Magda's Daughter (13 page)

‘No one will ever replace your mother, but you do have relatives in Poland.'

‘If we find them.' She looked at a windmill. She had been excited when she had seen the first one, but that was before she realised just how many there were in Holland. ‘Do you think it's as dangerous as my mother thought it was to travel behind the Iron Curtain?'

‘Not on a British passport,' he reassured her.

‘My mother applied for a passport after she was naturalized. I think she only did it to prove to herself that she really was a British citizen. She never used it because she was convinced that the Communists were watching her every move, and that if she'd travelled abroad they would have pounced on her.'

‘And done what exactly?' Ned pushed his plate away from him.

‘Dragged her back to Poland and put her in prison. Or killed her.'

‘You're not really worried about going there, are you?'

‘A little,' Helena admitted. ‘As you just reminded me, I was born in Poland.'

‘But you've been a British citizen since you were what? Four years old?'

‘About then. What I can't understand is why no one in Mama's family has replied to my letter.'

‘It's possible they didn't get it.' Ned opened the coffee jug and looked inside to make sure there was enough there for both of them before topping up their cups.

‘So everyone keeps saying.'

‘But you're not convinced.'

‘A letter addressed to the village post office or shop should have been opened by someone.'

‘Perhaps no one felt that they had enough authority to open it. Or maybe they thought it looked suspicious and set it aside to be opened by the police. It might have been waylaid by officialdom before it even reached the village. It could be lying unopened in some office in-tray right now.' He spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it.

‘I'm sorry I dragged you into this. You would never have considered travelling to Poland if I hadn't insisted on taking Mama's ashes back.'

‘No, I wouldn't,' he agreed. ‘Because I'd have no reason to go there. But,' he lowered his voice and reached for her hand, ‘I love you, and if you can stand it, so can I.'

‘Stand what?' she said nervously.

‘Whatever we find there. Shall I ask the waiter to bring more coffee?' He deliberately changed the subject.

‘No thank you.'

‘Then let's go to the carriage. You look as though you could do with a catnap.' Their carriage was full of British servicemen returning from leave. Arms crossed, legs stretched out in front of them, they seemed to fill every available inch of space. Ned led the way to their corner seats. He gave Helena the one nearest the window and sat next to her. ‘I'm whacked,' he said, yawning. ‘The result of sleeping in a cabin with three snoring rhinoceroses last night. Wake me up when we reach the border.'

He settled back in his seat, rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. Seconds later the weight of his head told Helena he slept. Soon she sensed her own eyelids becoming heavier and heavier …

Chapter Seven

Helena woke with a start when the train jerked to a halt. Doors slammed open and footsteps resounded along the corridors. The engine stopped and uniformed officials strode past their carriage.

‘We're at the border, miss. Next stop, West Germany,' said one of the soldiers.

‘Thank you,' she replied.

Ned sat up and rubbed his neck. ‘We should have brought pillows.'

The door slid open. An officer stood in the doorway. ‘Passports, please,' he said in English. The soldiers handed theirs to him first and, after no more than a perfunctory glance at the photographs, he returned them, then held out his hand for Ned's and Helena's. ‘You're going to Germany?' he asked.

‘Poland,' Ned answered for both of them.

The man whistled. ‘Long journey. Good luck.'

‘Thank you.' Ned took their passports from him and handed Helena hers. ‘Do you think we'll need it?'

‘Only if you eat there. The food wasn't good even before the shortages, now they deep-fry everything in old engine oil.' The officer tipped his cap and walked on.

Ten minutes later, after more door-slamming and whistle­blowing, the train moved slowly across the border.

‘West Germany,' Ned said. ‘The next customs check will be between West and East.'

‘Hope you've packed several books to pass the time, mate,' said the soldier who'd spoken to Helena. He glanced at his companions, who nodded agreement. ‘When we get leave, we go to West Berlin because it gives us an excuse to nose at East Germany. The way the papers carry on, anyone would think that all the people do there is build atomic bombs to lob at the West. The truth is, they're as scared of us as we are of them.' He lowered his voice. ‘If you're carrying anything across for friends or relatives, put aside a few extras for the guards.' He winked at Helena, setting Ned's teeth on edge. ‘If you haven't any goods to spare, marks will do – West not East German. If you don't slip the officials a bribe, they're likely to go through your luggage and take whatever they fancy. ‘

Helena didn't say anything but her thoughts turned to the airtight box in the duffle bag. She closed her eyes and formulated a silent prayer.

After a lunch of tepid pork cutlets, cabbage, mashed potatoes and apple cake in the dining-car, Ned and Helena returned to their carriage. Helena tried to concentrate on an article on Dali in
Studio
but woke disorientated hours later. The train had slowed, the sun was low in the sky, the servicemen had left and their carriage was full of elderly women. If the amount of luggage on the racks above their heads was any indication, they were all going on long holidays.

