“Here,” a man, with a greasy leather cap worn at an angle, spoke up: “I’ve got my first batch of men all chosen. But we’ll have to wait until the Szwaby build the railways again before we can blow them up.” The group of workmen round him grinned, and then waited tensely to give their answers in turn. Two soldiers straightened their backs and held themselves ready.
“Department Eighteen: power stations.”
“Here.” That man might be an engineer. White collar, roughened hands.
“Number Nineteen: fuel dumps.”
“Here,” said a workman with the armband of the irregular soldier.
“Number Twenty: ammunition dumps.”
“Here,” one of the soldiers answered.
“Number Twenty-one: bridges, tunnels, canals.”
“Here.” This time it was a neatly dressed man who had lifted his right arm. A construction engineer, a draughtsman, a builder? Sheila couldn’t guess. In past life the man had been successful. You could tell that at least from his voice.
“Twenty-two: troop trains, shipment of arms and military supplies.”
“Here,” the second soldier said. He was a countryman. He seemed restless in this warm room.
“Number Twenty-three: factories.”
“Here.” The man carried the responsibility and pride of a workman who had risen to the position of foreman through his own efforts.
“These seven departments are waiting only to see what the Germans offer them.” The sabotage group nodded, and a variety of phrases to signify agreement formed a sudden chorus. Even Olszak’s face relaxed for one moment.
Then he said, very crisply, very evenly, “Number Twenty-four; assassination.”
Sheila took a deep breath, but the serious-faced student who answered “Here!” was as calm as Mr. Olszak had been. “We, too, wait for what the Germans have to offer us. Weapons are being hidden, men are being chosen. At present, we intend to avoid indiscriminate assassination and reprisals. A few well-chosen key Nazis will be worth more than a thousand soldiers.”
“Number Twenty-five: intimidation by anonymous messages, warnings, signs on walls and public places.”
“Here.” This time it was a woman, perhaps a schoolteacher, middle-aged, placid, resolute.
“Number Twenty-six: whispering campaign to affect the German soldiers’ morale.”
“Here!” another woman said. “We are ready for both the men and the officers.” She was well-dressed, with just too much care spent on her clothes and face. Her eyes were hard, her red lips smiled as if she were already welcoming the unwelcome customers.
“Number Twenty-seven: direction of citizens who are faced with deportation to Germany for forced labour.”
“Here,” a professional man said. He might be a doctor or a lawyer. “Those we can contact before they are seized will have their orders.”
“Hope you don’t have to give them to me,” one of the workmen said pointedly. The men around him again smiled grimly.
“Number Twenty-eight: maintaining the morale of the Polish population. Counteraction against the probable introduction of drugs; of cheap, crude liquor; of pornographic books and entertainment; of excessive gambling; with the purpose to demoralise our people.”
“Here,” the priest’s deep voice answered.
“Good. These last departments, dealing with morale—either attack on that of the Germans or defence of our own—cannot be fully envisaged until we see how the Germans use their power. But your men and women are ready?”
There was a solemn chorus of assent. “Now we come to counterespionage. Number Twenty-nine. That representative cannot be with us today. But I know him well. You can trust him, as I do, to achieve his purpose.” Sheila wondered if Twenty-nine were Olszak, himself. Or was it Hofmeyer?
“Closely allied to counterespionage is Number Thirty, who is responsible for contact with our allies in the world outside. Both will naturally work in close contact with Number Thirteen. Department Number Thirty?”
“Here. All initial contacts prepared.” This time there was no doubt. The quiet voice was Hofmeyer’s. Sheila looked in his direction, but he had chosen an especially dark shadow. No one, not even one of his comrades, was going to be able to identify Mr. Hofmeyer.
“Now we come to one department which cannot be organised by the same method of deputies and sub-deputies as the others. For in this department of guerrilla warfare, the leader works with a staff of specially chosen officers, and all must fight along with the men they recruit. The essence of successful warfare of this nature is participation and personal direction. Number Thirty-one.”
“Here,” Captain Wisniewski replied. All the voices had been eager. His was hard and angry as well.
“Yours will be a long task,” Olszak continued. “Such warfare can only be carried on after bases have been established, after ammunition and supplies have been collected and hidden, after your men have gathered in sufficient strength and have been trained to know their terrain and to work together.”
“We haven’t had much time to prepare.”
The listeners saw a smile on Olszak’s thin lips.
“Naturally,” he agreed.
The defensive tone left Wisniewski’s voice. “But we have made a beginning. Under the terms of capitulation, all officers are to become prisoners. Tonight, those whom we have chosen will leave the city and make their way through the German lines. Our first base has been selected. We shall proceed there. Give us six months to collect and take what we need, to gather recruits and train them in this way of fighting, and we can start preparing our campaign. At the end of a year, we should be strong enough for co-ordinated attacks, both in the countryside and in city streets. It will be one of our jobs to find which men are suitable for those different types of resistance.”
“Good,” Olszak said. “You will need the co-operation of Numbers Fifteen, Sixteen, Twenty, and Twenty-two. See them before you leave Warsaw.”
Adam Wisniewski nodded. The men of these departments were already making their way to where he stood.
