The Miernik Dossier

by Charles McCarry

  “There is my sister,” Miernik said.

  “What’s her name?” I asked this quickly.

  Miernik hesitated. You will think that he was selecting a name that he’ll be sure to remember the next time I ask. It might have been that, or it might have been his normal citizen-of-a-police-state reaction: a man who asks for information, even innocent information, is to be mistrusted.

  “Zofia,” he said.

  “Where is she?”

  “In Warsaw, at the university. She is studying art history.”

  “She is alone?”

  “You know that my parents are dead. She is alone.”

  “Can’t she come out? Pretend to be going on vacation?”

  “One passport to a family is the rule. I have ours.”

  “Would they bother her if you didn’t go back?”

  “Perhaps not immediately. Eventually, if they want me badly enough. She is my only relative. She is younger. I feel a great deal for her.”

  “Tadeusz, I don’t think we can settle this before lunch. We ought to start walking toward the restaurant.”

  “It helps to talk about it. You would like Zofia. We don’t look alike.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  Miernik laughed for the first time. He does not joke about his appearance (his looks distress him, I think), so I assume that his laughter indicated, or was supposed to indicate, affection for his sister.

  “She thinks I am too protective. I interviewed her boyfriends when she was sixteen. Before that, in the war, we all tried to make her feel as safe as possible. The winter that the Russians came, the Germans retreated in a hurry. In a snowbank around the corner from our house they left two dead German soldiers. They were just boys. Their faces were frozen—eyes open, mouths open, tongues very swollen. They lay in the snow on our path to school. During the entire winter, I took Zofia by a longer way so she wouldn’t see the dead Germans. I would go out every morning to see if they were gone. They were not. The Russians wouldn’t bother with them, the Poles would not touch them. They were not hauled away until spring, when they might smell. Zofia was angry with me over all that extra walking. I never told her why we went the long way to school. Why should a little girl know?”

  “Have you ever explained?”

  “No. I suppose she’s forgotten. She was only seven.”

  We walked through the park again, Miernik with his hands behind him like a monk. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Do you want to talk about this later?”

  “Yes. Your lack of sympathy does me good.”

  “You can call me.”

  Miernik said that he would.

  You see the alternatives in this situation, I know. But I will list them anyway:

  1) Miernik’s story is true, and he really is deciding whether to go back to Poland and, perhaps, to prison. If he doesn’t go back, he’ll have to ask for asylum in Switzerland.

  2) He is in touch with the Poles (or the Soviets), and is under instructions to defect, and believes that I can put him in contact with the right Americans.

  If (1), it’s a sad story. If (2), it’s very elaborate, hence very Polish.

  Let me know how you want to handle this.

  5. INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS FROM THE FILES OF WRO.

  Personnel

  The Director General wishes to know the date of expiry of the

  passport of Mr. Tadeusz Miernik.

  19 May N. COLLINS

  First Assistant

  Mr. Collins

  The passport of Mr. T. Miernik, issued by the Polish Consulate

  in Bern, expires on 2 July. As the passport is not renewable, Mr.

  Miernik must apply for a new one before the date of expiry.

  19 May T. RASTIGNY

  Personnel

  6. REPORT BY LÉON BROCHARD, A FRENCH NATIONAL EMPLOYED BY THE WORLD RESEARCH ORGANIZATION, TO A FRENCH INTELLIGENCE SERVICE (TRANSLATION FROM FRENCH).

  There was a curious incident today (19 May) at the lunch that has become a weekly habit for Collins, the Englishman; Christopher, the American; Miernik, the Pole; el Khatar, the Sudanese; Khan, the Pakistani; and myself. The central figure in this incident was Miernik, though Khatar, Khan, and Collins were also involved.

  Miernik and Christopher arrived together at the restaurant. The rest were already there. The talk was lively as usual. Khatar told an amusing story about Fenwick, the Englishman who is an Assistant Director General of WRO, whom he is trying to induce to call him (Khatar) “Your Royal Highness.” Khatar is a prince of a Muslim sect in his country. Khatar’s family still keeps slaves, including apparently some intellectuals; he says that Fenwick has the makings of a useful slave. “Fenwick would be quite happy with us as a slave, all our slaves are,” said Khatar. “But first he must be trained not to call me ”my dear chap.”’

