While Still We Live (41 page)

“If you examine the papers in my handbag,” she said, “you’ll find my British passport as Sheila Matthews, and the forged birth certificate of Anna Braun, and the AO identification paper, and the forged change of name from Anna Braun to Sheila Matthews, and the permits which were given me to let me accomplish this journey under false pretences.” Her head still throbbed with a deep steady pulse, but the feeling of grave danger had cleared her mind. She was seeing things now with a terrifying clearness. What a futile way to die, she thought. How abjectly silly...

There was a rustle of paper. The thickset man held a torch carefully pointed downward. The tall Jan cupped his large peasant’s hands round its weak light. The captain turned over the various pages, studied the text and the photographs and the seals. Sheila watched in an agony of impatience. They were so slow, so thorough, so slow.

At last the torch was switched off.

“Well?” Sheila said. “
Will
you send someone to Korytów?”

The men ignored her. They talked quickly together. The short man argued.

And then the captain said, “There are some points in your favour. You didn’t use the corporal’s gun on Jan, although it had fallen beside your hand in the car. You didn’t struggle away from us at any time. You made no attempt to escape
among the trees when I released your arm. These points are in your favour.”

“Well,” Sheila said, “well—” Her relief choked her.

“On the other hand, how do we know that your story is really true, that you were not instructed to use it if ever you were questioned by some Poles?”

“Well—” Sheila halted again. In desperation, she said to the watchful men, “Doesn’t
any
of you come from this district? Does no one here know Korytów? He could question me about it.”

“We all belong to this district,” the captain said quietly. “I used to visit the Aleksanders. I know them. What was their home like?”

Sheila plunged into a brief description of the house and garden.

“All very well,” the short man said, interrupting her flatly. “The Germans occupied that house on their push to the east. The Germans could have told you what that house is like.”

The captain nodded, but he called softly to one of his men who was stretched on the ground. The man came forward.

“Your girl lived in Korytów. When did you last see her?” the captain asked him.

“August.”

“Do you recognise this woman here?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Did you hear of any foreigner staying at the big house In Korytów this summer?”

The man thought over that. “Believe I did. My girl did mention some funny kind of clothes she had seen in the village. Yes, now I think of it there was a visitor at the big house.”

“Did you hear the visitor’s name?”

“It was one of these foreign ones, twisting your tongue.”

In Polish, Sheila said, “Did you know Kawka? How is his mother who was so ill? Did you know Benicki—Wanda, the little goosegirl—Jan Reska the schoolmaster? Felix, Maria?”

“Aye, all these I knew. Jan Reska... There was a lot of talk about him and—” The man looked at his captain. He had remembered in time that he was a friend of the Aleksander family.

“Pani Barbara is dead,” Sheila said quietly.

“God rest her soul.”

“And Pan Professor Korytowski has been arrested. Pan Andrew is missing.”

The man said, “He is?” And then slowly, as if the name had struck some thin note in his memory, he added, “I remember now. There was talk he was going to marry the foreigner, that was it. That was why she was there.”

Sheila could feel the captain’s eyes staring at her. Thank God. In one way, for the peasant’s chief interest—gossip. In one way, thank God. In another way—she felt her cheeks flush hotly under the captain’s unseen scrutiny.

“You have said you met Andrew Aleksander in London,” he said softly, “and that Madame Aleksander invited you to Korytów. This last piece of information adds a little more sense to your story, even if it does embarrass you.”

“What about Korytów?”

“I think we’ll let you handle that. We must push on to our camp fifteen miles south of here. We could set you back on the road near the scene of your accident. You could make up a story of lying unconscious in the wood to which you fled. You
will find the Germans all right. They will be there by this time. And then you can go on to Korytów and complete your mission there.” He held out her handbag to her.

She didn’t take it. She said dully, “And then I’ll be back with
them
again.”

“But they trust you. So you told us.”

“Yes. But my luck can’t hold forever. I managed to scrape through this afternoon at the Gestapo headquarters, only because one of the men was despised and distrusted by the others. And because four Nazis were all in different branches of the service. But if I were to meet four Gestapo men, all solidly together—”

“Then why were you chosen for this kind of work?”

