March, 1947
They reached Krakow by mid-afternoon of their first day of travel. The big Mercedes limousine provided a surprisingly comfortable ride. Hermann drove, with Elizabeth and Colling in the front seat beside him. Elena and the children rode in the spacious back with Helga. The larger pieces of luggage were in the trunk, together with a few bottles of wine and cognac that Hermann insisted that they bring with them, and some tins of caviar and other delicacies. The chrome pull-down rack on the rear of the car was filled with jerry cans of gasoline and an extra spare tire. The heavy vehicle rode well over the rutted country roads. They stopped only occasionally to stretch their legs, and at noon ate a lunch comprised of sandwiches from a picnic basket that Helga had prepared before they departed.
Colling told Hermann not to stop in Krakow, despite the butler’s warning that there would be no hotels between there and Czestochowa, and only poor accommodations there. Colling reminded him that success depended heavily on speed.
Outside Krakow they encountered their first checkpoint, their path barred by several saw-horses placed across the road. The place was manned by soldiers in Russian-style uniforms wearing Polish insignia, backed up by a contingent of Red Army men. They all stared pointedly at the big Mercedes, talking among themselves, and Colling guessed that they were discussing this unusual event.
The Polish lieutenant who approached the driver’s window asked for their papers. As they had rehearsed, Hermann first handed over his identification as a police operative, then the general safe conduct pass that Tomek had prepared from the template that Colling had provided. Colling got out of his side of the car and walked around to hand over the American passports for himself, Elizabeth and Elena, and the certificates for the girls. Tucked into his and Elizabeth’s passports were their Communist Party of the U.S.A. membership cards. Hermann shouted gruffly at Helga, who gave him her Polish identity papers, which he handed over to the Pole.
A Russian officer came to join the Polish lieutenant, and the two of them thumbed through the documents. They looked up as Colling said in English, “Everything in order, Comrades?”
The Polish officer apparently understood him, because he asked, with a heavy accent, “Mister, where you going?”
“Warsaw,” replied Colling, “We’ve been touring the country. Just came down from Warsaw the other day, down the Vistula. We left Tarnow late yesterday. Thought we’d have a look at Krakow before going back to Warsaw.” As soon as he got the words out, Colling prayed that he would not be asked where they had stayed in Krakow.
The Russian officer held out his hand, saying something in Russian, and the Polish lieutenant said, “He welcomes you to Poland. He sees you are Communist from America. He is happy to…how is said? Make your acquaintance.”
Colling shook the Russian’s hand and said, “Tell him I am honored to be in the new People’s Republic of Poland. I am much impressed, and will tell my comrades at home about the progress that has been made here.”
The Polish officer translated, and Colling suspected his Russian was nearly as bad as his English, but the Russian officer smiled broadly. Their documents were returned to them, and smiling, Colling climbed back into the limousine. The Polish lieutenant said something to Hermann before he rolled up his window, and as they drove past the barrier of sawhorses that the soldiers had moved aside for them, he said, “He told me I was lucky to have such an assignment, driving rich Americans around. Told me to ask for a gratuity.”
They were in Czestochowa just after dusk. Hermann asked at a post office where he might find accommodations for the night, and they were directed to what was apparently the town’s only hotel, a small, run-down place on the outskirts that looked as if it had been converted from a private residence. In the dark, the shabby appearance of its exterior was not noticeable, but as they filed into the entrance hall that served as a lobby, they could see that the establishment had seen better days.
The hotel’s two staff members, a clerk and a maid, were friendly, however, and the rooms were warm. When they tried the hotel’s dining room, they found that the one dish appearing on the menu, cabbage cooked with spiced ground meat, was plain but filling. Colling slept beside Elizabeth for the first time in nearly a year, and during the night she embraced him in her sleep, murmuring something. He returned the embrace, but did not wake her.
They bundled into the limousine early the next morning. The innkeeper was extremely pleased when Colling paid him in dollars, and wished them all a safe journey, waving from the steps of the hotel as they drove away.
