While Still We Live E-Book

Helen MacInnes

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

English girl Sheila Matthews' innocent holiday to Poland becomes a nightmare when the German Army invade in the summer of 1939. Working for the Polish underground as a double-agent, she is soon suspected by the Germans and is forced to flee to the forest, hunted by a ruthless German officer. Now she must rely on the dashing Captain Adam Wisniewski to help her home.

Leseprobe

ALSO BY HELEN MacINNES

AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Pray for a Brave Heart

Above Suspicion

Assignment in Brittany

North From Rome

Decision at Delphi

The Venetian Affair

The Salzburg Connection

Message From Málaga

The Double Image

Neither Five Nor Three

Horizon

Snare of the Hunter

Agent in Place

While Still We Live

Print edition ISBN: 9781781161555

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781161616

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: December 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

© 1944, 2012 by the Estate of Helen MacInnes. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

About the Author

Poland has not yet perished while still we live!

These are the opening words of the Song of the Polish Legions. It was first sung in the black year of 1797, when Poland had been divided between the three empires of Russia, Prussia, and Austria, and her exiled sons were fighting in the Legions under the gallant General Dombrowski. Thereafter, during the nineteenth century, with its incessant bloody revolts against foreign tyranny, the Song of the Legions spread secretly all over Poland, giving encouragement and hope to all those who were willing to sacrifice themselves for the future freedom of their country. Such was its power and so glorious was its history that it became the national anthem of liberated Poland; and even under new oppressors it is still sung by the Polish people, who refuse to become slaves. The noble truth of its words has been proven by history, past and present: no nation, no cause will ever die if it breeds the kind of man who is willing to sacrifice everything for it, even his life.

1

END OF A SUMMER

The blinding directness of the sun had gone, but its heat remained. In front of the house, the island of uncut grass baked into brown hay. The pink roses were bleached white. Only the plot of scarlet flowers still held its bright colour. The heavy scent of ripening plants was in the air.

Sheila stood for a moment beside the open window. The truth was, she kept repeating to herself, she hadn’t wanted to leave. There was no use in blaming her irritation on the heat; or on this last-minute packing, too long delayed; or on Uncle Matthews’ latest telegram, which pinpricked her conscience every time she looked toward it and the dressing table. Even now, when she should be elbow-deep in a suitcase, she was still standing at this window, listening to the precise pattern of the Scarlatti sonata which struck clearly up from the little music room. Teresa was playing it well, today. Sheila half-smiled as she imagined the child sitting so very upright, so very serious, before the piano, while her mother, Madame Aleksander, counted silently and patiently beside her. The difficult passage was due any moment now. Sheila found herself waiting for it, and breathed with relief when it came. Madame Aleksander would be smiling, too. Teresa had managed it.

“Now,” said Sheila, “I can get on with my packing.” But she still stood at the window, her eyes on the driveway which entirely circled the long grass. Thick dust lay white on its rough surface. A flourish of poplars, erect and richly green against the brown harvested fields, formed the entrance gate to the house. There the driveway ended and the road to the village began. Across the road, there was nothing but plain, stretching out towards the blue sky. Here and there, the woods made thick dark patches, beside which other villages, other manor houses, sheltered. But above all, the feeling was one of space and unlimited sky. Unlimited sky... Sheila thought suddenly of bombing planes. She turned back into the room. The smile, which had stayed on her lips since Teresa’s triumph over difficult fingering, now vanished. She began to pack. It was baffling how clothes seemed to multiply, merely by hanging in a wardrobe.

The music lesson was over. The house was silent. And then, downstairs in the entrance hall, the ’phone bell rang harshly. Sheila, by a process of ruthless jamming and forcing, had managed to close the last suitcase. She was locking it, with no small feeling of personal triumph, when Barbara’s light footsteps came running up the staircase, through the square landing which was called Madame Aleksander’s “sewing room,” through Barbara’s own bedroom, and then halted abruptly at the doorway of the guest room. Sheila finished untwisting the key before she looked up. Barbara had been waiting for this look. She came into the bedroom slowly, dramatically. Her wide eyes were larger than ever with the news she brought.

“Actually finished,” Sheila said, and searched in the pocket of her blouse for a cigarette.

Barbara said, “Sheila, that was Uncle Edward phoning.” She spoke in English, her voice stumbling, in its eagerness, through the foreign language.

“Was it?” Sheila was now looking for the perpetually disappearing matches.

“Sheila, you know quite well that something has happened,” Barbara said reproachfully. Her face showed her disappointment: her excitement was waning in spite of itself.

Sheila relented, and laughed. “All right, Barbara. What’s your news?”

“Uncle Edward.”

“What about Uncle Edward?” Sheila thought of the quiet, forgetting rather than forgetful Professor Edward Korytowski, who was Madame Aleksander’s brother.

“He has just ’phoned from Warsaw.” Barbara was walking about the room now, straightening the pile of books and magazines, arranging the vase on top of the dressing table. She broke into French in order to speak more quickly. “He’s worried about you, and he must be very worried to drag himself away from the Library and his books. He even suggested he was coming here to fetch you, if we didn’t get you away tonight.”

“But the news has been bad for weeks...” Weeks? Months, rather. Even years.

“Well, it must be worse. Uncle Edward has friends, you know, who are in the government. Before he was a professor, he was active in politics, himself. It looks as if someone has managed to get him away from his manuscript long enough to waken him up again. Certainly, he is very worried. He made me fetch Mother from the kitchen, where she had gone after the piano lesson to attend to something or other. He made me bring her to the ’phone when she was in the middle of preparing a sauce. And now she is so worried that she even forgot to be angry about the sauce. She is coming up to see you as soon as she can get away from the kitchen.”

Sheila found it wasn’t so easy after all to pretend that everything was normal. There was no use getting excited, but on the other hand there was no use disregarding Uncle Edward. He was far from being a sensationalist.

“What did Uncle Edward say, exactly?”

“To me, he said: ‘Is Sheila Matthews still there? In heaven’s name, why? Didn’t I advise her to leave last week at the latest? If she doesn’t leave tonight, I’ll come down and get her and see her on that train, myself.’ And then he told me to bring Mother to the ’phone, and grumbled about a pack of women losing all count of time.”

