Andrzej speaking with the reckless intensity of her father. ‘In Warsaw, the Russians, our supposed saviours, let the Germans massacre us, let us die like flies,’ he made a savage gesture in the air and Sylvie could almost see the crushed creatures fluttering groundwards. ‘Like flies. And they held their fire. They want us as their slaves, want our wealth. Why at this very moment, they’re transporting thousands of people…’ he paused, looked round him again a little wildly.
‘But that doesn’t concern you. All you need to know is that some of are still fighting. Partisans.’ He gripped her fingers so tightly, she thought they would break.
‘So I can’t go anywhere with you Silweczka.’ he looked at her sadly. ‘But I am pleased to see you. Pleased to see you so well. A little mamushka. And now you must go back to where it is safe.’
Sylvie’s face fell. What colour it had had drained out of it. ‘You mean straightaway?’
He nodded slowly. ‘We have one night. Tonight, I shall take you out and show you the lights of Krakow,’ he laughed bitterly, ‘feed you up on pheasant and wine. After all, we have both travelled a long way to see each other. But tomorrow,’ he patted her hand gently now, ‘tomorrow, we shall put you on a train for Paris.’
‘No,’ the tears streaming down Sylvie’s face did not prevent her voice from being adamant. He couldn’t leave so soon. She argued, pleaded, convinced him that he should at least accompany her to her parents’ house.
The train to Lublin should have taken a matter of hours. With the chaos of communications, it took them the best part of a day. Sylvie didn’t mind. She sat in the cold carriage holding Andrzej’s hand. She felt she was floating, floating somewhere between past and present. Scenes from her childhood flitted into her mind, like fragments of dreams. Girlishly she evoked them for Andrzej in the language of that childhood.
Night had fallen by the time they reached the town. Andrzej said they must find a room there. Miraculously he located one with a large clean double bed. They slept side by side in their clothes, a vast eiderdown sheltering them. Like two innocent children who still had hope. Sylvie dreamt, dreamt of home, of her father caressing her, of the smell of cherry jam, of trees.
A paradise before the fall.
But in the morning, Andrzej’s restlessness was palpable.
‘Silweczka,’ he took her hand, looked at her earnestly. ‘I must get back to my men. They need me.’
Tears leapt into her eyes.
He put his arm round her shoulder, ‘There are journeys it is important to make alone, Silweczka,’ he said softly. ‘Believe me, it will be better.’ He leapt into action. ‘I will find you a driver.’
Minutes later he was back. He pulled her towards a horse and cart, helped her onto the wooden plank next to a grizzled man whose face was half hidden by his cap, covered her legs with a blanket which smelled of hay and stables. ‘Pan Stach will make certain you get there safely. He knows the house well.’ Andrzej embraced her. She could feel the nervousness of his energy, his desire to see her off.
‘Be brave, Silweczka. We will meet again when Poland is free.’
He stood waving as the cart clattered into motion over uneven cobblestones, a slender young man with bold blue eyes in a vast greatcoat. The wave brought back the memory of another, the sight of a small receding form, a boy waving her into a distance from which she would never return to meet him.
They had hardly left the recurring rose and cream and stucco of the town when the first snowflakes began to fall from a leaden sky. Thick white flakes which blew and danced and settled on brown earth. The swirl of whiteness, the horse’s slow rhythm, induced trance. The driver’s gruff voice came with a jolt.
‘I knew your father. An upstanding man.’ he said, addressing the wind. He receded into silence, shook his head, grumbled. ‘Now, now the Russians are in the house. Before that it was the Germans. Turned it into a hospital. Carried out experiments. Wariaci. Madmen.’ He mumbled into the scarf he had drawn round his neck.
Sylvie didn’t know whether he was referring to the Germans or their victims. She shivered. Felt the baby thump. She asked him about Babushka, Pani Kasia. He grumbled, said nothing, then after a while, nodded vigorously, ‘Tak, tak, Pani Kasia. Umarla. She died, before the war.’
She had no distinct sense of how long they had been on the road. The snow had stopped. Increasingly, subliminally, she began to recognize things: a farmhouse, a hamlet, the curve of a hill, a dark expanse of forest. Then, a drive, the tracery of chestnut branches glimmering with snow, a small fluted church spire. Her pulse raced. There it was, the house, the low huddle of the stables. Warmed pink against the slate of the sky,
‘Shall I come back for you?’ Pan Stach asked her.
Sylvie nodded, then shook her head.
He watched her confusion, shrugged. ‘If you want me, tell Mietek to fetch me,’ he gestured in the direction of the stables. Sylvie saw two jeeps oddly stationed in front of them.
She let the large brass knocker resound. She waited. What would she say? She felt insubstantial, a little like a ghost. The knocker was too low on the door. Paint crumbled against her coat as she brushed its surface.
