Florian's Gate (46 page)

“Yet in the midst of this intense suffering, God's people have recourses that others do not have. In the thirty-sixth chapter of Job, the sufferer says to me and to all who know pain, ‘But those who suffer, he delivers in their suffering; he speaks to them in their affliction.' Do you see, my dear Alexander? God comes to us in the midst of our pain. He promises to
be
there, to live through it with us. His presence is very real and very personal in such times.”

He turned to Jeffrey. “Would you be so kind as to take the Bible from the shelf there and read from the first chapter of Second Corinthians?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you so much. Begin with the second half of verse eight, would you, and read through verse ten.”

Jeffrey fumbled with the unfamiliar pages, eventually found the spot, read:

“We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us.”

“In life or in death,” Gregor said, “we are in God's strong hands.”

CHAPTER 25

“Nova Huta was considered a Communist masterpiece,” Katya told him the next morning as they drove toward their final appointment. “It was Poland's first planned city, built to staff the largest steel plant in the world, the Lenin Steel Works.”

The driver turned off the main thoroughfare onto streets that were clearly not meant for cars. They were little more than broad sidewalks, about twelve feet wide. Graveled sections had been added at irregular points where cars could be pulled off and parked. Kerchiefed old women crammed together on a small front stoop and watched the car pass with grim suspicion.

“At the turn of the century, Cracow was once considered one of the jewels of Europe. Beginning in the year 900, it was the capital of one of the largest European kingdoms. It housed the third oldest university in the world. It had been Eastern Europe's center of intellectual thought and scientific exploration for over five centuries. But the Communists feared Cracow as a breeding ground for dissension, and worked to destroy its preeminent position. They decided the best way to do this was to change it from a center of intellectual growth into a worker's city.”

The three-story houses looked like dark gray barracks. They stood in endless rows beneath tall birch trees, stretching out in every direction as far as Jeffrey could see. Their uniformity was jarringly oppressive, at direct odds to the summertime green.

“So the Communists chose a forest preserve outside of Cracow for the new factory, and razed it to the ground. Homes for the tens of thousands of steelworkers were built, and slowly the factory itself took form. They constructed the furnaces to burn soft coal, since that was what Poland had the most
of, even though it is the most polluting fuel on earth, and extremely inefficient.”

They pulled up in front of a building indistinguishable from its neighbors except for a faded number painted above the front door. The driver stopped the car.

“The result was that soon after the plant opened, it started raining black dust all over Cracow,” Katya continued. “That is why these buildings are this color, Jeffrey. They were originally white. The dust is so thick in wintertime that people have to brush it off their car windows before they can drive. Nowadays rain here is so acidic that it is killing all the trees in Cracow and eating away at buildings that have survived almost a thousand years.”

They walked up the cracked sidewalk, pushed their way through the front door, and followed Gregor's instructions to the second floor. The woman who opened the door was not extremely old—Jeffrey would have guessed no more than sixty. But unseen winds and burdens of a hard life had aged her. Her walk was labored, her hands palsied, her eyes weak and watery behind thick lenses. She led them into her sitting room, walking on legs that seemed to battle against her, forcing to throw her body around with each step. But the pain did not slow her down; she fought against her body with stubborn determination.

She seated them on her sofa, asked if they would take tea, and disappeared into the kitchen alcove. Her voice drifted out.

“She asked what we think of Nova Huta,” Katya said.

Jeffrey hesitated, decided on the truth. “It's not as bad as the high-rises. But I'd imagine all these black buildings look like something out of a nightmare in the wintertime.”

Katya turned and translated to the hidden woman. They were rewarded with a brief chuckle. “She says you are correct,” Katya told him.

The woman reappeared, wiping her hands on the little apron tied to her waist. “After the war,” the woman told them through Katya, “when you finished your studies the central
government gave you a paper called a Work Directive. This paper told you where you would work, what you would do, and which place you would live.”