There were four more stops by officials as they made their way towards Warsaw. Each time, their American passports, the general safe conduct pass and the Party identification seemed to make an impression, and they were waved on their way. At one checkpoint, a half-intoxicated Russian major insisted that Hermann, Colling and Elizabeth drink vodka with him, toasting the triumph of socialism and the Great Comrade Stalin. Colling was concerned that the Russian would not be satisfied with their drinking one glass with him, and hit upon the idea of making the man a gift of a bottle of the Countess’ cognac, diverting his attention long enough for them to slip away.
Colling told Hermann that he did not want to enter Warsaw proper, but to circle it. The butler said he had never done so when driving the Count and Madame, and was unsure of what roads to take. They eventually pulled out the Esso map and traced a circuitous route around the city that would bring them to the main road leading north. Colling hoped that the roads were as they had been in 1938, when the map was printed.
They reached the place where they would leave the main highway to detour around Warsaw as the sun was low in the sky. Hermann was hesitant about trying to find their way in the dark. He said that he might know of a place where they might spend the night, and Colling agreed to pass the turnoff and allow Hermann to take them to where he guessed they might find accommodations.
Even in the waning light, Hermann had little difficulty locating the house for which he was looking. It was a large mansion on a tree-lined street of similar houses on the city’s outskirts. Hermann explained that one of the Count’s business managers had owned the home, and it was possible that the man was still living there. Colling was not as optimistic, and said so.
Hermann pulled the bell cord that hung beside the mansion’s wrought-iron gate. A few minutes later, a stooped old man came out to see who had rung. He was someone Hermann did not know, but when Hermann asked for Panowie Bronoskowicz, the old man opened the gate and invited them in.
The Count’s former manager greeted Hermann warmly and asked about the Countess. Hermann told him that she had died, and Bronoskowicz expressed his condolences. After some reminisces about the von Brechstlers, Hermann introduced Colling and asked if they might find shelter for the night for themselves and five others travelling with them. Bronoskowicz explained that he was required to share his house with four families who had been assigned to him by the government. They were all pretty decent folk, he admitted, but he no longer had any guest bedrooms to offer. After a moment’s thought, however, he extended an invitation for their party to sleep in his part of the mansion. He had a bedroom, bath and sitting room, and thought that if they were willing to sleep on the floor for one night, they would be crowded but indoors and warm.
Bronoskowicz showed Hermann where he might park the Mercedes behind the house, and then led his new-found guests to his rooms. The women took over the task of using bedclothes and blankets from the limousine to provide places for everyone to sleep. When the children had been put to bed on the floor of their host’s bedroom, the adults gathered in the sitting room and shared cognac from one of the bottles brought from the villa. Bronoskowicz had much to say about the current state of things in Poland, as well as his experiences during the war. He had been pressed into service running factories by first the Germans, then the Polish national liberation government, and now the Communist government. He was of the opinion that his current bosses were undoubtedly the worst. They were only able to set quotas, but found it impossible to provide the raw materials or skilled labor required to meet them. He fully expected to be demoted to worker status at any time, or perhaps worse, to be sent to a labor camp.
Their presence in the house did not seem to arouse any particular interest in the other tenants, although as they loaded the Mercedes early the following morning, they could see faces peering from the windows overlooking the parked limousine. Colling was anxious to be off, but before he left, he handed Bronoskowicz a roll containing five hundred dollars, telling him that he should use the money to get out of Poland at the earliest opportunity.
They passed some stretches of scenery that looked familiar to Colling and Elizabeth as they traveled in a circle around Warsaw. They encountered no checkpoints on what were essentially dirt tracks through farm country. The fields on either side were bare, flecked by patches of snow, and they passed only a handful of locals using the road.
When they emerged onto the main highway to Danzig, it was not long before they saw the Vistula. Colling wondered what had happened to the boatman, Petr Zaminoski, and his family, and whether the Russian colonel was still trading currency in the town square of that nearby village. He could not recall its name. He looked over at Elizabeth and asked himself if she were having the same thoughts.
