Spring Will Be Ours (13 page)

They sat on the edge of their chairs. Then the door of the apartment opened, and they could hear Jadwiga, loudly apologizing; she came in, panting, her hair a wild bush around her head.

‘Oh, isn't this
horrible?
I never thought I'd be so glad to see all of you again!'

‘We thought you were the Germans,' said Helena, giggling.

‘What, all of them?' Jadwiga pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘Now listen, girls,' said Pani Sokołowa. ‘We must have a proper arrangement for the doorbell, there was no need to ring like that, was there, Jadwiga? It's all right, you've said you're sorry. But two short sharp rings from now on, yes? Buzz-buzz. Then I shall know it's one of you.'

‘Buzz-buzz,' said Jadwiga, wiggling her fingers like antennae, and they all shrieked with laughter.

Pani Sokołowa shook her head. ‘I suppose I must make allowances,' she said, and went back to the kitchen.

‘Buzz-buzz!' whispered Helena, helplessly.

‘Sssh!' They held their hands to their mouths.

Pani Sokołowa returned with a tray; she handed round glasses of tea, and wreaths of steam rose comfortingly above the table. ‘It's very weak,' she said, ‘but I have a friend who managed to get a little for me yesterday, and I wanted you all to have it.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Thank you.'

She pulled out her own chair, and sat down, cupping her glass in her hands, and gazed round at them all, a fair-haired, pretty woman, who hadn't long been married – one or two of the girls had gone to her wedding, last spring. A photograph of her husband, in his university gown, stood on the desk at the window. Glancing at it, Anna remembered hearing that he, too, had been taken prisoner in the Reserve Corps, early on. So Pani Sokołowa was living alone, now. That must be miserable. Strangely, she had put on weight – her face was fuller, and … and she was pregnant, wasn't she? How could Anna not have noticed that before?

‘Well, now,' Pani Sokołowa was saying. ‘We have all been having a rather difficult time. I'm very glad that we can meet like this – you're all bright girls, and if you make up your minds to work hard, and to overcome these circumstances, there is no reason why you should fall behind. I hope you all understand that there will be no dropping of standards? I shall be preparing you for the
mała matura
in two years'time, and I shall expect as much from you as always. I know the other teachers feel the same.'

Jadwiga pulled a face as long as a horse. Anna spluttered. Pani Sokołowa appeared not to have noticed.

‘Before we begin this class,' she went on, ‘I had better make sure you are all properly informed about the present … situation. You know that everyone of fifteen and over must register for work? You are fortunate to be too young yet, but next year it will apply to you, if things haven't changed, so be prepared to have some kind of cover. In the meantime, do you all know about the … the classification that is going on? It is not very pleasant. Anyone who can show that they have German blood within three generations may register as
Volksdeutsche
– I believe there are certain privileges, or exemptions, which attach to this status.' She pursed her lips in distaste. ‘I don't believe that this applies to any of you?'

No one answered.

‘So. There is also the question of Jewish blood.' She lowered her voice, and spoke looking straight ahead. ‘Are you all aware of the dangers to the Jews under the Nazis? Again, I'm sure that this does not apply to any of you, but there are, of course, plenty of Jews among the intelligentsia – if any of you have friends, or … or family with such connections, you will understand that you and they must be on constant guard.'

No one spoke, no one looked at anyone else. My God, thought Anna, if any of us had anything to hide, we wouldn't dare to tell, not even here. We daren't even trust our best friends, our teacher. At least I don't have to worry about any of this, we're all pure Pole in our family; perhaps there was some Russian blood on Mama's side, but that's all right, isn't it?

And then she thought, with a sudden lurch of her stomach; but what about Teresa?

‘To tell the truth,' Pani Sokołowa was saying slowly, ‘simply to be Polish is to be in danger now. I expect you are all aware of that. However, I know that you are all brave, sensible girls, and we shan't talk any more about it. Now – have you all managed to bring something to write on? And pens? Good. I believe Pani Jawicz explained that we have no textbooks, that they have all been impounded. So I shall dictate the verbs I should like you to learn this week, and we shall start with the third conjugation.'