The woman pulled a straight-backed chair from the narrow dining table, turned it around, and eased herself down. With a deliberate motion she wiped one edge of her mouth with an unsteady hand. “You were expected to work and live in this place for the rest of your life.

“Nova Huta was a new development then. It was one of the few places where new housing was going up. New housing meant electricity and indoor plumbing, a toilet for every family, and heat. My husband and I were sent here.

“There were problems. There are always problems. My husband managed a tobacco factory which was next door to the steelworks. We both came from good Warsaw families. All of the other people around here were steelworkers. They wore overalls and helmets and had steel smut on their faces all the time. When we arrived, we were the only people in the entire area with a university education. I cannot tell you how alone it made us feel.

“But you learn not to think about happiness, or wishing you had a different job or a better place to live, or neighbors who could be your friends. You just get on. You survive. You protect yourself. You find something to live for. A purpose. A profession. Something. For me, it was my family and my God.”

The teakettle began whistling; with visible effort she pushed herself from her chair and clumped into her little kitchen alcove. She continued to talk, her reedy voice holding an emotionless quality. “In the late forties,” Katya translated, “many, many families in Poland began receiving Work Directives, notices that they were to be transported to Siberia. They had twenty-four hours to put their lives in order. They could take twenty kilos of luggage. My stepfather was a mining engineer, and one morning he received a directive to report to a mine in a village that no one could find on the map. He
and my mother and my grandmother were sent. My name was not on the list, we learned later, because my birth records had been lost. Otherwise I would have been shipped off as well. My mother took me to my godmother's house, where I lived and waited for my parents to return.

“Fifteen years later, when Poland and Russia signed one of their Friendship Treaties, Poland asked them to re-instate the transportees, or at least those who had survived. My mother came home first. My stepfather had been sent to work in some other place and she had not seen him for seven years. He came home a month later and died three days after his arrival.”

She returned and served them steaming glasses from a cheap tin serving tray. Through Katya she continued. “My grandmother had become sick on the trip to Siberia. They were traveling in cattle cars with no heat and little food. At one point the guards grew tired of her moans, opened the doors, and threw her from the train.”

The woman went back to the kitchen. As she rummaged away from view she said, “Before she left for Siberia, my grandmother gave me her valuables. I was the only grandchild. Although I was quite young I knew that she was going and would never come back, so I didn't want to take them. I was hoping that if I refused she would have to either stay or return and give them to me later. But she insisted, and because I loved her I finally agreed. The jewelry I sell bit by bit, all except her wedding ring, which I wear as my own. That I will wear to my grave in memory of her and of my husband.”

She returned with a crumpled plastic ice cream carton that she handed to Jeffrey. It still held the cold of the freezer. He hefted it, and felt the solid weight shift around.

The woman peered at him through thick lenses. “My son-in-law lost his job when his factory closed down, and my daughter is pregnant again.” The edges of her mouth pulled up in a vague smile. “I am soon to take a trip to a place much farther away than Siberia. It would have been nice to leave these remaining pieces to my own granddaughter, but
the money is needed. Perhaps she will remember me some other way.”

“I am so glad you could join me,” Dr. Rokovski gushed as Katya and Jeffrey entered the restaurant.

“What a charming place,” Katya said, admiring the beamed ceiling. “Isn't it, Jeffrey?”

“Mmmm.” He shook Rokovski's hand and allowed himself to be ushered to a small quiet table upstairs in the Restaurant Wierzynek, one of Cracow's finest, located in a corner of the main market square. Jeffrey sat down, barely holding on to his impatience. It was not a good day for a three-hour dinner. Alexander had not appeared all day. When Jeffrey rang his room that afternoon he had received no reply. In a panic he had rushed over to Gregor's, fearing the worst, to find his friend limping about the tiny apartment, absolutely certain in his faith that Alexander was both all right and exactly where he should be—alone.

