Later a nun came gliding by, was gone. The light in the little windows grew lilac as the shadow of the late afternoon filled the street. Bora measured the floor in slow steps, trying to tend his thoughts and boredom. At last the priest entered the waiting room again.
He said, in English, “Colonel Hofer tells me you speak my language.”
Bora turned rigidly. “Yes.” And, recognizing the American accent, he relaxed his shoulders a little.
“He sent me to keep you company while he concludes his meeting with Mother Kazimierza.”
“Thank you, I’m all right.”
“Well, then -
you
can keep me company.” With an amiable smile, the priest took a seat on a lion-footed bench, but Bora didn’t imitate him. He remained standing, hands clasped behind his back.
The priest kept smiling. He was a man in his fifties, or so Bora assessed, big-shouldered, big-footed, with wide freckled hands and extremely lively, clear eyes. His neck, Bora saw out of the corner of his eye, emerged from the Roman collar as a powerful bundle of muscles, like the neck of a wrestler. The combination of his alert glance and strong frame recalled the pictures of warring peasant saints, cross in one hand and sword in the other.
But the priest was telling him, in the most unaggressive tone, “I’m from Chicago, Illinois. In America.”
Bora looked over. “I know where Chicago is.”
“Ah, but do you know where Bucktown is? Milwaukee Avenue?”
“Of course not.”
“‘Of course’? Why ‘of course’?” The priest’s face stayed merry. “Consider that for most of my parishioners the important landmarks are precisely Bucktown and Trinity church, Six Corner, the memory of Father Leopold Moczygemba—”
“Are you teasing me?” Bora asked the question, but was beginning to be amused.
“No, no. Well, what I meant is - you and I would be at war if I were British, but I’m of non-belligerent nationality.”
It was true enough. Bora found himself relaxing more and more, because he was in fact tired of waiting and not unhappy to make conversation.
“Who is Mother Kazimierza?” he asked.
The priest’s smile broadened. “I take it you’re not Catholic”
“I am Catholic, but I still don’t know who she is.”
“
Matka
Kazimierza - well,
Matka
Kazimierza is an institution in herself. Throughout Poland they refer to her as the ‘Holy Abbess’. She has been known to foretell events in visions, and has apparent mystic and healing powers. Why, several of your commanders have already visited her.”
It came to Bora’s mind that Hofer left the office early every afternoon at the same time. Had he been coming to see the nun, and was he embarrassed to be driven to the convent by his chauffeur? Bora took a long look at the priest, who sat and continued to smile a cat-like smile at him. Friendly faces were not an everyday occurrence in Cracow. He thought he ought to introduce himself.
“I’m Captain Martin Bora, from Leipzig.”
“And I’m Father John Malecki. I was put in charge by His Holiness of a study regarding the phenomenon of Mother Kazimierza.”
“What phenomenon?”
“Why, the wounds on her hands and feet.”
So. That’s what the stigmata had to do with Hofer’s talk. Bora was thoroughly amazed, but all he said was, “I see.”
Father Malecki was adding, “I’ve been in Cracow these past six months. In case you were wondering, that’s how I happened to find myself here when
you came
.”
It was as unadorned a way as Bora had heard anyone describe the invasion of Poland.
“Yes, Father,” he spoke back with faint amusement. “We did
come.
”
Later, it was impossible for Bora not to think that the colonel had been weeping. Hofer’s eyes were red when
they came out into the street, and although he wore his visored cap, the congestion of his face was still noticeable. He laconically indicated that he wanted to return to headquarters. It was late in the evening, but he walked straight into his office and locked himself in.
Bora gathered his papers for the trip on the following day, and then left the building.
15 October
The muddy sides of the dead hog were already drawing green clusters of flies.
There was little shade on the isolated farm, because September had been unusually dry and the trees’ shrivelled leaves afforded hardly any protection from the sun. Bushes along the unpaved roads were dusty and white as if covered by snow; there was no wind, no breath of air. The patrolling soldiers spread around in a fan, blinking in the blaze of midday.
