by Mary Nichols
Arkady was the code name for Stanisław Roman. She glanced down at them. They were identity papers for Krystyna Nowak. She thanked him and he left.
‘What did he say?’ Colin asked her. ‘Did he say he would help me?’
‘He said you are to stay here while he makes the arrangements.’
‘He would not tell me his name. Are you going to tell me yours?’
‘It is Krystyna,’ she said. ‘I have made a bed up for you in the next room. I suggest you go there. I have left some clothes and some toilet things on the bed.’
‘Are you in the habit of entertaining men?’ he asked, smiling.
It was a moment before she understood him. ‘No. They are my husband’s.’ She had brought most of Jan’s civilian clothes to the cellar, mainly to keep them from being looted from the empty apartment and also because they helped to keep her warm.
‘Where is he? He isn’t going to come home and beat me up, is he?’
She gave a wry smile. ‘No, he is dead.’ It was easier to say that than explain the truth.
‘Oh, I am sorry. Clumsy of me. Please forgive me.’
‘Come with me.’ She led him to the boiler room, showed him where the lavatory was and left him.
Back in the living room, she sat down in front of the fire to study the papers Stanisław had sent. According to her new Kennkarte, she was now Krystyna Nowak, a qualified nurse, born in Lwów on 15th March 1917. Her father was Ludwik Nowak and her mother was Rosa, maiden name Lipska. There was also a certificate of ethnic origin, a ration card and a work permit supposedly issued by the German Arbeitsamt for her to work at the Hospital of the St Elizabeth Nuns, both stamped with apparently authentic German stamps. Another sheet of paper contained a potted history of her life, her school, where she qualified, where she had been up to this point. It was a private clinic in Krynica, a spa town on the River San, in Russian-occupied Poland. She had smuggled herself to Warsaw, preferring the Germans to the Russians. Rulka had no idea how much of the history was true, nor did she know where they had obtained the rather fuzzy picture of her on the official documents. But the forgers had done a good job.
It was hours later before she felt confident enough to put the life story on the fire and go to bed. ‘I am Krystyna Nowak,’ she told herself, over and over again as she lay sleepless. ‘And tomorrow, I begin a new life.’ She realised suddenly that she had told Colin she was a widow. That was a slip and she must guard against slips like that in the future. It felt bad, not only taking the identity of another person, but denying the existence of Jan. It was for Jan she fought, for Poland and everything about it she held dear. She went to sleep thinking of their last meeting and his assertion: I will come back.
She woke late and wandered into the living room in her dressing gown to find Colin raking out the fire, ready to re-lay it. Her heart missed a beat when she saw him dressed in Jan’s clothes. He was so like Jan it was uncanny, but it made her warm towards him and she hoped the checks Boris was making would clear him.
‘Good morning, Krystyna,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Good morning,’ she responded. ‘I hope you were not going to light the fire.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t keep a fire going all day, there isn’t enough fuel. I only light it when I come home from work.’
‘It’s freezing in here.’
‘I know. You’ll get used to it.’
‘I was looking at that boiler. If I had a few tools I might be able to get it going again.’
‘Could you?’ The thought of a little heat and hot water seemed like heaven. ‘It used to run on gas, but the pipe was sealed off when the house was bombed. I have no idea if there’s any gas there.’
‘Get me some tools and I will soon tell you.’
He poured the boiling water on the ersatz coffee, a concoction of ground acorns, while she fetched out half a loaf of bread and a tiny scrape of margarine. ‘It’s all I have until I get a ration card for you,’ she said.
‘Ration card? How will you do that?’
‘There are ways. It is important you do not ask questions. What you do not know cannot hurt you. I have to go out, but I want your word you will not venture outside and if anyone should come you will not answer the door. Lock yourself in the boiler room …’
‘I understand. But don’t forget the tools, a set of spanners particularly.’
