The Hawk: Part Four Page 6

  A warm breeze blew on the back patio, but Jane wasn’t bothered. At four and a half months old, she was an even-tempered but active baby, that sole month of colic a faded memory. Dark brown hair was thick on the very top of her head, but thin on the sides where she had rubbed much of it off. Yet her smile was wide, her blue eyes as well, for she was surrounded by those she loved best; her parents, godparents, and one Polish pastor of whom she was particularly fond. Marek Jagucki was like another godparent, and he was teaching her Polish. Whenever the pastor held Jane, he only spoke in his native tongue.

  It had been Eric’s idea, in that it would give Marek someone else to converse with in his own language. No one nearby spoke Polish and Marek had smiled, then taken Eric’s suggestion as a challenge, not sure if a baby could pick up another dialect when she only heard it sporadically. But since Eric and Lynne had been baptized, Pastor Jagucki had found himself almost adopted by the couple, or perhaps it was due to how much time Eric and the pastor had spent together arranging the exhibit, which was slated to open that Friday, August tenth, at the town library. Marek had been amazed at the quality of Eric’s work, also the range of his imagination. From hawks and other natural settings to family portraits and the nudes of Lynne, Marek had been treated to a fairly complete retrospective. The first nudes, under the guises of farms and coral reefs, weren’t represented, but Eric had given the pastor one of the brochures from that show. Eric also briefly explained the two paintings in Minnesota and why they had been sent to the Midwest. In those confidences, a bond had been established between a painter and minister, although Marek Jagucki did not offer Eric Snyder details of his past.

  Marek knew that for many years Eric and Lynne had been unable to conceive and that it had been Eric’s fault. He knew that Laurie Abrams’ cousin was receiving psychiatric treatment at the Caffey-Miller Institute. And he knew that Eric and Lynne’s decision to adopt the Christian faith had been solidified by an unfortunate illness Eric suffered right before last Christmas. Eric hadn’t told Marek how he became so ill, only that Lynne had followed God’s call, and now here they were, baptized Lutherans. Marek hadn’t probed deeply to ascertain these facts; they had simply spilled from Eric as paintings were admired, then placed in the best arrangement for the show. Even over pie a few particulars had been shared, but those were of a lighter nature, how glad Eric was that the pastor had brought up this idea, and how eager Eric was to hear his daughter speak Polish. Jane Snyder would carry a mix of her heritages, from her Catholic godparents, New York uncles, and a Polish Lutheran transplanted to America’s West Coast.

  Those New Yorkers, as Eric still referred to the men, were due to arrive on Wednesday, and Marek was keen to better get to know Mr. Abrams and Mr. Taylor, how he referred to them, for other than a brief formal introduction, little had been spoken between that trio. Marek prayed for Laurie’s cousin Seth, for from all Eric said, that man needed God’s protection and healing. From how Stanford was described, Marek wondered how Eric had been accepted by such a highly respected art dealer, for Marek had seen some of Eric’s early canvases. They were rough compared to his later paintings, but Stanford Taylor must have seen something that held promise. Then Marek glanced at the Aherns, Renee’s bold eyes appealing for a chance to hold her goddaughter. In Polish, Marek whispered that he loved Jane, then he softly kissed the baby’s cheek, handing her to a woman with no children of her own. Marek also knew the reason behind that, but since the Snyders had been baptized, rumors had wafted that perhaps by 1963 that situation would be rectified.

  Marek spoke several languages; in addition to his native tongue he was fluent in German, Hungarian, and Ukrainian as well as English and Italian. He could get by in French and Spanish, but his Portuguese was limited. He was useless in the Scandinavian tongues, but could bluff his way through Dutch, especially Flemish, which was similar to French. He’d been a polyglot in school before the Nazis had invaded, and his mother had been hopeful that her middle son would reach university. Becoming a pastor hadn’t been considered, although Marek’s Uncle Alex had been a Lutheran minister. Marek hadn’t pondered a life in the church until he’d been taken in by a small Lutheran parish, spared by German troops. He was only sixteen, but the clerics told the soldiers that Marek was slow and wasn’t worth taking to a labor camp. Marek hadn’t spoken more than his name to the pastors, for his name was all he could fathom. For over a year, a young man who at the time had already mastered German and Hungarian could barely utter a single word.

  Marek had understood everything the soldiers ordered, but acted as dumb as the clerics made him out to be. His life had depended upon that pretense, but it wasn’t solely a deception. Events had rendered him mute, also dense, but when the troops left, some of Marek’s intellect had been stirred, as well as his heart. He was alive because of his mother’s foresight, and again providence had saved him. In the summer of 1942, Marek Jagucki dedicated his life to God in whatever service pleased his holy will. At the time, he wasn’t sure for how long that life would last. Twenty years later, Marek smiled, realizing just how unsuspecting he had been.

