They left for Krakow at dawn on a Monday. The business of preparation was so consuming that there was little room left for grief or goodbyes. The men made two trips down the mountain to Pisarowice with the bags, and they waited at the side of the river for Pan Romanenko to wake up and pole them across. From there, they grafted together the sections of road with whatever transport they could arrange. There were seven in the party, including Marysia's parents, and though it would have been easier to travel in a smaller group, they refused to split up.
Pan Stefanów took them as far as Biały Dunajec in his cart, where they found another willing cart to take them to Szaflary. After a few hours' wait, they found seven spaces on a bus to Nowy Targ. By the time they got to Nowy Targ, it was already suppertime, and the rest of the group waited outside while Anielica and the Pigeon went in to check the board. The station was packed with people sitting around, children sleeping in nests of clothes, adults playing cards or sharing homemade meals off their luggage. Anielica and the Pigeon threaded a path through the crowd, gripping each other tightly so they would not be separated. They got as close as they could to the departures board.
"Can you see what that says?"
There were pieces of paper taped here and there on the board, last-minute changes made to boarding lanes and times. There were only two buses left going to Krakow—19:15 and 22:05.
"But how can that be? Half these people are probably going to Krakow." They scanned the crowd in the station. There were students and soldiers, grandmothers and families, Russians, Gypsies, even a small group of French civilians. The three lines at the counter were twenty deep, except for the middle one, which people were shifting out of as the argument between a man and the agent became more heated.
"Come on," the Pigeon said. "We'll have better luck outside."
They found the right bus in the corner of the yard, the driver smoking off to the side.
"Wait here," he told Anielica.
Before he could even ask, the driver answered. "The nineteen-fifteen is already full. Been sold out since three this afternoon."
"But we are trying to get to Krakow. We have a small child with us and a grandmother and grandfather. If we take the twenty-two-five, we will arrive in Krakow at midnight and have to stay in the station."
"The twenty-two-five is already sold out too, but you're better off staying the night here than in the station in Krakow anyway. Fewer thieves."
The Pigeon looked back at Anielica. Her face was still hopeful; she couldn't hear the conversation over the noise of the buses idling in the yard.
"Please, sir."
"I can't help you."
"We can pay."
He shook his head and set his jaw. "The New Poland cannot be built on corruption and preferential treatment. We must all work fairly and honestly if there is to be a bright future."
"Right." The Pigeon walked back toward Anielica.
"Wait," the driver called. He put his cigarette out on his shoe and hurried to catch up with them. "Anielica. Anielica of Half-Village. I would never forget that face."
Anielica blushed, and the Pigeon scowled at him.
"At the beginning of the war. I had dinner at your house. With your parents. Stayed a night in your father's barn. I was with my friend Marek."
"I am the Pigeon. I sent Marek."
"You are the Pigeon?"
He managed to fit them all on the nineteen-fifteen, though they had to sit on their bags in the aisle. Still, no one hassled or jostled them or gave them sharp looks as they would have before the war. They were all in this together now, all with the same itinerary, all dreaming the same dream. All but the bus, which broke down just past Jawornik.
They filed off, the aisle-squatters first, and huddled around in small groups, deciding what to do next. The Pigeon joined the driver. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and stood up on the bumper to peer into the engine.
"What do you think?"
"Radiator. Definitely radiator."
It turned out to be a blown gasket, and not even the Pigeon's golden hands could fashion a new one. It was dark by then, and small groups of people had drifted up the road, dragging their luggage in the dirt. The optimists headed north toward Krakow, like windup toys that could not be stopped. The pessimists returned south to find lodging overnight in Krzeczów, the last town they had passed. After going around and around about the gasket, the Pigeon, the driver, and Władysław Jagiełło finally gave up.
"You should go," the driver said. "Try to find someplace to stay before it is too late."
"No, no," Anielica said. "You have been so kind. We cannot leave you here. We will wait with you."
"Another bus will be by soon," Marysia agreed. "For sure. We will wait."
There were a few Soviet transports, which seemed to steer intentionally for the side of the road, inflating the loose dirt into clouds of dust that engulfed them all. There were a few Good Samaritans who stopped by to peer under the hood, shake their heads, recheck what the Pigeon and the driver had already checked, and come to the same conclusion they had come to.
"Why don't you take Irenka into the bus and prepare a place for her to sleep?" the Pigeon said to Anielica.
"No, no, you should go," the driver said. "I have to wait here, but you should go."
The Pigeon looked up and down the road. It was a selfless offer made by the driver. And utterly meaningless. The other passengers had long ago been swallowed by the darkness, and there were only lone flickers of light on the horizon. Even if they found a willing house, it could not take the seven of them together.
"Here," the driver said, digging into his pocket. "There is a large manor house just east of here, controlled by two guys I knew from the Home Army. Tell them you are the Pigeon, and show them this." He gave him half a holy card of St. Sebastian.
"A manor house?"
"Abandoned by the owners."
As soon as the card was in his hand, there was no question in the Pigeon's mind that they would go. There was only the customary insisting and counter-insisting to go through before the party could troop off down the road.
"Oh, but we cannot just leave you here."
"I will be fine. The twenty-two-five should be coming by in an hour or so."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure."
