When Marek woke that morning, a mild headache lingered at his temples. It had been a vicious throbbing for the last two days, only abating on Wednesday night when he led a packed service in what to him wasn’t more than prayers beseeching peace. He hadn’t labored significantly over the short sermon, hadn’t wrung his hands choosing the few hymns. He had been relieved for a brief respite from that miserable headache, which then plagued him all day on Thursday. And now, Friday morning, it was trying to decide whether to abate or again pound the back of his brain, cruelly crawling forward until all he could do was close his eyes and pray for healing.
As he got out of bed, then dressed, the ache teased, flashing pain alternating with no discomfort at all, making Marek wonder for how much longer could he cope. He also pondered if two world leaders felt this unwell, maybe Kennedy, but as for Khrushchev…. Then Marek berated himself, for it was unfair to automatically label the Soviet as the villain. The Americans must have provoked such an action, but he might be the only one in that small town to think that way. Marek smiled, reaching the kitchen, then starting a pot of coffee. He had considered making a cup of tea, but perhaps a stronger brew was necessary.
He ate a light breakfast, the headache coming and going. He didn’t take any aspirin, for it hadn’t made a dent previously. When Carla Kenny arrived, he almost sent her home, for he didn’t feel at all like doing pastoral work, but he saw in her anxious eyes the need for some kind of break from the recent week’s gloom. He smiled as the pain began to inch its way toward his temples, where all week long it had served blow after crushing blow. Those men had better decide some sort of conclusion, Marek thought to himself, or one transplanted Pole would consider drastic measures.
By mid-day, Mrs. Kenny fixed lunch for Marek and herself, then returned to her desk. Marek had forced himself to eat, feeling sick to his stomach as pain gripped his head like a vice. He knew the source and felt somewhat ashamed that after all these years how greed for power, coupled with a stiff dose of stupidity, could still affect him. He’d been assaulted by similar headaches when in seminary as the Soviets took over Poland. They were better than the Nazis certainly, but Marek hadn’t missed an iron fist being closed tightly around all of Eastern Europe. When he fled to Britain, the headaches had stayed behind; this was the first time he’d been so afflicted outside his home nation. Not even when leaving Maggie had he felt this wretched. Her rejection had hurt his heart, he wouldn’t deny that, but the gluttony and blindness of governments seemed to grate on him more, which he knew was a remnant of growing up during the war. To Marek, there had been only one conflict, and regardless of what others lay on the horizon, no other confrontation would ever usurp it. Not even what Kennedy and Khrushchev were embroiled in, for while a nuclear attack would be abominable, the atrocities perpetrated on his native soil were untouchable for their evil.
Yet, he couldn’t say that to anyone in this country, for it would sound like he had never gotten over those days, which he had, even in the midst of a now raging headache that nearly made him wish to be dead. Marek needed to lie down, sleep off what he could, then hope that when he woke, two men, one not much older than he, would have come to a reasonable answer to a terrible situation. But it wasn’t the worst that had happened, if it happened, he reminded himself. The last news he’d heard on television wasn’t promising, but even while feeling so poorly, Marek knew that God was in control.
Marek left the kitchen, finding Carla busy behind her typewriter. She looked up and he nodded to her. “I’m going to lay down for a bit, see if I can’t get this….”
Before he could finish, a knock interrupted. Carla stood, but Marek motioned for her to remain seated. “I’ll get it,” he said quietly.
“Pastor, you’re in no shape to….”
He smiled, but it made his head throb more. “No, I’ll just tell them another time.”
“No you won’t,” she frowned as another knock resonated. “You’ll….”
Marek stepped away, smiling through the pain, for she was right. He probably wouldn’t send them away, unless it was Mrs. Harmon, complaining about the depleted mums along the far side of the church. Those flowers had bloomed, but not to that woman’s high standards, and Marek had even gone so far as to instruct the gardener to add some fertilizer. As Marek neared the front door, he slowed his steps; perhaps whoever had knocked might turn back, for usually parishioners would enter the church unannounced, calling for the pastor, or Mrs. Kenny if they were there on church business. It was slightly odd for someone to knock, but that might make it easier for Marek to excuse himself, which he would if he wasn’t truly needed.
Reaching the double doors, he opened one, then smiled despite the brutal ache coursing through his head. “Eric, hello.” Marek spoke as if no pain existed. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, but how are you? Is this a bad time?”
Marek shook his head, which didn’t ease the pain, in fact, it made him nauseous. But he continued to smile, yet, he squinted. “No, not a bad time at all. Please, come inside.”