  He’d never thought he would live long enough to even become a pastor, then he had wondered how he would manage under Soviet rule. Not that life in Poland under the Soviets was miserable, but it was repressive, especially for Lutherans, which compromised a tiny minority in the mostly Catholic country. Marek had fled Poland in 1954 during the political thaw that followed Stalin’s death. He was an ordained minister by then, and had moved to London, serving at St. Luke’s Lutheran Church. For several years he had presided over the German services as well as a tiny Polish congregation, taking the English services when necessary. But living in post-war Europe wasn’t fulfilling; too many compromises to the Soviets made Marek uncomfortable, and while he was active at St. Luke’s, he recognized that his gifts were needed elsewhere, much to the consternation of the church council and his longtime girlfriend. Margaret Piller didn’t want to leave her family or her nation, and at the time Marek wondered if his desire to flee the United Kingdom was a test of their relationship. Maggie had been hesitant when Marek spoke about marriage, but that was due to becoming the wife of a pastor. She wasn’t Lutheran, but Anglican, not that those differences were problematic, only the duties attached to being the spouse of a busy cleric. When Marek floated the subject of leaving England, Maggie vacillated, finally breaking off their relationship. That cemented Marek’s decision, and by the spring of 1961, he was on a boat for New York, his ultimate destination the western side of the United States.

  That was the story he’d shared with Eric, who had nodded in all the appropriate spots, not asking the more probing questions that Marek rarely had to offer. Few who knew him truly knew everything, not even his beloved Maggie, whom he still missed, but mostly for her physical companionship. His last letter to her, written at Easter, hadn’t been answered, and Marek allowed it was probably for the best. At Christmas, she had mentioned having met someone, and while she had made the official break, Marek had been the one to leave the country. Yet, England wasn’t his native land and returning to Poland wasn’t a consideration. None of Marek’s relatives remained and communism was abhorrent. He didn’t mention that to Eric either, better to talk about art and other pleasant aspects of life.

  He did enjoy speaking Polish to Jane; he told her stories of growing up in a somewhat poor but happy household, his older brother and younger sister two of his best friends. Marek hoped the Snyders would have several children, only in that Marek had thrived in his large extended family, cousins on both sides contributing to the sense of belonging that prevailed no matter how meager were the living conditions. Marek permitted the better memories, eschewing those so traumatic they had silenced him for over a year. Speaking Polish to Jane hadn’t caused any sorrow; somehow that baby was a magnet for the delight that had infused most of Marek’s childhood.

  Or maybe it was the joy she offered those with whom Marek sat. There was no disguising their communal bliss; Er
ic’s broad laughter was matched by Sam, the women’s chuckles tender and affectionate. Marek was of their age and he relished their pleasures despite their differences. But tragedy had marked them all; Sam’s tour in Korea was behind that couple’s childlessness, and something had kept the Snyders from having a family. Marek hadn’t been able to discern what that might be from Eric’s paintings, perhaps it was just a fluke. Yet, those canvases did reveal a man torn by some demon, Marek hadn’t missed that. The pictures of Lynne, nudes and from everyday life, told stories as well, that woman having suffered a long trial. Yet, it wasn’t simply connected to infertility. Marek observed the adults, who seemed to get on very well. However, these friendships weren’t tied to Jane or to the Aherns’ lack of offspring. Something else bound these people and Marek wondered if he would ever learn the reason.

  Then he chuckled as Eric asked if it was time for pie. Sam stood, announcing that it most certainly was, and the gentlemen headed into the house. “Do you need any help?” Marek asked.

  “Only in the eating,” Eric grinned. “Just stay put, we’ll be right back.”

  Marek nodded, then gazed at Lynne. “I must say, your pie is the best I have ever had. Not even my mother could beat it.”

  Lynne giggled. “Well, thank you. My dad was fond of pie and Mom was a very good cook.”

  Marek smiled. All of Eric and Lynne’s parents were deceased, Eric’s imprisoned father the last to have passed in December. Eric had spoken about him while paintings were admired, his tone somewhat flat. Marek had been surprised by the news, but not for Eric’s lack of emotion. It was similar to how Marek had felt when he learned Hitler had committed suicide. Relief had been tempered by uncertainty. Monsters were replaceable, but no one had been waiting to lead the regime. He’d felt the same when Stalin died, yet, that man’s demise had brokered Marek’s departure from his homeland. Had Eric known any peace when his father passed away? Perhaps the coming baby had usurped any other sense of closure.

  Marek stood as Sam approached, followed by Eric, both with trays in hand. Marek assisted in serving, then asked if Renee wanted to be relieved of Jane’s care. Reluctantly Renee nodded, and Marek took Jane, setting her over his shoulder. She was warm from the sunshine, and cooed softly. Parenthood hadn’t been a deep desire for Marek; serving his parish was paternal enough. Although if God had other ideas, the pastor wouldn’t argue.

