Kane & Abel (1979) (22 page)

‘Come with me,’ said the Englishman. ‘And quickly, before they change their minds.’

Still in a daze, Wladek grabbed his coat and followed. The crowd booed and jeered, continuing to throw rotten vegetables and fruit at him as he departed. The swordsman strapped the next prisoner’s hand to the block and with his first blow only managed to remove a thumb. This seemed to pacify the mob.

The Englishman moved swiftly through the bustling crowd and out of the square, where he was joined by his companion.

‘What’s happening, Edward?’

‘The boy says he’s a Pole and has escaped from Russia. I told the official in charge he was English, so now he’s our responsibility. Let’s get him to the consulate and find out if his story bears any resemblance to the truth.’

Wladek struggled to keep up with the two men as they hurried down the Street of Seven Kings. He could still faintly hear the mob behind them, screaming their approval every time the sword came down.

The two Englishmen led Wladek through an archway and across a pebbled courtyard towards a large grey building. On the door were the welcoming words, British Consulate. Once he was inside the building, Wladek began to feel safe for the first time. He followed the two men down a long hall with walls covered in paintings of men in strange uniforms. At the far end was a magnificent portrait of an old man in a blue uniform 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 find him some clothes and feed him in the kitchen. When he’s eaten and smells a little less like a walking pigsty, bring him to my office.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the corporal said, and saluted again. ‘Come with me, laddie.’

Wladek followed the soldier obediently, almost having to run to keep up with him. He was taken to a little bedroom in the basement. It only had one tiny window: no chance of escape. The corporal told him to get undressed, then left him on his own. He returned a few minutes later, 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’m Corporal Smithers. You call me Corporal.’

‘I am Wladek Koskiewicz. You call me Wladek.’

‘Don’t try to 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 soothing bath with hot water and soap brought back memories of his Russian protectress, and of the son he might have become, but for her husband. The soldier was back at the door with a set of clothes, strange, but clean and fresh-smelling. Whose son had they belonged to?

Corporal Smithers escorted Wladek to the kitchen and left him with a plump, pink-faced cook, with the friendliest face Wladek had seen since leaving Poland. She reminded him of his
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, Wladek, it looks as though you could do with a good British meal inside of you - none of that Turkish rubbish. 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’s English, his heart’s in the right place.’

‘You are not 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 slowly, fearing that this might be his last good meal 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 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. Wladek glanced at the cook. He always hated saying goodbye to someone he had just met, especially when the person had been so 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.’

She smiled at him. He again had to trot to keep up with the corporal, who came to a brisk halt outside a door and Wladek nearly ran into him.

‘Look where you’re going, lad.’ 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, dressed 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 and continued to work on some papers. Wladek sat looking at him, and then at the paintings on the wall. More men in uniform, but that old bearded gentleman still had the biggest portrait, this time wearing khaki. A few minutes later the other Englishman he’d seen in the market square walked in to join them.

‘Thank you for joining us, Harry. Have a seat, old chap.’ Mr Prendergast turned to Wladek. ‘Now, my boy, let’s hear your story from the beginning, with no exaggerations, only the truth. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Wladek began with his days at the trapper’s cottage in Poland. It took him some time to find the right English words. The two Englishmen occasionally stopped him and asked a question, nodding to each other once he’d given his answer. After an hour of talking, Wladek’s life history had reached the point where he was in the office of Mr Edward Prendergast, His Britannic Majesty’s Second Consul to Turkey.

‘I think, Harry,’ said Prendergast, ‘it’s our duty to inform the Polish delegation immediately, and then hand young Koskiewicz over to them. Given the circumstances he must be their responsibility.’

‘I agree,’ said the man called Harry. ‘You know, my boy, you had a narrow escape today. The Sharia - that is, the old Islamic law which provides for cutting off a hand for theft - was in theory officially abandoned years ago. In fact, it’s a crime under the Ottoman Penal Code to inflict such a punishment. Nevertheless, in practice the barbarians still continue administering it.’ He shrugged.

‘Why not my hand?’ asked Wladek, holding onto his wrist.

