No one who was in that cottage with them could have doubted that the current of love and trust that passed between them was real. I looked at Kirnov, who once again had his feet tucked under him like a tailor, and made a decision that I knew was not rational. I decided to trust him absolutely for the rest of the time I was in Czechoslovakia.
At a few minutes before ten, Kirnov began to tidy up the cottage. He removed all traces of our presence, wiping every surface we might have touched with a damp cloth; he even took the plates Zofia had washed out of the cupboard and polished them. “Now,” he said, “hands in pockets until we go. It’s always wise to leave the nest clean.” Zofia returned from the bedroom, wearing slacks and heavy shoes and a kerchief knotted under her chin. She carried a small red rucksack.
Inside the car, Kirnov turned to me. “Paul, I don’t for a moment think you are such a romantic as to carry a gun, much less use it. But I like to anticipate everything I can.”
“I won’t be doing any shooting,” I said. Absolute trust does not extend to telling an opposition agent whether you’re armed— especially when you’re not. Kirnov nodded in a satisfied way and started the Citroën. The ride was sedate, compared to our trip out from Bratislava. Kirnov seemed to be keeping to a close schedule; he looked at his watch often, and twice stopped the car to wait. Once, after checking the time and the landmarks, he pulled into a side road and turned off the lights and the motor. Through the open window I heard a couple of bicycles whir by on the highway. “Patrol,” Kirnov explained. We drove from there with the lights off and once nearly ran over an old woman in black who leaped out of the way with a yelp of fright.
We were driving north. On our left were the white fingers of the frontier searchlights along the Morava River. At Kúty we left the main highway and turned northwest over a series of dirt roads. Kirnov, still running without lights, put his head out the window. We crossed two rivers on wooden bridges; these must have been the Morava and the Dyje. Turning south, we passed under a railroad embankment, and Kirnov asked me to get out and walk ahead of the car. “You’ll see a grass path on your left in a few minutes,” Kinov said. “Guide me into it, please.”
Searchlights were visible again, only a few hundred yards to the south. I found the path Kirnov wanted, and he drove in and parked the car. We walked on for another half mile, through a grove of straight young trees. We were directly between two towers. I caught Kirnov’s sleeve and asked him where we were. “Twelve kilometers east of Drasenhofen,” Kirnov whispered. I snorted: Kirnov’s greedy officer of frontier guards was also our greedy officer of frontier guards. Sasha had led me to the crossing point I had been going to use in case I missed the river steamer.
It seemed unlikely that any amount of greed would persuade this officer to permit two crossings at the same point in one night. The escape Kirnov had arranged was scheduled to take place fifty minutes before the one Vienna had arranged for me. I fervently wished I had been told how much we had paid: any figure over five thousand dollars would have given me confidence that the officer planned to open fire at 11:30 P.M. instead of midnight. But I didn’t know.
Zofia was busy, pinning a white handkerchief to the back of Kirnov’s coat. “No more talking from here,” Kirnov whispered. “I’ll lead on.” He moved off, feeling his way among the slender trees. It was a shallow woods, and as we approached the edge of it there was some light from the backwash of the sweeping searchlights. These now lay only a few hundred feet ahead of us. Kirnov stopped, then straightened up with a large green bottle in his hand. “All is well,” he whispered. “Lie down. Ten minutes.” Zofia handed me the rake; I hadn’t noticed that she was carrying it, and in fact had forgotten all about it. Zofia and Sasha forget nothing. She unpinned the handkerchief from his coat and stuffed it into his pocket. Her teeth shone as she lay looking into Kirnov’s face; she was sprawled on her side, her head propped on her elbow. She kissed the little man.
The nearest watchtower was clearly visible above the trees to our right. Its searchlight swept the ground to either side in a W pattern, meeting the light from the adjoining towers at the points of the W. Anything moving across the plowed ground while both lights were working would certainly be seen at once. There were no dark spots. It was perfectly quiet; not even a cricket sang.
