While Still We Live (22 page)

RECRUITMENT

Sheila had lost all count of time.

When the door opened, it wasn’t Steve or Schlott or any of the others. It was Olszak, a thinner, wearier, grimmer Olszak. “You’ll catch another chill,” he warned her. His calm voice brought her back into the room. “And somebody may think you are showing a light to attract enemy planes.”

Sheila guiltily pushed the board back into its position across the window. “I forgot,” she said inadequately. I truly forgot about the candles.”

Mr. Olszak was smiling. “Frankly, I don’t think it matters so much now. But it’s a waste, of good candle. How’s your hand?”

“It’s all right.” She looked at him quickly. “Who told you? Steve?”

“Yes. I found him at Korytowski’s flat when I reached there tonight. He has now gone with Korytowski to find Madame Aleksander.”

“Should they tell her, so soon?”

“They were discussing that when I left them. Their courage in that respect was very low. You may seen them here, instead.”

“Why didn’t you go with them and give them some support?”

“Well, Stevens was worried about you alone here. And I thought I’d like to see you.”

Sheila was touched that this man should have made the frightful journey through the streets to see her. She smiled.

“So, you’ve forgiven me for nearly killing you?” Mr. Olszak asked. “I hardly expected such a warm smile of welcome. Thank you.” He sat down at the table. He thought it would be wise to talk about past things and to avoid tonight’s happenings. Sheila’s eyes were too hard, too bright. “Well, we got the woman, Elzbieta. Again, thank you. You did a very good job.”

“What about the man?”

“Henryk, or rather Heinrich Dittmar? He never came back to the porter’s lodge. He has disappeared.”

Sheila suddenly remembered the feeling of being watched as she had entered the police car in the dark street, that night. Perhaps she had been right, after all... Perhaps...

“Yes?” asked Mr. Olszak.

She told him what she had imagined that night and then had laughed away.

“If you were right, we shall soon know. He will make it unpleasant for any of us he can recognise again. You will be all right. In fact, your case will be stronger with the Germans. If I remember rightly, one of my men had you in a very decided grip, which rather distressed me at the time.”

Mr. Olszak poured himself some vodka. “I am glad,” he went on in his quiet smooth voice, “that you recovered so well from your illness. You are still somewhat thin, and probably—if
I could see your cheeks—too white. But I must say you worried me for quite a while. You never thought I had a conscience, did you?”

“I think you believe in what you do, and nothing will stop you.”

“Same thing. Won’t you have some wine?”

Sheila shook her head. She had promised herself the pleasure of giving Mr. Olszak a shock whenever she saw him again. And here he was, and she couldn’t remember what she had been going to say to him.

“Why don’t you wash your face?” Mr. Olszak, it seemed, was determined, not to let her think.

She stared at him. He was drawing a handkerchief out of his pocket as he went over to the bucket of water. “Come here. I’ll get rid of the worst streaks.” He bathed her face carefully, and while she finished the cleaning process, he searched for a towel. Madame Knast’s best curtain had to suffer some more tearing.

“Organise yourself. That’s the thing. Organise,” he was saying. He surveyed their joint efforts critically. “Much better. But as I thought, too pale. Did you eat all the butter I sent? And the eggs? And did you drink the wine?”

“I ate and drank everything. I couldn’t stop eating. Barbara said—” Sheila’s voice faltered.

“Comb your hair. It’s terrible,” Mr. Olszak said quickly. Then as she looked round in a puzzled way, “Isn’t there a comb here?” He fumbled through his pockets.

“My handbag. I can’t remember what happened to it. I had it—” Steve had taken a sack of sand over his shoulders and he had left her and she had helped the young girl, had used both her hands to grasp the slipping heavy corners of the sandbag.
And then there had been nothing but hurry and effort and strain...

Olszak, watching her eyes, said sharply, “What’s that tearing your pocket’s seams?”

She looked down slowly and began to laugh. “My handbag. I jammed it in. I must have.” It was tightly wedged into the pocket. Her coat tore farther as she tugged and pulled.

“Easy now,” Mr. Olszak was saying. “That’s a nice coat.” He didn’t add, “And it may be a very long time before you have another one like it.”

Sheila was still laughing as the bag came free.

“Stop that. Stop it, and comb your hair. Here, give that bag to me.” He opened it and his thin fingers searched quickly for the comb. “I remember the first day I looked into this small contraption. I wondered how anyone could ever cram so much inside. Do you remember that day? In Colonel Bolt’s office?”

