While Still We Live (62 page)

“But how did he know we came south towards the forest?” Stefan asked.

“He found out that we were travelling south. After that it was only a matter of searching. He probably examined all reports from patrols, and what he didn’t learn from the Germans, he learned from the Poles who believed his story.”

“But why should he follow you? What are you to him?” Zygmunt asked bluntly.

“Because I could tell him about so many things.”

“You wouldn’t, Sheila,” Stefan said.

“I’d try not to. But they might take a long time to kill me.”

“Sheila!”

Sheila shrugged her shoulders. “There’s no use pretending to be heroic in the face of torture. No one knows how he will behave until he is actually being taken apart, bit by bit.”

“Sheila!” Again it was Madame Aleksander. The others were silent.

Then, “What about the camp?” Kati asked.

“If he really knew about it, he would now be travelling to the nearest German garrison to give the alarm. His guess about the forest will only be that it’s a refuge for hunted people.”

“But even that is dangerous,” Madame Aleksander said. “That could lead him to the camp.”

Again there was that silence.

“We had better take care of him,” Zygmunt said. “You are sure about him?”

“Yes,” Sheila said, and then thought how strange it was to condemn a man like this. “I didn’t see him this morning. But I’m sure.”

Zygmunt limped towards the window and pushed back the shutters. “Dawn’s here,” he announced. “Stefan, take your mother eastwards to the line of trees there. Wait. When it’s evening, move towards the forest. You can guide her that way?”

“Of course.”

“First you go east, to the line of trees. Then when light fades, you travel south to the forest, then west until you reach the path by which you came last night. The patrol will see you coming. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” A grin spread strangely over Zygmunt’s dark face. “No telephone from here—the line’s been down since that last big thunderstorm. And the line’s down too in Zorawno where he heard the shot. He knows a lot, but he can’t get any information out. He will have to leave before he can let the Germans know. And he can’t leave. He’s got to watch us!” Zygmunt began to laugh, a deep low laugh which brought a smile to all the anxious faces.

“Must we go now?” Madame Aleksander asked, and the smiles laded.

Zygmunt nodded and Kati moved towards the door. “I’ll warn my mother and Peter and Zak,” she said as she left the room.

Madame Aleksander crossed over to a corner of the room,
and picked up a small bundle. “My worldly possessions,” she said, half sadly, half defiantly.

“Couldn’t we go straight to the forest, now?” Stefan asked impatiently.

“If they knew they weren’t seen?” Sheila asked in support. She didn’t like the idea of Madame Aleksander waiting out in the open country all day. It seemed so dangerous, so vulnerable.

“
If
they knew. But it’s a big
if
,” Zygmunt answered slowly. He didn’t favour the idea, obviously.

Stefan shrugged his shoulders. “And you?” he asked.

“I’ll come on later.” Zygmunt looked at his hands. “I’ve business to do,” he said.

Kati returned with the news that her mother was taking the German some food to keep him quiet, that Zak was with her mother and was going to stay in the barn with the man. Peter was already outside, waiting for the boy and his mother to leave. He was to guard their going.

Madame Aleksander gave Sheila a long embrace. They had still much to say, and yet could say nothing. Stefan’s grasp on Sheila’s hand tightened.

“We’ll meet again,” Madame Aleksander said at last. “Sometime. We will.”

Sheila kissed the wet cheeks.

“Dear Sheila,” Madame Aleksander said softly.

Zygmunt was leading them out of the room. Kati pretended to fasten the blouse and skirt which she had added to her costume. Then she threw more wood on the fire, and closed the oven door. She picked up Stefan’s pillow, began pounding the bed’s mattress, and arranging the quilted cover. She avoided looking at Sheila, and Sheila was grateful.

“I liked her,” Kati said suddenly. “Before the war, all of us here used to talk about people like her. We used to say ‘Those others with the big houses and fine clothes, they are really soft and weak. We may be poor, but we are strong.’ In the last month, I’ve seen all kinds of people coming through this village. There were cowards among them, and brave men among them. But never did the cowards all belong to one class, nor did all the brave men.”

“Yes,” Sheila said. It was a relief to talk about something impersonal. “Yes, we are a mixed lot. All classes have their brave men, and all have their shirkers. That’s what my uncle used to say. He used to say the only true classes in a country were the first-rate men and the second-raters, and it didn’t matter how much or how little they possessed.”