“I wasn’t especially chosen or trained. I’ve
told
you. It just sort of happened. Things have a habit of becoming more complicated than the way they were planned. If I go back, I’ll be in deeper than ever... Streit, the Gestapo man, invited me to dinner... He meant it...”

“Couldn’t you handle that?” The Pole’s voice was mocking.

The wind, rustling the pointed pines, had risen to blow away the clouds. Above her head now was a clear sky. The darkness gave way to the half-light of stars. The shadows round her were now faces. She could see the smiles on the two men’s lips.

She rose abruptly. “Yes, I’m a coward. I know that. I want the easy way of disappearing.” It would have been a good way, too. No suspicion on Hofmeyer. Only a minor fanfare for Anna Braun, kidnaped and missing in the line of duty.

“All right,” she said slowly. She passed one hand wearily over her brow, held out the other for her bag. She turned towards the path which had brought her here. Her steps were
as slow as her words; her feet dragged. The broad-shouldered man moved quietly round to block her way.

“One moment!” the captain called after her. “Three things I want to know. Who is the man you called your chief—the friend of Korytowski?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Who is the man you called his assistant, the man who employed you?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“Why did you say ‘Wisniewski’ down on the road?” Sheila caught her breath. She answered slowly as if trying to find for herself the reason why that name had come so spontaneously to her lips, “Your men called you
rotmistrz
. That meant you belonged to the cavalry. So did he.”

“There are several cavalry officers of that name. Surely you didn’t expect me to know your Wisniewski.”

“He was a horseman I thought you would know. Adam Wisniewski. He represented Poland at the international riding competitions. Surely you must know him if you are in the cavalry? I thought that if you knew him and saw that I knew him, then you wouldn’t shoot me at once. You’d give me a chance to explain. All I wanted was not to have a Polish bullet in me. It seemed a pity to die so—so unnecessarily. And then...” She hesitated, and looked sharply at the listening faces. Did the rest of these men really not understand English?

“And then?” the captain repeated patiently.

“Well, he is doing something of the same kind of fighting as you are. I suppose when I saw a cavalry officer leading a guerrilla attack I thought—at least I suppose I thought subconsciously of Adam Wisniewski.”

“I think,” the captain said very slowly, “I think we have still more information to find out. Your story was not so complete as it seemed. Sit down. Just how do you know what Wisniewski is doing? When did you last see him?” Sheila looked at the man who still blocked the path. Jan had moved up obediently beside him.

She said angrily, “I don’t believe you ever meant I was to leave. You still don’t believe me. Why did you tell me to go when you didn’t mean it?”

“To see if you would go readily, eager to reach your German friends with the news that our camp was fifteen miles south of this point. I believe you more than I did ten minutes ago.”

“But what about Korytów?” To the man whose girl lived at Korytów she said in Polish, “Korytów is to be destroyed by the Germans. Someone must warn the people to scatter to the woods, to other villages.”

“I can handle my own men, thank you,” the Polish captain said in a hard voice. Then wearily, “Korytów will be your final test. I’ll send two men. If they don’t return or if they find no Germans arrive within forty-eight hours then we shall know you are too clever to live.”

To the man whose girl lived at Korytów, he said, “Go with Jan. Warn the people. Then watch for two nights and two days to see if the Szwaby arrive. You know where to join us. We’ll wait for you there until the night after your watch is ended. Take great care. I may be sending you into a trap.”

From the irritation in his voice, Sheila suddenly realised the risk the captain was taking. He was half-angry with himself that he should have listened to her. He was torn with doubts between a possible danger to Korytów, probable danger to his
men, suspicion of such a story, belief in certain extraordinary details. To hold her as a hostage was the most generous thing he could afford to do. The broad-shouldered man obviously shared none of the part-belief which had been awakened in the captain. Sheila, listening to the captain’s worried voice, knew she should be thankful for even this small mercy. Her own irritation over the slowness of his decision vanished.

Jan was looking at her. He said with a broad grin, “You wouldn’t make
me
dead, would you, miss?”

