The Kiss of God, Part I

PART I

5.15 PM, NOVEMBER 1945, CRACOW, RAKOWICKI CEMETERY

It already got dark when a small group of people turned up near the cemetery gate. At the head of the cortege paced a priest, who, with his head down, seemed deeply absorbed in thought. He was followed by four gravediggers carrying a coffin. They approached newly dug grave and carefully let the load down. The priest recited a short prayer and walked away. The gravediggers grabbed shovels and, with merry cheers, started covering the grave. It was cold and nasty, while out there, in a cosy, warm canteen they could expect vodka and red-herrings. No wonder they wanted to finish the chore the soonest possible.

11.15 PM, NOVEMBER 1945, CRACOW, RAKOWICKI CEMETERY

On a narrow cemetery path two men appeared. Slowly, avoiding puddles and going round dilapidated gravestones, they were heading towards the fresh-covered tomb. The shorter of the two men was pushing a bricklayer’s barrow.

In the pale light of the moon it could be noticed that the taller man pointed to his companion the place and reached for the shovels laying on the bottom of the barrow. They started digging. About half an hour later a raspy sound rang out. The taller of the digging jumped into the grave and began to shove aside sand from the coffin’s lid. The shorter one handed him a jemmy and a moment later one could hear the thwack of the wood being crushed. The one sitting in the grave passed something to his companion and the latter, gasping heavily, pulled the thing up. The taller jumped to the surface and together, with much care, they placed the object in the barrow.

They stood for a while, gasping and wiping their sweating foreheads. The taller of the men took cigarettes out of his pocket and treated his companion. The tips of the cigarettes glowed for a couple of minutes, after which they fell down on the empty coffin. The two accomplices grabbed the shovels and covered the tomb. The clock on the church tower showed 1 am when they left the cemetery.

MAY 1649, LONDON

It was a lovely May afternoon. Vincent Kort was sitting in his surgery, and slightly leant back in the armchair, he was sipping some first-class brandy. Everything in his life was perfectly in place. He was 28, for a few months he was running his own, much thriving, medical practice – despite young age he had been in time to gain patients’ trust, while his older colleagues were watching jealously crowds swarming in his waiting room. His possessions were going up, his young wife’s beauty and charm were arousing wonder in the best parlours of the capital and his 1-year son was showing abilities far beyond his age.

The life was definitely beautiful and Kort, watching with pleasure the glass of shimmering brandy, was totally convinced that the best was still ahead of him. That it was yet to come and to happen.

These blissful musings were suddenly interrupted by silent knocking on the door. Kort put the glass aside, ran his fingers through his hair, flecked invisible dust from his sleeve and hemmed.

Come in!

The door opened slowly and a man walked in the room. He was no longer young, his hair was turning grey. He wore a poky, badly-cut suit of indefinite colour. He had grey, sallow complexion and one did not have to finish studies in medicine to notice there was something definitely wrong with him.

Good morning, doctor. May I?
But certainly. Mr Smith, if I’m not mistaken? How can I help you?

Smith came up to a majestic oak desk and sat down on a gilded chair before the young doctor.

I wanted to have a short chat with you, doctor Kort. If you don’t mind.
But of course, my friend. I cure flesh, not soul… but I’m always pleased to hear what my patients want to tell me.
And here we are. Do you believe in soul? Immortal soul, Mr Kort?

Kort laughed.

