They sat on fraying old basketwork chairs and raised their glasses to each other. Butterflies blew in and out of the open cottage door. ‘Tell me about your family,’ Rej asked her. ‘Is your father rich?’
‘Well... he did quite well for himself. He came over to Chicago in 1947, when my grandfather died. He was only sixteen. My great-uncle and my great-aunt took him in. They had a carpet business on Milwaukee Avenue... there are lots of Polish families there. When my great-uncle retired, my father took over the business, and turned it into one of the biggest carpet wholesalers in the mid-West.’
‘Your mother?’
‘She’s Polish, too. Her parents brought her over to Chicago in 1949.’
‘They’re both from Warsaw?’
‘No, no. My mother came from Czestechowa, but my father came from Warsaw. He used to tell me these stories of how he used to run messages for the Home Army, during the Uprising, and load their guns for them. He was lucky he wasn’t killed. You wouldn’t think of a thirteen-year-old boy doing anything like that today, would you?’
Rej wiped his mouth with the edge of his hand. ‘It’s funny you should mention the Home Army. So far I’ve talked to the relatives or the friends of three of the Executioner’s victims – the mailman, the girl who worked in the grocery store, and the the ear-nose-and-throat doctor. And all of them had either fought or carried messages during the Uprising, or else they were related to somebody who had.’
‘Zofia’s mother...’ said Sarah, sitting up straight. ‘She had photographs of the Home Army, too, didn’t she?’
‘That’s right. Her father, with J.Z. Zawodny. And Ewa Zborowska, she had pictures of her father with General Bor.’
‘But not all of the victims had a connection with the insurgents, did they? Those German workers couldn’t have, could they?’
‘Well, it’s doubtful. And I can’t find any evidence to link Mr Wroblewski to the Home Army... he was the old man who tried to save Ewa Zborowska’s life. But that doesn’t mean the connection isn’t worth following up. When your A1 Capone tried to kill his enemies, there were plenty of occasions when innocent people were standing in the way, weren’t there?’
‘My Al Capone?’ Sarah retorted.
‘You know what I mean. Innocent people are always getting hurt.’
‘But who would want to murder people, just because they happen to be related to somebody who fought in the Uprising? That was over half a century ago... I mean, little Zofia, and Ewa Zborowska, and Jan Kaminski... most of those people weren’t even born then!’
Katarzyna went back inside. Rej waited until she had gone, and then he said, ‘I came away this weekend for four reasons. One was to have a rest, which I badly need. The second was to see Katarzyna, and see if I couldn’t try to be a better father. The third was to think some more about this Executioner case.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it, too,’ said Sarah. ‘In fact I had a nightmare about it last night.’
‘Go on, tell me about it.’
Sarah crossed her arms over her breasts. ‘I had a nightmare about those German workers. I was standing by the sewer pipe and bits and pieces of them kept flying out... but each of the bits and pieces was still alive, and lay on the ground struggling. There was a heart, still beating, and a hand, trying to crawl across the concrete like a spider, and part of a knee that kept bending and unbending.’
‘What you saw was worse than anything I’ve ever seen,’ said Rej. ‘It’s hardly surprising that you’re having nightmares.’
‘No – there was something else. Something that made it seem like more than a nightmare. I kept staring and staring into that sewer pipe and it was so damned dark in there, darker than any place I’d ever seen before. I walked towards it, even though I didn’t want to. I thought, I have to go in... I have to go see for myself. Because I knew there was something inside that pipe that wasn’t wholly human, and I needed to see what it was.’
‘So,’ said Rej. ‘Maybe it is a devil, after all.’
‘And if it is? How do we get rid of it?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps your boyfriend’s exorcism will do the trick.’
Katarzyna came out, with a flowery red scarf tied around her head. ‘Are we going to have something to eat soon?’ she complained. ‘I’m starved!’
‘Sure,’ said Rej. ‘Why don’t we go now?’
They left the cottage and walked together down the path. Sarah swatted at occasional midges. The smell of evaporating pine-sap was so heady that it was almost like a drug. Katarzyna walked a little way ahead of them, thrashing the bushes with a stick.
‘You think she’s pretty?’ asked Rej.
‘I think she’s terrific. Does she look like your ex-wife?’
