The Light

Darkness fell. Our interrogators were late that evening. Perhaps they had car trouble or perhaps they had matters of greater importance to attend to. They were both young, anonymous looking. We were never quite sure if they were the same people who came to arrest my father a few months ago; they wore the same kind of clothes and had a similar air about them.
The night of my father’s arrest was one of those rare late summer evenings when the heat was almost oppressive, especially inside the house; he went outside to finesse some details in the garden, though the sky was already quite dark, just a faint glow left over from the sunset. A car pulled up and we heard a brief conversation outside. He came into the kitchen where my mother was preparing the evening meal.
“I need to run down to the police station," he said, "some of my students got into serious trouble, they need my help.”
I remember that he paused briefly, as if to add something. He was wearing a light cotton shirt and sandals without socks, the clothes that were to last him through the next winter. My mother looked up distractedly, but they exchanged no words. That was the last time I saw him for many years. I was six years old.
Back in the early 1950’s there were not many cars in Gdańsk. When a car pulled up outside a house, it became the cause of attention and speculation in the neighborhood. Lights went out and lace curtains swayed as people came closer to their windows. That evening, as we awaited our interrogators, we sensed the anxious tension in the street, as we and our neighbors listened for the distant sound of the approaching engine, the rumbling of rubber on cobblestones, the slamming car doors, the footsteps, knock, knock.
It had been a great day, so far. The parcel from the West had finally arrived, opened by customs, but apparently not much tampered with. Inside were four large cans of Nescafe, some bars of dark chocolate Toblerone, and an assortment of exotic products whose taste or purpose we would never know. We had been hungry all that week; our supplies had run out again. A neighbor would bring us soup once a day and a boy from the bakery would bring us some bread, but it was never enough.
My mother rewrapped the packet to make it look less conspicuous; we jumped into our coats and set off for the market, the postman barely out of sight. It was normally a half an hour’s walk, but this time we took the side streets, and lingered at street crossings, as if to savor the moment.
The market was a difficult place to approach since the area was often the scene of police and army operations. They advanced to the square from all directions, blocking all the exits with their trucks. The soldiers would spill out of the canopied backs, heavy flapping coats, machine guns, hobnails crunching on stone.
The people in the square would quickly withdraw into the central market hall, where they dissolved, disappeared, became absorbed into the fabric of the site. My mother and I would sit down inside the stall of the old market-woman who received our goods, as if we were family, or helpers, or just part of the stall. The woman, meanwhile, would reach down, pull back a stone slab on the floor, drop the Nescafe and other goods down into a hole and pull back the slab, looking bored, indifferent, slightly depressed. The soldiers cruised through the aisles bearing much the same expression. No emotion, no action, crunch, crunch, crunch, hobnails on stone.
This day there were no soldiers. The woman received the goods as if she was expecting them. She held out a wad of money, which my mother did not count, but deftly slid into her pocket. They never spoke, but this time the woman motioned. She pointed at my mother’s pocket.
“That’s not enough,” she said,” I have no more today.”
She reached down below the counter and pulled up a very large bottle of cognac.
“This is too much.” Then she added,” But it’s for you.”
“Thank you, thank you very much. “My mother squirmed, smiling too much, and revealing her strange English accent. The woman did not look surprised. She knew all along.
The interrogators finally arrived, and made no comment about their lateness. They headed straight for the kitchen table, where they were used to sitting, but waited politely until invited to sit down.
“May I take your coats,” my mother asked. It was hot in the kitchen. The hot-water radiator under the windowsill was too hot to touch and the large tiled oven was stoked up, it’s cooking rings almost red hot from the coals beneath. They both wore expensive black camel-hair coats, but baggy navy blue suits beneath, white shirts buttoned up to the throat, but without ties, and sandals with thick socks.
“No, no thank you.”
“Would you like some tea?” she asked.
“No, no, no thank you.” they both mumbled as they shuffled through some papers, which were as usual beginning to cover the entire table surface.
“Oh, do have some tea,” my mother persisted. She knew Polish custom, “it’s fresh. I just got it.”
“No, no thank you.”
After a while, they accepted.
“Biscuits? I just made them,” she lied. She bought them.
“No, no thank you.”

We all settled down to our snack, there was even some cheese. The interrogators pulled out cigarettes.
“American or English?” one of them asked.
“Oh, how lovely!” my mother broke into English. She checked herself at once and continued in Polish, “I’ll try the English, please.”
