While Still We Live (48 page)

Old Single had been right after all. Sheila hadn’t heard them approach, but they were there. Two men carrying rifles, with pheasant feathers in their caps, stepped out of cover. They looked well fed, and clean; and their clothes weren’t in rags. But it wasn’t this so much that made Sheila stare. It was they way they walked and held their heads. Free men live in this forest, she thought, as she watched them advancing towards the boy.

She looked at Jan and Stefan, and smiled.

The boy had left them. He had gone, imitating the soldiers, with a careless wave of his hand and a proud smile. His shoulders had broadened as one of the men slapped him on the back. That was the reward he wanted. He was one of them, even if he was not yet ten years old. Back in the village, his mother would be waiting anxiously, would make him change his sodden clothes, would force him to drink that cabbage
soup, would bother him with low-voiced questions. He would tell her of Old Single, but the soldier’s greeting he would keep for himself.

* * *

Five miles ago, Sheila had determined she was going to walk into the camp on her own feet. No one was going to carry her. If she had come as far as this without needing help, she would finish the journey by herself. Perhaps, subconsciously, she knew there was no chance of staying at the camp unless she seemed strong enough. And she wanted to stay. She was tired of being hunted, of pretence, of uncertainty. She would cook, she would carry water and wash clothes, she would nurse, she would do all the jobs she had once hated and shunned, if only they would let her stay. When she saw the two soldiers, their heads held high, their movements bold and free, she knew she was right. Here she would find men who believed in attack. That was what she wanted now. As the men led them through the trees, her excitement grew. She drew strength from it. She forgot how miserable she had been only half an hour before. Stefan was looking happier. So was Jan. A weight had slipped from all their hearts. It didn’t matter if their bodies were stiff and slow-moving.

One of the men went ahead, setting the pace. The other brought up the rear. The men talked naturally as they strode with their steady confident step along the bewildering path. No longer was there need of whispers or silent gestures. Deer started before them. Grey hare cocked long ears, vanished on longer legs. Pheasants walked jauntily across the path. From dense bushes and undergrowth a flurried wood-grouse would rise.

They came to a small hut, almost hidden by undergrowth. Four men came out to watch them pass.

“Much farther?” Sheila asked in desperation, when they didn’t stop.

“Not so far now,” the man following Stefan said. He looked at her face. “Need help? Hey, Tomasz, we’ll give her a carry.”

“No,” Sheila said and walked on.

There was a second hut, a third hut, each with its watching men. “Wood-grouse,” the leader explained as they passed the huts. “This is where they used to shoot them: the wood-grouse sing here at dawn.”

“No shooting now,” Jan said.

“Bigger game now,” the man agreed, and laughed. “But we can shoot here. The centre of the forest is ten miles from anywhere. A shot doesn’t carry so far. We have to be careful near the forest’s edge, that’s all.”

“We could use bows and arrows,” Stefan said excitedly. “On the birds, I mean.”

The man said, “We’ve got a lot of things planned out.” His smiling confidence was infectious. Jan nodded, with interest. Stefan’s questions multiplied, in spite of his tiredness. And Sheila, seeing the trees thin out ahead of them, seeing the bright colour of their leaves blotted out by the weathered logs of a long, low house, knew she had managed it. She had won not only against the German patrols; she had won against herself. She was walking into the camp on her own two feet.

* * *

The room was long and dim. The small windows, far-spaced, didn’t allow much of the early morning light to enter. At one end of the room was a large open fireplace; at the other, under
three small windows, a table. High on the brown pine walls, heads of animals looked glassily down on the three strangers. Open rafters stretched across the room’s breadth, showing a dark triangle of roof above them. There was a smell of tobacco, of coffee, of roasted food. Sheila didn’t know whether it was staring up through the rafters at the pointed shadow of the roof, or the feeling of sudden warmth and civilised life, which made her feel so dizzy. She had walked in unhelped; it looked as if she would never get out that way. She swayed, and Jan’s strong arm helped her to steady herself. Stefan, his eyes fixed excitedly on the large wall-map, on the uniformed men, noticed nothing else.

The officers grouped round the table had raised their heads as the two soldiers shepherded the newcomers through the doorway. They looked with an annoyance at this interruption, which gave way to silent pity. Adam Wisniewski was there, two other officers, and the white-haired man. One of them said brusquely to the soldiers, “Three more of them? Well, give them something to eat. We’ll question them later. And, for God’s sake, scrub them.” Adam Wisniewski didn’t even look at them any more. He was too busy explaining something. The white-haired man was the only one who still stared.

