While Still We Live (52 page)

When she reached that conclusion, Sheila was startled at her own choice of words. Vision... She looked over at Adam Wisniewski sitting with his soldiers.

This was the first evening he had spent at the Lodge since his return to the camp four days ago. He had been absent for over three weeks. This was the first time she had seen him since that morning she had arrived in camp. Or rather, she told herself as she averted her eyes and pretended to be watching Franziska, this was the first time she had allowed herself to see him. At the moment, she wished she were back in the loneliness of her hut, away from the warmth and life of the Lodge. Her will power was weakening: she was still telling herself that she must rise and leave, when Franziska came over to her.

“Anything wrong, Sheila?”

“No,” Sheila answered sharply. And then she saw she had hurt Franziska, and she added more gently, “Of course not.”

Franziska shrugged her shoulders and sat down beside Stefan. She, too, pretended. She listened to Stefan’s enthusiastic description of his work at the radio-hut with Sheila, of the new transmitter which was being perfected. But she wondered about these last few days and the change in her friend; she wondered what she had done to cause this feeling of separation. She listened to Stefan, but she watched Sheila, and Sheila seemed to be staring at the middle distance.

Now Adam Wisniewski was listening to a story, his intelligent eyes on the teller’s face, his lips ready to laugh. Sheila had her second surprise then. He likes men, she thought; and men like him. She watched him, almost incredulously. And then she smiled at her naïveté. Hadn’t this camp been proof to her that Adam Wisniewski got on well with men? Hadn’t this been the reason why Olszak had chosen Wisniewski? Horses and women: proto-fascist...

Russell Stevens had been quite certain about all that. Would he be as certain if he lived in this camp for a week? Wouldn’t he be sitting there now, laughing along with Wisniewski? Probably, Sheila thought, he would be laughing at himself: for Steve was honest. Perhaps too quick to pin identification tags on people’s shoulders, perhaps too prone to simplify; but fundamentally honest. If Wisniewski had lived up to the label Steve had pinned on him, he would now be sitting in Warsaw or Cracow, collaborating with the Nazis. There he would have had women and horses and a comfortable house; there he would have seen the people who opposed him either killed or imprisoned. If this man were a fascist by inclination, he would have welcomed the chance to “cleanse” his country of the people he disagreed with. He wouldn’t be working with them, living with them, all political differences buried under the common battlefield. Fascists never buried politics. They kept them sharpened, like a dagger to plunge in your back. The Nazis were looking for a political stooge in Poland. They had searched among politicians, among generals, ambassadors, princes, landowners, professional men. Not one Pole had accepted the chance to gain the whole New Order and lose his own soul by working with the enemy. The reward for their refusal was always torture and death for
themselves, imprisonment and persecution for their families. Yet, each week, the execution list of these men was growing. Nothing the Nazis could do would convince or persuade or force the Poles to become Nazis, or the allies of Nazis.

If ever she were to see Steve again, she would argue this out with him. “Labels, Steve, are just misleading,” she would say. “They are meant for laboratory specimens, not for human beings. All the so-called ‘enlightened’ would have had Poland quite taped and labelled. Poland was ‘feudal’ Poland was ‘undemocratic,’ Poland was ‘fascist’. And now the Poles are giving a demonstration to the world of what honour and freedom really mean. If a country doesn’t love freedom, why should it die so willingly against oppression? Why doesn’t it jump on the German bandwagon and say, ‘Of course, we’ll co-operate’? The Germans gave it the chance to do that. They churned out propaganda on the radio—you heard it as well as me—about the stupid cowardly government which led the poor Poles into this war. They’ve slandered, they’ve even fabricated proof of the guilt of Polish leaders. They offered the Poles every opportunity to say, ‘We’ve been betrayed. We lost the battle because we’ve been betrayed.’ But the Poles won’t take that soothing excuse. Their honour is real, not just national vanity. And the more they refuse to co-operate, the more they suffer. Korytów, and the hundred other Korytóws, would be still standing today if the Poles would only co-operate. How many other countries, even the most democratic ones, would pay this price for their honour, Steve?”