The first checkpoint of the day was at a bridge crossing a tributary of the Vistula that Colling understood to be the Brda. The bridge was made of steel and appeared to have been put in place parallel to the ruins of the former bridge by Russian engineers. It was similar to others Colling had seen in Germany, and he guessed it to be of American manufacture. A black and white striped pole served as a barrier on their end of the bridge, and Colling could see its twin at the bridge’s north end. There were no Polish guards around, only Red Army troops, and the blue collar flashes and cap bands of the officers in charge marked them as NKVD. Colling felt a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach as one of the NKVD men asked Hermann for their papers while his companions sized up the Mercedes and its passengers.
Colling kept to his usual practice, and exited his side of the car and walked around it to stand beside the Russian. The officer barely glanced up from scrutinizing Hermann’s police identity card, and Colling said in English, smiling and in as cheerful a voice as he could muster, “Greetings, Comrade! Here are our passports.”
Colling did not know whether it was the English or his display of good humor towards a secret police officer that caught the Russian’s attention, but the man turned to him and responded in slightly accented English, “Greetings. You are Englishman or American?”
“Americans. Having a look at Poland. The Party office in Warsaw was really swell in getting us permission to travel.”
The NKVD man took the passports that Colling had been holding out to him. He began to slowly read through each of them, pulling out the Party cards and staring at them. Suddenly he shouted something in Russian, and a second NKVD man came over to join them. The first officer handed the documents to his companion and asked what sounded to Colling like a question. A discussion between the two ensued, seemingly some kind of argument. Colling suddenly realized that Elizabeth was standing at his side. She spoke to the two officers in Russian, and they both bowed slightly to her and responded in a more respectful tone of voice.
Elizabeth had the copy of The Daily Worker with the story about Warrencliffe Senior, and opened it to show it to them, pointing to the picture and to Colling. She went on conversing with the Russians, and they were soon both smiling, and at one point, laughed with her at something she said. Elizabeth turned towards the limousine and motioned with her hand, calling Helga’s name. The maid emerged from the car with two bottles of Hennessey, the last two bottles by Colling’s count, and handed them to Elizabeth, who in turn presented them to the NKVD men. At this, the officer that Colling had spoken to first brushed past him and approached the rear passenger door that Helga had left standing open, and stuck his head into the car, smiling at the two little girls and asking in his accented English, “How are you, little girls?”
In unison, the children answered him, “Fine, sir. How are you?”
Colling was hoping that the conversation would not go on, but the NKVD man was encouraged by the girls’ response, and after responding to their question with, “I am fines, too,” asked, “What is names, please?”
“Barbara, sir,” said Basia.
“Katherine, sir,” said Katya.
The Russian laughed, saying to Elizabeth, “You have such pretty childrens. Like mother,” then after looking at Colling, “But not blondes hair, like mother. More dark, like father.” And with that, he clapped Colling on the back.
The second NKVD man returned the passports and other papers to Colling, touched the visor of his cap with his finger, and shouted for the striped pole to be raised.
The barrier on the other side of the bridge also went up to allow them to pass, and as they drove under it, Colling could hear Elena telling the girls that they had been wonderful. He asked Elizabeth, “What did you tell them?”
“Same story you cooked up. Your daddy has lots of money, but he’s a socialist. We joined the Party because we wanted a cause. Love Stalin, all that jazz.”
“What was it they were laughing about?”
“They complimented me on my looks, and I told them American Communists were not so serious as they are in Europe.”
Colling blurted out, “Too bad you couldn’t use your charm like that when they arrested you,” and then immediately regretted it.
Elizabeth stared straight ahead through the limousine’s windshield, saying nothing, then in a flat voice, she said, “It was the papers. They trusted the papers you gave them. I didn’t have the right papers.” Colling could see tears forming in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Liz. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It doesn’t matter. Forget it,” she replied.
Colling could think of nothing to say in response. The two girls in the back were chattering with their mother and Helga, but Colling and Elizabeth rode in silence. Hermann made no attempt to start a conversation, seemingly disconcerted by the tension that he sensed had arisen between the man and woman seated beside him.