Rej nodded, and said nothing.
*
As they approached the village they could see the silhouette of the 12th-century abbey of the Canons Regular – a soaring church in the Romanesque style, with a 15th-century belfry in front of it, and a Gothic monastery attached. The sun shone so brightly from the abbey’s spires and rooftops that it had the look of a building seen in a mirage. As they passed nearer, pigeons clattered from the roof-ridges and swung out over the Vistula.
‘Some people say that wherever people believe strongly in God, they also believe strongly in devils, and give them both much more substance,’ said Rej.
‘Does that mean that you believe it’s a devil?’
‘I’m keeping an open mind. But I think your friend Clayton understands this better than we do. These are real murders, happening in the real world. But neither of us believes that this is some psychopath, running madly through the sewers, and jumping out at people at random. We don’t believe that it’s gang killings, either – although poor old Jarczyk is trying to prove that it is.’
‘What is it, then? Ritual murder? Sacrifice?’
‘I was beginning to think that it was, until I found so many connections with the Home Army. No – my opinion now is that this is something else altogether. I think this is a hunt.’
‘You mean somebody’s trying to execute the families of anybody who fought with the Home Army? But who would do that?’
‘I don’t have the slightest idea. It’s a theory, that’s all; and I’m not usually given to theories. But that day we went to the seance at Madame Krystyna’s – well, that opened my eyes to all kinds of different possibilities.’
‘But it would be pretty extreme, wouldn’t it, to murder somebody’s children and grandchildren in punishment for something that happened all that time ago?’
Rej shrugged. ‘In Old Testament times, that was the way that people took their revenge. If you killed my brother, I would wipe out your entire family to the very last child. When it says in Deuteronomy that you should take an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, that wasn’t being extreme – that was a plea for people to be reasonable.’
‘I’m surprised you know your Bible so well.’
‘My ex-wife, she’s very religious. Besides, one should always know one’s enemy, don’t you think?’
Sarah stopped, her hand lifted to her forehead to shade her eyes from the sun. ‘This is hard for you, isn’t it, all this talk of devils?’
Rej said, ‘If you show me the evidence, I’ll believe in anything. Even God. And I’m off duty now: you don’t have to salute.’
They walked along the side of the road until they reached the first houses. A horse and cart clattered past them, loaded up with fresh-cut grass and wild cornflowers.
‘What do you feel like eating?’ asked Rej. ‘There’s a place here where you can get wonderful pancakes.’
‘I feel like kotlety,’ said Katarzyna. ‘And french fries. And ice-cream.’
It was then that Sarah saw an old woman walking towards them. She was dressed entirely in black, and very small, although her arms seemed to be too long for her body, giving her an ape-like silhouette. Katarzyna stepped out of her way, and as she did so, it became apparent to Sarah that the woma
n was blind, or purblind, at least, because her eyeballs were as milky as a boiled cod’s, and although she was walking quite quickly. She was walking at an odd diagonal across the road.
She passed Rej, but when she came to Sarah she abruptly stopped, lifted both hands, and swivelled her head from side to side. Under her black headscarf, she had fraying grey hair, and a flat, almost Mongolian profile, with a small sharp nose and cheeks as withered as one of last autumn’s apples. There was a silver ring on every one of her fingers, and her thumbs, too – rings with strange designs on them, like knots and crescents and interlocking triangles.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, in a harsh, country accent. ‘Why do you bring that face with you?’
‘I’m having a weekend vacation,’ Sarah smiled. ‘It’s beautiful here, isn’t it? So quiet.’
‘Why do you bring that face?’ the woman demanded. Her sightless eyes stared somewhere over Sarah’s left shoulder. ‘What are you trying to do? Show us what a martyr you are?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sarah. ‘I really don’t understand. What face are you talking about?’
‘The face that follows all of you! The face that never lets you go!’
‘Come on, Sarah,’ said Rej, reaching out and taking hold of her hand. ‘She’s cracked, that’s all. Every country village has to have one, and she’s Czerwinsk’s.’
They started to walk away, but the woman followed them, and suddenly snatched at the sleeve of Sarah’s blouse, clutching it between her fingers and twisting it tight.