Sheila shook her head. She was smiling, now. She said to the man who knew Korytów: “Find Pani Marta and the two children, Teresa and Stefan. Tell them they must go to Warsaw and Madame Aleksander. She is ill and alone at Frascati Gardens, 37. She needs them.” She opened her bag quickly and searched for her re-entry permit into Warsaw. “No good. Oh damn and blast and damn,” she said in English to herself. The permit was in the decided name of Anna Braun. “Tell Pani Marta she must swear she lived in Warsaw and was a refugee who is now returning. She must do that. Otherwise she won’t get in. Remember: Frascati 37.” The men nodded, looked to their captain for a sign of dismissal, and then moved silently towards the path back towards the road.

“I’d almost believe she meant what she was saying if I hadn’t seen the results of so many German lies.” It was the broad-shouldered man who was speaking. He stood, compact and solid and watchful.

“Enough, Thaddeus,” the captain said. He stared at the ground before his feet, and then looked suddenly at Sheila. His eyes were bitter. If you’ve lost me two good men, by God I’ll shoot you, myself, he seemed to say. For one moment Sheila
thought he was going to recall the men and let Thaddeus have his way. He rose suddenly, and moving towards the other men gave them quick orders. They lifted the spoils they had won, wearing part of them, carrying the rest.

An owl gave its sharp cry behind Sheila. She started. But it was the broad-shouldered man called Thaddeus. He repeated the mournful cry as she watched him, and then smiled in spite of himself at her amazement. From three places in the wood came the hoots of other owls, irregular, so natural, that Sheila thought of the three sentries stationed there only after she saw that the rest of the men were leaving the clearing. They scattered, walking singly or in pairs.

The captain said, “I’m afraid I must burden you with my presence. Only keep silent. We have forty-eight hours for talking in the safety of our camp. That will be a pleasant way to pass the time.”

“And if your men don’t return?” Sheila asked wryly.

The officer smiled stiffly, too formally, as if she had made a remark in doubtful taste. “It will still have been a pleasant way,” he said calmly.

The sharply pointing pines rustled in the wind. It was a sad wind, sighing and lamenting. The stars were remote and cold. The other men had vanished into the deep shadows of the wood. Sheila kept the steady pace of the man beside her, and his silence. Beyond the wood were long stretches of solitary fields. Beyond the fields were other woods. Beyond the woods were further fields. The distance was much longer than fifteen miles. Fifteen miles, he had said. Fifteen miles to the south. Yes, fifteen miles to the south for the Germans’ benefit. Fifteen miles to the south for her information if she were in German pay.
Now she knew that they weren’t travelling due south, either.

When dawn came, mist shrouded the endless plain behind them and the wide forest which lay ahead. Within the shelter of the first band of trees, the captain let her rest for ten minutes. And then her heavy feet were following his, deeper into the thickness of the forest. Once he caught her as she stumbled drunkenly against his side. After that, he kept a grip on her arm and helped her through the wet thick underbrush.

“One more mile,” he promised her, looking at her white face. “A short one,” he added encouragingly. Sheila was too tired to answer. She was too tired to smile. She could only try to keep erect, to wade through the heavy white mist which swirled round her legs and hid her feet like the cold hungry surf of a surging sea.

THE SPY

As they left the masses of russet-coloured honeysuckle, which, covering the ground, had dragged at their feet and twisted round their legs with the pull of a quicksand, Sheila heard the clear whistle of a bird. It came from behind the trees, near the path which the captain at last allowed himself to use. Once this path had been a cart-track, perhaps even a forest road. Now, fine green grass grew over the ruts at the edge, and led them with leisurely twists through the crowding roots of trees. The captain was hurrying once more, urging her on with concealed excitement, as somewhere ahead of them in this grey morning mist another bird answered. Then there were, suddenly, no trees. Just a stretch of frosted dew gleaming coldly. She heard men’s voices welcoming them. The captain was saying, “Well, we’ve made it. We’re the last, I see, but we made it,” and Sheila raised her eyes for the first time from the path. The silver mist was rising. It unveiled the forest circling round this clearing,
and the trees were scarlet and bronze and yellow. Sheila stood there, looking at the trees and the soft mist. It was like watching a curtain going up in the theatre, when you hold your breath at the unexpected beauty of the stage.