Sheila looked towards the open window with its square of blue sky and green treetops, watched a large black bee hovering with its sleepy murmur over the windowsill. Yes, one lost all count of time, all sense of urgency here. That was one of the things she had enjoyed most at Korytów.

“Is the wireless set working yet?” Sheila asked.

Barbara’s pretty mouth smiled. “Stefan thinks he has found out what is wrong. Don’t you hear that crackling coming from his room?”

“Peculiar noises are always coming from Stefan’s room,” Sheila gave an answering smile. She had a particular fondness for Barbara’s fourteen-year-old brother Stefan, the great inventor. The wireless set had been having its monthly overhaul. The result, so far, had been a strong sound of frying at each turn of the dial.

The two girls heard Madame Aleksander’s footsteps, now. They had halted for a moment in her sewing room, before she came through Barbara’s room.

Barbara and Sheila exchanged quick glances. Madame Aleksander’s footsteps told them so much. The underlying worry of the last month, with all its alarms and false reports, was now plain in their eyes.

Madame Aleksander hesitated a moment at the doorway of the guest room, as if she were tired, depressed, loath to give them the news she had brought. The fair hair, fading to platinum, was smoothly braided round the neat head. The bright blue eyes under the straight eyebrows were desperately worried. There was a droop to the corner of her mouth. And then, as she saw the girls watching her so silently, there was the beginning of a smile. It was a good effort, Sheila decided appraisingly, and offered Madame Aleksander the solitary chair.

“I’m afraid we shall have to miss our late afternoon talk, today,” Madame Aleksander said. It was the custom of this house for all the members of the family to gather in Madame Aleksander’s sewing room, and there, in the little white-panelled room with its polished floor and faded brown velvet chairs, with its soft green porcelain stove and its long window looking out between the front pillars of the house, they’d drink a glass of coffee and talk. There was no dearth of conversation in this house. Aunt Marta, who managed the farmlands as her sister looked after the household, would arrive from the fields or her office. Barbara would leave the books she was reading for the autumn examinations at Warsaw University. Teresa would clatter up the staircase until her mother’s quiet but firm voice reduced her speed to a polite walk. Teresa had been to see her friend Wanda, the little goosegirl, or had rushed round to the stables to see her friend Felix, or had talked with her friend Kazia coming back from the market at Lowicz. (It was Teresa who brought the news of the day. “My friend Wanda,” or “My friend Felix,” she would begin half-way up the staircase, and then would follow a rambling, breathless story. There was a new baby in the village. There was to be a wedding, but not a proper one: there would be no four days of dancing and fun, because the man had been called up for the army. The schoolteacher had come back from his holiday, and there were going to be lessons again once the harvesting was all finished. Wanda’s grandmother had a pain in her back, and you could hear it creak when she bent over the cloverfield.) Last of all to arrive was Stefan, and as soon as he arrived, Aunt Marta would send him away to tidy himself. “Stefan, if you must oil the clocks, please leave the oil where it belongs. Not on your hands.” Stefan would smile good-humouredly and obey. Sheila had guessed that the boy only made this appearance, anyway, out of politeness and a sense of duty. He wasn’t interested in the discussions about crops and prices (Aunt Marta), or in the problems of housekeeping or education (his mother), or in Students’ Clubs (Barbara), or in “my friend Wanda” (Teresa). But he hid his boredom well. Perhaps the fact that his two older brothers—the remaining members of the Aleksander family—were so much occupied in Warsaw made Stefan feel the responsibility of being the man of the house.

Madame Aleksander had tried to make her voice sound normal, but the attempt wasn’t so successful as her smile. Perhaps she knew there were not going to be any more afternoon talks—neither today, nor tomorrow, nor any other day.

Barbara had sensed that, too. “Sheila is almost ready,” she tried.

“It is unbelievable, isn’t it?” Sheila said hurriedly. “I really must apologise for being such a persistent guest. I came for three weeks, and I stayed more than two months. I don’t think I realised that until I looked at a calendar, today.”

“It is our fault. We enjoyed your visit so much, that we have kept you too long.” Madame Aleksander’s English was grammatically perfect. There was a slight twist in the accent which added to the charm of her low voice. “But you will have to leave tonight, Sheila, if not for your own comfort, then certainly for your own safety. Edward is very gloomy. He has stopped all work on his book.”

“Then the news is serious!” Barbara exclaimed.

“Be serious, yourself, Barbara.” There was an edge to Madame Aleksander’s usually calm voice. Barbara was chastened. When you are twenty-one, it is difficult not to make a joke, not to try to make people smile. She sat on the arm of the chair and placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder. Sheila, watching than together, thought how comic it was, but in a charming way, to see such a strong family resemblance. But then, Sheila told herself with a touch of private bitterness, that was only because she herself had no family. Except Uncle Matthews, of course, and he scarcely counted: he was much too busy. There wasn’t much in common between him and her—not even a nose. With the Aleksanders, it was so different. Barbara was a younger, more enthusiastic Madame Aleksander. Teresa was a miniature Barbara. Even Aunt Marta had the same wide-set blue eyes, broad brow, straight eyebrows, short nose, round chin. So had Andrew, the second oldest son, who lived in Warsaw. So had Uncle Edward. Only Stefan and Stanislaw, the eldest son, were different. Stefan was black-haired, brown-eyed, with the thin high nose of his dead father’s portrait. Stanislaw was the image of his father, Sheila had heard: he was the only Aleksander whom Sheila hadn’t met. He was a diplomat married to a rich wife. And as Aunt Marta said frequently, “What between watching military attachés with one eye, and his wife’s international antics with the other, it’s small wonder that Stanislaw had little time to look in our direction nowadays.”

Madame Aleksander broke the silence. “Well, it’s all arranged. Andrew is coming here, this evening. That nice young American friend of his, Mr. Stevens, is bringing him down in his car.”

Barbara’s face lighted. “It will be almost a party, mother! Is Andrew coming to say goodbye to Sheila? Couldn’t he have seen her as she passed through Warsaw?” She was laughing as Sheila’s face reddened.

