Kowalski relaxed a little. “Can he have visitors?”
“No, I’ve just given him some morphine and I’d rather let him rest for now. Ah, here’s another friend.”
Kowalski turned to see Miro Kubicki running towards the hospital.
“What happened?”
“Well, while you were swanning around over the estuary, I saved Jan’s life.”
“What do you mean swanning around? I downed a Heinkel, thank you very much. How is he?”
Kowalski explained Jan’s wounds. The two men stared together at the ground. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”
The pub had only just opened and for once they were the only two RAF personnel in there. Both men ordered vodka rather than beer and they sat exhausted staring at their double measures, preferring for the moment the anticipation to the act.
“Did you know anything much about Kilinski’s background, Jerzy?”
“No, why should I?”
Kowalski decided he’d had enough anticipation and knocked his glass back with a grimace. Kubicki followed suit, greedily wrapping his thick lips around the glass. “Takes it out of you, doesn’t it, my friend?”
“You always were the master of understatement, Miro.”
Kubicki grunted. “Of course, Kilinski was a Jewboy, wasn’t he? Marowitz knew a little. Said he had some bee in his bonnet about something that happened back in Poland.”
Kowalski smiled. “The man owed you money, I believe, Miro. Bit of a turn-up for the book. Usually it’s the other way round, isn’t it, with Jews I mean?”
“Yes, he owed me card debts. Didn’t seem to be fussed about paying them either. I—” Kowalski rose abruptly and headed to the bar, returning shortly with another round of vodkas.
“I wonder how it is back there at home?”
“It is hell, as you well know, Miro. Your family is there as is mine. God knows what is happening, but it will not be pleasant.”
“Are your parents still in Warsaw?”
“As far as I know.”
“My lot are in Krakow. An apartment just off the Rynek Glowny.”
“Yes, I know, a small flat off the main square. You’ve told me before, frequently.”
Kubicki finished his second vodka. “Sorry. I am getting repetitious in my old age. There is some old saying that a week of war ages a soldier by a year. On that basis I’m about fifty-two years older, aren’t I? You too.”
Kowalski stifled a laugh. “You are speaking some real rubbish tonight.”
“You must forgive an old man. Of course, I have some cousins in Warsaw. I used to stay up there on holidays every so often. Big, old house in the centre. Where does your family live?”
“In Warsaw town. My parents and my sister Agneta.”
“Isn’t that your mother’s name as well?”
“Yes, it’s a tradition in the family that the first-born daughter is called Agneta, the second Maria and the third Karolina.”
“And is there a tradition for the boys’ names?”
“No, just for the girls. My father, the first-born as am I, is called Aleksander.” Kowalski stubbed out his cigarette, ran a hand over the small scar on his cheek, then lit another. The bar was starting to fill up and the men nodded to a group of ground staff leaning against the bar.
“I was looking at the dog the other day and wondering about my cousin Sasha. Any news on your Sasha?”
“Let’s not talk about such things.” Kowalski was silent for a while. Then he looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his hands fiercely. “My friend, Miro, there are some English words that I need here for you. What are they again?” He closed his eyes.
“What do you mean, Jerzy?”
Kowalski’s opened his eyes and smiled. “That’s it. Nosy parker! You, Miro Kubicki, are being a nosy parker. In fact you are often a nosy parker! Now, keep your questions to yourself and go and get us another drink. I feel like getting, er, what’s that other good English word?”
“Drunk, Jerzy?”
“Yes, but there’s a jollier English word for it. Oh, yes! Blotto, Jerzy. Let’s get blotto!”
*