  Miernik seized on this bit of frivolity with great resentment. He read Khatar a lecture on the evils of slavery. “Did you learn nothing at Oxford?” Miernik demanded.

  “I learned that it is inconvenient to be without slaves,” said Khatar.

  Even Khatar, who usually is oblivious to the behavior of others, was taken aback by the ferocity of Miernik’s attack. The Pole would not stop talking. It seems that Khatar’s father, for political reasons, recently married his son, in absentia, to the thirteen-year-old daughter of another black prince. The father sent this new bride by airplane to Geneva. She is now living in Khatar’s apartment.

  Miernik, going there for dinner last week, was introduced to the girl. Khatar requires her to sit on the floor beside the table, and he tosses her scraps from his plate. Apparently this is the only food she receives. Miernik upbraided him for this behavior.

  “Be cheerful, Miernik,” said Khatar. “She will go back to Sudan as soon as I can bring myself to consummate the marriage.”

  Collins said, “Look, Kalash, why don’t you send your Swiss girl away for an evening, and do the deed? Then you won’t be offending old Miernik when he comes to dinner.”

  Khatar, who regards himself as quite the most handsome black in the world, laughed. “She is circumcised,” he said. “It’s a dry experience, my dear Nigel. When I have her, I shall have to be prepared by Nicole. But once she has prepared me, Nicole will not let me go.

  At this, Miernik threw down his napkin and left the table. He strode to the door, then came back, red in the face. “Kalash,” he cried, “you are a disgusting savage!”

  Khatar was quite undisturbed. “It seems that Miernik has no respect for my culture,” he said.

  “None whatever, if you are its product,” said Miernik, and left the restaurant. There were actual tears in his eyes.

  Christopher went after him. Everyone except Khatar was enormously embarrassed. Collins, of course, could not let the matter lie.

  “Kalash,” he said, “you mustn’t take old Miernik too seriously.”

  “I thought that he was quite serious. He was crying.”

  “It’s nothing to do with your sex life, really,” said Collins.

  “Perhaps he ought to arrange a sex life of his own, then,” said Khatar. “They are too moralistic, these Communists.”

  “Miernik has a good deal to be serious about,” said Collins.

  “He is very worried,” said Khan.

  Collins gave Khan a warning look. But the Pakistani went on: “Miernik thinks that he is in danger.”

  “Really, Hassan!” Collins said.

  “You do not believe him?” asked Khan.

  “That’s neither here nor there. It’s an official matter.”

  “A human matter, I should have said. Is the D.G. going to do anything for him, or not?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “He must do something. It’s unthinkable that Miernik should have to go back.”

  “Back where?” asked Khatar.

  “To Poland,” said Khan.

  “That is where he comes from,” said Khatar. “Why shouldn’t he go back?”
>
  “Because he is not a royal highness. The Poles are bringing pressure to have him returned. They think that he is a spy, I gather, because of his friendships with us. They wish to put him into prison.

  I asked Collins, “Is this true?”

  “I have no idea,” said Collins.

  “That is what Miernik thinks,” said Khan. “That is what he told the D.C. in your presence, I believe.”

  Khan was agitated. Collins paid him no attention.

  “If that’s so, then Miernik had better sleep with some girls before he goes,” said Khatar. “He may not have the chance after he’s clapped into the dungeon.”

  “I assure you,” said Khan, “it is not funny.”

  “No,” said Collins, “I suppose it isn’t.”

  I deduced from Collins’ reaction to this conversation that what Khan said was substantially true. Collins is expected, as First Assistant to the Director General, to be a tomb of discretion. But there was no mistaking that he was disturbed and embarrassed by Khan’s spilling of secrets at the luncheon table.

  Neither Miernik nor Christopher returned to the restaurant. Khatar, as usual, had no money. I paid the extra portion of the bill, and a claim for expenses is attached.

  7. EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPTION OF A CONVERSATION, PHOTOGRAPHED BY A MOTION PICTURE CAMERA AND DECIPHERED THROUGH LIPREADING, BETWEEN VASILY KUTOSOV, AN OFFICIAL OF THE SOVIET EMBASSY IN PARIS, AND PIERRE MAILLARD, AN OFFICER OF A FRENCH INTELLIGENCE SERVICE. DATE AND PLACE OF CONVERSATION (TRANSLATED FROM FRENCH): 21 MAY, PLACE DU CARROUSEL, PARIS.

