As she leaned over the railing to overhear the conversation, Elzunia dislodged a loose plank, which crashed onto the floor below. The trio downstairs leapt to their feet, and the farmer was already pointing a pistol at her, while the visitor had backed into the darkest corner of the kitchen.
As she mumbled her apologies from the top of the stairs, Elzunia was relieved they couldn’t see her flaming face. She was mortified to be caught eavesdropping.
‘Go back to bed,’ Pan Janowski said gruffly.
The visitor seemed to draw back into the furthest recesses of the room and it seemed to Elzunia that he wanted the darkness to swallow him up. ‘I’ve got to get going,’ he mumbled. ‘Show me the stuff.’
So the midnight visitor had come for the weapons she had delivered. Just as the farmer raised his arm to unbolt the door, the light from his candle fell on the visitor’s hand and Elzunia saw that the last two fingers of his right hand were missing.
Back in bed, she tried to make sense of the situation. This was the man she had spotted chatting cosily with those Gestapo agents, yet he was supposed to deliver the weapons to the insurgents in the woods. She wondered whether to tell the Janowskis what she had seen at the station, but didn’t want to make a fool of herself. There was probably some logical explanation.
The sun was already streaming in through the open window when she woke, and she sat up with a start. She had overslept. The noise that had woken her was the sound of loud German voices in the yard.
With trembling fingers she started pulling on her jacket when Pani Janowska ran into the room holding out some clothes. ‘Quick, they’re looking for AK people from Warsaw. Put this apron on, pull on the rubber boots, plait your hair like a country girl, and stick this scarf over your head,’ she panted. ‘Then run down to the kitchen and start peeling potatoes. Pretend you’re deaf-mute and backward.’
Elzunia barely had time to pick up a knife when two SS men with savage dogs at their heels burst into the kitchen and started yelling that there was an activist from Warsaw staying there. Pani Janowska stared at them in amazement. ‘Here?’ she asked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Bring the girl here immediately or we’ll string you and your husband from that cherry tree,’ one of them snarled.
‘You can look around the whole farm,’ she said. Indicating Elzunia, she added, ‘The only girl here is poor Ola, who’s as deaf as a post and can’t say a single intelligible word. She can hardly figure out which end of a knife to use to peel the potatoes, so I can’t imagine her doing intelligence work.’
One of the officers strode over to Elzunia and wheeled her around. She went white. They were the officers who had checked her papers on the train. Any moment now they’d recognise her. Thank God Pani Janowska had told her to change her hairstyle and had disguised her in peasant clothes. Averting her face, she started twitching, making incoherent sounds, and dribbling saliva from the corner of her open mouth. Repelled, the officer pushed her so hard she fell against the sink and flopped onto the floor, her limbs flailing. She covered her face with her hands.
‘Disgusting,’ he spat. ‘When we have won the war, there will be no more Slav idiots like this.’ He reached towards his leather holster.
Elzunia held her breath and closed her eyes. She was about to be killed for being an imbecile instead of an insurgent. The incongruity of her predicament suddenly struck her as so comical that her shoulders started to heave. I must be hysterical, she thought calmly as she watched the officer taking the revolver from its holster. Any second he’s going to shoot me and I’m actually going to die laughing.
Just then, Pan Janowski strode into the kitchen. ‘Good morning, officers,’ he boomed in a jovial voice. ‘I hope that stupid girl hasn’t caused any trouble. I’d get rid of her myself but my wife can’t find anyone to help around the house.’
The SS man lowered his weapon and looked uncertainly at Elzunia, whose knees were trembling uncontrollably at her last-minute reprieve. Having managed to distract their attention from Elzunia, Pan Janowski said, ‘Now that you know we’re not hiding any activists, don’t waste your time up here. I’ve got some cherry brandy in the cellar that will curl the hair on your head. It’s better than that schnapps of yours. Come down and, if you like it, I’ll give you a few bottles.’
At the prospect of homemade cherry brandy, they lost interest in Elzunia and followed the farmer down the cellar steps.
