Sweat trickled down the back of his collar as he crossed the Planty park and stopped outside of St. Florian’s Gate to get his bearings. He looked around, observing his surroundings and noticing faces. Then he passed through the gate and the remnants of the ancient fortifications, and entered the old city.
Adam walked a short distance down Florianska Street, weaving through crowds of people. He turned into a narrow cobblestone lane, barely wide enough for a horse and carriage, then circled around and came back to where he’d started to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Repeating the process another time, he continued down Florianska to the Rynek Glowny.
Adam paused for a moment at the northern end of the vast market square, taking in the view of the Mariacki Church, the Cloth Hall, the vendors’ horses and carriages. He’d spent many Sunday afternoons on this square as a boy, sitting at a café with his aunt and uncle, eating ice cream and feeding the pigeons. And he’d spent many hours here after he returned from America, sitting at those same cafés, sipping coffee or beer while studying law books.
The square was much the same, largely undamaged by the war, but it felt different. It was quieter, more subdued. A few of the vendors were at their stations, but there was little in their carriages for sale. And many of the cafés were closed, their awnings rolled up, chairs stacked upon the tables. Adam took a last look around, then walked across the square, proceeding south along Grodzka to Wawel Castle, heading for the rendezvous point in the Kazimierz District.
An hour later, he entered the courtyard of the Church of Archangel Michael and Saint Stanislaus. There was no one around. Adam checked his watch—five o’clock—he was right on time. He lit a cigarette and wandered over to the pond, pretending to study the statue of Saint Stanislaus in the center. The saint had a stern expression on his stone face, as if he were disappointed by human frailty. A few minutes passed. Then a few more and still no one appeared except an elderly man who looked like a caretaker, carrying a basket filled with grass clippings.
The elderly man walked toward him and seemed to be heading for the gate when he suddenly dropped the basket at Adam’s feet. The grass spilled out, covering Adam’s shoes.
“Ach, what a fool. I’m sorry, sir.” The man bent over and scooped the clippings off the ground as Adam shook his shoes clear.
Adam instinctively bent down to help, and the man whispered, “Dietla and Starowislna, at six o’clock. Get on the tram for Podgorze.” Then the man picked up the last of the clippings and headed out of the gate.
Despite all of her efforts to keep her emotions under control, Natalia gasped when Adam boarded the tram. She quickly covered it up with a cough when the woman across the aisle glanced at her, but it had been enough, and he turned in her direction. Their eyes met for an instant before the crowd pushed him toward the front of the car.
She could feel the flush in her face and turned to look out the window, not trusting herself if their eyes should happen to meet again. Is it really him? Several minutes passed. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer and shifted in her seat, stealing a glance at the front of the car, certain she had made a mistake.
Adam was halfway up the aisle, wedged between two taller men. He wore a dark blue suit and carried a briefcase. He looked older. There were creases at the corners of his eyes that she didn’t remember, and his shoulders sagged a bit, as though he was tired. She swallowed hard when she noticed the thin scar on the left side of his face and his ragged left ear. Half of it had been torn away. Tears clouded her vision, and she turned back to the window.
The tram rumbled over the Vistula River, and Natalia gazed at the slow-moving gray water, fighting the urge to look at him, to get up and push through the crowd. Vivid memories of the last time she had seen him suddenly returned with a rush—Dluga Street in Warsaw, fires raging out of control and artillery shells shrieking overhead as he headed off to the hospital in Raczynski Palace in his suicidal effort to protect the trapped and wounded AK commandos. Natalia had been certain that night she’d never see him again. Then she had heard the reports a week later, confirming that the SS had murdered everyone in the hospital.
And now, as if he’d risen from the dead, Adam was here.
The tram slowed to a stop in the Podgorze District, where the Jewish ghetto had been. Natalia stood up, made her way to the door and stepped from the tram. She could feel him following her. The streets were busy with people on their way home from work or the market, clutching bags half-full with the few meager groceries they could find. She walked with a steady pace, blending in with the crowd but making sure he could keep her in sight.
She continued around a few corners, along the route she’d planned, until she came to Lwowska Street, lined on one side by the high brick walls of the former ghetto. Replacing the German propaganda placards that had been ripped down, the invented word, grunVald, with a large capital “V,” had been painted along the wall. It was a popular form of anti-German graffiti in remembrance of the Medieval Battle of Grunwald when the Kingdom of Poland defeated the Teutonic Knights. Natalia followed the ghetto wall for a hundred meters, then crossed the street at the intersection with Dabrowskiego, passing through a doorway and down a flight of creaking wooden steps. Scarcely able to breathe, she stood in the center of the dimly lit cellar and waited.
A few minutes passed before Natalia heard him descending the staircase. She fidgeted, suddenly feeling very conspicuous. When he stepped into the room, tears flooded her eyes. She had fantasized about this moment ever since Warsaw, wishing in her heart that it were possible, but knowing in her mind that it wasn’t. But it had happened. He was alive. The impossible dream had come true. And now, as he stood in front of her, no words would come.
“I watched you,” Adam said, “in Warsaw… that night on Dluga Street, from a window in Raczynski Palace.”
Natalia felt a chill and wrapped her arms around her chest. “I thought I’d never see you…” Her voice trailed off and she turned away, a sudden rush of anger, shame and frustration, washing over her all at once. She had believed he was dead. You gave up hope. You don’t deserve this. The shame was almost more than she could bear.
“Natalia?” His voice was quiet, soft.
She closed her eyes and rocked slowly back and forth. Tears trickled down her cheek.
After a moment he asked, “Have you found Ludwik Banach?”
Natalia spun around and glared at him, scarcely able to believe what she’d just heard. “Have I what? You come back… you just show up after all this time… and then you ask me…” She dropped to her knees and buried her face in her hands.
Adam knelt down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I thought it was a safe place to begin.”
She looked up at him. “I thought you were dead.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I can explain.” He stood and offered his hand to help her up.
Natalia ignored his hand and stood up on her own, shaking her head. “Not now, not here.” She took a breath to calm herself. “I haven’t found your uncle. He was alive, and here in Krakow as recently as January of this year. But I don’t know where he went.”
“Was he captured by the Russians?”
“He left before they got here.” She watched Adam run a hand over the scar on his face, his brow furled, as he absorbed the news. “He kept a journal,” she added.