  MAILLARD: One more thing, rather unimportant perhaps.

  KUTOSOV: Perhaps. Tell me.

  MAILLARD: We have a report from a low-grade agent in Geneva concerning a Pole named Miernik.

  KUTOSOV: Given name?

  MAILLARD: Tadeusz. The report says that the Poles are bringing pressure to have this man returned to Poland. The man says that he fears that he will be imprisoned for espionage.

  KUTOSOV: What sort of espionage?

  MAILLARD: It is not specified. He has a large circle of foreign contacts.

  KUTOSOV: What sort of foreigners?

  MAILLARD: I know of an Englishman, a Sudanese, a Pakistani.And, of course, an American.

  KUTOSOV: Ask for more information.

  MAILLARD: It’s difficult. We have no direct interest.

  KUTOSOV: Find a way.

  8. REPORT BY A POLISH NATIONAL CONTROLLED BY A WESTERN INTELLIGENCE SERVICE (EXCERPT).

  Other matters discussed by the Deputy Foreign Minister of the USSR in his conversations with the Deputy Foreign Minister of the Polish People’s Republic:

  . . . The Russian presented an optimistic report of progress made by the Soviet diplomatic arms in Africa. It is the view of the Foreign Ministry of the USSR that the potential exists in many African countries for the replacement of current and future reactionary native governments by more progressive elements. Poland may play an important role in this development.

  It is considered that a Polish personality, operating unofficially, might find it possible to give assistance and advice to progressive elements in African countries who, for reasons of discretion, cannot deal openly and directly with the diplomatic missions of the USSR and other Socialist states. A Pole who has a reputation as an anti-Communist and a history of conflict with the Polish government would be ideal for this role. It is considered essential that such a person should possess Western citizenship, or at least a bona fide travel document issued by a Western state.

  Countries of prime interest are Kenya, Tanganyika, Somaliland, Ethiopia, Sudan.

  It was agreed that this project should be discussed by responsible officials in the two ministries, with the participation of the ministries of state security of the two countries.

  23 May

  9. CABLE RECEIVED BY THE U.S. CHIEF OF STATION, GENEVA, FROM HIS HEADQUARTERS.

  1. CHRISTOPHER SHOULD PURSUE MIERNIK MATTER TO DETERMINE HIS INTENTIONS. POSSIBILITY MIERNIK MAY BE ATTEMPTING TO PROVOKE CHRISTOPHER INTO REVEALING SELF. INSTRUCT CHRISTOPHER TO MAKE NO REPEAT NO SUGGESTION HE CAN FACILITATE DEFECTION THROUGH CONTACTS WITH US GOVERNMENT. CORRECT POSTURE FOR CHRISTOPHER IS THAT OF CONCERNED FRIEND POWERLESS TO ASSIST.

  2. HEADQUARTERS DISINCLINED ENCOURAGE DEFECTION UNLESS CAN ESTABLISH MIERNIK IS OPPOSITION AGENT WITH SPECIFIC MISSION. IN THIS CASE COULD JUSTIFY FACILITATING HIS MISSION AS MEANS NEUTRALIZING MIERNIK THROUGH SURVEILLANCE AND MANIPULATION HIS SOURCES.

  3. NO INTEREST IF MIERNIK DILEMMA GENUINE.

  10. EXCERPT FROM THE DIARY OF MIERNIK (TRANSLATION FROM POLISH).

  19 May. In the park today I spoke to P. [Christopher] about my situation. He offered no assistance. I think that his sympathy is aroused, however. His American manners make him seem more open than anyone plausibly can be. At lunch I made a scene with K. [Khatar] over some joking remark he made concerning slavery. My emotions are raw, and I overdid it. Must write to apologize. Now, of all times, he (and all the others) are important to me.

  11. LETTER FROM MIERNIK TO KALASH EL KHATAR.

  19 May

  My dear Kalash,

  I wish to apologize for my unforgivable behaviour at lunch today. In justification I can only say that I was much disturbed by a personal matter, and I am afraid that I permitted this to colour my reaction to your joking remarks.

