by Rod Rees
“Most of them are useless but they’re willing.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“Rifles . . . orders . . . and for you and your men to get up off your arses and help organize them.”
“But what about Olbracht?” asked Gorski. “He’s ordered that the rifles be surrendered.”
Trixie laughed. “Fuck Olbracht”—By ABBA, being a revolutionary is having a terrible effect on my language—“we’re revolutionaries, Lieutenant, and we’re dead even if we give up the rifles. And as revolutionaries we take orders from nobody.”
In fact, as both Gorski and Wysochi quickly found out, revolutionaries did take orders, but only those issued by Trixie Dashwood. She knew exactly what had to be done and had no hesitation in telling people how to do it. They spent the morning dealing with the seemingly never-ending line of young men and women—that there were so many women amongst them came as a pleasant surprise to Trixie—volunteering to fight for Warsaw. Each of them had to be assessed and issued with a white armband on which were scrawled the letters “WFA”—the initials of the Warsaw Free Army—then they were divided into pairs, each pair issued with a Martini-Henry rifle and one hundred rounds of ammunition. This done, the volunteers were clustered into groups of twenty to be shown how to load and fire the rifles.
When Wysochi inquired why only one rifle was being issued per two volunteers her answer had surprised even him with its callous pragmatism. “We don’t have enough rifles to go around, Sergeant; remember we’ve still got to arm the WFA. So for now one of the pair will have the use of the rifle during the day and the other will have it during the night. Anyway,” she added quietly, “a week after the first SS attack only half of the buggers will still be alive. Then they’ll have a rifle each.”
Trixie relished the bureaucracy of revolution and as the hours ticked by, the mob of overexcited, ill-disciplined volunteers was gradually formed into something approximating to an army. But the one thing that Trixie hadn’t anticipated was how the news of her involvement in the Battle of Oberbaum Bridge had spread. On numerous occasions volunteers came up to her and thanked her for what she had done for the people of Warsaw, insisted on shaking her hand, inquired if she would be leading a regiment, asked if they could have the honor of serving under her command . . .
It had been heady stuff and perhaps if she hadn’t had the stoic presence of Sergeant Wysochi at her side, it might have embarrassed her. Wysochi, though, encouraged this hero worship. “It’s important, Miss Dashwood, for soldiers to have a hero. They see you, a girl, a noncombatant, fighting and beating the best the ForthRight can throw at us and they begin to believe.”
“Believe what, Sergeant?”
“That all this might not be as utterly bloody hopeless as I think it is.”
“IT’S NOON, SERGEANT,” SAID TRIXIE QUIETLY. “TIME, I THINK, TO march to rescue the major. Now that we’ve got an army we’ve got to make sure that those bastard delegates don’t do something silly.”
It took a while for Wysochi to cajole the volunteers into ranks but finally, after an hour of screaming, swearing, shoving and kicking, he pronounced himself happy. At a shouted command of “Advance” from Trixie the ragtag army lurched forward. The Uprising had begun.
It was an amazing sensation for Trixie to be marching at the head of her amateur army through the streets of Warsaw.
My army. Ridiculous.
Only a day ago she had been a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl and today she was in command of an army of revolution. “Command”; now that was a word that gave her pause. Since the time she had taken command of the barge no one had once questioned her authority, no one had once protested that they weren’t prepared to take orders from a woman. She had assumed command and everyone had assumed her right to do just that. Certainly, she had the formidable Wysochi as her shadow, but it was still remarkable that men and women should so readily do as she told them. Maybe she had a talent for war; after all she loved leading, she loved giving orders and loved taking responsibility.
And now she was finding that she loved adulation.
It was a fine sunny Winter’s day and as they marched, the people of Warsaw came out to watch and cheer them along. Somewhere along the line the volunteers had found a drum and an accordion so now as they marched they sang and the people lining the streets joined in with gusto. Soon the avenues of Warsaw echoed with the words of patriotic songs and the crash of boots on cobbles. Before Trixie had led her army half a mile the march had turned into a parade, into a celebration. Children began to dance along beside the marching fighters, old men stepped out of the crowd to shake Trixie’s hand, flowers were thrown . . .
