A Warsaw Chronicle Read online

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One: Karolina in Warsaw

  Chapter Two: Karolina at Work

  Chapter Three: The Strike

  Chapter Four: Snowbound

  Chapter Five: Karolina’s Interrogation

  Chapter Six: Karolina’s Escape

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven: Marek and the Lieutenant

  Chapter Eight: Marek and pan Kozminski

  Chapter Nine: Karolina on the Streets of Warsaw

  Chapter Ten: Karolina’s Train Trip to Krakow

  Chapter Eleven: Marek’s Diary

  Chapter Twelve: Karolina in Krakow

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirteen: Little pan Kozminski

  Chapter Fourteen: Adam—A Betrayal

  Chapter Fifteen: Karolina’s Gathering

  Chapter Sixteen: Karolina and Marek

  Chapter Seventeen: Rakowieka Prison Letter

  Chapter Eighteen: Karolina’s Intervention

  Chapter Nineteen: Marek’s Diary

  Glossary for A Warsaw Chronicle

  A Warsaw Chronicle

  Carol Hebald

  Regal House Publishing

  Advance Praise for A Warsaw Chronicle

  A Warsaw Chronicle is a powerful and moving story set against the backdrop of martial-law Poland (1981-82), one of the most dramatic periods of twentieth-century European history.

  Michael Mandelbaum, author of Mission Failure: America and the World in the Post-Cold War Era

  Carol Hebald’s A Warsaw Chronicle is a wonderful book that evokes the deceptive and dangerous atmosphere of Warsaw under the communist regime. Among her students, the eponymous professor Karolina Heybald recognizes and is drawn to a budding young male poet whose gifts, she hopes, will flourish with a fellowship to the States. But around the young man, the jealousy and scheming is thick and ominous—and darkly fascinating.

  Rosa Shand, author of The Gravity of Sunlight

  This fine novel shook me and taught me. The complexity of the shift to martial law and the resistance of the Solidarity movement to that change in Poland is depicted in quick, effective brushstrokes. I felt for Karolina, a visiting professor of literature from the United States who becomes involved in situations way beyond her experience. She’s sophisticated about the literature she teaches, but naive about Realpolitik, tension that makes her the perfect fulcrum between the student Marek and his father Adam, a Communist official, who represent different aspects of the conflict. When Karolina’s innocent search for her father’s Jewish past unearths a secret never meant to be revealed, she comes into danger, bringing to life the idea that the personal is political.

  Alice Elliott Dark, author of In the Gloaming and Think of England

  Carol Hebald is a masterful writer, her prose consistently intelligent, probing, and, withal, beautiful. Karolina, an American professor visiting at Warsaw University, must deal with spies, lies, missing letters, and her own ambivalence. The main characters, vividly rendered, form a most unusual triangle, their voices and views so clear and distinct they could be in a play—or real life. Hebald has produced a tragedy specific to our times and as timelessly resonant as Sophocles. The final pages are heart-stopping.

  Kelly Cherry, author of Twelve Women in a Country Called America and A Kelly Cherry Reader

  

  “Always only the desire to die and the not-yet-yielding; this alone is love.”

  Franz Kafka, 1913

  To the memory of my father

  Part One

  On Saturday night, December 12, 1981, General Wojciech Jaruzelski, under threat of Soviet invasion, declared martial law in Poland. Polish Solidarity in its hope for democratic reform was wiped out in one blow. A nation of thirty-six million people was cordoned off from the world.

  Chapter One: Karolina in Warsaw

  December 13, 1981

  This morning when I rose, all the clocks had stopped. I dressed quickly and came out into the street.

  It was a dark morning. Never, never was there such darkness. Rain poured down continuously, the coldest, gloomiest rain, threatening, and full of animosity. I had on a thin white raincoat. I wore no boots.

  I must have walked over a mile. The shadows of houses oppressed me: Flat, tin-roofed structures rebuilt from the burnt-out ruins of the Second World War. Not one light was burning. It seemed all Warsaw was asleep. I felt stiff and hungry from the cold, and in such utter loneliness, I began mistaking my footsteps for a booted tread behind me. When I stopped, it stopped. I glanced around but saw no one. I kept walking. Then, checking behind me again, I glimpsed the hastily averted broadcloth of a gray military coat, whose owner had reversed course.

  Reaching the corner, I turned to watch for traffic and crossed at a spot intersected by a boulevard I had never seen before. I didn’t know where I was. I looked behind me and to both sides. The rain came down harder, as though the sea were all around me, and no one would know if I drowned.

  Suddenly I stopped. There was Marek in military uniform beside me. My student Marek a soldier? I remembered that his father, whom I’d met briefly, wore a uniform, but he? Nor could I dismiss the thought that this gifted, overgrown child, a full head taller than I, had been following me. He opened his mouth to speak. My lightning glare stopped him.

  “What is it you want?” I said finally.

  “I? Nothing.”

  He was all wet. I noticed especially his mud-streaked boots.

  “You haven’t misplaced the assignment?” I asked.