‘Hey, come on, old girl,’ said Rej, and took hold of her shoulder. But Sarah said, ‘Wait, Stefan... I want to know what she’s trying to tell me.’
The old woman licked her lips and noisily swallowed. ‘I may be blind, Miss Lewandowicz, but I can see much more clearly than you.’
Sarah gave Rej a quick glance of complete perplexity. ‘How do you know my name?’ she asked.
‘You are a Lewandowicz?’
‘Yes... but I’ve never met you before, have I? I’ve never been to Czerwinsk before.’
The old woman twisted her sleeve even more tightly. ‘They all have names. Many, many names, and I know them all. Inside my head, instead of songs, I have a cold black memorial, engraved with names. Not one forgotten: not one. Rataj and Niedzialkowski; Kusocinski and Lewartowski; on and on! But not all dead. Not dead yet. But marked for death, because the face follows all of them.’
‘I’m sorry, I still don’t understand what you mean.’
‘You will, Miss Lewandowicz. I can see your face as clear as day. But I can see the face behind you, too. I can see the face that’s been close behind you all your life; and now it’s even closer still. You shouldn’t be here, Miss Lewandowicz, and you shouldn’t have brought that face with you. Not here.’
Rej reached over and pried the old woman’s fingers away from Sarah’s sleeve. He took out his old plastic purse and gave her five zlotys. ‘Go on, now. Leave us alone.’
The woman swallowed more saliva, and then let out a contemptuous laugh. ‘What will you do, pan, if I don’t? Call a policeman?’
Again, they started to walk away, and this time the old woman didn’t attempt to follow them. But they hadn’t gone more than a few metres when she called out, ‘Miss Lewandowicz! You listen to me!’
Rej said, ‘Ignore her, Sarah,’ but Sarah stopped.
‘If you want to see the face that’s following you, put five aspen berries under your pillow before you go to sleep; and one piece of silver; and one piece of amber; and a cutting from your own hair.’
‘I knew it,’ said Rej, shaking his head. ‘She’s a witch. A genuine certified witch.’
‘A witch?’ the old woman screeched at him. ‘Who are you calling a witch? Who else could remember every name? Who else could remember every single name, except a mother, and a grandmother, and a griever?’
‘Goodbye, old woman!’ said Rej. ‘Have a wonderful afternoon!’ He took Katarzyna’s hand and together they crossed the village street.
But Sarah couldn’t help hesitating, and turning back. The old woman was still standing by the side of the road, staring at her blindly. Five aspen berries, she whispered to herself, one piece of silver, and one piece of amber. And a cutting from my own hair.
As though she had heard her, and was satisfied, the old woman turned around and went on her way.
Sarah caught up with Rej and Katarzyna, who were talking about riding this afternoon, but she couldn’t get the old woman off her mind.
‘Really – how do you think she knew my name?’
‘I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe you reminded her of somebody called Lewandowicz. Maybe there’s a Lewandowicz family resemblance. Who knows?’
‘And what did she mean by a face following me?’
‘Sarah, she was old and mad. The war didn’t only cause physical injuries.’
‘Maybe I should do what she said, and put all that stuff under my pillow tonight.’
Rej gave her an odd look which she couldn’t quite interpret. His smile was obviously meant to be amused; but his eyes were saying something else altogether.
*
Marek was onto his fourth cup of coffee and his seventh comic when he saw Mr Okun appear on the front steps of his apartment building, dressed in his faded overalls, with a large untidy bundle under his arm. Mr Okun paused for a few moments, looking left and right, and then he began to walk quite slowly towards the manhole from which he had appeared the previous day. Marek dropped his copy of X-Men and sat up straighter. Mr Okun kept glancing over his shoulder, as if he were making sure that he wasn’t being watched. As he approached the manhole he walked more and more slowly, until he reached it, and stood still.
He bent down, and carefully laid his bundle on the sidewalk. Then he took a key out of his overall pocket, and lifted up the manhole’s four triangular flaps. It was Saturday afternoon, and Koszykowa was even busier than usual, but nobody stopped to ask Mr Okun what he was doing – not even a policeman on a motorcycle who drove straight past him. But who would believe that anybody would voluntarily go down a sewer unless it was their job?