The singing stopped when they wheeled into Pilsudski Square.
There, facing them, was a long line of resolute-looking, green-coated infantry. The six delegates stood immediately in front of the soldiers with Major Dabrowski, head heavily bandaged, guarded by two more soldiers, a little to the side. Trixie raised her arm and behind her, her army came to a stuttering halt. Immediately a deathly hush fell across the square.
Trixie swallowed hard and brought her fluttering heart under control. This wasn’t a time to falter; this was a time to be resolute. “Bring the Warsaw Free Army into line, Sergeant,” she ordered in a loud voice, clearly audible to her army, “and then let’s go and hear what these traitorous bastards have to say for themselves.”
Together she and Wysochi walked across the cobbled square, with only the snap of their boot heels on the stones invading the heavy silence. In truth she felt a little awkward, as though she, little Trixie Dashwood, had no right to be performing as a leading actor in this revolutionary pantomime. But the look on the face of Chief Delegate Olbracht told her that he, at least, took her very seriously indeed.
“It’s Lady Dashwood, is it not?”
“It is.”
“You are aware, my Lady, that it is an act of sedition to parade within the ForthRight carrying unlicensed weapons.”
Keep it simple, Trixie, but keep it decisive. Make sure the crowd can hear. Make sure the crowd can understand.
“I do not recognize the jurisdiction of the ForthRight within the territory of Warsaw.”
Chief Delegate Olbracht gave a snort of derision. “Who the Hel are you to decide what is or is not recognized by Warsaw?”
Trixie laughed and waved her good arm behind her, indicating her makeshift army. “I have a thousand reasons giving me that right. I have a thousand fighters at my back and all of them are proud, free Varsovians. I am acting commander of the Warsaw Free Army.”
“Ridiculous. You’re just a girl. How can a girl be commander of an army?” laughed Olbracht. “You have no rank. You are not authorized to speak before the Administrative Committee.”
“I have assumed command in the absence of Major Dabrowski”—she nodded toward the major—“who, I understand, is being held under arrest by Enemies of the People.”
If this revolutionary cant is good enough for Heydrich, it’s good enough for me.
“You can’t do that.”
“The Hel I can’t.” Trixie raised her voice so that it carried throughout the square. “I fought with some brave men last night to arm the Warsaw Free Army. I watched some of those brave men die to capture the rifles that will prevent that swine Heydrich butchering the people of Warsaw. Their deaths give me the right to speak.”
Olbracht shook his head. “Then answer me this: why would you fight for us Varsovians? You’re not even a Pole.”
There was a murmur through the ranks of Trixie’s army; her Russian was so good that obviously a lot of them hadn’t realized that Trixie was an Anglo.
“I stand here ready to fight for Warsaw because this is not a fight between the Varsovians and the ForthRight; this is a fight between all free Demi-Mondians and the forces of evil. This is a war of survival, a war where all those who have the temerity to be different from Anglo-Slavs—from Aryans—be they Poles or nuJus or Chinks, must stand and fight or be swept away.”
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br /> Trixie could hardly believe she was saying this. For her to be actually standing up for the UnderMentionables was simply astonishing.
By ABBA, I have changed.
“I have heard from Heydrich’s own mouth the plans he has for the non-Aryan races of the Demi-Monde and those plans will lead to the annihilation of the Polish people. I have heard from Heydrich’s own mouth that the Final Solution will mean the death of every Pole, every nuJu and every man, woman and child living in the Ghetto.” Trixie raised her voice until she was almost shouting. “I tell you straight, today we must make a decision. Today we must decide whether we fight together or we die together.” She was rewarded with cheers from the ranks of the WFA fighters.
The chief delegate stepped forward and, raising his voice above the hubbub of the crowd, addressed the thousands of volunteers standing in the square. “The Administrative Committee of Warsaw has received a communication from the Great Leader: if we will surrender the Daemon known as Norma Williams and the weapons stolen yesterday then the Party will only punish those directly involved with the abduction of the Daemon and those who committed the act of piracy. You are ordered by your legally appointed administration to lay down your weapons.” Not one of the WFA fighters moved but the ripple of unease amongst their ranks was palpable. “A handful of lives to save millions!” shouted Olbracht.
