“One of our patrols. I can hear a car,” Treltsch said evenly. He swung the wheel to guide the car carefully round the curve of dense pine trees. They could see the short strip of road ahead of them, now, before it twisted again to resume its usual straight line. They could see the German patrol. Six grey-coated men lying on the road, their arms outstretched, their legs twisted, their bodies sprawled as they had been thrown from their motorcycles. The noise of the “car” which Treltsch had heard was the running engines of two of these motorcycles as they lay on their sides near the men, their wheels turning helplessly. The other four had travelled aimlessly into the muddy ditches and lay as grotesquely silent as their riders.
Men in ragged uniforms, in civilian jackets and cloth caps, were kneeling beside the dead soldiers. They looked up as the grey car swept quietly round the corner. Treltsch’s careful driving and the noise of the motorcycles had no doubt deadened the sound of the car’s approach. For the fraction of a second, Sheila saw the white faces staring up at the car, saw the men kneeling as if they would never rise. Treltsch, his face grim and hard, pressed the accelerator so that the car seemed to leap at the men. The car jumped as it struck the German corpses in its path, but the Poles had scattered to the side of the road.
Sheila was knocked forward on her knees. She had thrown up her arm to protect her face as she fell. There was a sharp blow on her elbow, a wrench in the back of her neck as her forehead struck against her own arm and the arm struck the dashboard of the car.
Treltsch cursed and swung the car with one hand towards the last of the men as they reached the ditch. In the other hand, he held his revolver. Before he could aim it at the faces so near them, the windshield had a sudden sunburst of fine cracks, the car plunged crazily down into the broad ditch, and the brakes screamed frenziedly. The car rocked, remained upright. But the deep soft mud held the churning wheels fast. Treltsch’s last curse was unfinished. He screamed as the brakes had screamed. He tried to rise, stiffly; his knuckles round the steering wheel showed white as his weight was held by that arm for a moment. Then the arm bent slowly, and he fell forward.
Sheila stared sideways at the unmoving man beside her. She tried to raise her head away from her arm, tried to rise from her knees. She closed her eyes as she heard the Polish voice giving commands. “Hurry. Weapons, coats, papers off these sons of bitches. Silence the cycles and car, or we won’t hear anything else coming. Do stu djablów! Hurry.”
Someone was standing beside the car on Sheila’s side. She could hear his heavy breathing, as if in that last desperate leap for the ditch the wind had been knocked out of the man.
“Two dead here, rotmistrz,” his voice said slowly. “Two dead here, Captain.”
Sheila opened her eyes, saw the man’s mud-smeared face within a foot of hers.
She tried to smile. “Not dead,” she said. “I’m not dead.” The man had whipped his revolver into sight as she spoke. And then, instead of shooting, he stared. He smiled, too, and the smile broadened into a laugh.
“Do jasnej cholery! What’s there to laugh at?” the captain’s voice asked savagely.
“She’s only saying her prayers. She’s not dead. She says she’s not dead. She says, cool as you like, ‘I’m not dead.’”
“She soon will be,” a third voice said grimly. “We’ve finished over here, rotmistrz. We’re waiting.”
“Scatter. Get into cover. Don’t drop anything.”
“Yes, rotmistrz.”
The mud-stained man said, “What are we going to do with her? I shouldn’t have listened to her. ‘Not dead,’ she says, and spoils my aim.”
Sheila tried to rise to her feet. She looked up at the man who now stood beside the mud-stained man. A captain. A cavalry captain, if he were called “rotmistrz.”
“Wisniewski,” she said desperately. “Adam Wisniewski.” The captain’s hard blue eyes narrowed. He reached into the car and pulled her roughly to her feet.
“Korytów,” Sheila said, “Korytów is in danger.”
The captain’s hard look, compressed lips, lowered brows were unchanged, but he had opened the door of the car. He was still pulling her. The pain circled from the nape of her neck up round her head.
“I should have shot her when my blood was hot. But, God help me, I’ve never shot a woman,” the first man was protesting.
Sheila said “Adam Wisniewski,” and stumbled forward. Her hat was somewhere in the car. And her gloves. And her fine new coat with Treltsch’s blood over it had caught in the doorway and had fallen off her shoulders as she had been dragged out. It trailed over the car step, and a large mud-coloured footstep was blotted on its lapel. She still held her handbag. She would die, it seemed, still clutching it. But the mud-stained man had noticed it too. He snatched it out of her hand, and opened it.
He said in amazement, “No gun, rotmistrz! Only papers.”
“Don’t lose them,” Sheila said, “don’t lose them.” She looked anxiously at the man. She put her hands up to hold her head, and closed her eyes.
“Keep a grip of her arm, Jan,” the captain was saying. “No time to lose, now. Keep going.” He took the bag from Jan, and stuffed it inside his jacket. “I’ll have a look at these later. Keep going, Jan.”
They hurried her between them to a place in the ditch where branches had been thrown over the deep mud. They crossed it at a run, dragging the girl. Jan stopped to pull the branches away and scatter them under the trees. Then they were hurrying and twisting through the pines. The captain held Sheila’s arm in a vice-like grip. Jan, when he caught up with them, followed with his revolver held pointed at the small of her back.
