While Still We Live (71 page)

“She’s all right, that Veronika,” Wenceslas said, “except she always wants to know everything. Well—” his round, good-natured face watched hers anxiously—“well... Think I’ll just wait here.” He sat down on the edge of a chair. “To see if the captain needs my help for tonight,” he explained unnecessarily. And then he looked upset: oughtn’t to have mentioned tonight, he thought. Pity she had to go. Yet no place for her here. The captain was travelling east. She would have to wait here. She couldn’t go with him there. That was certain. And the Germans might come to the village, might come to this house. As they had done before, and would do again. The captain wouldn’t have his mind on the job. He’d be worrying about her. Pity she had to go. No one’s fault but the bloody Germans. Always the bloody Germans.

Wenceslas blew his nose violently. Then he was listening.
“That’s the captain,” he said, and hurried to the window. “Walked his temper off, too, thank God. We’ll get down to business, now.” He looked anxiously at the girl. Funny how he kept saying the wrong things today. She was smiling, sadly, and he blew his nose again because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

They didn’t notice him much, anyway. Not even when he suggested the arrangements for tonight: a sleigh, a sure-footed horse, and the third-rate little road which ran almost parallel to the main road to Zakopane. The German patrols kept to the main road in this weather, but even so, the time to make the journey was between patrols. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, the night patrols were out on the roads leading to Zakopane between ten and twelve, two and four. Methodical race, the Germans.

They didn’t notice him much, but they had listened.

“Today is Thursday,” the foreign girl said.

And the captain said, his face the same cold mask that his wife’s was, “We set out at midnight then.”

“I’ll have the sleigh waiting down by the last trees behind the post office,” Wenceslas said.

He left them, then. They didn’t even seem to notice his going.

JOURNEY FROM ADAM

The narrow, open platform of the small railway station was crowded. Uniforms, holiday clothes and farewells jostled each other. Military boots, smartly polished and ready for duty once more, trampled on the hardened snow beside the ski-boots of those whose furlough was not yet over. There were women, too. Women with confident eyes and voices, furs, lipsticks, and perfume strangely heavy in the crisp pine-scented air. The voices became louder, gayer. Backslapping, handshaking, good humour. Commands were kept for the thinly clad, overworked porters. These were Poles. Even the smartly dressed stationmaster and the man sitting in the warm ticket-office were Germans.

Sheila buried her chin more deeply into the fur collar of her coat, as if to shield her neck from the cold wind. If fear caused seasickness, then she was liable to be violently seasick at any moment on the solid platform of Zakopane. The feeling of nausea, which had attacked her so suddenly this morning when
she rose and thought of this journey had returned once again. German voices everywhere. German faces. She looked away from the crowd of well-fed, well-clothed bodies, stared at the village of Zakopane with its restaurants and hotels, its balconies and terraces, it summer villas and winter chalets strung across the lower mountain slopes. The Poles had been proud of their Zakopane. Perhaps that was why the oversized black swastika in its round white circle was displayed so prominently over the ice-stadium.

“...another two weeks’ leave in early spring,” a captain was saying to a tall blonde girl in well-cut skiing clothes. “We’ll have that in Berlin.”

White teeth showed evenly against golden skin. “Let me know when, Franz. I’ll be back in Danzig next week. Usual address...”

An immaculate major, thin-jawed, hawk-nosed, said to the pink-cheeked captain who kept slow pace with him: “Pity you must leave before you got any real skiing. Perhaps in a month or two...excellent in February.”

“Yes. I was here last winter for the World Ski-championship. Some of the jumps reached eighty-five metres. I remember...” Their steady pace drew them out of Sheila’s hearing.

A dark-haired anxious woman passed with a lieutenant. “... better, Walther. But are you sure you’re fit to rejoin your unit?”

“Perfectly. Stop worrying, Lisa. Here’s Johann.”

“Walther! Seeing your wife off? When do you leave? Monday? So do I. Good. We’ll travel together. Here are Martin and Sigurd and Frieda to say goodbye to your Lisa...” There was a torrent of phrases and laughter.

