Nocturne

by Diane Armstrong

  She was looking at him and up close he saw that her eyes were navy blue.

  ‘Catholic Poles aren’t allowed in here,’ she said. ‘You could get into serious trouble.’

  He was staring so hard into her face that she felt compelled to drop her gaze. ‘I’ve been watching. Not just you,’ he added quickly. ‘Watching to see what goes on in here. I can’t figure it out.’ Not accustomed to long conversations, he paused and then blurted, ‘Anyway, my name’s Lech. I just wanted to help.’ He reddened so much that his scalp flushed under his hair.

  As she studied him, an idea came into her mind. ‘Well, Lech, if you really want to help, sneak back into the Ghetto tonight.’

  As soon as the unloading was finished and the boys had helped to right the wagon, Lech jumped back on it, flicked the reins, and drove it out of the Ghetto, raising a cloud of dust behind him.

  Thirteen

  In the darkness of a moonless night, shadowy figures stole across the silent Ghetto streets. The Germans had cut off the power and the flickering light that shone from the windows came from carbide lamps. In single file they crept into Elzunia’s building and made their way on tip-toe up to the attic where rusty buckets, worn-down brooms and a rickety ladder took up most of the space. As they moved stealthily across the floorboards, they raised so much dust that one of them started sneezing, while the others made frantic signs for him to pinch his nostrils.

  Elzunia shivered. She felt responsible for this enterprise. Every detail had been double-checked but, now that there was nothing to do but wait, her stomach twisted like a corkscrew. What if something went wrong, what if someone got wind of their scheme and they were caught? As the tension rose, a small boy on her left let out a high-pitched giggle, and was swiftly hushed with a firm hand over his mouth and a sharp nudge. It was silent once more.

  When her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she saw Edek’s bright eyes shining with anticipation and felt a surge of confidence. Like a true commander, he never seemed to entertain any doubts, and, if he did, he made sure it didn’t show. Someone was scrabbling on the roof above them. They held their breath. With a slow creak, the flap in the attic roof was raised and a flashlight was shining in their eyes. A moment later, someone appeared through the opening.

  ‘Lech! Thank goodness you made it!’ Elzunia whispered.

  They rested the ladder against the opening and Lech climbed several rungs at a time to get back onto the roof. A moment later, a sack of barley appeared through the opening. Standing on the lower rungs, Edek, Elzunia and some of the others passed the sack to one another until it was swallowed up into the dark recesses of the attic.

  One after another, sacks of sugar, apples, butter, carrots and potatoes were lowered down, the mere thought of which made saliva pool in Elzunia’s mouth. An hour later, all the sacks were in the attic. Lech replaced the roof flap and vanished into the night.

  Wiping her dusty hands on her trousers, Elzunia stood back and surveyed their haul. She had recently taken to wearing her father’s trousers, which she had shortened and secured around the waist with his leather belt. Wearing her father’s trousers helped her to transcend her fears. She had packed them on impulse, but now she found that wearing them gave her strength, reassurance and hope. Perhaps the doubts and suspicions were simply a figment of her imagination and at this very moment he was searching for a way to get them out of the Ghetto.

  Her mother didn’t approve of her new attire. ‘Why do you wear those things? You look like a ragamuffin,’ she would say, and purse her lips. She had long given up hoping that her daughter would take pride in her appearance but this new affectation was downright perverse. But ever since she had turned fifteen, Elzunia had become more defiant.

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve grown out of my skirts and we can hardly go to a shop and buy new ones. Anyway, I feel good in Father’s trousers,’ she’d told Lusia.

  Elzunia was pleased with herself. Involving Lech in the smuggling had worked. How he had organised the delivery of all those sacks to his place and then transferred them from his room up to his attic and then over on to the roof of her building, she had no idea, but, as soon as she’d asked him to help, he had figured out a way to do it.