A woman in a shabby nurse’s uniform was looking at her. Sylvie opened her mouth, but no words came out. The nurse gazed at her, then smiled suddenly. ‘Has your time come?’ She took her arm, took her small case, led her in.
‘No, no,’ Sylvie protested. ‘This was my home, before the war. I’ve come to see it. Visit my parents’ graves. My brother’s.’ For some reason, she started to weep.
‘Yes, of course,’ the nurse crooned disbelieving. She stared again at her stomach, pulled her along.
Sylvie trailed after her, unresisting now. She was alive to the strange hush of the house, the occasional scream, murmurs, whimpers. She peered through the door of what had been the main sitting room, saw rows of beds, reclining bodies.
‘Come,’ the nurse urged her up the broad staircase, past her parent’s room. ‘No, not here,’ she pulled her along, opened a door. The music room, Sylvie thought. But there was no piano, no polished cello, erect by its little stand. Instead four beds, three of them occupied by women. She was taken to the bed by the window. Sylvie looked out: In the dimming light, she saw the small chapel, a stretch of meadow, trees, trees. Her coat was pulled off her while she stared.
‘It will be alright,’ the nurse crooned. ‘Nothing to it. Now take your clothes off. That’s a good girl. Tell me your name. Have you got papers?’
Sylvie offered no resistance. She stared out of the window. Heard the cascade of a Liszt study, her father’s voice,‘Faster, faster,’, Tadzio laughing. She lay back on a plump pillow. Closed her eyes. Moved her lips silently. She heard the women whispering in the distance, ‘She doesn’t look well, poor thing.’
Sylvie dozed.
She was startled awake by a male voice. Russian mixed with Polish. In the yellow glow of a bedside lamp, she made out a tall man in officer’s uniform. A handsome face, eyes of a liquid darkness. He sat down by the bed of the woman next to her, stroked her hand. ‘You’ll see Hanka, it will all be over quickly. You’ll be fine. We’ll have a strapping boy. Soon we can all go back to Leningrad. It’s a beautiful city. The boy will love it.’ He talked on, softly, coaxingly.
Sylvie sat up a little. She liked the sound of his voice. But in Hanka’s vast grey eyes there was only mute terror. He coaxed her out of bed, wrapped her in a robe. ‘The nurse thinks a little stroll down the corridor will help your circulation. Come.’ They went slowly from the room.
‘What a man that Ivan Makarov,’ the old woman from the bed opposite Sylvie’s spoke. ‘So gentle, so handsome. But that Hanka,’ she shook her head, ‘I don’t know. She’s so frail. He brought her in early. Useless, really, there’s hardly any staff about. Frightened, I guess he was. I don’t think they’re married,’ she added maliciously.
‘And he only talks about sons,’ the woman from the corner bed piped in. ‘Thinks she’ll give birth
tomorrow maybe, to a Messiah.’ She laughed gleefully and then started to cough.
‘Maybe she will,’ one of the nurses muttered. ‘Did you see the size of that gold crucifix around her neck? That must have cost a pretty penny. They were rich, her people. Don’t know what the war’s left them though. She’s lucky to have that Makarov.’
Later that evening, a Priest came to their room. It was Christmas eve. The women crossed themselves, prayed. Sylvie saw Hanka’s lips moving frenetically. ‘Please, please give me a boy, a strong boy.’
Sylvie turned away. For the first time, she paused to consider her child. Her thoughts flitted to Caroline, her endless mourning. Caroline would be happy with the baby. She would let her bring her up. It would bring Caroline back to life. Yes, the baby would be a her. A little Katherine.
She woke to cold blue light inching through the shutters. Her gaze fixed on wallpaper. A broad gold stripe, then a narrow gold stripe, then a band of cream and again and again. The music room. Sylvie felt hot, her mouth was parched. She was home. She repeated it to herself, ‘I am home.’ She edged out of bed. She had to see her parents the thought hammered in her. Had to see Tadzio.
They had put her clothes somewhere. Yes the wardrobe, a hideous ramshackle thing. Where had it come from? Sylvie moved heavily into her clothes, her coat. She walked quietly down the corridor. She peered into the library. A cluster of odd desks, but her father’s was still there. She looked at it longingly, but a sound made her close the door quickly. She crept down the stairs. No one. No one by the door. She opened it. The rush of cold air grabbed at her cheeks, cooled her hot forehead. She walked down the little side path, round patches of frosty snow, to the chapel. She searched in the tiny graveyard. There it was, one stone, already speckled with green. Three names simply carved. A cross. Two crests. Sylvie stared. Turned away.
There was no one there, the thought came to her. No one at home.
