Bare Essentials

By Sylvia Tascher

This epic drama opens in Boulder, Colorado, at the home of Oxford-educated Robert Dalton, an internationally known chemistry professor. His houseguest is Jozef Bardowski, head of the analytical laboratory of Warsaw's Nuclear Energy Institute. Knowing that Dalton, accompanied by his Polish-born wife Helena, will shortly embark upon a year's sabbatical at the University of Vienna, Bardowski expresses his fears that someone is introducing mind-altering drugs into Poland's natural gas to subdue the Polish people. In order to present the matter to the United Nations, he asks Dalton to analyze gas samples to be smuggled from Warsaw into the Austrian capital. Dalton agrees, unaware that by doing so he will subject both himself and Helena to acts of terror, including an attempt on his own life.
It was a challenging undertaking to attempt to combine in one narrative the heady subject of Poland's most recent drive to free herself from oppression and the levity engendered by Robert Dalton, et al. I really did my best to show that the Polish cause is far from humorous but that humanity in general is. With the story's conclusion, I tried to see to it that each of the principles got what he or she deserved. I trust you will not be disappointed.
It was my Polish friend Jozef who some years ago said to me: "No, life is not fair. Many times we lose when we should have won. But always remember this: Once you've lost the ability to laugh at whatever life deals you, then, then you've lost everything."
I believe this philosophy typifies the warm, good-hearted, fun-loving, courageous people who reside in that wonderful country known to them as the Land of the White Eagle.
Sylvia Tascher

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469159614

Sylvia Tascher

THE AUTHORS The late Sylvia Tascher Navratil was a very prolific writer, producing three other novels, several books for children, two technical books, and many musical scores and poems. Her talent for creative writing was inherited from her parents, both of whom were respected authors. More about Sylvia can be found in The Bear Hug, published by Xlibris. Dr. James D. Navratil was educated as an analytical chemist at the University of Colorado and is now professor emeritus of environmental engineering and earth sciences at Clemson University. His other teaching experiences include serving as a chemical training officer in the U.S. Army Reserve, teaching general chemistry at the University of Colorado, and teaching chemical engineering and extractive metallurgy subjects at the University of New South Wales, Australia, where he also served as head of the Department of Mineral Processing and Extractive Metallurgy. Dr. Navratil earned numerous honors, including a Dow Chemical Scholarship, the annual award of the Colorado Section of the American Chemical Society (ACS), Rockwell International Engineer of the Year, two IR-100 awards, and three society fellowships. He was a member of the IAEA team awarded the 2005 Nobel Peace Prize. Dr. Navratil has four patents to his credit and has given more than 450 presentations, including lectures in more than one hundred countries. He has coedited or coauthored 19 books, published more than 250 scientific publications, and has served on the editorial boards of over a dozen journals.

Book preview

The Bare Essentials

by

Sylvia Tascher

First Printing - November 1986

Jacket design by Greg Navratil

Copyright 1980 Sylvia Tascher.

Copyright 1986 Litarvan Literature. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission. For information address LITARVAN LITERATURE, 5590 Guy Road, Anderson, SC 29625 USA.

The most terrible of lies is not that which is uttered that which is lived.

Willis Gaylord Clark (1810-18 41) American Journalist

Copyright © 2012 by Sylvia Tascher.

ISBN:          Ebook                                      978-1-4691-5961-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

With the exception of the known political figures, the characters presented in this book are entirely fictional.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

This epic drama opens in Boulder, Colorado, at the home of Oxford-educated Robert Dalton, an internationally known chemistry professor. His houseguest is Jozef Bardowski, head of the analytical laboratory of Warsaw’s Nuclear Energy Institute. Knowing that Dalton, accompanied by his Polish-born wife Helena, will shortly embark upon a year’s sabbatical at the University of Vienna, Bardowski expresses his fears that someone is introducing mind-altering drugs into Poland’s natural gas to subdue the Polish people. In order to present the matter to the United Nations, he asks Dalton to analyze gas samples to be smuggled from Warsaw into the Austrian capital. Dalton agrees, unaware that by doing so he will subject both himself and Helena to acts of terror, including an attempt on his own life.