I’m a confirmed, unbelieving and practising atheist, my dear Mr Smith. There has never been a thing like an immortal soul.
That’s funny as you’ve just mentioned curing soul. How can one cure something that has never existed?
Let’s assume it was just a figure of speech – Kort frowned – How can I help you?
That’s horrible – the stranger continued, seeming not to have heard the question – that’s horrible. So, to your way of thinking, everything ends up the moment we die. The end, void and darkness. We’re for a few moments on this earth, we fight for some scraps for our stomach, for a little love and happiness, to boost our mood and better digest these scraps – for digestion is an important thing, isn’t it? And what next? We disappear in nothingness? Isn’t that depressing?
Very depressing – Kort hemmed – but if you didn’t mind defining the purpose of your coming, I’d be immensely grateful.
And what do you think? – Smith kept asking – people are good or bad by nature?
I see that you are in a very philosophical mood, Mr Smith – Kort hemmed once again – But I’m not sure what it has to do with medicine. My time is quite precious, I’m having a few more visits this afternoon and that’s why I’d be grateful if…
But please, don’t be anxious – Smith smiled – I’ll pay for your precious time, generously. So what do you think – are people good by nature?
Of course – Kort assumed a proud countenance – there are great examples in the history books, there are noble names bound to noble deeds, tokens of affection, friendship and love. That’s obvious. To say nothing of common people, who with their work, toil and everyday heroic struggle for living…
Yes, yes – Smith nodded and smiled secretly - and I think people are awful swines. Swines that reached mastery in the art of camouflage and keep their nasty instincts in check only for the sake of circumstances. But if only an occasion presents itself they give vent to their nasty nature and behave like swines. You don’t believe in the existence of the immortal soul, doctor, do you?
So I said – Kort replied – and so it is.
And well – Smith smiled – and well, what would you give me, if I…, let’s say, offered you immortality here, on earth? Immortality and eternal youth?
That’s impossible!
Impossible? Is it?
You’re forgetting dear Mr. Smith that I’m a doctor. And as a literate person I don’t believe in witchcraft, wizardry and witches. Unfortunately, we are mortal and this is the cost of living.
And yet it is possible, Mr. Kort. And I can give you such a possibility.
One more minute and I’ll start to think you are mad!
Whatever you’ll wish to think of me, it’s only your business. But my offer still stands unless I leave this room.
Who are you, Mr. Smith?
Is that important? I’m not even sure if my name is Smith. Someone knows me by the name of Brown. But there are hundreds and thousands of people who call me by completely different names.

Kort went round his studio, rubbing his hands nervously. He came up to the window, looked out and turned around abruptly.

Assuming… assuming that for a short while I’ll believe in your incredible and absurd proposal… I guess there’s nothing for free, isn’t it? There is a price, am I right?
Of course – Smith smiled and nodded – How well you’ve put it. There’s nothing for free. The price is … the life of others.
I don’t understand.
Let’s assume for a moment that, let’s say, you’re a murderer. Let’s say that you’ve killed a man…
Mr Smith!
And let’s say that this man’s death will make your life longer by thirty years. How many would one have to kill to live one thousand years?
Mr. Smith, you must forgive me as I don’t feel like continuing this conversation! Please leave my house! And this very moment!
Let’s say that one would have to kill thirty-three – Smith, unimpressed, kept speaking – only thirty-three lives to see and live for the whole of ten centuries! Is that much?
Mr. Smith, I definitely ask you to leave…
You’re a doctor, aren’t you? You’ve possessed knowledge unavailable for common mortals – knowledge which you could use in your own well-understood interest. Only thirty-three patients, Mr. Kort. Or more, if you want. Or fewer. It’s all up to you and it’s all that simple. Eternal life and eternal youth. These are goods worth fighting for, aren’t they? Especially if one doesn’t believe in the immortal soul. Just think, you’ll see your grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren grow…

Kort wiped sweat from his forehead. He sweated heavily when listening to this man and he cudgelled his brains trying to guess who was that guy who spoke about cruel things with so much calm and indifference.

Please…please, leave my office and never come back. I’ll be much obliged, Mr Smith.

Smith rose from his chair, nodded as if pondering over something.

I’ll leave and never come back. But it doesn’t mean we’ll never meet again. We surely will. But I’ll be still the same Mr. Smith and you…
Leave!
… and you won’t be a doctor anymore and your name won’t be Kort. Your name in the near future will arouse fear and terror. You’ll be a man who’ll perpetrate horrible things. You’ll be an outlaw and renegade.
Leave!
I wish you a nice day – Smith bowed scornfully and left.

Kort, all sweating, sank into his armchair. He was gasping heavily for a while, rubbing his forehead with a handkerchief. The door opened and a young beautiful lady walked into the room.

What happened, darling? You look terrible.

She approached Kort and stroked his hair.

That’s nothing… that’s – Kort smiled weakly – only some shadow of family stories…Family stories out of nothing…

***

Doctor Vincent Kort couldn’t sleep that night. He rolled from one side to other, listening to his sleeping wife’s regular breath and to the steps of few passers-by, echoing ominously across an empty London street. He got up a couple of times, wandering around the bedroom and peeping into his son’s cradle. About 3 am he took a decision, silently walked out of the bedroom and headed for the library located next to his doctor’s studio.

He lit a candle – the bridges of volumes placed in rows on enormous book-shelves glimmered dimly. He set the ladder to reach the highest shelf. For a few minutes he was running his finger across books’ bridges and blinking to see better the titles. Finally he found what he had been looking for – a thin volume clad in calf leather, with no title or the name of the author on the cover. He came down the ladder, sat in the armchair and drew up the candle.

