Spring Will Be Ours (12 page)

Anna looked at her. It felt extraordinary to have Pani Jawicz, whom she was used to seeing on a dais at assembly, firmly addressing the whole school, seated here at their kitchen table, talking almost in a whisper. Through a gap in a broken pane where the stuffed newspaper had come loose, a thin icy draught was playing on her neck, and she shivered.

‘I've frightened you?' Pani Jawicz asked kindly. ‘You mustn't be afraid, you must be brave. I'm sure that's what your father would want, isn't it?' She turned to Teresa. ‘Of course, Anna must have your permission to continue her education in this rather bizarre fashion.'

Teresa half-smiled, biting her lip. ‘Yes – of course. I am trying to think what my husband would say. I'm sure he wouldn't want her to miss her studies, but –' She took a deep breath. ‘It sounds very dangerous. It is a great responsibility for me to agree to it, you understand. If anything should happen …'

‘Teresa!' said Anna. ‘Please! Tata asked about school, didn't he? That was the one thing he asked about. I
know
he'd want us to go.' What would she do if Teresa said no? Sit cooped up up here peeling potatoes? Go to some horrible trade school and train to be a skivvy? ‘Nothing will happen, nothing will happen! I'll be so careful, I promise.'

‘But it could happen,' Pani Jawicz said slowly. ‘You must realize that, Anna. I don't want to frighten you, but I must be clear: if we are discovered, we will be arrested, there is no question. However, I'm sure, as you say, that you will be extremely careful, and if everyone is sensible then there is no reason why you should not study for your exams, and eventually sit them, so that when the war ends you will be able to go on to university.'

‘Medical school.'

‘Medical school. So –' She turned to Teresa again.

Teresa gave a long sigh. ‘Very well. But if there is any sign that you are in real danger, you stop immediately, Anna, you understand?'

‘Yes, yes. Thank you. Oh, thank goodness! When do we start?'

Pani Jawicz smiled. ‘Next Monday. You will go to Pani Sokołowa's apartment in Białołęka Street – you know where that is, of course.'

‘Yes.' It was one of the longest streets in Praga.

‘Good. Number fifty-nine. Take an exercise book if you can, or paper at least – we are very short, as you can imagine. If you see any of your classmates on the way, ignore them. Each of you will arrive at a different time – you will be there by nine-fifteen, please. Pani Sokołowa will give you all something for lunch, and you will leave by two. You have taken all that in?'

‘Number fifty-nine Białołęka Street,' said Anna. ‘Thank you.'

‘Good, good. So – now there is only Jerzy to organize!' She smiled at him encouragingly. ‘I believe Pan Korczak will be coming to see you tomorrow, to tell you of the arrangements for the
liceum.'

Jerzy was picking at a piece of loose thread in the tablecloth; he did not look up. ‘I'm not going back to school.'

‘Oh? And why is that? Surely you are not afraid?'

‘No!'

‘I see.' Pani Jawicz rose heavily, exchanging glances with Teresa. ‘Well – I shall leave you to discuss it in private. Or with Pan Korczak tomorrow.' She moved towards the door.

‘Jerzy!' Anna hissed. ‘Get up! Don't be so rude!'

He pushed back his chair and went to hold the door open, but he didn't speak.

‘Thank you.' Pani Jawicz went out with Teresa, and down the corridor to the front door. Anna and Jerzy could hear them talking there in low voices.

‘Jerzy?'

‘What?'

‘Come and sit down. What's the matter with you?'

‘Nothing!' He came over and kicked the chair leg against the table.

‘What do you mean, nothing? Look at you!'

The front door closed, and Teresa came hurrying back.

‘Jerzy …' She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘What is it, dear? What's troubling you?'

He shrugged, exaggeratedly, so that her hand on his shoulder became awkward, and she took it away, sighing.

‘I should have thought you would have jumped at the chance to go on studying. As Anna says, so long as you are not in real danger it is certainly what your father would want.'

‘But he doesn't know what it's really like now, does he?' Jerzy snapped. ‘He doesn't know how we're scrimping, and hungry, hungry all the bloody time? How are we supposed to live, if none of us is working?'

‘Well, of course I shall have to find some kind of work …'

‘Doing what? Why should you work for us? I'm – I'm the man of the house now, aren't I? I should be working, not creeping off to school!'

