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already.”
     
    Halfway across town, Father Malecki walked back from the American consulate in a despondent frame of mind. He’d just wired the Vatican the news of the abbess’s death and would be back this afternoon to hear the official reply. The shock of her death was still with him, nearly forty-eight hours after the fact. With the removal of the reason for his presence in Poland, everything was tilted off centre. Thinking ahead fatigued him, and he refrained from it.
    He glumly walked down Franciszkańska and then took a narrow, winding street to reach the convent church, whose façade opened on the sidewalk with a flight of baroque marble steps. He’d been saying mass here every day since the titular priest had volunteered for the army, and had gone the way of thousands of prisoners of war.
     
    He didn’t expect to find a German army car parked in front of the entrance. There was a driver waiting in the front seat, so he realized an officer must be inside. Atop the flight of stairs, in a recess of the pilaster-flanked portal, a soldier stood with submachine gun slung on his stomach.
    Even before crossing, Malecki decided not to attempt to go directly past him. He had in his pocket the key to one of the side doors, and without so much as pausing on the sidewalk he continued down the street, took the next perpendicular alley and approached the church from behind.

    “Ewa?” The red-haired girl stuck her head inside the dressing room they shared in the city theatre. “Can I come in?”
    “Come.”
    “Someone left a card for you. Here it is.”
    With both hands carefully pulling the silk stocking up her leg, Ewa Kowalska wouldn’t risk a rash movement. “Open it and read it to me. Who’s it from?”
    The girl held it out for her to see that the address had been typed. “I don’t know,” she said with a little smile. “But the private who delivered it isn’t wearing a Polish uniform.”
    “Don’t be a prude, Kasia. Read it to me.”
    Kasia ripped the envelope and looked inside. Her heart-shaped mouth pouted. “Oh, crap. It’s written in German.”
     
    The church by the convent was empty of worshipers. Bora was blushing, but did not stop doing what he’d begun, namely taking the open missals one by one and ripping out the page with the hymn God Who Saved Poland .
    Father Malecki watched in impotent anger, while the sexton twisted his hands. “ Jaka szkoda, jaka szkoda ,” he moaned. “What a pity!”
    Bora threw the missals into a pile, resentfully. “I was told that you had a whole week to get rid of this page, and you didn’t. Now I have to do this.”
    Malecki kept his temper under control. “Did you expect me to tear pages out of a missal?”
    “You had specific instructions to do so! It’s not going to do you any good to refuse us collaboration. If the song is sung tomorrow, we’ll close the church down.”
    Malecki swallowed an improvident word, by force. He could see that the German would carry out orders, and
there was no speaking sense to him just now. The missals fell one after the other, some landing open, others bouncing on their edges. Like red-and-black serpent tongues the bookmark ribbons flicked out from the pages.
    Malecki began retrieving the missals and stacking them behind the soldier who handed them open to Bora. When Bora had nearly finished, he started gathering the crumpled pages as well. With a thud, the spur-clad boot landed close to his hand.
    “Leave those alone, Father. We take those along.”
    Malecki did not pull his hand back, still holding on to the one page. He didn’t look up at Bora. His eyes stayed on the sheen of black leather. “Surely there are things an officer of your upbringing could be doing other than this, Captain.”
    Bora dropped the last missal at his feet, and stepped back.
    At his command, the soldier swept all the crumpled papers inside a canvas bag. Malecki stood slowly, and confronted Bora’s hand extended towards him.
    “Do not force