Wladek chose the largest orange he could see and a handful of nuts. The stallkeeper said something to him that he could not understand. Wladek felt the easiest way out of the language barrier was to hand over a 50-ruble note. The stall-keeper looked at it, laughed and threw his arms in the sky.
“Allah!” he cried, snatching the nuts and the orange from Wladek and waving him away with his forefinger. Wladek walked off in despair; a different language means different money, he supposed. In Russia he had been poor; here he was penniless. He would have to steal an orange; if he was about to be caught, he would throw it back to the stallkeeper. Wladek walked to the other end of the marketplace in the same way as Stefan had, but he couldn’t imitate the swagger and he didn’t feel the same confidence. He chose the end stall and when he was sure no one was watching, he picked up an orange and started to run. Suddenly there was an uproar. It seemed as if half the city were chasing him.
A big man jumped on the limping Wladek and threw him to the ground. Six or seven people seized hold of different parts of his body while a larger group thronged around as he was dragged back to the stall. A policeman awaited them. Notes were taken, and there was a shouted exchange between the stall owner and the policeman, each man’s voice rising with each statement. The policeman then turned to Wladek and shouted at him too, but Wladek could not understand a word. The policeman shrugged his shoulders and marched Wladek off by the ear. People continued to bawl at him. Some of them spat on him. When Wladek reached the police station he was taken underground and thrown into a tiny cell, already occupied by twenty or thirty criminals—thugs, thieves or he knew not what. Wladek did not speak to them and they showed no desire to talk to him. He remained with his back to a wall, cowering, quiet, terrified. For a day and a night he was left there with no food. The smell of excreta made him vomit until there was nothing left in him. He never thought the day would come when the dungeons in Slonim would seem uncrowded and peaceful.
The next morning Wladek was dragged from the basement by two guards and marched to a hall, where he was lined up with several other prisoners. They were all roped to each other around the waist and led from the jail in a long line down into the street. Another large crowd had gathered outside, and their loud cheer of welcome made Wladek feel that they had been waiting some time for the prisoners to appear. The crowd followed them all the way to the marketplace—screaming, clapping and shouting—for what reason, Wladek feared even to contemplate. The line came to a halt when they reached the market square. The first prisoner was unleashed from his rope and taken into the center of the square, which was already crammed with hundreds of people, all shouting at the top of their voices.
Wladek watched the scene in disbelief. When the first prisoner reached the middle of the square, he was knocked to his knees by the guard and then his right hand was strapped to a wooden block by a giant of a man who raised a large sword above his head and brought it down with terrible force, aiming at the prisoner’s wrist. He managed to catch only the tips of the fingers. The prisoner screamed with pain as the sword was raised again. This time the sword hit the wrist but still did not finish the job properly, and the wrist dangled from the prisoner’s arm, blood pouring out onto the sand. The sword was raised for a third time and for the third time it came down. The prisoner’s hand at last fell to the ground. The crowd roared its approval. The prisoner was at last released and he slumped in a heap, unconscious. He was dragged off by a disinterested guard and left on the edge of the crowd. A weeping woman—his wife, Wladek presumed—hurriedly tied a tourniquet of dirty cloth around the bloody stump. The second prisoner died of shock before the fourth blow was struck. The giant executioner was not interested in death, so he hurriedly continued his task; he was paid to remove hands.
Wladek looked around in terror and retched; he would have vomited if there had been anything left in his stomach. He searched in every direction for help or some means of escape; no one had told him that under Islamic law the punishment for trying to escape would be the loss of a foot. His eyes darted around the mass of faces until he saw a man in the crowd dressed like a European, wearing a dark suit. The man was standing about twenty yards away from Wladek and was watching the spectacle with obvious disgust. But he did not once look in Wladek’s direction, nor could he hear the boy’s shouts for help in the uproar every time the sword was brought down. Was he French, German, English or even Polish? Wladek could not tell, but for some reason he was witnessing this macabre spectacle. Wladek stared at him, willing him to look his way. But he did not. Wladek waved his free arm but still could not gain the European’s attention. They untied the man two in front of Wladek and dragged him along the ground toward the block. When the sword went up again and the crowd cheered, the man in the dark suit turned his eyes away in disgust and Wladek waved frantically at him again.
The man stared at Wladek and then turned to talk to a companion, whom Wladek had not noticed. The guard was now struggling with the prisoner immediately in front of Wladek. He placed the prisoner’s hand under the strap; the sword went up and removed the hand in one blow. The crowd seemed disappointed. Wladek stared again at the Europeans. They were now both looking at him. He willed them to move, but they only continued to stare.