The painter loitered just outside the doors. “No, you look, well, awful.” Then Eric flashed a brief grin. “You look like Jane did a few months ago when she made us all suffer. I’ll come back another time.”
Marek almost nodded as a wave of pain engulfed him so furiously he thought he would fall over. There was nothing for him to grasp other than the side of the door, but that would have looked odd. “No actually, come in,” he muttered. Then he cleared his throat, which reverberated like a gong through his brain. Slowly he stepped back, but he did grip the edge of the door. “But let’s find ourselves some seats. I’ve been fighting a headache for days now.”
“Are you sure, I mean….”
Marek blinked, seeing two Eric Snyders standing just inside the vestibule. As those figures merged into one, the pain subsided long enough for Marek to nod. “Yes, of course. Would you like some coffee?”
“Only if you’re having a cup.”
Marek took deep breaths, then smiled as pain smashed into the front of his brain like waves crashing into the cliffs of Dover. But these waves weren’t fast, permitting the pastor brief snatches where there was no pain at all. Now his smile was wide as he heard Mrs. Kenny approach, asking if she could make a fresh pot of coffee. Marek nodded as Eric asked for a biscuit, to which Carla Kenny sighed. Then all three walked into the church kitchen, Marek letting the other two lead the way.
Ten minutes later the men were seated alone, mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of cookies between them. Marek’s headache continued to flirt at his temples, but as Eric made small talk, mostly about his daughter, the pain didn’t seem as bad as earlier. Marek was pleased to hear that Jane was well; it was a relief to consider something other than what had gripped the consciousness of nearly everyone Marek had encountered. Small children were safe from this horror, about the only ones untouched.
Then Eric cracked his knuckles, which to Marek echoed like gunshots. The pain flared, then launched a frontal assault, but Marek stared at the slightly younger man in front of him. “So Eric, what brings you here today?”
Eric leaned forward, taking another cookie from the plate. He munched thoughtfully, then swallowed. “I was gonna paint last night, but it was too dark out to see. Lynne thought I’d lost my mind, well, she didn’t say that but….” He smiled, finished the cookie, then sipped his coffee. “It was too late to start something, although I did get around to a little activity this morning. Haven’t been able to do much other than stew all week, but I’m sure I’m not the only one.”
“No, you’re probably not.” Marek’s voice was even, but the pain was intense, and he closed his eyes briefly to no avail. He opened his eyes, again finding two Eric Snyders. “I haven’t been able to concentrate either, I must say.”
“Your sermon on Wednesday would bely that fact.”
Now Marek smiled, in part from Eric’s astute tone, and that the pain had diminished. “Well, I didn’t work too hard
on that piece, I’ll admit.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t need to.”
The silence following Eric’s last word hung like a thick mist in the kitchen. Marek found it hard to breathe, although his head didn’t ache. He wasn’t sure if the lack of oxygen was the reason, although as he tried to draw air into his lungs, he found his brain was still pain-free. He marveled at this until he choked. Then the pain returned, as did breath into his chest.
But oddly, Eric didn’t ask if he was all right. He took another cookie, dipped it into his coffee, then ate the whole biscuit in one bite. Marek watched those actions as if he was standing outside of himself, observing how Eric didn’t make eye contact, chewing with his mouth closed, while the man across heaved air in and out of his mouth. Marek was that man, attempting to place oxygen into himself, but still it was difficult. Then Marek noticed that again Eric was going to crack his knuckles. For some reason, Marek didn’t wish to hear that sound, and as he slipped back into himself, he grabbed Eric’s hands before the painter had a chance to do so.
They stared at each other. “Does that bother you?” Eric asked softly. Then he smiled. “It drives Stanford nuts, like I’m purposely ruining my hands.”
Marek shook his head, then he grinned. “It’s just that I have this awful headache and….” But suddenly the pain was gone. He blinked several times, releasing Eric’s hands, then placing his own along his temples. They didn’t ache, they didn’t even twinge. They felt as usual, no tenderness or throbbing or pain of any sort. Then Marek smiled widely, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Actually, try it, cracking your knuckles I mean.”
“Are you sure?”
Marek nodded.
The sound resonated through the kitchen and Marek could hear Carla pause in her typing. But there was no lingering effect within Marek other than a brief flash of if from thousands of miles away Stanford Taylor could sense what his most talented client had just done. Hopefully not, Marek chuckled inwardly. Stanford was probably ruing the possible catastrophe.
“Are you all right?” Eric’s voice was still soft. “Pastor?”