He opened a book and read the inscription on the first page; the words were calligraphed in a delicate and accurate manner: “Charles Kort – a diary”.

He quickly leafed through some pages, apparently looking for something. It took him about five minutes before he found the right passage on the last page. He read it intently, lifted his head and looked into the darkness. After a while he wiped his forehead and read once again:

15 May, 1545

Today I was visited by the strangest guest – a Mr Smith. I hadn’t known him ever before and had never heard about this man. Mr Smith made me a proposal. The proposal, just like the ensuing promise seemed to me mad and cruel, and first of all, impossible to fulfil. And yet, after a short conversation, I decided to accept it. Why shouldn’t have I? What do I have to lose?

***

MAY 2007, CRACOV, RAKOWICKI CEMETERY

Tomasz Korcz parked his car near the church gate, he got out, slammed the door behind himself and made for the vicarage. In the garden, next to the vicarage, a guy wearing only short pants, on all fours, bustled about cabbage plots. Tomasz waved at him.

Good morning! Good morning! How’s radish, Reverend Father?

The guy in pants lifted his head and waved merrily in reply.

Radish is not good, Tomasz. But I have more cabbage than I need.
It seems all right, doesn’t it? They say that good cabbage is not bad?
It depends on what one likes, Tomasz – the priest got up and brushed off his knees. – But after all I’m not a rabbit, even though, I could be proud of my sizable denture.
Well, we are what our Creator made us, aren’t we?
Oh yes – the vicar laughed. – And I’m glad I don’t have long ears. I’d have to spend long hours rubbing them.
I’m glad then there are two of us. And that I found myself in such excellent company of people with clean hands and washed ears.
I appreciate your sense of humour, Tomasz – the vicarwalked up to the gate, extending his hand. – How can I help you?
I’d like to chat about the cemetery and the area allotted for new graves.
Come in – the priest opened the door of the vicarage and let his guest into a cool, shaded room. He busied himself at the sideboard and after pouring himself and his guest a big portion of goat’s kumis, he sat down on a chair.
What’s the matter?
There is such a rule – Tomasz pulled a pile of papers out of his briefcase and put them on a table – that after fifty years, graves who nobody takes care of, are emptied to be used up anew…
That’s right.
So two weeks ago, in line with the procedure, we started vacating uncared quarters…
Just as we had agreed.
Just as we had agreed, Reverend Father. This year five graves were to be vacated. Please imagine my surprise when, after opening, three of them turned out empty.
Empty? What do you mean by empty?
I mean just empty, Reverend Father. There was simply nothing there.
Hmm - the vicar scratched his head – and the passing of time? External conditions? Finally…hmm…vermin and parasites?
I’ve been a cemetery administrator for ten years and I’m perfectly up to date with what may happen and what happens with human body left underground for long time. I know everything about everything what bites, devours and decomposes. For all these factors there’s always some trace. And in this case… there are no traces at all.
Are you sure?
Absolutely. After careful examination of the graves there seems to arise only one logical solution. Removing of the bodies was premeditated.
Premeditated? And who could have committed such an act?
And that’s the riddle, Reverend Father. I have no idea who and in what circumstances emptied the graves. I only know they’re empty.
Do you…do you want me to report it to the police?
And that’s what I’ve come to talk about. Father, could you provide me with some information on the graves and people buried there? First I’d like to make a little inquiry on my own, if you don’t mind.
But of course, I don’t, Tomasz. What are the names of these poor fellows?
The first one – Tomasz Korcz took a look at the papers on the table – is Bolesław Opień. The second one is Adam Muszyński and the last one – Zenon Kobiela. All three of them were buried in November 1945. Father, do you know these names? Can you associate them with anything?
With nothing. Absolutely nothing. But if I may be of any help… I’ll check them up in the parish register. It’s been run very scrupulously since the beginning of 19 century. Do you know the exact dates of the burials?
This is another surprising thing – Tomasz Korcz handed the priest a sheet of paper. – These are dates I’ve found on the gravestones. And it seems that all three of them were buried on the same day.
Good – the priest looked at the sheet and then lifted the glass and took a sip of kumis – I’ll turn up in your office as soon as I know anything. Tomas, thank you for the news.
I’m glad that I can be of some use – Tomasz smiled when getting up – I lack talent to such an extent that I’m happy of the least sign of my usefulness.

