The Woman from Bratislava (18 page)

‘But it’s so quiet and peaceful here,’ he said. ‘Russia is weak. What could the Russians possibly do now? They can hardly feed themselves. They got their asses kicked in Chechnya. Their
military
is rusting up. They couldn’t prevent the expansion of NATO. They couldn’t stop NATO from going to war against Yugoslavia. It’s the Upper Volta with nuclear missiles. Yeltsin is both blind and deaf. And anyway, they have to behave themselves. They can’t afford to do anything else.’

‘You’re forgetting history, Mr Toftlund,’ Gelbert said. ‘It’s always a mistake to forget history in this part of the world. It is always with us. I can smell the bodies of my countrymen in the Jewish ghetto. There are hardly any of us left …’

‘But that was the Nazis.’

‘Correct! But who was sitting only a few kilometres away, on the other side of the Vistula? Sukov and his mighty army. And did he come to their aid? No, he let the Nazis do the dirty work, and then he moved in. He let the Nazis destroy the Polish resistance and wipe out the Jewish ghetto. It was surrounded, fired upon, gassed and finally burned to the ground. Not far from here my Jewish kinsmen died in their millions in Auschwitz. All Jewish culture disappeared for ever from Central Europe. A great, rich and ancient culture. Lost for all time.’

Gelbert’s speech had grown more impassioned. Toftlund did not like being lectured. This was all water under the bridge. And anyway, his stomach was rumbling. Nonetheless he asked:

‘So what are you today, Colonel Gelbert? Jewish or Polish?’

‘A Polish Jew who remembers his history,’ Gelbert replied. ‘Come on. You must be hungry. I’m a bad host.’

He strode out briskly again, Toftlund keeping pace with him.

‘You mentioned that both the Russians and the Poles carry their history around with them. Like an old coat they can’t bring
themselves
to throw out. What did you mean by that?’

‘Our mistrust of one another runs deep. It does not fade simply because we are now free and Russia is struggling to shape a democracy.’ He laughed again and went on: ‘It may sound banal, but it is no less a fact. The Russians remember how the Poles occupied Moscow and the Kremlin in the seventeenth century, when we were a major power. The Russians remember how in 1920 the Polish army beat the Red Army when it was
marching
on Warsaw. Poland was opposed to the revolution. We Poles remember that for the greater part of the last two hundred years our country was occupied by the Russians. An occupation which did not end until 1989. A bloody occupation. We remember how Russian troops slaughtered fifteen thousand Polish officers at Katyn and blamed the Germans for it. For most of my life it was forbidden to talk about this massacre. Although we knew about it, of course. Everyone in Poland knew that the regime was lying when it denied that it had ever happened. History lives on here. Obviously we have to improve our relations with Russia. We have to live with the bear, but we don’t need to trust it. Especially not if it starts to get hungry again. It is dangerous to underestimate Russian nationalism.’

They walked on in silence, then Toftlund said:

‘I get the impression that the Poles feel they have always been persecuted by Russia, while the Russians see the Poles as
perpetually
betraying some sort of Slavic brotherhood.’

‘A shrewd observation, Mr Toftlund, and quite true,’ Gelbert said.

‘But now Poland is a success story and Russia is a big mess. The roles are reversed, right?’

Gelbert stopped again. They had been walking through the narrow streets and had now come out into a pretty little square surrounded by lovely neo-classical buildings. There were lots of shops and restaurants. In the centre of the square a number of horse-drawn carriages stood in the darkness. Business was slow at this time of day. The drivers sat hunched inside their heavy
overcoats
, puffing on their cigarettes. The horses had their muzzles buried in their nosebags. The absence of cars here made the silence even more marked. The mist enveloped the scene in a bewitching light which erased all sign that the buildings were actually of
concrete
and modern-built. A shiver ran down Toftlund’s spine. He could not have said why he suddenly felt uneasy. Maybe it was the atmosphere. But he felt he could clearly hear muffled screams emanating from the walls of the houses round about. It struck him that they were standing on piles of skeletons, that the city rested upon the bodies of thousands.

