The Mazovia Legacy (17 page)

“The treasures in the museum vaults went back to the Communists in 1961. January. There were celebrations in Warsaw and Krakow. Some of the last hold-outs of the government-in-exile, a certain faction at least, could not believe that it was over. But for your uncle it was not over. He would never tell his secret to anyone. He would no longer have known whom to trust anyway. Kozlowski had died. Duplessis had died. It was for Stanislaw alone to watch and wait and at the right time he would see that the goods went back to the right people.”

“How could he ever know when that was? Or who were the right people?” Natalia asked.

“That, my dear, was precisely his burden. Because as you know, the events in Poland never became any simpler, did they? They are not simple as we speak. This was your uncle's burden.”

“And he was killed because of this?”

“I believe that he was.”

“But who?”

“Any number of people, any number of groups, Natalia. These goods he hid away have everything that people are ever killed for. There is money involved, a great deal apparently. There is power, potentially. And there are symbols. I think you will find that people are often killed for just one of these things. Your uncle was a custodian of all three.”

“But how would anyone ever have found out?” Natalia asked.

For one cold, dark second she thought:
Because you betrayed him.
But immediately she realized that this man, her uncle's comrade from the war, would never have betrayed his friend. Zbigniew read her thoughts.

“Do you think I could possibly betray him, Natalia?”

“No. No, I don't. I don't think that you could.”

“Thank-you, my dear. He was like my brother. He was my brother. And the simple fact of the matter, Natalia, is that as it turned out, your uncle betrayed himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he waited and he watched and he picked his moment to reveal his secret because he thought the time was right, and he was, unfortunately, mistaken.”

“Who did he tell?”

Zbigniew handed her another letter, this one on modern bright blue airmail paper.

“Montreal,

July 3, 1992

Ah Zbigniew, I am tired. I am a tired old man, and a foolish one. All these years of watching and waiting and now I realize I have made a very foolish error, my friend. Like a young man I have been impatient and I have made an error. But perhaps you of all people will understand and will be able to forgive me this sin of impatience after all these years.

We have been seduced, I think, Zbigniew, all of us old ones who were in the War. Were we not all seduced by that peasant Walesa, with his smiles and his promises? Did we not all rejoice to see, at last, at last, at last, the insignia given back to him that day when he was sworn in as president of Poland? Our old comrades, Zbigniew, some of them anyway, travelling to Warsaw at long last to give him back the insignia and the documents they said would only go to a legitimate government of Poland.

But, you know, I did wait a little, my friend. Perhaps I was not as impatient as all that. For those like us who saw Poland clearly, knew her history, nothing would ever be quick or simple. Is that not true, my friend? I waited, as I knew I should. I decided to wait one more year. As you know, not a long time in the history of our struggle. But now it is clear that this was not long enough.

By the beginning of this year, I thought it was enough. Walesa was in power, there had been parliamentary elections, the Communists were being removed from their posts, all seemed in order. Surely you would agree with that, Zbigniew. All seemed to be in order. And so I sent word to Walesa's office and told a little, not all, of what I knew. But now, Zbigniew, it is clear that I moved too quickly.

Walesa is no friend of democracy, Zbigniew. He is a little tyrant who knows nothing of statesmanship and respect for others. The place is in an uproar again, my friend, and I can only hope that they continue to ignore my foolish old man's letters from a few months ago and that I can watch and wait for much, much longer before I decide what is to be done. I don't even know who might have seen it or how far up the line of command they may have gone. I seem to have been dismissed for an old madman, in any case, Zbigniew, and that is a blessing.”

“He wrote a letter to Walesa about the treasures,” Natalia said.

“Yes, my dear,” Zbigniew said. “To Walesa's office, in any case. Several letters. I have never been clear on how many. Early in 1992. Nothing too detailed, as he says in that letter you are holding now. But enough to indicate to them that he had some very important information about a matter from the war, concerning the Wawel treasures and Canada.

“Anyone with a knowledge of those times could not have failed to be intrigued. But you see Walesa and his people are fools, amateurs, frauds. The place was in turmoil again soon after Walesa became president, as I'm sure you know. He could not cope with the transition from Solidarity hero to president. He was impatient with democracy, he was impatient with economics and planning and gradual transformation, and it all began to go to his head. And, of course, there was Wozniak, that fool of a chauffeur he used for a personal adviser.

“Can you imagine, Natalia, Walesa and other such people in Belvedere Palace, planning the future of our country, drafting constitutions, negotiating with the International Monetary Fund? It is unimaginable.”

Zbigniew opened his tin of cigarettes to find a fresh one to light.

“Stanislaw picked the wrong time to involve Walesa,” Natalia said.

“Yes,” Zbigniew said. “Or Walesa's people, in any case. Stanislaw was never clear about who in Walesa's office actually got this information he sent to Warsaw. But he soon realized his mistake. He became very worried when prime ministers began to be ousted and governments started to collapse one after another. Then the files started to emerge from the secret police offices about who had been the informers and which MPs in the new Sejm might have been KGB spies in the old days, about infiltration of the new regime by secret police, Communists, and the old guard KGB.

“Walesa even started playing up to the army in that period, my dear. The buffoon started wearing battle fatigues at about that time and was photographed with generals on top of tanks. There was talk that he might lead a coup against the Parliament — you will remember that too, I would imagine.”

Natalia was ashamed at how little she had cared for the intricacies of Polish politics, any politics.The stories were not unknown to her but as always she had been more receptive to other things. Too introverted, she thought, ruefully, to pay much attention to what Delaney liked to call “the real world.”