It was a challenging undertaking to attempt to combine in one narrative the heady subject of Poland’s most recent drive to free herself from oppression and the levity engendered by Robert Dalton, et al. I really did my best to show that the Polish cause is far from humorous but that humanity in general is. With the story’s conclusion, I tried to see to it that each of the principles got what he or she deserved. I trust you will not be disappointed.

It was my Polish friend Jozef who some years ago said to me: No, life is not fair. Many times we lose when we should have won. But always remember this: Once you’ve lost the ability to laugh at whatever life deals you, then, then you’ve lost everything.

I believe this philosophy typifies the warm, good-hearted, fun-loving, courageous people who reside in that wonderful country known to them as the Land of the White Eagle.

Sylvia Tascher

I am indebted to Dr. James D. Navratil, Drs. Harold and Sadie Walton, and my daughter Nicole. The Bare Essentials is dedicated to them. Dr. Navratil conceived the plot; he and the Drs. Walton provided their expertise in editing the manuscript; Nicole was not only my sounding board but countless times my source of inspiration.

-Sylvia Tascher

The most terrible of lies is not that which is uttered but that which is lived.

Willis Gaylord Clark (1810-1841) American Journalist

PROLOGUE

December 1981

Not far from Vienna’s first district, on heavily trafficked Wahringer Strasse, stands a sizeable gray stone building. Home to the University’s chemistry department, the block-long structure appears imposing at any hour. But at day’s end, when its premises have been vacated, the towering edifice takes on a foreboding, almost sinister shape.

The school’s more resolute (or foolhardy) researchers are either unaware of this nocturnal phenomenon or choose to ignore it. For these reasons, it is not unusual to find professors and/or students in the building at any hour of the day or night. Accordingly, it is no surprise to see, on this late Saturday evening, a lone individual at work in a laboratory on the fourth floor. What is surprising is that this visiting academician occupies the premises when winter is attacking the city as if in avengement for some unsettled score. Such commitment on his part surely results from total indifference to nature’s bombardment, since it has to be taken for granted that anyone with a semblance of sanity would have left hours ago.

Let us now zero in on this presumptive simpleton.

One glimpse confirms that in the man’s home base of Boulder, Colorado, he has been aptly dubbed a ‘poor-man’s’ Robert Redford. Indeed, the resemblance is striking! And it is these handsome features, together with enticing azure-blue eyes, extraordinary physique, and an undeniable aura of machismo, which invariably prompt women of all ages to attempt to seduce him. Indicative of this is that earlier in the evening he had found it expedient to disengage himself from the amorous embrace of a young, well-endowed Austrian beauty. But in light of his present concentration, it must be presumed that womankind in general is the farthest thing from his mind.

If it were judged by Western standards, Robert Dalton’s arena would be thought to resemble more an alchemist’s chambers than a modem research facility. The room’s few attending lights cause shadows to loom on its high-ceilinged, unarrayed walls and into its darksome comers; and the colorful illumination from shop windows on the opposite side of the street casts distorted figures on its aged, hoar frosted windows. The howling wind and blowing snow further amplify the eerie climate. In light of the above, one would need no great imagination to smell dragon’s blood or to envision mythical monsters lurking about. Nor is this similitude diminished by the futuristic, gleaming chrome gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer with which Dalton works. Rather, the spooky atmosphere is intensified by a resounding ‘click-click-click’ as the apparatus spews forth its analysis onto a stream of graph paper.

Dalton’s wife had recently smuggled out of Warsaw several samples of natural gas. He is now evaluating the gas in hopes of corroborating an allegation made by a recently departed colleague, Jozef Bardowski, that behavior-modifying drugs are being covertly added to Poland’s fuel. Bardowski, who until his bizarre death was chief of the analytical laboratory of Warsaw’s Nuclear Energy Institute, had alleged that the Russians were introducing such mind-altering drugs in order to subdue the Polish people during the workers’ drive for an independent trade union. He had further claimed that the Russians intended to include similar drugs in gas destined for Western Europe once the Trans-Siberian pipeline was completed.

