Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

The girl said, “Yes, I know. How do you do? I’m Marie, your guide.”

She knew? She didn’t smile, but Nachman told himself Poles aren’t Americans. Why should she smile? She was here to do a job. She’d been sent by the university, at the request of the American consul, to be his guide. Perhaps she’d have preferred to do something else that morning. So she didn’t smile, but neither did she look unhappy.

They shook hands.

Nachman invited her to join him for coffee. She accepted and followed him into the dining room.

Nachman wasn’t inspired to make conversation at eight o’clock in the morning, but he felt obliged to do so out of politeness, though Marie looked content to sit and say nothing. After sipping his coffee he said, “I like Cracow. A beautiful city.”

“People say it is a small Prague.”

“From what I’ve seen, there has been no destruction of monuments and buildings.”

“Russian troops arrived sooner than the Germans expected.”

Nachman now supposed she would tell him the story of Cracow’s salvation. She didn’t. Again, he was slightly disconcerted, but the girl was merely terse, not rude. Her soft voice gave Nachman an impression of reserve and politeness.

“How fortunate,” he said. “The city remained undamaged.”

“There was plunder. Paintings, sculptures … Is ‘plunder’ the word?”

“Indeed. Are you a student at the university, Marie?”

“Yes. I study mathematics.”

“Of course you do. They sent me someone in my field. I should have thought so.”

“I attended your lectures.”

“You weren’t too bored?”

“Not at all.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“You talked about the history of problems, which is not ordinarily done. A student might think all problems were invented the day of the lecture. I wasn’t bored.”

“Your English is good. Do you also speak Russian?”

“I was obliged to study Russian in high school.”

“So you speak Russian?”

“I was unable to learn it.”

“English came more easily?”

“Yes.”

“What else were you obliged to study?”

“Marxism.”

“Did you learn it?”

“I was unable to learn it.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not very intelligent.”

Nachman smiled. She’d said it so seriously.

“How old are you, Marie?”

“Nineteen.”

“Are you from Cracow”

“No. A village in the country. The nearest city is Brest Litovsk.”

“I’ve heard of Brest Litovsk.”

“You would never have heard of my village.”

It would be easier to study the girl if she talked and he listened, but Nachman asked questions mainly because he felt uneasy. It was a defensive approach.

The American consul had warned Nachman about Polish women and the secret police. It seemed unlikely that the secret police had employed this girl — less than half Nachman’s age, a peasant with a solemn face — to compromise him and make him vulnerable to their purposes. She claimed to be a student of mathematics. Nachman could have asked her questions about mathematics and would discover quickly if she was the real thing, but it would be awkward and unpleasant if she wasn’t. She didn’t seem to be lying about her failure to learn Russian or Marxism.

So Nachman lit a cigarette and sipped his coffee. He never smoked at home in California, but it seemed appropriate to his sojourn in the old world, within the shadow of death.

Nachman didn’t test Marie’s knowledge of mathematics, and he decided not to ask anything further about her failure to learn Russian and Marxism. She was neither a police agent nor a village idiot. Beyond that, Nachman assumed, considering her manner, he wouldn’t learn much about her. Not that it mattered. She had answered his questions sufficiently and complimented his lecture. At worst she made his American friendliness seem clumsy and naive, or somehow irrelevant to the purpose of their meeting. If she didn’t trust Nachman, she probably had good reasons, but it was awkward. He couldn’t get his bearings.

The American consul, in his way, had also unsettled Nachman during their interview, and the memory lingered strongly. Nachman had said, “My field is mathematics. Nothing I do is secret, except insofar as it’s unintelligible. I’m of no conceivable interest to the secret police. If they want to ask me questions, I’ll give them answers. I’d do the same with anyone.”

“You know many people, Professor Nachman.”

“They are almost all mathematicians. Our work means nothing to the majority of the human race. I invent problems. If I’m lucky, I solve one and publish the solution before another mathematician. My publications are available to everybody who has access to a library and understands numbers. You needn’t call me professor. Nachman will do.”

“You’re modest, Professor Nachman. You were invited to Cracow because your work has important implications …”

“What important implications?”

“I’m sure you know. Be that as it may, a casual remark about any of your colleagues or acquaintances is recorded and filed. There are listening devices everywhere. Even in my car. I’m sure they are in your hotel room.”

“I don’t gossip, and there is no one in my hotel room but me. I don’t talk to myself. In my sleep, maybe, but I wouldn’t know about that.”

“I believe you, but if you were to say in conversation at a cocktail party, in all innocence, that So-and-so is a homosexual, or a heroin addict, or badly in debt, your comment would enter his file at the headquarters of the secret police. You might compare it to academic scholarship. With such innocent comments, gathered in different cities — not only in Poland — a detailed picture of So-and-so is eventually developed.”

“For what purpose? It seems utterly mindless.”

“Who knows what purpose will emerge on what occasion?”

“I never heard of a homosexual mathematician. Could you name one?”

“Yes, I could, and so could you, Professor Nachman, but my point is, we are not to name any. As for Polish women, they have destroyed American marriages more often than you might imagine.”

“Are you married?”

“My marriage is in no danger, but thanks for your concern, Professor Nachman. The allure of Polish women is considerable. They are the most gorgeous women you will ever meet. I’m sure you noticed Eva, the receptionist.”

“Does she destroy marriages?”

“With her, a man could fall in love in two minutes, perhaps sooner. It has been known to happen in Poland. Even a sophisticated executive of an international corporation, falling in love, soon forgets the distinction between matters of the heart and corporate information of a privileged and sensitive kind. Believe me when I say it has happened more than once. I will not name names, but I could tell you about one in particular. Every word he said was reported. The destruction of his marriage was incidental.”

“I’m not married. I have no secrets. I don’t gossip. I didn’t come to Cracow for romantic adventures. It’s arguable that I’m a freak. You’re wasting your time, Mr. Sullivan, unless you want to make me frightened and self-conscious.”

“My job is to welcome American visitors like you, Professor Nachman, and to mention these things. Bear in mind that your value to the secret police is known to them, not you. By the way, I have your ticket for the tour of Auschwitz. Compliments of the State Department.”

Nachman said, “Thank you. I don’t want to tour Auschwitz. I would like to see the ghetto, particularly the synagogue.”

Marie said they could walk after breakfast from the hotel to the ghetto. She added, as they left the hotel, “On the way, we can see an ancient church. Many visitors ask to go there.”