As they passed through the next town, Colling told Hermann that he wanted to stop if there was a tavern or café. A place with several tables outside its door was in the central square, and Hermann pulled up in front of it as he had been asked. Colling instructed the others to wait in the car while he went inside. A few minutes later, he came back carrying a basket filled with a half-dozen bottles of vodka. After placing them in the trunk of the limousine, he returned the basket to the tavern’s owner and climbed back into the car. He explained that with the cognac gone, they would need something else with which to bribe the Russians.
They were stopped three more times before reaching Gdansk, as it was now called. On each occasion, Colling and Elizabeth worked as a team; Colling playing the friendly American communist, and Elizabeth his more sophisticated Russian-speaking wife. They were amazed that no one seemed the least bit surprised that their party was proceeding across Poland in a big German luxury car. Elena and her girls were superb, answering in English when addressed.
Once through the city, they drove north and west along the coast towards the region’s resort areas. Hermann mentioned that he was most familiar with the Grand Hotel in Sopot, which had been a favorite of the von Brechstler’s, but admitted that he had no idea what condition the place might be in at present. Colling reminded him that they needed a less conspicuous place to stay while they arranged for passage across the Baltic, and Elizabeth agreed. At that point, Elena broke in to say that she knew of a seaside town with pensions and small hotels where she and Tomasz had stayed before the war, and provided directions to Hermann on how to get there.
Colling decided that the village to which Elena led them would be described as “picturesque” in a tourist guide. A short row of perhaps seven or eight houses fronting the sea all held signs indicating they accepted guests. Within walking distance, a small harbor for fishing boats had been created by the construction of two breakwaters. A cluster of buildings across the street from the docks served as the center of town.
Elena pointed out the house in which she and her husband had spent a week one summer, and Colling selected another, not wishing to take the chance that she might be recognized. They parked in front, and Colling climbed the steps and knocked on the door. It was answered by the gray-haired proprietress, and when he explained in Polish that they were seeking accommodations for a few days, she welcomed him in. When he asked where they might keep their car, she directed him to a large shed behind the house that could serve as a garage, reached by a track running through the grass-covered dunes behind the row of houses. After they had removed their luggage, Colling told Hermann where to take the Mercedes and put it out of sight.
Colling had asked to rent three rooms, and the landlady, who told them her name was Klara Vollmer, took them up the stairs to show them their accommodations. She somewhat proudly told Colling that she had been born in Germany, and asked that he call her “Frau Vollmer.”
Colling counted, and determined that the little hotel had ten rooms and no guests other than themselves. Frau Vollmer apologized that there had been no electricity since the district power plant had no coal, and what light there was would be provided by oil lamps. The fireplaces in their rooms would take off the chill. She advised that there was no coal and wood was scarce, so they would probably be warmer during the day if they stayed in the dining room or the sitting room downstairs. A few pieces of kindling would be provided at night. There was running water from a cistern located on a hill behind them, and they had had plenty of rain, so the water closets were functioning as they should. If anyone wanted a bath, it would require heating water in the kitchen and carrying it upstairs to the bathroom that served all ten of the guest rooms.
As he signed the register, he had a view of the dining room, furnished with a scattering of small tables. It was located to the left of the foyer, and on the opposite side was a large room with a pair of sofas and easy chairs that Frau Vollmer referred to as the sitting room. When the old lady discovered that they had not yet eaten, she invited them to seat themselves in the dining room while she prepared supper.
As they sat waiting, they could hear the old lady clattering around in the next room, and after a few minutes, Helga rose and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, asking if she might be of help. Colling could discern a conversation in progress, and although he could not distinguish what was being said, Helga did not return immediately, leading him to believe that the German maid’s offer had been accepted.
When she did reappear, Helga came carrying a tray covered with glasses of hot tea. She indicated that it would not be much longer before their meal arrived. Elizabeth suggested that they pull three of the tables together so that they would all be sitting with one another as they ate, and Colling and Hermann dutifully rearranged the tables and chairs. The two little girls looked as if they were tired, and Colling asked Elena how they were holding up after such a long motor trip. She assured him that a good night’s sleep would do wonders.