Marek watched Mr Okun climb down into the manhole and close the flaps over his head. It was all over in less than twenty seconds. Then Marek went to the payphone next the toilets, dug an A token out of his jeans, and dialled Clayton’s number. He urged, ‘Come on, come on...’ as the phone rang and rang and nobody picked it up. But at last he heard Clayton’s deep voice saying, ‘Yes... what is it?’
‘This is it... I just saw Okun go down the manhole. He was carrying a big bundle with him. No, I don’t know what it was.’
Clayton said, ‘Give me ten minutes. Stay there. Keep your eyes open. Don’t try to follow him; and whatever you do, don’t try to tackle him.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
While he waited for Clayton, Marek combed his hair, finished his coffee, rolled up his comics and pushed them into the back pocket of his jeans, and paid the check.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve had enough of us at last?’ said the waitress.
Marek looked around. ‘To tell you the truth, I think I’m actually beginning to like it here.’
The waitress said, ‘You were watching for somebody, weren’t you?’
Marek didn’t say anything, but his expression gave him away.
‘Don’t get involved in anything dangerous, that’s all,’ she told him. ‘I had a son who was all mixed up with Solidarity. The police beat him up so badly, he’s like a vegetable now. That’s why I have to work here.’
Marek cleared his throat. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘This thing that I’m involved in... it’s nothing.’
All the same, she took the cheap silver crucifix from around her neck, and handed it to him. ‘Wear it,’ she said. ‘I took it to Pilsudskiego Square, the day the Pope celebrated mass, and he blessed it for me.’
‘I can’t take that,’ Marek protested, in embarrassment.
‘Take it for now, and
bring it back when you’re sure that you don’t need it any more. I’ll still be here.’
She kept on holding it out; and in the end, Marek took it, and hung it around his neck. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and kissed her cheeks.
‘If I’m not here,’ she said, ‘just ask for Ewelina.’
It was then that Clayton arrived. He was wearing a check lumberjack shirt and jeans, and he was carrying an olive-green knapsack over his shoulder. He was sweating because of the heat, and out of breath, but he looked all fired up and ready to go.
‘You ready, Marek?’
Marek pointed to his feet. He was wearing the old grey rubbers that his father used to take whenever he went fishing. Clayton gave the waitress a mystified grin, and then the two of them crossed the street to the manhole.
‘Your ma mind you staying out so long?’ asked Clayton. Then, ‘Spierdalai – piss off!’ as an oil-burning Volkswagen nearly ran him over and hooted at him.
Marek shook his head. ‘So long as she knows I’m not stealing automobiles, or smoking crack. Besides, my friend Michal took over at eleven o’clock, and I went home for lunch.’
Clayton gave him a friendly clap on the back. ‘That’s good. A boy should always take care of his ma, no matter what.’
They reached the opposite sidewalk, and approached the manhole. Clayton crouched down beside it, and ran the tips of his fingers over the cast-iron patterns. ‘I’ll tell you, Marek, I have a feeling about this case. I have a real strong feeling that we’re getting close.’
‘You think this Mr Okun really could be the Executioner?’
‘Who knows? He could be just a fruitcake who likes going down into the sewers. But I’ve been doing a whole lot of research over the past couple of days, and things are beginning to fall into place. Not the whole picture yet. Not even half a picture. But a kind of sketchy outline, you know.’
He handed Marek a flashlight with a looped cord to tie around his wrist, and then switched his own flashlight on and off to make sure that it was working. ‘I’ve spent most of the time in the National Library, looking up criminal case histories and then cross-referencing them with real historical events, and then cross-referencing both of them with legends and myths. I’ve come up with some stuff that you wouldn’t believe. Apart from the Executioner, I found five murderers in the area defined by present-day Poland who cut off their victims’ heads. One was in Lublin, in the 1920s; one was in Wroclaw, just before the First World War; another was in a little village up in the Tatra called Zebryzdowice, that was in 1952. Both of the other two were in Warsaw. Out of those two, one beheaded his landlady, that was in 1895 – but the other was supposed to have killed at least nine people, maybe more, and he was never caught. He beheaded his first victim in the late summer of 1881 and his last in the spring of 1882. The newspapers called him Mr Guillotine.’
The Chosen Child Page 25
