While Still We Live

by Helen Macinnes

  She would think of the Aleksanders and of Uncle Edward and of Casimir. She would wonder if Steve had reached safety, if Bill and Schlott were with him. And she would think a lot about Uncle Matthews. That always brought on a bad attack of conscience. He had been more fond of her than either he or she ever admitted. He would be worried. He might sit in his anonymous office, pretending that a lost niece was just another of life’s unnecessary complications, but he would be worried. As for herself, she could now admit that she had never appreciated Uncle Matthews. She knew that now, when it was too late. Often she had used to think of Uncle Matthews as someone who was being unnecessarily dogmatic, or interfering, or boring, or embarrassing. Now she realised that she must have often seemed equally dogmatic, interfering, boring and embarrassing. But the chief difference between the old and the young was that the old knew what the young thought about them.

  She thought about her father and her mother and then her father, again. When she was a child, her questions about her mother had been answered. But the discouragement given her when she asked about her father had only stimulated a greater secret interest in him. For that reason, she generally thought more about her father when she thought of these vague nebulous characters whose only reality to her was the fact that she did exist.

  * * *

  Night had come, and had gone. Still there was no sign of Jan and his comrade.

  This was the last day. She had until tonight. Perhaps, if the Poles followed polite convention in such matters, until dawn. She couldn’t sleep and she couldn’t think. The guard outside the door spoiled both of those attempts. It was his silence that worried her. He made no sound, and then, just as she was beginning to think that he wasn’t there, the slight shuffle of his feet, a smothered cough, a bored sigh would bring her right back to the growing idea that Jan had met with some accident. His accident would be her tragedy. Silly kind of tragedy, too. There was something ludicrous in being shot by your own side. Her father had died more efficiently than that.

  She rose and went to the window once more. The soaring wall of leaves gave her courage. She looked at their brave colours and thought, nothing is inevitable, not while you have two legs and a sound body and wits still working. She had at least until tonight.

  She stayed at the window, watching the fading light and the darkening leaves, until the captain came back to the house. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t been able to sleep either. He entered the room without looking at her, now obediently back in her appointed corner, threw some papers on the table, pretended to study a much-folded map.

  He looked up suddenly and said, in a burst of irritation. “Why don’t you sleep?”

  “If your two men don’t hurry I don’t think I’m going to need any more sleep.”

  He stared at her for a moment, and then bent over the map once more.

  “You said we would have plenty of time to talk here.” Sheila’s voice was calmer than she had expected. “The forty-eight hours are nearly up, and we haven’t talked more than twenty words.”

  “There’s nothing you can say which interests us at the moment.”

  “I had hoped to tell you about Captain Wisniewski. Now that the others aren’t here, I could tell you about what he and his men hope to do. Why don’t you join him?”

  The Pole’s thin face tightened. His eyes looked at her coldly.

  Sheila was silent. She wanted to say, “But this camp of yours is so impermanent. Nine men striking aimlessly, here and there. Nine men being picked off, one by one. It is merely pinpricking compared to becoming members of a larger force with real striking power. Wisniewski’s chosen a winter camp. You may be sure it will be remote enough, well-buried enough to be safe. At least, safer than this forest. This is an open part of Poland. You daren’t even light a fire. The frost is on the morning grass now. Soon you will need warm food and heat to thaw frozen clothes and bones. You are brave, and your men are brave. But that is not enough.”

  But, looking at the thin, proud face she merely said, when at last she did speak, “He needs men like you.”

  The door opened and Thaddeus came in. When he sat down at the table, the breadth of his shoulders and the large head and body made him seem a tall man. He was discussing her now. His eyes were watching her. The captain argued wearily.

  “You are a fool,” Thaddeus said, and rose in anger. He was no longer a tall man. He was only a little more than Sheila’s height, certainly not more than five feet six inches. The captain had risen too. His fist crashed on the table.

  “I say we give her until morning. Jan may have been waiting all day for the light to fade. He may need darkness to travel in.”

