“You can come out now,” said the woman’s voice. I don’t know how long I had been in there, listening to the sound of the policemen thundering through the building, banging on doors, searching the flats and offices, returning to interrogate the man and the woman and to take down their details, and the commotion outside, the screams of the crowds, and then, gradually, the dying down of any sound except for the wailing of sirens. Finally I’d heard cars honking, and the buzzing of the trams, and then this scratching.

The door to my cell opened. They both stood there, a light bulb hanging above their heads, night in the street behind them. I forced my body out of its hiding place, dusted myself off, aware of their eyes on me. They had their coats on, and both wore a look of exhaustion and curiosity.

“That was very brave of you,” said Pani Waleszka.

“And foolish,” said the man, with a hint of a smile in his gray eyes.

“I know,” I said, feeling embarrassed. “Thank you. You saved me.”

Pani Waleszka poured a glass of water and handed it to me.

“Yes, that was rather close,” said the man, eyeing me. “And an interesting spectacle too, those flying papers. What an idea, to throw propaganda out there when the whole of the city’s police is mobilized in the street. If it hadn’t been for us, you would have spent tonight in prison.” He smiled, stretching out his hand. “I’m Tadeusz Rogalski, attorney,” he said. His hand was large and soft, his fingers like little pincushions.

“I’m Ludwik.”

“And this is Pani Waleszka, my secretary.” We shook hands.

“Call me Małgosia,” she said.

“So what happened?” I asked.

They looked at each other. “They dispersed the strikers,” said Małgosia hesitantly, unwillingly almost. “A few people got hurt.”

“Did anyone die?”

“We don’t know,” said the man, looking at the floor. “Ambulances came and took people away.”

“Do you think it’s safe for me to go out there?”

“They might still be looking for you,” he said. “Or not. But we’d better not take any risks. We’ll take the back entrance. Let’s go.”

We went down the dark stairs very quietly. Before we reached the ground floor I could hear the noise of passing cars—the entrance door was unhinged, leaning against a wall. We slipped into a long, dark corridor that led in the opposite direction, where Pan Tadeusz quickly unlocked a door. We crept into an unlit courtyard. There was light in a couple of the windows that faced us, the lamps behind the drawn curtains somehow ominous, like secrets about to be unveiled. We hurried toward a white Trabant, and they made me lie on the back seat. The car started, the engine vibrating, my cheek cool against the leather. Driving out of the courtyard, we flowed into the arteries of the city, inserting ourselves into its body like an unsuspected virus. From below, I watched the houses and monuments rush past, both familiar and new from that perspective. Police sirens howled in the distance, and then the Trabant stopped at the mouth of the blokowisko.