“Yes, I…I was wondering that myself, Toby,” she answered. A hint of relief had begun to register in her face.
“Well, it’s like this. I told you I was a reporter from London, and it was only after my little trick with the cab last night that I realized to my horror that I only had your name. We hadn’t had any time to get further acquainted. Fortunately, the Ploughshare has some connections here in Poland. I was able to contact, at great cost, a colleague based in Warsaw, who managed to have a directory of Krakow. Don’t ask me how or why such a thing even exists.”
“I know why something like that exists,” she said with some of the ferocity she had demonstrated the night before. “I’m sorry, won’t you come in and have a seat?”
“Thank you…Professor,” Keeton answered with a bit of playfulness around her title. It had the desired effect.
“Luiza, please,” she said as they sat across from each other at her desk.
“As you wish, Luiza,” he said. “I think we agreed to steer clear of political subjects for a while. At any rate, if it helps my cause I’ll mention that I now owe the Hotel Royal night manager and several men I’ve never met in Warsaw quite a few favors to be here. Not to mention the sleep I missed.”
“It might help,” she answered. “What’s your cause?”
“Dinner. You and me. Tomorrow night.”
“I see,” she said, suddenly falling into the charged repartee. “Well, I’ve heard of worse causes. Do you have a particular restaurant in mind?”
He shrugged. “None at all, in fact. But with an entire day to plan—”
“That won’t be necessary,” she interrupted. “The proprietor of the Wierzynek is a friend of mine. So, I have built up favors of my own.”
Keeton laughed. “Luiza, I may uncover many happy discoveries about you.”
“Perhaps you might,” she answered as part of the banter. “But let me ask you something, Toby. Why have you come to Poland in the first place? I assume a work assignment from your newspaper.”
Keeton chose to push the matter forward. “Yes, exactly. I’m here to investigate the bishop of Krakow, Kazimierz Paszek.”
The mention of the bishop caused Luiza’s eyes to narrow, and Keeton wondered whether this very smart woman would consider the coincidence simply too convenient. If so, he risked having her pull away from him completely. If not, then perhaps she would respond and show her hand a bit.
“The bishop? What sort of investigation?” she asked.
“Well, he’s a fascinating person, isn’t he?” Keeton said. “Handsome, energetic, popular. He’s a reflection of the entire Polish people, really. Quite unlike the communist ruling party.”
“I suppose,” she answered offhandedly. “I don’t much get involved in church politics, beyond the historical matters, of course.”
“Seems like history and church are closely tied together,” Keeton said, measuring her reaction and interest. “I was hoping maybe you could help me as a source for my story.”
“Is that why you want to have dinner with me?” she asked.
Keeton leaned in. “Luiza, I would’ve asked you to dinner if that secret directory had led me to a factory assembly line or to an old farmhouse. It’s been on my mind since the moment we queued up together outside the hotel in Warsaw.”
Luiza smiled and seemed to be considering her next move carefully. “All right, then,” she said. “Meet me here tomorrow at five o’clock. I have a car. If you’re interested in Polish history and traditions, we’ll have dinner at the Wierzynek and then do a little sightseeing out in the countryside. I’ll answer almost all of your questions.”
“Almost?” he asked, sensing some sort of innuendo in her statement.
“I have a class to teach in a few minutes,” she said with mock triumph. “Tomorrow at five?”
He reached across, took her hand in his, and brought it up to his lips, kissing it gently. “That’s a traditional greeting in Poland, isn’t it?”
She nodded and walked him to the door. Just before closing it behind him she said, “Toby, not everything in Poland is done the traditional way.”
***
“Comrade Sitko, certainly the party doesn’t admit the possibility of one simple building disrupting its grasp of power, am I correct?”
Bishop Paszek stirred his tea as he sat across from Eliasz Sitko, the deputy-in-charge in Krakow of the Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza (PZPR)—the Polish United Workers’ Party. They were in Sitko’s office at PZPR headquarters. Their ornate and comfortable chairs flanked a shared low table where the tea set had been placed. A party underling had filled the cups and then had been dismissed. A secretary whose job it was to take notes of the meeting remained, seated in silhouette in front of a window with a pad of paper.
