25“It can’t be done.” Bert sat with his back to the coffee shop’s rear wall. Hans and I faced him across a narrow table. On the table top between us sat a small glass of clear liquid, emitting the biting aroma of cheap gin. Bert’s breath had the same astringent scent and I knew it was more than the promise of safety and good food making him feel at home in this kawiarnia.
To Bert’s right, the polished wooden bar extended twenty feet to the adjoining wall. A strand of tiny lights twined along the bar top, the Christmasy colors reflecting off the array of bottles and the mirror behind them. Clearly, the owner of this establishment depended for his income on sales of alcohol rather than espresso.
Jerzy’d taken a stool at the far end of the bar. Nursing a half-liter bottle of Okocim’s Mocne