  Elzunia and the group agreed to divide up the food in proportion to the size of their families, and donate the rest to Dr Korczak’s orphanage. As a child, she had loved reading the imaginative books of Janusz Korczak, and was shocked when she heard that the popular children’s author, who was also the most prominent child educationist in Poland and a passionate advocate for children’s rights, was the director of an orphanage in the Ghetto.

  Occasionally while walking along the streets of the Ghetto, she passed the doctor, a tall man with a bald head, neatly trimmed brown beard and shiny glasses. He was always on a mission to obtain more help for the children in his care. He was as hungry as they were, but he nourished their spirit by teaching them songs and poems and organising concerts and plays for them to perform. She came face to face with him one afternoon while waiting for Stefan outside the headquarters of the Judenrat, and gathered up the courage to tell him how much she had loved his books, and admired what he was doing for the children. He looked at her with such a penetrating gaze that she was sure he could see into her soul.

  ‘I don’t believe in sacrifices, young lady,’ he told her in his matter-of-fact way. ‘They are nothing but lies, hypocrisy and self-deception. Whatever we do, we do for ourselves to fulfil our own needs. Some people love women or horses. I love children. All my life I’ve fought for the dignity of children. But who respects the dignity of any human beings these days?’

  Before she could think of anything to say, he strode away.

  Since that encounter, the Germans had forced Dr Korczak to move his orphanage into much smaller premises, so that two hundred children had to sleep, eat and live in one hall. Every day, increasing numbers of starving, destitute children needed shelter at the orphanage and Elzunia knew it broke the old doctor’s heart that lack of space and food made it impossible for him to admit them. She smiled to herself as she anticipated his delight at receiving this food for the orphanage.

  Gittel had settled down in their room as though she had always lived there and although she asked about her mama from time to time, she accepted their explanation that mama was sick and needed to rest. But Elzunia and Lusia sensed that deep down the child really knew that she would never see her mother again.

  ‘You know what she said today?’ Lusia asked. ‘“You and Elzunia are looking after me, but when I’m a big girl I’ll look after you.” Isn’t that beautiful?’

  Lusia cut up skirts that no longer fitted Elzunia and made them into pretty dresses for Gittel, told her stories, and repeated everything she said as though the child were an oracle whose pronouncements contained great wisdom. Watching them together, Elzunia felt a pang of jealousy. She had never felt such an outpouring of admiration and love from her mother, but she was relieved that her affection for Gittel had roused her from her depression.

  ‘She’s as tiny as a sparrow,’ Lusia lamented. ‘If only we had some milk for her.’

  There was no fresh milk in the Ghetto, but Elzunia knew whom to ask. She looked through the window to signal to Lech. As usual, he was standing there, as though waiting for her.

  Ever since Elzunia had co-opted him into her smuggling plans, he felt he’d been raised to a higher plane of existence, surpassing anything he’d ever done before. It was like joining an exclusive secret society that valued his skills in a way no one ever had. Instead of being mocked by Bolek, who regarded him as some kind of half-wit who needed to have everything spelled out and repeated a hundred times, these young people trusted him and admired whatever he did. And the best part was that his new role brought him in almost daily contact with Elzunia, whose name he liked to say aloud when he was in bed at night. He’d never met anyone like her, especially now that she’d taken to wearing trousers, which he considered very original. />
  ‘Get some cans ready for tonight,’ he told Elzunia several days later. As usual, he’d figured out how to solve her problem. He roamed around the Kiercelak Market, a place where you never asked questions but could find anything you needed, from nails and screws to scissors, spades, sheets and even bandages diverted from the German army. Lech wandered around from stall to stall until he found what he was looking for: a length of rubber hose. When he had all he needed, he made a deal with some peasants, who sold him ten litres of milk.

  While Elzunia and Edek and his brothers stood beside a collection of assorted cans, jugs and churns on their side of the wall, they watched a length of rubber tubing emerge from Lech’s window. He jiggled it around and pushed it until it reached the largest container. A few moments later, a stream of milk cascaded into the can.

