by Bette Paul
As she approached the club room, she heard the faint sound of a guitar. Someone getting an act together for the talent contest, she thought. And for a moment she hesitated; if this meeting of Katie’s was just to finalize the list of contestants, she didn’t want to be there; without Jan to accompany her she had nothing to sing. She stood outside the heavy double doors listening as the sound grew stronger, with plangent chords and a delicate melody. Automatically, without a thought in her head, Claire began to hum the harmony, pick out the main tune. What was it? Nothing she’d heard before, she was certain. Still humming, she pushed open the door and went in.
At first she could see no one. The music seemed to be emanating from the stale air through the dusky light. Claire followed the sound across the mess, towards the dim emergency light by the bar. Now she could just make out a figure on a high stool, crouched over his guitar. A tall, lean figure, with long legs and a dark head.
“Jan?” She’d spoken without meaning to. The figure turned and looked at her.
“Claire?” he said.
They looked at one another through the gloom.
“I didn’t know you played the guitar,” Claire said.
“No, not play,” he corrected her. “I use it only to work out a new song.”
“You mean that music you were playing was your own?”
“Ah! You heard my music?”
Jan dropped his gaze to the instrument and began to play again. As the melody developed Claire hummed it, then sang softly, mouthing vague sounds in place of words.
They went on together for quite some minutes, then the theme faded, the final chord sang out and all was still.
Suddenly Jan spoke. “You want words?” he asked.
Oh yes, thought Claire. I want all the words in the world. If only I had the words I could tell him so much. . .
“What words?” she asked.
“You asked me once to teach you a song from my country,” he said. He began to strum once more on the guitar, singing softly and not very tunefully, in English:
“I walk the roads from town to town,
Searching for my love.
She has gone and left me now,
And I am all alone.”
“That is the chorus,” he explained. “The verses tell of the journeys, over mountains, through the forests, until he finds his love again.” Keeping his eyes firmly on the guitar, he plucked out a different melody.
Claire was humming now, filling the gaps in the harmony and listening to Jan’s words. As the last chord faded and their voices died, she raised her hand as if gesturing the melody away. Jan reached out, took it in his and pulled her close. Claire stood quite still, holding her breath.
“I make the song for you, Claire,” he said softly.
“For me to sing?”
“For you to have.”
Claire sighed. “Then we’re friends again, are we?”
Jan shook his head. “I don’t know what we are, Claire. I know we make beautiful music. I wish to be your friend – your special friend, perhaps. But you?” He sighed. “You have your Irish friend. . .”
“No, he’s not special, Jan,” Claire said. “Not like you are,” she added. “I’ve missed you, Jan, these past weeks.”
“I missed you, too, Claire. No one to correct my English, no one to play music with.” He turned his head and kissed her, gently, on her nose. “I am sorry I have been so . . . so far away since that night.”
“No, I understand. It must have brought so many memories back.”
He nodded. “Yes, but they must go,” he said. “I must get on with my life.” He looked away from her then, far into the dim distance. She caught a glimpse of tears in his eyes.
“Don’t turn away,” she said. “Not again.”
He propped the guitar against the table and, smiling through his tears, turned to face her. Claire opened up her arms and hugged him tightly. She stood holding him close, saying nothing, but hearing the sounds of hospital life muffled, as if everything was happening miles away and she and Jan were tucked away together, out of anyone’s reach.
Jan slid off the high stool and led her to a corner seat. “Oh, Claire,” he murmured, “we have lost so much time...”
Claire wasn’t even aware of time now. He kissed her, gently at first, then harder, more urgently, holding her tight as she clung against him.
Eventually they came up for air.
Claire looked around, dazed and delight ed – and somewhat puzzled.
“I thought Katie said there was a meeting in here.”
“She told me that, too.”
They looked into each other’s eyes, puzzled for only a moment, then burst out laughing. Shaking with laughter, Claire looked up and saw that Jan’s face was radiant; the tears in his eyes were tears of laughter now. Her own, she was sure, were more mixed.
“That’s the trouble with Katie Harding,” she said shakily. “Always organizing everyone else’s life.”
Jan nodded. “She told me it was an important meeting,” he smiled. “But I thought it was important only for her Charity Night.”
“And it turned out to be important for you and me.”
“For us,” he agreed. And he kissed her once more, tenderly, gently...
After a while Claire extricated herself from his embrace. “Do you think I could learn that song in time for the talent contest?” she asked.
They didn’t win, but then they didn’t really care. The days had passed in last-minute revision sessions with Jan, music practice with Jan, cold, grey walks across the ground of St Ag’s – with Jan complaining about the lack of sunshine and snow. And as she turned over the first exam paper she glanced across the aisle to meet Jan’s eyes. He smiled, nodded, and blew an invisible kiss to bring her luck.
Whether the luck held, she didn’t yet know, but she’d never written so many answers so fast in the whole of her educational existence.