  The two men tried to outstare each other. Sheila rose quickly from the bed. She said to Thaddeus, “I’m not worth a quarrel. If you must lose your temper, then lose it with the Germans and not on your friends. You’ll never win, that way.”

  Thaddeus turned his stare on Sheila. She found herself wondering what his face would really be like if he could shave and wash properly. She wouldn’t be able to recognise any of these men if they had a shave, a haircut, a warm bath and decent clothes. But then, they wouldn’t recognise her either if they had first seen her two months ago. And then Thaddeus turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

  The captain’s voice changed. He said gently, “If you knew his story, you would not think he was so hard. His wife, his father, his two children were killed because of a German spy. They gave shelter to our soldiers cut off in the retreat. A Polish soldier was their guest one night, but next day he came back in a German uniform with German friends. A servant girl out searching for a stray cow was the only survivor in that household. She told Thaddeus the story when he reached his home and found it burned to the ground.”

  Sheila looked at the captain’s drawn, brows. You’ve got a story, too, she was thinking: you’ve got a frightening story locked in behind those cold eyes. For a moment, his head bowed wearily, and then he was in control again, fingering the papers, examining the map, working with the intensity of a man who is driven by some inward compulsion.

  * * *

  A bird’s whistle trilled; fell silent; and then, as if in love with its own liquid note, trilled again.

  “They’ve come,” Sheila almost shouted, “Jan’s here!”

  The captain, folding up his papers with quick fingers, shook his head. “Not Jan,” he said, watching the girl’s face change from joy to despair. “We’ve a visitor. But not Jan. Not Germans, either.” He placed the papers in his torn, stained tunic. He took out his revolver, examined it, slipped it back into its holster.

  Thaddeus was at the door again. The captain joined him. The two men, together, watched the darkening forest and the path from the outside world.

  “It’s Dutka from the village. Dutka and two strangers,” the captain said at last. His voice was reassured.

  “Hope he’s brought that razor and piece of soap he promised. We’ll never be able to use the uniforms until he does,” Thaddeus said.

  “One man’s a soldier. The other looks old—a peasant—but he walks briskly enough.”

  Sheila, sitting on the bed, didn’t even look up as the men entered. She listened bitterly to the sudden flow of words, to Dutka’s loud jovial laugh. She buried her head in the pillow. She had been so sure it was Jan and his friend. She turned her face wearily to the wall.

  Not only had Dutka brought the razor and soap, but he had also cigarettes and a bottle of vodka. Triumphantly, he set them all out on the table. “They’ve been hidden for a week until I could get to you,” he explained in his deep hoarse voice. “Today was the first time I could manage to slip away from the village.” And then he started to account for his companions. “This here is Galinski,” he said, “a soldier in the Eleventh Infantry Division who fought round Lwów. He’s been sheltering in the village for the last four days. He seemed a likely recruit. Go on, Galinski, tell them what happened to you.” The soldier obeyed eagerly, quickly. He was alone in the
world now. He wanted to go on fighting. After Lwów, he had been captured by the Russians east of Dublany. He escaped and walked back through Central Poland only to find his family had gone and his house occupied by the damned Szwaby. He had fled again, wandered for a week, and then found a hiding place in Dutka’s village. The Germans were there, too, now. A patrol had been stationed there. But he had just kept quiet in Dutka’s loft, and this evening, when the patrol was out on duty, he had slipped out with Dutka.

  “It’s good to be here,” he kept saying. “It’s good to be here.” Something in his voice, perhaps its joy and relief, made Sheila turn round curiously to look at the man. He was young, tired, strained, but happy. She envied him his happiness.

  The men who weren’t on sentry duty had crowded into the room and had listened to the story silently. The shutters were closed, the candle in the empty vodka was lit, and the captain sat at the table with paper and pencil before him. He asked the soldier many questions. The answers were immediate. They seemed to be satisfactory. Then the other men were questioning Galinski eagerly, asking news of the outside world from which they had separated themselves. One of them knew Galinski’s home town. It was the captain who listened now. Finally he seemed satisfied. He turned to the other stranger, who had remained silently leaning against the oven, his cloth cap still pulled over his eyes.