***

The year 1649 was a year of violent and bloody events, just like preceding years and years that were to follow.

On 30 January English king Charles I Stuart was beheaded, on 19 May England was proclaimed republic and the end of monarchy was trumpeted with triumph. In London Olivier Cromwell reigned supreme. He was preparing for taking over power in the whole of the country. He accomplished his goal four years later, when declaring to be the Lord Protector of England and Ireland. He enjoyed wielding power till September 1658, when he died suddenly and in somewhat mysterious circumstances. The rumour has it that he was murdered or, simply, given poison.

No doubts are aroused by what happened next. In 1661 one of Stuarts – Charles II ascended again the throne of England. As a posthumous revenge Cromwell’s body was dragged out of its tomb, publically hanged, flogged and disgraced in the most fanciful way and, at last, left in an unknown place somewhere in London.

In those days on the throne of France sat the infant king Louis XIV, the future Roi-Soleil. However, the actual ruler of the French state was cardinal Giulio Mazarini, an Italian aristocrat of doubtful origin, former captain of the papal infantry, clergyman without ordination and, as some believed, lover of Anne of Austria who was widow of Louis XIII. Mazarini was also said to be unbelievably greedy and inconceivably mean.

In France there was in progress a formal civil war, called the Fronde. Crowds of rioting Paris citizens were building barricades on the streets while the allied aristocracy was running secret talks with the court, aiming to gain the greatest possible advantages in goods, estates, titles, briefly speaking, in all that was indispensable for a common aristocrat. What they required did not seem to bother them in their protests against tyranny and absolutism, in their boisterous condemning Mazarini’s policy and stirring up bellicose feelings of the Frondists.

In short, in France everyone enjoyed themselves hugely. All Europe had a whale of time.

Spain picked a fight with France, while Catalans, Neapolitans and the Portuguese eagerly rebelled against Spain.

Poland wrestled with Chmielnicki and his rioting Cossacks – soon a war with Russia was to break out and across Poland’s land hordes of armed Swedes would roll along.And England, as already mentioned, was undergoing a revolution.

Nothing surprising in the fact that in these circumstances all forms of spying were the order of the day. Crowds of snitches, often playing a double game and for more than one master, armed gangs of corrupt mercenaries and the commonest traitors became the source of precious information. And information was a sort of goods much sought-after. In those times it was easy to pay with life for an innocent chat over a glass of wine or to be put in chains as a result of an inconsiderate remark or a comment voiced at the wrong time. A little bit of suspicion was enough to throw fellows, innocent as a lamb, into a dungeon or send them to a penal colony. Most often, however, they got murdered.

That is how merry the year 1649 was and what England looked at the beginning of the Lord Protector’s reign.

Vincent Kort was far from politics. He had no interest in it and never in his life was he anyone’s follower. Medical studies were not easy, called for much sacrifice and Kort finally began to reap the harvest of his self-denials. He knew that the final success was soon to come and did not feel the least disposed to ruin his great career by plunging into uncertain fusses and fighting in the name of suspicious and dirty interests of various parties and factions. And yet, it happened one day that it was politics to find interest in Kort.

It was one of these gloomy November mornings when rain whips faces mercilessly and wind goes to its aid, wailing and moaning plaintively. Vincent Kort walked into his surgery, stretched, yawned, rubbed his eyes driving out the rest of sleepiness and sat at his desk. It was when somebody knocked on the door. Into the room came three gentlemen in black coats and black hats. Their faces were serious and morose.

Is this Vincent Kort? – asked the most serious one and not waiting for an answer, added – You’re under arrest in the name of the Republic. Come with us.
Under arrest? – Kort froze on hearing this ominous word – Are you sure that’s not a mistake?
We’re sure, sir. Take your things and come with us. I warn you – the serious man stressed this word – that resistance makes no sense. Our swords are long enough to reach the end of your nose and cut the tips of your ears.
Can… can I say good bye to my wife? – Kort wiped his forehead.
I’m sorry but no – the serious gentleman replied – We’ve been ordered to prevent you from any attempts to contact anybody. By saying “prevent” I mean turning to the final resort, that is to say, your death, Mr Kort. Please, then, be kind as to go with us.

Vincent Kort flung the coat on his shoulders and looked around helplessly, as if seeking support in domestic utensils – but the latter remained indifferent and unmoved, as usual. He went out, escorted by the gloomy men. Not paying attention to abundant rain, he lifted his head and gave a sad look to the whole building. For the last time in his life he saw this place. (...)