‘Welcome back to the land of the living,' Ned said when he saw her blinking. ‘You hungry or thirsty? They're still serving coffee and cake in the dining-car, or they were twenty minutes ago.'

She shook her head.

‘I'll ask you again in ten minutes when you've woken up properly.'

‘Have we reached the border?'

‘We'll be stopping in a moment.'

‘I didn't expect so many people to be travelling.'

The door to the carriage was suddenly thrust open. ‘Tickets, papers, passports,' the uniformed officer barked in German.

Helena noted that there was no please, as there had been at the Dutch border.

One of the elderly women opened her handbag and handed over her passport first.

‘Ilse Mohnke?' The official looked from her passport photograph to her.

‘Yes.' The woman glared defiantly at him, but Helena noticed that her fingers were tightly knotted.

‘Reason for journey?'

‘Family visit.'

‘Which is your suitcase?' He looked along the rack. The woman pointed to a large trunk.

‘Lift it down and open it.'

‘I am seventy-five years old. I am recovering from an operation and have arthritis. I cannot lift that case,' she answered.

Helena and Ned, who had both studied German O-Level were amazed at her temerity.

‘If you can't lift it, who put it up there?' The official glanced at Ned, who pretended not to notice.

‘A porter, when I got on the train.'

He muttered something under his breath and turned to the next woman. When she too refused to lift down her case, he made her open her large handbag. He rummaged through the contents and took out a bottle of brandy and a box of chocolates, passing them to his colleague at the door.

Ned and Helena watched as the officer moved on, searching the handbags of all six elderly women in their compartment, taking a tax from every one. Spirits, wine and chocolates were his favourites, but when he returned to Ilse, he relieved her of a bottle of perfume and a powder compact.

Ned handed him his own and Helena's passports. The officer opened them at the pages that held their photographs and stared at them for a long time.

‘You are British?' he said in English.

‘Yes.' Ned lifted his chin.

‘Janek is a Polish name,' he observed, ‘and according to this,' he tapped Helena's passport, ‘you were born in Poland.'

‘My mother emigrated to Britain shortly after the war,' Helena answered.

‘You are visiting relatives?'

‘No,' Ned asserted.

‘You have presents?'

‘Only things for our personal use.'

‘Show me.'

Helena had pushed her duffle bag into the corner and was leaning on it. Ned lifted down the holdall he had bought on the boat to carry their duty-free and London shopping. He opened it and the officer rummaged through it, removing a bottle of brandy and two of the four large slabs of chocolate Ned had bought on the ship. He passed them to his colleague, nodded to everyone in the carriage, walked back into the corridor, and slid the door shut behind him.

‘So much for Communism and each according to his Marxist need.' Ned broke one of their remaining bars of chocolate into pieces and offered it around the carriage.

‘Thank you,' said the woman called Ilse Mohnke. ‘A word of warning: if you have any chocolate or brandy left, hide it as best you can. The shortages are worse in Poland and, from what I've heard, the customs officers even greedier.'

It was dark when they reached the border between East Germany and Poland. Helena had hoped they'd reach Warsaw by midnight, but the customs officials had delayed them for over an hour at the East German border, and the Polish officers were behaving as though they had all the time in the world.

They could hear people's voices raised in anger lower down the train, accompanied by thuds, which she presumed were suitcases being lifted down from the racks. She sought Ned's hand under cover of her cardigan and gripped it.

They now had the carriage to themselves, and Helena was surprised how much she missed the friendly elderly women who had disembarked, one by one, as they had crossed East Germany.

Their carriage door flew open, and two officers walked in, snapping at them in Polish. Helena took their passports and tickets from Ned and handed them over.

‘You're English?'

‘British,' Helena answered in Polish.

‘You speak Polish?' One of the officials leaned against the door and eyed her in surprise.

‘I learned it at school,' she lied.

‘I didn't know that English schools teach Polish.'

‘Some do.'

‘Helena Weronika Janek is a Polish name.'

‘Yes.'

Helena felt Ned's eyes burning into her. She knew he couldn't understand a word the man was saying apart from her name. But he had sensed her disquiet.

The official held up her passport. ‘You were born in Poland?' For the first time Helena understood her mother's fear of returning to her homeland. ‘Yes.'

‘Yet you live in the West?' He gave her a cold, thin-lipped smile.

‘My mother took me there after the war when I was a baby.'

‘Your mother isn't with you?'

Helena surreptitiously checked that her cardigan covered her duffle bag before leaning on it. ‘She is dead.'

He thumbed through the pages of her passport. ‘This is your first visit to Poland?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why have you come?'

‘To see where my mother grew up.' She reached for Ned's hand again and squeezed it so hard he winced.

‘You have relatives in Poland?'

‘None that I know of.'