‘I told them they could cut off all the Muslim hands they wanted, but not an Englishman’s,’ the Second Consul 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 then we’ll take you to your own delegation tomorrow. The Polish Consul is a good fellow, considering he’s a foreigner.’ He pressed a button, and the corporal reappeared immediately.

‘Sir.’

‘Corporal, take young Koskiewicz to his room, and in the morning see he’s given breakfast and returned to me at nine sharp.’

‘Sir. This way, lad, at the double.’

Wladek was led away by the corporal. He had not even had time to thank the two Englishmen who had saved his hand - and perhaps his life. Back in the clean little room, with its small bed neatly turned down as if he were an honoured guest, he undressed, threw the pillow on the floor and slept soundly until the morning light shone through the tiny window.

‘Rise and shine, lad, sharpish.’

It was the corporal once again, 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, as the corporal’s banging on the end of the metal bed frame with his cane resembled the noise of the prison triangle that Wladek had grown to hate. 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, as he’d never been so clean in his life. He noticed that 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 and then dressed quickly. He was sitting on 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 meeting the previous day.

‘Good morning, Koskiewicz,’ he said.

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Did you enjoy your breakfast?’

‘I no had breakfast, sir.’

‘Why not?’ asked the Second Consul, looking towards the corporal.

‘Overslept, I’m afraid, sir. He would have been late for you.’

‘Well, we must see what we can do about that. Corporal, will you ask Mrs Henderson to rustle up an apple or something?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Wladek and the Second Consul walked slowly along the corridor towards the front door of the consulate and across the pebbled courtyard to a waiting car, one of the few in Turkey. It was Wladek’s first journey in such a vehicle. He was sorry to be leaving the British Consulate. It was the only place in which he’d felt safe for years. He wondered if he was ever going to sleep more than one night in the same bed for the rest of his life. The corporal ran down the steps and took the driver’s seat. He passed Wladek an apple and some warm fresh bread.

‘See there are no crumbs left in the car, lad. The cook sends her compliments.’

The drive through the hot, busy streets was conducted at walking pace as the Turks made no attempt to clear a path for the English camel on wheels. Even with all the windows open Wladek was sweating from the oppressive heat. Mr Prendergast, seated in the back, remained quite cool and unperturbed. Wladek lowered his head for fear that someone who had witnessed the previous day’s events might recognize him and stir the mob to anger again. When the little black Austin came to a halt outside a small, decaying building marked K
ONSULAT
P
OLSKI
, Wladek felt a twinge of excitement mingled with disappointment.

The three of them climbed out.

‘Where’s the apple core, boy?’ demanded the corporal.

‘I eat him.’

The corporal laughed, and knocked on the door. A friendly-looking little man with dark hair and a firm jaw answered it. He was in shirt sleeves, and deeply tanned by the Turkish sun. He addressed them in Polish, the first words Wladek had heard in his native tongue since leaving the labour camp. Wladek answered quickly, explaining his presence. His fellow countryman turned to the British Second Consul.

‘This way, Mr Prendergast,’ he said in perfect English. ‘It was good of you to bring the boy over personally.’

A few diplomatic niceties were exchanged before Prendergast and the corporal took their leave. Wladek gazed at them, fumbling for an English expression more adequate than ‘Thank you’.

Prendergast patted him on the head as he might a cocker spaniel. And as the corporal closed the door, he turned and winked at Wladek. ‘Good luck, my lad. God knows you deserve it.’

The Polish Consul introduced himself as Pawel Zaleski. Once again Wladek was required to recount the story of his life, finding it easier in Polish than he had in English. Zaleski listened in silence, shaking his head sorrowfully.

‘My poor child,’ he said. ‘You have borne more than your share of our country’s suffering for one so young. And now what are we to do with you?’

‘I must return to Poland and reclaim my castle,’ said Wladek.

‘Poland,’ said the Consul. ‘Where’s that? The region where you lived remains in dispute, and there is still heavy fighting going on between the Poles and the Russians as they attempt to agree on a border. General Pilsudski is doing all he can to protect the territorial integrity of our fatherland. But it would be foolish for any of us to be optimistic. There is little left for you now in Poland. No, your best plan would be to start a new life in England or America.’