“Andrew,” Madame Aleksander said slowly, “is coming to say goodbye to us all. He joins his regiment tonight at ten. They leave Warsaw at dawn.”

When the girls didn’t speak, but remained staring at her, Madame Aleksander said, “Sheila is to travel back with Mr. Stevens and Andrew to Warsaw. Uncle Edward and Mr. Stevens will see that she catches the midnight express from Warsaw.”

She rose abruptly. She was once more the capable mistress of the house, her eyes on the watch which was pinned to her blouse, her mind already calculating the amounts and varieties of food and drink available at such short notice. “They’ll be here at six o’clock and must leave by eight. We haven’t long.” She frowned, as she considered the time it would take to prepare the food. And then, brusquely, “Sheila, do see that everything’s packed. And don’t place your passport at the bottom of a suitcase. Barbara, run to the village, and tell them your brother is coming. We shall need help for Maria and Zofia in the kitchen. And ask everyone to come to the house later this evening. There will be plenty to eat and drink. When you’ve done that, come right back, for I need your help in the storeroom and with the linen and silver.”

Barbara paused as she left the room. “Shall we invite the schoolmaster to dinner?” Her voice was too casual.

“I don’t think it’s necessary. He was here last week.” Her mother’s voice was equally casual, but the straight eyebrows were straighter. As Barbara’s footsteps descended the staircase, Madame Aleksander looked uncertainly at Sheila.

“Sometimes,” she said unwillingly, “I worry about Barbara.”

“I don’t think you need to, Madame Aleksander.” Sheila smiled as warmly as she could.

“You don’t?” Madame Aleksander’s blue eyes were searching her face.

“I really mean what I said.”

There was a slight pause.

Then, “Do you like that young schoolmaster?” Madame Aleksander asked slowly.

“Yes. I like Jan Reska.”

“Aunt Marta doesn’t. She says he is a radical.”

“I think all the nicest old men I’ve met were radicals when they were young.”

“But it seems so odd, Sheila, to bury yourself in a little village like this if you have talent.”

Sheila, watching the anxious face, thought: You yourself do a very good job of burying, Madame Aleksander. She said, “Jan Reska was a farmer’s son. He hasn’t been able to free himself of his love of the land. That’s why he chooses to teach in a country village.”

Madame Aleksander nodded. She looked as if she could understand and believe that. Suddenly she raised her hands in a quick gesture to her face. “Oh, how dreadful... I nearly forgot. Sheila, would you hurry after Barbara? Tell her to visit Kawka’s house. His mother is very ill. I want to know how she is. And if Father Mazur is there, tell Barbara to invite him to dine with us.” She paused, and then added: “Tell her to invite Jan Reska, too.”

* * *

Sheila hurried down the curving staircase and through the square entrance hall. Behind her was the kitchen, the smell of spiced fruit newly bottled, Maria’s voice raised in anger. Zofia’s weeping followed Sheila out of doors into the warm air. As she crossed the shaded veranda, with its four white pillars rising to support the overhanging roof, and descended the shallow steps, hot to the touch of her thin shoes, she was thinking how strange it was that one servant should be so arrogant with another. Madame Aleksander ruled the kitchen with a firm hand, but she never reduced Zofia to wailing. Maria could, and frequently did.

Sheila hesitated on the sandy surface of the drive. Barbara had probably taken the short cut, past the small west wing of the house, past the stables and the duckpond. My friend Wanda was there, sitting under the shade of a willow that wept into the dark water. A yellow kerchief hid her tightly plaited hair, her bare legs were straight and wide apart before her, like a ballet girl on a Degas canvas. One of the geese hissed angrily at the running Sheila. “Boo to you,” she called in English over her shoulder. Wanda looked up from her knitting, and her face crinkled. She didn’t understand, but she laughed, anyway. Sheila gave the child a wave of her hand, as she passed through the line of linden trees and entered the path which edged Kawka’s long, narrow stretch of land. His was the first house in the straight row of rye-thatched cottages which formed the village of Korytów.

She saw Kawka and his wife and his sister, working half-way up the field. And then, just as she was wondering if her hesitating attempts to speak Polish would be understood by them, or if they wouldn’t object to hearing some German instead, she saw Barbara. And with Barbara was the schoolmaster. They were standing under one of the broad linden trees. They waved, as if they had noticed her indecision. She went forward slowly, thankful that it had been she, and not Aunt Marta, who had found them standing hand-in-hand so openly. But as she saw the numbed, helpless look in their eyes, she knew that the time for discretion was past. Time was too short. They knew it.

“Jan cannot come,” Barbara replied to Sheila’s message from Madame Aleksander. “He leaves within the hour. The call came this morning. Just a piece of paper handed silently into his house. That was all.”

Sheila didn’t know what to say. Anything seemed trite. She looked at Reska. He had the strong body, the quiet, large-boned face of a countryman. The sweat still glistened on his throat. His hands and forearms were covered with harvest dust. He had been working with Kawka. He had chosen to help on that piece of land because it lay nearest to the manor house, and he had desperately hoped to see Barbara, or Sheila, or even Teresa, to give them the news of his going.

His blue eyes were fixed on the horizon, as if he could see the German waves ready to roll over these plains. “I wonder just how many men they really have,” he said softly, almost to himself. “There’s been so much bluster and talk.” Then he smiled as if to cheer the anxious girls, and the hard line of his high cheekbones and strong chin softened.

“If things were desperate, I’m sure the Polish armies would be fully mobilised and at the frontier now,” Sheila said hopefully.

“It’s a long frontier.” Reska’s voice was not dejected, only philosophic. “And we have been mustering the troops slowly, almost secretly. We are far from being mobilised. The democracies have asked us to give the Germans no excuse for attack, so we leave ourselves vulnerable in trying to keep the peace. Personally, I think we would have been wiser to have mobilised weeks ago. If the Germans don’t find an excuse, they invent one.”

Sheila suddenly felt she shouldn’t be here with them. Hurriedly she said, “I’ll go down to Kawka’s house. Father Mazur will understand me if I talk German, won’t he?”

Barbara nodded.