I found myself smiling broadly at the back of Kirnov’s nude scalp. If he had set up a trap to have me killed or arrested, I would just have to walk into it with his garden rake in my hand. The time Vienna had arranged for my crossing was fifty minutes too late. If I refused to go across at 11:10, Kirnov’s time, he had only to whistle up the guards. I could hardly dodge around in the woods for an hour, get back to the jumping-off point, and sprint across the border alone. Even if I wasn’t shot on the spot, I was carrying enough forged papers to spend the rest of my life in Pankrac.* The idea of overpowering Kirnov did not seem realistic. I could not have done it quickly enough to prevent Zofia from giving the alarm. Breaking Zofia’s neck was not an appealing prospect. I have never been sure that all that deadly stuff we had in training would work in real life. I could imagine Kirnov slipping out of my judo grip like an eel instead of dying with a twitch and a sigh. The truth of the matter is that Kirnov’s story about the Warsaw attic kept me from getting too bloodthirsty: who could strangle a Jew who had come that close to being killed by the SS?
Kirnov reached over and took my hand. He tapped my watch with his forefinger and then gave my hand a squeeze. It was 11:09. All three of us rose to our knees. We were in a pocket of silence (one does hear one’s own heart at such moments), and then we heard the sound of a man talking loudly in Czech.
The searchlight wavered, then stopped sweeping, its beam pointed away from us at an acute angle. The light on the left kept tracking its own perfect W. There was a corridor of darkness about 50 yards wide directly ahead of us. “Go,” Kirnov said. Zofia stood up and strode out of the woods and into the plowed ground. Before I turned around to begin raking away our footprints, I looked up and saw the light in the window of the farmhouse in Austria. Zofia reached behind her and grabbed the tail of my coat.
It was a very slow trip. I had difficulty seeing our footprints, and the dirt was slick with dew. It stuck to the teeth of the rake. I had to tell Zofia to go slower. She immediately obeyed. Behind us I could hear the officer berating his men. The watchtower was a distinct outline, a skeleton of planks with the light mounted on a pedestal behind the front railing. To the right of the tower, about a hundred yards away, I saw a group of soldiers with slung rifles. They had their backs to us, and they were staring upward at the tower. Zofia walked on, exerting a steady pull on my coattails. “Twenty meters more, fifteen meters more, ten meters more,’ she said in a low, steady voice as we went. Finally she said, “The meadow.”
I felt grass under my feet and turned around. The woods lay before us. Zofia began to run and I loped along behind her, carrying my rake at port arms. We entered the trees and kept going until we were well inside them. When we turned around, the searchlight on the tower had resumed sweeping. It was 11:14. The silence had descended again, and I heard a small noise from Zofia. She was pressing her fist against her cheek and biting her lip. I touched her face. It was wet with tears. She sniffed loudly and moved her head away from my hand.
We climbed up a bank onto the highway. Zofia removed her kerchief and shook out her hair. I was surprised to see that it fell to her shoulder blades. Tears were still shining on her cheeks when Miernik arrived seconds later to meet us.
He had come out from Vienna in a taxicab.
39. REPORT BY CHRISTOPHER’S CASE OFFICER.
1. This officer proceeded to Point Zebra (on the Austrian-Czech frontier) at 2340 hours on 16 June to await the arrival of Christopher and Zofia Miernik. Position was assumed in a wooded area overlooking the border, and surveillance was maintained continuously by this officer and one other officer from the Vienna station until 0005 hours on 17 June.
2. At 2400 hours, the time at which Chris
topher was supposed to cross the frontier, searchlights on the two watchtowers adjoining the crossing point were extinguished.
3. At 2402 hours, both searchlights were lighted again, and a detachment of troops came into the cleared strip on the Czech side of the frontier. Approximately twenty men were involved. They carried out a thorough search of the area, including a wooded strip on the Czech side of the frontier.
4. It was assumed at the time that this search was directed toward the capture of Christopher and Zofia Miernik. No effective action to prevent this outcome was possible in the circumstances, and none was attempted by this officer.
5. This officer strongly recommends that the Vienna station undertake a reexamination of its relationship with the Czech officer commanding this sector of the frontier.
40. DISPATCH FROM THE AMERICAN STATION IN VIENNA.
1. The Czech officer commanding the frontier sector that includes Point Zebra has explained that he was aware that Christopher and Zofia Miernik had crossed the frontier earlier than the time arranged between him and the Vienna station.
2. His action in ordering a search of the area around Point Zebra therefore presented no danger to Christopher. The U.S. officers who had planned to meet Christopher on the Austrian side of the frontier had no knowledge of this at the time of the incident, and it is natural that they feared for Christopher’s safety.