‘I’ll see what I can find. If you want to help, you can chop up that cupboard in the boiler room.’ She had dragged it home over the snow from two streets away.
He stood up, came to attention and saluted in an exaggerated manner that made her laugh. She put on her coat, scarf and gloves and left him. A weak sun was glistening on the half-melted snow, but a bitter wind cancelled out any warmth that might have brought.
The cafe was on Ujazdowskie Boulevard, once a thriving street, but now as dilapidated as the rest of Warsaw. Painted on some of its ruined buildings in an act of defiance were the words: Polska walczy – Poland fights. The cafe owner only managed to keep going by serving the German troops who came in for coffee and snacks and because of that he was allowed extra rations. He was vilified as a collaborator, but he was a good Varsovian and often passed on titbits of information he had overheard to Arkady. Rulka had met the undertaker there by appointment on several occasions. Today she felt a shiver of trepidation as if her new identity were written all over her as a lie.
As soon as she arrived, she was shown upstairs to a private room where he was already waiting for her. ‘The sergeant passed all the tests,’ he told her. ‘You may assume he is who he says he is.’
‘I’m glad. I like him. What can you do to help him?’
‘Nothing at the moment. We’ll try and get him to Gdansk, but the guides and safe houses will have to be alerted and then only when we hear of a neutral ship arriving in the harbour. We can’t have him wandering about on the loose. Does he speak any Polish at all?’
‘A few odd words he learnt in the camp and he knows a bit of German, not enough to be useful, but his French is quite good.’
‘Can you keep him?’
‘Yes, if I’m given a ration card for him and a little money.’
‘You shall have it just as soon as we have established a life story for him, probably as a French worker. In the meantime, teach him a little more Polish. We won’t be able to say he’s Polish, but it might help him to understand what’s going on around him. Don’t, whatever you do, let him out alone.’
‘No, I have emphasised that.’
‘According to the information I have been given he is an engineer and explosives man. We could use him. Do you think he would agree?’
‘He might, but I think not if it delayed his return to England.’
‘Promise him it won’t, but tell him we cannot arrange to send him on for some time.’
‘Very well. He said if he had some tools he might be able to mend my boiler. It would be a real help to have that working again.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘There’s my new identity …’
‘Is there a problem with it?’
‘No, I do not think so, but the work permit is for St Elizabeth Hospital. Are they expecting me?’
‘You start on Monday. Do not go anywhere near your old hospital and do not, whatever you do, be tempted to attend Rulka Grabowska’s funeral. You were a popular nurse and good friend to many, so there will be a congregation, headed by Dr Andersz.’
She did not need to be told and was miffed that he felt the need to remind her. ‘I know better than to go anywhere near it.’
‘Stay indoors until next Monday. From then on you are Krystyna Nowak.’
‘I understand.’
She left him and wandered about a few streets to put any followers off her trail, and returned to the cellar soon after midday. She and Colin had barely finished their cabbage soup and an apple they shared which had cost her several hundred zloty, when a man arrived with a bag of plumber�
��s tools. He handed them to her without speaking, turned and left.
Colin soon had them out, told her he would have to turn off the water to her tap while he worked and disappeared into the boiler room. He worked all afternoon and then she heard a pulsating rumble and rushed in to see him standing admiring his handiwork. Already the room was a little warmer. ‘I have turned off all gas connections to the upper part of the house,’ he said. ‘If I had a bit of piping I might be able to rig up a hot-water tap.’
‘Finding that won’t be easy and if I could, it would cost too much. You have no idea how prices have shot up.’
He pointed upwards. ‘You had a kitchen and bathroom up there, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, more than one. It was once a well-appointed house, it even had central heating in the downstairs rooms.’
‘Let me out. I’ll see what I can salvage. I’ll take care not to be seen.’
She hesitated. Her orders were clear not to let him out, but if he dressed in an old overcoat with a scarf tied over his head and anyone saw him clambering over the rubble, they would assume he was a looter. Looting might be frowned upon by the occupiers, but to the Varsovians it was a legitimate way of surviving. ‘Very well,’ she said.
