Lumen (10 page)

“Well, what does it prove?”

Bora placed on the briefcase a hand-drawn sketch of the chapel area. “The chapel is behind the main convent church, which faces the street and can be entered from it. No access is possible to the chapel from without the convent. Here, see - there is a doorway that leads from the
sacristy to a corridor. One of the windows in the corridor looks over a low wall that connects the chapel-sacristy complex to the main body of the convent, where the cloister is. It took me less than two minutes to reach the low wall from the chapel, then the roof of the cloister, and from there I easily gained access to the upper balcony of the cloister itself, and slipped down to the inner garden.”

“You presuppose the man knew the abbess would be in the cloister.”

“Everyone knew. The abbess prayed alone in the cloister between the canonical hours of sext and nones - one to four in the afternoon - and seldom did she break this seclusion. That’s why the workers were told to proceed with repairs indoors during that time.”

The staff car and truck stopped to idle at a crossroads, where military police were directing a column of half-tracks down Copernicus Street. The rumble on the sidewalk forced the officers inside to raise their voices to continue to talk.

“What hope is there of tracing any of the men?”

Bora shook his head. “They’d all sneaked out by the time the ambulance came, at seventeen hundred hours. I didn’t know of their presence then, nor did I get a useable description of them, unless ‘taller than the other’ or ‘dark-haired’ is sufficient to identify them. I began enquiring with construction companies in the city, but from what I understand the nuns relied on independent journeymen and even makeshift hirelings. In this case, the nuns asked the priest of the Jesuit church down the street to find them a crew.”

“Well, what about the priest?”

“His name is Father Rozek. He’s been detained by the SS since the rock-throwing incident. So far, I’ve been unable to find out even where he’s kept.”

The last half-track rolled by, trailing a smudgy smell. No sooner had the car started again, than Schenck gave the driver a sharp order to stop.

“By the kerb, you idiot. There.”

Under Bora’s surprised glance, he strode out and made for a plain young woman waiting on the sidewalk holding one child to her chest and another by the hand. Gallantly Schenck saluted, took her under his arm and escorted her across the street to the Planty Park. Having distributed a couple of starchy pats on the children’s muffled heads, he walked back to the car.

He neither smiled nor seemed more kindly disposed because of the interruption.

“Do you have children?” he asked Bora.

“Not yet, sir.”

“I’ve been married six years. I have four children and my wife is pregnant.” Schenck waved his glove for the driver to take Sienna Street into the Old City. Looking over his shoulder to make sure the truck followed, he said, “You ought to start a family as soon as possible, Bora,” and then fixed his bright, real and artificial eyes on his colleague. “What about the alibis of the other nuns?”

“Well, we know about Sister Jadwiga, with the workers in the chapel. If we assume the abbess was murdered - say - between fourteen and sixteen hundred hours, during that time ten of the sisters were gathered in the refectory for choir practice. Two were apparently cooking the evening meal in the kitchen. The eldest, Sister Teresa, lay sick in bed, and is deaf besides. Two postulants were whitewashing the walls in the cellar, and Sister Irenka had left early to accompany an ailing novice to the dentist—”

“True?”

“True. I checked.”

Schenck grinned. “Go on.”

“We’re down to the porter nun, who hardly ever leaves her post. The walls are thick, and I doubt she’d hear much that went on anywhere else in the convent. As I see it, the sisters’ alibis are reasonable, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Hofer said it was half-past sixteen hundred hours when you arrived at the nuns’.”

“It was thirty-five past the hour. The body was lukewarm. I can’t say more than this regarding the hour of death. Doctor Nowotny reminds me that within five minutes of being exposed to the air, blood begins to coagulate, and a cadaver’s temperature only decreases one degree Celsius in two hours’ time. I touched her wrist, but frankly couldn’t tell how long she’d been dead. The doctor also explained that hysteria” - Bora could kick himself for blushing as he said it - “sometimes affects body temperature, so - being untrained-I shouldn’t count on that detail.”

 

At the theatre on Szczepanski Square, actors were rehearsing.

Ewa leaned with her hip against the wall unconvincedly, holding the receiver between ear and shoulder. “I don’t know, Richard. I might be busy tonight, I just can’t tell. We’re getting ready for a new production. No, it’s nothing you’d be interested in.” She nodded to Kasia, who stood by with her finger on her cheap little wristwatch. “Look, I have to go. You can call me later-I don’t know, five, six.’Bye.”

Kasia took a slip of paper out of her pocket, and dialled the operator. “Well?” she asked while waiting for the connection.

Ewa shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about it. Do you have a cigarette?”

“No, I’m fresh out. Yes, yes, operator? Please give me this number…” Kasia read the number from the slip of paper,
and then reached out for Ewa’s woollen sleeve. “Wait a second, wait a second. I have something to tell you.”

 

In the Jagiellonian University, the gothic vaults of the
Collegium Chymicum s
ent back the men’s voices in harsh, slapping echoes. Bora did not take part in the exchange, balanced as he was on the stepladder to reach for books on the twelfth shelf. When he came down with a fragile leather-bound volume in hand, old Professor Anders had his back against the stone pilaster by the window. Schenck faced him with the list.

At closer look, Anders’ leonine head and mane of white hair made him look venerable, not so much old as prematurely aged. He was saying in excellent German, “I must protest, Colonel! Haven’t you taken enough? You have already removed the best in our collection. These aren’t historical texts that concern Germany!”

Schenck glanced over to Bora, who had opened the book on a small table and now leaned over to study its frontispiece.

“Hartman Scheden,” Bora read. “From Nuremberg - his 1480
Chronicle of the World
.”

