“I just had a telephone call, Excellency, from Kocierba, the pharmacist in Bierzyniec. At eight o’clock this morning a company of Germans and Cossack police—Ukrainians—arrived in the village. They were ordered to be silent, but somebody talked. They have come to liquidate our asylum.”
Pajpak seemed somehow diminished. Only his crooked nose moved. He was through.
The dean, as befits a man of science, questioned the reliability of the pharmacist’s information. Pajaczkowski spoke in his defense.
“He is a solid man, Excellency. He has been here for thirty years. He remembers you from the times of the servant Olgierd. You wouldn’t know him, because he is a little man”—Pajaczkowski measured out a modest height above the floor—“but he is honest.”
He took a breath and said, “Excellency, this news is so terrible that I would prefer not to believe it. But it is our—I mean, it is my obligation to believe it.” Now came the hardest part of his speech. However humble and unsure of himself, he realized how cold their reception had been: the dean had not even invited them to sit down. Two chairs by the desk stood empty, shadowed in the gold reflection of the setting sun. The dean sat waiting, his large, veined hand resting on his book. This meant that the entire scene was an interlude, an interruption of more important business beyond the ken of his guests.
“I have learned, Excellency, that these soldiers are commanded by a German psychiatrist. In other words, a colleague of ours. A Doctor Thiessdorff,”
He paused. The dean was silent. He merely raised his gray eyebrows as if to say: I don’t know the name.
“Yes. A young man. Member of the SS. And though I realize what a thankless undertaking it is—what else can we do? We must go see him in Bierzyniec today, Excellency, because tomorrow…” His voice failed. “The Germans have notified Mr. Pietrzykowski, the mayor, that they need forty people for a labor detail tomorrow morning.”
“This news is not entirely unexpected,” the dean said quickly. It was strange that such a big man could speak so quietly. “I have anticipated it, though perhaps not in this form, ever since Rosegger’s article. Surely you remember it.”
Pajpak nodded vigorously: he remembered, he was listening, he was paying attention,
“I do not know, however, what my role in all this might be,” the dean went on. “As far as I know, the staff and the doctors are in no danger. Whereas the patients…”
He should not have said that. Accustomed as he was to preparing his words well in advance, he must not have been thinking this time.
Pajaczkowski appeared no different, but though his thin hand was still an old man’s hand, it did not tremble as it rested on the comer of the desk.
“These are times,” he said, “in which human life is losing its value. These are horrible times, but Your Excellency’s name should still be able to guard this house like a shield and save the lives of one hundred and eighty unfortunate people.”
The dean’s other hand, which had remained behind the desk as if not taking part in the discussion, now intruded in a vigorous horizontal gesture where meaning was clear: Silence.
“I am not, after all, the director of this institution,” he said. “I am not even listed as an employee. I hold no position here. My presence is entirely unofficial, and I believe that serious problems may arise for me—and for you —on that account. However, I will remain here if you so wish. As for my mediation, the Germans have already evaluated what services I have performed. In Warsaw. And you know to what effect. The wild young Aryan who, as you say, intends to kill our patients tomorrow is following the orders of an authority that respects neither age nor academic reputation.”
Silence fell, a change coming slowly over the room. The last rays of the setting sun moved across the cabinet by the window in a red, weeping stain so delicate that Stefan, though riveted by the conversation, could not help following it with his eyes. Then a blue veil dropped over the room like clear water. It got darker, and sadder, the way the lighting announces a new scene in a well-staged play.
“I am going there now,” said Pajaczkowski, who stood erect and looked quixotic with his small beard. “I thought that you would accompany me.”
The dean did not move.
“In that case, I’ll be off. Good-bye, Excellency.”
They left. In the corridor, Stefan felt very small beside the old man. The tiny, withered face bore a great deal of pride at that moment.
“I’m going now,” he said, as they stood at the top of the light-dappled staircase. “I trust you will keep everything you have just heard to yourself until I return.”
He put his hand on the rail. “The dean has been going through a difficult time. He was thrown out of the laboratory in which he laid the groundwork for electroencephalography. His work was important not only in Poland. Still, I didn’t think…” Here a shade of the old Pajpak returned, but only for an instant: his beard trembled. “I don’t know.
“You want me to go along?” Stefan suddenly asked. Fear swept over him. He felt stunned, just as he had when the German kicked him, and he took a step back.
“No. What could you do? Only Kauters, perhaps.” He added, after a long pause, “But he wouldn’t go. I’m sure of that. The scene in there was enough for me.”
He started down the empty stone staircase with strides so firm that it was as if he wanted to refute all the rumors of his poor health.
Stefan was still standing at the top of the stairs when Marglewski appeared. The scrawny doctor was in bubbling spirits. He grabbed a button of Stefan’s shirt and drew him to the window.
“Have you heard that the priest is saying Mass tomorrow? He needs altar boys and I promised Rygier that I would find some for him. You know who’s going to serve? Little Piotr from my ward! You know who I mean?”
Stefan remembered a small blond boy with a face like a Murillo angel and a shock of gold hair. A drooling, retarded cretin.
“It’ll be out of this world! Listen, we absolutely have to…”
Stefan sacrificed the button, shouted that he was in a hurry, and left Marglewski in mid-sentence. He ran out of the building and down the road to Bierzyniec where Pajaczkowski had gone. As he flew downhill, barely seeing the road, he heard a sound above the crunching of the leaves. He stopped and looked up. It was a motor. Someone was driving up the hill. A cloud of dust drew nearer behind the trees. Stefan could not help shivering, as if an icy wind had blown over him. He turned back quickly. He had almost reached the stone arch with its worn inscription when the engine roared past him. He leaned against the pillar.
It was a German military vehicle, a slab-sided Kubelwagen, rocking as it climbed in second gear. The driver’s helmet showed dark behind the windshield. The vehicle turned and stopped at the gate with a clatter.
Stefan walked toward it.
A big German was standing at the wall, wearing a camouflage cape, dark goggles pushed up onto his helmet, and black gloves with embroidered labels. Patches of mud were drying on the folds of his cape. He was saying something loudly to the gatekeeper. When Stefan heard his question, he answered in German: “Unfortunately the director is not here at the moment. May I help you?”
“Things have to be straightened out here,” the German replied. “Are you the vice-director?”
“I’m a doctor here.”
“All right, then. Let’s go inside.”
The German walked in decisively, as if already familiar with the place. The driver remained behind the wheel. Stefan noticed that he kept his hand on an automatic pistol lying on the seat beside him.
Stefan led the German into the main office.
“How many patients are here at present?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know if…”
“I’ll decide when you should apologize,” the German said sharply. “Answer me.”
“About a hundred and sixty.”
“I must have the exact figure. Let me see the papers.”
“That is confidential.”