“Was he a communist, this uncle?”

Sheila smiled, remembering Uncle Matthews and his contempt for revolution. (“Too many first-rate men get killed off because they aren’t workers; too many second-raters among the workers are honoured just because they have the right password,” was what he had once said. “Revolution’s wasteful.”)

“No,” Sheila said, “I wouldn’t call him that. He believes that there are good men in all classes of society and that they should be preserved and encouraged. If anyone has to be liquidated or strung up to a lamp-post, then it should be those who just won’t do
any
job well, whoever or whatever they are. Only, I don’t think he would believe in having them liquidated. Just openly scorned and despised would be enough for his sense of justice.”

Kati looked puzzled. “But he doesn’t believe in classes, then. That’s communism.”

“He doesn’t believe in one class dominating. He believes in the best men of all classes being the leaders. He doesn’t divide people
into horizontal levels. He divides them vertically: good citizens, bad citizens. He believes there’s a natural aristocracy among people: an aristocracy of courage and brains and human decency.” “But those who have much, they think they are the best.”

“In some countries, yes. In others, those who have little think they are the best. Both are snobs. Quote, unquote.”

“What?”

“That’s my expurgated version of my uncle’s beliefs.”

“I would like to meet this uncle,” Kati said with a smile. “I think he would like to meet you and Zygmunt and Madame Aleksander and—”

“What does he call this political party?”

Sheila was smiling again. “The Weed-killers,” she said. Kati looked at her disbelievingly, and then she was laughing, too.

“Zak must talk with you,” she said. “He’s always discussing such things. He loves to argue.” She paused and listened. “Zygmunt’s a long time away.” And then with an effort, as if she were trying to keep from worrying, “We Poles talk a lot. It was the only thing we could do in the Captivity. Our fathers could only meet in secret, and talk and talk and talk. We got the habit then, I suppose.”

“Who is Zak?” Sheila asked. This waiting seemed interminable. Had something gone wrong after all? What was happening outside?

“The Elder of our village. We elect him... A sort of mayor. We’ve elected him for many years. He is wise.”

“Don’t you ever want a change?”

“We couldn’t get a better man. We might get a worse one.”

The bed was neat, the room tidied. There was nothing else to do, except wait. Talk was no longer an escape from worry.

* * *

And then Zygmunt came, quite oblivious of the anxiety which he had caused.

“Well away,” he said, his ugly and yet somehow not unpleasing face relaxed in a broad grin. “I stood and watched them go. No German patrol in sight. Peter went with them to the end of the village.”

A small thin woman followed Zygmunt. She carried a plate of food. “I’ve brought you something to eat,” she said in her deep, strong voice, and handed Sheila a slab of dry bread and sausage. “Don’t wolf it,” she said sharply to Zygmunt. “It’s all you can get. The Szwaby have marked down every pig we own, every blade of rye. It’s been a job, I can tell you, getting these supplies for the camp smuggled out of sight.”

“We know, mother,” Zygmunt said with his mouth shamelessly full. He patted the woman’s wrinkled cheek, and finished his portion of bread and sausage in three bites. “But I prefer to have a good taste of my food.” He pointed to Sheila. “See! She’s wasting it. She doesn’t even get one real mouthful.”

They were laughing, partly at Zygmunt’s good humour, partly in relief that all was going so well, when Peter entered the room.

“All well?” Zygmunt asked quickly.

“Aye.” Everyone relaxed again, and smiles were easy. “They reached the line of trees. No German patrol in sight.”

“Good. Now while the mice are nibbling at their food, we’ll discuss our plans.” Zygmunt settled himself comfortably on the bench along the wall, his arm round Kati. Her mother, whom Sheila only knew as “Jadwiga,” sat beside Sheila near the stove. Peter leaned his tall body against a heavily carved table.

Zygmunt spoke again. “Zak is with the German. In the barn. Talking. I’m going there now to take the German for a walk. Out of the village. I’ll come back alone. What do you say to that, mother?”

Jadwiga nodded. “Out of the village,” she said. “Keep the village safe, and that keeps the forest safe.” She nodded again. Her blue eyes were strangely young against the fine network of wrinkles over her brown cheeks. She fingered the empty plate on her lap with her broad, large-knuckled fingers. “And then?”

