Last Room

by Reah, Danuta

  How old did they think he was? Sixteen? He deleted it.

  A conversation with Ania came back to him. He had been complaining about the junk that was clogging up his e-mail now that he was no longer protected by the police systems, and she’d leaned over his shoulder to see what he meant.

  ‘You need to upgrade your spam filter. God, what are these people like? ”Want a larger penis?“’ She made a gesture of typing in a reply. ‘Depends…who’s…on…the…other…end.’

  The recollection almost made him laugh.

  Then he remembered her face as she watched him from the window, the way she had turned away from him, and the sadness of her smile.

  Chapter 21

  Will slept badly that night, an intermittent sleep in which Ania said something to him, over and over again, but he couldn’t hear her. Then suddenly her voice was clear. ‘Occam’s razor,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget.’

  Soft footsteps moved around the flat and he sat bolt upright, his hand reaching for the light switch. The empty room looked back at him. He could hear someone moving in the corridor, footsteps coming to the door, closer, then fading away. Blaise sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled against his mouth as he watched Will striding backwards and forwards across his office.

  You have no choice, he said.

  No choice.

  I have no choice.

  And he was awake in the bleak chill of Ania’s flat, a flat that had been empty now for almost a week and where all the traces of occupancy were fading away as if she had never been there.

  He checked his bag, making sure that the print outs he had made were in the side pocket. He tidied everything away, folded up the bedding and bagged up the contents of the fridge. He would have to come back here and clear everything out, and he wanted the place to look impersonal and unlived in on his return. If he wasn’t going to find Ania here, then he didn’t want to find anyone.

  He went down to the garage to collect his car and dumped his bags in the boot. He called Jack in St Abbs. ‘It’s Will Gillen.’

  ‘Mr Gillen. Hi.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll be gone for a few days longer than I expected. Can you hang on to Keeper?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘She’s doing well? She’s OK?’

  ‘She’s missing you. She’s been a bit off her food, but she’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Call me when you get back.’

  He heard Keeper’s bark in the background and Jack’s voice, slightly muffled as he addressed the dog. For a moment, he felt a pang of longing to be back there, to be back in the quiet of the village, just him and Keeper and the coastal path to walk, or better still, the sea where he could turn the boat north and sail… anywhere. Anywhere would do. He shook himself and thanked Jack, promising to call with an update as soon as he knew more about his movements.

  He felt like a betrayer.

  The airport was to the south of the city. The roads were busy and the traffic on the motorway was heavy, but soon enough he reached the slip road to the airport and was following the signs to the terminal where the planes for the Polish carrier Lot departed.

  He had two hours to wait after check-in. He wandered round the departure lounge aimlessly, avoiding the newsagents. He didn’t want to see Ania’s picture on any more front pages. He didn’t want to hear any more bad news. He just wanted to maintain his equilibrium, to do what he thought she wanted him to do, bring her home, and then…

  Then what?

  His phone rang. It was Blaise. For a moment, he was tempted to leave it, but he answered. ‘Gillen.’

  ‘Will. How are you? I’ve been thinking about you.’

  ‘I’m…’ There was no answer to that question. ‘OK.’

  ‘Did you get the stuff I sent you?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks. I… got it. I’m at the airport now. I’m going to Poland.’

  ‘Right. You haven’t forgotten what you agreed? About…?’

  ‘I’ve no plans to get in anyone’s way.’

  ‘Good man. Have you seen the papers today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s nothing new, Will, don’t worry. It’s just the same old stuff. They’ve granted Haynes a new trial. It’s the best outcome we could hope for. They’ll find something else. He won’t get out. Then they’ll forget about Ania. I think some people quite admire what she did – they can understand…’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was silence, then Blaise spoke again. ‘You go and get her back, Will. Bring her home.’ The kindness in his voice was more than Will could cope with.

  ‘Goodbye.’ He hung up.

  Ania lifted her head and looked at him directly. ‘You have to know where to look, Dad. It isn’t that far away.’

  ‘I’ll find out. Don’t worry. I’m getting there.’

  The man sitting next to him looked at him uneasily and moved to another seat. Will wanted to laugh, but somehow he knew if he did, he would start crying instead. He sat in the sticky plastic seat until his flight was called.

  Chapter 22

  Four chimneys dominated the skyline as the plane dropped down towards the city. Will saw streets and buildings, the long constructions that indicated mills and, incongruously close to them, what looked like palatial residences.

  As they broke through the clouds, he saw vast expanses of trees to the north that seemed to swallow half the city under their shade. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘Łagiewniki. The largest urban forest in Europe. That’s where I was staying – in the hotel in Łagiewniki.’

  He smiled, pleased that she was here with him, then he felt the bump as the wheels touched down and he was on his own again. The sense of speed returned as the engines reversed and gravity attempted to push him out of his seat. Then they were taxiing towards the terminal, a tiny building that looked more like a bus station than an international airport. Just a few days ago, Ania had been here, had landed here, had waited in the aisle for the plane doors to open and to disembark to a city that was as familiar to her as it was strange to him. It was a city where she claimed she had been happy.

  A city where she had died.