“And the church certainly must not, after centuries of leadership in Poland, and in peaceful coexistence with the present People’s Republic, jeopardize her position as a law-abiding entity.” Sitko had responded without malice, in the confident demeanor of the state officer whose position allowed him to lecture without being lectured to.
Paszek’s mouth widened into a slight smile as he contained his reaction. “Well, comrade, I think perhaps peaceful coexistence is a bit of a generous term. Nevertheless, our masses go forward unmolested, for which I am grateful.”
“Bishop, have I ever threatened such a thing?” Sitko said with raised hands. Both of them knew a threat was unnecessary. “So we may dispense with that question. No, the meaningful topic is the illicit displays on the grounds of Nowa Huta—not by you personally, of course, but you haven’t condemned the practice, either.”
“I thought the meaningful topic that brought us together today was my request for a church to be built in Nowa Huta,” Paszek answered. “The crosses seem like so trivial a matter I should think they wouldn’t warrant your attention.”
This was not entirely new banter between them. They both well understood the balance of authority each held. The bishop knew Sitko had the force of arms, and the deputy knew Paszek had the will of the people. The PZPR did not want a nationwide conflict with the church that would result in nine-tenths of the population in active resistance. But, Sitko reasoned, the faithful needed their Masses, did they not?
“I am told that Krakow has some one hundred churches now, maybe more,” Sitko countered. “New ones have been allowed, and recently.”
“But not in Nowa Huta,” the bishop said softly.
“Not in Nowa Huta,” Sitko repeated. He then took a long sip of tea as he considered the next parry, feint, and thrust of their discussion. “Bishop, if I may speak to you personally and off the record—” he motioned for the secretary to cease her longhand work “—I feel compelled to talk to you not about the risk to the church but to you personally. You might imagine that there are those of us who consider the workings of Polish society to be a balance of state and church. Me, for instance. But time marches on, Kazimierz, and there is a growing number of less tolerant party officials who wield influence.”
“And not to mention the Soviets,” Paszek said gravely.
“To be truthful, yes,” Sitko answered with a shrug. “Who can deny it? Be that as it may, neither the new breed of socialist nor the Russians will abide a troublemaker.”
“Eliasz, we weren’t schoolmates, but we grew up in the same time,” Paszek said quietly. “I know you haven’t forgotten everything about your catechism. Mother Church began with a troublemaker.”
“So, you’re Jesus now?” Sitko said with mild sarcasm. “They think even less of delusional troublemakers.”
“You’re afraid to let me build that church, Eliasz,” Paszek said. “Be not afraid.”
“There are limits to the party’s patience, Kazimierz,” Sitko answered coldly. Then he motioned to the secretary again. “So, Bishop Paszek, in my capacity as party deputy assigned to investigate this matter, and after careful consideration of all the factors, I am informing you that your request to construct a chur
ch within the city of Nowa Huta is denied.”
“Don’t be afraid, Eliasz,” the bishop repeated.
“Strike that last sentence,” Sitko told the secretary sharply. “Kazi—I mean, Bishop, I am furthermore informing you that ongoing activity with regard to unsanctioned placement of crosses or other church-related paraphernalia in Nowa Huta will be considered to have been committed under your direction, in your capacity as the episcopal authority of the local church here. Understood?”
“And the Christmas Mass? Is that to be prohibited?”
“Cooperation may bring about certain accommodations,” Sitko said.
“So with more crosses I am to be arrested, then? Oh, don’t worry about striking my question, Eliasz; you may correct the record after I leave.”
Sitko stared back at Paszek. Inwardly he begrudgingly admired the bishop’s grit. Over the years he had come to know the strength of the man and of his message. As a worthy adversary to himself, he owed the bishop the chance to retreat rather than charge headlong into disaster. Besides, he thought, his replacement might be worse.