The guard came over, threw Wladek’s 50-ruble overcoat to the ground, undid his cuff and rolled up his sleeve. Wladek struggled futilely as he was dragged across the square. He was no match for the guard. When he reached the block, he was kicked in the back of his knees and collapsed to the ground. The strap was fastened over his right wrist, and there was nothing left for him to do but close his eyes as the sword was raised above the executioner’s head. He waited in agony for the terrible blow and then there was a sudden hush in the crowd as the Baron’s silver band fell from Wladek’s elbow down to his wrist and onto the block. An eerie silence came over the crowd as the heirloom shone brightly in the sunlight. The executioner stopped and put down his sword and studied the silver band. Wladek opened his eyes. The guard tried to pull the band over Wladek’s wrist, but he couldn’t get it past the leather strap. A man in uniform ran quickly forward and joined the executioner. He too studied the band and the inscription and then ran to another man, who must have been of higher authority, because as he now walked toward Wladek he walked slowly. The sword was resting on the ground, and the crowd was now beginning to jeer and hoot. The second officer also tried to pull the silver band off but could not get it over the block and he seemed unwilling to undo the strap. He shouted words at Wladek, who did not understand what he was saying and replied in Polish, “I do not speak your language.”
The officer looked surprised and threw his hands in the air shouting “Allah!” That must be the same as “Holy God,” thought Wladek. The officer walked slowly toward the two men in the crowd wearing Western suits, arms going in every direction like a disorganized windmill. Wladek prayed to God—in such situations any man prays to any god, be it Allah or the Virgin Mary. The Europeans were still staring at Wladek and Wladek was nodding frantically. One of the two men joined the Turkish officer as he walked back toward the block. The former knelt on one knee by Wladek’s side, studied the silver band and then looked carefully at him. Wladek waited. He could converse in five languages and prayed that the gentleman would speak one of them. His heart sank when the European turned to the officer and addressed him in his own tongue. The crowd was now hissing and throwing rotten fruit at the block. The officer was nodding his agreement while the gentleman stared intently at Wladek.
“Do you speak English?”
Wladek heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes, sir, not bad. I am Polish citizen.”
“How did you come into possession of that silver band?”
“It belong my father, sir. He die in prison by the Germans in Poland and I captured and sent to a prison camp in Russia. I escape and come here by ship. I have no eat for days. When stallkeeper no accept my rubles for orange, I take one because I much, much hungry.”
The Englis
hman rose slowly from his knee, turned to the officer and spoke to him very firmly. The latter, in turn, addressed the executioner, who looked doubtful, but when the officer repeated the order a little louder, he bent down and reluctantly undid the leather strap. Wladek retched again.
“Come with me,” said the Englishman. “And quickly, before they change their minds.”
Still in a daze, Wladek grabbed his coat and followed him. The crowd booed and jeered, throwing things at him as he departed, and the swordsman quickly put the next prisoner’s hand on the block and with his first blow managed to remove only a thumb. This seemed to pacify the mob.
The Englishman moved swiftly through the hustling crowd out of the square, where he was joined by his companion.
“What’s happening, Edward?”
“The boy says he is a Pole and that he escaped from Russia. I told the official in charge that he was English, so now he is our responsibility. Let’s get him to the embassy and find out if the boy’s story bears any resemblance to the truth.”
Wladek ran between the two men as they hurried on through the bazaar and into the Street of Seven Kings. He could still faintly hear the mob behind him, screaming their approval every time the executioner brought down his sword.
The two Englishmen walked through an archway over a pebbled courtyard toward a large gray building and beckoned Wladek to follow them. On the door were the welcoming words BRITISH EMBASSY. Once inside the building, Wladek began to feel safe for the first time. He walked a pace behind the two men down a long hall with walls covered with paintings of strangely clad soldiers and sailors. At the far end was a magnificent portrait of an old man in a blue naval uniform liberally adorned with medals. His fine beard reminded Wladek of the Baron. A soldier appeared from nowhere and saluted.
“Take this boy, Corporal Smithers, and see that he gets a bath. Then feed him in the kitchen. When he has eaten and smells a little less like a walking pigsty, find him some new clothes and bring him to my office.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal said, and saluted.
“Come with me, my lad.” The soldier marched away. Wladek followed him obediently, having to run to keep up with his walking pace. He was taken to the basement of the embassy and left in a little room; it had a tiny window. The corporal told him to get undressed and then left him on his own. He returned a few minutes later with some clothes, only to find Wladek still sitting on the edge of the bed fully dressed, dazedly twisting the silver band around and around his wrist.
“Hurry up, lad. You’re not on a rest cure.”
“Sorry, sir,” Wladek said.
“Don’t call me sir, lad. I am Corporal Smithers. You call me Corporal.”
“I am Wladek Koskiewicz. You call me Wladek.”
“Don’t be funny with me, lad. We’ve got enough funny people in the British army without you wishing to join the ranks.”
Wladek did not understand what the soldier meant. He undressed quickly.
“Follow me at the double.”
Another marvelous bath with hot water and soap. Wladek thought of his Russian protectress, and of the son he might have become to her but for her husband. A new set of clothes, strange but clean and fresh-smelling. Whose son had they belonged to? The soldier was back at the door.
Corporal Smithers took Wladek to the kitchen and left him with a plump, pink-faced cook, with the warmest face Wladek had seen since leaving Poland. She reminded him of Niania. Wladek could not help wondering what would happen to her waistline after a few weeks in Camp 201.
“Hello,” she said with a beaming smile. “What’s your name then?”
Wladek told her.