Again their eyes met, but this time Marek Jagucki didn’t see Eric Snyder. He saw his father, or was it his mother? Perhaps it was his older brother Dominik, his younger sister Ania, or…. A momentary pain seeped all through him, for in those brief seconds, Eric’s eyes reminded Marek of…. Then Marek smiled, for that memory was so faint, as if he had willed it into non-existence. His parents and siblings’ images were strong, those of other relatives too. He never forgot them, their lives were woven all through his. He carried the hopes and dreams of so many, his entire extended family wiped out in one stroke, but still living within the guise of one man. Strange that he didn’t get these paralyzing headaches more often, he wondered, fully aware he needed to give Eric an answer. It was only Eric sitting across from Marek, no one else still alive whom Marek loved.
“I’m…fine,” the pastor answered slowly. Then he shook his head, but no ache accompanied. “Actually, I’ve felt awful all week. Right before you arrived, I was going to try to sleep.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Eric scooted his chair away from the table. “I’ll go now, let you get to….”
Marek leaned forward. “No, it’s past, the pain I mean.” Then Marek shivered, he couldn’t help it. Yes, the pain was gone, but something, or someone, had been laid like a ghost at his feet. Eric’s eyes were suddenly a reminder to a moment that Marek never considered. He stared at the painter’s face, but Eric looked no differently than the last time they had spoken, which wasn’t on Wednesday evening. Perhaps it was last Sunday, before this whole crazy business with Cuba began. Or was made known to the public, Marek allowed.
“What do you see, what’re you looking for?” Eric asked.
Now Marek smiled. “You remind me of some…one.” Was the resemblance to a person, or a thing, Marek wondered. Or perhaps both.
“From Britain or….” Eric paused. “Poland?”
“Definitely of home.” Marek took a deep breath, then he smiled widely. “So Eric, what brought you here today?”
The painter glanced at the plate of cookies, then to his coffee cup. Finally he met the pastor’s gaze. “I spent much of last night staring at the painting of you and Jane.” Eric sighed, then nearly cracked his knuckles again, making both men laugh. Then Eric stood, pushing his chair up to the table. He leaned against the far kitchen counter, then moved to the open door. Closing it most of the way, he returned to his spot along the counter. Then he stared at the pastor. “I wondered about your sermon on Wednesday. It was perfect, you know.”
“Well, thank you. Again, I didn’t spend much time on it.”
Eric nodded. “Like I said before, you didn’t need to.” Briefly Eric gripped himself, then he shook out his arms. “I painted that one of you and Jane like I do all my works, or most of them. I put what I feel onto the canvas, then later I see what’s there. And sometimes I see even more after a few weeks or months have passed. Last night, last night I saw….” Eric hesitated, then he spoke. “I saw what happened to you in Poland. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude on your past, but I saw it and when set alongside all that’s happening now….”
Marek nodded, unable to speak, but deep relief flooded his heart. No one knew, other than one Lutheran minister back home, for Marek had barely been able to speak of that day, or not fully. Over several months Pastor Nowak had slowly drawn the truth from a traumatized teenager. But one concealed element that Marek had never shared with anyone now lingered on the tip of his tongue.
Stepping to where the pastor sat, Eric pulled out the closest chair from the table. He sat down, but left a few feet between them. He started to speak, then seemed to reflect upon what he had planned to say. Then Eric took a deep breath as if gathering the necessary courage. In those seconds, Marek wondered to which part Eric would inquire first. If it was to his lost family, perhaps that would be easier. If it was to…. If somehow Eric had discerned that other point, Marek wasn’t sure how he would react. But Marek couldn’t talk; if Eric wished to bring all of this into the open, he would do it alone.
As that thought ran through the Pole’s head, he began to chuckle, then laughter spilled from him. The typewriter again stopped, then Mrs. Kenny’s footsteps could be heard rushing down the corridor. Marek gazed at the closed doorway, which then opened, with the befuddled secretary staring at him. “Are you all right Pastor?”
Eric turned around as Carla tapped her foot, sounding much like her typewriter, or when Eric had cracked his knuckles. But instead of making Marek’s head pound, his laughter broadened, for it was true what he had seen that day twenty years ago. It had saved his life, which now led to this day in America, sitting near the only man who might understand. Yet how was that possible, or were they all mad? Then Marek had one more belly laugh. Madness was in Washington D.C., in Moscow, and in Cuba. In that simple church kitchen grace reigned, no other way to describe it.
“I’m fine Mrs. Kenny, just fine. Sorry for interrupting your work.”