They set into chain-smoking.
One of the interrogators rose from his chair and started pacing about the kitchen glancing at the counters, looking into drawers, and peering into closets the way he always did.
“Is that a radio?” he asked, pointing at the radio.
“Yes.”
“Which stations do you listen to?”
“I like to listen to music.”
“Radio Free Europe? BBC?”
“No.”
“You don’t listen to Radio Free Europe? Everyone listens to Radio Free Europe.”
“I don’t. It’s always jammed.”
“How do you know it’s always jammed if you don’t listen to it?”
“People tell me.”
“You know a lot of people?”
“No.”
The second interrogator separated a piece of paper from the heap and handed it to my mother together with a pencil.
“Please write down the names of people whom you visit and who visit you.”
“People don’t visit anymore. People are afraid to visit.”
There was a short silence. Suddenly, my mother seemed close to tears.
“People are afraid,” she whispered. Still, she took the paper and pencil, which was being offered, and held them limply. She was a young and attractive woman in those days, and seeing her rising emotion focused the interrogators attention sharply.
There was a loud crashing sound outside the house. We all rose from our chairs in alarm and listened in silence. We heard a high-pitched, piercing voice let loose a volley of coarse and violent swearing. There was some shuffling and rattling and then a loud and prolonged banging on the door. The interrogators drew back against the kitchen walls, looking frightened, their hands slowly dipping deeper and deeper into their camel-hair coat pockets. My mother, her head down, still whispering, said,
“That’ll be Trixie.”
The banging intensified, and since the front door had not been locked, Trixie burst into the hallway. She continued swearing, in Polish, English, and some Russian which she had picked up, as she explained in many words that her bike had fallen over outside our front door, breaking her headlight, twisting a pedal, and injuring Eddie, who was still outside, nursing his wounds. She was a small, wiry person with thin but muscular calves and biceps, her face decorated with mascara, lipstick, rouge, and layers of powder, which subsided in some sections, falling with claps on surrounding surfaces, revealing the underlying vivid coloration.
“It’s his fault! Fuckin’ son of a bitch doesn’t even know how to get off a bike.”
She paused, glanced at the two men, and sniffed the air.
“Ah, English cigarettes? Oh, sorry, didn’t know you had guests.”
Any possible introductions were interrupted by Eddie limping into the room. He also was tiny, and wore a shiny, iridescent dark blue suit ripped on one leg, bow tie, sported a very thin, sharp moustache, and heavily pomaded combed back hair.
“Oh Eddie,” said my mother, “are you all right?”
He didn’t reply, since he at once became aware of the two interrogators who remained with their backs pressed against the kitchen walls. Eddie had sharp instincts; one quick glance reveled to him who these people were.
“Kamiński Edward, I am”, he clicked his heels slightly as he stood before the first of them. The man mumbled faintly: “Zając, Jan.” He carefully withdrew one hand from his coat pocket and they shook hands. Eddie repeated the same words and gestures with the second man. “Nowak, Marcin.” Their heels twitched without clicking. Only then did he finally turn to my mother. “Yes, yes, my dear Irene, some iodine, and plasters if you have any. “
Trixie shuffled inside a large bag, which she had brought in with her. She pulled out two liter bottles of 140% proof spirits and gently laid them on the on the piece of paper on the table, on either side of the pencil, which my mother had not yet used to write down the names of her friends. She fixed her glittering eyes, which were even darker than the mascara which surrounded them, on one of the interrogators.
“A toast?” she asked.
Eddie quickly interrupted, “To Comrade Bierut, and…and…all the members of the Central Committee, “and glared at Trixie intensely.
“Why are you staring at me like that, you stupid, fuckin’ wanker, I‘m going to cut your balls off after what you did out there. You could have broken these bottles.”
One of the interrogators cleared his throat and, recovering somewhat, said,
“Please speak in Polish.”
Trixie spun around and faced him.
“Have a drink.”
“No, no thank you. “
“Go on, I’ll make a nice mix for you, what do you like? Hey Irene! Got any fruit juice? I know what Poles like. Go on have a drink!”
“No, no, we can’t, we’re on duty, can’t drink.”
“Go on, just to warm you up, what kind of Pole are you? come on, sit down, just one, won’t do any harm, here, here’s your glass, go on, please, please, go on. “
“No, no thank you,” he kept repeating, but it was gradually becoming apparent that he actually was going to have a drink and was now merely going through the last stages of Polish formality and delaying a final shrug of the shoulders with a brief “Oh, all right, just one.”