“Our last department is that of education. Number Thirty-two: the organising of secret Polish schools. We have no reason to hope that our children will be allowed to learn anything except German ideas. During the last German tyranny, our schools and our universities were abolished and our language was banned. Then, for one hundred and fifty years, we depended chiefly on the mothers to teach their children. And they did it nobly in spite of imprisonment and punishment, for otherwise we Poles would have become either pseudo-Germans or one mass of illiterates. Today, we are organising secret schools to be taught by trained teachers. If that is impossible in some locations, then our schoolteachers will secretly help and advise the mothers. Number Thirty-two is still in hospital, I believe. He will be discharged tomorrow. He is sure of full support from his fellow teachers.”
Mr. Olszak paused and looked round the silent faces. “That,” he said, “is our programme. We may add to it, or alter its direction, as the need arises. Any questions, or suggestions?”
The red-faced soldier cleared his throat. “What about the farmers? The peasants should not be left out of this. They’ve got to be united secretly.”
“The farmers have their Peasants’ Party,” Olszak reminded him. “And so far no political opposition has ever managed to crush it. And many of our departments will contact the country people. We need their help in guerrilla warfare, for instance. They can smuggle food and horses to us. They can give us shelter and clothing. We haven’t forgotten the peasants. We depend on them, now.”
The soldier nodded, as if satisfied. Others rose to ask their questions. Twice, Olszak noted down before him some new idea, but the question about religious persecution was referred to the Church. “Our priests have always defended us,” he said. “The Church of Christ will know how to save.”
The problem of safe hiding places for those in sudden danger, of houses where men wounded in this new struggle could be secretly nursed back
to health, was answered by Department Number Sixteen. “We’ll take care of you,” Number Sixteen said once more.
“One question has not been asked,” Olszak said finally. “And that is the question of reprisals taken by the Germans on civilians for acts which our agents will commit in line of duty. If the Germans follow their practices of 1914 to 1916 in Belgium, or of 1916 to 1918 in Poland, we can expect harsh treatment for the innocent. But we must remember that every man, woman or child who is murdered by the Germans in reprisal falls as a soldier on a battlefield. We ourselves face death. We have all accepted that constant threat. If we ask no quarter for ourselves in the secret battle which we fight then no other Pole will hesitate to pay the price we ourselves are willing to pay. For unless each of us is willing to die, we can never win. The choice is this: either we let our purpose be conquered by the blackmail of reprisals, and then we are conquered too; or we harden our will and our hearts, knowing that without sacrifice, the Germans would have a comfortable victory, and Poland would be forever dead.”
“Never, never!” the editor exclaimed with rising emotion. Others joined his cry: “No, never, never!” Olszak silenced the threatened shout with hands that commanded obedience. “Quietly, quietly. We must not be heard. Quietly.” And then his voice strengthened. “Poland lives, for Poland fights on,” he said. He sat down abruptly, shading his eyes with his hands.
The priest rose. The room’s sudden silence was broken by the rustle of kneeling men and women. Their voices repeated a short oath of allegiance, and their heads were bent to the priest’s brief prayer. It had the intensity, the finality of a prayer before battle. “...God, in whom we trust,” the priest ended, and his arms fell slowly to his side, and the men and women rose to their feet.
Stevens stood up quickly and helped Sheila to rise. He avoided her eyes and pretended to be absorbed in the people around him. Korytowski was beside them again.
“You understood everything? You will remember?” he asked Stevens anxiously, and the American nodded. Korytowski noted the puzzled look on Stevens’ face. “Olszak will explain,” he said. “We are to wait for him next door. The others will take some time to leave. They cannot walk out of here in a body, you know.” He turned towards the door, obviously intending that Sheila and Stevens should follow him. They did so unwillingly: they would have preferred to stay in the room and watch these people. But perhaps Olszak wanted them put of the room for that very reason. Sheila’s last glance round the room ended with Adam Wisniewski. He was still leaning against the bookcase, his officer’s long coat thrown cloakwise round his shoulders. His face was that of a man who had been savagely wounded, of a man who was so exhausted emotionally that all he could do was to stand unmoving, his face a determined mask, his eyes fixed in a brooding stare on the opposite wall. Number Sixteen was talking earnestly. Wisniewski answered. Number Sixteen nodded as if pleased. Wisniewski was talking again. Sheila suddenly realised that the mask was there to hide his wounds, that there was a depth to this man which she had never suspected. But then, she thought, she had never given him a chance to prove what he was or what he wasn’t. And it was too late now. They would never meet again. The time was out of joint.
For one moment his eyes looked directly at the doorway and rested on her. She felt the look rather than saw it. Russell Stevens pulled impatiently at her sleeve. He too was watching Wisniewski.
“Come on,” Stevens said, “we are supposed to be in the next room.” He looked at her in that quick, clever way of his. He stood aside to let her pass into the hall.
Adam Wisniewski had stopped talking, stopped listening. The men beside him saw him take a step towards the door. One of them repeated his question quickly. “You said you would need someone in the villages surrounding your camp to be responsible for guiding your recruits. In each village? Or in a key village, Captain?”