After the SS men had gone, Pan Janowski sat brooding at the big oak table in the kitchen. ‘They’ve caught a lot of our boys in the forest lately, and now this. Someone must be tipping them off,’ he said to Elzunia.
Her face was still white from her narrow escape.
‘I have an idea who it was,’ she said quietly.
They listened intently as she told them what she had seen at the station. ‘Those SS officers who came here, they were the ones I saw talking to your guy at the station,’ she said.
The Janowskis discussed the situation for a long time. Finally Pan Janowski pushed back his wooden chair, took a firearm from the recess behind the stove and walked out of the house with a purposeful expression.
It was late afternoon when Elzunia returned to Warsaw. The city was sweltering in midsummer heat that seemed to rise from the footpaths and envelop passersby in vapour that beaded their foreheads and ran down their necks. On her way to her group leader to report on her mission, Elzunia reflected on her narrow escape. You couldn’t trust anyone. Life was a succession of punches that came at you from all directions without any warning. All you could do was keep fending them off and hitting back, and hope that with each punch you grew stronger and more confident.
After giving her superior officer a detailed report about the mission in Ozarów, Elzunia couldn’t wait to get back to Granny’s. In the thirteen months she had been living there, she had come to regard the old woman as her grandmother. It was the only place where she felt safe and wanted.
She was about to turn the key in the lock when she noticed that Marta’s door was wide open. There were sounds of a scuffle coming from inside, a piercing scream that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and then two Gestapo agents were hustling her neighbour towards the landing. As Marta tried to pull away from them, Elzunia saw that her mouth was swollen and blood was trickling from her left nostril. Shocked, she stepped forward but one of the agents shoved her aside so violently that she fell.
They were dragging Marta down the stairs. She turned to Elzunia and gasped, ‘Take the bread.’
Shaken, Elzunia went into Marta’s room and looked around, wondering what she meant. The basket she always carried was lying on the floor, empty, its lining ripped away. Obviously they’d found what they were searching for. Suddenly, everything became clear. Marta must be a liaison girl in the Underground, and under the lining of that innocent little basket she must have concealed maps and plans that she delivered to the AK. The room was austere, with nothing to reveal the occupant’s personality, interests or taste. A small table and two chairs, a hard sofa, a few unmatched cups and plates. Not a single photograph, picture or ornament.
Elzunia rummaged around in the kitchen drawers but they contained only basic items of cutlery. She pulled out the paper that lined the drawers in case there was something concealed underneath, but found nothing. Not even stray crumbs. She picked up the wicker basket again. As she turned it over, something scratched her hand. At one end of the handle, a strand of rattan had begun to unravel. As Elzunia began to unwind it, a scrap of brown paper fell out. At first she thought it might have been inserted into the handle by the weaver as a base, but she noticed that it was perforated with tiny pin-pricks. Back at Granny’s place, she turned the paper this way and that to work out what these perforations signified. At first they looked like random marks but eventually she realised that she was looking at numbers. Perhaps a telephone number. The other dots were letters that formed one word.
Elzunia’s heart was hammering as she dialled the number. It rang
several times, then cut out with a click as though someone had lifted the receiver and replaced it. She dialled the number again, but this time, the instant she heard the receiver being picked up, she blurted out the name on the paper.
‘Zenon? It’s about Marta,’ she said, but the man at the other end cut her short.
‘Come to the corner of Jerozolimskie Aleje and Nowy Swiat Street at twelve tomorrow. I’ll be reading page four of the Nowy Kurier Warszawski.’
Long after he’d hung up, she couldn’t get his voice out of her mind. Was this the voice she’d heard whispering late at night when the man left Marta’s room?
The busy corner in the heart of the city at midday was a good place to avoid suspicion. All morning, Elzunia had been on tenterhooks, intrigued at the prospect of coming face to face with the man she believed was Marta’s lover.