Gelbert sensed his mood:

‘History lives on here. Warsaw is just one city among many which have made this the century of the victim. You Danes live in a cosy little backwater. I envy you that. Just as people in the Balkans today envy you, because you know nothing of suffering and death. This means, though, that you tend to forget history and what it can do to people.’

‘We’re adept at steering clear of serious trouble and keeping on the right side of our big neighbours, not least Germany,’ Toftlund said.

Gelbert smiled:

‘It’s history that has taught you to do that. Just as history has taught us not to take tomorrow for granted. I had a meeting just the other day with my Russian counterpart, a delightfully
diplomatic
meeting. Because we are, of course, gentlemen. But there
was a certain undertone to the whole thing. This was shortly after the Foreign Ministry had declared two so-called diplomats to be
personae non gratae
in Poland. Our membership of NATO was more or less a
fait accompli
. He expressed his regret about this, but I had the feeling he knew that while Russia is weak at the moment, Poland is strong, protected as we now are by the world’s only superpower, the United States. When we said goodbye he shook my hand and said: “It’s been nice talking to you, Colonel Gelbert. Might I ask you to remember that when a lion is sick even a monkey can beat the shit out of it. But what happens to the monkey on the day when the lion is back on its feet?” It was an elegantly worded threat, but a threat nonetheless.’

‘And an elegantly worded insult,’ Toftlund remarked.

‘That too. This is the place.’

They stepped into a warm restaurant full of good smells. Almost every table was taken. The waitresses, in green blouses and short skirts, looked like something out of a bad operetta, but the beer was cold and foaming. Toftlund let Gelbert order for them both. He was so hungry that he would basically have eaten anything. The meal was heavy, but good. They started with a thick cabbage soup, and followed this with big wild boar steaks served with potato cakes, sauerkraut and gravy. Food like Grandma used to make, Toftlund thought. He ate it all with relish. So did Gelbert. What a metabolism he must have had, to be as slim as he was. They each had another large beer and rounded off with coffee. They chatted a little about their families, but mainly about the one subject on most people’s minds that spring: NATO’s war against Yugoslavia and the stream of refugees now pouring into Albania and
threatening
to spread to the rest of Europe.

Over coffee Toftlund said:

‘It was very nice of you to invite me to dinner.’

‘It was the least I could do. Denmark is our neighbour. In any case, I would always consider it my duty to help one of
Commissioner
Vuldom’s people. As I said – a formidable woman.’

Toftlund found his use of the word ‘duty’ – and, in fact, his whole way of speaking – interesting. In Denmark, a word such as ‘duty’ could easily give rise to some wry or sarcastic comment. Despite his American English Gelbert came over as being Central European to the core.

‘Can I take it that she has helped you?’

‘Most astute, Chief Inspector. Not only
has
helped, but
does
help me. For someone like me, appointed to this job not because of my police or legal experience, but because I am seen as having a democratic mentality and a clean sheet as far as the past is
concerned
, the advice which a woman like Commissioner Vuldom has to offer is invaluable.’

‘I see.’

‘And a word of advice to you, before we say goodbye. If you will permit me?’

‘Of course. I would be honoured.’ The words were out before Toftlund had time to think about it. He was starting to talk like Gelbert. In a rather antiquated, formal mode of speech which reminded him of the dialogue from an old Danish film, but which seemed to suit the situation.

‘Your case is a complex one, that’s for sure. I think you should be looking at the past. Especially the distant …’

‘What makes you think that? Is there something you’re not telling me?’ Toftlund said, more sharply than he had intended.

‘No. It’s just a hunch. Possibly triggered by our conversation earlier this evening. A hunch based on the fact that Maria Bujic, as you call her, has met so many different people, and that the frequency of these meetings has intensified over the past two years.’

