While Still We Live (26 page)

Olszak paused. The men and women were motionless. Stevens’ arm was tense on the back of the chair. Korytowski
beside them whispered, “Now, forget nothing.”

Olszak was speaking again. “Our first department has been given the name of Number Ten. Number Ten, are you here?”

“Here,” a voice said quietly. One of the watchful men straightened his back. The thin, anxious face waited expectantly.

“Department Ten: editing of news. You have your initial newspapers planned and located, your editors chosen and their staffs selected?”

“Yes.”

“Department Eleven: printing of news.”

“Here.” A broad-shouldered artisan raised his hand.

“You have the nucleus of a printing press gathered together and hidden, as we arranged? You have contacted trustworthy presses for secret help?”

“All set.”

“Department Twelve: distribution of newspapers.”

A young woman’s voice said, “All arranged as you advised. All we need are the papers.”

“Good. Departments Ten, Eleven, Twelve will work as a unit. Make your final arrangements today.”

“All made,” said the quiet voice of Number Ten. The other two echoed him.

“Number Ten will also work closely with our next department, Number Thirteen: radio.”

A tall, thin man with a bandaged shoulder said, “Here. Transmitters and receivers installed in key points. Hundreds of radio parts being hidden for future use. Reliable men are in charge. Subdepartments for sending and receiving have been formed. A special group for code messages is already at work. A network of six stations encircling our central station will be
in contact not only with each other and the central station, but with our allies in the outside world. Smaller stations will form their networks round each of these six stations. Thus, we will maintain contact between the various districts of Poland, and between Poland and our allies. The plan should be working smoothly and fully by the end of a year.”

“Excellent. Now we come to three departments working closely together. First, Number Fourteen: communication.”

“Here,” a business-like voice answered. “Routes are being planned for the escape out of Poland of those in political danger. Contacts outside Poland are being established for two initial underground railways.”

“Department Fifteen: papers and passports.”

“Here,” a dark-haired man said. Sheila stared at him. He reminded her of someone. “Our chosen men are ready, but we must wait for the German issue of permits and passports before we can copy them.” The voice was familiar; an Aleksander voice. Stefan...this man was like Stefan. Sheila strained to see him better. Was this Stanislaw, the diplomat? His tweed suit, well-tailored, was now stained and torn. There was a bandage at his neck. He still wore the armband of the irregular soldier. Then Olszak’s voice caught her attention again.

“Department Sixteen: transit in Poland from one district to another.”

“Contacts established before outbreak of war. Main routes already planned. We found no lack of volunteers. The people are willing. But like Number Fifteen here, we must wait to see how the Szwaby orders us about. We’re ready for them.” This time, the speaker was one of the workmen in blue dungarees who sat near Sheila. He had the alert face of a man who has been
accustomed to secret political planning. There was confidence in his voice and in his quick eyes.

“Good. All of us will need the help of Number Sixteen.”

The man grinned and rubbed his nose self-consciously. “We’ll take care of you,” he said. The others stirred restlessly as if they had relaxed into a grim smile for a moment.

“Our next seven departments might be put under one head, that of sabotage. But they are each so important in themselves that we have subdivided them and made them autonomous. Department Number Seventeen: railways.”

“Here,” a man, with a greasy leather cap worn at an angle, spoke up: “I’ve got my first batch of men all chosen. But we’ll have to wait until the Szwaby build the railways again before we can blow them up.” The group of workmen round him grinned, and then waited tensely to give their answers in turn. Two soldiers straightened their backs and held themselves ready.

“Department Eighteen: power stations.”

“Here.” That man might be an engineer. White collar, roughened hands.

“Number Nineteen: fuel dumps.”

“Here,” said a workman with the armband of the irregular soldier.

“Number Twenty: ammunition dumps.”

“Here,” one of the soldiers answered.

“Number Twenty-one: bridges, tunnels, canals.”

“Here.” This time it was a neatly dressed man who had lifted his right arm. A construction engineer, a draughtsman, a builder? Sheila couldn’t guess. In past life the man had been successful. You could tell that at least from his voice.

“Twenty-two: troop trains, shipment of arms and military supplies.”

“Here,” the second soldier said. He was a countryman. He seemed restless in this warm room.

“Number Twenty-three: factories.”

“Here.” The man carried the responsibility and pride of a workman who had risen to the position of foreman through his own efforts.