It seemed that he spoke for both of them. My mother returned to the kitchen with Eddie’s iodine and plasters, and then found juices for Trixie to mix drinks with. Trixie busied herself energetically.
“Bierut! Bierut! And Marshall Rokossowski! Long live Polish Soviet friendship!” bellowed Eddie. The interrogators looked embarrassed, but knocked down their glasses in one gulp with the same practiced gesture as everyone else.
“Long live. Long live,” mumbled Trixie, as she poured the next drinks. My mother produced a platter of salted herring with chopped onion, floating in a little puddle of oil, and another with some sliced and buttered rye bread. Eddie laid out plates.

“Fish like to swim!” screamed Trixie, and everyone gulped down the next round.
Eddie turned to the interrogator sitting next to him.
“Mr. Nowak, that’s a very nice car you have out there. That’s your car, am I right?”
“Yes, it is nice.”
“Simca, if I’m correct. Don’t see too many Simcas in the Polish People's Republic. Much nicer than a Fiat.”
“We use it for official business. It’s important that we have reliable transportation. And yes, Mr. Kamiński, it is a very good thing that you be aware that we are indeed on official business. We are building socialism, you know, but we get subverted by enemies of the people. It is important that we know who these enemies of the people are.”
Everyone became silent. Even Trixie, who was pouring the third round, stopped and looked at Nowak in puzzlement.
“You think Irene is an enemy of the people?”
“No Mrs. Kamińska, we don‘t think.” He paused, as if he regretted that last statement, but then continued.
“We are here to find out. You see, she is associated with people who are proven to be very dangerous elements.”
Trixie glanced over to me. I was sitting quietly on the window ledge at the other end of the room, my fruit juice and salt herring as yet untouched. I had witnessed many parties in my time. This one seemed to be proceeding along the normal lines, with the alcohol not yet taking any noticeable effect, but the group appeared to be searching for a theme, something to plunge in to. I knew that I could be of no help, but also that this enemy of the people thing was the wrong way to go.
“You think Ricky is an enemy of the people?” asked Trixie.
Nowak looked interested.
“Who’s Ricky?”
She made a dramatic, slow, sweeping gesture, and pointed at me. I cringed slightly; my name wasn‘t really Ricky. That was what the English women called me. Trixie resumed pouring the drinks, but no one reached for their glasses this time. No one bellowed a toast. The silence was horrible. The interrogators glanced at one another, as if they had psychically communicated, and made a devastating decision.
There was a knock on the door. My mother leaned back in her chair with a gasp of despair.
“Oh, it’s all right Irene. That’ll be Margaret. I told her I’d be here. I’ll get it,” said Trixie. She ran out in to the hallway. My mother buried her face in her hands.
Nowak and Zając again exchanged serious glances. It was clear that they needed either to break up this situation, or see how it developed. It appeared that they chose the latter.
From the hallway we heard Trixie‘s voice: “Margaret, Margaret, come in. We’re having a few drinks, some nice people here, oh and Joe, you’re here too, how nice.”
Trixie and Margaret came tumbling in, but Joe lingered behind, hanging his jacket very slowly on the hangers in the hallway. Joe, or Józef, was one of my favorite characters at parties. He was one of the few friends of my parents, who paid any uncondescending attention to me, and he was always completely drunk, well, he was until he had a lot to drink, and then he gradually became the only sober person in the room. We often teamed up late in the evening, taking off people’s shoes and covering them in blankets if they were too far gone to make their way home.
Margaret was fleshy and mincing, with cleavages and dimples, blond hair, a clutter of bracelets, powerfully perfumed and with a rasping smokers voice. Her clothes were low-cut or high-cut, wherever inappropriate, and she lunged at men, smothering and frightening them. The interrogators did look alarmed at once. She gave them a quick, sidelong glance, and immediately identified them as her natural pray.
She spoke to Trixie, but since everyone in the room was silent, she addressed everyone,
“Tad, will be along in a moment, he’ll pick us up.”
“Tad has a car?” gasped Trixie.
“Yes, it’s French.”
Joe finally appeared at the kitchen door, but instead of entering, leaned his elbow against the doorframe and buried his face in the crotch of his arm. He uttered a loud groan. Joe was an actor, a regular cast member at the Teatr Wybrzeże, at one time a star, but his alcoholism made him an uneven performer, and recently he found himself relegated to a series of minor roles.