She was hurrying towards the meeting place when she noticed a man striding one block ahead of her. Something about his measured gait and the way he held his head made her heart race. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. She was imagining it. But when he moved his head, she bit her lip and crossed her fingers.
He turned to glance at something and all her doubts vanished. She couldn’t believe her eyes. At last. After all this time. A miraculous coincidence had brought her here just as her father happened to be passing by.
Any moment now he’d fold her in his arms and all the questions she had about him would finally be answered and she wouldn’t be alone any more.
Elzunia glanced anxiously at the corner of Nowy Swiat Street. Marta’s lover hadn’t arrived yet. She quickened her step, feeling that her heart would burst from her chest. Nothing mattered except that in one moment she would run into her father’s arms. She could already smell his cologne and feel his moustache nuzzling her cheek. She was almost sobbing with anticipation.
She craned her neck through the crowd, to make sure she didn’t lose sight of him. He was only a few metres away; she was catching up to him. She glanced nervously at her reflection in a shop window. As she smoothed down her hair and tucked the worn blouse into Granny’s old skirt, she hoped her father wouldn’t be disappointed in the way she looked. She hadn’t yet turned fifteen when he’d last seen her; now she was nearly eighteen. What if he didn’t recognise her? Only a few steps separated them now. Her heart was pounding against her throat. Another few seconds. She took a deep breath to try to compose herself because she was trembling so much she could hardly stand.
She saw him reach the corner and glance at his watch. Then he leaned casually against the wall and Elzunia’s mouth went dry as she watched him unroll the Nowy Kurier Warszawski and turn to page four.
She doubled up and vomited into the gutter and retched until there was nothing left but bile and the bitter taste of betrayal.
Thirty-Nine
Adam handed his heavy overcoat to the liveried attendant and crossed the foyer to the draughty lounge where a smoky fire was giving off some grudging heat. It was impossible to keep warm in a city where a penetrating chill rose from the ground and a malevolent yellow fog swirled around the streets. He found London particularly bleak and dispiriting in winter. 1943 was drawing to a close but although it was only November, the cold had already set in with the usual sleet, slush and icy drizzle. Soon it would be December, but for him, London’s yuletide, with its phony red-suited Santa Claus and cheerless tinsel looped over store windows, lacked the true spirit of Christmas, which made him ache for Poland.
Stewart was already there when he arrived, his feet sprawled out in front of the fire. ‘How on earth did they ever manage to build an empire when they can’t figure out how to make doors and windows fit?’ he said.
Judith’s invitation for Adam to accompany her to a ball being given by the British Association of Nursing had arrived at an opportune moment. He had just completed his last tour, and was entitled to a short break. The attrition rate was so high these days that the airmen rarely completed more than six sorties.
The idea of getting away from the base and the world of bombers and airmen had appealed to him at the time, but now that he’d arrived at this function with its haughty attendants and draughty halls, he regretted accepting her invitation.
Stewart, who’d been asked to partner Judith’s colleague Nancy, had no such qualms. ‘They’ll put on a good spread and Jude reckons Nancy’s a good-lookin’ sheila,’ he’d said, noticing Adam’s glum expression.
Adam had another reason for his misgivings. Although he’d enjoyed talking to Judith, interesting conversation had never been his criterion for an exciting evening with a woman. She was too direct, too matter-of-fact for his taste. He wondered whether this was an Australian trait. Even the English girls, who lacked subtlety, knew how to dress in a provocative way and liked to tease and flirt, but Judith seemed to know as little about being seductive as the nuns at his high school in Warsaw.
He heard the click of heels and looked up. A statuesque redhead in a gown of jade green was walking towards him and, with every step, the silky material clung to a different part of her body.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Judith was saying. ‘I had a bugger of a time getting away. We had an emergency admission. Seems you airmen are determined to keep us busy.’
‘You look so different,’ Adam said. He liked the cat-like greenness of her eyes and the way her thick red hair, worn loose, curled down to her shoulders.