This was the abridged version because the Pigeon was anxious to get his family on the road. That was how he thought of them now, his family, which now included three Jews and a little Gypsy girl. His family, and he would do anything for them.
The manor house was only a kilometer away, and most of that was on a private dirt road. The men carried the packs and bundles, and little Irena, who was half-asleep, was passed back and forth among the women. The house was impressive in the distance. The gates were twice a man's height, the bars branching and twisting into iron vines and leaves that spiraled just above the handles, forming what looked like the eyes of a grand hoot owl, scrutinizing their arrival. The house itself was set far back, but in the moonlight, they could just make out the arching lane, the grand colonnade, the rows of windows lined up in formation like maids and footmen under inspection.
"Who goes there?" The man appeared from nowhere, a shadow fleshing out some of the iron bars.
"I am the Pigeon. We were sent by Stepanek."
"Stepanek who?"
"He said he knew you."
"I don't know any Stepanek."
"He gave us this." The Pigeon fed the half-card of St. Sebastian through the iron bars. The shadow on the other side snatched it. The great eyes of the gate continued to watch them.
"How many of you are there?" he asked gruffly.
"Seven. Three men, three women, and a little one."
"And how long do you plan on staying?"
"Just the night. We are on our way to Krakow. The bus broke down."
They all held their breath, and for a moment, it seemed the only thing that separated them from the sprawling house and a good night's rest was the heavy breath of the man on the other side of the bars.
"Very well," he said, and they could hear the jangle of keys, the springing open of the padlock, the squealing of the old hinges. He held the gate open just wide enough for them to fit through, and as they followed the circling carriage lane, the house loomed larger, drawing them in, the front door opening just as their feet touched the steps.
"The Pigeon! Well, I'll be damned." The man at the front door hugged him warmly, thumping him on the back. "Word was that you were caught right between the Nazis and the Soviets, and your whole village was burned."
"Well, I am still here. In fact, we are on our way to Krakow."
"And you've brought half the village with you, I see." The man laughed. "Come in, come in."
"I feel like a princess," Marysia whispered to Anielica. Anielica nodded, but her heart was beating wildly. She knew, probably better than Marysia, that there were those who wanted the Jews out as badly as they wanted the Nazis gone. That it was likely that even this man, with his congeniality, was one of them, that if they had arrived in the clear daylight or if Anielica, the Pigeon, and Władysław Jagiełło hadn't entered first, they might have very well been turned away. And indeed, as Marysia and her parents came in, Anielica thought she could see a twitch of disapproval in the face of the man who had greeted the first three with such joviality.
"So, do you remember the time we were in that bunker with Krzysiek at Mała Dolina?" the Pigeon said, clapping his hand on the man's shoulder, and the man very quickly regained his cheeriness, taking two of the bags and leading the entire party up the stairs.
The house had already been stripped of its furnishings and fixtures, but they could still wonder at the plaster medallions and the beautiful patterns of parquet that were left. The man showed them to a large room, which they were to have all to themselves. It was at the end of one wing, and whatever sounds of activity they could hear through the walls and the speaking tubes, a thick, warm sleep quickly muffled. For five of them anyway. The Pigeon and Anielica could not sleep for the excitement, and they lay awake under their coats and sweaters, whispering about the city they saw in their dreams, the city that the very next day they would call home.
"They say that the streets are paved in gold, and all the women look like princesses and are drawn about town in silver carriages," Anielica said quietly.
"Well then, you will fit right in."
When they woke up the next morning, the dawn had peeled away the darkness in long, unforgiving strips. The shadows on the walls in the shape of foliage turned out to be yellowed water stains, and in the corner of the room, there was a large bare spot where the parquet had been pulled up and used as kindling. The medallions on the ceiling flaked plaster, and the grand colonnade outside, upon closer examination, was riddled with bullet holes. The entire manor should have been carted off to a field hospital. Or a Party rally, to be held up as a metaphor for Old Poland.
Marysia said the house had character, as if she were speaking of an ugly but beloved child, but the others had no such loyalties, showing openly their will to leave as soon as possible, to escape the rotting, decomposing flesh of the building, the disrepair that did not match up with their dreams, the desperation that had no place in the New Poland they were trying to build. Two of the men from the manor helped them with their belongings. They were clearly ex-partisans, both showing the signs of neglect of a man without a woman: the missing buttons, the stains on their shirts, the reticence broken only by pragmatic, utilitarian instructions to the other of where to go and what to carry. When they reached the road, they hardly recognized it in the light. Both the driver and the bus were gone, the only evidence, the long grass pressed down along the side of the road. They sat on their bags and let the warm air and the silence of the two men settle around them.
After about half an hour, one of the men stood up with his hands in his pockets, searching the horizon like a dog who can feel the secret rumblings of the earth. And indeed, a bus appeared on the crest of the far hill, stretched to its full length as it sped downward, disappeared into the valley, and reappeared suddenly like a great monster, rumbling and squealing, kicking up the dust before settling to a tame stop.
The card in the front window said Krakow, and there was only a brief glance from the driver to the men before he dismounted and helped load the bags. And in another minute, the seven from Half-Village were again sitting snugly in the aisle, headed for the golden city.