He began to sob, his face still buried, but soon individual words began to emerge from the choking sounds, things like: “I didn’t know what love was until I met you” and “It didn’t have to end like this.” We would generally make the generous assumption that he was rehearsing a role, and that saved us from having to console him or interfere with his grief.
“Margaret, before you go, a quick one, eh? one for the road?” Trixie put another couple of glasses on the table, Joe pushed himself away from the doorframe and advanced toward the kitchen table, his handsome face streaked with tears. He was slightly unshaven, wore casual clothes, and walked with a limp, which we always assumed was an affectation, though he insisted it was caused by stray shrapnel during the last onslaught at Monte Casino. The interrogators moved closer to one another and became engaged in friendly conversation while trying not to look at Margaret. My mother sat silently, smiling politely whenever she felt anyone’s attention on her. I finished all my herring and juice, and begun to lose interest in the gathering.
There was a knocking on the door.
“I’ll get it,” said Margaret, “that’ll be Tad.”
“Oh, you’re leaving?” asked my mother, but I could not tell if with relief or apprehension.
“Yes, we’ll all fit in the car, don’t you think Trixie?” Her eyes searched the room to get everyone’s consent, but Eddie and Joe had retreated into a corner with the decanter, and were pouring themselves another drink. Then her full, lush lips pursed into a smile and her eyelids rose slowly like a stage curtain as she languidly turned her gaze to the interrogators. They almost rose from their seats, then both reached for a packet of cigarettes, their hands fumbling and grasping each other’s.
“I’ll get the door,” she said, directly to them. They both nodded and exchanged rapid glances. Trixie stood right next to her, looking up at her face, sparkling, and nearly giggling. Margaret started for the door, but took the first few steps backwards, very slowly, then turned and resumed at a normal pace without looking back.
We heard her voice from the hallway: “Tad, Kitty, you both came, how lovely, come in, we’re just having one for the road, will you join us?”
“Just for a moment, we can’t stay,” answered a resonant male voice.
Tad, or Tadeusz, was also an actor, but of a different caliber than Joe. At that time he was just beginning his film career, playing mainly World War Two People’s Army heroes, partisans, or sometimes romantic bricklayers, Leaders of Work, but was already well known and very popular. In later years the changing political climate allowed him to widen his range, he became very good, almost an icon of the Polish cinema; he even worked in the West, though never in Hollywood.
Kitty came in first, a mousy woman, wearing her usual cardigan and wooly stockings. Tad was a giant man; he ducked with actorial exaggeration as he entered the room and cast his aura over the gathering as he slowly straightened up. It was always stunning to have this man anywhere near you, let alone in your kitchen. The interrogators were clearly fans, and they edged shyly towards him to be introduced. Trixie leaned over her bag and pulled out another couple of bottles. “There goes my week’s supply,” she sighed, and winked at my mother. My mother smiled faintly, she was starting to look drunk.
Tad, like Eddie, also had a sharp eye, and quickly identified Zając and Nowak for what they were. To make the social encounter more comfortable he spoke in the tones, and adopted some of the gestures, of the fearless partisan bent on mowing down row upon row of Nazis foolishly emerging from their trenches or, gently leaning down to the interrogators upturned faces, with some of the charm and charisma of the bricklayer wooing the girl from the tank factory.
Joe slammed down his once again empty glass and, a little sobered up by now, walked toward Tad’s group, an ugly scowl on his face. He crouched behind a chair, an air-machine gun in his hands aimed at Tad, and spluttered angry German threats through his clenched teeth. Tad raised his head defiantly, spread his legs bent slightly at the knees, and raised his own air-weapon. They both made loud machine gun-fire noises as they showered volley after volley at each other. . With a loud guttural scream Joe rose from his crouch and rushed at Tad, but Tad caught him with a hail of bullets. Joe flew up in the air, fell to the ground, and lay there writhing in his death throes.
“Death to Fascists! Death to imperialism! Long live the victorious People’s Army! People’s Army…” shouted Zając and Nowak, slowly quieting as Joe rose from the floor.
Feeling an opportunity to further their ideological cause, Nowak raised his filled glass and quieted the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a toast. A toast to English wives!”
“English wives!” echoed Zając. “We should have English wives too.”