The American’s attractive brow furrows his bewilderment as with one hand he grasps the paper to study the pattern developing. Fingers of the other, a boyhood habit, abstractedly run through his thick blondish hair. So engrossed is he, he remains unaware that behind him the laboratory door has opened. An unseen hand tosses a Molotov cocktail into the room, which explodes at once, shooting flames in every direction. Dalton springs to his feet. His unbelieving eyes race about to see chemical after chemical ignite.

Because the aged structure was never equipped with an over-head sprinkler system, the sea of flames fast creates an inferno. Within seconds fire is licking at Dalton’s feet and legs. Poisonous fumes have permeated the air, choking, blinding and disorienting him. It does not occur to him that hand extinguishers are located on either side of the door. Paralyzed with fear, he crouches forward striving to see through the noxious haze, his only thought: Am I to die as did Jozef, leaving but charred remains as my legacy to the world?

CHAPTER 1

September 1980

A few miles northwest of Colorado’s large, teeming capital stand the stately Flatirons. Clustered adjacent to these peaks is the city of Boulder. This attractive Front Range community is home to the University of Colorado and numerous governmental and private scientific installations. But because of its proximity to the mouth of Boulder Canyon, down which annoyingly swift winds customarily sweep, this area often finds itself nature’s unwitting victim.

On this Indian summer evening, nature’s endowments upon the community are almost overwhelming. They are especially splendid once the glorious orange sun begins its descent. Though a balmy, northerly breeze prevails, the temperature remains at such a comfortable degree that those inhabitants enjoying the outdoors find it unnecessary to don so much as a sweater.

The Dalton home, situated in the southwest hills overlooking the city, provides its two residents an unobstructed view of that part of the awesome red stones known locally as ‘Devil’s Thumb’. To the rear of the attractively designed, split-level cedar and brick dwelling is the garden, its landscape abounding year round with brilliant foliage. In that the owners have allowed a large portion of the yard to develop naturally, the colors afforded by the present profusion of Indian paintbrush, mountain rue, woods violets, fox-glove, bluebells, mountain daisy-to name but a few-make the setting particularly pastoral. A further complement, interspersed about the grounds are several tall and graceful, well-groomed pines. Sprinklings of autumn gold are evident, and here and there can be observed a patch of bright crimson. As a result of the abundant floral umbrage, the air is heavy with fragrance.

On the flagstone patio at the rear of the house is Helena Piatrowska Dalton. A petite woman, she is clad in a boldly patterned halter-top dress of variegated shades of blue. Long, dark curls waft gently from beneath a colorful kerchief of matching blue tied about her well-shaped head. On her small, neatly pedicured feet are sandals of the same color. Dainty plastic beads adorn her slim throat and earlobes. And in keeping with her miniature frame, even the diamond and joined wedding band upon her left hand are delicate.

Casual observation would judge Helena beautiful. Set in a kitten’s face, her Slavic eyes are her most striking feature: they are large, dark and lively (none the less intriguing had they belonged to a homely face, however) and appear especially so in the diminishing sunlight. Her creamy olive complexion is absolutely flawless. Small pointed chin and high cheek bones are paired with a fine straight nose, the nostrils of which are minutely tapered. Close scrutiny, however, would reveal a slight facial imperfection in this otherwise perfect specimen of womankind: Helena’s mouth is contrastingly generous. But one rarely sees this inexactness. For when she graces one with her dark, sweeping lashes or commands one from the depths of her cocoa-brown eyes, one’s lasting impression is that Helena Dalton is remarkably well-favored.

Brandy sniffer in hand, she is seated upon a becushioned redwood deck chair adjacent a circular table of like wood. Matching the umber-colored cushions on the chairs is an umbrella, which is now lowered because of the hour. Helena is not alone. Her partner in a native duologue, Jozef Bardowski, is seated on the chair next to hers. Not only is he the Daltons’ dinner guest this evening, but he is to be their week-long house guest as well. His presence in Colorado, occasioned by a five-day conference on mass spectroscopy sponsored by the American Chemical Society, had commenced the previous evening following a lengthy transatlantic flight originating in Warsaw.