“Record that after I thanked the bishop for meeting with me, the meeting between Bishop Paszek and me ended at ten minutes past two o’clock,” Sitko ordered. Then he stood and gave a nod to the secretary, who scampered out of the room to leave the two men alone.
Paszek had stood as well and extended his hand. “Comrade Sitko, thank you for your time.”
Sitko shook the hand and sighed. “At some point you’ll be in danger, and I won’t be able to help you.”
“I’ve been chased before, so that strategy is familiar,” Paszek answered. “Of course, that was by the Nazis.” The bishop of Krakow turned and walked out without another word.
Sitko’s eyes flashed. Let the man tie his own noose, then. Why should he even try to shield Paszek from his just desserts? The state had been tolerant, hadn’t it? Naturally, there was the sentiment of the people to consider. The authorities would not do something so shocking as execute him, but perhaps a few months of house arrest would tame him a bit.
He took a bite of the ginger biscuit that had been included on his saucer and let his brief anger subside. He had been exasperated with Paszek on several occasions but knew that the two of them played at the delicate relationship together. Still, he had spoken the truth to the bishop. There would come a time when his insolence would cost him.
***
From the Jagiellonian campus Keeton walked west for about ten minutes through the various winding turns of the Krakow streets, absorbing the pleasant sun and reflecting on the encounter with Luiza. He was rewarded by coming upon the lush Jordan Park and then by spying a football stadium at the far end of it.
There was activity in the stadium, although not a game. The local club, TS Wisła, was practicing. As Keeton walked through the front gate and neared the pitch, a security guard approached him. Most of the stands were empty, except for a group of maybe a dozen men with notebooks and a few cameras—local reporters.
“Przepraszam pana. Czy masz identyfikację?” the guard asked. He was perhaps sixty years old, with graying hair, shorter than Keeton but with a thick torso and large powerful hands.
Keeton produced his passport from his suit coat and replied with one of the lines he’d rehearsed at Camp Peary. “Jestem brytyjski dziennikarz. Czy mówisz po angielsku?” I am a British journalist. Do you speak English?
The guard gave the passport of Toby Lodge a perfunctory glance and made a pinching motion with his fingers. “Little bit English,” he said. “Report football club?”
Keeton nodded vigorously and brought out a small notebook and a pen from the satchel, pretending to scribble across the paper to mimic his profession.
The guard thought for a few moments, then finally shrugged and motioned for Keeton to follow and led him to the group of reporters.
Keeton thanked him and joined his supposed colleagues in watching the practice. Half the men on the pitch were passing the ball back and forth with various types of kicks. The others were lined up and testing their skills against the keeper, with moderate effort at first and then with increasing vigor. After twenty minutes the two groups of players switched places. Keeton leaned back and enjoyed the warm sun and the sport.
“They’re preparing for the holy war,” Keeton heard a man a few seats down from him say, in German. He saw a badge attached to the man’s lapel, which read NEUES DEUTSCHLAND, which Keeton knew well as the East German newspaper of Socialist Party record. Beneath the name of the paper was the reporter’s name: D EGGERT. Keeton stood and stepped around to the next row of seats and then sat down directly behind Eggert.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Eggert,” Keeton said in German. “May I ask what you meant by holy war?”
Eggert and his companion, a photographer, looked around. Keeton immediately suspected that Eggert was an authentic employee of ND. The other man, however, whose badge indicated his name was H ROTH, was most likely a SED political officer. He would have been sent along to ensure Eggert did not get any strange ideas about freedom in this relatively relaxed People’s Republic.
“Your German is very good, sir,” Eggert replied. “But I think maybe a British citizen.” Then in English, Eggert continued. “I am correct, am I not?”
“Indeed you are,” Keeton answered back in his British accent. Over the years he had honed his linguistic trade craft to account for what his trainers called the double-layer effect, the ability to apply an accent atop one of his cover languages. “My name’s Toby Lodge; I work for the Ploughshare in London. I think you’ll find our positions close enough to those of Neues Deutschland.”
