Listed were the names of locals and villagers who had been shot for giving aid to the underground movement. A hundred and thirty-two people were on that list, his parents among them. Even now, when concern for his own wellbeing was no longer acute, he felt no remorse, not even for the fate of his own mother. Such emotion, never strong within him anyway, had been entirely eradicated over the last few years.
As time passed, life began to flourish for Janusz, who took to the illegal trade he dealt in as if born to it.
He supplied goods-hungry farmers and food-hungry manufacturers with wh they desired, trade between the two factions being lucrative to the middle-man. But he always operated in a small way in those early years, never wishing to rise in fortune so much that became visible to the authorities.
Janusz could have survived very comfortably under the Communist system, except that the older he grew the more he ppered and the more he prospered, the greedier he became.
He bought a four-storey house in the suburbs of Lodz and, as front which legitimately enabled him to visit farmers arou the country, he maintained a small farm equipment spare-part workshop. Middle-age had softened his caution though, and went against his own basic rule. He had gained too much and was no longer invisible.
The authorities began to take an interest in the activities Janusz Palusinski. His spare-parts business was discreetly roves gated and it was found that the profits derived from it by no means accounted for the relative luxury the owner appeared to be living in. His movements were watched. Party officials came to his house to question him. His answers were not entirely satisfactory. Th took away all documents found in his home, warning him th would return as soon as the papers had been thoroughly studied and that he was to keep himself available until such time. Janus stole away that same night, taking with him what little cash he had and leaving behind his automobile, knowing how easy it was for the authorities to trace any vehicle on the roads of Poland. He left the city on foot, sleeping in cheap lodging houses at night, travelling by bus during the day, too afraid even to take trains. His journey led him towards the north, in the direction of the great forests. He had no idea why, panic and self-preservation driving him onwards without calculation, only instinct telling him that the dark forests were a place to lose oneself and to be lost to others. He was aware of the severe punishment dealt to those caught trading on the black market and was sure that his mind would never stand another term of imprisonment—too many dreadful memories would have been rekindled. There was no grand plan to his escape, no considered scheme for invisibility once more. Janusz fled merely because he had no other choice.
Because of the furtive manner in which his journey progressed, it took him several weeks to reach the mediaeval town of Grudziadz, and by then his money had nearly run out. A basic plan had formed though an idea that took no details into account. He would make for the Baltic seaport of Gdynia, avoiding nearby Gdansk where too many merchants knew him. There he would bribe his way onto a boat. He didn't care where his passage took him, just so long as it was far away from this accursed country and its oppressively authoritarian government which constantly hindered entrepreneurs such as he. The problem now was money. lie had barely fifty zlotys left and such a secret voyage would prove expensive.
Late at night Janusz went to the home of Wiktor Svandova, in Grudziadz, a particular businessman with whom he'd had many dealings in the past.
But Janusz had not reckoned on Svandova's respect for (or fear of) the State. The business associate ordered Janusz from his home, threatening to call in the police if he didn't leave at once. The fugitive reasoned with Svandova, cajoled, pleaded, even wept before him; he only produced the short metal bar he carried inside his greatcoat when Svandova strode to his desk and reached for the telephone. The first blow struck the businessman across the left temple, but amazingly he was able to stagger to the door, with Janusz following and beating at the back of his head and shoulders as he went. He threw open the door and even managed to scream out his wife's name before collapsing to his knees while his assailant continued to rain blows on him. At last, and to Janusz's great relief, Svandova pitched forward onto his face, blood from his broken head instantly flooding the hallway. Janusz ran from the house when the dead man's wife began screeching from the top of the stairway. He knew she had recognised him and he had it in mind to climb the stairs and silence her forever too; but other figures had appeared behind her, presumably Svandova's sons, and Janusz had no desire to battle it out with them.
He left the city, heading north once again, cursing his bad luck and his business associate's foolishness.
He was now a fugitive from a far more serious crime and every endeavour would be made by the police to capture him.
For nearly three months Janusz eluded them, the northern forests swallowing him up completely, bestowing upon him the invisibility he craved. But autumn was turning to winter and even the extra clothing he had stolen to wear under his greatcoat could not prevent the chill reaching his bones.
Food—the roots and nuts he found, the turnips and beetroots, and potatoes he dug from farmers' fields late at night, the small animals he occasionally was able to trap and kill—already scarce was becoming even more so. Yet again Janusz became intimately acquainted with terribl hunger. When stealing from farms—odd items of clothing cam from outside washing lines—he yearned to come across a pig pen dreamt of reaching in and pulling out a piglet, just as his fath had all those years ago. When he slept he dreamed of his family' feast, when he had watched the roasting pig, making sure t meat wasn't burned black. He awoke many times with the d licious smell still in his nostrils and before reality edged it away a more subtle aroma would become dominant . .
His heavy beard was matted and dirty and Janusz may ha appeared plump, but only layers of clothing created the illusio for beneath them his flesh was hollowed between the bones, j as it had been in the years when Germans had occupied hi country. He had plodded for two days through the snow-lade forest, sheltering where he could, cramming any foliage he cool find into his mouth and chomping until it was mulched enoug for him to digest. He even pulled pieces of bark from trees to gnaw on.
The policjareci had been waiting for him at the last farmhous he had attempted to rob; he had remained in one area for too long, the stealing becoming more than just an annoyance to th locals. A trap had been set for him and only blind panic had le him the strength to outrun his pursuers. Now it was only stomac pains that drove him on.
Janusz saw the column of smoke rising above the treetop and stumbled off in that direction. He came upon a small, log house in a clearing. His weary legs barely got him to the frontdoor. Isis fist made the faintest of sounds when he pounded on the wood.
The woodsman caught him as he tell inside and dragged him over to the fire. He called for his wife to warm some sok and bring it to the half-frozen man while he loosened the unfortunate's clothing. They were kind to this wretched wayfarer, even though suspicious, and they did their utmost to revive him.
After a while, when he was able to sit at the table and sip more of the warm brew, they tried to question him, but his replies were incoherent, his voice rambling. They soon realised the man was crazed with hunger and exhaustion. And the wife was uneasy at the way he kept staring at their twelve-year-old daughter who sat quietly in the corner watching everything with a wide-eyed expression on her plump little face, her skin pink and unblemished in the glow from the fire.