Sheila waited patiently. The attack of sickness had passed.
She watched the platform carefully. Soon, now. Surely soon. The train would be leaving in seven minutes. She walked a few paces across the platform, a few steps back. The clock was behind her now. She was standing in the right place. She tightened her hold on the book under her arm. Left arm...that was right. It was a novel in a dramatic jacket of Party colours—black, white, red. That was correct too. She pretended to ignore any glances in her direction from the unattached men near her. She was one of the wives, whose husband were still too ill to be able to come down to the station for a last parting. She was wearing the right clothes. “Quietly, but nicely dressed,” the man who had signed himself Aunt Valeria had said approvingly. “That and a purseful of money will ease the way. The German officials are always quick to differentiate between a woman and a lady. They admire the authority of good clothes. With your papers and escort, you probably will have a pleasant journey.”

Pleasant... Sheila tried to swallow the nervous lump in her throat. She was holding the new handbag so tightly in her neatly gloved hand that she felt it was growing onto her, had indeed become a part of her arm. In the handbag was what she valued more than the smart clothes or the money in her purse. In the handbag were the little pieces of paper which explained who she was, why she was here, where she was going—all so efficient with their flourish of signatures and authentic-looking stamps. Aunt Valeria had been pleased with them. “Beauties!” he had said and kissed them mockingly as he presented them to her with an imitation-official bow. Stop thinking of Aunt Valeria, she warned herself. Stop thinking of the ghostlike journey from Madame Olszak’s house to the inn outside Zakopane. Stop thinking of Adam...of the parting that had come so swiftly that
it was over before she knew it had come... It was better that way. Neither of them could have endured a long drawn-out farewell...

Five minutes. She walked a few paces once more. And then she saw him. A short, thick-set man with a heavy white face. Hair greying at the temples; black well-marked eyebrows; grey eyes, serious and thoughtful. His German uniform was carelessly worn, only to be excused by the insignia of the Medical Corps on his coat collar. A busy man, a hurried man, a man too preoccupied with the problems of medicine to be worried about the correct way to dress as a soldier. And an important man, to judge by the respectful salutes given him and acknowledged in his own way. He walked past her very slowly, buried deep in thought. The title of the book he carried was clearly shown against its white cover:
System of Neuropathology
. Newspapers were under his other arm, a bulging yellow cowhide briefcase in his hand. This was the man. And he had seen her, dressed in the fur-collared black coat, and the neat little green felt hat pulled down over one eye. But he didn’t seem to notice her.

That was what she had expected. Aunt Valeria had gone over this routine so often with her, that she thought she would scream if he asked her to repeat it once again; but now she was glad of the care that had been taken. Now all she had to do was to follow the man in uniform, let him do the talking as he saw fit. The irritating lump in her throat was gone. Contact had been made. The first stage of the journey was already completed.

She pretended to watch the train backing slowly into the station. A chorus of goodbyes, advice, laughter surrounded her as she followed the army doctor casually on board. She ignored the too loud remark of an officer walking beside her, avoided the bright smile he had given which meant to include her along with
his friend in his joke. She had a last glimpse of the blond ski-girl with her strong teeth now in a firm smile, of the dark-haired Lisa with tears on her cheeks, of the pink-faced captain making a formal, heels-together goodbye. And then she was out of the cold wind and into the suffocating warmth of the long corridor.

She searched for a pleasant compartment, and found the one in which the army doctor had already installed himself and his briefcase. She sat opposite him and pretended to be interested in the emptying platform. An expansive colonel had followed her into the compartment. He disposed of himself amply, and greeted the doctor leisurely.

“Well, Dr. Lilienkron, chasing back and forward to your Vienna, as usual? He spoke with benevolent condescension, and straightened his jacket with its row of decorations.

The doctor nodded and opened his newspaper. “Neurologists’ conference begins tomorrow,” he answered. “I shall be a day late, but I’ve been busy. Didn’t know if I could manage to be there at all. I’ve had some interesting cases, recently.”

“Seems to me to be a waste of time to have those meetings during a war,” the colonel said bluntly. “What d’you do?”

Dr. Lilienkron raised a black eyebrow. His voice had the Austrian thick softness. “Save lives,” he said, and tried unsuccessfully to study a newspaper column. The colonel talked on. Each phrase breathed success and satisfaction. He was quite conscious of the possible audience he had; the confident voice, the constant note of self-assertion showed he was aware of Sheila even if he did pretend to ignore her.