  There was an air of decay and general shabbiness about the airport building, an air that was familiar to him from his excursions to eastern Europe as the countries threw off the shackles of Soviet dictatorship.

  He found a line of taxis outside the airport and he asked the driver to take him to the Grand Hotel on ulica Piotrkowska where a room had been booked for him by one of Ania’s colleagues. His Polish was rusty – Elžbieta had spoken it fluently and she had taught him and the two girls. He’d barely used it since she died, except occasionally with Ania, but he managed to make himself understood. The driver, delighted to find a visitor who spoke Polish talked all the way, turning round in his seat to observe the effect of something he’d said, taking both hands off the wheel to emphasise his points with gestures.

  As the car made its hazardous way into the city, the sense of decay vanished as Will saw the evidence of regeneration: new building everywhere, apartment blocks ornamented with bright colours, new office blocks, signs to the Manufaktura, a huge shopping and cultural complex the driver explained, waving his hands in a vague gesture to his right as the car swerved across the traffic.

  The taxi drew up at the side of the hotel. The driver carried Will’s bags to the entrance, and a uniformed man from the hotel stepped forward to take them.

  The street where the hotel stood vanished into the distance each way he looked. This was ulica Piotrkowska, Piotrkowska Street, the longest pedestrianised street in Europe. It was busy: people wandered in and out of the shops, and he could see hanging signs and boards on the pavement advertising restaurants and cafés. Bike-rickshaws plied a brisk trade up and down the road. There was something indefinably European about the scene – the variety of architecture, the ornamentation, the hanging baskets, empty now it was winter that spoke of cascades of flowers in the summer, and the entrances between the buildings that must lead
to courtyards behind the frontages. If he had been here for a holiday, he’d be eager to dump his bags and start exploring.

  He added a generous tip to the taxi fare, and the man pressed his number into Will’s hand with enthusiastic promises to take him anywhere he wanted. Will stepped through the doors into the hotel.

  It was like stepping into another century. The lobby was an open space of marble and polished wood. A stairway curved up from his left, a huge chandelier hanging above him. Despite its shabbiness, the hotel still retained the elegance of the days when it had been built, long before the wars and political oppression of the last century had brought Poland to a ruin it was still trying to escape.

  ‘Will Gillen?’ The voice came from behind him. A man stood up from one of the seats in the lobby. ‘I have been waiting for you.’

  ‘You are…?’ His first thought was KGB minders, and he had to pull himself back into the 21st century.

  ‘I’m Dariusz Erland. I am a friend of your daughter. Ania.’

  He was a tall man, taller than Will, with a broad-shouldered, muscular build. His face looked creased and weary, with dark shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved. His clothes – a suit and a shirt, no tie – were crumpled as if they had been slept in. ‘We must talk,’ he said. ‘There is a good café close by.’ He didn’t wait for Will’s response but spoke rapidly to the receptionist. ‘They know you are here. You can check in later. Leave your bags.’

  Will was too tired to object. Keeping hold of his shoulder bag, he followed the man Erland as he led the way back out of the hotel into the rush of Piotrkowska.

  Ania had loved this street. She had e-mailed him during her first visit, a detailed account of an evening spent here. There had been a festival in full swing, with musicians playing old Polish tunes on traditional instruments. She had been dancing in the street to a hurdy-gurdy in the late summer evening. Na zdrowie! she had signed off. She’d been happy.

  Now, in January, it was dark and cold, and the people out on the street were moving quickly, grimly determined to get home. Will huddled more deeply into his coat and followed Erland down one of the small entrances that led off Piotrkowska into a courtyard where hanging baskets suggested that in summer it would be garlanded with flowers. They went into a café with a short counter and small, rather rickety tables. They were served with coffee that came in china cups. It was dark and rich, its aroma temporarily carrying away his fatigue.

  ‘I met her the first time she came here,’ Erland said suddenly. ‘I thought she was a tourist, or a student maybe…’

  ***

  Łódź, September 2005

  The day Dariusz Erland met Ania Milosz was dull, with heavy clouds in a grey sky. He was on his way to work, taking a detour through the old Jewish burial ground. The leaves on the trees were starting to change colour and the grass was long and uncut. The cemetery had an odd, haunting beauty. It was a peaceful place – a place for the dead. Neither Catholicism nor Judaism allowed cremation, so flesh and bone fed the tangled grass and the overhanging trees.

  Dariusz often took this route on his way to his office in the centre. Run down and neglected though the cemetery was, it held the story of the city’s past. These days it was one of the stops on a path of holocaust remembrance, the rest of its history largely ignored, yet its tombs celebrated people who had shaped the city and whom the city still honoured and remembered.

  The history of eastern Europe was a history of blood. Dariusz had grown up with the stories, stories his parents had told him, stories that inhabited the air he breathed.

  He was walking along the path towards the imposing edifice of the Poznanski tomb where the great entrepreneur Izrael Poznanski was buried. His tomb attested to his importance in death, as the architectural heritage he left behind attested to the importance he had once had in life. As Dariusz approached, he saw the woman.

