While Still We Live (16 page)

“Not even to Olszak. I’ve just been trying to place his game. It gives me a laugh. Privately, of course. But then all those high-signs and name changes are a natural for a laugh. You can’t enlighten me on anything, can you? Just between friends?”

“I know less than you, it seems,” Sheila said. It was true in some ways. Kordus was a new angle to her. Kordus... Well, Mr. Olszak had his own reasons and they would be good ones. So much she had learned about Mr. Olszak. “Russell,” she added suddenly, and wondered why he repressed a smile, “Russell, don’t please talk about these things. Don’t think about them. Don’t even guess. Please.”

“Why?”

She wanted to say, “See what has happened to me.” She said, “Because I like you, and you’ve been more than decent to me. This Kordus affair is of no value to you. It would only lead to complications for you. Mr. Olszak will tell you about it some day, when he can.”

“Not Olszak. He’s been a reporter himself. All I’ve been able to figure out so far is that he visits police headquarters as Olszak the editor, who writes on specially interesting criminal
cases and miscarriages of justice. He’s been doing that for years, I know. I’ve gone with him, on occasions. And then he becomes Kordus when he has any other work to do. It’s the other work that interests me.”

“Russell, please. I gave you my advice. Why get mixed up in such things?”

“Oh, the inquiring reporter.” But the smile he gave her proved that he wasn’t convinced that she was as ignorant as she pretended.

“What does Barbara know?” she asked.

“The Aleksanders think you’re a heroine. You spotted a German spy and risked your life to catch her.”

“What were you told?” It was interesting to find out the ways Mr. Olszak had disposed of her.

“Much the same. That I was saving you from German agents by having you here.”

“And you don’t believe much of that story?”

“I know that the Poles are looking for you.”

“And it doesn’t make sense?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

And you are going to try to make it into sense, Sheila thought as she looked at the man who was watching her so intently.

“Probably the whole story about Kordus was a fake. I don’t believe that’s his name at all,” she protested. But looking at the American’s clever face, she knew that he wasn’t impressed by her amusement.

After that they talked of the news and pretended not to listen to the falling bombs. At least, it was Stevens who did most of the talking, as if he guessed that Sheila had begun to tire. He was exhausted, himself. He thought wearily of the couch next
door, but Sheila’s eyes pleaded with him to stay here and go on talking. Once she said apologetically, “It is sort of monotonous to listen to all those loud noises by yourself.” And once he thought she was summoning up courage to tell him something. But just at that moment Barbara returned, flushed with her running through air-raided streets. She carried a small basket triumphantly.

“We shall soon get you well,” she said happily, and plunged into long instructions from Madame Aleksander, as she moved busily about the room. Russell Stevens moved tactfully into the living-room as Barbara started shaking pillows. He was too tired even to make a joke.

He did say, “When Sheila is up and about again, I’ll take you both out to dinner. How’s that?”

“It sounds wonderful,” Sheila said, and laughed. Bombs might be falling, but people still went out to dinner. The idea cheered her, somehow.

Barbara said, “You know, you
are
looking better. I believe seeing people does you good. Perhaps you ought to get up soon, after all.”

Sheila nodded happily. It was pleasant to share things, even air raids, with people.

THE EIGHTEENTH DAY

Next day, when the sun was at its warmest, Barbara came for her hour’s visit to the apartment in Frascati Gardens and Sheila was allowed to have her clothes. Apart from a treacherous weakness in her legs, so that the first steps made her totter like a baby learning to walk, she managed to pretend she felt very well indeed. When she came into the strange living-room, she was telling Barbara cheerfully that all she needed was to move about and make her legs strong again.

“Not too quickly, though,” Barbara admonished in such an unconscious imitation of her mother’s voice that Stevens, trying to shave off a thick growth of beard with a half-cupful of cold water, turned to give Sheila a grin.

“What are you two laughing about?” Barbara asked tolerantly, and began transforming Stevens’ bed back into a couch again. Sheila only smiled. She walked determinedly, if slowly, towards the window. It was funny to see how like
Madame Aleksander Barbara really was. Sheila wondered what traits she had inherited from her own mother and father. Or didn’t you inherit them if you had never lived with them? Uncle Matthews would tell her, some day, now that she knew enough to be able to question him intelligently. She felt suddenly so happy that she was ashamed. But all the worry and insecurity and pain of the last weeks were well worth-while, after all: some day, she could question intelligently. If she lived, she added; and looked down on the trees in the street.