  As you know, I have the greatest respect for.the culture of your people. Also, I have very great affection for you in spite of the fact that you are a member of the ruling class!

  I hope very sincerely that you will consider that I never said to you the things that I said.

  Several of our friends will be coming to my flat on Sunday night at eight o’clock for the small party I mentioned to you last week. I very much hope that you will reaffirm our friendship by coming along to the party, bringing with you whomever you wish to bring.

  Your affectionate and very contrite friend,

  [signed] T. Miernik

  12. REPORT BY CHRISTOPHER.

  The disintegration of Tadeusz Miernik went public Sunday night at a party in his apartment. Miernik invited a small group of people up for drinks. Usually these affairs of Miernik’s are anything but wild; the party on Sunday was an exception. Miernik himself made it so.

  I arrived a little late and found Collins, Brochard, Khan, and three girls already on hand. Of the females, the most noteworthy was Ilona Bentley, Collins’ companion. She is half English, half Hungarian. She has black hair to her shoulder blades and a face that will be ruined before she is thirty. It is not yet ruined. A light burns under her skirt.

  It was apparent early in the evening that Miernik had noticed all this. Ilona sat on the floor at Collins’ feet. Miernik sat opposite, saying nothing, his eyes fixed on the girl. He wore a suit, a vest, a tie, polished shoes. Everyone else, just back from the mountains on a Sunday evening, wore sweaters and corduroys.

  For his guests Miernik had provided Polish vodka, and nothing else. The vodka, several bottles of it, was chilled in ice buckets. Miernik kept one bucket beside his chair, and he filled the glasses out of the dripping bottle as soon as they were emptied. He insisted that the stuff be drunk Slav style: no sipping, right down the hatch with a cry of good luck.

  This sort of drinking did not bring good cheer to our company. Among them, in addition to the melancholy Miernik, we had a concentration camp survivor (Ilona); a man who saw his three young brothers murdered by a Hindu who decapitated the little corpses and hung the heads around his neck on a string (Khan); a victim of mass rape by Russian troops (Brochard’s girl, an Austrian named Inge); and a veteran of the Maquis (Brochard).

  Brochard was attempting to lighten the mood by singing bawdy songs. This failed because no one else knew all the French words, and because Collins wanted to hear about Brochard’s experiences as a boy guerrilla.

  Brochard’s Maquis group operated, during the war, in the country around Geneva. He comes from a small town in the Jura. He joined the Maquis as a runner when h
e was only twelve. Apparently the Resistance felt that the Germans were not intelligent enough to suspect children. Brochard found out different when he was thirteen. He was arrested by a German patrol, which seized him as he bicycled from one village to another at two o’clock in the morning. The Germans took him to their headquarters, where he was questioned by a Wehrmacht officer. Brochard managed to get rid of a kitchen knife that he was carrying (against orders) in the waistband of his trousers. He pushed the knife downwards and shook it out the leg of his pants. He cut himself on the thigh in the process.

  The German officer stood him in front of his desk and questioned him in a harsh voice. “I think that he must have been a schoolmaster in civilian life,” Brochard said, “because he had the technique perfect. I, of course, was filled with heroism: the Boche would not get any secrets out of me. The only secret I knew, really, was the one I was carrying in my mind. I had been told to tell a certain man in Gex that Marcel wished to sell his cows. The Resistance used these ridiculous formulas for their messages. They were always sending news about cows to people who had no conceivable interest in cows. The Germans could not guess the meaning of the code phrase, of course. But they could shoot anyone who spoke such phrases. The messenger was dead, but the secret was safe. The joke was, the message usually meant no more to the recipient than to the Germans. Our clever agents were always forgetting the code, so they would have to call up the sender on the telephone and ask what he meant by ‘Marcel wants to sell his cows.’ At thirteen, I hadn’t figured this out.

  “The German officer wanted an explanation of my riding around on a bicycle at two o’clock in the morning. I knew that I must tell him something. I searched for a cover story. I couldn’t think of anything. My leg was bleeding, I could feel the blood filling my shoe. I thought I might faint. I stood there daydreaming about a daring rescue: I pictured my gallant comrades of the Maquis bursting through the windows with machine pistols blazing. I saw myself picking up the weapon of a fallen rescuer and riddling the German.