“And so your uncle regretted alerting Walesa's office that an old man in Montreal had important information for them,” Zbigniew said. “But quite some time after that letter you have just read, many months after, he allowed himself to believe that things would be all right, that his few letters had been ignored, that they had been lost in the bedlam of what was going on in Warsaw then. There was not much detail in what he had told them. And the letters would have been among thousands of letters going to Walesa's office in that period in any case. So he thought the information had been ignored.”

“But it wasn't, was it?” Natalia asked.

“No. Eventually, they responded. Someone in Walesa's office, or claiming to be in Walesa's office — we must be careful here — sometime in 1993 when things were getting even more crazy and when it was becoming clear that Walesa would probably lose power in the next presidential election. Someone close to him, or maybe the intelligence service, or God only knows who in a situation like that, decided that, yes, perhaps this odd bit of correspondence from Montreal should be followed up.

“So they began to write letters to Stanislaw, asking for more information. Then, when he ignored them, there were apparently some phone calls and telegrams. All of that took time, as these things do. Then there was a polite visit from some people claiming to be officers of the embassy in Ottawa. That sort of thing. Of course, at no point did your uncle tell them anything more. But you see, Natalia, their appetites were whetted, and he could not stop what he had started.

“They checked his name, I would imagine, and found out what he had done in the war. Any simpleton, even among Walesa's people, could have found out Stanislaw had been a presidential aide-de-camp, that he had been involved in the movement of the Wawel Castle goods, that there had been this long battle in Canada to get them back. It would not take long for a greedy treacherous bunch like those in Warsaw to put a scenario together.”

“But if he didn't tell them what they wanted, what could they do?” Natalia said. “Surely they would just conclude it was a prank, a joke, not to be taken seriously.”

She knew as soon as she spoke the words how foolish they were. Zbigniew looked at her sadly.

“Natalia, you surprise me with your naïveté,” he said. “Have you no idea what the stakes are for people like Walesa or for those around him or even for his enemies? Everyone in Warsaw is looking for advantage, my dear. Governments have been collapsing one after the other, the future of the country is at stake. There will be an election for president this November and everyone is saying that Walesa will lose, as he so richly deserves to lose. Even the slightest chance of some political advantage or the chance of some money would be too attractive to ignore these days, my dear. For any number of players.”

“But why would they kill him?” Natalia asked. “Who would have killed him?”

“Natalia, for almost two years they harassed him, various people, from God knows which faction. Eventually, I believe, they became tired or angry and they killed him.”

“But who, Zbigniew?”

“That is the question. It could have been any one of a number of people or groups of people.”

“But with him dead, they could no longer hope to find what he was talking about,” Natalia said.

“Perhaps they made him tell them something before he died. Perhaps they might have found something after he was dead, my dear. In his house, perhaps?”

Or they could decide they might find it here,
Natalia thought suddenly.

“Why would they then kill that priest?” she asked.

“We are not sure that priest was murdered, Natalia,” Zbigniew said. “I'm sure,” she said.

“All right, let us assume that he was. We must assume then that they thought he also knew something about what Stanislaw knew. It is not impossible that your uncle might have confided in him. Perhaps they interrogated him.”

“But he was a priest.” Zbigniew laughed ruefully.

“There are a lot of dead priests in Poland who could have told that poor old Quebecois how dangerous it is to assume anyone is untouchable,” he said. “And there are still many people in Warsaw with the skills to make people tell them things, my dear. I regret to have to tell you that.”

“Please. Don't.”

Natalia was becoming exhausted by all she had learned so far that day. Outside, the boys were still playing soccer in the square. The sun was fading as the day grew overcast and the afternoon progressed.

“You are tired Natalia, but there are important decisions to be made,” Zbigniew said. “For your uncle's sake.”

And for yours,
she thought.
He must know what danger he is in
.
We are all in.

They went out into the garden and looked at flowers and the old church walls for a moment, to clear their heads. Zbigniew then made them rough sandwiches of heavy bread, sausage, and some excellent Dijon mustard. They ate quietly at a long table, seated on square wooden stools. Zbigniew had a large glass of Côtes du Rhône. Natalia had no taste that afternoon for wine.

“It's obvious that I have to find the treasures,” Natalia said eventually. “It sounds so ridiculously dramatic, doesn't it? The treasures. The goods. The materials. The cache.”

“Yes,” said Zbigniew. “That is obvious to me as well.”

“And then, I suppose, I will have to decide what is to be done with them.”

“As the new custodian.”

“The reluctant custodian,” she said.

“We do not choose our fate, my dear. That is our fate.”

Zbigniew sat looking directly at her from across his battered old table. He reached for his tin of Sobranies and his matches.

“I have to say this, Zbigniew,” Natalia said. “I think you're in danger. And now I am as well.”

“You are correct.”

He did not seem troubled by this. He smoked quietly, watching her.

Natalia realized there was little use in discussing the dangers, now that they were both so deeply implicated.
Francis is in danger now too,
she thought, wondering where he might be.
Playing spook, he would probably say.

“Where do you think the things are?” Natalia said suddenly. “And what is the password?”

It was late afternoon when Natalia left the apartment. Her head was full of this new information, this fantastical story she had been told that day. So she did not see Hilferty and Stoufflet climbing out of their silver-grey Renault as the exterior door of Zbigniew's building closed behind her.