3. In our opinion, there is reason for a continuation of the normal operational caution that this station has always exercised in its dealing with subject Czech officer. But we have no grounds for disillusion. His action had the effect of protecting his reputation with his superiors and also obliterated any traces of Christopher’s crossing over the plowed ground along the frontier. On balance we regard the futile search action ordered by the Czech as an intelligent ad hoc operation that protected his interests as well as our own.
41. FROM MIERNIK’S DIARY.
Reunion! There by the roadside were Zofia and Paul when I arrived in my taxi. The picture of them, and especially of Zofia with tears on her sweet face, rises out of the green ink with which I am covering this page. Until the moment I saw them I did not believe in my heart that they would be there. Even now, while Zofia sleeps in a room just down the corridor, I am not quite convinced that everything is as I know it to be—my sister safe at last and my friend out of danger. Of course I should have realized that Sasha would arrange everything perfectly. How many persons have had the gift of such a friend? He sent me no messages by Zofia. She was the message.
After the perfection of Sasha’s plan, my arrival on the dark road in a Viennese taxi seemed humorous to Zofia and Paul. The more I explained that I could not drive with my arm in a sling (and with no Austrian driver’s permit), the more they giggled. The taxi driver was befuddled by my instructions, but very glad to have the enormous fare. I gave him a very large tip in addition, so he went away as happy in his way as we were in ours. No doubt he put two and two together, but what does that matter? We will be out of Austria tomorrow, and we need never return.
Zofia has not changed at all. She is the same willful girl. It was my plan that she should go at once to Geneva and stay in my flat. I believe that Léon and Ilona would care for her until I am able to find a place for us to be together. But as soon as she heard of our trip to Sudan, Geneva was out. She insists on coming along. Paul merely shrugs when I discuss this with him. He agrees to discuss it with Kalash.
I have already made the mistake of mentioning the possibility to Nigel. Naturally he is opposed; I think perhaps he will change his mind when he meets Zofia. “This is not supposed to be an expedition on which one brings along one’s sister,” Nigel says. He points out the danger in the desert. He reminds me that Kalash speaks often of bandits. “You are putting your sister in danger of rape.” Actually I think he is just opposed to having to deal with another Miernik. I annoy him. It is more than his natural impatience now. . . . Ilona. Poor Nigel has found that he is not so nonchalant about this girl as he thought. It is impossible to regret what happened between Ilona and myself. I am shocked that I should feel such indifference to my betrayal of a friend, but there it is—a truth to be faced.
Tonight I thought nothing could intrude on my happiness. I have not felt such emotion or known such serenity since I was a child. On my way to collect Zofia, all my life flowed by in my memory. She is the last link to that short interval of happiness that I knew (and Zofia was too young to know) between my birth and the war and Mother’s death. Zofia suffered more from Father’s death than I. All capacity for sorrow was lost to me when Mother was killed. I have never until now been able to think about the details of that death. I mean think in words. The picture is in my mind at all times, and I push it down a hundred times a day.
We are walking across the field. The earth is still cold after the winter. It is muddy—streaks of wet earth slimy under our feet. The daisies have opened, and also some yellow flowers that must have been jonquils. There are cattle in the next field. We walk into the woods and suddenly we are surrounded by a group of Polish soldiers—ragged and filthy. They call themselves partisans but in fact they are stragglers, semi-criminals who have seized on the war as an excuse for banditry. Father had explained this to me and now I see that what he said was true.
They are bold with Mother. One of them touches her on the breast and she leaps away and, holding my hand, begins to run. Behind us I hear the hard breathing of running men. Mother slips on a patch of mud and falls. There is a long brown streak on her skirt, like filth. I try to help her up. I feel a blow on the back of my head. They are all around us. Mother lies on the ground, panting, her eyes filled with—not fear but contempt. “Tadeusz,” she says, “go home. I’ll be along.” I am pulled to my feet and kicked on the tail of my spine. The pain is nauseating. I run into the woods and hide, covering my eyes with my hands.
I hear a burst of machine gun fire. I creep back and find my mother’s naked body. They have pulled her dress upward over her head, so her face is hidden. On her stomach are five tiny blue holes, and under her body a pool of red blood. Her legs are pulled apart as if they wanted to break them from her body. I find her underclothes and pull the torn cloth over her legs, to cover her. I lift her body and pull down her dress. Her hair is loose and stained with the blood she coughed into it.