She gazed suspiciously at him, then at Eric. Then she slowly walked away, although Marek could still hear her footsteps. When those were gone, he stood, closing the door firmly. He retook his seat, then glanced at the painter. Those eyes, how had Marek missed those eyes? Perhaps Jane had precluded the pastor from seeing anything else, or the paintings had stolen his attention, or…. “How long,” he said quietly. “How long have you known?”
Eric took a breath, then let it out. “Like I said, I saw it last night. I felt a little, well, dumb, although perhaps it wasn’t something I truly wanted to see.”
“Not many do, too much for most to take.”
Eric nodded. Then he allowed the hint of a smile. “And Pastor, what do you see?”
For a second, Marek flinched. Then he chuckled, inhaling deeply. He let it out, then leaned toward Eric. “I see something in your eyes Eric, something very familiar to me. Have your eyes always looked this way??
??
The tone Marek used was gentle, also probing. To his surprise, Eric didn’t cringe. “Not always Pastor. Sometimes they’re very different.”
Marek nodded, gazing down at Eric’s feet. Since he’d met this man, Marek had taken an interest in him, also his wife, and of course their beautiful baby. But now Marek studied Eric’s left foot, then his right. The shoes were the same, but the way Eric turned his left foot inwardly, it was as if he was trying to obscure something.
Then the men’s eyes met; Eric nodded, then smiled. “My left foot was damaged when I was young. My father caused it. But it, well, it’s been healed.” Then Eric laughed. “That was the beginning of my search for faith, although I didn’t know it at the time.”
Marek didn’t inquire about the cause of the deformity, but he smiled. “Sometimes faith needs a long dormant season.”
“Indeed it does. And sometimes it springs forth without warning.” Then Eric chuckled. “Like daffodils. Yours didn’t bloom for months.”
“Yes. I thought Mrs. Harmon was going to haul me to the police.”
Both men laughed. Then Eric spoke. “Your words on Wednesday. Maybe they took you little time to craft, but to me they were significant.”
“Much like your paintings.”
Eric smiled. “Indeed.” He leaned back in his chair, straightened his legs, then bent his knees at an equal stance. “Pastor, I just wanted to….” Eric stopped, then stood. Then he leaned against the counter again. “I just wanted to thank you for Wednesday, for what you said. No matter what happens, we’re all in God’s care.”
Marek gazed at the man across from him, then again peered at Eric’s eyes. “Please, call me Marek.”
It was all the pastor could say, but Eric nodded. “Marek it is. Well, I should be getting home. Lynne’s probably wondering what happened to me.”
Those words hung in the air, what Eric hadn’t asked outright, but perhaps now it wasn’t necessary. Would Marek ever inquire about the painter’s eyes; he wasn’t sure. But now every time Marek gazed at this man, that would be between them, not as a secret but some other binding force. Maybe they never would speak of it, or maybe…. “I’m sure she’s aware how time slips away.” Marek’s tone was light. “Or maybe she’s making one of those delicious pies.”
“If she is, shall I call you with an invite to dinner?”
Marek nodded without thinking, then he smiled at himself. “Please do, unless it would be an imposition.”
The pastor expected the painter to smile politely, but Eric wore a thoughtful gaze. “Your presence at our table would never be cause for concern.”
Now a lump formed at the base of Marek’s throat, although it wasn’t painful. It harbored a portent that if accepted might significantly modify the relationship between the parties. Marek stared at Eric’s eyes, seeking reception of such an accord, which would be more lasting than what would hopefully be realized between America and the Soviet Union. Eric’s hearty nod gave Marek his answer.
“Well then, consider it a deal, unless Mrs. Snyder has other plans.”
Eric smiled brightly. “I’m sure Lynne would absolutely agree, not to mention Jane’s endorsement. I think she’s missing her Polish lessons.”
Marek’s heart throbbed just a little, then he smiled warmly. “You go home, then let me know. If another evening’s better….”
“Let’s just say six tonight, or would earlier be….”
“Whatever works for you all.”
“All right,” Eric chuckled. “Let’s say five, then we can spend more of the evening talking. Or maybe the mood will strike and you’ll find yourself posing again with my daughter. That portrait of you both won’t be around for much longer. I think I’ll need another to take its place.”
Marek nodded, pleased not only for the dinner invitation, or the opportunity to be painted. He eagerly wished to be included in the Snyder family for a multitude of reasons, the main being the chance to better understand exactly why God had spared his life and the irregular manner in which he had done so.
Chapter 78