“Yes,” continued Nowak, “we must reach out to the proletariat of England, of the West, and help them shake off their shackles, free themselves of the blood sucking exploitative classes and reactionary forces. Proletariat of the world unite!”
This brought the loudest cheer of the evening, and everyone downed the round.
People mingled. Interactions were becoming based on previously undiscovered attractions between the most unlikely partners. Kitty, who normally despised Trixie and Margaret for their vulgarity and brazenness, was now laughing at Trixie’s foul jokes, and encouraging Margaret to separate Zając and Nowak from Tad and confront them in a tight corner of the kitchen.
Margaret did not need much encouragement. She pinned Zając against the hot water radiator, thoughtfully removing real and imaginary hair from his blue suit jacket. He was pressing himself against the hot metal despite the terrible pain, trying to avoid crotch contact and reveal the physiological changes that were occurring in that part of his anatomy.
Eddie was trying to get Tad’s attention, Tad was now consoling my mother, but loosing track of what he was saying, Kitty and Trixie were shrieking together in the middle of the room, Joe was quite sober again and observing Margaret’s operation with approval, Nowak, abandoned by everyone, was pouring himself drink after drink, breathing more and more heavily between each shot.
I chose this moment to walk out of the room, unnoticed, taking a plateful of cold cuts, more herring, and some bread, all of which had strangely grown in extent during the evening and was staining and disfiguring the documents which the interrogators had left lying on the table. The heat and cigarette smoke were intense in the kitchen and it was a relief to be out of there. The hallway was a large square space with doors which led to all the other rooms in the house. The one room which I never entered lately was my father’s study. The interrogators would spend a lot of time in there, with the door closed, and later emerge with piles of documents, and various other objects. The one thing which neither they nor anyone else ever touched was my father’s desk lamp, which stayed lit during all those months since his arrest. Until that moment. It didn’t just go out, it exploded, like a portent, an urgent and ominous signal from elsewhere. I could hear the shards of glass gently landing about the darkened room. I glanced back towards the kitchen, but no one else had noticed. I put my plate on the floor, at where I stood, and crept towards the study door. I had to search for the overhead light switch; I had never used it before. The room looked unfamiliar, disheveled, with all the drawers and cabinet doors left open; many familiar objects were missing. I stood by the door, gazing in, but didn’t go in any deeper. After a while I turned out the light, and also the hallway light for some reason, and wandered over to my bedroom, forgetting my snack, which still stood on the floor where I had set it. I was too tired to search for any toys or books and just lay down on the bed fully clothed.
I listened to the sounds from the kitchen. Clearly, everyone was getting very drunk. I could even hear my mother’s voice; she had been silent and subdued until then. At some point she produced the cognac which the market woman had given her; there were loud exclamations of approval, and much comment about the interrogators search-skills, since they had failed to notice it in a very obvious place.
Welcome drowsiness began to descend upon me. The sounds from the kitchen took the effect of a soothing lullaby, rising and falling in a steadily fading rhythm.
At a moment I realized that I was no longer alone
“You need to get undressed,” my mother’s voice was soft, as she seated herself on the edge of my bed. I lay still for a while, then sat up, rose slowly, and changed into my pajamas. After I lay down again, my mother tucked me in.
“Isn’t Eddie funny?” she asked, laughing lightly. I hadn’t noticed Eddie much during the evening, but to please her, I said “Yes, he is. He was hissing when he put on the iodine.”
“You were very good all evening. Next time I’ll ask Trixie to bring Lynn and Sonya with them. I know you don’t like them, but at least you’ll have someone to play with.”
Next time? I felt a little uncomfortable about this becoming a regular venue, but the thought of spending an evening with Lynn and Sonya filled me with even greater dread. Trixie’s daughters were cruel, and did terrible things to me.
We heard voices in the hallway. There was shuffling and bumping into furniture in the dark. Margaret, her voice even hoarser than normal from all the chain smoking that evening, was saying, “Here, let me help you with that, OK, I got it,” while Nowak, the person with her, took a loud, deep breath which rose above the din in the kitchen. My mother got up quickly and closed the bedroom door. She wove an uneven path back to my bedside, now hiccupping, but did not sit down beside me. She looked anxious.
“I’ll read you a book,” she said. Another hiccup. “You like the one about the goat?” I hated the story about the goat. The goat was mean and cruel, like Trixie’s daughters, and the boy it betrayed was stupid.
“Yes, I like it. Read that to me.”