  Dutka said quickly, “He’s no recruit. He came asking for you at the village. Zabka from the next village brought him to me, so he was sent by the right people. I brought him along, for if you know him, as he says, then good and well. If you don’t—then you know what to do.”

  The captain nodded. “Take off that cap,” he said sharply.

  The man leaning against the stove didn’t move. “I’m glad to find you,” he said. “I heard two days ago that you were somewhere in this district.”

  The captain stared unbelievingly, rose to his feet as if to a superior officer. As he was about to speak, the stranger made a sign with his hand and silenced him, “Later,” he said quietly. “Later.”

  The captain smiled, and then sat down again. He opened the cigarettes and passed them round. The new bottle was uncorked, and each man had a mouthful of vodka. Sheila, sitting motionless in her dark corner, listened to the rising voices, the laughter, the short questions, the long answers. She was watching a scene from a play in which tension and gloom had suddenly and dramatically changed to lighthearted gaiety. Dutka was giving them news; they had cigarettes between their lips, the taste of vodka on their tongues. When a man is hungry for these things, it doesn’t take much of them to please him. Each man’s high spirits increased the others’. Only the captain and the stranger with the cloth cap pulled over his eyes didn’t join in the sudden uproar of voices. The captain had a smile on his lips. His face looked happier than Sheila had ever seen it. His eyes were watching the stranger. He in turn watched the men. And it seemed to Sheila, as the hidden audience to all this, that Galinski watched everyone, but especially the unidentified stranger. Quietly he watched him, secretly, as if he didn’t quite trust him.

  The stranger, despite his clothes, was not a peasant. His voice as he now spoke was that of a commanding officer. “Who is this?” he asked, and nodded towards the corner of the room. Sheila suddenly realised that he had noticed her from the first. The men stopped talking. All had turned their heads to look at her. Galinski laughed and said a few phrases which brought a sudden guffaw from the others. Sheila’s cheeks flushed and she drew nearer the wall. Dutka came forward to see her more clearly.

  The captain said crisply, “Enough of that. She’s our prisoner.”

  “A German spy,” added Thaddeus bitterly.

  “Why don’t you shoot her?” Dutka asked curiously. “That’s what to do with a spy.”

  “She will be shot at dawn, and no later,” Thaddeus said, and looked pointedly at the captain. No more reprieves, either, his tone implied.

  The man with the cap stopped leaning against the stove. He moved quietly towards the door, motioned with his head to the captain, who followed him out into the night. He wants to find out more about me, Sheila thought; or he may have something to say which he doesn’t want a spy to hear, not even one who is to be shot. And no reprieve. She closed her eyes.

  “Let’s have a look at this spy,” Galinski said and caught up the bottle with the candle. Sheila opened her eyes to see the flame flicker, nearly vanish, and then burn more wildly as the man stood holding it above his shoulder. He was a young man, with a fair-haired, fair-skinned look in spite of a deep tan and streaks of dust. Like the others, he needed a shave. His uniform was stained and ragged. His eyes above the gaunt cheekbones were a clear blue in the candle’s golden light. He stood with his back to the room and stared down at her.

  “A spy, eh? A damned German spy.” His voice was harsh and savage. But his lips were smiling; a strange, meaning smile which only she could see. The blue eyes were serious: they were trying to tell her something. The bitter voice went on, “And where in God’s name did you pick her up?”

  “On the Lowicz road. First we got a patrol. Then she arrived in a staff car with a German corporal,” one of the men said eagerly. “He got his all right. But she was still alive, so we brought her here. Information, you know.”

  Dutka drew closer, too. “Did you get information?” he asked.

  “A pack of lies.” The Pole who was talking was enjoying himself. By his voice, you would have thought that he was responsible for everything. “She pretends she isn’t German, says she’s English, says she’s got friends at Korytów who will swear she’s all right.” He laughed at the idea, “Just look at her. She’s a German. A German telling lies to save her skin.”