She, for her part, concentrated on Zakopane, wheeling out of sight as the train curved away from the sloping valley. On the dwindling platform, one of the Polish porters still stood,
watching the train. At the last moment he had halted outside this compartment, and the apparently blank eyes had rested on her. Sheila had returned the look, and into the man’s eyes had come relief and happiness. For that one short moment, Sheila knew that she had had a friend as she had stood on that platform. These eyes had watched her carefully, ready to report if the slightest thing had gone wrong. Nothing had. And now he stood watching the train, ready to report, “All well at Zakopane.”

She didn’t listen to the conversation which the colonel was relentlessly pursuing. She didn’t even worry now whether he would be a handicap or an asset to their plans. Dr. Lilienkron would know how to decide: this was his problem. She glanced over at the tired white face, with its dark-circled eyes. Dr. Lilienkron was watching her with puzzled politeness.

He leaned over slightly and said, “I believe we have met... Please excuse me. I forget names so easily. Your husband is one of my patients, isn’t he? Didn’t I see you when you visited him?”

“Yes,” Sheila heard herself saying. “Captain Hellmuth Kraus.” She managed a smile as she said the last name not too distinctly.

“But of course. How stupid of me. You must forgive my rudeness. I have a habit of forgetting names but remembering faces.” Introductions followed to the waiting colonel, but Sheila was too nervous to catch his name. It didn’t matter anyway. He did most of the talking. The ticket collector was quickly chased out of their compartment with his what-the-devil-are-you-bothering-us-about-now stare. And no other traveller had either the courage to resist the colonel, or the inclination to be bored by him, for no one else entered the compartment although the small train was well crowded.

“I forget where your home is,” Dr. Lilienkron was saying to her with grave politeness.

“It’s near Vienna.”

“And that’s where I am going,” He smiled kindly. “So we are travelling companions.”

“I’m travelling as far as Bohemia, myself,” the colonel informed them.

After that, the doctor seemed willing to forget about both his newspaper and his patient’s wife. He listened constantly and politely to the colonel. It is possible that the colonel had never had such an attentive audience. His constant repetition of “out of the question,” “in my opinion,” never had more patient hearing. Dr. Lilienkron of the sad eyes and tired face was turning the colonel into an asset.

Their journey led them back into Poland as far as Cracow. There they changed trains to travel towards the southwest. The colonel stayed with the doctor, and the doctor stayed with Sheila. She seemed worried, and nervous, and sad. That was sufficient excuse for him to see that his patient’s wife was escorted out of this strange, wild land. The colonel approved, too. He had been impressed by Sheila’s restraint and by her clothes. Aunt Valeria had chosen well.

Sheila solved the problem of conversation by pretending to be tired. She spent the journey out of Poland either listening to the steady flow of opinions which passed for conversation in the colonel’s mind, or resting with her eyes closed and her head leaning wearily against the white mat which decorated the back of the compartment seat. She feigned sleep. It was all the more difficult that she should be really fighting against it. She mustn’t fall asleep, or let her mind slip into Polish or English
phrases. She mustn’t think of Adam, of the stark loneliness of these last two days when he was no longer with her. That was the price you had to pay; the more you loved, the greater this sense of loneliness.

“Are you all right?” Dr. Lilienkron was asking gently. His observant eyes were studying hers with a doctor’s perception.

She nodded.

“You must not worry so much about your husband. He will be quite well very soon.”

She nodded again.

The colonel cleared his throat impatiently, and brought the doctor back to the problems of keeping troops healthy under desert conditions. He kept talking of some Afrika Korps.

The rolling foothills of the countryside south of Cracow gave way to pine trees and rocky crags. The white mountains and the huddling villages swept by. The train was once more in the Carpathians. They were approaching the south-westernmost corner of Poland, of the Poland that was—for all the names and signs in the villages were now in German. Soon they would be at the old border. The train would travel across the southeast tip of Germany into Czechoslovakia, into the country the Germans now called Bohemia to satisfy themselves that it was German too.