“The girl leaves tonight with Peter. Keep her hidden in here. The less known about her, the better.”

“Aye. Now, if you can let go my daughter’s waist, get on with your dead German.”

Zygmunt rose, grinning. “It isn’t your daughter’s waist which keeps me here. It’s your beautiful bright blue eyes, my darling.”

Jadwiga’s hard, anxious face relaxed for a moment. “Get on with you,” she said.

Zygmunt limped towards the door. He turned to say something to Sheila, “You’re
sure
about—”

And then the door opened. An unpleasantly business-like Luger pointed at them. Behind it was Dittmar, tight-eyed, tight-mouthed.

“Back against the wall, all of you. Hands high!” he commanded. “And drop that plate. Quick!”

The plate crashed on the floor.

His eyes travelled round them slowly, rested on Sheila. “So all the birds haven’t flown,” he said. And a smile, which contained much satisfaction and little charm, spread slowly across his face.

DEATH AT THE INN

Dittmar had won that round, and he had won it entirely by the force of surprise. The first moment, when someone might have had a chance to snatch the initiative away from him, was gone. Now they were standing, controlled by the large efficient pistol, along one wall of the room. Amazement gave way to a feeling of foolishness as they stared at the man opposite them. Dittmar leaned against the little table near the door. His eyes and mouth were as determined, and ruthless, and impersonal as the Luger. He was in complete control.

He consolidated his gain effectively. The emotionless voice said, “Any move by any one of you, or a shout for help, and I aim for Kati. Any move from Kati, and I shall blow a hole in her Zygmunt. At this range, a Luger doesn’t leave much of a face.”

He looked at them in turn, made himself comfortable on the table, and his mouth loosened into a pleased grin; but the hand and the eyes never relaxed. “You won’t have very long to wait.”

“You’re lying,” Sheila challenged him. “You haven’t got any word out of this village. There’s no ’phone working from here or from Zorawno.”

“What a clever girl you are,” he answered mockingly. “Three days ago, before I reached Zorawno, I was in touch with my assistant—but of course you’ve met him. You remember Hefner?—Well, Mr. Hefner had found traces of an old woman and a little ragged dog as far as Nowe Miasto. Three days ago it seemed that we had both come to an impasse; now Hefner will have quite a lot of surprises. He’s reporting to me here, today. For before I left Zorawno to come to this God-forsaken hole, I gave a message to a helpful fanner to take to Nowe Miasto on market day. That message would reach Hefner last night.” His tone changed. The words were like flint, now. “Incidentally, if you have any stupid ideas about attacking me, please abandon them. Herr Hefner will want to know the reason why I am not here waiting for him. And he comes officially, not in this kind of fancy dress.” Dittmar pointed to his stained and torn suit of cheap poor cloth. “And there will be others with him. This village will be another example of what the disobedient can expect—if you try any little tricks.”

“You are boring us,” Kati said. “Your voice is as bad as your breath.”

“You keep quiet. You’ll answer when I get round to asking you questions.”

“Will I indeed?” said Kati. “Just you wait until Zak warns the village. They’ll deal with you,
and
have answers ready for your uniformed friend.”

“Zak will not warn the village.” His smile was as confident as his voice was decisive.

Even Kati was silent now.

“Interesting district this,” Dittmar went on. “Where were the old woman and the boy going, I wonder?” He paused; and then added, “To the forest where you came from, my little cousin Magda?”

Sheila didn’t answer him.

“For you came from there, didn’t you?”

Sheila looked at the others, pretended to smile, tried to look as if she were secretly pleased by the question. Let him waste time on the forest, was the implication: that’s all right with us. We all know there’s nothing there.

“I told you once before, Cousin Magda, that you would go far with the right boss. I didn’t know then that you were on the wrong side, that the only end for you would be either your back against an execution wall or a soldier’s brothel. If you don’t talk, you’ll get both.”

She was silent.

“Come on, now. You could give one just a few facts. You could tell me about Kordus. You could tell me about Herr Hofmeyer, for he’s in this too, isn’t he? You could tell me who has been hiding you in this district, and where you could hide when you weren’t to be found in any of its villages. If you told me just those few facts, you could spend the rest of the war in a prison camp. That’s quite pleasant compared with other places.”