Sheila’s sustaining excitement ebbed. She looked at Jan, holding her up so determinedly. He had more sense than to expect anyone to be excited over what they had done. Nowadays, a journey such as theirs was mere routine. Most of the men here would have wilder, grimmer tales to tell. The roof’s pointed height, the soaring antlers on the stags’ heads, made Sheila feel still smaller. She made as if to turn around to the doorway, but it was as if she were standing on ice: her feet
were afraid to turn.

The white-haired man’s voice was coming nearer. “... recognise that man,” he was saying, “and the boy.”

Jan let Sheila go, straightened his shoulders, and saluted. “Jan Pietka from Captain Reymont’s camp, sir,” he said with natural pride.

“You’ve travelled quickly. I arrived here only two hours ago, and I was alone. You’ve done well.” He looked as if he needed sleep, too, but he had bathed and shaved and discarded his peasant dress for his cavalry uniform. Everyone looked so clean, Sheila thought. Clean, clean. She suddenly realised how filthy she was. Even the white-haired man hadn’t recognised her this way.

“Any of the others here yet?” Jan asked quickly.

“No, you are the first. Better get washed, find some dry clothes, something to eat, and rest. We’ll question you after that.” And then, as if he had just remembered, “You were in charge of the English girl, weren’t you?” He stared at Sheila, then suddenly reached forward to pull the handkerchief back off her hair.

“We’ll question them later, Colonel Sierakowski,” Wisniewski said impatiently, and moved some papers aside to make room for a map. “Now if you come here, I’ll explain what we...”

Sheila saw in Sierakowski’s eyes unexpected sympathy. She turned shakily to take a step out of the room. She wanted to get away. She had perhaps wanted praise, but she couldn’t bear pity.

Sierakowski was speaking quickly. Chairs scraped at the table. Footsteps hurried across the room. Adam Wisniewski
was beside her. He was saying something. He had caught her arm. She kept her face turned away from him. And then, suddenly, her feet were lifted off the treacherous ground, her body relaxed in a firm grip, and Adam was carrying her into the sunlight streaming sideways through the trees.

THE REAPERS

There was warmth, the soft rise and fall of light voices, the lazy feeling of security. Sheila stretched her body under the coarse linen sheet. The straw mattress rustled. The voices halted. Sheila, too contented with this new world of comfort, kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to move; she just wanted to lie here forever and ever.

The voices began again.

“...until the potatoes stick to the meat, and the marrow juice comes out of the bones...”

“Water only drowns it....”

“...headache fit to split...”

“At least forty threads to the inch...”

“Rat’s teeth...never saw such stitches. And she...”

Two women gossiping gently. Cooking, dresses, the weather, illness, other women. Women gathered round a village well, round a bridge table, round a factory bench, round a silver
coffee tray. Women talking together.

Sheila kept quite still, and listened drowsily. It was wonderful to feel so warm and safe and clean. It was a spell she didn’t want to break.

At last, one of the women rose and came over to the bed. Sheila had kept her eyes closed too long. Now, as the woman stood beside her touching her brow with a business-like hand, Sheila found she really couldn’t open her eyes and show she had been awake—awake, listening to the women, without telling them.

“Much better,” the crisp voice said and the cool hand left Sheila’s brow. “She’s been quite normal for two days now. I feel rather proud of her, as if she were my first case all over again.”

“You’ll soon have plenty more,” the softer of the two voices said. “I wonder when the raiding party will be back? Did you hear what they were out for, this time?”

“Supplies, as usual. But mostly clothes, this time. We’ll need warmer things as soon as the real winter sets in. The Chief went himself on this raid. It’s a big one.”

“I wonder where?”

“Far from here you may be sure. There’s no raiding done near here. Don’t want the Nazis to chase us out of this camp just as we are getting it nice and cosy. You can see a difference every week. When I came here at first, there was only the hunting lodge, unused for years. The forest damp had got into it. Mouldy: that’s what it was, perfectly mouldy. And all the huts unusable, practically falling to pieces. When they brought me to this one and said, ‘Here’s your hospital, nurse!’ I burst out laughing.”