  “Assignment? There isn’t any school! Professor, wait! Where are you going? You can’t cross into the terminal. Nothing is moving. Don’t you understand?”

  I understood nothing.

  “Stay!” he cried. “If you can’t find words for others, why don’t you speak to me? It’s not my fault I love you.”

  But I was running away.

  An armed officer blocked my path: “Who are you?” he asked in Polish.

  “It’s pani Professor Heybald,” answered Marek, all out of breath.

  “Pani Amerykanka?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Passport, please.” I fumbled in my purse, in my satchel. “Pani is diplomat?” the officer inquired.

  “No!” protested Marek excitedly: “She’s half-Polish. Her father was Polish.”

  “Your name is Heybald?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come with me.”

  I looked to Marek, who stepped aside, unable to meet my eyes.

  A room beetle-green in the morning light so dank with stagnant air that water stood in drops on the walls. I lay on a crude wooden bench. Day was admitted by a window with massive iron bars. The policewoman, Hanka, was searching my satchel. Armed milicjamen surrounded me. A buzzing electric light glared:

  “Where was pani going?”

  “Why did you come here to teach?”

  “What are the names of your Polish ancestors?”

  “Are you of Jewish origin?”

  A cane struck along the corridor, rapped sharply at the door. Hanka rose and unlocked it with a key.

  The Lieutenant limped briskly in. I recognized Marek’s father. His outsized head cocked over me. I breathed the faintly pungent odor of a fox.

  “Whom have I the pleasure of remembering?” he asked.

  Silence. I received a slap in the face.

  “Tell us your ancestors’ names.”

  “I don’t know!” I answered. “My father—Heybald—was from Krakow.”

  “Give
n name?” he inquired, reaching for pen and pad.

  “Henryk. He died in New York when I was three.”

  “Profession?”

  “Merchant—a jeweler.”

  “And where was pani going this morning?” The Lieutenant was tapping his cane.

  “I don’t know.”

  Two pencils started scratching.

  “What day of the week is it?” he asked.

  “Sunday.”

  “And the month?”

  “Look it up.”

  “Pani!” he cautioned. “Remember where you are.”

  “Remember whom you’re addressing, sir!”

  At the sound of the strap, I bolted upright. The Lieutenant smiled, a supple, winning smile: “Professor has bad manners,” he chided. “She loses too much her temper.”

  He motioned to his colleagues. With stiff little bows, they turned their backs on me.

  Hanka spoke: “What is pani thinking?”

  But pani wasn’t thinking. A pigeon ruddered to the window sill, eyes frightened and starved. A hound dog bayed in the courtyard. I heard a carefully closed door.

  The Lieutenant and his colleagues had left.

  “Swallow this,” said Hanka, handing me a small pink pill.

  “No.”

  “Swallow it!”

  “No!”

  She rose to slip a needle in my arm.

  “How old is pani?” she asked me several moments later. Her voice was soft, gentle.

  “Forty,” I answered.

  “Forty and still alone?”

  “Excuse me?” I felt my tongue grow thick.

  “Why pani came to Poland?” she asked, picking up a sweater she was knitting.

  To what shall I confess? A need to know my heritage, my birthright as a Jew? To say goodbye to the father I never could forget; to find the house where he was born, some remnant of his early youth, a tree, a yard, a stone?

  “Tell Hanka,” she coaxed. “Go on.”

  No, I couldn’t tell her; how could I tell her that for him, only for him, I’d dress in Polish garments, scrub the makeup from my face? In a sturdy pair of shoes, head erect, glance proud, I’d glide over cobblestones, stop strangers in the street to speak—above all, listen—with this cross around my neck to hear unedited Polish responses to Jews.

  Instead, “I came to get away,” I said.

  “From what to what?” she asked, her knitting needles clicking.

  “My life, my work, were at a crossroads, a standstill. Understand standstill?”

  “No.”

  I have to shed this nightmare, begin again at the beginning.

  September 21

  On the day of my welcome last week, a beautiful September afternoon, I was ushered to Warsaw University to pick up my ration coupons for the month. With these, I can buy six pounds of meat, one of butter, two of kasha, sugar, and flour. For my pleasure, a fifth of vodka; for my hygiene, one small cake of soap that must last for two whole months. I also received in zlotys my first month’s salary, far in excess of my needs.

  I live on the fourth floor—yes, here, this whale-gray structure. Just around the corner stands the Church of the Holy Cross, the only church in Warsaw, I’m told, untouched by the Nazi invasion. Diagonally across, abutting the English Institute where I’ll be teaching, is the main gate of Warsaw University. To its right, half a block up, is the back entrance of Victory Square. There, in 1979, Pope John Paul II addressed his compatriots in an open-air Mass that overflowed Ogród Saski, the park hereafter known as Saxon Gardens with the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

  Back at my apartment, I view my spacious rooms. Through the alcove to the left is my bedroom. I sleep on that narrow daybed, and read at the mahogany table spanning the French windows over the kino sign. To the right is my combined study and living room. Here with the curtains half-drawn I’ll spend my hours writing with time and space to breathe new landscapes for new poems. Time is all I want now: a light academic load, three short weekly classes, a handful of students in each.