Taking a few spanners, he disappeared. He was gone a long time and she was on tenterhooks, listening for the sound of jackboots. When he did come back he was covered in cement dust and his hands were grazed, but he was loaded with mangled lengths of piping and a couple of taps. He dumped them in the boiler room and disappeared again, returning a few minutes later with a bathroom basin. A third trip produced a small radiator.
‘You’ve got a whole plumber’s shop there,’ she said.
‘I don’t know how much I can use, but I’ll see what I can do.’
She became his plumber’s mate for the next three days, at the end of which, connected by a maze of joined pipes, she had a basin and hot water and the living room was cosily warm from the radiator. The first time she turned on the hot tap, she threw up her hands in delight. ‘Colin, you are a magician.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I don’t know how efficient it will be. If the gas pressure drops or is cut off, we’ll be back to square one.’
‘Square one?’ she queried.
He laughed. ‘Back to where we were.’
‘Well, I am going to take advantage of it, while I can. Go into the boiler room and stay there, while I strip off and wash. You can take your turn later.’
They were both feeling more civilised when Boris arrived. He commented on the warmth of the room immediately.
‘Colin mended the boiler and now we have hot water and heating.’
‘Sergeant Crawshaw seems to be a good innovator,’ he said, taking off his coat and revealing a crumpled brown suit.
This was translated for Colin’s benefit and the rest of the conversation between the two men was conducted in English.
‘Your story checks out,’ Basil said.
‘I did not doubt it would. So, are you going to help me?’
‘As soon as we can, we hope to get you to Gdansk, that’s Danzig to you, but there are complicated arrangements to be made first and it may take some time. In the meantime, you stay here.’
Colin grinned at Rulka. ‘That’s no hardship for me, but I do not want to put Krystyna at risk.’
‘The risk will be minimal if you do exactly as you are told. There are a lot of French workers in Warsaw due to the collaboration of the French Vichy with the Germans. They are mainly technicians and engineers. You will become one of those. Krystyna tells me your French is reasonable.’
‘Nothing like good enough to pass as a Frenchman among Frenchmen.’
‘No, but you will avoid your so-called countrymen. It will explain your accent if you are questioned by the shkopy, that’s the Polish equivalent of Jerry, by the way.’
‘I do know that word,’ Colin said, laughing. ‘Krystyna uses it all the time. She has been trying to teach me Polish, but with little success. It’s a diabolical language.’
Boris smiled. ‘A few words would help.’ He paused. ‘I have been instructed to make you a proposition. You may refuse, but I hope you will not.’
‘Go on.’
‘While you are a guest of the Polish people, we can use you.’ He spoke warily, waiting for a reaction, and when none came, went on, ‘You are, according to the information we have, an explosives man; a skill that could be very useful.’
‘You mean to the underground?’
‘Yes. Since the beginning of this month it has been called the Armia Krajowa or AK, the Home Army.’
‘And Krystyna is part of it?’
‘Do not ask.’
‘Very well, I will not ask. All I can say is that it was a fortunate day for me when the good father brought her to me. I would die rather than expose her to risk.’
Rulka looked sharply at him but did not comment.
‘Is that a yes?’ Boris asked him.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you will be given your new identity, a work permit and a ration card, together with a potted biography which you will memorise until it becomes second nature. When we are satisfied, you will be assigned your task.’
He shrugged himself back into his coat and took his leave, leaving Rulka and Colin facing each other. They stood in silence for several moments. There had, they both realised, been a subtle change in their relationship. It was no longer simply a business one, but had become personal. They were comrades together in the universal fight and though Boris had not said so, they knew that whatever role they played in the future, it would be together.
