In The Name of The Father by A. J. Quinnell Read Free Book Online

are.’
    ‘I didn’t mean that.’
    ‘I know. Forgive a little sarcasm. Two of our brothers from this Friary have been in gaol in Czechoslovakia these past ten years.’ He gestured at a cloistered window from which a shaft of sunlight brightened the room. ‘It’s a cold but fine morning for December. Mingle with the crowds. Vienna is safe for you; no one knows you are here. Have a meal. Drink some of our good wine.’
    ‘I have no money.’
    ‘Ah, of course.’ The Father Vicar opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a bundle of notes, counted off several and placed them in front of the Pole. ‘I think that should be adequate.’
    So Mirek had gone out into the streets of Vienna and been stunned.
    The Friary was in an eastern suburb, close to a huge market. He spent his first hour there slowly walking and watching. In his life he had never seen such mountains of food. Not even in his native countryside at harvest time. And the variety. Within ten minutes he knew that at least half the produce had come here from far away. Bananas, pineapple, avocados and fruits that he had never seen or heard of. He watched in amazement as one rosy-cheeked woman vendor carelessly threw away apples that were only slightly rotten. He bought a small bunch of grapes from her and was warmed by her cheerful smile. Slowly he walked towards the city centre, eating the grapes. He paused often; once at the window of a butcher’s, shaking his head in awe at the array of hanging carcasses and the row upon row of trimmed steaks and chops and fowl. He had eaten only a little bread and cheese for breakfast but he felt no hunger. Only shock. All his thinking life he had been a true and dedicated Communist. He had read his party’s newspapers, listened to the speeches and taken part in the debates. He knew, of course, that some of the propaganda had been just that. But he was secure in that knowledge because he knew too that the propaganda from the West had to contain even more lies.
    He next paused at a newsstand and ran his eyes over the array of newspapers and magazines in a dozen European languages. Shock and confusion filled his brain. He had retraced his steps to the butcher’s shop, walked in and almost aggressively asked an attendant if all the meat was available to anyone without rank or ration coupons. The attendant had smiled. He had heard this question many times before. From Poles, Czechs, Hungarians, Rumanians. Vienna is a conduit for East European refugees.
    ‘Money,’ he had said. ‘All you need is money.’
    Instinctively Mirek almost reached into his pocket to buy a whole red beef fillet lying on the slab next to him. In his entire life he had eaten beef fillet only once. The time that bastard Konopka had taken him to dinner at Wierzynek’s in Cracow. But he stopped himself. He had nowhere to cook it. No matter, on this day he would find a restaurant and have fillet steak for lunch.
    Back on the street his attention turned to the people. In the streets of Warsaw or Moscow or Prague people walk with a grim purpose. These people walked quickly and mostly were intent on going somewhere. They carried shopping bags and briefcases and parcels under their arms but no one was grim. Not even the policeman directing traffic. He stopped at a tobacconist’s and bought a packet of Gitanes cigarettes. A colleague had once been given a carton by the leader of a visiting French Communist delegation. He had grudgingly given Mirek a single cigarette and the aroma had lingered in his nostrils for days. He was surprised to find the brand in Austria but then he saw brands from all over Europe and even America. He was about to buy a box of matches but noticed a rack of brightly coloured lighters under a sign saying ‘disposable’. He bought one - a blue one. He walked on puffing contentedly and flicking away at the lighter like a child with his first toy. In Alexanderplatz he found a café with chairs and tables on the street behind glass