‘You're still a boy,' said Teresa. ‘You're only fifteen, Jerzy! And what do you think you're going to do?'

‘You're not going to work for the Germans, are you?' Anna demanded.

‘Of course I'm bloody not!' Jerzy yelled. ‘How can you even ask?'

‘Well what are you going to do, then?'

They were all on their feet and shouting now, all on the verge of tears.

‘I don't know yet!' Jerzy was banging his chair back and forth against the table. ‘I was talking to Andrzej yesterday, in the bread queue. He feels the same, and he seems to have a few ideas. I don't care if I have to be a plumber, or sell coal, or mend windows, but I'm not going to sit around hungry any longer. I'm going out to see Andrzej now, all right?' And he stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door.

Anna and Teresa avoided each other's eyes, and then they looked at each other, and sat down.

‘Dear God …' said Teresa. She put her head in her hands. ‘If only Tomasz –'

‘Don't,' said Anna. ‘Don't.'

They sat in silence. Eventually Teresa looked up and said carefully: ‘Andrzej … the one with fair hair, yes? They're in the same class at the
liceum?'

‘Yes. Jerzy's always looked up to him.'

‘And is he sensible? He won't lead Jerzy into trouble, will he?'

Anna shrugged. What was trouble, now? ‘I don't think so. I like him.'

‘Do you?' Teresa smiled weakly. ‘Poor Anna. Poor Jerzy.' She took a deep breath. ‘Well – I have an idea, too. Will you come and look through my jewellery box with me? I should like you to help me choose something to barter.'

‘For food?' Anna frowned at her. ‘Are people bartering now?'

‘Everyone talks about it in the queues. What else can we do? Come and help me choose something you think your father wouldn't mind too much about, I think perhaps my amber might still be worth something. And if it isn't – well, we shall have to part with the best dinner service, shan't we? Or – or anything, I suppose.'

She got up, and Anna followed her out of the kitchen and into the freezing bedroom, where her father no longer slept.

At dawn, he stood waiting in the deserted railway yard. The cold was intense; as he fumbled to undo the buttons on his jacket to get out the shovel his fingers hurt so much that he almost cried. Carefully he propped it up against the wall, then, unable to stand still, walked beyond it, out to the platform. Snow-covered broken tracks stretched in the half-light into nowhere; they were empty except for a couple of abandoned coaches, where a door hung open and he could see the seats inside flung on to the floor. Above, the signal box had a gaping hole in its roof and side, and the wooden stairs were wrenched at an angle away from the doorway. He peered up and saw the skeletal iron levers snapped and twisted. They might come in useful for something, but he wasn't going to go up there now, alone. Where the hell was Andrzej?

He walked to the end of the platform, watching the last stars fade and the sky grow paler behind the scrubby trees on the embankment; then he paced back again, and heard a rattling in the yard. Quickly he rounded the wall and saw Andrzej with the wooden trolley, standing by a small white heap in the corner.

‘You're late,' he whispered.

‘I know. Sorry. Look, it's here.' He nudged the heap with his foot and as Jerzy went over he saw wet, gleaming pieces of coal shift silently on to the snow.

‘There's quite a bit.'

‘Yes,' said Andrzej. ‘I told you. Where's the shovel?'

He picked it up and swore, dropping it again. ‘It feels like ice.'

‘Why didn't you wear gloves?'

‘I couldn't find them.'

‘Idiot. You keep watch, then.'

Andrzej bent down, picked up the shovel and began to lift the coal on to the low trolley. It had taken them the whole of last weekend to make it, borrowing wheels from a neighbour's old pram, and wood, nails and a hinge from his uncle. From the far corner of the yard, Jerzy watched him, keeping half an eye open for any movement on the dim, unlit road. There was no one.

The trolley was piled high, and there was still a good three or four loads left in the coal heap, by the look of it. He walked across to Andrzej and said: ‘Shall we come back tomorrow?'

Andrzej nodded, passing him the shovel. ‘We'll have to. There you are – I've warmed it up a bit.' He grinned. ‘Come on.'

Jerzy tucked the shovel back inside his jacket, and Andrzej picked up the handle of the trolley and began to drag it across the snow.