  She was on the steps, the circular structure of the tomb looming above her. Columns and a massive pillar supported a dome with leaded windows that overlooked the family graves. The name POZNANSKI was emblazoned above the portico.

  She was looking through the ornamental grilles at the huge sarcophagi that dominated the centre of the tomb and marked the places where Poznanski and his wife lay. There was something about her that suggested she wasn’t local. The city was full of visitors for the annual festival. He almost walked on but he was curious, and he spoke on impulse. ‘They didn’t want to be forgotten.’

  She glanced round at him. ‘It’s impressive.’ She spoke Polish, with an English accent. She looked a bit wary – they were alone in the secluded place. Not wanting to alarm her, he didn’t come any closer.

  ‘I believe it’s the largest Jewish tomb in Europe. You’re here for the festival?’

  ‘Is there a festival? I only got in last night. I’m here to work. I’m exploring a bit while I’ve got some time. Someone told me that Arthur Rubinstein’s parents are buried here.’

  ‘Yes – along that way.’ He pointed along the path where the graves were crowded in. ‘They’re just ordinary graves. On the left along the row. There’s a statue of him on Piotrkowska playing the piano.’

  She smiled, suddenly warmer. ‘Thank you.’

  He watched her as she walked away, liking her slim build as she hitched the small backpack she was carrying higher onto her shoulders.

  He stayed by the Poznanski tomb for a few minutes, studying the familiar structure with new eyes, then instead of following the path down to the gates, he found himself walking towards the far end of the cemetery, towards the Pole Gettowa, the field where the wartime dead of the Litzmannstadt Ghetto lay. It wasn’t just the Jewish dead who lay here. There were also the less remembered, the Roma and non-Jewish Poles who had also been victims of mass executions. Somewhere here, his grandfather lay.

  The Nazis had forbidden the use of stone grave markers, so burial sites were marked with metal bed frames or low cement posts. Visitors left small stones on the graves, like people marking their presence at a remote cairn: we have not forgotten. He picked a stone from the ground and placed it on the nearest marker.

  As he walked back towards the gate, he saw the woman again. She was standing by the wall where memorial plaques had been placed, some by wartime survivors, some by the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the victims.

  She saw him coming towards her, and as he reached her, she began to walk with him. ‘I found the Rubinstein grave,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ Beside the path there were deep pits in the ground. They lay in a line of six along the wall – rough, empty hollows that could have been freshly dug but for the grass growing inside them. ‘What are these?’

  ‘They’re from the last days of the war. When the Nazis emptied the ghetto, they kept a few people alive to clear up after them. They made the men dig their own graves, but the Red Army arrived before they could kill these last few.’

  Even now he found something chilling about their stark presence, as if the ghosts of the men who had dug them were standing there in silent witness.

  ‘They were lucky,’ she said.

  ‘Were they?’

  He saw her flush. ‘To survive all that. In the end, they survived.’

  ‘Survived to what?’ He stopped. It wasn’t her fault. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that – in the west you see a happy ending to that war. It wasn’t like that for us.’

  ‘I know. My grandmother was a refugee. But surviving – isn’t that better than dying? Isn’t it a kind of winning?’

  ‘In a way.’ He was curious about her. Not many western Europeans came to Łódź to work. The traffic was mostly the other way. ‘Now I know why your Polish is so good. May I ask your name?’

  ‘I’m Ania,’ she said. ‘Ania Milosz.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Dariusz Erland. Let me show you the festival. It’s the last night tonight – there’s music on Piotrkowska.’

  She’d smiled up at him. ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’

  And that ha
d been the start of it.

  Chapter 23

  ‘She was going to move, to live here.’ Erland lit a cigarette and Will looked round automatically for one of the staff to come and tell him to put it out, then realised that there were people smoking at other tables as well.

  ‘When?’ This was part of Ania’s life he knew nothing about.

  ‘Soon. We have an apartment in one of the new blocks they are building. It will be ready by late spring. She thought she would move then. She needed to make sure that her work could travel with her.’

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought.’

  ‘And the apartment?’ It occurred to Will that Erland stood to do very well out of Ania’s death if he now became the sole owner of the place they had bought together.

  Erland let tobacco smoke trickle from between his lips and he stubbed the cigarette out. ‘I’d stopped,’ he said. ‘She didn’t like it. Now…’ He met Will’s gaze. ‘I paid for the flat, Mr Gillen. She had a mortgage to pay already. It seemed fairer that way.’

  Will realised his thoughts must have been clear on his face. He bit down on an apology. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘I specialise in labour law. These days I do most of my work for one of the trades unions, the OPZZ.’

  ‘You get a lot of work?’

  ‘Yes. For a country that was part of the workers’ paradise…’ He gave the phrase an ironic twist, ‘... our people are not too well treated. The state has run things for too long in Poland. They still don’t want to let go.’

  A wave of fatigue engulfed Will. This was the man Ania was prepared to marry, sitting here discussing trade union politics, a day after her death. ‘And did Ania know what…?’ But he couldn’t complete the question. He wasn’t sure what he had planned to ask. He was here to bring his daughter home. That was all.

  ‘Did she…?’