“These seven departments are waiting only to see what the Germans offer them.” The sabotage group nodded, and a variety of phrases to signify agreement formed a sudden chorus. Even Olszak’s face relaxed for one moment.

Then he said, very crisply, very evenly, “Number Twenty-four; assassination.”

Sheila took a deep breath, but the serious-faced student who answered “Here!” was as calm as Mr. Olszak had been. “We, too, wait for what the Germans have to offer us. Weapons are being hidden, men are being chosen. At present, we intend to avoid indiscriminate assassination and reprisals. A few well-chosen key Nazis will be worth more than a thousand soldiers.”

“Number Twenty-five: intimidation by anonymous messages, warnings, signs on walls and public places.”

“Here.” This time it was a woman, perhaps a schoolteacher, middle-aged, placid, resolute.

“Number Twenty-six: whispering campaign to affect the German soldiers’ morale.”

“Here!” another woman said. “We are ready for both the men and the officers.” She was well-dressed, with just too much care spent on her clothes and face. Her eyes were hard, her red lips smiled as if she were already welcoming the unwelcome
customers.

“Number Twenty-seven: direction of citizens who are faced with deportation to Germany for forced labour.”

“Here,” a professional man said. He might be a doctor or a lawyer. “Those we can contact before they are seized will have their orders.”

“Hope you don’t have to give them to me,” one of the workmen said pointedly. The men around him again smiled grimly.

“Number Twenty-eight: maintaining the morale of the Polish population. Counteraction against the probable introduction of drugs; of cheap, crude liquor; of pornographic books and entertainment; of excessive gambling; with the purpose to demoralise our people.”

“Here,” the priest’s deep voice answered.

“Good. These last departments, dealing with morale—either attack on that of the Germans or defence of our own—cannot be fully envisaged until we see how the Germans use their power. But your men and women are ready?”

There was a solemn chorus of assent. “Now we come to counterespionage. Number Twenty-nine. That representative cannot be with us today. But I know him well. You can trust him, as I do, to achieve his purpose.” Sheila wondered if Twenty-nine were Olszak, himself. Or was it Hofmeyer?

“Closely allied to counterespionage is Number Thirty, who is responsible for contact with our allies in the world outside. Both will naturally work in close contact with Number Thirteen. Department Number Thirty?”

“Here. All initial contacts prepared.” This time there was no doubt. The quiet voice was Hofmeyer’s. Sheila looked in
his direction, but he had chosen an especially dark shadow. No one, not even one of his comrades, was going to be able to identify Mr. Hofmeyer.

“Now we come to one department which cannot be organised by the same method of deputies and sub-deputies as the others. For in this department of guerrilla warfare, the leader works with a staff of specially chosen officers, and all must fight along with the men they recruit. The essence of successful warfare of this nature is participation and personal direction. Number Thirty-one.”

“Here,” Captain Wisniewski replied. All the voices had been eager. His was hard and angry as well.

“Yours will be a long task,” Olszak continued. “Such warfare can only be carried on after bases have been established, after ammunition and supplies have been collected and hidden, after your men have gathered in sufficient strength and have been trained to know their terrain and to work together.”

“We haven’t had much time to prepare.”

The listeners saw a smile on Olszak’s thin lips.

“Naturally,” he agreed.

The defensive tone left Wisniewski’s voice. “But we have made a beginning. Under the terms of capitulation, all officers are to become prisoners. Tonight, those whom we have chosen will leave the city and make their way through the German lines. Our first base has been selected. We shall proceed there. Give us six months to collect and take what we need, to gather recruits and train them in this way of fighting, and we can start preparing our campaign. At the end of a year, we should be strong enough for co-ordinated attacks, both in the countryside and in city streets. It will be one of our jobs to find which men
are suitable for those different types of resistance.”

“Good,” Olszak said. “You will need the co-operation of Numbers Fifteen, Sixteen, Twenty, and Twenty-two. See them before you leave Warsaw.”

Adam Wisniewski nodded. The men of these departments were already making their way to where he stood.