‘What about the tracks?' Jerzy said suddenly. ‘And our footprints?'

‘Oh, shit.' Andrzej stopped. ‘Go on, go back.'

He jumped on and scraped with his foot all the thin lines left by the wheel, and the prints of their heavy boots. Andrzej had reached the road; the trolley, piled high, began to sway awkwardly – they had made the handle too short, he could see, now – and a few pieces of coal fell out. He ran to pick them up, and they turned and walked as quickly as they dared, dragging the load past the dark sheds and houses until, as the sky ebbed into morning, they were in reach of Andrzej's street.

They hid the trolley in the courtyard outhouse, where they had built it, then climbed the stairs to his apartment, shaking with cold and relief.

‘Must be worth an absolute fortune,' Andrzej said, as he unlocked the door. ‘All we need now are the bags.'

Białołęka Street was very long, and many of the houses were eighteenth-century, built of wood. On Monday morning, as Anna walked slowly along, an early spring sun was melting some of the hard-packed snow along the pavement to crystals, and two or three people were out with shovels, scraping it into the gutter. A woman nodded to her, but did not smile, and in any case Anna was feeling too uneasy and apprehensive to dare to ask how far along number 59 might be. She walked on, looking every now and then at the doors and gateways fringed with snow, until two blocks ahead she saw a thin dark-haired girl in a navy coat: Natalia! Anna stopped. Natalia paused outside a low, modern house, looked quickly round, then went to the front door and rang the bell. In moments, she disappeared inside.

Anna looked at her watch. Five past nine. She walked on as slowly as she felt might look normal, her knees suddenly like water. There was not a German on the street, but what about the side roads? Was anyone watching her?

Number 59 was a clean-lined, pale-washed house with balconies on the upper floor; it reminded Anna of the villas in
^·
Zoliborz, the residential suburb on the other side of Warsaw, where much of the building had been done in the mid-thirties. It was so unlike her own old apartment house and the wooden ones nearby, and the weather was suddenly so mild, that for a moment she felt as if she had stepped outside the occupied city altogether. Then, as she went up to the green front door and rang the bell, not daring to look round, all her nervousness returned.

Footsteps came running down the stairs inside and the door was quickly opened. Pani Sokołowa smiled, said, ‘Good morning, Anna,' as if she were back at school, and shut the door. ‘We are upstairs.' Anna followed her up a flight of low stone stairs to a white-painted door and they went into the apartment.

The sitting room was light and airy, and very cold. Three girls were sitting in their coats round a table: Natalia, Basia Oliwa and Helena Kapek. They looked up as Anna came in, and Natalia patted the chair beside her.

‘Come on.'

‘Thanks.' Anna went quickly to sit next to her, and the girls all smiled at each other, fleetingly, on edge.

‘There,' said Pani Sokołowa. ‘Now we have only Jadwiga to join us, and then we can begin. I'm making some tea, I expect you could all do with it.'

‘Please.'

‘Yes, please.'

She went out of the room again, and the girls could hear the chink of glasses and teaspoons, reassuring sounds, as if they had all come for an end-of-term treat. They looked at each other, hesitantly, the first time they had been together since the end of the summer term last year, and that was in another lifetime. Behind them a clock ticked irregularly.

‘Doesn't it feel strange?' said Natalia. ‘Were you frightened, coming?'

‘Yes,' said Anna. ‘I saw you ahead of me, and I was afraid if I walked slowly I'd be noticed. But oh, I'm glad we're here, aren't you? What's it like at home?'

‘Hateful,' said Natalia. ‘My father still hasn't come back, we haven't heard a word, have you?'

‘Just a postcard. From somewhere called Kozielsk.'

‘You're lucky. Mama watches for the post every morning, and cries when there's nothing. I know she does, though of course she pretends she's got a cold.'

‘My sister's ill,' said Helena. ‘She's got something wrong with her kidneys, and we can't get any medicine. My mother cries a lot, too.'

‘Oh dear, that must be dreadful.'

Then the doorbell rang, a long, urgent ring, and they all jumped, and heard Pani Sokołowa hurrying out of the kitchen and down the stairs.

‘Isn't she brave?' Basia whispered. ‘Suppose it's the Germans?'

‘Sssh!'