“Well, laddie, it looks as though you could do with a good British meal inside of you—none of this Turkish muck will suffice. We’ll start with some hot soup and beef. You’ll need something substantial if you’re to face Mr. Prendergast.” She laughed. “Just remember his bite’s not as bad as his bark. Although he is an Englishman, his heart’s in the right place.”
“You are an English, Mrs. Cook?” asked Wladek, surprised.
“Good Lord no, laddie, I’m Scottish. There’s a world of difference. We hate the English more than the Germans do,” she said, laughing. She set a dish of steaming soup, thick with meat and vegetables, in front of Wladek. He had entirely forgotten that food could smell and taste so good. He ate the meal slowly, fearing that something like it might not happen again for a very long time.
The corporal reappeared. “Have you had enough to eat, my lad?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Corporal.”
The corporal gave Wladek a suspicious look, but he saw no trace of cheek in the boy’s expression. “Good. Then let’s be moving. Can’t be late on parade for Mr. Prendergast.”
The corporal disappeared through the kitchen door and Wladek stared at the cook. He always hated saying good-bye to someone he had just met, especially when the person had been kind.
“Off you go, laddie, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cook,” said Wladek. “Your food is best I can ever remember.”
The cook smiled at him. He again had to limp hard to catch up with the corporal, whose marching pace still kept Wladek trotting. The soldier came to a brisk halt outside a door that Wladek nearly ran into.
“Look where you’re going, my lad, look where you’re going.”
The corporal gave a short rap-rap on the door.
“Come,” said a voice.
The corporal opened the door and saluted. “The Polish boy, sir, as you requested, scrubbed and fed.”
“Thank you, Corporal. Perhaps you would be kind enough to ask Mr. Grant to join us.”
Edward Prendergast looked up from his desk. He waved Wladek to a seat without speaking and continued to work at some papers. Wladek sat looking at him and then at the portraits on the wall. More generals and admirals and that old bearded gentleman again, this time in khaki army uniform. A few minutes later the other Englishman he remembered from the market square came in.
“Thank you for joining us, Harry. Do have a seat, old boy.” Mr. Prendergast turned to Wladek. “Now, my lad, let’s hear your story from the beginning, with no exaggerations, only the truth. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wladek started his story with his days in Poland. It took him some time to find the right English words. It was apparent from the looks on the faces of the two Englishmen that they were at first incredulous. They occasionally stopped him and asked questions, nodding to each other at his answers. After an hour of talking, Wladek’s life history had reached the point where he was in the office of His Britannic Majesty’s Second Consul to Turkey.
“I think, Harry,” said the Second Consul, “it is our duty to inform the Polish delegation immediately and then hand young Koskiewicz over to them. I feel in the circumstances he is undoubtedly their responsibility.”
“Agreed,” said the man called Harry. “You know, my boy, you had a narrow escape in the market today. The Sher—that is, the old Islamic religious law—which provides for cutting off a hand for theft was officially abandoned in theory years ago. In fact, it is a crime under the Ottoman Penal Code to still inflict such a punishment. Nevertheless, in practice the barbarians still continue to carry it out.” He shrugged.
“Why not my hand?” asked Wladek, holding onto his wrist.
“I told them they could cut off all the Moslem hands they wanted, but not an Englishman’s,” Edward Prendergast interjected.
“Thank God,” Wladek said faintly.
“Edward Prendergast, actually,” the Second Consul said, smiling for the first time. “You can spend the night here and we will take you to your own delegation tomorrow. The Poles do not actually have an embassy in Constantinople,” he said, slightly disdainfully, “but my opposite number is a good fellow considering he’s a foreigner.” He pressed a button, and the corporal reappeared immediately.
“Sir.”
“Corporal, ta
ke young Koskiewicz to his room and in the morning see he is given breakfast and is brought to me at nine sharp.”
“Sir. This way, boy, at the double.”
Wladek was led away by the corporal. He had not even had enough time to thank the two Englishmen who had saved his hand—and perhaps his life. Back in the clean little room, with its clean bed neatly turned down as if he were an honored guest, he undressed, threw his pillow on the floor and slept soundly in the bed until the morning light shone through the tiny window.
“Rise and shine, lad, sharpish.”
It was the corporal, his uniform immaculately smart and knife-edge pressed, looking as though he had never been to bed. For an instant Wladek, surfacing from sleep, thought himself back in Camp 201, for the corporal’s banging on the end of the metal bed frame with his cane resembled the noise of the banging on the triangle that Wladek had grown so accustomed to. He slid out of bed and reached for his clothes.
“Wash first, my lad, wash first. We don’t want your horrible smells worrying Mr. Prendergast so early in the morning, do we?”
Wladek was unsure which part of himself to wash, so unusually clean did he feel himself to be. The corporal was staring at him.
“What’s wrong with your leg, lad?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Wladek, turning away from the staring eyes.
“Right. I’ll be back in three minutes. Three minutes, do you hear, my lad? Be sure you’re ready.”
Wladek washed his hands and face quickly and then dressed. He was waiting at the end of the bed, holding his long sheepskin coat, when the corporal returned to take him to the Second Consul. Mr. Prendergast welcomed him and seemed to have softened considerably since their first meeting.
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 12