And now it was all over; exams had ended and the frenzied Charity Day activities were over. By the time the talent competition and the karaoke finished, several thousand pounds had been raised and students and staff alike settled down to dance the night away. Claire sat by the bar, waiting for Jan to bring her a beer and watching with amusement as Katie dragged Patrick round to meet the management. They’d hit it off straight away, Katie and Patrick, just as she’d suspected. Here they were, not drinking, not dancing, not chatting to friends, but touting for business. Well, she didn’t begrudge him that; after all, she’d probably ruined his weekend in Donegal. Though, looking at his expression as he leaned close to say something into Katie’s ear, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he’d have something better to do next weekend than dogsbody in Donegal for Mammy?
And here was Jan holding out a glass of lager and grinning as if his face would split.
“Cheers!” She held up her glass to his.
“Prost!” He linked his arm round hers and they each bent over to drink, head touching head.
“We should have champagne,” he said.
Claire shook her head. “I don’t like champagne,” she said. “There’ll be too much of it about at home next weekend.”
She stopped, looking stricken. What a terrible thing to say to someone who was going to spend half-term in an ex-RAF camp! She’d invited him over to Donegal, but he couldn’t afford the air fare and she hadn’t dared offer him the price of a ticket.
But Jan ignored her gaffe. “Myself, I love champagne,” he announced.
“Then why don’t you come over to Donegal and help us drink some?” she asked. “Come on, Jan – it would do you the world of good. I’ll lend you the money for the fare; you can pay me back next half-term.” She looked across at him anxiously. Had she offended him?
But Jan was still smiling, broader than ever.
“No need to lend me money,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a long, thin envelope.
“What’s that you’re brandishing about, Jan?” asked Claire. “A
nd why are you grinning in that foolish manner?”
“Brandish – a good word,” he smiled, wafting the envelope under her nose. “And I am only foolish for you.”
Claire blushed. “Foolish-fond,” she said, “as I am for you.” She looked at him and smiled. “However, this foolishness does not answer my question.”
“What question?” he asked innocently.
“Come on, you obviously have something pretty special in that envelope.” For a moment she wondered whether it was a present for herself. She hoped not.
“Now, you have a saying in England: ‘charity begins at home’, no?”
“Yes, and in Ireland too,” she replied, thinking it odd that he should be reiterating remarks made by Nurse Doughty a week or more ago. Words that she had repeated to Katie.
“I’ve heard a few murmurs on that score,” Katie had said. And she got the determined gleam in her eye that showed she was going to do something about it. “I’ll bring it up at the next committee meeting,” she’d said.
Now Jan was holding up his envelope. “This charity begins at home but travels far.”
“What charity?” Claire asked.
“Katie says it is the Jan Buczowski Development Fund.”
Claire stared at him. “The what?” she whispered.
He reached into the envelope and pulled out a flight ticket. “I think travel is very developing for the mind,” he said solemnly.
Claire’s heart almost stopped. Was he going to fly back home? Go on fighting in the seemingly hopeless war that engulfed his country? Then she saw the name and number of the flight – 205 K – BELFAST.
And suddenly, happiness flooded through her like a tangible warmth. “Oh, Jan! You’re coming home with me?”
“Unless you have changed your mind.”
“No, no, no! How could I? Oh, Jan! I’m so glad – so happy! We’ll have a wonderful holiday – it’s just what you need. And maybe there’ll even be some snow up in the mountains for you.”
Jan put the ticket back in its envelope and tucked them both in his inside pocket.
“And now – more music,” he smiled and bowed to her. “May I have the pleasure?” he asked in impeccable English.
JAN’S
JOURNEY
Prologue
Everyone clamoured for attention. “Water – for the love of God a drink of water!”
“Bring me a bed-pan – quick!”
“The blood’s seeping through. More bandage, please.”
“Something for the pain, please, Doctor.”
Jan Buczowski smiled grimly to himself; it was nice to be addressed as “doctor” even though he was only a medical orderly. His smile faded as he remembered the real doctor of the family – his mother. She’d always wanted him to follow her profession and he’d always resisted. Well, she’d be proud of him now, wherever she was. But where was she now? And his father? Not in conference with some government committee these days, surely. Across the river at home with Granya, he fervently hoped, though they might as well be on a different planet; there was no chance of getting back there now the tanks had entered the city.
As if to echo his thoughts, a series of dull thuds started up quite close. Jan stopped adjusting the patient’s drip for a moment and looked across at Sister Radski. She nodded and they both moved away from the bed.
“They’re getting close now,” said Sister.
“But surely they won’t attack the hospital?” Jan protested.
Sister Radski shrugged. “They’ll attack anything in their way,” she said. “Round up the children and take them down to the basement.”
“What about these people?” Jan looked around the ward, where everyone was badly wounded, immobilized.
“I’ll wheel them across to the inside wall, well away from the windows.”
“And you?” he asked anxiously. Tanya Radski had been a good friend to him – and a good teacher; what little he knew of nursing came from her. They’d been on duty together on and off – mostly on – for over a week now and Jan had learned to admire the tough little Sister.
