The Formula
Steve Yarbrough
The Passport Bureau in Wroclaw stands a block from Kosciuszko Square, near the SB headquarters, the city jail, the Court of Justice. Nina had been there more times than she could count. There was a second entrance now to ease the traffic, but before they opened it, the lines of people wanting to leave were as long as the lines for bananas.
This morning she chose the main door. Climbing the stairs, she sifted through her mind all of her transgressions. Her worst sins took place three years ago, and they were comparatively minor. She'd distributed leaflets, yelled "Gestapo" at the Zomos. She and her husband had also sheltered, for an evening, an underground activist, but he had left the country a long time ago. She knew that in all likelihood the note calling her to appear as a "witness" was somehow connected to her trip. In all likelihood, she was about to have an encounter with the Passport SB.
The second floor was empty except for an old man who sat in a chair reading Slowo Polskie. She scanned the numbers above the doors, walked the length of the hall twice, but she couldn't find 214. It was almost nine o'clock. You couldn't be late for an appointment like hers.