Bora walked back to the army car trying to remind himself that this was war also, killing the livestock of those who harboured Polish army stragglers and deserters. A far cry from the excitement of winning towns house by house, door by door. It seemed to him that the glorious days were already past, and now the business of war - another month at most, no doubt - would go downhill from the exhilaration of the first three weeks. He even wondered what he’d do with himself for the remainder of his life.
On the doorstep, the farm wife was weeping into her apron. Absent-mindedly Bora listened to the interpreter remind him that seldom did a poor household butcher the hog. He leaned over to get a clipboard from the front seat of the car, and then slowly turned around to face the little man Hofer had appointed to him. Like a patient
instructor, he gestured with his gloved hand to the right, where, brown on the sparse grass of a treeless incline, two bodies lay sprawled.
“Don’t give me that, Hannes. Remember what’s up there.”
Bora’s men had killed two Polish stragglers a little way up from the farm, as they ran up the mild rise after firing a few shots at the patrol.
From the arid pasture north of the house, one of the soldiers now walked back pulling a red cow by the rope around its neck. Hoofs and marching boots raised a low wake of silt on their trail, blurring the hilly horizon behind them.
The farm wife heard the sound of hoofs. She lifted her face from the apron and came running, hands outstretched, to Bora. “
Nie, nie, panie oficerze!
”
Bora pushed her back, annoyed. They were killing farmers elsewhere in Poland. She ought to be grateful that he only had these orders.
“It’s a nice cow,” Hannes added, to Bora’s irritation.
Bora turned to the soldier. “Kill it, Private.”
“Yes, sir. It’s a shame, though.”
Bora took his Walther out and shot the cow in the ear.
“Now burn the hay.”
As the fires were set, Bora stepped away from the threshing floor. He was resentful not for the farmers, but for himself. This job was beneath soldiers: beneath
him
, at any rate; beneath soldiers like him. Quickly he climbed the incline to the place where the bodies of the two stragglers lay.
They still wore the dirt-coloured baggy clothes of the Polish army, but were barefooted. Had they flung off their ill-fitting boots in order to ease their escape? Bora thought so, by the bruised and pinched appearance of their toes.
Flies clustered on the dead men’s long, drawn faces, and their pale eyes seemed to have cloudy water in them. The blue collar patches identified them as infantrymen.
Bora crouched to search their tunics for papers. He hadn’t handled dead bodies since his volunteer days in Spain - the past, victorious spring of Teruel. The weight, the coldness of death surprised him anew. The flies took off from the bloody clothes, landed again. Far away, artillery shots were being fired, perhaps as far as Chrzanów.
It’s hot
, he thought.
It’s hot and these men no more feel it than they’ll ever feel anything again, until God raises them.
Bora found no identification disks, no documents, surely all disposed of along the way. But there was a folded photograph in one of the men’s breast pockets. When Bora took it out and unfolded it, it broke in half.
By the signature, he recognized that it was a black-and-white portrait of Mother Kazimierza, standing with hands clasped in prayer. Bandages were wrapped around her hands, and dark stains were visible through the gauze padding. In the upper right corner, a crude photomontage showed an engraved heart surmounted by a flame. Around the heart a crown of thorns squeezed it until drops of blood oozed from it. A crown surmounted the heart, and from the crown a tongue of flame rose. The letters
L.C.A.N.
were printed over the flame in a semi-circle. Bora looked at the back of the photograph, and read that the letters stood for
Lumen Christi, Adiuva Nos.
Light of Christ, succour us
, indeed. Some good it’d done to the man carrying it.
Rifle shots at the foot of the incline startled him, but it was only a soldier firing in the air to keep the woman away from the burning haystack. Bora stood up, slipped the photograph into his map case and walked down.
Light of Christ.
Really.
He had no sooner reached the threshing floor, than a wild, close burst of machine-gun fire sent the soldiers scattering. Bora himself dodged at random, because smoke from the haystack obstructed the view. “Watch out!” a soldier shouted, and it was seconds, fractions of seconds: shooting, smoke, dodging, the soldier’s cry. Suddenly Bora made out a man’s ghostly figure surging through the smoke, and fired. “Shoot!” He called out. “Shoot, men!”
Ghost-like, the armed man turned to him from the flames of collapsing hay, but Bora was quicker. Quicker than his soldiers, even. Two, three times more he shot into the smoke.