  While pie was consumed, Marek hummed a lullaby from his childhood, snippets from his past eased by this American infant. Jane didn’t remind Marek of anyone from those days, but maybe her mother was similar to his Aunt Agi, in Lynne’s dark brown hair and her beaming smile. Marek then set Jane in the crook of his elbow, she was fighting sleep. Agi Tusk had brown eyes like Lynne’s, but Jane’s blue irises were stunning. They were the same color as Sam’s eyes, which were the exact hue of the barn in the Aherns’ painting. Marek had noticed that as soon as he saw that canvas, also the frightened mice, and he wondered what had inspired Eric to create it. It had reached deeply into the Pole, causing him a few poor nights’ sleep, but he hadn’t said anything to Eric or anyone else. He’d prayed extensively, unsure why now God was stirring up memories from over twenty years in the past. To Marek, that barn was a copy of one from his hometown, a structure that had been burned to the ground by Nazi troops. Marek wouldn’t consider the contents, but it was as if Eric had read his mind. Yet, Eric had painted that barn before Marek even came to this country.

  Marek gazed at Jane, her eyelids still fluttering. He nodded to Lynne, who smiled. “Seems you have a touch with babies,” she said softly.

  “Well, Jane’s a special girl.” He grinned, then stared at Lynne. “Shall I take her inside or….”

  “You can stay right there.” Eric stood, heading to the house. “I need my sketch pad.”

  “Oh, now you’ve done it,” Sam said. “Be ready to star in the next Eric Snyder canvas.”

  Marek chuckled. “Well, that would be a pleasure.”

  Eric returned, pulling his chair to face the pastor. He sat, then quickly drew the man’s image, as well as the bundle now stirring in Marek’s grasp. When Eric finished, he showed it to the pastor. Marek was amazed at the speed of Eric’s abilities and how precisely he had captured his subjects’ likenesses. Perhaps Jane’s was easy, for Eric knew her face well. But Marek felt he was looking into a mirror, one that displayed a person’s best features. Marek appreciated Eric’s talent, and his discretion. For even in a drawing, Eric had discerned several new facts about the pastor, all within a matter of moments.

  Marek looked at the artist and Eric nodded. Then Eric smiled, setting the pad on the table. Immediately Sam picked it up, sharing it with his wife. Lynne leaned their way, but Marek continued to study Eric’s face, those gray eyes with a fascinating capacity to see far into a person. Then Marek wondered what had Eric suffered in return for that gift. His late father had been an unsavory character, but that alone wouldn’t account for the skill Eric possessed, nor would infertility explain it.

  Jane yawned, then began to fuss. As she did, Lynne looked toward her daughter. Then a mother stood, stepping around her husband, approaching Marek. “Shall I take her?” Lynne said.

  “Of course.” Marek handed over the baby, who was now starting to cry. Lynne spoke softly to Jane, heading into the house. She was followed by Renee, leaving the men to themselves.

  Marek ate his pie as Sam still studied the sketch. But Marek felt eyes upon him and he looked up, finding Eric’s gaze. As Sam remarked at how quickly Eric had produced the piece, Eric didn’t answer, still peering at Marek. Then Sam noted how rapidly Eric had drawn his sister Fran and two of her children. And how, from that initial sketch, a whole series of portraits had emerged. Then Sam stopped speaking. He excused himself, moving from the table. When Marek looked in Sam’s direction, that man was already inside the house.

  Then Marek again faced Eric. “He’s right, you have immense talent. I’m so looking forward to Friday.”

  “Me too.” Eric smiled, then sat back. He glanced at the sketch pad, then into the sky. “Thank you for letting me draw that.”

  “I should be the one thanking you. I don’t think I’ve ever been the subject of an artist before.”

  “Will it be your last time?” Eric smiled as he spoke, then picked up the pad.

  “Probably not,” Marek chuckled. He finished the last of the pie, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then inhaled deeply. “I have a feeling that our paths were meant to cross. What else is a Lutheran Pole doing all the way in America’s wild west?”

  Eric laughed. “Not that wild anymore.”

  “Perhaps after Friday, the locals won’t agree.”

  “Perhaps not.” Eric put the sketch on the table. “Would you mind if I painted this?”

  “Not at all. Would it require additional sittings?”

  “Probably, but not more than a few. I could get my pencils and add the colors now if you want. Then I probably wouldn’t need another sitting.”

  Marek gazed toward the house, hearing the voices of three adults. Then he faced Eric. “No, I don’t mind another afternoon like this. Very little in this world is better than a baby falling asleep in one’s arms, followed by your wife’s boysenberry pie.”

  Eric nodded. “I completely agree. Would you like another slice?”

  Marek laughed. “Oh no, one is plenty. But more coffee, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course. I’ll be right back.” Eric stood, then retrieved both men’s cups. But he left the rest, which Marek didn’t miss. While Eric was gone, the pastor inspected the drawing, then he said a brief prayer. If God wanted further truths revealed, Marek wouldn’t argue. And perhaps, in exchange, Eric Snyder might concede a few details.

  Chapter 67