Ewa called Jozef. In the middle of the third week. It was such a long time since she’d done that, he didn’t know what to say at first, when she asked him how he was; he was just thrown by that familiar-unfamiliar voice.
“Jozef?”
“I’m all right. I’m fine.”
He’d be better with her here. But he couldn’t say that in case he was overheard. Stevie was behind him, painting the stairwell, and even though the boy couldn’t understand Polish, Jozef still put down his roller and headed for the first floor before he spoke more. Hot from working, looking for a room with the windows open, Jozef decided it might be better not to say that at all: Ewa knew that’s what he thought, he’d told her often enough. Until she’d asked him to stop. I have to make up my own mind.
Ewa told him now:
“I just wanted to check anyway. I’ve been hearing things to make me worry.”
So then Jozef slowed a moment on the stairs, unnerved; it must have got back to her, about the tiles and the towel rails.
“Oh, right.”
He picked up his pace again, heading for the front door and fresh air, thinking she’d maybe heard from Tomas. But then she could have heard from any number of his workers; he and Ewa had so many people in common, between here and Gdańsk, they’d known each other for such a long time, since well before they were married. His father and her uncle were both in the shipyard, and in prison together over the strikes, and Ewa went to school with Jozef’s youngest sister too, so then he was suspicious:
“Was it Adela who told you?”
But how would Adela know? Jozef had said nothing to anyone at home. His sisters all knew about the last job, that disaster, but he’d been careful not to tell them about this one. He stepped onto the pavement, but outside it was worse: he had the sun on him now, full in the face.
“It doesn’t matter how I heard,” Ewa told him. “I just want to know if you’re all right.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
He sounded defensive, Jozef knew that; found out, sweat prickling against his scalp. He shielded his eyes, and then Ewa fell quiet, just as she’d done in so many of their phone calls since she left.
“Anyway.” She took a breath. “This boy you have working for you.”
“Stevie?”
Jozef threw a checking look behind him, up at the open first-floor windows; the boy had them wide as always.
“The Scottish one, yes. What do you know about him?”
Jozef felt himself frowning: it sounded so much like a Tomas question, he thought she must have been talking to him. He took a pace or two away from the building, telling her:
“He’s one of Romek’s.”
“I know. And he’s been taught well. Everything by Poles.”
How did Ewa know all this? Jozef waited, guarded, unsure what she was getting at. That he was a soft touch, maybe, and Romek wasn’t. She said:
“I heard you put him with Marek. And so they’re friends now.”
“They work together.” Jozef corrected her, sharp. “I’ve got all my men working hard.”
“Right. Right.”
Ewa sighed. He was making it difficult for her, so then she got to the point:
“You’ll watch out, won’t you? For Marek.”
She put the stress on her nephew’s name. As if she thought Jozef would put the other boy before him.
“And you’ll watch out for yourself, too. Okay?”