The machine gun let out a last burst, skywards. The man dropped on his knees as if a great weight had felled him, crumpling into the scented cradle of hay fire.
Right arm still extended, Bora released the trigger. “He almost did us in! Didn’t you see him?” He was angry at his men, but other than that, the danger had jarred him back into a state of tight control. He even felt better because of it, as if his task here were somehow redeemed by risk. “Search the other stacks,” he ordered, and for the next five minutes closely supervised the jabbing of bayonets into the smouldering hay.
Loud weeping came from the farm wife, crouched on the doorstep. Head buried in the fold of her arms, her disconsolate heap of clothes shook with fear and grief.
“Hannes, tell her to shut the hell up,” Bora said. He kept his back obstinately turned to her as the soldiers went poking into the deep sluice behind the barn, behind and into a pile of manure, chasing horseflies.
At headquarters in Cracow, Colonel Hofer had a headache. He hid the letter from home under an orderly pile of maps, only so that he wouldn’t be tempted to read
it again, when it did no good. Again and again his eyes went to the wall clock. He tasted a surge of resentment at the thought that Army General Blaskowitz would visit at four this afternoon, when the abbess had granted him an appointment at four thirty.
He’d uselessly tried to negotiate the hour with Blaskowitz’s aide, who had informed him the commander-in-chief might spend the whole afternoon in Cracow.
“You must pray much,” Mother Kazimierza had warned the day before, speaking in her precise, book-learned German. “Your wife must pray much more than she does. How can Christ listen to you if you don’t pray? Only uninterrupted prayer opens God’s doors.”
Hofer reached into the top drawer of his desk, where a booklet on spiritual exercises written by the abbess - useless to him in Polish - contained as a bookmark a small square of surgical gauze sealed in hard transparent plastic. At the centre of the gauze stood a perfectly round bloodstain.
Hofer could weep in frustration. “You may only come see me during next week, and then no more,” Mother Kazimierza had told him on his way out the day before.
His heart had cringed at the words. “Why only one more week?” he’d cried out to her. “I need your prayers - why only one more week?”
The nun wanted to say no more about it. “
Laudetur Jesus Christus.
” She’d signalled to Sister Irenka to escort the visitor out, and he’d had to leave. Hofer sighed deeply at the recollection, and tears welled in his eyes. It was becoming more and more difficult to hide his emotions. Luckily, Captain Bora was naive, and hadn’t noticed.
Like most men of his political generation, Bora was hard to figure out, but at least there was some traditional solidity in him, a trustworthiness that had little to do with party allegiance. He knew how to keep things to himself.
The only trouble with Bora, Hofer glumly considered, was that fortune treated him well.
Out in the country, the smell of charring flesh came from the haystack, where the flames continued to smoulder and the fermenting core of the stack burned around the body in black compact clumps like peat.
Bora looked up from his map and called to the soldiers squatting near the threshold of the farmhouse.
“For Christ’s sake, pull him away from there! Can’t you see the poor bastard’s starting to cook?”
16 October
Bora didn’t return to Cracow until Monday. He met Retz at Army Headquarters - Retz was in the Supply Service, and was now cursing over the phone about some late shipment of bedsheets - and at the end of day they drove to their apartment together.
It was a fine three-storey house on the Podzamcze, directly below the formidable bastion of the Wawel Castle. Against the pale yellow stucco, freshly painted shutters and wrought-iron balconies stood out, and from what Bora could tell, a narrow garden of evergreens lined the back of the building.
He followed Retz up two flights of stairs, to a door which the major opened on an elegant interior.
“Just our luck that we’d billet here.” Retz disparagingly said, pulling back the key from the lock with an ill-humoured jerk. They’d been talking of Colonel Hofer on the way to the house, but now the very act of walking into the apartment seemed to renew his contempt for the assigned quarters. Entering ahead of Bora, he added, “Did you see what’s on the door frame outside?” He referred
to a small, half-torn metallic container which Bora had already noticed. It seemed to have been pried open with the point of a knife, and right now it resembled nothing but torn metal. “Do you know what that’s supposed to be?”