To Reska, Sheila spoke the Polish goodbye phrases, which she had been mastering in the last few days. He bowed with unexpected grace, and gave a neat reply which embraced Poland, her allies, his good wishes for her safe journey to London, his hope to see her again in Poland once victory was won. He raised her hand, and kissed the cuff of her sleeve.

By the time she left Kawka’s house, Barbara was waiting alone for her under the linden tree. Neither of them appeared aware of the heavy tears on Barbara’s cheeks. Sheila found herself staring at the western horizon as Reska had done.

2

THE LAST DINNER PARTY

Andrew Aleksander and Mr. Stevens had arrived. The car had driven up in a swirl of warm dust, Teresa and Stefan had rushed outside, the stable dogs had barked, the ducks and geese had added their contribution of noise from the pond. In the kitchen, women’s high voices had subsided with their hurrying footsteps. Everything was ready.

In her room, Sheila pretended to make a last search through the drawers of the dressing table. She was increasingly nervous about going downstairs. She persuaded herself that she must give Andrew and his friend time to meet the family. One drawer, forgotten in its smallness, roused a vague suspicion. She crossed over to the little rosewood writing desk. She was right. She had almost left her diary. Small wonder that she had forgotten it: she hadn’t entered a thing in it for weeks. In London, where she had always been so busy, she had yet managed to keep an account of what she had done each day. Here, there had never seemed to be any time for writing a diary. She smiled at that. Diaries must be for lonely people.

She opened the book, crossing over to the window to have better light to read. What had she been doing one year ago today? That was always amusing to find out August 30, 1938... The Sudeten question. Enrollment in a class for voluntary nursing. An appointment with a newspaper editor, in the hope of being accepted as a very minor member of his staff... Not a very good entry... The Sudeten question was now solving itself in Danzig. The voluntary nursing hadn’t been much of a success—why did other people not turn sick at the sight of blood? As for the newspaper job...too many would-be correspondents, too few openings.

A movement from the clump of bushes near the American’s car caught her eye. There was a glimpse of white loose sleeve, as an arm grabbed a small, tow-headed boy, and pulled him back into the thick shrubbery. There was a giggle; children’s voices trying to be subdued and not succeeding; and once more the head of the boy struggling into view. This time, he evaded the arm, and dashed towards the running-board. By standing on tiptoe, he could just see over the edge of the open car.

“Red,” he squeaked excitedly over his shoulder. He stared inside once more, his small hands clutching the car’s side tightly. “Leather!” he added. There was a flurry of excitement in the bushes. Yellow-topped Wanda darted forward, followed by an older girl in the wide-sleeved blouse. Then Felix appeared, charging round from the stable end of the house with a yell like a factory whistle. The children vanished. Felix, growling into his long moustache, searched in the bushes. But the birds had indeed flown. My friend Wanda’s high laugh sounded from the straggling pinewoods beyond.

Sheila laughed too, and Felix looked up. He had dressed himself in his best clothes—tight, black trousers tucked into tight, high boots; a sleeveless jacket over a clean, white shirt—and he had combed his few remaining hairs into a toothy parting.

“Felix, you do look handsome,” Sheila called down, and won a broad gap of a smile.

“The young lady is ready to leave?”

“Yes.” Sheila heard the sound of galloping horses. They were coming from the east, but the pine woods which hid the children also blocked any clear view.

“That is sad. Everyone is going away. All the young people, once more.” He stood shaking his upturned head.

The hoof beats struck the road, and two horses swept into the driveway. Sheila held her breath. The horses reared as they were tightly reined in, stood erect on their quivering haunches for a long moment, and then dropped their forefeet slowly to the ground. A white-haired man dismounted and gave the reins over to Felix. But the dark young man in uniform still sat on his horse. He was looking up at Sheila with sufficient interest to freeze the smile on her lips into self-consciousness. She drew back half a pace. Then, with a smart salute to the tip of his smart cap, the officer vaulted lightly off his horse, threw the reins over Felix’s waiting arm, and followed the older man into the house.

Sheila placed the diary on top of a suitcase. Before the mirror, she combed her fair hair, added more powder to an already perfect skin. Her brown eyes looked back at her reprimandingly. “You had no need,” they said severely, “to keep staring at him.”

Barbara, white-faced, sad-mouthed, interrupted her thoughts. “Sheila, aren’t you ready? We are waiting. And we have other guests, too, now. Adam Wisniewski and his father have ridden over from their house. Adam’s regiment is moving north, and it is stationed tonight near Lowicz. It is requisitioning more horses. Adam got leave to see his father, and they have come over here to say goodbye. He’s Andrew’s greatest friend. Did you meet him when Andrew was in London last year? Adam passed through there on his way to the Dublin Horse Show. He rides, you know.”

“So I saw.”

“Mother would like me to marry Adam. Can you see any reason why I don’t fall in love with him?” Barbara was half-smiling.

“None.” Sheila paused. “Except that you fell in love with Jan Reska.”

Barbara must have been thinking of Reska too. Her voice wasn’t very steady now. “It’s funny...” She took Sheila’s arm, and together they walked slowly towards the staircase.

“What is?” Sheila asked gently.

“Falling in love. How you do it, with whom...” Barbara managed to control her voice better. “Mother wants to see all her children married to people she likes. Of course you knew that was why she asked you to visit us this summer? She was so eager to see you, after Andrew came home from London and talked about you most of the time.”

“Oh.” Sheila had wondered about that. After all, that was one of the reasons which had made her decide to accept Madame Aleksander’s invitation: she had wanted to find out, too, if she were really in love with Andrew.

“You would have been just my choice for a sister-in-law,” Barbara was saying. She watched Sheila’s face as if hoping for a denial that Sheila wouldn’t be her sister-in-law. She saw, instead, a look of embarrassment and unhappiness well mixed. In some things, Barbara thought, the British girl seemed so much older than she did—in other things, such as falling in love and recognising it, Sheila was so much younger. It was incredible that people should be afraid of their emotions, instead of enjoying them.

“Don’t worry, Sheila.” Barbara’s sun-tanned arm went round Sheila’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Mother has other things to think about now. She is talking downstairs about leaving for Warsaw to do hospital work if war comes. She nursed in the last one, you know.”

In the hall, there was the sound of many voices, even laughter.

