A Different World (11 page)

Father Karlowicz found her sitting in one of the pews in quiet contemplation. She turned when she heard the rustle of his skirt. ‘Come,’ he said.

She followed him through a side door, down some steps and into the crypt. On the far side was an altar covered with a cloth. He walked over to it and rapped on the top. ‘Come out.’ A man scrambled out from beneath it. He was young, about her own age, tall and dressed in the remnants of a British soldier’s uniform. His face was grey with fatigue, his cheeks hollow from lack of food.

‘Hallo,’ Rulka said in English.

‘Thank the Lord,’ he said, giving her a brilliant smile which lit his blue eyes. It reminded her of Jan; he, too, had a smile that could light up a room. ‘Someone who speaks English.’

‘I only have a little. What is your name?’

‘Colin Crawshaw. Sergeant, Royal Engineers.’

She handed him Jan’s coat. ‘Put that on, please, and come with me.’ To the priest, she said, ‘Thank you, Father. You may forget he was ever here now.’

‘Where are we going?’ the soldier asked as she led the way through the streets.

‘Do not ask questions,’ she murmured. It was gone curfew and only those with passes could venture out. Rulka had one because her work at the hospital meant she worked odd hours, but Nurse Grabowska was supposed to be dead, so it was better to avoid being asked for it. ‘The
shkopy
are everywhere and they have their spies. Please do not speak again until we are inside.’

He fell silent. Once in the cellar of her home, she set about lighting a fire in the open grate and boiling a kettle on a primus stove.

He was shivering with cold and reluctant to remove the coat. ‘You live here?’ he asked, looking about him.

‘Yes.’

‘It is very spartan.’

‘Spartan? What is that?’

‘Bare. Uncomfortable.’

‘It is better than some. I am warm and dry and I can cook what little food there is.’

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘Yes, but I am expecting someone later this evening. He might help you. Tell me about yourself.’ When he hesitated, she added, ‘You may trust me.’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose I have to trust someone. Besides, there’s nothing much to tell. I was taken prisoner in France, left behind at Dunkirk, and shipped from prison to prison until I ended up in Poland. The Poles are our allies, so I told myself that if I could escape I had as good a chance as any of getting back home. I managed to slip away from a working party.’

Rulka had to interrupt this frequently to ask him to explain and speak more slowly. He knew a few simple Polish words and a little German, but when she discovered he could speak reasonable French and it was a language she had learnt at school, they communicated in a mixture of all three which, together with a lot of expressive hand actions, caused a great deal of hilarity. She had not laughed so much for months.

‘Poland is a very long way from England, Sergeant, and the ports are in German hands.’

‘Yes, but maybe I could get to the Russian lines. Aren’t they supposed to be our allies now? Would they help?’

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I doubt it. They would probably send you to Siberia. That would be much worse than a German prisoner of war camp, believe me.’ Rulka, like many Poles, trusted Stalin no more than she trusted Hitler.

‘Then what do you suggest? I won’t give myself up.’

‘Let us wait and see what my friend says, shall we? In the meantime, eat.’ She put a plate of food on the table in front of him.

‘What about you? Where is yours?’

‘I have my food at my place of work.’ This wasn’t strictly true but he looked as though he needed a meal more than she did.

He tucked in and by the time he had finished eating, Boris had arrived.

Rulka had met Boris once or twice before and had no hesitation in letting him in. Dressed in an ill-fitting overcoat and worn-down shoes, he was tall and slim but his slimness hid a wiry strength. Born in Poland in 1918, his parents had fled with him to England during the war with Russia in 1920 and had become British citizens. He had been brought up in England, but his parents never forgot their roots and always spoke Polish at home, with the result he was completely bilingual. How he had arrived in Poland, or even if Boris Martel was his real name, she had no idea and knew better than to ask.

He had brought a half-bottle of vodka with him which he poured into three glasses, then took his to the settee where he sprawled with his long legs out in front of him. He appeared completely relaxed, but appearances were deceptive, as Rulka knew. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he instructed Colin, who had stayed at the table, while Rulka busied herself clearing away the plates and washing them up. Colin repeated what he had told Rulka. At the end of it, Boris questioned him closely. He wanted to know where he had lived in England, where he had gone to school, what work he did in civilian life, when and where he joined the army, his regiment and his company within it, how he had been captured and what other camps he had been sent to. He asked him which football team he supported at home and the names of the players. He even asked him what picture had been on at the local cinema the last time he had been in England, all of which Colin patiently answered. Then he asked him his mother’s maiden name and where and when he had
been born and whether he was married or had a girlfriend.

‘I am unmarried and unattached,’ he said, growing impatient with the cross-examination. ‘My mother was Ethel Rutherford. I was born on the last day of October 1917 in Royston. That’s a small town in Hertfordshire, in case you didn’t know.’

‘I do know,’ Boris said quietly. ‘We have to make these checks, you know.’

‘And am I entitled to make checks myself? Are you going to tell me who you are?’

‘No.’

‘Is that it, then?’

‘For now.’

‘Are you going to help me?’

‘Perhaps,’ Boris said, watching the other man carefully, as he had been doing all through the interview, which had been conducted in English. He turned to Rulka and spoke in Polish. ‘Can you keep him here while I make enquiries?’

‘I suppose I can, but I’ll need a ration card for him and some money …’

‘I’ll see about it. Now I must go.’ He stood up and withdrew a sheaf of papers from his pocket which he handed to her. ‘Arkady sent these. He said to meet him at the cafe at nine tomorrow morning for further instructions.’

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.