There was a rustling of pages turned and smoothed down; overcoat sleeves were pulled up, and the girls bent their heads. The familiar, soothing sound of Pani Sokołowa's dictation voice, carefully enunciating Latin verbs and vocabulary, filled the room; the unsteady clock ticked on.

Writing in gloves was awkward, but the room was so cold that there was no choice, and even wearing them Anna's fingers felt stiff. The concentration, however, was wonderful – she was able to block out everything that had happened in the last six months – even that last, terrible thought.

Pani Sokołowa dictated steadily, for perhaps an hour. Suddenly, there was a crumpled, moaning sound, and they all looked up to see Basia dissolving into tears.

‘Basia! What is it, what's the matter?' Pani Sokołowa rose quickly, and went over to her.

‘I'm so
hungry
,' Basia sobbed. ‘I'm sorry … I just can't think about anything else …'

Pani Sokołowa put her arm round her. ‘Poor girl, did you not have any breakfast?'

Basia shook her head, still crying. ‘We've run out of bread, and last night there were just a few dumplings, but my brother ate them all…'

‘Selfish brute,' said Jadwiga, and they all laughed, uncertainly.

Basia blew her nose, and smiled. ‘He isn't really,' she said. ‘He just gets so irritable when he's hungry …'

‘So does Jerzy,' said Anna. ‘He's horrible.'

‘No he's not,' said Natalia, and Anna looked at her in surprise.

‘Everyone's hungry these days,' said Pani Sokołowa. ‘I think we'll have an early lunch, I could do with it myself. Now, perhaps one of you would like to help me bring it in, and the rest of you clear away your books. The bathroom is just down the corridor, on the left.'

They put away their exercise books, chattering as if the bell had just gone at school.

‘Don't you worry, Basia,' said Jadwiga. ‘My cousin has this peasant woman, from somewhere outside Otwock – she's wonderful, she brings in eggs and bacon, and my cousin supplies Mama. I'll bring you in some tomorrow, if I can.'

‘Thanks.' Basia smiled weakly, very pale.

‘The Red Cross are sending food parcels, aren't they?' asked Helena, coming back with a tray. ‘That's what my aunt says, anyway.' She set out spoons and plates.

‘You tell your aunt to let us know the minute one arrives,' said Jadwiga. ‘God, the thought of a bar of chocolate! The thought of anything – do I actually look like a potato, or just feel like one?'

‘Here we are,' said Pani Sokołowa, with another tray. ‘Pea soup.' She passed round bowls, put down the breadboard. ‘We had the gas restored in this block last week, thank goodness. Help yourselves.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Thank you.'

The soup was thin but piping hot; they dunked crusts of dark bread.

‘Pani Sokołowa?' Anna asked hesitantly. ‘May I ask you something?'

‘Of course.'

‘Are you expecting a baby?'

‘Yes,' said Pani Sokołowa briefly, and did not smile.

‘When?' Jadwiga asked bluntly, and then Pani Sokołowa did smile, but shaking her head. ‘In June. It is something I should be looking forward to, but I'm afraid that without my husband …' She sighed. ‘Never mind, perhaps by then he will have returned.' She did not sound as if she thought it likely, and Anna put down her spoon, thinking of Tata. She would write to him this afternoon, and tell him about
komplety.
Oh – no, she couldn't, could she, it would be much too dangerous. Well, she'd hint, and he could work it out. He'd be so pleased to know she was studying again.

When they had finished eating, they cleared away, and Pani Sokołowa gave them all a translation, a single sheet of paper she had copied from the
Aeneid
, which they passed round, translating in turn. Everyone was rusty and awkward.

‘Very well,' she said, when Helena had stumbled through the last sentence. ‘You all have plenty of catching up to do. Verbs and vocabulary by heart, please, for Wednesday. We shall be meeting at Pani Lasocka's apartment.' She gave them the address, and a time of arrival for each of them. Beyond the windows, the morning's spring sunshine had disappeared.

‘Go home quickly, now,' she said. ‘One at a time – well, perhaps two is all right, I suppose a stream of girls one by one looks odd. Off you go.'

‘You come with me, Basia,' said Jadwiga, pulling her to her feet. ‘I don't want you feinting on the way.'