Jozef looks almost out of place in this sumptuous setting. Though he is fashionably dressed and well-tailored, his clothes are no match to those of his splendidly attired companion, and would conceivably be considered gauche by Helena’s circle of friends.

He has been making every attempt to camouflage his extreme fatigue so as to enjoy his compatriot’s company. For perhaps the dozenth time in the course of the hour, he reshifts his weight upon the cushion and raises his glass to toast his lovely hostess.

Helena returns his salute, a knowing smile upon her pretty lips. Her eyes travel over the fine big man: from his heavy shoulders to his powerful biceps. To denote his strength, she is sure, his tanned face, neck and arms appear golden-fleeced with sun. As her eyes caress first one and then the other of his big square hands, she finds herself longing to touch him. And because of her fascination with him, she is oblivious to the occasional sounds invading the evening air: children’s voices lost in play, the rise and fall of laughter, the barking of dogs, the passing of an occasional automobile.

She forces amorous thoughts from her mind to consider the here and now. Has Robert informed you of Johann’s offer? This allusion to her husband’s forthcoming sabbatical purred from her. For, whether she spoke in Polish, German, French, English or the smattering of Russian she had learned as a girl, Helena used a polished affectation in speech to maintain primacy over any attendant. And she privately reveled that whoever her partner might be, her confidential whisperings precluded that the party in question be drawn into an intimate tete-a-tete. Since she knew Jozef alone was able to peer beneath this plastic veneer, she went to great length to mask her fragility from him.

It was not only her face and manner of articulation, Jozef was prone to admit. As he now observed her from the corner of a drowsy eye, he was also reminded that her entire demeanor suggested that of a soft, cuddly kitten: one who would be compliant and loving in return for a gentle caress and a warm saucer of milk. He knew she could be thusly obliging, but he also recognized that she was a woman whose early years of hardship had imbued her with rigid determination and unusual sagacity. Thereby had been created a willful female infused with remarkable self-esteem and the compelling desire to succeed. Yes, he had known her long, but he had to concede that her thinking remained an enigma to him.

In studying her face made even more mysterious by dusky light, he was further reminded that her eyes suggested complete surrender to him and to any male fool enough to lose himself in their depths. Still, he would have taken a blood oath that-with the exception of her husband-she had never known another man intimately save himself.

Yes, he tells me he’ll be taking a year’s leave beginning in January. Will you be able to accompany him? Her questioning disclosure had come as no surprise to Jozef, since it had been he who had connivingly arranged for Dalton to conduct research in Vienna. Indeed, Jozef had gone to great lengths to insure Robert’s upcoming presence in the Austrian capital.

Helena full well planned to join her husband, but she purposely responded with hesitation, as always, addressing Jozef in the diminutive. I hope so, Jozka. I’ve requested a leave of absence… but to date I haven’t been informed one way or the other.

Realizing he was fast fading with the last vestiges of light, she excused herself, rose, and went to the patio door. There she flicked a switch to bring to life an array of colorful oriental lanterns that had been strung from pillar to pillar above the redwood deck at the onset of the summer season.

She then went to the far corner of the patio where stood a handsome brick charcoal grill. From its backing she removed a small gadget, struck it, and moved to the first of a pair of candelabra, one on each side of the patio door, to light a seemingly endless barrage of candles. The first taper momentarily flickered and then sprang to life. At once its spicy perfume began to commingle with the sweet fragrances of nature, and soon the air was abundant with the exotic amalgamation.

Jozef watched her. As he absently considered the three-way battle being waged between each sputtering wick, the determined flame and the gentle breeze, he was also mindful of the occasional ‘zap’ of a flying insect being singed to death as it was drawn into a deck side extermination device. Will you accompany Robert to Warsaw? he called.

If I’m able to make the trip at all, most beloved, quite naturally I will go to Warsaw, she issued sweetly.

