirt and black trousers. A pair of black-framed spectacles hung from a chain round her neck. Early sixties, he guessed. She had a round, open face that half-smiled at Russell inquiringly.
“I wonder…would it be possible to speak to Mrs. Peterson? Mrs. Zofia Peterson? I am Russell Wolfe from London.”
“London?” The woman looked blank. “Is she expecting you?”
Russell drew a deep breath. The first hurdle. “Not exactly. But I think she’ll want to see me. I have some information which will be of great interest to her.”
The woman put on her glasses and looked carefully at Russell. “What exactly do you want with my mother?”
“I’m, um, I’m a researcher into…here…here’s my card.” It said Pollyanna Productions, but what the hell. “I’m…I’m doing research into the different regimes that controlled Poland during the war, the Nazi/Soviet pact? Stuff like that.”
The woman’s face cleared. “Ah, yes, I see. Did the Old Comrades suggest you come to see my mother?”
Old comrades? Russell’s face froze in a smile. “Old comrades indeed!” he said brightly.
“Do come in, please. My mother is always happy to hear from the Comrades.”
She ushered him into a neat and cozy living room. He perched on the edge of an armchair covered in a flowery chintz.
“My mother is asleep. I’ll bring her down in a minute. Can I get you some tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
He sat and looked around him. The walls were crowded with family pictures, frame after frame of smiling, open-faced children. There were also embroidered samplers bearing meticulously stitched mottos saying “Home Sweet Home,” “The Lord is my shepherd,” and “I am the way, the truth, and the light.”
Russell’s heart sank.
There was a tinkling of cups, and the woman returned with a tray set with tea-things and a plate of what looked like homemade tea bread.
“My mother will join us shortly. She is very curious about having a visitor all the way from London. I’m Stacey, by the way.”
There was a pause. “You have a splendid house,” said Russell.
“Why thank you. May I just say,” said Stacey shyly, “I just love your accent. You British have such a way of speaking. So classy.”
There was another pause. “While we’re waiting,” said Stacey, rummaging inside a small bureau, “since you’re a researcher, maybe you’d like to take these for future reference? You might be interested.”
She handed him some leaflets. They were advertisements. One was for Homeschoolers’ Success Stories: 15 Adults and 12 Young People Share the Impact that Homeschooling Has Made on Their Lives! The second was for The 31st Annual Virginia Homeschool Convention: Three Days that Will Change the Life of Your Family! The third promised The A-Z of Homeschooling: Everything You Need to Know to School Your Child for a Fulfilled and Wholesome Life!
She sat on the edge of a chair, looking intently at him.
“We homeschooled all our children, all seven of them. Now we are fighting to make sure that universities accept these qualifications. They’re actually of a higher standard than what’s produced in regular schools. But they’re always trying to make out our children aren’t properly socialized, or something. What nonsense.”
“That’s quite an achievement, er, homeschooling seven children,” he said politely. He didn’t know anything about it, but his instincts told him it was something he probably wouldn’t like.
“Well I was a teacher, so of course that helped,” said Stacey. “That’s how I knew about all this terrible propaganda being pumped into the kids in the classroom, all this explicit and perverted stuff about sex, every single kind, you can’t imagine, and such indifference to things like drug-taking and discipline. So unwholesome. You just have to protect your children against that, don’t you. Do you have kids?”
The door opened slowly and an elderly woman came slowly into the room, leaning heavily on a walking frame. Stacey jumped up to help her.
“I can manage,” said the woman in irritation, waving her away. “Don’t fuss.”
“My mother is very independent,” said Stacey with a l
ittle laugh. Irritation there too, Russell thought, oh yes.
Stacey poured tea for her mother into a sturdy glass mug, and wrapped her fingers round the handle. The old woman nodded curtly and shakily raised the mug to her lips.
She looked steadily at Russell. He could see the likeness. The same rawboned, East European peasant face. But she was smaller and slighter. And her eyes, the same slanting, Mongolian eyes, were bright and focused. Despite her physical frailty, there was intelligence there, and a certain stillness that seemed like strength.
“So you are from London? The Comrades sent you?”
Russell dropped his eyes in what he hoped would be taken as a sign of appropriately discreet assent.
“You are Polish?”
“No, I’m a researcher…er, researching…historical events in Poland. I thought…the comrades thought…I thought you might be able to help me.”
“Historical events? I don’t think I can help you.”
Her eyes became veiled, wary. This was the moment. He breathed in deeply.
“I have information about your brother, Joszef.”
There was a silence. Stacey sat up, startled.
“Uncle Joszef? The one who died in the war?”
Zofia sat still, her mug trembling slightly as she clasped it between her hands. Her eyes never left Russell’s face.
“Leave us.”
“You quite sure, Mom?” Stacey looked from her mother to Russell and back again. No one said anything.
“Well, all right then,” said Stacey reluctantly. “Just call if you need me, okay?”
She patted her mother’s hand. The door clicked shut behind her.
“You have seen him? The Comrades took you to him?” Her body, hunched awkwardly in her chair, had become rigid with tension.
“I know where he is. Yes.” Pace it carefully now; lead her along, don’t allow her to put up those defenses.
Her face was like a mask, apart from those eyes boring into him. He wondered if she had Parkinson’s.
“I thought he was dead. All these years, I heard nothing. Then a few months ago, I suddenly found out he was alive.”
“The Comrades.”
She nodded slightly. “One of them wrote something, a memoir, about resisting the Soviets. I knew him back then, of course. We were all hiding in the woods together. You form a bond in such a situation. We keep in touch with each other. They send me bits and pieces from time to time. So they sent me this memoir. And at the end they wrote that Joszef was living in London.”
“Must have been quite a shock.”