“Is the news better?” Sheila asked, as a heavily laden Maria, followed by a twittering Zofia, bustled past the girls.

Barbara shook her head slowly. All pretence of lightheartedness was gone. Then Maria’s broad back had pushed the dining-room door wide open, and Madame Aleksander had seen them, was coming forward to welcome Sheila.

“You aren’t shy?” she asked gently, looking at the girl’s wide eyes. And Sheila immediately lost the composure she had been mustering. The faces around her were so many, so vague. Then suddenly, they focused sharply. She found herself looking into the brown eyes of the tall cavalry officer. She would have to pick on him, she thought angrily, and looked quickly away. She had the feeling that it wasn’t quickly enough. He was smiling.

Andrew was beside her now, looking very strange and serious in his uniform. There were the introductions to be completed: Father Mazur, Pan Wisniewski, Mr. Russell Stevens, Captain Adam Wisniewski. There was a scraping of chairs. The last party in Madame Aleksander’s house was about to begin. As if everyone were admitting it secretly to himself, there was a sudden restraint, a hush that continued after the priest’s blessing was over.

Teresa ended it. Her eyes, round with excitement at having been included in a real grownup party, were examining the elaborately embroidered cloth, the silver vases and candlesticks.

“When did you get all this, mother?” she asked suddenly.

The men roared with laughter. The priest’s serious face relaxed into a smile. Aunt Marta, looking more Roman matron than ever in her best black dress, said severely, “Teresa, they were your great-great-grandmother’s. At times, they have been buried deep in the earth to save them from the Cossacks. But when it was safe to bring them out, they came out for special occasions. Tonight is a special occasion.” With that, Aunt Marta turned to Pan Wisniewski and began a conversation about the requisitioning of horses, the low price of hogs, and the long summer drought. Madame Aleksander was talking with Father Mazur, their voices so low that Sheila guessed the latest news was under discussion. Captain Wisniewski was doing his best to entertain Barbara with his most recent troubles. Now and again, the captain would glance across the table to Sheila, as if including her; and then Sheila would hastily renew her conversation with Andrew on her right. The American on her left seemed to understand that Andrew had a lot to say, for he kept silent and devoted himself to the variety of food which Maria and the other women were serving. Maria’s habit of entering into the conversations with a crusty comment or two seemed to amuse Mr. Stevens. His Polish, Sheila noted, was more fluent than her own efforts. His appetite was certainly better.

The pinpricks of light from the tall white candles had spread into a rich glow as the sunset faded. There was a steady flow of talk, but the animation was tense and strained. Andrew was quiet, gentle, sympathetic, but there was a hard look in his eyes whenever the subjects of present news, probable war, or Germany were introduced. So he and Sheila talked of London, of the friends he had made there last winter, when he had visited England with a Purchasing Commission for army supplies. Then Andrew spoke of her Uncle Matthews, who, he was sure, would blame him for not having made Sheila leave Poland ten days ago.

“No,” Sheila said quickly, emphatically. “No, Andrew. Please don’t worry about that. My uncle knows by this time that you did try to get me to leave two weeks ago, when you left Warsaw for Gdynia. He also knows me. I think...”

Andrew smiled at that Sheila avoided Captain Wisniewski’s very direct look.

“I must say I had rather a shock today when I got back to Warsaw and discovered you had never gone to England,” Andrew admitted. “Why didn’t you go when you said you would?”

“I meant to. But somehow there were so many things I still had to do. And there was a wedding in the village to which I was invited. It is strange, isn’t it, how a village can catch you up in a way that a big city never touches you?” Sheila was suddenly aware that the American was listening, too. She turned to him and smiled to excuse her neglect. “Hello,” he said very seriously. “I’m Russell Stevens. Remember me? I’m the fellow that came in with Andrew.”

“I’m Sheila Matthews,” she countered weakly.

“I know. I’m a friend of Andrew’s.” He watched the heightening colour in her cheeks with matter-of-fact interest. “And how does our English friend enjoy the Polish countryside? It’s all too marvellous?”

The mocking note of quotation in his voice annoyed Sheila. I am not an impressionable schoolgirl, she thought irritably. She glanced involuntarily across the table, and then wished she hadn’t. Captain Wisniewski had given up all pretence of talking to Barbara, and was watching her quite openly. The calm scrutiny opposite, with its implied masculine confidence, had its effect. The neat little speech which she was preparing for Mr. Stevens’ benefit suddenly disintegrated.

“Go on,” Mr. Stevens said encouragingly. “You look very charming when you are indignant.”

She checked her next words in embarrassment. At a time like this, she would only argue emotionally. Perhaps Mr. Stevens had guessed what she was thinking, for he gave her an unexpected smile and glanced at his watch. That was the third time he had looked at it in the last half-hour.

Sheila said, “I’m sorry I am giving you all this trouble. The journey to Warsaw, I mean. But you don’t have to put me on a train. I’ve caught midnight trains abroad, before now.”

“On the eve of a war? And what a war!”

Sheila was silent.

“I’m not worrying about you, Miss Matthews. You are one of the lucky ones. You are leaving.” He looked round the room. Food and wine had slackened the tense conversations. The animation was gone. A calm fatalism had taken its place.

“They’ve suffered more than our countries have,” Sheila said slowly.

“We’ll learn.” The American’s voice was grim. Suddenly he was alert. “What’s that?”

Sheila listened tensely. So did Madame Aleksander and Barbara. But it was only the engine of a high-powered car.

“Someone to visit you, Madame Aleksander,” Stevens said, more for the sake of ending the sudden silence than for anything else.

“An emergency, perhaps?” Wisniewski’s strong, deep voice suggested. Both he and Andrew had risen to their feet as the brakes screeched on the driveway. Their uniforms emphasised the serious look they interchanged.

Maria entered with a short announcement. “There’s a man to see the English lady.”

“A gentleman to see Miss Matthews,” Madame Aleksander said pointedly.

“He’s a German,” Maria said, equally pointedly.

For one painful moment all eyes were fixed on Sheila’s astonished face, and then suddenly, everyone had something interesting to say to each other. To Sheila, it was as embarrassing as silence would have been.