‘I can thank Nancy for that,’ she said with a laugh. ‘She said it was time I stopped looking like a schoolmarm. I haven’t got a clue what clothes are fashionable or where to buy them, and I can never do anything with my hair, so I just did what I was told.’
Adam was amused. He’d never met a woman so refreshingly devoid of vanity.
As he took her gloved arm and led her into the ballroom where the band had struck up a lively foxtrot, she leaned over and whispered, ‘I’d better warn you, I’ve got two left feet.’
He looked down at her slim ankles wobbling slightly in the unaccustomed ankle-strap shoes and said, ‘They look all right to me.’
Although Judith made deprecatory comments about herself, she was delighted with his admiration. It had been a very long time since any male had looked at her that way; not since Pete Arnott had escorted her to the high-school dance years ago. She had been an ungainly girl with unruly hair, and the idea of going to a dance had horrified her, but in the end she asked the boy next door. He was the only one she was sure wouldn’t refuse. Pete was a head shorter than she was and had no sense of rhythm, and as they struggled to keep time to the music, stumbling over each other’s feet, she stared over his head while he told corny jokes. Whenever she looked around, she saw her sophisticated school friends sashaying past with their handsome beaux, whispering as they cast pitying looks in her direction. Sick with embarrassment, she walked off and left Pete standing on the dance floor while the band played ‘Charmaine’. To this day, she couldn’t hear that tune without feeling sick.
It was Nancy who had pushed her to invite Adam. With her nose for romance, she’d noticed that Judith mentioned his name far more often than the conversation warranted.
‘Ask him,’ she’d urged. ‘What have you got to lose?’
‘What if he won’t come?’
Nancy stood back, put her hands on her slim hips and cocked her head to one side. ‘Listen, lovely, you’ve got to go for what you want while there’s still time.’
That made Judith think. She was close to thirty-seven and, from the cases she saw in the wards every day, she knew how precarious Adam’s life was. Every day, airmen were admitted to the hospital with their faces burnt off or their limbs blown away. And they were the lucky ones who survived.
Adam’s hand felt pleasantly firm on her back and he was looking into her face but didn’t interrupt her reverie. She looked over and saw Nancy’s smooth fair hair bouncing around as she jumped around the dance floor and kicked up her heels in a lively rendition of the quickstep, while Stewart laughed and tried to keep up wit
h her. As they twirled past, Nancy gave Judith a conspiratorial wink.
‘Go on,’ she mouthed at her with lips painted into a scarlet Cupid’s bow. ‘Go for it.’
Nancy had hooked her arm around Stewart’s neck and Judith could see that her brother was entranced. She envied Nancy’s ability to act on impulse; as for herself, she always thought too much and felt self-conscious. Being captivating like Nancy probably gave you confidence. But Nancy was right. She should go for it before it was too late.
After the dance bracket was over, she and Adam were walking towards the buffet table when she surprised herself by blurting out, ‘You can’t breathe in here; it’s too stuffy. Let’s go outside for a bit of a walk.’
Adam looked puzzled. ‘Go for a bit of a walk?’ he repeated. ‘But it’s very cold outside.’
She blushed so deeply that her décolletage turned bright pink.
‘I just thought, we could … that it might be …’ She would never get the hang of this. Better stick to what you know, Jude, she told herself, mortified at her gaucheness.
Adam stepped a little closer. ‘Are you suggesting a romantic stroll?’
She was so embarrassed that she was about to deny it but changed her mind. ‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,’ she said.
‘I don’t understand you,’ he said as they strolled along the Embankment, their collars turned up against the wind. ‘You are two different people in one skin.’
‘Isn’t everyone?’ she retorted.
He gave her an appreciative look. ‘Well, I like this woman,’ he said. ‘The one who invites men for romantic walks.’
‘Not men,’ she corrected, emboldened by his remarks. ‘Just you.’
The cold damp air rose from the river and in the darkness the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben had become transformed into shadowy silhouettes, their outlines blurred like charcoal drawings smudged by an artist’s hand.
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