“You trust Heydrich?” retorted Trixie, and immediately cursed herself. This wasn’t some debating society. This wasn’t a time for discussion. Debate and discussion implied doubt, and a revolutionary couldn’t afford doubt. Doubt implied weakness and a lack of will.
The chief delegate leapt at the chance given him by Trixie. “We must trust Comrade Leader Heydrich!” Olbracht shouted. “Our Leader is a man of honor. He has generously offered us a way of settling this nonsense so that the people of Warsaw are not punished for this girl’s recklessness.” He turned to Dabrowski. “Major Dabrowski, you are the real commander of the Warsaw Free Army, and as an officer and a gentleman you are duty-bound to put the welfare and the well-being of the people before your own interests. I am ordering you, as the chief delegate of the Administration Committee of Warsaw, to instruct these people to lay down their weapons, to disband this ridiculous Free Army and to surrender the miscreants and the Daemon to the custody of the Checkya.”
Every eye in the square turned toward Dabrowski, who flinched back as though physically struck. He looked awful: pale and weak, he had to lean on a stick to stay upright.
Dabrowski seemed to crumble into uncertainty. He looked a different man from the rakish and confident soldier Trixie had known only a day or so ago. Could it be, she wondered, that the injuries he had suffered in the raid on the barges had broken him both physically and mentally? Maybe he was ill? Maybe all his training, all his conditioning as an officer to obey orders given by a superior, was confusing him?
At Dabrowski’s silence, the chief delegate smiled an obnoxious little smile. “I think that is all the answer we need.”
Around her Trixie felt the volunteers begin to shuffle and to murmur. She was aghast at how a crowd could be so easily manipulated, how easily an army that only a few moments ago had been full of patriotic ardor could be cowed by bluster and braggadocio. She could not—would not—stand by and watch this foul man take control of the situation.
A determined set to her mouth, Trixie turned toward her army and addressed them directly. “The Warsaw Free Army is not prepared to surrender.” She paused, unnerved by how the large crowd was listening so attentively. “Yesterday my father was murdered, laying down his life for mine. Today, it is my turn to make a stand for those who have the audacity to be different from the Aryan ideal of Heydrich. I am not a soldier, but I will fight. I am not a man, but I will fight. I am not a Varsovian, but I will fight.” She paused for a moment to calm the tremor of emotion that had infected her voice. “And if none choose to follow me . . . then, as ABBA is my witness, I will fight alone.”
The square was totally hushed, those gathered in it silenced by their uncertainty.
Trixie was aware of movement to her left as Sergeant Wysochi came to stand next to her. “While I breathe,” he announced in a stentorian voice that echoed around the square, “I swear by ABBA that you will never stand alone.” He stabbed his fist into the air. “Better to die on our feet than live on our knees!”
Even as the last word left his lips, the Warsaw Free Army erupted in a storm of cheering.
“WHAT DID YOU MAKE OF THAT?” ASKED ELLA AS SHE SAT BY THE window of her hotel room looking down at the scene unfolding in the square below her.
“They’re all mad,” was Vanka’s conclusion.
“They seem determined enough and that Trixiebell Dashwood has been a revelation. I never took her for a revolutionary.”
“War does strange things to people and it’s often the unlikeliest of individuals who prove themselves the most capable.” He sighed and pulled the curtain back over the window. “Trixie Dashwood is a natural leader but that’s not enough. The Poles haven’t got a prayer.”
“Why? There’s an awful lot of them.”
As he patted the room’s scabrous couch—raising a cloud of dust as he did so—and sat down, Vanka shook his head. “I don’t think the Poles realize what’s coming at them. Clement’s SS are the best, the most ruthless and the most formidably equipped troops in the whole of the Demi-Monde. It’s going to take more than some stirring words, a mob of ill-armed irregulars and a few jerry-built barricades to keep them out. The SS will crush them before the end of the week.”
“They’ve got weapons now.”
“They’ve got a few out-of-date rifles. The SS have got superior weaponry, they’ve got discipline, and they’ve got armored steamers and artillery. This rabble hasn’t a prayer.”