She sat down again, her breath smelled strongly of alcohol and tobacco, and her hiccupping interrupted every phrase. After a while I turned over and pretended to fall asleep, but she continued reading, perhaps to drown out the ever increasing groaning and creaking sounds coming from the hallway.
Abruptly, the creaking stopped and new voices sounded in the hallway. It was Joe and Eddie.
Joe was saying, “What a night. What a night.”
“Where’s the light switch?” asked Eddie, “can you find the light switch?”
Then there were more voices.
“What’s happening out here? What’s everyone doing in the dark?”
Shuffling and bumping; nobody could find the light switch.
My mother rose slowly from my bed and walked toward the door, but just rested her hand on the door handle without opening it.
Now it seemed that the whole party had moved out into the hallway; voices expressed concern about how dark it was. There was a scream, a very loud thump, crash, more screaming, this time numerous voices. My mother flung open the bedroom door, and at that moment someone found the light switch, and briefly, a silence descended upon the whole house. I abandoned any further pretense of being asleep and run to the door to survey the scene.
It was a strange sight. Some people were standing over Zając, who was lying, quite still, in the center, while Margaret and Nowak were slowly rising from a bench, their clothes very disheveled. Nowak rose to his feet, his blue suit trousers appeared to be slowly dropping to the ground. Before he regained upright posture he swooned, his head tipped backward and his eyeballs rolled up and out of sight, his legs tangled briefly, and he crashed to the ground next to his companion. Everyone gasped.
Joe spread his arms, and said, “Step back”. He leaned over the two bodies and gently slapped their faces with the palm of his hand. They showed no signs of life.
“Out cold,” he said.
“How did this happen? What happened?” asked my mother.
Joe glanced around the room.
“Look,” he said, “some idiot left his herring and cold cuts in the middle of the floor. Zając must have slipped on them.”
I drew back against the door frame of my room.
Kitty seemed very upset.
“What shall we do? What shall we do? “she kept repeating.
Joe took Tad by the elbow, and they withdrew toward the kitchen door, conferring. Eddie leaned over the bodies and begun administering improvised first aid, mostly nudging and shaking them. Margaret went into the kitchen and reappeared with a glass of water.
“No, no,” Kitty reproached her, “you’ll mess up the parquet”.
Tad returned to the center of the room, leaving Joe, who stood up against the wall rubbing his bristly chin, and then gazing at his fingernails.
Tad said, “I’ll take them.”
“Take them? Take them where?” my mother almost shouted. She appeared to be asserting herself in her own home and laying claim to the two prostrate bodies.
Tad repeated, “I’ll take them.”
“You don’t know where they live, do you?”
“Don’t worry, I have a car.”
This last argument appeared to be most convincing, and everyone except my mother went back to the kitchen to collect their belongings. Joe came back with the interrogators’ camel-hair coats, checking their pockets and slipping objects into his own.
Eddie turned to Margaret: “Shame this. I was beginning to enjoy their company.” Margaret narrowed her eyes at him.
The three men picked up the bodies together, although Tad could have managed alone, carried them, one at a time, to Tad’s car, and laid them on the back seat.

“Oh, look, “Eddie exclaimed, “this is amazing. Never thought I’d see a thing like this. It’s another Simca. These are such nice cars. How did you get a hold of this, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“It is a nice car,” replied Tad.
Everyone filed back in to the house to say good bye to us. My mother stood behind me in the middle of the hallway, with her hands on my shoulders. There was some kissing, ruffling of my hair, “Let’s do it again, soon” from Joe, last one to leave, as he closed the door behind him.
The next morning, there was a broken bike still lying in front of our front door, and a Simca parked by our gate. Eddie and Trixie must have picked up the bike a couple of days later, while we were gone, but the Simca stayed.
No one visited us for quite a while after that night, but early one morning, about a week later, we heard a knocking on the door. When my mother answered, she found herself faced with two men in shiny iridescent dark blue suits, sporting very thin, sharp moustaches, heavily pomaded combed back hair, and sunglasses.
“Good morning, good morning, Madame,” they both said. “That is a very nice car, that Simca you have out there,” one continued.
“Oh no, that isn’t my car,” my mother replied.
“We are very interested in that car.”
“But I told you, it isn’t my car.”
They stood, gazing at her for a while.
“We can pay cash.”
“It’s not my car.”
They spread their hands and shook their heads to show disappointment, turned, and went away. A few days later the Simca disappeared.