“Yes, I’ve had a chance to see it from time to time,” Eggert said. “Some interesting material but still perhaps influenced by the capitalist system.”
“I’d say that we’re an oasis,” Keeton answered pleasantly.
“You’re not wearing an identification, Mr. Lodge,” Roth said suddenly.
Keeton pulled the sunglasses off and smiled at the party officer. “No, I’m actually not here to cover this football club, but they let me in anyway. Perhaps I should be covering this holy war, whatever it is.”
Eggert laughed. “That’s a name for the match between TS Wisła and KS Cracovia, the two Krakow clubs. Despite the much stronger reputation by Wisła the match is often heated, even violent.”
“I see,” Keeton said. “Well, on second thought perhaps I can relate to a holy war after all. I’m here to write an article on this bishop, Paszek, the man they call Baca.”
Roth had been leaning back with his head turned toward Keeton. At the sound of this name, he suddenly pivoted his entire body on the wooden seat and faced Keeton directly. “Paszek? What exactly about him?” he asked in rough English.
“Well, yes. My specialty is economics.” Keeton dug into the satchel and pulled out a typed sheet and handed it to Roth. “Here are my curriculum vitae. Note the last title—between you and me, the ‘in press’ means I haven’t started writing yet. That’s why I’m here.”
Roth read the page of Toby Lodge’s particulars that Lionel Bridgewater had created from scratch. Keeton had pointed out the last item: Is Bishop Paszek Trying to Foment Revolution in Poland? The East German nodded and handed back the page. “What do you know about the bishop?”
Keeton shrugged. “Obviously, I see the friction between state and church, which you’ll note in my writings. But I also know that the Polish people are inclined to love and obey him. Appears to me to be an insoluble situation.”
Eggert sighed and then continued in a lowered voice. “I’m not sure, actually. Paszek seems to do as he pleases. Our socialist brothers are too tolerant, in my opinion.”
“I heard rumors about this council in Rome,” Keeton said. “Paszek’s going to attend. Surely he’ll only be emboldened to push harder if this is allowed.”
Roth leaned in with a hard look. “Perhaps this is enough criticism of the Polish leadership. Suffice it to say that this Baca pr
esents a problem. And problems are meant to be solved.”
“You don’t think…” Keeton intentionally let the implication hang between them. “Well, I can’t imagine the Polish government wants a soft revolution on their hands. And the East Germans wouldn’t do anything, not here, or in Rome for that matter. I suppose that, well…” He quickly doodled a symbol on his notepad and showed it to the two men.
Eggert shrugged and smiled. “What did we say—holy war.”
“Still, something of that magnitude, it’s just not conceivable,” Keeton persisted. “Is it?”
Roth put his finger to his lips and Eggert’s mouth stopped working just as he was about to reply. “Where did you say you were staying, Mr. Lodge?” Roth asked Keeton.
“I didn’t say, actually,” Keeton said as he slipped the sunglasses back on. “But it’s the Hotel Royal. How about you gentlemen?”
“Good luck with your assignment, Mr. Lodge,” Roth said coldly as both East Germans turned back in unison to watch the practice, which had transformed into a scrimmage between the two halves of the Wisła squad. Then Roth leaned into Eggert’s ear and whispered something fiercely into it, nodding back at Keeton’s notebook.
Keeton had shown them a sketch of a star and sickle.
***
“Jana Długosza i Plac Serkowskiego, proszę,” Keeton told the taxi driver as he climbed into the tight backseat, repeating the name of the intersection he’d read back in London under the black light. He was wearing the Jaeger-LeCoultre watch from Lionel as well.
As the taxi pulled away from the stadium Keeton took a last look at the entrance and reflected on the encounter with the East Germans. On the one hand, he’d been able to strike up a conversation with the men and establish the Toby Lodge persona. However, it was a long shot whether his credentials with them would bear any fruit at all, and there was always the chance that he might raise a suspicion with a sharp and skeptical SED officer. All in all it had been a draw.
The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2) Page 10