“I understand that in street-fighting the advantage is always with the defenders.”
Vanka shrugged and took a moment to light a cigarette. “We’ll see. If they’re brave enough and they’ve got enough of these firebombs I hear their womenfolk have been cooking up, then they could give the SS a headache, but the key problem the Varsovians have is that there is no way for them to win. They can’t defeat the SS. They can’t defeat the ForthRight. And if you can’t win, the only alternative is to lose.”
Ella nodded toward the crudely painted banner that was being paraded around the square by a band of dancing WFA fighters. It read OUR VICTORY IS NEVER TO SURRENDER. “They seem to think that they can fight the SS to a standstill.”
“Humbug,” snorted Vanka. “Heydrich will never allow himself to be defeated by a bunch of street fighters; he’ll put as many troops into the Ghetto as is necessary to get the job done. That’s the problem with people like Trixie Dashwood; she’s a romantic. That escapade with the barges has gone to her head: she’s stopped thinking about the consequences of what she’s doing. Romantics are the most dangerous of all soldiers; they’re the ones who want to die.”
“But, as Sergeant Wysochi said, maybe it is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.”
“Heroic tosh,” snapped Vanka. “Once you’re dead you have no chance of victory. Better to be a live coward than a dead hero.”
“That’s a very cynical attitude, Vanka.”
“Pragmatic rather than cynical, I think. And believe me, Ella, I have absolutely no intention of dying. I think it a better philosophy to let other people do the dying for me. Anyway, these kids seem so enthusiastic to journey to the Spirit World that it would be churlish to deny them my place in the queue.” He took a thoughtful puff on his cigarette. “No, our objective is to stay comfortably hidden away here for the time being, to keep out of that bastard Olbracht’s way—he’s too loyal to the Party for my liking—and wait until they forget what a good idea it would be to give up your pal Miss Norma Williams to Heydrich. Then when the time is right we’ll make a run for it. Maybe we’ll head for the Coven and board a barge to take you and Little Miss Misery”—he nodded toward the adj
oining room where Norma was sleeping—“to NoirVille. Once we’re there you can pay me the million guineas you promised me.”
“And then?” prompted Ella, somewhat hurt by the rather mercenary way Vanka was discussing their escaping to NoirVille. She had hoped he might be motivated to help her by something other than money. She had come to think—to hope—that Vanka Maykov might actually have some feelings for her.
“And then you go back to your world and I’ll have a good time spending my million in this one.”
Apparently not. Maybe now she was seeing his true side; the man was, after all, a con man. A con man who obviously didn’t like the idea of having a Daemon as a lover.
She just wished she didn’t care for him so much.
BARELY ABLE TO HIDE A SMILE OF SMUG SATISFACTION, ARCHIE CLEMENT scanned the map of the Ghetto one more time and checked his watch. It was five minutes to noon; the Leader had ordered him to begin his assault on the Ghetto by midday on the 59th day of Winter and by dint of a Herculean effort the destruction of Warsaw would begin one full day ahead of schedule. He had been set an impossible task but he had done it. Today the Ghetto would be punished for Dabrowski’s abduction of the Daemon and his taking of the barges.
“You got all them steamers fired up, Comrade Major Hartley?” he asked the officer beside him. “Won’t do for them to miss the big parade, now, will it?”
“We have four steamers in position to lead the assault along Uyazhdov Boulevard, Comrade Colonel.”
“Only four?” Clement turned and spat out a wad of tobacco, which missed the major’s brightly shined boots only by inches. “Just four steamers ain’t gonna get them Rebs fouling their breeches, now, is it?”
“Unfortunately, Comrade Colonel, such was the speed of the mobilization that we had no time to bring up more. But even so, we anticipate only limited opposition. We will conduct an artillery barrage to eliminate the barricades the rebels have thrown up across the avenue then deploy our very finest shock troops.”
“Don’t do to count your chickens, Hartley. Them damned Polacks showed a lotta grit during the Troubles, so don’t you go thinking they’re gonna skedaddle just cos we fart in their direction. And make certain sure you’ve told your commanders that them Rebs is heeled. There was ten thousand rifles on them barges they hijacked.”