Sheila took the comb and began tugging at the ends of her hair. They were harsh and singed. Her eyebrows had the same dry feeling. So had her eyelashes.

“Do you remember?” Mr. Olszak insisted.

She nodded. As she combed her hair, she was remembering. Mr. Olszak and Mr. Kordus and Steve. Steve who knew so much without understanding the full meaning of what he knew.

“How is Colonel Bolt?”

“Everywhere. The man’s energy is boundless.” There was a little smile in Olszak’s eyes as if he believed in other ways of spending one’s energy.

“And how is Mr. Kordus?”

The smile was still in place, but there was a hard edge to it. “When did you hear of Kordus?”

The frank question took away much of Sheila’s assurance. She heard herself give the direct answer she hadn’t meant to give so quickly.

“Steve heard that a Mr. Kordus was Special Commissioner to the Security Police.”

“I believe he is. But who told Stevens?”

The story was neatly extracted with Mr. Olszak’s usual skill. Sheila was left with no feeling of triumph at having jolted Mr. Olszak, who had consistently dominated her since their first meeting. She began to wish she had never given in to her impulse to watch Mr. Olszak jump. For he hadn’t. On the contrary, he was in full cry after a probably innocent Stevens.

“But he has no axe to grind,” she protested in the American’s defence.

“My dear young lady,” Mr. Olszak was at his silkiest, “have you ever known a journalist without an axe to grind?”

“I’m sure he would have told you himself whenever there was time. He’s been busy.” Somehow, her sarcasm was wasted. She said, suddenly uncomfortable and chastened, “Shouldn’t I have told you then?”

“Of course. And before this. And found out the name of Stevens’ informant, who points and talks too much.”

“But the man didn’t know you were Olszak. He pointed you out as Kordus. And Russell Stevens didn’t tell him the truth.”

“Stevens is really too inquisitive.”

Sheila’s temper flared as her worry over Stevens grew. “All right, then. I shouldn’t have told you. I should have let you go on thinking that no one ever found out that Olszak was Kordus, or Kordus was Olszak.”

“No one knew, except three men who made my appointment
possible and who are working with me. No one knew... See, you’ve shaken my confidence, Miss Matthews: I should say, ‘No one, I hope.’ Does that please you?” There was a gentle little smile round the thin lips. She was not only worried, but ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” she said miserably.

“No, don’t be. I’m glad you had the very natural impulse to—shall we say, tease? You’re a high-spirited creature, Miss Matthews, and you’ve resented the way I’ve used the curb and the snaffle. You don’t like a tight rein, do you?”

Sheila smiled in spite of herself. Mr. Olszak’s idea that women were like highly bred horses amused her. “And now you are giving me a lump of sugar,” she said.

“It’s surprising,” Mr. Olszak said, “how well we understand each other.” And then he was silent, his arms folded, his chin sunk, his eyes watching the flickering candles. “When a man knows too much,” he said at last, “either you make him one of your party or you eliminate him. These are the only ways to silence him.”

Sheila stared. “Not Steve!” she said. “He’s on our side. He will promise to keep silent. I know he will.”

“Promises are not so binding as dangers shared. Promises are merely good intentions. They are not enough. You see, Miss Matthews, every day and every hour make my plans more real. You’ve seen Warsaw. You know, as I know, that nothing more can be done. We have nothing left, neither light nor water nor food nor medicine nor ammunition. Not even clean air. But although we shall have to capitulate, the battle will go on. As long as we have one ally left in the world outside, we will fight. Even without that ally, we’ll fight. We must. No nation is ever
free which lets other nations fight for its freedom.” He regained his calm voice and said, “You see, Miss Matthews?”

“I see.”

“Did Stevens ask any questions about me?”

“Nothing very much.”

Olszak looked almost comical in his sarcastic disbelief. Then he relented. “Don’t worry so much about your American friend. I happen to like him. Why don’t you sit on that couch? It’s comfortable, at least.” He rejected his own longing for sleep, and searched for something to say to this girl whose eyes were still too hard, too bright. She had taken his advice, but she was sitting bolt upright on the couch, resisting its comfort as she resisted consolation. She would keep staring at the boarded window, as if she could still see that sky smothering the city and its suburbs. He could feel its colour in the heat of this room. He thought of the streets across the Vistula. By this time... Well, he thought, what good will worrying do? Either he is alive, or he has been killed. Worrying will do no good.