Chapter Seven
May 1942
It was Saturday and Louise was pegging washing on the line in the garden at the back of the Pheasant. It was closed off from the public area of the pub by a six-foot wall and was a sun trap where she would sit, reading or knitting. Today there was a stiff breeze; the cot sheets, nappies and tiny nightdresses would be dry in no time. Not far away, three-month-old Angela slept in her pram. She slept peacefully, unaware of the turmoil of the world about her. She knew nothing of the fall of Singapore, when thousands of British soldiers had been taken prisoner, many from Norfolk and Cambridgeshire, two from Cottlesham. She didn’t know that British shipping was still being lost at an alarming rate, that Tommy was old enough to worry about his father on board a merchant navy ship carrying vital supplies, that Rommel had the upper hand in North Africa and poor old Malta was still taking a pounding. She was innocent of the suffering of the defenders of Stalingrad or the plight of the Polish people.
Louise was determined to protect her from all harm. She knew when the war ended Jan would return to his wife and she would be left to bring up Angela alone, but she tried not to think of that. While she had him, she would cherish him, just as she cherished his daughter. He had supported her all through her pregnancy, not only with money and extravagant presents for the baby but, more importantly, by coming to see her as often as he could, helping her to hold her head up in the village, where she felt everyone’s eyes were on her. She would have moved away but Jenny had been adamant she would not allow it. ‘You’re staying right here, where I can look after you,’ she had said. ‘You’ll need your friends when the time comes. And just because one or two round here look sideways at you, doesn’t mean everyone is like that. Most are right behind you. They like you and they like Jan.’
Jenny’s friendship meant a great deal to her, especially as she had no contact with her parents at all, in spite of writing regularly to her mother. ‘I thought she might have found some way of getting in touch, if only to let me know she was OK and thinking of me,’ she had said to Jenny. ‘I would be notified if anything dreadful happened to her, wouldn’t I?’
Jenny, who had found the Reverend Fairhurst rude and overbearing, had seen the marks on Louise’s back when she returned from that fateful visit and knew how matters stood. ‘Yes, of course. Perhaps when the baby is born, she will come to see y
ou.’
‘Perhaps,’ she had agreed, but she didn’t hold out much hope.
She had given up her job as soon as her condition became obvious and a new teacher had been appointed. Fresh out of teacher training college, she was unsure of herself and too diffident to manage ten-year-old scamps like Freddie Jones and Tommy Carter. As far as Louise was concerned the evacuees were still her children and she kept a motherly eye on them. They, in turn, often came to her with their troubles, either a grievance against another child or a sense of injustice over a punishment, or they would have bad news from home and needed a shoulder to cry on. Her shoulder and lap were always there, even when her lap disappeared beneath her bump.
By Christmas, she had felt huge and ungainly, but the pub had been warm and cheerful and, in spite of rationing, Jenny had somehow managed to provide plenty to eat and drink. Jan had managed a forty-eight-hour pass and was able to join in the festivities, bringing with him a silver brooch for Louise in the shape of the squadron’s emblem, besides small presents for everyone else: perfume for Jenny, tobacco for Stan, a model of a Spitfire on a stand for Tommy and a doll with a china face for Beattie. Louise had knitted him an air force-blue scarf which he said was just what he needed to keep him warm in the air. Some of the time he was boisterous and laughing and then suddenly he would become sober and thoughtful and Louise knew he was thinking of home. When he was like that she didn’t try to jolly him out of it and he soon recovered. And then he was his usual loving self. As far as Jenny was concerned, they were a married couple and she was not going to spoil things for them by insisting on separate rooms.
The baby girl had been born on 22nd February in Louise’s bedroom in the Pheasant with Jenny to hold her hand and the local midwife to deliver the baby. The arrival had been a cause for great rejoicing in the bar that evening, where many a toast was raised to her and her child and to Jan, who was looked upon as something of a hero. He had come down the following weekend, loaded with flowers and a big teddy bear, which he told her was to be called Cuddles.