Teresa was already out of her chair. “Mother, I want to see a German.”

“Stay where you are, Teresa.”

“But, mother,” Stefan said, his brown eyes urgent, “I’d like to see what kind of car he has. Listen, all the children are looking at it.” Through the open windows, the voices of the children had indeed grown louder. Sheila, as she rose from the table, saw many people outside on the grass. The villagers were beginning to arrive. It must be nearly eight o’clock.

She excused herself with a slightly bewildered smile, and hurried into the hall. Russell Stevens followed her along with Stefan and Teresa.

“And don’t be long with your German friend,” he warned her. “We’ve only ten minutes.” He gave her a grin, and went outside with the children.

Maria was pointing to the music room. “He’s in there,” she said unceremoniously. All her friendliness was gone.

Sheila pushed aside the white panelled door. The man, who had been sitting uncomfortably on the piano stool, rose and faced her. He was a complete stranger.

Sheila widened her eyes to see better in the darkening room. The man moved to the window. She followed him there, and they stood looking at each other in the last of the evening light.

“I think there’s a mistake,” Sheila said in German. “I don’t know you.”

The man was staring at her curiously: a white-haired, square-faced man with tight lips and clever eyes.

“No, Miss Matthews,” he said in English, “you don’t know me. My name is Johann Hofmeyer. I have business connections with your uncle, Mr. John Matthews. He had just wired me about you.”

“Then he sent you here?”

The man bowed. “He telegraphed yesterday, and gave me your address. I am at your service, Miss Matthews, to take you back to Warsaw. There is a plane to Bucharest which you could catch tonight.”

Sheila’s confusion left her. She was suddenly on the alert.

“My uncle doesn’t have a branch of his business in Warsaw,” she said.

“I am not in your uncle’s business.” There was a suspicion of a smile. “I have my own business. I export the finest Polish table delicacies. Your uncle’s firm is a very good customer. I have been under obligations to him. So, when he telegraphs me in urgent language, then I feel impelled to do as he asks.”

Sheila relented. “I am afraid I have given you unnecessary trouble. I am very sorry. But I am just on the point of leaving for Warsaw.”

“And when are you leaving Warsaw?”

Sheila smiled. This man was quick. “By a train about midnight,” she answered.

Mr. Hofmeyer produced a bulging pocketbook. He handed her several pieces of paper, neatly clipped together. “Your plane tickets. Give up the idea of a train, Miss Matthews. You are sure you won’t come with me now?”

Sheila shook her head. “It’s very kind of you, but my friends are waiting for me.”

“So. Well, at least my journey here wasn’t wasted. I can let your uncle know that you are leaving Warsaw, tonight.”

Sheila was thinking, why does he keep looking at me like this? She said, “How did you know when I came into this room that I was Sheila Matthews?”

She couldn’t fathom the man’s half-smile, the suddenly guarded look on his face.

“Am I really so like my uncle?” she asked gently, and waited tensely for the reply.

“No. Not really.” Then, as if he had said too much, Mr. Hofmeyer turned towards the door.

“Mr. Hofmeyer,” Sheila began awkwardly, “thank you for coming here. I should think it must have been a very unpleasant journey for you, at the moment.”

The man caught her meaning. “I’ve lived in Poland for twenty years. There are a number of Germans here, landowners and business-men. We are accepted as Poles.”

Sheila looked at the square face, white, heavy-lined. She couldn’t read anything there. If the man worried about his status in Poland at this time, it wasn’t evident. A blank look had spread over his features. His face had become unmemorable, undistinguished.

“Goodbye, Miss Matthews. My regards to your, uncle.”

“Goodbye.”

Sheila heard his light firm step cross the parquetry floor in the hall.

Involuntarily, she stood close to the window. There was a crowd of children in the garden. The American’s tall shoulders were, surrounded by a waist-high sea of sleek heads and bright clothes. He was showing them how the lights of his car switched off and on. Sheila heard the children’s Oh’s and Ah’s of bliss. In the general clamour of thin light voices, Mr. Hofmeyer’s square figure had hurried down the steps of the house. The villagers, who had been staring through the dining-room windows, turned to watch him as he entered his car. As it swung into the road and gathered speed, there was the beginning of a song from the other side of the house. A woman’s voice was chanting a four-lined stanza, a man’s followed it with another verse, and then a slow rhythmic chorus came from the other peasants, and quickened to a crescendo. The villagers were saying goodbye in their own way.

The door opened, and Madame Aleksander came in. “Sheila, they are leaving.” Her voice, at last, had no disguise.

Sheila’s throat tightened. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she began. And then as she saw Madame Aleksander’s face, she said quickly with a rush of emotion and much truth, “I have loved being here...all of you...” Madame Aleksander embraced her quickly. There were tears on her cheeks too. Not just for this parting, Sheila knew. They were both weeping for all the partings this night. They were weeping for all the women who were weeping with them.

Aunt Marta was in the hall, calling them in her firm voice. The others were gathered there too now.

Madame Aleksander quickly dried her tears, and blew her nose. She went forward to Andrew.

Sheila, still holding the plane tickets in her hand, took the hat and gloves and coat and handbag and diary which Maria had brought downstairs.

“Everything else is in the car,” Aunt Marta was saying.

Stefan said eagerly, “You will send me those airplane magazines you promised?” Sheila gave him a bear’s hug and a nod. So many outstretched hands to take and hold for a brief moment, so many voices, kind, affectionate, well-wishing. Teresa’s small, thin fingers wouldn’t let go.

Barbara was saying, “Write me at Uncle Edward’s flat. I’ll be in Warsaw, if war comes.”

Adam Wisniewski stood slightly apart, watching the group round Sheila and Andrew almost grimly. Sheila’s eyes met his. She had a feeling he was going to speak. But Russell Stevens had taken her coat and her hat and her arm, and was leading her determinedly towards the car. “We’ll be late,” he was saying anxiously.

Sheila settled herself obediently in the car, but she wondered at her sudden annoyance with anyone so helpful as Mr. Stevens. It was all because of this parting, she decided. Partings were unsettling: you lost something, and you were never sure of being able to possess it again. That was it, she told herself firmly. Partings were disturbing.