The silence had become as intolerable as the heat. Olszak moved restlessly. He said, his thoughts still across the river, “You have met Adam Wisniewski, haven’t you?”

At first he thought she hadn’t heard him.

And then she was saying, “Is he dead, too?”

He looked at her curiously. “No,” he said quickly. “He’s alive. At least he was very much alive two hours ago.”

Again there was a pause, and her face was quite expressionless. Then she suddenly bowed her head, and all he could see was the crown of smoothly combed hair.

What’s wrong now? he wondered. He saw her body relax, and he knew that whatever he had said hadn’t been wrong after all.
For a moment, he sensed something which he couldn’t explain, couldn’t fit into a logical pattern, and it exasperated him. There were so many tangents to a woman’s way of thinking. Men were simpler. Either they thought in the same or in a parallel direction as you did, or their way of thinking crossed yours at a decided angle. But these women...and the younger they were, the less understandable. Youth in itself was so involved. What was the process of becoming old but a choosing of the essential things, a discarding of too many impulses, a forgetting of too many dreams? How would it feel to be young again and have so many personal emotions cluttering up one’s life? These young people would pity his age, his dry way of living. They would never guess the relief he felt because he had achieved a perspective of life. He was master of his own mind and of his emotions. He depended on no one. He was less vulnerable. He indeed travelled fastest who travelled alone.

Sheila had fallen asleep. Quite unexpectedly, her eyes had closed, her body had slumped forward, and she was unconscious as if an ether mask had been covering her face. She would have been surprised to see the care with which Mr. Olszak straightened her into a more comfortable position and covered her with a blanket. She would have been surprised to see him wait so patiently beside her until morning came, and with morning an exhausted Stevens and a grim-faced Korytowski.

She awakened to hear Steve’s overhearty, “Nice domestic scene.” Mr. Olszak only nodded benignly. He let the other men talk on. They had been unable to speak to Madame Aleksander. Her hospital had been bombed again, and she had been too busy with the remaining nurses moving the survivors from the courtyard, where they had been dragged to safety, into another
building.

“I’ll wait until tomorrow,” Korytowski repeated. The lines on his face, thin and white under the soiled bandage round his head, were deeper. His eyes were dark caves; the blue light had gone from them.

The American threw himself on the floor beside the couch. He seemed relieved to have found Sheila so quiet and composed.

They talked spasmodically of the city.

No one mentioned Barbara.

Then Mr. Olszak said to Sheila: “I think you need more sleep. It will be easier next door.”

She knew what that meant. As she left the room, she looked at Steve. Her tired eyes said, “Steve, be careful. Don’t be smart. Be ignorant and careful. And give the right answers.”

He was looking at her too. He saw the expression in her eyes and thought, she’s as unhappy as hell. To the two men he said, as the bedroom door closed quietly, “She must have been very fond of Barbara.”

Edward Korytowski closed his tired eyes, nodded wearily. He was thinking of his sister Teresa. Barbara was the first of them to go. Or was she? What of little Teresa, or Stefan, or Andrew, or of Stanislaw? The longer he postponed breaking the news, the harder it was going to be for him to do it. He ought to have insisted that they search tonight until they had actually seen Teresa. But both he and Stevens had been loath to find her, to tell her. They had welcomed the excuse that the time was well-chosen. And if there hadn’t been that excuse, they would probably have found some other reason. The city was being bludgeoned into unconsciousness, its grip was weakening. Before the end was called, anything could happen.
Why not wait until the death of the city? If Teresa or he were still alive then, that would be enough for her to know. If she weren’t alive, then he would have spared her one sorrow more. He looked at Olszak as if for help. Michal would know what ought to be done.

Korytowski rested his head wearily on his arms; his mind had begun to reel as if his emotions had made him drunk. Helpless anger and grief gave way to hate. He could do nothing but hate. Hate the men who had ruined his country, shattered his city, killed his people so ruthlessly. One month ago, they had all been living here in peace; sleeping, eating, working in peace. There had been light and warmth and flowers in the streets, there had been music, there had been people who laughed. There had been families and birthdays and visits to friends. There had been books to read in neat rooms, with only the voices of children playing in the gardens or the singing of the birds to break the quiet. The sky had been dark and cool at night, unclouded blue in daytime. And as he thought of these things, he could do nothing but hate. He had felt this since the first bomb had fallen, but Barbara’s death released it from the secret places of his heart. It was now in command of him. All he could do was to hate. And he hated the Germans all the more for having taught him to hate like this.