To top it off, the export documents had not been approved. Only Katya's insistence kept him from simply asking Rokovski for the crucial papers. He had held to his side of the bargain. There was work to be done. Too much for the time available. And now this.

“It is one of my favorites,” Rokovski said. “I'm enough of a patriot to believe that history can add a special aroma to the best of food, and believe me, this restaurant holds claim to both.”

“I love it,” Katya said, clearly determined to retain her buoyant mood.

“I'm sure this has been quite a day for all of us,” Rokovski said.

“And busy,” Jeffrey added, jerking back when Katya kicked him under the table.

“No doubt. And I am indeed grateful that you would take the time to join me here. Some things, I am sure you will understand, are better discussed in the privacy of a public
place.” Rokovski showed pleasure at his own remark. “I am happy to report that the painting is now safely locked away in my own office cabinets.”

“We are certainly glad to have been of some small assistance, aren't we, Jeffrey,” Katya said.

After recrating the Rubens with the students' paintings, Rokovski scrawled a note on the archive card stating that the referenced paintings were being assigned to the ministry. Once they were back upstairs, he instructed the curator to have the crate delivered to his office. He wanted to use these relatively unimportant paintings, he explained, to test a new chemical conservation process proposed by the American group.

“Now then,” Rokovski said. “If you would allow me to order for you.”

Jeffrey waited through an endless discussion between Rokovski, a smiling Katya, and a theatrical waiter. Rokovski eventually turned back to him and said, “This restaurant used to be the private residence of Nicolaus Wierzynek, a very powerful member of the regional government. In 1364 Cracow was the site of the Great Conference of Monarchs, and Nicolaus was allowed to host the senior visitors for several dinners. Just think, my young friend, here in this very room sat the King of Denmark, the Holy Roman Emperor, the Prince of Austria, and the Polish King Casimir the Great. The food was so lavish and the service so faultless that it was decided then and there to make the place an eating establishment upon his death. And so it has been for over six hundred years, making it one of the oldest restaurants in all the world.”

“How fascinating,” Katya replied. “A bit of living history.”

Jeffrey tucked his legs far under his seat and said, “Dr. Rokovski, we are now booked to leave Cracow for London the day after tomorrow.”

“We will certainly be sorry to see you depart,” Rokovski said.

“Yes. Thank you. The thing is, when I went by the ministry
this afternoon, they said that my export license was still being held by your office.”

“Ah,” Rokovski smiled. “The license.”

“Yes, sir. I was wondering if maybe I could come by and pick it up first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, of course. But I was wondering if I might impose upon you one further time.”

Jeffrey felt his stomach sink a notch. “Impose?”

“Yes. Could you perhaps take along a little excess baggage?”

“How much is a little?”

“It would be quite a small parcel, actually. Perhaps the size of this table?” His eyes retained their smile. “Quite flat. Not heavy.”

Jeffrey cast a glance at Katya, astonished to see that she was watching Rokovski with round eyes. “You mean the size of a painting?”

“Precisely.” Rokovski leaned across the table. “Not officially, you understand. I want you to smuggle it.”

“You want—”

“For the ministry,” Rokovski went on, his voice pitched low. “We cannot possibly be seen selling a Rubens masterpiece. We would be announcing to the world that we are paupers. It would be taken as a willingness to exchange the priceless for mere money. But we are, you see, truly bankrupt. Our coffers at the ministry are empty. Our roofs leak. Our finest works are deteriorating so badly that some I fear can never be restored. And so much more needs to be done. You saw the condition of the museum vaults, our inventory, our security, the primitive level of our efforts.”

His voice was quietly intense. “And then there is my big dream. No art in Poland has suffered so much in the past fifty years as that of our churches. I have blueprints for the renovation of an unused portion of Vavel Castle, which would house some of the finest religious paintings and statuaries in all of Europe. Of course, we could barely afford even the
blueprints, to say nothing of the enormous restoration required by some of these pieces. I will not horrify you with stories of how they have been abused these past five decades.”