I knew what had happened to her. I did not want Father to know that Poles had done this. So I told him a German airplane strafed us. I was in such a state of shock I could hardly talk. But I could lie. Father never believed it. Never. But it was better that I could let him blame the Germans: he had sent us into the countryside so that we would be safe.
Nigel does not know what he does when he speaks to me of Zofia being raped by bandits in the desert.
42. REPORT BY COLLINS.
My attempts to elicit details of Christopher’s adventure in Czechoslovakia have so far come to nothing. Christopher himself is uncommunicative, and Prince Kalash seems already to have forgotten the incident. It was, he says, a boring day spent in a boring country. Miernik will say nothing. He sits up much of the night, writing in his diary. He carries this journal with him in the small briefcase that he has in his possession at all times.
2. Last night (18th June) Miernik gave a celebratory dinner at the Hochhaus Restaurant to introduce us to his sister. Zofia Miernik is a beautiful and intelligent girl and she would have been the feature of the evening if Miernik himself had not turned up in evening clothes. He went ahead of us to the restaurant to supervise arrangements. He had booked the best table on the terrace, which has a marvellous view of Vienna. By the time we arrived, champagne (German variety) was chilling in ice buckets and a squadron of waiters was bowing and flourishing napkins. Miernik, in his double-breasted dinner jacket and old-fashioned starched collar (with white tie), looked rather like a trained bear. (Christopher’s description.) But as usual he had got exactly what he wanted: just the right table, just the right degree of obsequious service, just the right tunes from the orc
hestra. His helpless air is an illusion. He is a tyrannical stage manager.
3. Zofia Miernik arrived with Christopher. She was wearing a blue frock cut very low at the neck, which certainly was not purchased in Warsaw. She speaks fluent German with almost no accent. On meeting Prince Kalash, she revealed that her English is excellent as well. Whatever else they may be, the Mierniks (assuming that Zofia is in fact a Miernik) are an educated family. Once we were seated, Miernik had the champagne opened and stood for a toast. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I present to you my sister, Zofia, in the hope that your friendship for her will be as steadfast as your friendship for me.” We all drank, though I did so with understandable mental reservations. Miernik then began snapping his fingers at the waiters, and a meal was served that actually began with caviar and ended with baked Alaska. Obviously it cost a fortune, but one assumes that Miernik has adequate sources of money.
4. I attempted to interrogate Zofia. A look of amusement crept over Christopher’s face. Miernik apparently had less confidence in his “sister’s” discretion; he was distinctly nervous. I asked Zofia how long she planned to remain in Vienna before returning to Poland. “I plan to travel for some time,” she said. How exactly did she travel to Vienna? Was it not inconvenient to leave Poland? “Friends were very kind,” Zofia said, “it was a very enjoyable journey—so much to see I had never seen before.” Yes, but how did she come— by air? by railway through Berlin? “By car, mostly. You’ve no idea how bad the roads are in the people’s democracies—but even that is preferable to flying; one is likely to land in a meadow or on a strip of country road.” She told of a friend who had flown to Bulgaria. Every hour or so, the old Dakota nosed over and bumped down in a field. Peasants came scrambling out of the woods carrying cages with chickens in them and blanket rolls, elbowing each other away from the door of the aircraft in a free-for-all rush for the seats. Some sat on the floor, eating sausages. Fifteen years under Communism has not deprived Zofia of her sense of class consciousness; as she mimicked the Bulgarian peasants she might have been a duke’s poor relation trying to talk in Cockney. If all this was produced by the Polish secret service they have a right to be pleased with their methods. Prince Kalash asked Zofia to dance and she rose and followed him onto the floor (H.R.H. does not let females walk ahead of him, of course). The Viennese were frozen in the middle of their fox-trots by the sight of this towering black holding a perfect Aryan specimen in his arms. As they danced it was plain that Prince Kalash would be raising no objection to Zofia’s joining our expedition. After they returned to the table, Zofia excused herself. Prince Kalash, lifting his wineglass and giving Miernik a friendly glance, observed: “Your sister has beautiful breasts. That is rare in a white woman.” Miernik has learnt that Khatar’s style of speech is never meant to be insulting. “I’m very happy you think so, Kalash,” he said. “Since childhood Zofia has been quite beautiful.” But when we returned to the hotel, Miernik was careful to escort his sister to her room himself, and I’m sure he advised her to lock the door.
The Miernik Dossier Page 11