Wisniewski halted. She had gone, and the American was following her.
The men around him were waiting for his reply. He turned his back to the door. “In each village,” he said. “We’ll need help from every village in the district, not just from one or two.” Grimly, he forced his whole attention on the man’s answer. If there had been no time for personal feelings in the last four weeks, there was even less now.
In the hall, Korytowski waited impatiently for Sheila and Stevens. “This way,” he was saying, “this way,” as he led them to the guest room. Behind them was that low, busy murmur of voices. The two soldiers on guard leaned against the twisted door.
18
ANNA BRAUN
Sheila sat on one of the narrow beds. Korytowski sat on the hard spindle-legged chair. Stevens paced the room.
“How long will it take the others to leave?” Sheila asked, if only to break the silence and interrupt her own thoughts. This was the second time they had met; this was the second time they hadn’t spoken. Then it had been people, now it was events which had kept them apart. It wasn’t likely that they would ever meet again. But somehow, she wished he had spoken.
“Long enough,” Korytowski answered. “They must leave singly or in groups of two or three.”
“Who are the guards at the door?”
“Two of Wisniewski’s men.”
Stevens stopped his pacing. “How long has he been with this outfit?” he asked.
“Who? Wisniewski? Since yesterday. Until then, he had thought it possible to break through the German lines. He led two attempts this week. But yesterday he saw that capitulation was inevitable, and so he agreed to Olszak’s original proposal, and will fight on this way.”
“Why do you look like that?” Sheila asked Stevens.
“Like what?” he countered, with pretended obtuseness.
“So—so contemptuous.”
“All I wanted to know,” the American said with emphasised patience, “was how long the brave captain has been associating with workmen and business-men and schoolteachers and newspapermen. That surprised me, I admit. I thought he only knew beautiful women and handsome horses.”
Sheila was angrier than Korytowski, who repressed a smile. “Really, Steve,” she began indignantly. And then, rather weakly, “He’s Andrew’s friend.”
“Yes. That attraction of opposites, I guess.”
“Not so very much opposites,” Korytowski said mildly. “And he has something in common with you too, Steve. Only, you’ve been educated under different systems, and the result seems different on the surface.” He looked at Stevens’ heavy frown. “It’s strange,” he went on, “I should have thought the violent energy which has characterised Adam Wisniewski’s exceedingly colourful life would have appealed to an American. That is what made America, after all. He is so very much—alive. He’s a good soldier, a magnificent horseman, a fine shot, an excellent hunter. The ladies admire his conversation.” Stevens muttered something under his breath which Korytowski tactfully ignored, although he smiled. He continued, “I must confess that there have been moments in my own orderly existence when I have admired, and even envied, Captain Wisniewski’s ability to enjoy life.”
“He’s a damn fascist,” Stevens said. “He’s not on your side, nor on mine. What about that students’ riot two years ago? In the Jewish quarter? Wisniewski was passing with some friends. He didn’t stop them, did he?”
“In all fairness to Wisniewski, you should remember he didn’t begin the riot, and he didn’t even join it. He had great contempt for the ‘bourgeois fascists,’ as he called the type of student who began that riot. His contribution to the evening began by snatching a policeman’s helmet. True, he might have tried to stop the riot instead of taking the opportunity for some fun at the expense of the law. I agree with you there. And yet, I don’t suppose either you or I could have stopped that riot, or even wanted to act as policemen, if we had been having an evening’s celebration such as Wisniewski and his friends had had.”
“What happened to the policeman’s helmet?” Sheila asked.
“It was found floating down the Vistula wi
th four others which Wisniewski managed to collect before his evening was over.” Korytowski smiled. “As far as I can remember, they had paper sails rigged in them.”
The tension slackened much to Sheila’s relief, but Stevens still didn’t speak.
“I’ve been teaching young men for almost twenty years,” Korytowski continued, “and there is one thing I’ve learned. If a large number of them get together and start looking for what is called ‘fun’ they invariably end in trouble. The sense of power which the mass feeling provides is intoxicating; and, as in the case of that riot, the direction which that power takes depends on the merest chance. One man of ill will can affect others, and high spirits can be turned into blind violence. Tomorrow these young men may be ashamed, but at the moment they are intoxicated and their individual judgment is lost. Surely you have seen that happen in your own country, too?”
“Of course.” Stevens was too polite. “I don’t believe in pogroms, or in the men who don’t stop them, that’s all.”
Korytowski was silent for a long moment. Then he said quietly, “Every country has its minorities, whether they are racial or religious or political. And minorities are always resented, sometimes with cause, sometimes without. The only difference in countries is that some raise the mob emotion against minorities into an official policy, and become totalitarian; others seek to educate their citizens against resentment and mob emotion. Their success in that depends on how long a space of peace has been granted to their countries’ natural development.”
Olszak entered briskly. “A short lecture on the dangers of Nazism, I see,” be said, and looked at the cracked ceiling, the boarded window, the plaster and dust on the floor.
Korytowski smiled. Stevens’ frown disappeared. “My fault,” he said, “and now I feel like a heel. I wasn’t attacking Poland, Professor.”
“No?” Korytowski said gently, and Sheila laughed.
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