From beneath drooping lids Jozef openly applauded her silhouette framed in the glow of candlelight, tendering, I’ve invited Robert to lecture on liquid chromatography at my institute.

That’s very kind of you, Jozka. Robert should be pleased. Though she could not see his face clearly because of the dusky light, she had a feeling his thinking paralleled thoughts she had entertained earlier on. Once the last taper was lighted, she replaced the striker and returned to his side. She then took the cigarette lighter from the table. Striking it, she put the flame to a colorful ball of wax placed at the center of the table. Within seconds its strawberry scent was wafting to join the existing provocative element.

Jozef stifled a yawn as he inclined his girth against the table edge. Helena, dearest, your mother often speaks of you. It would be such a blessing for her to see you again. And Maria… ?

Helena chose to ignore his shaded locution. Why don’t you marry Marysia, Jozka. She’s always been in love with you. Wishing to appear as nonchalant as she had intended her remark, well-manicured fingers flew to her chin to untie her scarf. As it fluttered from her hair, she saucily tossed her head to free her tresses to the breeze.

Jozef was mindful that in the artificial illumination her hair appeared jet black-as black as her heart seemed to him at that moment. And because he was certain she had purposely intended to wound him, the response he tendered was uncharacteristically harsh.

An uncomfortable lull followed, during which neither of them spoke nor so much as looked at one another. Eventually he selected a cigarette from the humidor on the table. Because he did not smoke habitually, he toyed with it for a moment or two, and then with the lighter. Once he decided to light it, he inhaled deeply, exhaling as slowly, the blue smoke encircling his dark Polish head before being swallowed up into the perfumed atmosphere. Inhaling once more, he inclined his head against the chair, and, without moving it, lowered his eyes to appraise Helena. He was making up his mind to satisfy a plaguing doubt. Jaw set square, tender dark eyes fastened upon her, he suggested solemnly, You have everything here, Helena.

Because Helena was sincerely contrite for her unsportsmanlike comment made minutes before, her mouth trembled, making her response indistinguishable.

Are you truly happy, my darling? he persisted.

She forced a smile to her lips. As happy as one can be, I suppose. Her eyes were unable to meet his, but the dusky light could not hide the glint of a tear on her long, upswept lashes.

Helena, sweet one, look at me!

Helena’s eyes, made twice their size by their sudden wide-open gaze, disarmed Jozef. Each was aware also that for the countless time she had betrayed herself, for she saw her naked soul reflected in his eyes.

Jozef’s handsome face twitched sharply. Damn! he exploded. His clenched fist smiting the tabletop sent everything clattering. Why in the name of God do you continue to stay with him?

Impulse felled Helena to her knees, her upturned, unhappy face petitioning his, anger-flushed. Jozka, Jozka, why do you persist so? Jozka, my dearest one, you know I will always be yours. But I must insist you drop this distressing subject… for all time. You are Robert’s guest… in his home. And I am his wife. I implore you to accept the situation… the way it is.

Her words were wasted as the cigarette slipped from his fingers to the ground. As his hands gripped her shoulders, she felt her head against his chest, his face buried in her silky mane. She was at once overcome with bliss, and allowed herself to relax in his embrace. Breathing in his mannish odor, the contented feeling enveloped her, making her heady.

The intimate contact brought Jozef to life. Mad with lust, his fervid hands rushed to caress her, his lips breathing fire where they brushed her hair, her skin. Hard fingers dug into soft flesh through the thin fabric of her dress. Breath hot in her ear, he whispered huskily, I want you, Helena. My God, I am so hungry for you!

She felt his hands upon her quickening breasts. Though she too was wild with desire, she knew she must not allow it to happen and forced her hands against his chest, pleading, Jozka, you mustn’t. Jozka, please, Robert will be arriving at any moment. Please, Jozka, I beg you to let go of me!

Robert’s arrival was indeed a reality. Upon hearing the patio door open, Jozef glanced up to see the shadowy figure deck side. At once he helped Helena to her feet, she ducking behind him to quiet her leaping heart and right the bodice of her dress.

Jozef was completely composed and well planted on his feet as he extended his hand to his approaching colleague.