She heard Adam Wisniewski’s voice saying, “See you in Berlin, Andrew,” and saw his arm round Andrew’s shoulders. Then there were other voices—Stefan’s, Teresa’s. And Aunt Marta calling practical advice.

Andrew left his family.

It was over. At last. They were driving through the gate of poplars. The lighted windows, the moving heads of people crowding around the house, the four white pillars sheltering the group of upraised hands, the children’s shouts, were gone. Above them was a dark sky, and the sudden coolness of a night breeze.

3

WARSAW

The journey to Warsaw was spasmodic. Every now and again, the car pulled to the side of the wide, flat road, to let the columns of soldiers, with their rifles and blankets slung across their shoulders, go marching past. Long, boat-shaped carts, piled with supplies and equipment, lumbered along on their creaking wheels. The horses didn’t like the noise of the car, and the men walking at their head helped the drivers control them. Twice a detachment of cavalry trotted past. The tilt of the men’s caps reminded Sheila of Adam Wisniewski There were army cars, too, forcing their way westwards past the moving men and rearing horses. Twenty feet away from the main road was a smaller, rougher track. Along this, groups of silent men were walking with the long easy stride of the peasant. They were going east to report for duty. Soon they, too, would be marching westwards like the soldiers they now met. Everywhere was the taste of dust, the smell of gasoline, the whinnying of horses, the jingling of harness, the roar of engines, the grinding of sudden brakes, commands, shouts, oaths, and the steady ominous rhythm of marching boots. How often Sheila had read “Mobilisation is being completed. Troops are moving to the frontiers.” But never had she imagined this labour and sweat, the exhaustion of tempers and bodies, the ear-rending confusion of sounds intensified by the darkness.

Once she said softly to the American, “Why don’t they use the trains?”

“They are using the trains,” he replied.

And once she said to Andrew, “Surely mobilisation is almost complete now.” It was an effort to cheer him up as much as an expression of her amazement at the numbers of men and the quantities of material which she was now seeing.

Andrew shook his head sadly. “Not yet,” he answered. And Sheila, who had never pretended to know much about war, but had often agreed with loud demands for action against Nazi Germany, fell miserably silent. There was so much more to war than indignation meetings ever imagined.

After the darkness of the countryside, Warsaw’s lights seemed gay and confident. Three armed policemen stopped the car for examination on the outskirts of the city. Then, it became a matter of speedy driving through the south-western suburbs, with their broad streets, modern apartment houses, and well-spaced gardens; of skirting the busy centre of the town, with its lighted shops and cafés and tramcars. They reached the River Vistula, and turned north on the new parkway at the enormous Kierbedz Bridge.

As they neared the Citadel, Andrew leaned forward to give last directions. He was standing on the running-board of the car as it slowed up at the large gateway. A bleak light above the sentry’s head glared down at them. Andrew had only time to jump off, to salute them, to say something which Sheila didn’t even manage to hear, and then he was hurrying past the rigid sentry. For the second time that night, Sheila felt hot tears sting her eyes. The parting had been so quick, so brisk. She hadn’t meant to say goodbye like this. It was callous. She felt she had been totally inadequate. The American must have felt that too. He broke the long silence of their journey, back into the centre of the town again, only as they passed the Church of the Holy Cross and entered the little side street which would bring them to Professor Korytowski’s flat. And then he said, rather gruffly, “What’s that you have been holding in your hand all this time?”

Sheila looked down at the sheaf of papers. She had forgotten about them. She said, “Plane tickets to Bucharest,” and stuffed them into her coat pocket.

“I’ll ’phone the airport while you wash your face,” Stevens said bluntly. And then he addressed the windshield, “Although it beats me how a girl can cry so much for a man she doesn’t care two straws about!”

Sheila didn’t answer that. She had been wondering too. Perhaps it was because she liked Andrew so much that she was sorry he was in love with her. But she couldn’t tell Stevens that. He wouldn’t see the logic, only the vanity, in that. It would have surprised her greatly to know what Mr. Stevens actually had decided: “Well, she’s honest, at least. No false pretences.” He gave her an encouraging smile, which she hadn’t quite expected, as the car halted in Czacki Street.

The outside of the house hadn’t changed so much since June, when Sheila had first arrived in Warsaw and had spent a week with Barbara here. Except that the windowpanes were all taped, now; and there was a large notice pasted up outside the porter’s house at the gateway; and inside the gateway itself, there were buckets of sand and water. A round-faced, bald-headed porter was sitting under the solitary entrance light at the doorway to his flat. He lifted an eye from his newspaper to identify them. A radio voice was talking earnestly from an open window behind his head. There was a smell of cooking sausage. A woman’s voice called, “Supper, Henryk!” before her head appeared through the window. She looked at the two newcomers curiously.

Henryk had risen slowly. He limped towards them, and peered cautiously at Sheila and Stevens as if he had bad eyesight.

“Well, it’s the American gentleman,” he said. “Going to visit the Professor?”

“Yes.” Russell Stevens didn’t wait for any further questioning. Sheila had turned her head towards the garden round which the block of apartments was built. She had no desire for anyone to see her face, stained with dust and tears, at this moment. The American seemed to understand, for he took her arm, and led her into the garden courtyard. “Inquisitive old buzzard,” he said under his breath.

“He’s new, isn’t he? There was a younger man here in June,” Sheila said.

“The younger chap is now in the navy. Henryk came last month. Usually, I don’t mind him. But I guess my nerves need a good stiff drink tonight.”

“Do you come here often, then?” They were following the paved path round the edge of the garden to the doorway in the courtyard which led to Professor Korytowski’s staircase.

“Once a week. About. There’s always a good party on Sunday nights. Just men, and a lot of talking.”

The night in the city seemed warm. It hadn’t the edge of the air at Korytów. But inside this courtyard, there was the sweet perfume of flowers and leaves, strangely remote from the busy streets only a hundred yards away. Sheila stepped carefully round another pail of sand at the foot of the staircase. There was still another one on the landing outside Professor Korytowski’s door.

As they waited for the door to be opened, Sheila said, “You know, I have rather a strange feeling...” She ignored Stevens’ grin. “I should either have gone home two weeks ago—”

“You’re dead right, there.”

