The barn had been used as a dressing station and communication headquarters. It was when they were moving a crate to expand the dance floor that Zmudowski saw the stamp.
Until then, the story had been a communal endeavor. Now Zmudowski took over alone.
“So, the first thing to understand, Doctor, is that from a philatelic perspective, Russia really should not be considered one country, but many: it’s simply too large. Thus, immediately after the introduction of the first national adhesives, the Rural Councils, or Zemstvos, started to organize their own local posts. I had become aware of such Zemstvo stamps early in my collecting years, and had managed to obtain a precious copy of Chudovsky’s 1888 Description of the Russian Zemstvo Stamps, Envelopes and Parcels, which gives some order to the three thousand Zemstvo stamps issued until then. However, it was extraordinarily rare to encounter such a stamp arriving in Kraków, given its dedication to local use. Most of the stamps are decorated with provincial arms, so for example, one can recognize those from Perm by the bear, or Tambov by the beehive, even without understanding Cyrillic. But more extraordinary are the quaint and irregular printing processes, leading to the so-called tête-bêche varieties, in which one stamp is printed upside down, or in the case of the extraordinarily rare first issues of Zolotonosha, even sideways. However, the greatest appeal for the Zemstvo collector…”
Rzedzian cleared his throat and suggested that Zmudowski “move things along.”
“But the story won’t make any sense unless the doctor has the background.”
“I think he has the background.”
“I don’t think he has the background. It will seem I took unnecessary risks…”
Rzedzian turned to Lucius. “So he saw a stamp from Astrakhan.”
There was a long pause. Zmudowski furrowed his brow, pinched his lips, and breathed heavily through his nose. “You ruined it.”
“I didn’t ruin it. Tell him about the stamp.”
Zmudowski lifted his hands helplessly.
Rzedzian twirled his long moustache. “The fabled city of Astrakhan—”
“—on the Black Sea,” interrupted Zmudowski quickly. “Yes. I’d never seen one in my life, not even in Chudovsky’s book. From the Russian who spoke some Polish, I learned it belonged to one of their soldiers, who had died two weeks before.
“Was it valuable? the Russian asked me.
“Here I knew I had to play my cards carefully. Valuable? It depended on what one meant. It was no 1868 Kharkov one kopek blue—”
“Definitely not,” said Rzedzian.
“—no 1871 Saratov black. But for someone interested in a complete collection, it had great sentimental value, I told him. It… But there he stopped me and said I could have it for a cigarette. I hardly had time to assent when he asked if I wanted more.
“The soldier led me to the mailbag of undelivered letters. It was testament to the horrific casualties that there must have been a hundred. He could not let me have the letters, of course, but if I wanted the stamps…”
So while the others danced and drank, Zmudowski spent the rest of the night before a boiling kettle, steaming stamps off. He was a little disappointed, he admitted; most were common Russian imperial stamps, but he found at least a dozen Zemstvos. By then, the Russian had come to understand which ones interested Zmudowski. If he wanted more, the soldier told him, this could be arranged. The mail depot for the Russian Seventh was now at Delatyn. He was due to go there tomorrow and would be back in one week. He had a cousin in Kiev who collected stamps, too, he said; Zmudowski would bring him Austrian stamps, and he would bring the Zemstvos. A trade. But there was a catch. By then, their little armistice would be over, and they would be trying to kill each other. If Zmudowski returned to the village, surely he’d be captured, if not shot.
The Russian had thought for a moment, and then led Zmudowski outside. There, at the end of the road, a second path led down to where a great willow tree dipped its bare branches into the frozen river. They would meet there one week hence; the Russian would arrange to be on sentry duty. They agreed upon a signal by matchlight. One, two, one.
Back in Bystrytsya, the others told Zmudowski this was definitely a trap. How convenient that the Russian remembered he had a cousin only after Zmudowski had shown such interest! The time for fraternization was over. Already the shelling had resumed. He would be taken prisoner; for his capture, the Russian would certainly be rewarded with more than a bunch of useless stamps.
But Zmudowski insisted. The great Chudovsky wouldn’t have backed down, and nor would he. Unless one was a millionaire and could buy one’s way to greatness, this was how collections were made. So the next week, he hiked back up to Lemnowice, avoiding Margarete, whom he knew would stop him, and gathered together what he thought was a good representation of Austro-Hungarian stamps for the Russian’s Kiev cousin. And on the preordained night, he put on his hat and gloves, wrapped a blanket beneath his coat for extra warmth, took a rifle, and headed into the night.
The sky was clear, and the moon was full; anyone watching would have been able to see a figure slowly making his way through the bare woods. But no one was out. An owl called; far up the slope, he heard what might be wolves. But he pushed on, the snow at times above his waist. By then his mind was filled with fantasies of what the soldier might have found for him, blocks of shiny green Viatkas, tête-bêche Saratovs, dark-blue sheets from Novgorod. Now he regretted he hadn’t given the soldier a drawing showing how to recognize an offset, or told him to look particularly for those without heavy franking…
Oh, but he was getting greedy!
He reached the river, struck his match.
Nothing.
Again he repeated the signal.
Nothing. His heart fell.
Then, from across the river, from the darkness of a dugout, came the light. One, two, one.
Slowly, carefully, he began to make his way across the frozen expanse. This was the moment of greatest danger. Until then, he had been able to stay mostly in the trees. But now he was totally exposed, the snow deep. Were they to fire, he’d be trapped. He thought of his daughter now in Kraków. How stupid of him to take such a risk! Rumors were coming that new Hungarian divisions would be arriving to reinforce the line. Soon the Russians would be pushed back. By summer the war would end. And here he was, in broad moonlight, begging for a bullet, all for some stamps.
But what stamps!
He pushed on. Faster now.
He reached the bank. He was shaking, though he didn’t know whether it was from cold or fear. At his side, a rustling. He turned, but before he knew it, his head was in a headlock, a gloved hand over his mouth. He was dragged off behind the willow. Hands gripped his face and he found himself nose to nose with the Russian soldier. The Russian raised a finger to his lips to caution silence, then slowly let Zmudowski go. By way of hand motions, he let it be known that someone had seen them. A patrol was coming.
Motioning for him to follow, the soldier led him downstream, through drifts of snow. Now, from above them on the bank came voices. Lanterns now, casting gigantic shadows of men across the snow. Crouching, the two men huddled together. The Russian was taking an immense risk, thought Zmudowski. At a certain point, he would decide it wasn’t worth it and turn him in.
But neither moved.
At last the sentries, satisfied or just too cold, turned back. A name was shouted; the soldier at Zmudowski’s side replied with what must have been a joke of sorts, for it was answered with a satisfied guffaw.