Sheila kept saying, “Korytów. Korytów. We are going away from Korytów.”
“Keep quiet!” The captain shook her impatiently. His grip twisted, and the pain in her arm silenced her. He pulled her up from her knees. They entered the wood. On the road behind them was the heavy peace of autumn dusk.
25
HOSTAGE
Three of the men were waiting in the thickness of the trees. Their faces were alert, their guns held ready.
“The others have gone ahead with the coats and rifles. A good haul,” a short, muscular man said. He looked at Sheila. So did his companions. Their eyes were hard.
“Korytów,” Sheila repeated weakly.
“She’s crying,” Jan said, his good-natured face trying to look as hostile as the others. “She’s scared.”
Sheila shook her head desperately. “Korytów,” she said, her voice breaking on the word.
“Keep moving,” the captain said. “Get away from the road. We’ll question her when it’s safe.”
“Psia krew! psia kosc!” It was the short, broad-shouldered man. “Why didn’t you shoot her with the others?”
“It wasn’t so easy,” said Jan. “Not when she’s on her knees looking up at you and telling you she’s not dead.”
“The bigger men come, the softer they are,” the other said angrily.
“Quiet. We’ll get some information out of her before we shoot,” the captain said. “Keep moving.”
The men scattered once more through the trees. The captain wasn’t holding her arm any more, but he watched her out of the side of his eyes. Sheila stumbled on, trying to keep up with the quick lope of the men. The light was fading now, and the army of pines closing in around her increased the darkness. Her heels twisted under her on the surface roots of the trees. Once she fell forward on her face. The captain waited for her, watched her pick herself up so slowly and then try to run after him. She was too tired to notice that his revolver was held ready to use. He slipped it back into its holster as she came even with him again. He held her arm once more, but this time the grip helped, instead of forcing, her along beside him. At last the journey was over. Or at least, temporarily over. The men who had gone on ahead with the German coats and rifles had heaped them outside a woodsman’s hut in a small clearing. There they had waited for the captain and the others. Nine men altogether,
Sheila counted. Three of them, at a signal from the captain, walked separately into the woods. They carried rifles. The rest of the party dropped wearily onto the ground.
Now that she could see the sky clearly once more, Sheila knew that evening had come. Night would not be far away. Again she thought of Korytów, and a picture of torches lighting its darkness, of shallow trenches and weeping children, flared up before her.
“Korytów,” she said again.
“She’s always saying Korytów,” Jan remarked. “Perhaps it is all the Polish she knows.”
“Is this as far as we take her?” the short man who believed in shooting her demanded.
“We shall soon know,” the captain answered. He sat down on the soft earth covered with faded pine needles. “Sit!” he said to Sheila. She obeyed him.
The captain asked quietly, “Where were you going in that car? Where did you come from? Better tell us before we get it out of you.”
“I was going to Korytów,” she began in Polish, and then stopped. She held her aching head in her hands. “Oh God,” she said in English, “If only I could get my thoughts straight!”
The men around her stopped their quiet talking, and looked at her. In her own language, the captain said, “Why did you speak English?”
She said wearily, “But I come from England. My family is Scottish. And I can’t think of the right Polish words at this moment. They’ve all gone.”
“Well, we shall talk in English then. Two of us understand it fairly. Now go on. You were going to Korytów. Why?”
“To warn it. The Germans are going to make an example of it. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps even tonight. I couldn’t find that out.”
“So you travelled in a German car to save a Polish village? Did you intend to bring the inhabitants to safety in that car?” The captain’s quiet irony quickened her reply.
“I’ll answer all your questions. But first send someone to Korytów. We must not waste any more time. Please!”
“We aren’t wasting time. We are going to find out a few things,” the captain said coldly. The broad-shouldered man knew English too, for he was translating freely to the others.
“Why were you riding in a German car?”
The short man laughed. “Why do pretty blondes in pretty clothes ride in German cars?” he said in Polish. All the men laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh.
The captain shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t explain this case. She wasn’t with an officer. Corporals don’t have large staff cars to take blondes for pleasure-rides.” The men were silent again, and the captain said in English, “Go on. Tell this story of yours.”
“But first send two men to Korytów.”
“First, we shall hear your story.”
Sheila stared at the man. And then she knew he was right. Too many traps had been set by Germans.
She told the story quickly. The captain and the man, who disbelieved everything she said quite openly, were listening attentively. Jan had drawn near to listen to the foreign voice. The others stretched themselves more comfortably on the pine needles and talked together in a low murmur about the ambush.
The story was given, simply and as directly as Sheila could manage. She told of her visit to Korytów this summer, of everything that had followed. She didn’t mention Olszak’s name: he was described as “a friend of the Aleksander’s uncle,” just as Hofmeyer became “one of his assistants.” She didn’t speak of her father, of Uncle Matthews or of Olszak’s underground movement. These particulars were too dangerous even to be told to the enemies of Germany. But the essential part of the story, the part that would win these men’s trust and help Korytów, was clear enough. When she had finished her hurrying sentences, she looked at the men. In the growing darkness she couldn’t see their expressions. Jan, not having understood one word of her story, moved uneasily as if asking her not to expect anything from him. The other two were motionless. Their silence worried her.
“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 li
ttle 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.
While Still We Live Page 32