“—or,” Sheila finished, “I shouldn’t go at all. Not just now, anyway.”

“Just when, then?”

Sheila was thinking, what is it that he finds so funny about me? She said, “Oh, after some weeks, once the war has settled down. After all, people stayed in Paris during the last war, and did what they could to help.”

Russell Stevens looked at her in alarm. “You are leaving, tonight!” he said determinedly. “Personally, I don’t care whether you go or stay. You are old enough to take care of yourself. But Andrew Aleksander happens to be a friend of mine, and he has asked me to see you leave. So leave you do. Even if it kills me, or what is more important, even if it loses me my job.” He glanced at his watch, and pressed the doorbell once more.

“You have work to do?” That might explain Mr. Stevens’ impatience.

“A mere detail of broadcasting at one o’clock in the morning.” The voice was acid, and justifiably so. Sheila felt more of a nuisance than ever. She gave Professor Korytowski a very subdued greeting. The look of worry and strain on his face didn’t ease her conscience.

* * *

The apartment had three rooms and a very small kitchen. There was the living-room in which Uncle Edward ate and worked and received his students, there was his small bedroom, and there was the slightly larger one which Barbara used during the University term. Before Barbara, Andrew had occupied it, and before Andrew, Stanislaw. For Uncle Edward, foreseeing the needs of numerous relatives whom he intended to set firmly into the professions, had provided the extra bedroom as a necessary economy for the family purse. Aunt Marta alone opposed him. “Someone has got to look after the land,” she had said in protest to a family of professional men; and she had registered stony disbelief when her brother replied, “By the time the children are all grown up, the State will look after that.” A more effective silencing was the way in which he transferred the Korytowski house and lands to his two widowed sisters, so that they were freed of dependence on him. For himself, he had his work. The little money which he earned was sufficient for his ideas of how a man should live. Barbara had once said, “Uncle Edward thinks that a good review of one of his articles in a University publication is more important than a bank account.” Now Sheila, standing in the bare “guest room,” with its two couches, simple furniture (she smiled as she noticed that the most important article was a bookcase, filled with an excellent choice in novels and poetry), remembered the pride in Barbara’s voice. It was easy to understand Barbara and Jan Reska when you remembered that.

Sheila searched for the jug of water standing in its basin under the table. Its coldness, splashed vigorously over her face, made her feel, as well as look, better. Outside, in the narrow hall, the American was phoning. From the living-room came the sound of men’s voices. She hurriedly combed the wind tangles out of her hair. (“I’m afraid we don’t have much time left, Miss Matthews,” Professor Korytowski had said, which was his polite paraphrase for “Hurry up. You’re late.”) She paused in the middle of combing her hair at the memory of Uncle Edward’s way of pronouncing “Matthews.” He pronounced it like every foreigner, stumbling over the impossible combination of th, and giving it more of the French sound of “Mathieu.” Only Mr. Stevens had said it the exactly correct way. Only Mr. Stevens—and Mr. Johann Hofmeyer. Perhaps he had lived for years in England or America. Why worry about a detail like that anyway? There was more to think about at the moment.

Nevertheless, the thought of Hofmeyer prompted her to search in her coat pocket. She studied the small bundle of clipped papers, looking curiously at the tickets which would enable her to leave for Britain. But there was something else beside the tickets and the regulations on air travel. There was a sheet of paper with elaborate printing. Kotowitz. The Old Square, Number 31. That was the heading. Underneath was the legend: Importer and Exporter. Under that: Finest Table Delicacies. Then came very small type at the foot of the announcement, which told you that Johann Hofmeyer was the present proprietor, that enquiries would receive full and prompt attention, that the telephone number was 5-7177. The whole announcement was repeated in three other languages: German, English, French. Mr. Hofmeyer’s business was an expansive one. For a moment Sheila wondered. And then she jammed all the papers back in her pocket. No doubt the advertising sheet was only included to prove Mr. Hofmeyer’s identity. She would present it to Uncle Matthews as a souvenir from an obliging business connection.

In the hall, Stevens was still phoning. He was leaning on an elbow against the wall, a pencil in one hand tapping impatiently, a long-suffering look in his eyes. Someone must have spoken at last, for he suddenly stopped lounging and he was listening intently.

In the living-room, the desk lamp with its pleated pink silk shade gave a soft light which left the bookcases, lining three walls in darkness. In the fourth wall was the large window, at which Professor Korytowski was nailing up, with more determination than skill, a large sheet of black cloth. From a chair beside the desk, with its periodicals and offprints and papers now neatly arranged and neglected, a small thin man with glasses, a fading hair-line and a sardonic smile was talking steadily. At the man’s elbow was an ugly little box of a radio, muted so as not to interfere unduly with the conversation.

Professor Korytowski abandoned his labours, and introduced the strange man, who had risen to his feet and was watching Sheila keenly. His name was Michal Olszak.

“We’ve been talking of the old days, which is one of the few escapes left us from the present,” Korytowski said. “Now do sit down, and we’ll wait until Mr. Stevens finishes verifying the airplane time.”

Sheila sat quietly, and tried to listen to a conversation which had now switched, for her benefit, to the most recent news. But she was wondering if Mr. Olszak had seen as much danger as Edward Korytowski had in the “old days.” That phrase meant the Polish fight for freedom during the last war; and then the continued fight for Polish boundaries after 1919, when the rest of the world relaxed into peace and forgot Poland; and then the establishing of a liberal regime. Edward Korytowski had been in the short-lived government. He had “retired” with Paderewski and Sikorski and the other liberals. In his disappointment, he had given up politics completely. Well, if Professor Korytowski said they were talking about the old days, then he and Mr. Olszak had indeed been talking about them. So much, Sheila thought, for the strange feeling she had had, as she entered the room, that they had been talking about her. What she needed, she told herself wryly, was not two months, but two years, submerging her personality into a family like the Aleksanders. Then she’d be less of an egotist, and happier altogether.

Her thoughts and Uncle Edward’s slow voice were interrupted by the American. He was still worried, but he was also excited. He began pacing the room, his hands plunged deeply into the pockets of his light-coloured tweed jacket.