Good People (52 page)

She sketched faces on the muddy ground with a stick. ‘These letters,' she said. ‘Are they real?'

‘No, Miss Weissberg. I've already told you. I forged them.'

‘Can fake documents move armies?' Her voice sounded stable, but something in her eyes made him think she was losing her bearings.

‘Miss Weissberg, your disdainful tone is out of place. Let me remind you of the role that forged letters have played in the history of Europe. For hundreds of years the authority of the Catholic Church depended on a forged letter from Constantine the Great to the Pope. Skanderbeg conquered Krujë with a forged letter. The Protocols of the Elders of Zion are also actually a forgery, though the people still believe in them. As usual, the most wonderful example has been contributed to us by the history of the Slavs.' He adopted a triumphant tone. ‘I speak of False Dmitry, a forged person who became the czar. When the world loses interest in you and your dreams, there's no alternative but to falsify a more attentive world.'

‘You're taking an enormous risk.'

‘Not really. I've reached a point where the loss isn't so great.'

‘This is the raving of a madman!' She dropped the stick and approached him. Her bandaged hand was no longer behind her back.

‘Less mad than sitting in a gloomy room and drawing maps.'

‘Your chances are zero.'

‘We're a pair of talented forgers. Maybe we'll start something
extraordinary. In any case, even if I wouldn't bet my own money on our success, it's the only plan.'

‘They'll kill you.'

‘Oh, I assume they'll be satisfied with a labour camp.'

‘They'll kill me when they discover the fraud.'

‘You're also willing to die.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I'm aware of your situation.'

‘But you don't have a reason like that.'

‘How do you know?'

‘At least I didn't find one in our reports.'

‘My reasons are no worse.'

‘And they are?'

‘Rather mixed-up psychological matters.'

‘You're an expert in making things simple.' She sounded exasperated.

Apparently she understood that he found it hard to explain himself even to himself. While he was looking for the right words, black veils shaded the city.

Not now, he begged.

You always say that, laughed the attack.

The black veils drew close, flapping in the wind. The city darkened. Tar dripped from the sky. Once again he had no idea where he was standing or at what angle to hold his body. The houses around him were buried in black nothingness. Maybe he screamed—he heard a shout, strangled by his shortening breath. He pressed his hand to his heart, which seemed to be leaping crazily between his chest and his throat. Here it was: the attack he always feared. He had paid Erika for eight years to prepare for it, silly man. Blades pierced his ribs, slicing deep, he heard them clashing in his gut. His body convulsed—right-left-right. He didn't understand how he hadn't been thrown to the ground. He saw his fingers tremble violently. He curled up like a hedgehog—the main thing was to keep his limbs from being torn away. He saw his fingers scattered through the streets, in the woods,
in the river. His fingers touched his throat, looking for air, then plunged into his ribs, holding back the pain. Suddenly he knew they weren't his fingers. Somebody was holding him. His body sank, ready for the blow that would shatter his skull. Now he could understand how it was possible not to be: everything narrowed until only a single slit remained.

Now they were removing his jacket, tearing his shirt, and arms were wrapped around him, gently lowering him. Sprawled out on the moist earth, he leaned his head on her knee. Her polka-dot dress stroked his cheek, and her hands rested on his ribs. How did she know the pain started there? The breeze cooled his chest. His eyes opened to the clouds that took shape as a slope with little terraces on it. Breathe-breathe-breathe, he heard her whisper. I'm alive, he thought.

…

Eyes closed, he lay like a dead man on her bed. His white shirt, which she had torn, hid part of his torso. His breathing was shallow, and there was almost no pulse. His body was pressed against her. When she let go, he whimpered in his mother tongue. Are you your body? The traces of the past gathered around her. The starry night sky, visible from her window, was their only refuge. When it disappeared, there would be nothing to defend them.