“I hope they bring in some more supplies for our new
shelves.”

“Antoni got the Chief to send some men after drugs and dressings. They are going to lift the contents of a field ambulance. Not a bad idea. That would set us up nicely.”

“It would. Where’s Antoni? He hasn’t been to see her this morning.”

“He will be over here soon. He’s been busy with that case you brought in. The amputation, you know.”

The gentle voice sighed. “I
never
thought he’d live. The other cases were straightforward wounds, but this one—”

“I know, dearie.”

“Sorry.” There was a forced laugh. “Always keep wanting to talk about it. Sorry, Marian.”

“That’s all right. I talk plenty, too. Sort of gets it out of your system. But the Chief’s against talking about the past. I remember the first night we came here. Just a handful of us then, more and more coming every day, some of them straight off the battlefields, some from the woods where they had been hiding, some from the villages, some from the towns. A funny bunch of scarecrows we were. The Chief said, ‘No talking here about what we’ve lost or suffered. That belongs to the past. What we will suffer together is shared by us all. So no talking. And no arguments. I don’t care what politics or religion you have. We are here to fight together, not to fight against each other.’”

“He sort of frightens me.”

“What, him?”

“He’s—well, he seems hardly human.”

“As the Germans will learn. Yes, he’s driven us all pretty hard, but he drives himself hardest. And if we hadn’t a man
like him, where would we all be? We wouldn’t have turned this abandoned forest into a well-prepared camp, ready to face a hard winter. Once he’s satisfied with this place, he’s going into the mountains to start preparing a bigger base for the spring. And that’s a dangerous job he’s planning. The weather is fierce in the Carpathians in the winter, and there’s not only Germans but storms and wolves. That mountain camp will he our main training base, and then this forest one will be one of our advance bases for special raids. Antoni thinks all of us here will be moved up to the mountain base in the spring. He’s hoping that, anyway. He always liked a mountain.”

“I’d like to see them, too. Just once. In the spring? Wonder if we’ll be alive in the—”

“Franziska! Where would you rather be than here with us? With Germans to cart you off to the brothel in their barracks? Or watching your brother being trucked off to Germany as a serf?”

“No, Marian, no. Please. I just get so sad. I sometimes wonder—why should anyone try to live at all? Sometimes, those who have died seem the lucky ones.”

“I’ll send the priest to you, Franziska, if you start that again. You’ll be crawling on your knees all over the forest as penance for such talk, all four hundred square miles of it!” Marian began to laugh.

Franziska’s gentle voice was shocked. “Marian, you shouldn’t say such things. You don’t take religion seriously.”

“Oh, I do my share of praying. But if you want to die, then at least wait until you’ve killed a German or two. Don’t worry, Franziska. If we in this camp are going to die, it will be so exciting we won’t even notice our last moment has come. Or
would you prefer cancer? As a nurse, Franziska, what illness of old age would you prefer to a bullet? My Antoni says that the most depressing thing about being a doctor is just to see what people get for hanging onto life.”

“Marian!”

“All right, all right. Keep your voice down. Don’t waken
her
. But how she does sleep! You would think she was paid for it.”

“She won’t recognise herself when she wakens. When she came she was just a mass of rags and mud. And the Chief carried her here, too. That gave me as big a shock as seeing her. Wonder what she went through?”

“Oh, you’ll soon find out, Franziska. Several of our worst smelling ditches, I thought, myself. Antoni says that kind is always tougher than she looks.”

“I suppose she must have been a friend of his?”

“Of the Chief’s? Looked like it, I must say. But I don’t remember ever seeing her in Warsaw with him.”

“Did you know him then?”

“By sight. Who didn’t? I remember the last time I was at the Opera with Antoni. The Chief was there. I always did like those cavalry uniforms. And the girl with him! White velvet cut down to here. Off her shoulders, like this. Black, black hair, and rubies in her ears. And a sable cape. It touched the floor, all round. Antoni knew her husband, at least he knew the uncle. Nice old thing. I met him once at a University reception. He was a professor. And, do you know, Antoni says he’s among the arrested. He’s on the latest Dachau list. The name’s on the tip of my tongue. Kory-something. Anyway, you should have seen that cape. Funny thing was, when the Chief came in here carrying that bundle of rags so carefully, I kept thinking of that
last time at the Opera, and the sable cape over his arm.”