There were parts of Poland that had been barely touched by the horrors of war and Socialism, Julian Unszlicht found to his relief. The inn that housed him for the night could just as easily be imagined a meeting point for brave hearts resisting foreign invaders under Kocziusko or in the days of the Vasa campaigns. For all he knew, it might have. The landlord, a hearty, patriotic man with a broad, beaming smile under his thick moustache, was more than happy to find a room for a weary traveller in the cause of God and country. He helped him carry his bag upstairs, never enquiring about the contents, and lit a roaring fire in the small oven that warmed the wood.panelled chamber to a toasty comfort banishing the cold from the journalist’s limbs still stiff from a long day’s travel through snow and wind. Carrying letters was becoming harder every month. Trains were increasingly watched and searched, and even the German customs would readily help NSB agents. It was a long trek to the border, but once he was inside Germany, the rails would be safe. A day or two would see him in Berlin, and Hugenberg would greatly appreciate the latest deliveries.
Pulling the boots from his aching feet, Julian Unszlicht eyed the feather bed with its massivce carven headboard and red-checkered curtains. That was the kind of wealth that generations of toil on the good earth of Poland could bring, he thought. The kind of wealth that a God-fearing and virtuous nation deserved. He carefully stacked the bowls and plates of his evening meal – served in his room at his insistence – to one side of the table. Rich, creamy porridge dripping with butter, a fried sausage, apples and onions cooked with pepper, cheese, and several slices of dark, moist bread had restored his ebbing strength, accompanied by a strong, gratifyingly smooth vodka. Julian Unszlicht wondered if, after the war, he might not settle down somewhere in the countryside and live like this. He had dreamed of being a novelist, and with the patronage of the archbishop, many things were possible. Certainly, the city life was not for him. Gently, he stroked the age-polished wood of the heavy table and laid out his rosary.
A knock on the door made him turn. The landlord had spoken of another blanket. Sumoning his most courteous smile despite the interruption, the young man rose to open the door – and froze.
“Josef?”
Outside stood a man dressed in a heavy sheepskin coat, his right hand buried in its deep pocket. A fur hat perched on his head, and the open front of the coat revealed a glimpse of a grey workshirt, jodhpurs and tall riding boots. Hard, intelligent eyes glinted behind steel-rimmed glasses.
“Good evening, brother.” Agent Unszlicht said quietly. “May I come in?”
Julian stepped aside, almost unthinking, but when his brother tried to close the door, he interposed his hand. “The landlord is pious man. If I shout for help, he will come.”, he pointed out.
“That would be a shame.”, replied Josef. “He is a black marketeer, but he does not deserve to die. Think of his family.”
Julian swallowed hard and released the door. Josef stepped over to the table and picked up the rosary with his left hand, inspecting the smooth rosewood and ivory. “Really?”, he asked. “Father would be greatly disappointed, you know?”
“Leave him out of this!” Julian protested. “I’m sure you did not come here to discuss my conversion.”
Josef nodded, dropping the rosary back on the table and turning his attention to the dishes. “Not really, no.“, he admitted. “You were quite difficult to track down. But you always liked your comforts, Julian. Sleeping rough in some hayloft is not your style.”
Julian did not answer, but his face flushed with anger at the taunt. Josef picked up the heavy leather bag filled with papers, letters and photographs that lay stacked on the heavy, painted chest in the corner. “I will take this.” He announced.
“No!” Julian spoke before thinking. No? What was he going to do? Debate for it? His shoulders slumped.
“I am sorry it has come to this, brother.” Josef Unszlicht awkwardly maneuvered the strap of the bag over his head, never taking his eyes off his captive. “You will not believe me, of course, but I am.”
Julian shook his head. “Sorry? For what? For being what you are? You knew what that was when you joined the NSB. If you ever wanted to be anything else than a spy and torturer, you should have thought of a different profession.”
Josef sighed deeply. For a brief moment, his right arm relaxed. Julian considered moving towards the door, but the hand came up before he could take even the first step.
“Don’t. You may not believe it, but I really do not want to harm the landlord or his family. Do not force me to silence witnesses.” The agent’s face hardened again. “You made cast your lot with the enemies of the people, and I cannot save you from the consequences. But this small bourgeois does not deserve to suffer for your choice.” He gestured to the boots. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Julian’s eyes flickered from the threatening bulge in the pocket to the door, the window, the boots. “What are you going to do to me?!” Terror crept into his face.
“The only thing I can still do for you, brother.” Josef waited while Julian pulled on his boots, struggling with the wet, stiff leather. “I will spare you the questioning. We know enough.”
Quietly, they descended the creaking stairs to the common room and walked past a dozing guest slumped on the table. Julian considered escaper, but his mind conjured up images of the landlord and his famils: The jolly twinkle in the man’s kind eyes; the blond braids of his daughter, bringing up the dinner; the awkward smile of his young son, already trying his hand at a man’s chores chopping wood. He drew the latch and opened the front door, walking into the gathering dusk and drifting snow.
“Over by the forest.” Josef said, gesturing in the direction of a cart path just barely visible under the snow. “You can take time to pray if you wish.”
Julian Unszlicht’s fingers worked the rosary beads. He felt strangely calm. In the distance, a small copse of birch trees rose dark against the orange sky. He stepped forward, Josef following. His brother had picked up a shovel, he noticed. Always the methodical one, Josef.