  Stretched out on his bed that night, Lech thought about Elzunia’s excited face as she watched the milk frothing in the cans, and her grateful wave when the containers were filled. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that her smile expressed more than comradely gratitude. In it, he saw an unspoken promise.

  Fourteen

  Adam could feel the sun’s warm rays through his eyelids. The scent of new-mown hay and the earthy smell of barnyard animals hit his nostrils, and for a joyous few moments he was a boy again, spending the summer at his grandfather’s country estate. Left to his own devices from morning till night, climbing the cherry trees and picking plump raspberries off the canes with crimson fingers. Tasting the forbidden chocolates his grandmother kept for special occasions in the heart-shaped Wedel bonbonnière tied with a blue satin ribbon. In the attic, where pumpkin seeds were spread out to dry, giving the giggling maid a chocolate each time she showed him her breasts. Hiding behind the haystack to spy on her and her boyfriend, who pulled down his trousers and squatted on top of her, grunting like a pig.

  The nostalgia passed and he opened his eyes. This wasn’t his grandfather’s property and he was no longer a boy. Through the crack in the hasped wooden door, he could see chickens scratching around in the dirt. Nearby, an ugly brown dog with a long muzzle strained at the heavy chain that anchored him to the kennel. Whenever he barked, the chickens scattered but a moment later they wandered back to peck at the grains.

  Adam propped himself up on his elbows and groaned. His body felt as though he’d been dropped from the top of a tall building. Where was he, why had his rescuers brought him to this barn, and how long had he been here? He tried to pull himself up but his knees buckled. It took several attempts before he could stand up. Edging along the wall one step at a time, he hobbled to the door, pulled back the hasp and stood outside, blinking in the sunlight.

  A man was running up to him, his powerful arms pushed him back into the barn and banged the door behind them.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ the man shouted. ‘We’ll come and get you when the time is right. Till then, stay inside and keep quiet. The Gestapo is searching for you. They don’t like it when an important prisoner escapes from under their noses.’

  He was no older than Adam but there was a menacing toughness about him, although his impassive face gave nothing away.

  His aggressive manner irritated Adam. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ he said.

  The fellow gave him an ironic look and ignored his comment. ‘Remember what I said. Stay where you are. It’s for your own protection — and ours.’ He shut the barn door behind him.

  For the next few days, the only person Adam saw was a slow-witted farm girl with a scarf tied around her hair, an apron with big pockets, and a mouth that hung open, leaving a trail of dribble at the corners. She made strange yelping noises as she scattered grain for the chickens but never looked at him when she brought his food. She shook her head so hard whenever he asked her anything that her scarf slipped off, and the nervous way she kept looking around made it clear that she couldn’t get away fast enough.

  He assumed he’d been brought to a Polish village near the Slovakian border, but he didn’t know where he was or why he was being kept there. The uncouth fellow returned after dark. He said his name was Dariusz, and sat on his heels chewing a stalk of hay, surveying Adam.

  After a time he said, ‘It’s a good thing you were able to walk because we had orders to either get you out of there or kill you.’

  ‘Looks like you rescued me from one jail to put me into another,’ Adam said bitterly.

  ‘Think of it as quarantine,’ Dariusz said and, without another word, walked out of the barn.

  When he’d got over his indignation, Adam realised that this was normal procedure. Any agent who had been captured was always put on ice until his superiors were certain he hadn’t talked. Now that he was calmer, he began to think about his failed mission. His future in the Underground didn’t look promising. His arrogance had caused the death of two reliable people who’d helped to smuggle couriers across the border. That was a double tragedy because the route was no longer viable either. To rescue him from prison, other agents had risked their lives. If you were in charge, he asked himself, would you trust Adam Czartoryski’s judgment? He shook his head. Definitely not.

  A week later, when Dariusz told him he could return to Warsaw, he felt partially vindicated. At least they knew he hadn’t betrayed anyone or revealed the coded text of the microfilm.