The voices swept in warm gusts around her. Above was the black shadow of the pointed roof, and the static animal heads peering down through the haze of smoke. Those beasts must
have seen many a hunting party here. Now they were watching the strangest hunting party of all. She looked across to the priest, tall, thin-faced. He was listening to the man who had lost an eye. How unreal and yet real; how mad and yet sane!

A voice, strong and confident, was speaking. She looked up, startled. There was no escape this time. “You look very serious.” It was Adam Wisniewski. He didn’t wait for a reply, but sat down cross-legged on the floor at her feet. Something in the ease of the gesture reminded her of the first time she had seen him. There were four or five answers she could give him: each sounded sillier than the other. She kept silent, and smiled.

“That’s much better,” he said approvingly. He was watching her as he drew a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. He offered her one. He lit it carefully. Jan placed his cigarette behind his ear: he was concentrating on smoothing his spear point into sharp perfection.

“I’ve almost lost the taste of a cigarette,” she said. She was annoyed with herself for her nervousness. She couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say.

“So you
do
talk?” Wisniewski said slowly.

She returned the long look which he gave her. (How unreal it is, she was thinking. We have at last spoken, and I find I have nothing to say.)

“Occasionally,” he said gravely, answering for her. That made her laugh.

“Actually,” he went on with a smile, “I think you’ve been avoiding me.”

There was enough truth behind the light words to make Sheila lose the composure she had gathered so determinedly.

“You’ve been busy,” she said with little originality. What a
lack of wit and intelligence she was displaying! The cat had not only got her tongue: it had got her brain.

He wasn’t smiling. Strangely enough, he wasn’t looking bored. He was watching her face very intently. He had watched her that way at Korytów when she talked to Steve at that last dinner in the Aleksander house. That look had been disconcerting then. Now it also made her happy.

“You’ve been busy,” she repeated. That was true. And sometimes she had felt that he had been avoiding her too. Each avoiding the other, as though they were afraid of something they couldn’t avoid.

“You yourself haven’t been exactly idle,” he was saying. “In fact, you’ve been too busy. Where’s the smile you used to have in your eyes?”

“Had I?”

“I remember when I first saw you. You were leaning out of a window, talking to old Felix. I recollect thinking, ‘That’s the way a woman should look, with a smile in her eyes and a soft word on her lips.’”

“Felix,” Sheila said slowly. “‘My friend Felix,’ as Teresa used to say.”

He was quick to notice the strained look on her face. “Come,” he said, with unexpected gentleness. “Come now.” He took her hand and gave it a reassuring grip. He turned to Jan and said, “What’s the spear for?”

“Old Single,” Jan said without looking up. He was wetting his thick forefinger and running it along the wood.

One of the men near them laughed. “He’s heard those brave stories about bears.”

“A spear and a sabre,” Wisniewski said. “They are brave
weapons against a bear, Zygmunt.”

“If a man can fight a bear that way,” Zygmunt said disbelievingly.

“It’s been done. It gives bear and man an even chance. When you face a bear that way, then you know it’s either him or you. That’s the most satisfactory way to kill.”

“You might fight a bear that way. But not a boar. Old Single’s too clever,” Zygmunt said. “Why, he even knows just the limits where we are allowed to shoot. He’s been keeping down to the forest edge since we came here. He knows we dare not shoot him near there.”

Jan said, “I’ll catch him.” He tapped the spear. “I haven’t met the pig yet that I couldn’t stick, Goering included.”

Wisniewski was examining the spear. “It will need a crossbar just about there, as a grip.” He felt the spear, and then shook his head. “It’s strong, but not strong enough. Not for Old Single. He’s carried bullets about in his fat for several years now. You need steel for that job.”

Jan grinned and patted the sheath of the long thin knife he now carried—as all the men did—at his waist. “Little sister will make sure. First big brother.” He pointed the spear like a javelin. “Then little sister.” He drew his finger across his throat with a quick slashing gesture.

“How much would you bet on it?” said Zygmunt, with real interest.

Jan’s fingers rubbed the side of his nose.

“Careful,” Sheila said to Zygmunt warningly. “If you make a bet with Jan, that’s enough to make him win.”

Wisniewski released her hand. She was all right again. She had stopped thinking about Korytów. He thought, it
seems impossible that anyone as lovely as she is should be so unconscious of her power. He looked at her. And, for once, she accepted his challenge.

