Post Office. The third, more entertainingly, featured a man in New York walking a tightrope between skyscrapers.
The movie proved a surreal experience in more ways than one. Since it was subtitled in Polish, the audience felt little need to keep quiet, and Russell had some trouble catching all the wisecracks. And as the subtitling ran a few seconds behind the visuals, he often found himself laughing ahead of everyone else, like some eccentric cackler.
None of it mattered, though. Hed loved the Marx Brothers since seeing
It had stopped snowing. In fact, the sky seemed to be clearing. As he walked back toward the city center, Russell had glimpses of the Wawel Castle and the cathedral silhouetted against a starry slice of sky. Following the tram-lines through a gap in the old medieval walls he eventually reached the Rynek Glowny, where the cafes and restaurants were humming with conversation and all sorts of music. Standing in mid-square beside the Cloth Hall he could hear pianos playing Mendelssohn, Chopin, and American blues.
People were having fun. They did that in Berlin too, but there was something different in the air. In Berlin there was always an edge of caution: looks over the shoulder, a rein on the tongue. Maybe there was one here tooheaven knew, the regime in Warsaw was illiberal enoughbut he couldn't feel it. If the Poles were facing the most threatening year of their recent existence, they werent letting on.
He thought about having a nightcap, but decided on not making things anymore difficult for Shchepkin than he needed to. He was only spending one night at the hotel.
There was no sign of him in the lobby, or of anyone else, suspicious or not. There was no message at reception when he collected his key. After ascending in the delightful glass-and-wrought-iron cage, he found his corridor silent, his door locked. The room was empty. Laughing at himself, he checked the wardrobe. No Shchepkin. No Harpo Marx.
It was almost midnight. He stretched out on the sofa with the book of John Kling detective stories which Paul had loaned him weeks before, one ear cocked for footsteps in the corridor, but all he heard was an occasional drunken shout from the street below. At 12:45 he gave up and went to bed, laughing in the dark about cracker crumbs.
HE WAS WOKEN BY CHURCH BELLS. It was just after eight, a thin line of gray light separating the curtains on the near window. Russell clambered out of bed and pulled them back. The tip of the church spire opposite was lit by an invisible sun, the sky clear. It looked bitterly cold.
He had mixed feelings about Shchepkins non-appearance. He couldn't help feeling annoyed that he might have come all this way, missing a weekend with Effi and Paul, only to be stood up. On the other hand, he could hardly say the weekend had been wasted: He liked Cracow, had loved
If nothing else, he told himself, the projected Soviet series had inspired him to generate others. And Shchepkinhe looked at his watchstill had seven hours to make contact before his train left.
He was damned if he was going to stay cooped up in his room, even assuming the hotel would let him. He decided to pack and take his bag to the left luggage at the main station, which was only five minutes walk away. He could get a taxi from there to the Plaszow station when the time came.
An hour later, he was enjoying coffee and rolls in an almost empty station buffet. There were no English or German papers for sale, andit being Sunday morningthere was little activity to observe. One small shunting engine chugged its way through in apparent search of work, but that was it. Russell was about to leave when a dark-haired young man loomed over his table. Have you a pencil I could use? he asked in German.
Russell handed his over.
The man sat down, wrote out what appeared to be train times on the corner of his newspaper, and handed the pencil back. Zygmunts Chapel, he said pleasantly as he got to his feet. Two oclock.
RUSSELL REACHED THE FOOT of the ramp leading up to the Wawel with time to spare. On the slopes of the hill several bunches of children were throwing snowballs at each other and squealing with delight, while their parents stood and chatted, plumes of breath coalescing in the air between them. Away to the left, the yellow walls and red tile roof of the Royal Palace stood stark against the clear blue sky.
The ramp ended in a gate through the old fortifications, close by the southern end of the cathedral. Thisin contrast to the church on the Rynek Glownywas an elegant mess featuring spires and domes in a bewildering variety of styles and sizes, as if the whole thing had been arranged by a playful child.
The Zygmunt Chapel was off the nave to the right. The tombs of two menkings, Russell assumedwere vertically stacked amid a feast of renaissance carving. The accompanying writing was in Polish, but he recognized the name Jagiello from the Danzig stamp wars.
Beautiful, yes? said a familiar voice at his shoulder.
It is, Russell agreed. Shchepkin was wearing the same crumpled suit, and quite possibly the same shirt, but on this occasion a dark green tie was hanging, somewhat loosely, beneath the collar. A fur hat covered his hair.
Have you visited Cracow before? the Russian asked.
No, never.
Its one of my favorite cities.
Oh.
Have you seen the Holy Cross Chapel? Shchepkin asked.
No. . . .
You must. Come. He led the way back toward the entrance, and the chapel to its left. Russell followed, somewhat amused at being shown the wonders of Christendom by a communist agent.
The chapel was extraordinary. There was another Jagiellonian tomb, carved in marble in the year Columbus stumbled across America, and a series of slightly older Byzantine frescoes. As they emerged, Shchepkin stood looking down the nave, then turned his eyes upward toward the soaring roof.
My father was a priest, he said in reaction to Russells look. One thing more, he added, gesturing toward the shrine in the center of the nave. It held a silver coffin of staggering workmanship. It was made in Danzig, Shchepkin pointed out, as if their relationship needed geographical continuity. Enough, he added, seeing Russells expression. Well save the crypts for another time. Lets go outside.
Between the cathedral and the walls overlooking the Vistula there was a large open space. Russell and Shchepkin joined the scattering of couples and small groups who were following the freshly cleared circular path, almost blinded for a while by the brightness of sun on snow.
The article was perfect, Shchepkin said eventually. Just what was required. He produced an envelope from his pocket and slipped it into Russells. For your research work, he said.
Russell stole a quick look at it. It was a bankers draft in reichsmarks. Lots of them.
Whats the next article about? Shchepkin asked.
Transport.
Excellent. So what are you telling me today?
Russell went through the results of his visit to Dresden, his impressions and analysis. It all seemed pretty obvious to him, but Shchepkin seemed satisfied enough, nodding and interjecting the occasional question or comment. Russell had the feeling he could have listed the stations on the Ringbahn.
After one circuit they started another. They were not alone in this, but one man in particular, limping along fifty yards behind them, struck Russell as suspicious. But when he glanced over his shoulder for the third time Shchepkin told him not to worry. One of mine, he said almost affectionately. Local help, he added, rubbing his hands