“Our last department is that of education. Number Thirty-two: the organising of secret Polish schools. We have no reason to hope that our children will be allowed to learn anything except German ideas. During the last German tyranny, our schools and our universities were abolished and our language was banned. Then, for one hundred and fifty years, we depended chiefly on the mothers to teach their children. And they did it nobly in spite of imprisonment and punishment, for otherwise we Poles would have become either pseudo-Germans or one mass of illiterates. Today, we are organising secret schools to be taught by trained teachers. If that is impossible in some locations, then our schoolteachers will secretly help and advise the mothers. Number Thirty-two is still in hospital, I believe. He will be discharged tomorrow. He is sure of full support from his fellow teachers.”

Mr. Olszak paused and looked round the silent faces. “That,” he said, “is our programme. We may add to it, or alter its direction, as the need arises. Any questions, or suggestions?”

The red-faced soldier cleared his throat. “What about the farmers? The peasants should not be left out of this. They’ve got to be united secretly.”

“The farmers have their Peasants’ Party,” Olszak reminded him. “And so far no political opposition has ever managed to crush it. And many of our departments will contact the country
people. We need their help in guerrilla warfare, for instance. They can smuggle food and horses to us. They can give us shelter and clothing. We haven’t forgotten the peasants. We depend on them, now.”

The soldier nodded, as if satisfied. Others rose to ask their questions. Twice, Olszak noted down before him some new idea, but the question about religious persecution was referred to the Church. “Our priests have always defended us,” he said. “The Church of Christ will know how to save.”

The problem of safe hiding places for those in sudden danger, of houses where men wounded in this new struggle could be secretly nursed back to health, was answered by Department Number Sixteen. “We’ll take care of you,” Number Sixteen said once more.

“One question has not been asked,” Olszak said finally. “And that is the question of reprisals taken by the Germans on civilians for acts which our agents will commit in line of duty. If the Germans follow their practices of 1914 to 1916 in Belgium, or of 1916 to 1918 in Poland, we can expect harsh treatment for the innocent. But we must remember that every man, woman or child who is murdered by the Germans in reprisal falls as a soldier on a battlefield. We ourselves face death. We have all accepted that constant threat. If we ask no quarter for ourselves in the secret battle which we fight then no other Pole will hesitate to pay the price we ourselves are willing to pay. For unless each of us is willing to die, we can never win. The choice is this: either we let our purpose be conquered by the blackmail of reprisals, and then we are conquered too; or we harden our will and our hearts, knowing that without sacrifice, the Germans would have a comfortable victory, and Poland
would be forever dead.”

“Never, never!” the editor exclaimed with rising emotion. Others joined his cry: “No, never, never!” Olszak silenced the threatened shout with hands that commanded obedience. “Quietly, quietly. We must not be heard. Quietly.” And then his voice strengthened. “Poland lives, for Poland fights on,” he said. He sat down abruptly, shading his eyes with his hands.

The priest rose. The room’s sudden silence was broken by the rustle of kneeling men and women. Their voices repeated a short oath of allegiance, and their heads were bent to the priest’s brief prayer. It had the intensity, the finality of a prayer before battle. “...God, in whom we trust,” the priest ended, and his arms fell slowly to his side, and the men and women rose to their feet.

Stevens stood up quickly and helped Sheila to rise. He avoided her eyes and pretended to be absorbed in the people around him. Korytowski was beside them again.

“You understood everything? You will remember?” he asked Stevens anxiously, and the American nodded. Korytowski noted the puzzled look on Stevens’ face. “Olszak will explain,” he said. “We are to wait for him next door. The others will take some time to leave. They cannot walk out of here in a body, you know.” He turned towards the door, obviously intending that Sheila and Stevens should follow him. They did so unwillingly: they would have preferred to stay in the room and watch these people. But perhaps Olszak wanted them put of the room for that very reason. Sheila’s last glance round the room ended with Adam Wisniewski. He was still leaning against the bookcase, his officer’s long coat thrown cloakwise round his shoulders. His face was that of a man who had been savagely wounded,
of a man who was so exhausted emotionally that all he could do was to stand unmoving, his face a determined mask, his eyes fixed in a brooding stare on the opposite wall. Number Sixteen was talking earnestly. Wisniewski answered. Number Sixteen nodded as if pleased. Wisniewski was talking again. Sheila suddenly realised that the mask was there to hide his wounds, that there was a depth to this man which she had never suspected. But then, she thought, she had never given him a chance to prove what he was or what he wasn’t. And it was too late now. They would never meet again. The time was out of joint.