“Yes?” she asked.

Rather surprisingly, he didn’t accept hers. “Why do you stay here when you could go back to your own country?” he countered.

“Why does Jan, who knows little about forests, want to brave Old Single?” she answered.

Jan looked up at her quickly. “I’m learning,” he said resentfully. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Some would say it’s because he’s mad.” Wisniewski’s hand on Jan’s shoulder turned the words into a compliment. “Or some would say he is proud, and never refused a challenge.” Adam Wisniewski was smiling now, watching her eyes with that very straight disconcerting look of his. “Or some would say he has courage.”

“I’ve hardly that.” She was trying to laugh. “I scream at a rat, I’m afraid of snakes. I turn sick when I see blood. I’ve tried hard. But I still scream, I still turn sick.”

“And the rat Captain Streit? And the snake called Dittmar?”

Sheila looked at him in surprise. The brown eyes were amused, and yet, somehow, serious. She felt the blood rise in her cheeks, and she smiled uncertainly, and she felt a warm gentle surge in her heart.

“I know so much about you, you see,” he was saying quietly. “First it was Andrew who talked. Then Madame Aleksander and Barbara. Then Korytowski, Olszak, Sierakowski. Even Jan. It seems as if the only person who won’t talk to me about you is yourself.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, oh!”

The laugh in his eyes had died away. The smile on her lips had gone. We’ve always known each other, Sheila thought We’ve always talked and laughed and been silent together. We’ve always been together.

Jan was looking at them curiously. Franziska, beside Stefan, was watching too: she seemed to be saying reproachfully, “But you never told me!”

Sheila rose quickly. “I must go now.” She was running away. She knew it. She didn’t look at him now. “Good night,” she said. She wished her voice hadn’t been so uncertain.

Adam Wisniewski had risen too. He was even taller than she had thought. He cleared a path for her to the door. For a moment, the room was silent.

“Good night, Captain Wisniewski,” she said again. But he didn’t seem to hear her low voice. He closed the door behind them, shutting in the sudden burst of voices. For a moment they stood together. He took her arm, and they walked slowly away from the Lodge.

The black sky with its misted moon and stars spread like a blanket over the forest. The naked trees moved and sighed in the soft night wind.

OLD SINGLE

As usual, Franziska had risen before the dawn. She had bathed at the pool. Her cheeks were pink and her fingers chilled and white. She was kneeling before the crucifix on the wooden wall. Sheila kept still until the girl had finished her morning prayers, and then jumped out of bed too. She dressed quickly, shivering slightly.

Franziska said, “It’s getting colder every morning now. I almost froze going down to the pool this morning.” And then, too casually, she added, “I met the Chief on his way to the Lodge. He starts work early.”

Sheila was smoothing her short hair with the rough wooden comb which Jan had made for her. She ignored Franziska’s lead.

“Where’s Marian?” she asked.

“Still on night duty at the hospital hut. That amputation is taking an awful time to heal. I’m just going over there. Have you time to relieve me at midday?”

Sheila nodded.

“And we’ve those dressings to wash,” Franziska said. “And the patients need more milk. If you’ve a spare hour this morning, you might try and explain that to the goats.”

Sheila said, “Yes.” Franziska, she thought, always seemed to think of the most unpleasant tasks early in the morning. It was as if she lay worrying about them all night in order to produce them in a neat row when she rose from her bed.

“This place needs a good scrubbing,” Franziska said, taking the twig-broom and brushing vigorously at invisible dust.

“All right,” Sheila said, and smiled. She was accustomed to the idea, by this time, that short-wave monitoring wasn’t considered real work either by Franziska or by Marian. “I’ll do that. I’ll bring back a pail of water when I go down for my bath.”

“I’ll help you,” said Franziska, suddenly relenting. “Two of us make the job easier.” She looked at Sheila. “But how long are the two of us going on working, now? Why didn’t you tell me? You can’t really think I’m your friend after all.” The girl’s voice was hurt, reproachful.

“Franziska, what’s wrong with you this morning?”

“You made me think you didn’t like him. Why, you never spoke to him. You kept out of his way. Purposely, too. I could see that. And then last night: both of you looking at each other as if the rest of us didn’t exist.”