“It seems so untouched,” she said in surprise. “The parks are still beautiful.”

“This district is the luckiest so far,” Stevens said briefly. He thought of the long lines of trenches which she couldn’t see from this window, trenches which yesterday had begun to be filled with dead bodies. The cemeteries could hold no more. He dried his face carefully, and turned on the radio.

A man’s strong, encouraging voice filled the room. “The Mayor,” Stevens said. “You’d never guess he’s speaking from the ruins of his office, would you? Still works there.” He switched the knob around for a foreign station, and found a German one. Always German, he thought angrily: either German or jammed by Germans.

“Oh, not that,” Sheila said, “not so much drama. Don’t they
love
to threaten? And if they don’t threaten, they gloat.”

Stevens silenced her with, a hand. He held it there, suspended in the air, his head bent to one side, his eyes narrowing. He turned strangely, unbelievingly, to the two girls who weren’t even bothering to listen. Barbara was telling Sheila that Mr. Olszak said it would be perfectly all right if Sheila were to come and help Barbara with the children, once Sheila was strong
enough. Suddenly, they noticed the American’s face. He was still listening.

“Another ultimatum?” Barbara said scornfully.

Stevens shook his head. He could hardly speak. Their curiosity turned chill.

“The God-damned liars,” he was saying. “It can’t be true. It isn’t true. The—!” He seized his jacket as he moved quickly to the door. “Have to see if I can broadcast to America,” he said. “That was, a German report that the Russians entered Eastern Poland yesterday. Can’t be true.”

He was out of the room before either of them could speak.

“They’ve come to help,” Sheila was saying. “Perhaps it’s help.”

They listened to the German announcer’s triumphant voice. Barbara shook her head slowly, and sat down on the nearest chair. This news had managed to do what the bombs and shells had failed to accomplish. The first tears since she had said goodbye to Jan Reska were streaming over her cheeks. She just sat there, crying quietly, gazing at the blue sky outside, as if all action and courage had been sapped from her veins.

Sheila stared down at the street. Well, that was another prayer that hadn’t been answered: she had hoped so much, to the point of believing that it would come true, that help would come from the east. Perhaps this new invasion really meant only a defence of Russia before the Germans got too far to the east. And yet the German announcement was using the tone of victory. Even the element of surprise had made it more victorious. Yesterday, no one had known, no one had guessed what had taken place. Today, the Germans were the first to announce it. That doubled the weight of the blow. It
made you feel twice as helpless. And helplessness could become hopelessness.

“What will Warsaw do?” she asked dully.

“Do?” echoed Barbara, still unseeing. And then a fury seized her. “We’ll fight on. We’ll never stop fighting until we have Poland again. Not even if it takes twenty, thirty, forty years. We’ll fight on.” Her voice rose. Her face had paled, her neck flushed red. Her blue eyes were as hard and brilliant as granite caught in sunlight. Sheila switched off the radio and let her talk: it was the best thing for Barbara. Her courage was back, all the stronger because of her anger. At last she paused, and the two girls stared at each other. Only the loud ticking of a cheap alarm clock broke the silence.

“You are so quiet Sheila,” Barbara said at last. “Don’t you feel anything?”

“Feel?” Sheila walked slowly over to the couch. In the same low voice, she clipped out the words, “Damn and blast all politics to hell.”

Barbara was gathering up her coat and basket. “I must go back to the children, to games of let’s pretend, where the bad men gets shot, and the good man lives, and all are happy ever after. I’ll come to see you tomorrow. Take care. You’ll soon be able to come and help with the children.” Her voice was normal, as if she had forgotten the last quarter of an hour. And then she began to laugh, a hysterical bitter laugh.