‘There’s no guarantee that she has anything to do with this
business
at all.’

Gelbert drank the last of his espresso and looked him in the eye:

‘What’s your gut feeling?’

‘That she does. Somehow she is the key. I just don’t know which lock the key fits.’

‘You see. One more word of advice?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘You’ll have no problem with our allies in Budapest and Prague. We’ve sent them the relevant documents on our friend as agreed. But later, in Bratislava, when you meet my Slovakian counterpart, if we can call him that, you should not, perhaps, be quite as open with him as we have been with one another. I don’t think he has very much contact with Commissioner Vuldom. If I can put it like that.’

‘Konstantin. Stop beating about the bush,’ Toftlund said.

Gelbert gave his high-pitched laugh and reached a hand across the table.

‘Okay, Per. Let’s cut the bullshit, as they say in the States. My esteemed colleague, Eduard Findra, is a product of Meciar’s special forces regiment. He may not be entirely loyal to the new left-wing government, or to NATO for that matter. He used to work for the old Czechoslovakian secret service. Had he been a Czech he would have been put out to pasture years ago. The Slovaks are not quite so choosy. They have to use whatever skills these people happen to possess.’

‘Meciar? The name rings a bell, but I can’t quite think why.’

‘No, well, why should you Danes take an interest in the politics of some remote country in Central Europe,’ Gelbert responded drily. ‘Meciar is a former boxer, a gangster, prime minister,
nationalist
, one-time communist and far too popular with the Slovaks. Since last year Slovakia has had a new government, a broad
democratic
coalition. It is now racing against time, trying to get
Slovakia
back on track for membership of the EU and NATO. Like the rest of us. Slovakia was given the cold shoulder because of Meciar. There’s to be a presidential election in Slovakia in the summer. But Meciar could still cause trouble. Mr Findra, the head of the Slovakian secret service, was appointed by Meciar. He’s living on
borrowed time, but he’s still alive. I’m sure he is doing his patriotic duty, but duty is one thing, cronyism is something else again.’

‘I’ll bear your advice in mind, Konstantin.’

‘Well, I just hope it’s good advice,’ he said and raised his hand. The waitress came over right away. Toftlund had the distinct impression that Gelbert was a well-liked and respected regular at the
restaurant
, although he could tell from the prices that this was not a place where ordinary Poles, with their low wages, would often, if ever, eat.

Toftlund took a taxi back to the hotel. His driver from the morning was waiting for him in the lobby. He worked long hours. Without a word he handed Toftlund a fat manila envelope. Then he bade him a curt goodnight.

Per settled himself in the room’s one armchair with a whisky from the minibar. In the envelope were the photographs and the relevant reports translated into English. Gelbert’s boys had been hard at it. Instead of the characteristic typewritten characters of the originals, the copies were printed in a modern, word-
processor
typeface. A handwritten note was attached to the pile. In English, almost as if he had orchestrated their conversation of the evening in advance, Gelbert had written:

‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ Per Toftlund said out loud. Then he picked up his lined A4 notepad and began to work up his meticulous notes into a report, all ready to be transferred to the computer and thereby to the case file – and, not least, to Vuldom, when he got back to Denmark. He was booked onto a morning flight to Budapest and, if the day went as planned, an evening flight to
Bratislava
, in order to keep his morning appointment there before flying on to Prague.

Toftlund wrote down the facts, simply and clearly. Vuldom set great store by lucid prose. But she also liked a report to have a
feel
to it, or a mood: the expression on a face, an impression, such things could invest a bald case report with meaning and could always be weeded out again later when the document was filed so that, seventy-five years from now, historians and others might be allowed to dip into these top secret documents. On the other hand, one should not go any further than one deemed
reasonable
. There was no need to give everything away. As she said at her training courses: In a report, what is left unsaid can be both distracting and revealing. And in that paradox the truth about a person or an event will often lie hidden.