Frau Vollmer finally came in pushing a serving cart holding a huge tureen. Helga followed with their place settings and bowls, which she distributed in front of each of them. The landlady ladled out a thick fish stew; when Colling tasted it, he found it delicious, and said so. As Helga dipped her spoon into her bowl, she informed them that this was Baltic eel chowder. After a momentary pause, Colling decided he did not care what kind of sea animal he was eating, it was still delicious. He noticed that Elizabeth had shown no particular reaction to what Helga had said, and concluded that her upbringing had probably included more culinary sophistication than his own.
The landlady had brought in a basket of tan-colored bread while they ate, and she apologized for its poor quality. Colling tasted some of it, and had to admit that she was right. Elizabeth asked if there were anything to put on the bread, and Frau Vollmer went off and came back with a large jar of German-labeled orange marmalade. She mumbled that she had only two more left in the pantry as she placed it on the table. Colling found that the bread became edible if it had a thick layer of marmalade on it, and he told Elizabeth how clever she was for thinking of it.
For a moment the others were talking among themselves and it was if Colling and Elizabeth were alone, and he took her hand and whispered an apology for his behavior and the comment he had made at the checkpoint. He asked her forgiveness for saying what he said, knowing it must have been so hurtful to her. She squeezed his hand and said, “It’s not important. I’ll get over it.” Her response left him feeling worse than he had before he had made the apology.
As Helga and Frau Vollmer were clearing away the dishes, Colling told Elizabeth he wanted to visit the fishing village to see if arrangements could be made for their passage to Sweden. He told her it would be best if he went alone.
It was dark and a chill wind was blowing off the sea as he walked into the village. A lit doorway caught his attention, and he headed towards it. He found that it was a tavern, filled with fishermen quietly drinking. The air was hazy with tobacco smoke. As he walked in, his expensive topcoat and polished shoes immediately caught the attention of those nearest the door, and a sudden silence spread quickly over the room.
Colling asked the man tending the bar for vodka. The tavern’s patrons continued to watch him silently. A small tumbler of clear liquid was placed before him, and Colling steeled himself, then tipped it up and drank it in one gulp.
“You are not from around here,” said the barkeep.
“No. From farther west. Near the German border.”
“You are at old lady Vollmer’s place. You came from Gdansk in a big German car. First one we have seen in these parts for a long time,” was the reply, as a second glass of vodka was poured.
This time Colling sipped his drink. “Yes. We want to go home.”
“So why not use your big car and do so,” said a bearded man at a nearby table.
“The roads are not good. Better we go by boat.”
“We are fishermen, not excursion boatmen,” said another man.
“I can pay, if anyone is interested.”
“The Coast Guard watches closely. Maybe you are from the government yourself,” said someone.
“Maybe I am,” said Colling. “Do I look like I am from the government?”
There was a scattering of laughter, then the tavern keeper said, “In truth, you seem like a big shot American. Your accent sounds of it. ”
“If that is so, then you must conclude for certain that I am not from the government.”
There was a murmuring in the room, then an unshaven man of about fifty wearing a worn fisherman’s sweater stepped forward and asked, “Who played in the World Series last year?”
Sports had not been foremost in Colling’s mind the previous fall, and he had to wrack his brain for the answer, “The Cardinals…St. Louis…and the Boston Red Sox. The Cardinals won.”
His questioner laughed and said, “This chap is an American for certain.”
The barkeep filled Colling’s half-empty glass to the brim, smiled and said, “One of my cousins lives in Chicago. You have been to Chicago?”
“Yes. I am from Wisconsin, but that is near to Chicago, and I have been there often.” He noticed that everyone was listening intently, and decided it was the right time to display American generosity. “I wish to purchase vodka for everyone,” he said, placing his last two 1000-zloty notes on the bar.
As he had hoped, this was greeted with enthusiasm, and there was a push to the bar to pick up the glasses that the bartender was filling. Most of the men took the vodka and returned to their tables, and since Colling continued sipping at his own vodka without adding anything to the general conversation, they resumed drinking, smoking and conversing among themselves.
The fisherman who had questioned Colling remained beside him at the bar. “I am called Mikal Boroszki. How is it you speak Polish?”
“My mother’s family,” answered Colling. “I am called Stanley Warrencliffe, but you may call me ‘Stan’.” Then he asked, “And how is it a man of the Baltic knows of American baseball?”