Anna and Natalia followed, ten minutes later, leaving Helena, who lived nearest, to go home alone. The sky was darkening to snow clouds and the packed snow along the edge of the pavement was beginning to freeze again. They hurried down the street arm in arm.

‘Do you think Guides will start up now, as well?' Anna asked.

Natalia shrugged. ‘They might, I suppose. I hope so. Or perhaps it's too dangerous, perhaps that would have to be secret, too.'

An unlit tram moved slowly down the centre of the street, and then the snow began to fall. They said goodbye on the corner, lightly kissing cold cheeks, and Anna ran home, shivering.

The snow melted, the trees came into bud again. With the warm spring weather, Anna found herself feeling calmer, settled at least into a routine:
komplety
three mornings a week, studying in the afternoons, writing to Tata. After a while, though, these letters became difficult. She couldn't write about
komplety
, she couldn't write about Jerzy, keeping odd hours, doing odd jobs, she couldn't write about Teresa – she couldn't write about anything that was actually happening.

I miss you terribly, and only hope that you are safe and well. Come home soon
…

How many ways were there of saying that? She went on saying it, because they were, after all, the only words that mattered. After supper, she dropped the letters into the postbox at the end of the street, and walked slowly home. Now that the evenings were growing lighter, it felt dreadful to be so restricted about going out, even before curfew. Teresa's anxiety was like an illness.

‘Can't I go back to Guides?' Anna pleaded with her. ‘Everyone else is going – Natalia, Jadwiga, Helena …'

‘But you are not,' said Teresa. ‘I'm sorry, and please don't look so sulky, but
komplety
is enough.'

‘It isn't for me!' Anna said crossly.

‘Well, it will simply have to be! Do you want to be here, when your father returns, or do you want to be under arrest? For heaven's sake be sensible.'

Anna sighed heavily, and went to fetch her sketchpad.

In June, the
Nowy Kurier Warszawski
, the German propaganda newspaper, jubilantly announced the fall of France. For days, no one could talk of anything else. If Paris could fall … The news was terrible, but in one way at least it brought a perverse comfort. In the early weeks after the seige last year, there had been a lot of bitter talk about the pre-war government: they had been ill-prepared, shortsighted. Talking like that made people uneasy, and even though they knew that without real outside assistance no single city could have resisted for long the bombardment Germany had given her, there still lingered a secret sense of shame. Now – if mighty Paris could fall, Poland's swift defeat did not feel quite so humiliating.

Soon, through the
komunikats
, they heard that the Government in Exile – led by General Sikorski, who had been in opposition at the outbreak of the war – had escaped from Paris and flown to London. Over the next months, in
komplety
, the girls were told that the Polish forces were now based mainly in Scotland, and that the many Polish airmen in the British RAF were now fighting in desperate air battles against the
Luftwaffe
to help prevent an invasion of Great Britain.

Walking to school one light summer morning, Anna saw a man ahead of her, walking with the slow, dazed step of complete exhaustion. Men returned from the western front, demoralized but free, quite frequently now: Anna had seen them before. This man wore a heavy army coat, perhaps because he was too weary to carry it, a coat which reminded her of Tata's, and which hung loosely, as though he had lost a great deal of weight. She quickened her step, called in a sudden, burning rush of hope, ‘Tata? Tata!' He stopped, and turned, and looked at her, from a face whose features were thick with fatigue; then he shook his head, apologetically, and walked on, into a side street where a bird was singing.

Anna stood, waiting until the trembling in her knees had subsided, and she was able to walk properly again. Then she went on, to the house on Białołęka Street, and in Pani Sokołowa's sitting room took out her translation and sat down. Later in the morning it came to her, with absolute certainty, that Tata would be there when she got home. Distantly she was aware of Pani Sokołowa's dictation, of reciting verbs and showing her work; all the time she knew that the ghostlike figure she had seen this morning was a herald: that when she rang the bell that evening, Tata would answer it, and nothing would matter any more.

Pani Sokołowa released them at four, and she ran all the way home, past the broken tram limes, running until she had a stitch in her side, but didn't stop. At the apartment door she leaned, panting, on the bell. The door opened, and Teresa stood there, holding a bunch of letters.