He looked at their passport photographs and back at them for the last time before returning the documents to Helena. ‘You have currency?'

‘Only British, and some Dutch and German. We were told that we couldn't buy Polish currency until we were in the country.'

‘That is correct. Your money?'

Helena spoke to Ned in English. ‘He wants to see our money, probably to make sure that we have enough to pay for our board and lodging in Poland.'

Ned pulled out his wallet. It contained some loose change, five pounds in English notes and about the same in guilders and West German marks, which he had bought on the boat. He handed it over. The man opened the wallet and checked the notes. ‘If this is all you have, you will have to return to West Germany,' he warned Helena in Polish.

‘He wants to see the rest,' she said to Ned.

Recalling what the German woman had said, Ned reluctantly reached inside his shirt for the money belt he had tied around his waist. He unzipped it under cover of his clothes and took out fifty pounds in ten-pound notes and fifty in travellers' cheques, which he was hoping they wouldn't have to cash. He was careful to leave the American dollars, also bought on the boat, hidden in their separate pouch.

The man flicked through the travellers' cheques and returned them. Taking three ten-pound notes, he pocketed them and re­ turned the rest.

‘Ask him what that was for?' Ned said to Helena.

The man held up the notes. ‘Tax,' he explained in perfect English. ‘You object?'

‘No,' Helena answered swiftly.

‘I'd like a receipt,' Ned interjected.

‘You can change money in Warsaw,' the man continued as if he hadn't heard Ned. ‘There is an all-night bank in the railway station. These are your suitcases?'

As they were the only occupants left in the carriages, it was obvious the cases were theirs. ‘Yes,' Ned answered, giving up on the receipt.

‘You have gifts for the people in this lady's home village?'

Ned opened the holdall. The officer took a bottle of brandy, one of whisky and the remaining bar of chocolate.

‘Enjoy Poland,' he said, then left their carriage and moved on.

At two o'clock in the morning, the taxi driver who had picked Ned and Helena up at Warsaw station deposited them outside an unprepossessing tower-block hotel. Ned stepped on to the broken pavement and looked up at the concrete facade.

The driver lifted their cases from his cab and spoke to Helena. She paid him with the zlotys they had acquired at the bank in the station.

‘Can't he find us anything better?' Ned asked.

‘He said it's the only hotel that's open at this hour near the station. It's only for one night,' she reminded him.

‘From the outside I think I'd prefer the station waiting room.'

‘For seven hours?' Helena led the way inside. The first thing that struck her was the overwhelming chemical smell. She walked over cracked vinyl tiles to a desk set against the far wall. A bored-looking young man was sitting behind it reading a newspaper. He didn't look up until she stood directly in front of him.

‘Do you have a vacant room, a double, please?' she asked in Polish.

‘For tonight?' he replied.

She almost answered, ‘No, for next week,' but thought better of it. ‘For tonight,' she confirmed.

He looked at a board behind him that held row upon row of keys. After staring at it for a few seconds he lifted one down. ‘Passports?'

Helena handed them over.

‘You'll have to sign the register. Both of you.'

‘I hope you asked for a double room.' Ned dropped his case beside her.

‘I did. But I'm not sure who will be protecting who.'

‘You have the language; I have the muscle.'

Helena took the plastic biro the clerk handed her, filled in her own and Ned's details, signed her name and handed the pen to Ned.

‘You are on the eighth floor. There is a problem. No hot water. The cold will be on from six until eight in the morning. The bathroom is next door to your room. Breakfast in the dining room is served from seven until nine.' The clerk pointed to a set of double doors that were glazed with hardboard.

Helena relayed the information to Ned. Resigned, he signed his name, dropped the pen on top of the book and picked up his own and Helena's suitcases, leaving her to carry the holdall and duffle bag.

‘Another problem,' the desk clerk added. ‘The lift is broken.'

He pointed to a flight of stairs.

‘The lift's broken,' Ned guessed.

‘It is.'

He looked at the number on the key. ‘I can't believe every room in this place is taken up to the eighth floor. Ask if he has a room free on one of the lower floors.'

‘Do you have a room on a lower floor?' Helena stared pointedly at the rows of keys behind him.

‘No.'

‘Those keys indicate there are free rooms on the lower floors.' She pointed to the board.

‘All of those rooms have problems.'

‘All the other rooms have problems,' she relayed to Ned.

‘What kind?'

‘I didn't ask.'

Ned lifted the cases. ‘I hope they aren't of the creepy-crawly kind. I don't fancy picking up fleas or body lice or bedbugs …'

‘Shush, you're making me itch,' she panted as they began hauling the bags up the stairs.

The lights on the stairs were dim, but the corridor on the eighth floor was even gloomier. A single, bare, low-wattage light bulb hung halfway down a passageway that stretched into black, impenetrable shadow.