The broad-shouldered professor, dressed casually in expensive labeled beige sports shirt and slacks, towered over the shortish, congruently clad Pole and petite Helena. With an affable, Ah, Jozef, Helena, please sit down. Sorry to be so late, Robert bussed his wife, who was still short of breath, and then dropped to the chair at his visitor’s left. His eye at once caught the bottle of brandy on the table. The unintended ambiguity, I see Helena is taking care of you, was followed by, Have you another glass? and a mumbled response to his own question.

In spite of the fact that Jozef was no match to the handsome newcomer, his smoldering manliness could not be ignored. In addition, the slightly overweight, balding Slav was possessed of sufficient charm and genuine warmth to be irresistible to all who crossed his path. For this reason, had Robert any inkling of the preceding events or of the intimate liaison which had for years existed between his wife and her childhood sweetheart, chances are Jozef could have easily dissuaded him of such notion.

Robert drew the decanter forward, uncorked it, poured himself a half tumbler, and then in turn refilled the other two glasses. He toasted his guest by clinking his glass to Jozef’s and then to Helena’s. Because he had had another commitment the evening before, Helena had collected Jozef from Denver’s Stapleton airport. And since the Pole was already sawing logs by the time Robert returned home, until now the two men had had no opportunity to talk.

While Jozef and Robert exchanged amenities, Helena hastened to the barbeque. She was still disconcerted and mindlessly inspected the smoldering embers as she attempted to collect herself. The charcoal seems ready, Robert. Do you wish me to fire the steaks? she called a few minutes later.

Robert had experienced a hectic morning in the laboratory and had that afternoon exhausted himself in typical offbeat fashion. As a result, even though he was quite hungry, for the time being he wanted to relax and enjoy the spirits in hand. In response to her question, he made his wishes known, and then directed to Jozef the topic foremost on his mind, Say, Jozef, when I was on my way home, I was dumbfounded to hear on the news that Gierek’s been ousted from office. What’s happening in your country?

News that Stanislaw Kania had been selected to replace Edward Gierek as the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Polish Communist Party stunned the Western world but it came as no surprise to most Poles. For during his ten-year reign, Gierek had plunged Poland into a hopeless economic quagmire. This enraged the people so that the Party found it necessary to oust Gierek as it had his predecessor, Wladyslaw Gomulka.

Warmed by the occasion to express his views on so noble a subject as his revered motherland, the zealous nationalist began, Stanislaw Kania? Well, Robert, first of all you should be assured that he is a man to Moscow’s liking. A tough Party man! Kania’s appointment at this time does not bode well with my people espousing reform. Well, Robert, you must understand that to be a Pole is to be a Catholic. To be a Pole is to be fervently nationalistic. Well, my friend, I tell you, Kania is no Pole! He is a devout Communist! Almost without exception, Jozef prefaced his opening statements in English with ‘well’-even if merely extending a solicitous greeting. He had a fairly good command of the foreign tongue, but in speaking English he slowed his speech sufficiently to allow himself time to think.

Robert found himself unsure of how to respond to his colleague’s unexpectedly intense reply. Do you honestly believe Gierek was ill as has been… ?

Jozef chuckled resoundedly, interrupting, Well, Robert, let us just say that his illness might have been speeded up somewhat by the… shall we say… extenuating circumstances. These circumstances were perpetrated by a group calling itself the Inter-Factory Strike Committee, which is trying to organize our workers so as to establish a new, independent trade union. For several weeks now this group has been staging strikes designed to annoy the regime. Incidentally, most Poles learned about these strikes by listening to Radio Free Europe because the official media has released little information about the group’s activities. There was no mistaking the note of entreaty in Jozef’s voice as he appended, Well, Robert, surely you can appreciate that all my people want is a decent wage and enough to eat.

My people want desperately to throw off the yoke of Communism, Robert, interjected Helena, who had rejoined the men and now sat between them at table. In spite of the fact that she had resided in the United States for a number of years, in speaking English the melodic quality of her mother tongue was still quite discernible.

Jozef glanced at her, admiring both