“Take it.”

Anders charged with unsuspected energy towards Bora. “I hope you know this is outrageous and illegal, Captain,” he warned, though Bora avoided eye contact and continued to check titles off his list. Schenck laughed.

“You may laugh,” Anders raised his tone. “But I tell you it is stealing! It is nothing but stealing!”

A rustle of clothing caused Bora to look up from his list. Schenck had grabbed the professor by the lapels, driving him against a glassed-in massive shelf. His skinny, booted frame vibrated like a metal rod. “Watch your tongue, old man.”

Anders could not hope to free himself, but held his own. “Watch my tongue?” His voice boomed under the vaults. “For
you
? You are nothing but thieves!”

Bora cringed at the words. Twice Schenck struck the old man full force with the back of his gloved hand, so that his grey head lolled from side to side against the shelf. Shoving him towards the middle of the room, he sent him knocking against the table where Bora was. Bora lunged to keep a frail book from hitting the floor, but already Schenck was summoning him.

“Leave it, Bora. Take what you have and let’s get out of here.”

They paused in the courtyard below, where a sickly blade of sunshine came down to cut out deep shadows in the archway. Soldiers hauling boxes came down the steps. Schenck had quite recovered his control, and stood now with fingers hooked in his belt, supervising the operation of removal. He caught Bora’s fluster through the corner of his good eye, and showed no patience for it.

“Does name-calling trouble you, Captain?”

“I think it troubles the colonel as well.”

“Me? Why? We
are
thieves! I just didn’t want to admit it in the face of a Polack.”

Ten minutes earlier, Father Malecki had got off the streetcar at the head of Franciszkańska Street, bound for the Curia. He’d noticed the two German army vehicles by the university, and wondered what new abuse was being visited upon them. In a suitcase, he carried small bundles of bloodstained surgical gauze and handkerchiefs the nuns had soaked in the abbess’s blood after death; a strange load, had the German sentinel at the streetcar stop asked to see it.

The secretary of the archbishop himself threw a less than enthusiastic look into the suitcase.

“His Eminence appreciates your prompt collaboration in this, Father Malecki. There are many steps to be taken before we even begin considering the possibility of making relics out of these.”

Malecki found himself in agreement. “Martyrdom is another issue that requires much investigation.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t mind a holy shrine in Cracow!” the secretary said with sudden levity. “We should compete with Częstochowa then.” He regained his aplomb when the American failed to show amusement. “Actually things aren’t as simple as that. Word of mouth has amply circulated news of the abbess’s death. We’re even now in the process of printing funerary notices. Her followers will readily accept the idea that God called her back to Himself, but should murder be openly suggested, we might face an outrage, even a riot.”

Malecki thought of the army vehicles he’d seen parked by the university. “I doubt there’s much physical chance for unarmed folks to revolt.”

“The people would automatically see the Germans’ hand in her death, all the same.”

“We don’t know that the Germans’ hand isn’t in it.”

The secretary led Malecki to his well-heated office. He showed him a black-bordered poster with the abbess’s name, dates of birth and death, and the
L.C.A.N.
motto.

“By tomorrow morning you’ll find these pasted up and down the streets of this city. If you are asked about the circumstances of the abbess’s death, mental reservation might come in handy.”

“So, I should lie.”

The secretary seemed peeved at having to spell it out.

“Yes, Father Malecki: you should lie.”

Sister Irenka’s mousy face puckered. She seemed to smell trouble, nose wrinkled and mouth gathered tight. She swept a brief look Bora’s way, immediately to return her attention on the greenness of the cloister below the balcony. Were Bora to insist on direct information about the murder, he knew she’d try to walk away from him.

“What shrubs are those?” Bora was asking instead.

Sister Irenka kept the pucker on her face. “
Jałowiec
is the Polish name. It has nothing to do with what you want to ask.”

“No?” Bora paused briefly. “What I want to ask, you’re not willing to tell.”

“I am willing, but not certain. I think one should not.”

“I see.” Unaffectedly, Bora leaned over the balcony. “
Jałowiec
, eh?
Wacholder
is the German name. Of the juniper family. Down there, by the well - that’s boxwood, isn’t it?”

Sister Irenka followed with her eyes the direction to which Bora pointed. “Our Mother Superior was a saint,” she blurted out, and Bora recognized an inflection of pretence, or a curt concession to someone to whom it’s useless to explain things anyway.

He waited a moment before observing, “I imagine saints are not easy to live with.” He stared frowningly into his notebook as though something in it were more interesting than the matter at hand. His nonchalance in flipping pages concealed his interest well enough for the nun to keep quiet at first, accepting the comment.

Then she said, with a little voice, “It takes a saint to live with a saint, yes.”

Bora admired the cleverness of the answer. He looked up and met the cool demeanour of the nun, the firmness of her eyes. He said, very directly, “I have an outsider’s
impression that the whole convent revolved around her routine, not necessarily to the benefit of the community. I’m sure donations came in because of her, but how well does a stream of visitors fit in with the contemplative life?”

“There were days when nothing ever got done, not even praying, because of the visitors.”

Bora rested the notebook on the ledge of the balcony, and his hands on it. He had such punctilious calm built around himself, Sister Irenka could read nothing more than mild agreement in his face.

“We loved her, naturally,” she added.

Bora nodded. With the tips of his fingers he ran the cover of the notebook up and down, as if to smooth invisible wrinkles on it.

“But did she love
you
, Sister?”

When her turn came, Sister Jadwiga didn’t want to talk. She was shy, or reticent, or both.