“I used to live in the U.S.A., Stan. In New York City. From time to time some old friends there send me issues of Dziennik Polski, the Polish language newspaper, so I keep up with U.S.A. news.”
“And you have no wish to return to America?” asked Colling.
“It is a long story. Someday perhaps.”
“Do you have a boat?”
“Yes. My son and myself and two crewmen fish these waters.”
“Would you be interested in taking on some passengers?”
“One must be cautious, Stan. It is forbidden.”
“Does that mean you are saying ‘no’?”
“Come see me early tomorrow morning, before the sun is fully up, and we will talk. My boat is the white one, trimmed in blue, the Syrena.”
Colling downed his drink, voiced a general goodbye to the tavern patrons, and walked back to the little hotel.
He found Elizabeth already in bed. Next to the fireplace were a washbowl and a kettle of tepid water that Elizabeth had apparently heated in the kitchen and brought upstairs to their room. He undressed and washed himself with a cloth before climbing into bed. When he slipped under the covers, he felt the warmth that her body had generated. She turned to him and wrapped her arms around him.
“I’m sorry, Jim. I’ve been awful to you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Liz. I haven’t been so great to you myself.”
“Make love to me, Jim.”
“Are you ready? We don’t have to if you still….”
She silenced him with her lips, pressing tightly to him and caressing the back of his neck. He responded hungrily, overwhelmed by her intensity and the familiar reaction of her body that he had not known for so long. He was about to pull back in order to search for a prophylactic from his suitcase when he felt her hands on him, and she whispered, “I took one out already, Jim,” as she made sure it was properly in place.
Elizabeth was still sleeping soundly when Colling woke, sensing that it was morning, even though it was still dark. He looked at his wristwatch to confirm that it was indeed 5:00 A.M., then slipped from underneath the covers, using care not to wake her. As he shaved, using cold water in the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall, he considered how little understanding he had of what made Elizabeth tick. He finally decided that his confusion was probably not unique, and that other men found themselves in the same quandary when it came to trying to understand the female mind.
She did not wake up as he dressed, and he left her there to go meet Boroszki. The sky was turning gray to the east as he walked down the hotel’s steps.
Colling found Boroszki’s boat moored at quayside. The dock was bustling with activity as the little fleet of fishing boats prepared to go to sea. Some of the other vessels were already in the harbor, headed out through the gap between the high breakwaters. The Syrena was among the last four tied to the dock.
A young man was on the deck, straightening the folds of a net that was piled haphazardly in the waist of the boat. Colling asked for Boroszki, and the young man shouted towards the wheelhouse behind him. Boroszki emerged, crossed the deck and climbed onto the wharf with Colling. The young man moved off out of earshot, perhaps deliberately, thought Colling.
“Dzien Dobry!” said Colling.
“The same,” said the fisherman.
“Is now the time we might talk?” asked Colling.
“Just so.”
“There are seven of us, five adults and two children. We wish to go to Sweden.”
“Not possible, Stan. The damned Swedes are as bad as the Russians. If they catch you in their waters without authorization, they knock holes in the bottom of your boat and hand you over to the Polish Coast Guard or the Red Navy.”
“West along the coast then?” suggested Colling.
“You wish to avoid the Reds, is that not so?”
“Yes.”
“Most of the distance, the coast is that of the Russian Zone of Germany. One must go far enough to reach the British Zone,” said Boroszki.
“Have you ever done this?”
“Once in awhile since the war has ended, to take some Polish vodka to trade for English tobacco, Yes. Never before have I carried people. The authorities everywhere will overlook a little smuggling for a bottle of vodka or two, or a tin of tobacco. I do not think they will be so lenient about people.”
“I will pay well for this,” said Colling, just as two men climbed onto the deck from out of a large hatchway. Boroszki turned to see what Colling was looking at, then said, “Those are my crewmen. They are reliable.”
“I would hope so. As I was saying, I will pay well.”
“It is very dangerous,” said Boroszki, “There are patrols, and my boat is not so fast. We cannot outrun them.”
“I have U.S. dollars. I will pay one hundred for each person.