  Sheila said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the man in front of her. Dutka shook his head and turned away. “You should shoot her at once. Mark my words. A German’s a German. And a pretty woman never did no good. You’ll have trouble on your hands.”

  Galinski’s eyes swept over her as if he were memorising every detail about her. “German,” he echoed Dutka with even more hate in his voice. He spat. Sheila flinched. But her anger was stifled by amazement. The man had grinned, a friendly encouraging grin, and his left eye winked deliberately. “I wouldn’t mind helping with the examination,” he said as he turned to face the room again, “or is that the captain’s privilege?”

  “Here,” Thaddeus said suddenly. “That’s enough of that.” One of the men who had begun a laugh didn’t finish it.

  Galinski placed the candle back onto the table and said, “Any food to spare?”

  “You’ll have to wait till tomorrow,” Thaddeus said gruffly. “We’ve been too busy in the last few days to bother about food. Some of us will forage tomorrow.”

  Dutka said, “If I had known, I could have tried to smuggle something up to you. Not that the Germans in the village leave us much. But I could have tried.” He looked worriedly at the bottle of vodka and cigarettes, as if wishing they would transform themselves into a piece of ham and some bread. “You’ve never been needing food like this, before.”

  “We’ve been busy,” Thaddeus said.

  The talkative man—it was he who had cut short his recent laugh—once more found his tongue. “We are all set now. All we need are some breeches and some bullets.”

  “Ammunition?” Galinski asked. He walked over to the bench where the uniforms and weapons were neatly piled. “German ammunition you’re needing? Hey, Dutka, you tell them.”

  Dutka looked at him stupidly. “Tell what?”

  “About the patrol in the village. Haven’t they plenty of ammunition?”

  “Plenty.” Then he was explaining in his deep voice about the patrol which had come to the village so unexpectedly only three days ago. They were quartered in the old Posting House. They used the outbuildings at the back for supplies. Two guards looked after that.

  Galinski interrupted to say, “I know every step they take. I lay and watched them for these last three days from Dutka’s hay
loft.”

  “Didn’t they search the village first to make sure it was safe for them?” Thaddeus asked suddenly.

  “Oh, yes,” Dutka said, “they searched. But they didn’t find him. Galinski used his wits. He will tell you what happened.”

  “Let us talk of this ammunition, first,” Galinski said. “That’s the important thing. Give me a knife and I’ll take care of those two guards in the darkness.”

  Sheila wanted to scream, “This is a trap. Don’t you see, all of you, Dutka, Thaddeus, it’s a trap?” She wanted to scream, “Thaddeus, remember your family. Remember the ‘Polish’ soldier!” But she forced herself to sit rigid and silent. Thaddeus had never believed her. None of them believed her.

  She watched Galinski as he let the others develop the idea he had so cleverly proposed. The talkative man was elaborating on the plan. His voice quickened, his eyes gleamed as if he already saw two Germans waiting in the dark for a tight Polish arm round their neck, a quick Polish knife, to silence their first cry. And as he talked, and the others nodded their approval, the whole idea seemed to become his. His comrades added their ideas. Between them all, the plan became easy—a mere matter of lifting what they needed from the German supply hut and vanishing into the night.

  Dutka alone was silent. He was thinking of the village, of the consequences it would have to face. Thaddeus noticed his silence. “We’ll wait for the captain. He never let us do any raiding so near the camp. We’ll wait for him.”

  “We could all go. Make it a full attack,” the talkative man said. “Only two dozen Germans. We know how to work in the dark. We could take care of them. Two dozen Szwaby less.”

  “And then one village less,” Thaddeus said, and turned, with relief no greater than Sheila’s, to the door as the captain and his strange friend entered. They had the look of men who had talked and decided much. The stranger was satisfied. But Sheila had the feeling that the captain had been persuaded against his will: he had the preoccupied air of a man who still argued with himself.