You have to wake up, she said softly. You can't lie there and leave me alone. We can still extricate ourselves! We haven't finished anything yet. Do you understand why I couldn't drag you to hospital? They would have discovered that you're German, brought in my superiors, forced me to reveal your identity. Then they would have reported the incident to your embassy, and discovered that your trip was unauthorised. They would have accused you of treason, made you disappear, and our parade would have been dead. I can't help you. You see that as clearly as I do, we are both conspirators who have performed horrors. If you die in my bed, the pair of us are finished, more or less.

Her eyelids drooped. Sleep beckoned her. It would be easy to sleep.
She got up, went to the table, lit the candle and then knelt next to the basin and washed her face. The cold restored her. She dipped her fingers in the water and moistened his swollen lips. The candle spread a golden light in the small room, and she saw how red his face was. His eyes were puffy and his dusty hair clung to his forehead which was bathed in grimy sweat. Spit dribbled from his lips. She dipped a cloth in water and passed it over his face. He quivered as though he had been stung. She withdrew in alarm and leaned over the basin. If she washed his body in cold water, would that help? She started to drag the heavy basin towards him, but changed her mind and left it in the middle of the room. She had no notion of how to treat him.

She remembered Vlada burning with fever in the attic, Grandfather slowly dying in the mirrored parlour, Mother getting sunstroke in Varlamov's courtyard—Father holding her tongue, Kolya burying his face in her lap, Emma exclaiming, ‘She has a talent for drama, that woman.'

None of that would help now. Those sick people weren't in her care. Someone else was there to give instructions. Maybe his pants were constricting him? She dared to loosen his belt, loosen the buttons of his trousers and pull them down to his knees. She did it as though committing a conscious sin: she had never met anyone who took the pains he did to make a respectable impression. If he woke up now, he would collapse again with humiliation.

His yellow, waxen thighs and flaccid stomach contrasted with the lively colour of his face. His thighs moved a little, maybe to help her. His naked body wasn't as she had imagined. His clothes filled him out and gave him a sturdy appearance, but they concealed a withered, bony body.

She had to stop staring at him. Where were his shoes? Had they been lost on the bridge or fallen off on the merchant's wagon that brought them here? Even if he got up now, how would he get back to Lublin? His shirt was torn, his trousers were dirty, his shoes were lost. She was already planning how she would go shopping for shoes and a white shirt in the morning so he could respectably report to the
railway station as soon as possible. She would explain to the sentry that the committee's discussions had been prolonged, they hadn't paid attention to the time and suddenly it was dawn. But what explanation would he give to the Germans in Lublin?

He had planned to return by the night train. He might have accomplices. He had probably bribed someone. Could he cross the border in the morning and return to Lublin without being caught?

She placed her hand on his chest to make sure that his heart hadn't stopped. Her fingers pressed on the bright tuft of hair, moist from cold sweat. She checked her watch: midnight already. Sometimes, in the depth of the night, there's a moment when the morning will never come, but for days and weeks she had been watching the dawn spread over the city, and it would happen this time, too.

He had been unconscious so long! Seething with anger she slapped him; her envy of the tranquil world he dwelled in strengthened the blow. He groaned and gave out a stifled whine. White saliva spurted onto his chin. She stood next to him, trembling. The strange thing was that she had hit him with her bandaged hand, and she would hit him again, she understood with frightening clarity.

She stepped away from the bed, and paced between the window and the wall, which was covered with green wallpaper and dotted with rusty nails. If you wanted to lean on it, you had to find a smooth section. Newspaper clippings, her research for the parade, were scattered on the floor. Seven steps separated the window and the wall. A line hung with underclothes and socks stretched between the small dressing table and the pine table where the candlestick stood. There were two children's stools painted orange. A clothing cupboard leaned against the wall next to the door, leaving a narrow space you had to squeeze through to avoid being scratched.

The shadow of his body moved on the ceiling. The air smelled of sweat mixed with vomit—she didn't remember him vomiting—and the floral scent of his hair oil. For some reason, as she leaned on the wall between the nails, as far away as she could get from him, the stench grew more intense. His smell was in her dress and on her skin.
Should she air the room? The scraping sound of the window might wake the neighbours. Thomas Heiselberg had taken over her house; his shadows had trapped her. Would he live or die? She put out the candle to kill the shadow, and approached the bed to confront her fear: a real body could never be as dreadful as its shadow. Now she only wanted to comfort him; how was it possible to think of harming a body lying helpless before you?