Through the dust and grime on her face, and the exhaustion in her eyes, Tanya smiled. “I’ll stay here – well away from the windows, don’t you worry.”
But Jan did worry. As he heaved injured children down the flights of narrow steps, along the sandbagged passages and into the candle-lit store rooms deep under the hospital building, he wondered how Tanya was getting on.
I’ll go back and help her, he decided, just as soon as I’ve finished here.
But as soon as he’d got the children to safety, the adult patients were on their way. They lined the stairwell, supporting each other, two, sometimes three abreast. Jan knew he couldn’t leave them there; he stood at the bottom of the steps, lifting, heaving, pushing them in through the door to the basement, like so many hunks of meat.
And all the time he was aware of the dull, heavy thud of gunfire and, he realized, the steady rumble of traffic. The tanks were coming up the hospital drive! Even then he couldn’t make himself believe they would fire on the hospital; not until he pushed his way up to the ground floor to help a couple of walking wounded down. There, he was almost knocked down as a dozen soldiers stampeded through the foyer, hauling machine guns, clutching rifles, thrusting aside anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. Jan’s heart sank. Snipers! They’d be off to the top floor to fire on anything that moved outside. They’d been sent to defend the hospital, but what could they do against armoured tanks? Only stir them into action, Jan realized with a shudder.
And he was right. Soon after, he was ushering another batch of patients to the top of the steps to the basement when there came a thud so loud it hurt the back of his ears. Then silence – for whole minutes it seemed – followed by a kind of slithering groan as the front of the building collapsed. Jan felt the floor shudder and settle under his feet.
“Go on – move!” he commanded, shoving the patients down the steps so that they stumbled into the crowd. And even as they moved, he heard the shattering of glass as the ground-floor windows began to splinter into the foyer.
Now the narrow concrete stairway was crowded with people. No one waited for his help – they crawled, hobbled, staggered, some on one foot, a few lucky ones with crutches; others sitting, bobbing from step to step like babies, they surged downwards like a living stream while Jan stood helpless at the top of the stairs, watching them flounder like so many fish in a net.
He should be down there with them, he thought, to help sort them out. But how could he? Peering down through the dim, dusty light he could see a solid mass of bodies jammed into the narrow passage. He had no idea how many people were already down there; he didn’t even know how far the basement reached underground. He’d worked up on the first floor ever since he’d reported to the hospital when the university was blown up. All students, male and female, had been ordered into the army, but those with even the slightest medical training were sent to the hospitals. Biology was Jan’s subject – not much use when it came to dealing with broken limbs and shrapnel wounds, he knew, but somewhat safer than guerrilla warfare up in the hills.
Until now. Jan felt the floor shift beneath him and, looking up, saw the jagged edges of cracks appearing up the walls. Another thud and the staircase seemed to lean slightly, the cracks grew wider, and the metal handrail twisted like a live thing as people struggled to hold on to it. The whole building above them seemed to groan then settle, like an old lady on a sofa.
If it falls we’ll all be trapped, thought Jan, and he took a step back. Maybe it was safer up here? For a moment he thought of making a run for it – out the back, anywhere away from the sound of gunfire, rifle shots, screaming and howling as whole wards collapsed above him. But he couldn’t leave all those people down there. Could he? Jan hesitated.
Then a voice boomed across the remains of the foyer.
“All medical staff report to the ground floor – urgent – all medical staff this way. . .”
<
br /> Jan couldn’t believe his luck; it was as if he’d asked permission to leave and it had been granted.
“Hey, get a move on!” Somebody rushed past. “You’re medical, aren’t you? You’re needed out at the back.”
Jan almost leapt to attention and, turning his back on the sight and sound of the distressed, disabled people lining the staircase, he fled.
Within days there was no hospital left in Czerny. No electricity, no water, no food – almost no city. Medical help was reduced to mere first aid, nursing duties to comforting and smoothing brows. The remains of the hospital staff, and the few wounded, sick, and dying they tended, existed – it could not be called living – in the battered remains of a school, huddled in the dark rooms under desks and tables, eating an occasional dry biscuit and sipping water from burst mains.
“They’re coming to get us out,” a young half-qualified doctor told Jan one day. “UN troops are on their way.”
And Jan was too exhausted even to ask why. Two days later his plane touched down somewhere in the east of England and he was given clean warm clothing, a cursory medical and a bed in a hut on an ex-RAF airfield. Jan Buczowski had a new home.
Chapter 1
Ian closed his eyes and gripped the arms of his seat as the plane wheels touched the tarmac. Next to him, Claire Donovan leaned over and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Jan flinched away. He knew Claire was puzzled and hurt, but he could say nothing to reassure her, not while the black hole of panic filled his brain. Inwardly he cursed; why had it happened just then? He wasn’t afraid of flying; had done the outward journey to Belfast calmly – eagerly, even – four days ago. All his life he’d accompanied his parents on flights – to medical conferences with his mother, Soviet universities with Dad. . . He cut off the memory.