  There’s a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I ask.

  “Your Polish tutor!”

  “Come in please, you’re welcome!”

  “Professor, my name is Pawel,” announces a slight, dimpled young man.

  “My name’s Carol. Hello!”

  “But Carol means Charles in Polish. Want to be known as Charles?” he asks.

  “No!”

  “Then I am happy to meet Karolina.” He bows and kisses my hand. “And you’re visiting us from where?”

  “From the University of Kansas, right in the middle of America, on the international academic exchange program.”

  “I am graduate student in Linguistics here, right in the middle of Europe.”

  “Here, let me take your things.” I place his gray, worn cardigan and matching cap carefully over a chair.

  “You know some little Polish?” he asks.

  “Only very little.”

  “Say something, anything. Well?”

  “You first,” I plead.

  “No; I am the tutor.”

  “Then szadem, Pawel!”

  He looks askance at me: “You invite yourself to sit?” he asks.

  “No, you sit.”

  “Let’s both sit,” he suggests. We enter my study laughing. “So: Dzien dobry! Good day! Repeat: Dzien dobry.”

  October 1

  Why do I feel so happy today? Look: some boys are sweeping fallen leaves from the elm across the street. Above, the black, sharp pin of a cathedral is etched across the evening sky. Inside the worshippers are singing. In the yard a couple of trees are growing. And with all this dwell some birds that make a little music for me in the morning.

  Among the pigeons that come each day to my windowsill is a great, fat cripple to whom the others pay homage by allowing him first to feed on the crumbs I provide. The great one devours them all as one by one the others fly away. See him flapping his short wing? His Majesty is waiting for more. And he wonders why I draw the curtains. I can’t write when observed, not even by a bird.

  October 5

  A call from the United States Embassy: My books arrived there in error; would I come to pick them up? No sooner did I enter the compound than pani Monika, the Polish receptionist, asked me where I’d been. But surely she knows—she told me!—exchange professors have no embassy privileges. Only the Rollinses may shop at the Commissary and receive packages from the States:

  “They’re Fulbright scholars; I’m not,” I reminded her.

  “But they’ve been trying to reach you!” she whispered, taking me aside. “Do you want to share their maid? For twenty-five dollars a week she’ll queue and clean for you.”

  “But they’re paid in dollars, I in zlotys. Sorry, can’t afford it.”

  “Well, at least we know where we stand.” She seemed a bit put out. “So, you have your coupons? You know what you can buy?”

  “Yes, thanks; I’ve already queued.” In Poland I’ll live as a Pole.

  “School starts next week, remember. Oh, Professor!” She catches up with me at the door: “You’re aware of our shortage of textbooks? Please don’t forget to check them out of the library before each class, and to return them immediately after.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  Heading home through the streets and parks, I am charmed by the smiles of strangers—such genuine warmth and concern. And the little children look like angels; not one whines or cries. Is there no candy for them? There is bread to eat. And Mama and Papa are kind. Still, in every shop window burn candles in memory of the dead.

  October 19

  Walking me home from Practical English class, my students Ewa and Marysia, flanked on either side of me, make me feel like a big mother hen. In front of the Church of the Holy Cross:

/>   “If you don’t go to Mass once a week,” warns Marysia, “you’re a bloody Communist.”

  “If you go more often,” adds Ewa, “milicja take your name.”

  “Ewa, you exaggerate! I saw a milicjaman praying here yesterday,” I say.

  “Praying or spying on you?”

  “Come on, Marysia! Can’t a soldier hate war?”

  “Not here!”

  I want to ask her why, when Ewa interrupts:

  “So you are happy, Professor?”

  “Ewa, why do you ask me that?”

  “Well, I’ve been meditating.”

  “Well, you meditate on your essay. It’s already five days late.”

  “I know, I know,” she sighs. We round the corner of my house.

  What’s that rumpus up the street?

  “Crouch down—it’s Marek,” warns Ewa, watching him approach us.

  I recognize their classmate, the tall, gawky boy who sits in back.

  “Cock-a-doodle-do!” hoots Marysia: “Whistling down Traugutta Street twirling six rolls of toilet paper on a string. Where’d you get them—connections?”

  “He’s a Jew,” whispers Ewa in my ear.

  “Rat without a tail!” remarks a stranger, eyeing Marek’s contraband.

  “Three-eyes,” adds Marysia.

  “Toilet paper is so rare,” explains Ewa, “we have to use Communist news.”

  “I know,” I admit. “So do I!” Then, “Three-eyes?” I echo, bewildered.

  Ewa explains: “Sometimes the angle of his glasses makes a third eye on his forehead.”

  “I can’t picture that!” I exclaim.

  Clk-clk-clk go Marek’s heels on the pavement, approaching us proudly for spite.

  “Bravo, Marek, bravo!” jeer the girls.

  “Hello, Marek,” I say quietly.

  He reddens, bows—passes silently by.

  “Look! There’s Pawel ten paces behind,” squeals Marysia. “Ewunia, fix your hair!”