Don't lie, an inner voice teased. You're being docile because even if he's fatally ill he might still save the parade. You have no choice but to anoint him with the oil of victory. He's your last hope. Him and his grandiose forged plan.

She lay on her back on the bed. Actually, lying beside him, her fear subsided. There was no reason now to resist sleep. One more hour of wakefulness and she'd go mad. She would close her eyes for a minute or two. Maybe the time had come to surrender to fate. The bed was small. Her back pressed against his smooth arm, and her head rested on the hollow between his shoulder and his neck, which shivered at her touch.

Something sharp suddenly pierced her consciousness, a picture of the disaster that sleep would bring down on them. She rolled off the bed, rushed to the door and charged down to the street, spurred on by the urge to put her problem into someone else's hands. She turned right into Valerian Kuybyshev Street. Father had liked Kuybyshev: ‘He worked day and night so we could catch up with the West.' At the end of the street, Nikita Mikhailovich's building looked like a huge ship without its sail. She could hear the ticking of cicadas and the yowling of a cat. A figure passed by the window—it seemed to be looking at her.

She went up the stairs and touched the wooden door: this was a horrible mistake. There would be no going back. He was never a friend. Haven't you learned anything? He'll do only what he has to, he won't take your wishes into consideration. She knocked, and heard bare feet approaching. Nikita Mikhailovich stood there blinking, his hair dishevelled. Now, when he wasn't wearing glasses, she saw that his eyes were different in colour and flecked with dull amber.

She told him that the German representative was lying in her bed, hovering between life and death. ‘You studied medicine, Nikita Mikhailovich. Maybe you can wake him up.'

‘Just send him to the hospital.'

‘Impossible.'

‘Why?'

‘Simply impossible.'

‘I order you to send him to the hospital!' His tone was curt, but she could see he was puzzled by her rashness.

‘Impossible. The Germans mustn't know he's here.'

An angry shadow crossed his face. She was familiar with it: Why are you involving me in this? Don't you understand, you simpleton: our friendship is limited to matters that involve no danger?

She had anticipated this. In a minute or two, no trace would remain of the friendship between them, of the truth workshops, of his respect for her.

‘He came without their permission,' she said.

‘Does he want to defect?'

‘No, he wants to promote the parade.'

‘And did you know about that?'

‘Only after he got here.'

‘And now you want to collaborate with him?'

‘I just want to wake him up.'

‘You have to take him to the hospital and inform our Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They'll decide how to deal with this.'

‘It's impossible. He doesn't need a hospital. You're a doctor. Save him first, then we'll see.'

She gave him a stubborn look and hoped he understood that he had no choice, that he was already involved. He couldn't slam the door on her and go back to sleep. She had transferred the responsibility to someone more senior and she could always claim that he was the one who had hatched the plot. He had to do as she wished.

‘I studied medicine long ago,' he squirmed. ‘I don't remember much.'

‘You remember enough! We have to hurry,' she ordered.

He registered the tone of command, and frowned.

‘You have to come with me, Nikita Mikhailovich,' she whispered. ‘Otherwise this thing will blow up and endanger us all.' She looked over his shoulder into the dark hallway. Somewhere in there his wife and children were sleeping. He tried to block her field of vision. Strange guy, suddenly playing the innocent—a man who had deported tens of thousands of children from the district ought to know there was no end to it.

Now he understood the threat in all its fine detail: all their times together, the amusing notes they had exchanged during staff meetings—had she ripped them all up? How soon until she mentioned her husband's connections? He was already anticipating the accusations she'd pin on him if he refused her, and the evidence she'd invent; for the first time he was comprehending that her story had the power of myth: here was a woman who had informed on the people most dear to her and scattered them in labour camps all over the country.