  Handing him his new documents, which included a Kennkarte made out in a new name, Dariusz shook his hand without changing his expression, and disappeared into the house before Adam had climbed into the back of the horse cart that was to take him to Warsaw.

  The driver, disguised as a peasant in an old woollen jacket and a battered hat rammed on his head, covered him with hay. Adam made a narrow space in the hay stalks and looked out as the cart rumbled along the country roads lined with tall, shimmering poplars. It was late June and the yellow fields of rapeseed that rolled towards the horizon reminded him of the paintings by Van Gogh that he’d admired in Amsterdam before the war.

  The rowan trees were heavy with the tangerine berries he had used as pellets as a child when playing with the village boys. The memory of their sour taste made the inside of his mouth pucker. Rushing streams bubbled between willows whose overhanging branches swished against the banks, and flights of jays winged across the cloudless sky. How beautiful this country was, even though its fields had been watered by so much blood. He recalled the oath he’d taken in Zenon’s office and felt an almost religious fervour to help fight for his country’s survival.

  But a moment later he became despondent as he realised that his work as an Underground operative was probably over. Perhaps there was another way to serve his country. Some of his colleagues from the air force had fled to England and bathed themselves in glory during the Battle of Britain the previous year. Many of them were now taking part in the Allied offensive against Rommel in North Africa. If the AK didn’t want him, perhaps he could make his way to England and take to the skies again.

  While he was fantasising about fighting Junkers and Messerschmitts, the driver pulled the reins and with a lurch brought the cart to a sudden stop in a township surrounded by market gardens. Before the war, these growers had supplied Warsaw with its vegetables and it infuriated him to think that now, while Poles were starving, most of their produce was being sent to Germany.

  A grey Skoda was waiting by the roadside to take him the rest of the journey to Warsaw. The driver pushed him unceremoniously on to the floor in the back and threw a thick grey blanket over him.

  ‘If they stop me, I’ll say I’m delivering tomatoes to German HQ,’ he said as he piled some boxes on Adam’s chest. ‘It won’t be a comfortable ride but it won’t take long,’ he said and stepped on the gas.

  An hour later, they were in Warsaw. Through a space between the boxes, Adam saw helmeted soldiers and SS officers striding among the downcast residents. He sighed. Near Marszalkowska Street, the driver slowed down and Adam peered over the edge of the blanket. A man’s body was swinging from a
lamp-post, his head lolling to one side, a noose around his neck. His face was purple and his tongue protruded from his gaping mouth. The sign pinned to his chest proclaimed that he was a Polish bandit being exhibited as a warning to others.

  ‘He’s one of ours,’ the driver said. ‘They caught him printing Underground papers on his hand-press.’

  The Skoda pulled up outside Zenon’s office. Judgment Day had arrived and Adam wasn’t looking forward to it. Better prepare himself for his mea culpa session, he sighed. After all, there was nothing he could say in his own defence. May as well confess his sins and cleanse his soul.

  Inside the sparse office, Zenon was sitting at a small table, typing with two fingers. Occasionally he stopped, deep in thought, and smoothed his moustache, but didn’t acknowledge the visitor until he’d finished his work. This time however, Adam refrained from making any sarcastic comments. Eventually Zenon pushed away the typewriter and looked up.

  ‘I hear you’ve had a rough time,’ he said.

  Adam heard no accusation or recrimination in Zenon’s tone and supposed he was probably being softened up for the verbal punches to come.

  Zenon wanted to hear every detail about the doomed mission and like a man sentenced to death, Adam knew there was no point glossing over anything or making excuses. ‘It was entirely my fault and I take full responsibility for what happened,’ he concluded in a glum voice.

  Zenon was looking at him with interest. ‘Yes, in some respects it was your fault. But you haven’t taken any credit for your courage.’

  Adam waited, uncertain how to reply. ‘I was lucky the Underground found out where I was and managed to get me out in time.’

  ‘True,’ Zenon nodded. He rose and patted Adam’s shoulder. ‘We’re all impressed with your strength during the interrogation.’