“Eugenia,” she explained, “Brother Stanislaw’s wife... You never met her. But you’ve heard Aunt Marta on the subject... In the first week of the war she was in Warsaw, and then she found enough petrol—that kind of person always does: she approves of rationing except for herself—and she set out for
the Aleksander house in Polesie, with her maid and trunks and jewels and best furs... She hadn’t enough room in the car for little Teresa or Stefan, although Stanislaw made her offer to take them with her. She almost embraced mother in relief when we said we preferred to have the children nearer Warsaw. We heard last week that she had a perfectly frightful journey; but she did arrive. In Polesie. And do you know where Polesie is? Right on the Russian frontier. It’s the only funny piece of news in a long time, but I dare say that to no one but you.”

“What about Stanislaw?”

“He’s in Warsaw. He resigned his diplomatic job last week and put on an armband and took his best hunting rifle. He’s over in Praga now, stalking Germans in suburban streets.”

“Barbara, have you heard anything about Jan Reska?”

Barbara shook her head for an answer, and then walked slowly out of the door. Her footsteps were slow and heavy on the wooden stairs.

Sheila wished desperately that she had left that question unasked. She searched for something to read, but all Stevens’ best books had been burned along with his clothes in the suitcases. She found a battered Polish grammar. As long as she had to sit in here, she might as well learn something. She had a feeling that she was going to need as much Polish as she could master. Besides, a grammar made you concentrate, made you forget other things. Like a good Scot, she began at the beginning and methodically revised the earlier lessons which she had already learned. Now that she was sure of the right pronunciations, the words were easier to memorise than they had seemed in London last spring. She found she could recommend studying a foreign grammar book to anyone who
had to sit through air raids.

At six o’clock she was hungry, and picnicked on a strange assortment of food. Mr. Olszak had sent bread and butter today. Calf’s foot jelly and a peach came from Madame Aleksander, and the small bowl of milk had been brought by Barbara. Stevens had discovered some bouillon cubes for her. Uncle Edward had brought a thermos bottle of soup, a small bottle of red wine, and a bunch of flowers. None of them had forgotten her, however busy and worried they were. And each item of food was now a luxury which not money, but time and trouble had discovered.

As dusk came to the city, she didn’t bother either to light the candle or to draw the blackout curtains. She was suddenly as exhausted as if she had worked all day in the fields. She watched the red glow, deepening and widening in the smoke-covered sky—unaware that it was the Royal Castle which tonight was ablaze—until she had gathered enough energy to take herself to bed.

* * *

Outside, the eighteenth day of bombing, the tenth day of artillery bombardment, came to its close. People were still toiling in the numerous parks which had once been Warsaw’s pride. They were filling in the trenches which they had dug almost three weeks before, covering the corpses carefully and wearily with the soft, dry earth. The sisters in the burning hospitals pulled the wounded men into the courtyards, sheltered them with their bodies when a German plane swooped low to machine-gun the living mass.

Barbara quieted the children. The night attacks would wake them from uneasy dreams, and they would start remembering
their mothers and fathers. Some of them would still think that they were wandering alone in machine-gunned fields.

Stevens had paused for a cigarette along with the Swede beside whom he worked nowadays. Their work tonight was useless. The precious flour in the largest bakery flared beyond all human effort. Neither man spoke any more as they worked, but they kept together.

Over in the Praga sector, once a workers’ suburb across the Vistula River, Stanislaw Aleksander silenced the nagging worry about his wife with the machine gun to which he had been promoted.

Edward Korytowski and Michael Olszak were busy with the cunning concealed doorway which they had made between two adjoining cellars. The printing press in one cellar was now completed, and hidden by protecting sandbags.

Jan Reska lay in the shelter of an eastern forest beside men who were strangers to him. All his old comrades were lost. This was the fifth company he had fought with, and now it seemed as if they were to be surrounded, too. Here under the trees, they could rest from the bombers, perhaps think of some way to join with the survivors of still another division.

Captain Adam Wisniewski had gathered the remnants of his cavalry platoon from the slaughter fields of the Poznan bulge, had led them silently at nightfall away from the west. The south, too, was in German hands. Their nearest hope was Warsaw. A knock at the darkened window of an isolated house brought them any food there was, perhaps a moment’s warmth by a stove, or in a barn where the exhausted men could rest. And then the alarm of a scout sent the half-sleeping men and the stumbling horses stealing away in the cold darkness once more.