It was the taking-off that had always got to her, those engines working at full tilt, sounding unnatural, nothing should have to work that hard she thought, as they strained to lift them into the sky. Once up, she relaxed, not fully you understand, but enough to unclench her hands, let the blood flow back into them, tingling as it did so.
She had always been a reluctant flyer, something Ted, her late husband, had never fully understood. She knew, that as the married years had added up, he had come to resent it, seeing it as restricting the things they could have done, the sights they could have seen together. But, he would never have travelled alone, or even with a group, no not Ted, he preferred to simmer quietly at the lost opportunities. And she let him, if he had shown the slightest bit of sympathy for her fears, she would have made the effort, she was that sort of woman.
So why, now, was she flying alone, unaccompanied, or at least accompanied by an iced gin and tonic, well her third actually?
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The taxi driver, in shamingly good English, had nodded, ‘Hotel Wentzl,’ you say, very nice, clean, a little old fashioned maybe, but nice. Old Poland, not these new shiny ones, that I think, could be in any city in the world. Yes, Hotel Wentzl, a good choice.’ He turned and smiled, waiting for the green light, ‘Not your first visit then I would guess, most tourists go the big ones, but those who are coming back, yes they go to the more Polish places.’
He was right, she was returning, after what – fifteen, sixteen years? Granddaughter a mother herself now, late twenties, had been with them on that first trip.
The hotel hadn’t changed much, still the solid oak panelling, the wide gracious stairs, big quiet rooms. She ordered room service, no more than a reasonable snack, having slimmed, with a great effort, she was now determined to keep her figure, but at every meal a little ditty ran through her head:
‘A queer bird is the pelican, its beak can hold more than its belly can.’
Showered, changed , she would take a stroll, just round the square, through the Amber market, perhaps on into the Old Quarter of Krakow, for it wasn’t far, even with her, at times, troublesome hip. ‘Got to get it done now the weight is off,’ she would think to herself. But, being the kind of woman she was, the self-pity never lasted long, she just enjoyed the occasional moan, knowing full well that her life was in fact, one that millions, given the chance, would have envied.
Before her walk she stopped at a small café, ordered a cognac, savoured the fumes and then reluctantly, picking up her walking stick,- a colourfully painted one, a compromise, as if the apparent cheerfulness somehow masked its real purpose – she set out. Nothing seemed to have changed, the weather ravaged building still bearing the brunt of the cold east winds coming off the far away Steppes. She stood soaking up the atmosphere, hearing the strange language, with no understanding of it, ashamed yet again that she would have to rely on others speaking English to her.
The sun was setting, casting its light onto the shabby building, warming them to a dusky, comforting friendly orange, as if to highlight the still visible bullet holes in the walls, head height, chest height, the pock marks of history.
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Her guide – Tomasz – called for her promptly at nine, a smart young man, freshly shaved, not the fashionable growth of stubble, neat hair, clean shoes. They agreed to stick to the smaller roads, not the motorway, go through the villages, a more picturesque route but bumpier, true, but what would a little discomfort really matter to her in the overall context of the day?
The road had indeed been bumpy, rougher, it seemed to her than on that first trip, was Europe becoming a continent of potholes she wondered? She was sure she remembered some of the building, the slightly more eccentric ones, built from whatever was handy as Poland struggled to recover from the war. But there was still the possible recognition of some buildings which now seemed to greet her return. She knew it was probably just her imagination, as if her mind was trying to put to one side her destination, for, in the general scheme of things, she at least be would returning back down this road at the end of the day.
And then suddenly, having bumped across a level crossing which was being repaired, the rich heady smell of molten tar coming into the car, Tomasz turned left into a small unremarkable suburb, left again onto a wide well-kept already busy car park, their destination.
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Three Months Later
She had made the decision, spent the money, had had a new hip and at least dealt with that problem, the lack of sex, increasingly on her mind, still ongoing. She was comfortbly off, neat house and garden, small eco-friendly car tucked away in the garage. Suburbia personified, divorced from the world’s realities, resentful when the crass rude world, disturbed the net curtains, crashed into the leafy roads, the neatly sorted recycling bins.
Minnie had rung, ‘Tea at four, usual place, are you mobile yet?’
‘Yes, perfectly Minnie. Good surgeon, neat scar, nice bum.’
They had frequented Laura’s tea rooms for years, always the same table, the same cakes, no sandwiches, tea from china cups, the inevitable gingham tablecloths. Both women found it comforting, reliable, in a world that seemed so unsteady compared to their early almost carefree years.
‘So, tell me, this surgeon and his nice bum?’
‘Oh, nothing really, just couldn’t help but notice it, nothing much else to look at, daytime television is no different in a private hospital. Besides, it’s over two years since Ted died and I’m only sixty five, like you, not completely over the hill. A fling would be nice, just need the bloke.’
‘Can’t even lend you mind. Not really up to it these days.’
‘Minnie!’
She faltered for a moment, aware that heads were turned looking in her direction, for she hadn’t meant her voice to be so loud. Blushing, she took another slice of battenburg, carefully slicing it into four.
They had walked arm in arm to the river, found an empty seat, sat with the early evening sun warm on their faces, the comfortable silence of friends around them.
‘Come on, tell me, that trip why? I can think of better, more cheerful places to go. I mean,’ and here Minnie hesitated, the political correctness so in evidence throughout her circle of friends, causing her difficulty. ‘I mean, you’re not,’ again the hesitation, but a change of tack, possibly less embarassing, ‘You’re not, remembering anyone are you? Have you been keeping secrets from us for all these years’?
‘For goodness sake Minnie, no! How long have we known each other? Just over fifty years I suppose, since we were innocent schoolgirls, all giggly and able to blush for England.’ She continued, ‘It’s difficult to explain, but you remember Ted and I and eldest granddaughter went there years ago, well I felt there was unfinished business, so I just had to go back.’
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Tomasz had been attentive, not annoyingly so, as can sometimes happen, knowledgeable, holding her arm, finally persuading her to accept a wheelchair. The weather had been kind, not too hot, a cooling wind, but this time not from the east. She had seen what she came to see, to look again with the eyes of a second visit, always so different from the first time and she had been even more appalled.
First visits, when there is so much to see, to take in, the rushing to make sure nothing is missed and in so doing, but not fully realising it until much later, the rushing prevents the reality from taking over, but the rushing was also disrespectful to those who had never left.
She had since become ashamed of it, the rush, feeling herself to be almost ghoulish. Granddaughter had cried at the discarded baby clothes, the empty gas cannisters whose crystals had long ago done their evil work, the broken twisted spectacles, the shoes, the battered suitcases, that gate with its infamous untruthful message, that other infamous gate with its railway track leading to a dead end at the crematoria.
So she had returned, still a little wary that a second visit might seem, if anything, more ghoulish than her feelings about that first one. Yes, she wanted to make amends for what she saw as her previous disrespect to the dead. Ease her conscience, not that that helped anyone but herself.
Later, after Tomasz had dropped her off at the ‘Hotel Wentzl,’, promising to pick her up the next morning to take her to the airport, she had sat in the bar with a gin and tonic listening to conversations she could not understand, apart from the usual brash American party, sipping Budweiser.
It was almost a parallel universe she thought, sitting here, comfortable, warm, knowing that tomorrow would be just another day in her life, a tick on a calendar, when just a few miles down the road, so many had had no inkling until the last possible unavoidable moment, of what was about to happen. The unsuspecting women and children photographed sitting in the sunshine, playing, minutes before being choked to death.
End
Capucin 