“The past comes back to haunt you. You want to forget, but it won’t let you.”
“Did you get in touch with him?”
For a moment, he saw Joszef on her face. A flash of something guarded, cunning even. She looked away for the first time since she had sat down.
“No.”
With an effort, she lifted her mug of tea to her mouth.
“They must have been terrible times.”
Careful now. Sympathetic, but not prying.
“You don’t know. No one can know.”
Her eyelids drooped, and she bent her head towards the mug. He sat very still.
“What people are capable of. You don’t know. You can’t imagine until it happens. And then you can’t believe it. Don’t believe it.”
Her voice was clear and high; her words, if a little slow, precise. An accent, but a perfect command of language. The younger sister, but cleverer. Ah yes, he thought. A distance between them; a resentment.
“Was that why you went to the Simon Wiesenthal Foundation?” he said softly.
She did not look up. When she spoke again he could hardly hear her.
“The British must prosecute him, jail him.”
So it was her. Whatever Kuczynski had done, she knew.
“Why don’t you give your evidence to the British police, then? They can’t jail him without you.”
She was silent for a while. Her eyes remained lowered. “What do you want from me?” she whispered eventually. Her head remained bent towards her cup.
He leaned towards her. Should he take her hand, perhaps? No, too forward. Be attentive, empathetic, but not too keen.
“I’m researching war crimes trials, the decisions behind these prosecutions, whether there are limits to them because of age or illness. That kind of thing. I’ve spoken at some length to your brother. Now I wanted to hear your side of the story.”
“You have spoken to him? You are working for the British police?”
She raised her eyes to his. She was startled, but not wary. He thought he saw a flicker of interest, even eagerness.
“I’m a researcher. It’s important to make sure I’ve got all the facts right. This is a historical record I’m researching. But some things your brother told me, they don’t make sense.”
He put his iPhone onto the table between them.
“What he said to me, it’s all on this phone. His voice is on this, talking to me.”
She gazed at the device as if her eyes might melt it. Then imperceptibly she pulled back.
“I don’t want to say anything.”
But she wanted to hear that voice, Russell was certain.
“You want him put in prison, don’t you? But you don’t want to give evidence yourself. I don’t know why you don’t want to do that, but I expect you have your reasons and that’s ok with me.”
She was listening to him attentively now.
“I think I can help you. The police need the information you have about your brother. They need to know what happened, what he did. You are the only person who can tell them. I can act as your go-between. I need your information for my own research, but I don’t need to use your name. And I can pass on to the police the information you give me. That may well enable them to prosecute your brother without dragging you into court.”
It would be her voice on the recording, of course, but he didn’t need to point that out to her.
She was obviously torn.
“May I just play you my conversation with Joszef? I promise, if it’s too much for you I’ll put it away and say no more about it.”
She listened to the recording without expression, her eyes closed. Only the rapid rise and fall of her frail chest offered any suggestion of emotion. He played it all except for the end of the conversation where Kuczynski had mentioned the book. Too risky to let her hear that; she might think he was a gold digger.
After the recording ended, there was a long silence. She remained utterly still, with her eyes shut.
“This was not the truth,” she said, finally. She shook her head. “You have to understand…” Her voice tailed away. “To hear that voice, after all these years, to bring it all back…This is very painful for me.”
“Of course it is. Would you prefer…”
She waved him away, swallowed and started talking.
“The Soviets took my father, my mother, my eldest brother Pyotr, sent them to labor camps, Siberia.”
“The Soviets?”
He was briefly confused. Then he remembered.
“This was, what, 1939, the alliance between Hitler and the Soviet Union?”
She nodded.
“The Soviets invaded Poland. We all hated them. It was chance that made us their prisoners. The war started, and then a few weeks later suddenly the border shifted. We became part of Russia. Just like that.
“So the Russians came to our town. They were very cruel. They took hundreds of thousands of us prisoner; tortured them, jailed them, transported them to places where they were never seen again. My parents, my brother. I live it all again in my mind every single day.
“Came in the middle of the night, beat on the door with their fists, the dogs barking, barking. I can still hear my mother screaming a
s they dragged them away. I was sixteen, Joszef a year older. We hid in the well in our yard. Afterwards we ran into the forest and the partisans looked after us.”
She closed her eyes. Russell stiffened. Would she carry on, or would this all be too much for her? Surreptitiously he checked his iPhone to make sure it was still recording. When she spoke again he started guiltily, but her eyes were still closed.
“We were all partisans, the resistance against the Soviets. How could we not have been? They destroyed our family.
“We hid in the forest. Blackberries grew wild there. We crammed our mouths with them. To this day I cannot bear the taste of blackberries. We lived in camps; we had a bakery, a school, a laundry, even a primitive kind of clinic. Our group was accused of stealing a cow, but we didn’t have to. The farmers gave us food. Everyone detested the Russians. We prayed for deliverance from them. Then things changed.
“The Soviet secret police tracked down the underground. They came into the forest and surrounded our camp and attacked us and killed a lot of partisans. The Russians took a lot of casualties too because our side, the partisans, we fought back with great courage. And shortly after that the Soviets declared an amnesty for all partisans who came out of hiding and identified themselves. I thought it was a trap, but Joszef told me no, we can go home now.
“So later that year, as the leaves were falling from the trees, we went back to our house. I trusted Joszef. I was very naive then. But not for long.”
Now she twisted and untwisted her fingers. She was becoming agitated. The silence seemed to crackle between them.
“Next door to us was a Jewish family. We knew them so well. All my life, we were in and out of each other’s houses. That was the thing, the terrible thing…there were so many Jews in our town, it was a Jewish town almost, all of us had Jewish neighbors, all of us got on with each other so well, never a problem…”
The Legacy Page 19