She walked. Walked across the meadow to the woods. Morning brightness through a tangle of branches glistening with frost. A man approached her, nodded suspiciously. Sylvie pushed on. Babushka’s cottage, a steep roofed square of wood. The terrace. A sliver of smoke from the chimney. She almost stopped to knock. Changed her mind. Ferns peered brown through the crackle of light snow. Sylvie walked. A clearing. The gamekeeper’s house. She shivered, hurried on, her steps stumbling, her hands clammy despite the cold.
Memory pressed on her. Her mother was walking beside her. Long strides, hands in jacket pocket. ‘Here, it was around here I think they found you,’ she paused, swung back blonde hair. ‘Silweczka, do you remember anything? Do you remember who it was? Who did it?’
Sylvie flushed. Shame tugged at her, groped with his black rimmed fingers at her entrails. She pushed him away. Panicked. ‘No, mama,’ she shook her head vehemently. ‘No. I told you I don’t remember anything.’
Her mother took her arm. ‘Never mind Silweczka. It’s probably better that way. Soon, you’ll be in Paris. It’s beautiful there,’ her mother’s calm voice.
‘I don’t want to go, Mama. I don’t want to go. Please, please don’t send me,’ Sylvie pleaded. Her mother paid no heed, talked on, described the marvels of the city, the Ezards, their kindness.
Sylvie turned on her. ‘You want me to go away. You hate me. You hate me,’ she shrieked, pounded her arm. Tears, hot humiliating tears, poured out of her.
‘No, Silweczka,’ her mother tried to still her. ‘You don’t understand. Your father…your father has found all this very difficult. He’s upset. It’s difficult for him to think of you growing up, grown up.’ She shrugged. ‘And then, you may have noticed. I’m going to have a baby.’
‘No,’ Sylvie stared at her. She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it. ‘No,’ she howled. ‘No. Not a baby. You can’t. You’ll go away. You’ll take Papush away. Like last time.’ She grew hot, confused. ‘He’ll never forgive me. He thinks I’m dirty. I hate you,’ she shouted. ‘I hate you.’
Sylvie ran. She wanted to kill her mother. Kill the baby. She ran deeper into the world of the forest. She hated her. She could hear her ragged breath trailing her, her voice, ‘Silweczka, wait,’ and then a thud, a cry. Silence. For the flash of a second, Sylvie was jubilant. She had killed her. Killed her. Now Papush would have to keep her here.
Then she turned. Her mother lay sprawled on the ground where she had stumbled. She gripped her stomach. There was a trickle of blood from her forehead against the pallor of her face. And then, lower down, lower, a dark spreading patch. ‘Sylvie, run to Papa, run quickly,’ she groaned. ‘Quickly.’
Sylvie ran with the speed of panic.
Hot panic flashed through her now too as she found herself rushing clumsily over the frozen earth. Running, running. She tripped, fell heavily onto cold ground. ‘Mama, mamushka,’ she called to the trees, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t die, mama. Mamushka,’ her hands gripped her stomach. The baby lurched. She thought she could feel warm blood trickling, oozing down her legs.
Sylvie dreamt. She was hot. So hot. So cold. She was being carried. Her mother was being carried. Her throat ached with dryness. ‘Drink,’ a voice said to her. ‘I’m sorry, mama,’ Sylvie pleaded, sipped. ‘Sorry. It’s Papush I hate, not you. Don’t die, please don’t die. It’s Papush. I hate men,’ she sobbed. ‘Don’t die. Please stop bleeding. Please.’
A scream sounded through hush. Sylvie didn’t know whether it was hers or her mother’s.
Hands prodded her. Voices murmured. Indistinct.
‘It’s not too bad. Not too much blood.’
‘Keep her warm.’
‘It’s the other one I’m worried about. If anything happens to his boy, Makarov will make us pay the devil.’
‘What a day. One, too frail by half, praying non-stop. The other half-dead of exposure.’
‘It’s the screams I can’t stand.’
‘Lucky we moved the old lady out.’
‘She keeps calling for her mother. Told me she lived here.’
‘She’s delirious. It’s the fever.’
‘Doesn’t hear me when I speak to her.’
‘Give her some of those powders. It won’t hurt her.’
‘And some broth for the other one. She’s so weak.’
‘I wish she’d stop calling for her mother.’
‘Thank god Christmas is over and the doctor is back tomorrow.’
‘Not as bad as last Christmas, though. Is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Here, Pani Hanka. Drink this.’
Hot so hot. And the pain. The pain in her back.
Sylvie slept, dreamt. Dreamt bodies and babies. And voices and cries, all jumbled and tumbled together. She didn’t know for how long. Then louder screams, again and again.
‘It’s Hanka. Where’s that doctor?’
Screams again and then that tiny murmuring frightened voice, ‘Please God, give me a boy, please, please.’
Sylvie opened her eyes. She saw Hanka’s translucent face. The terror there. Pain wrenched across her. Her own cry merged with the other woman’s. Hot confusion pounded in her head. She caught her breath across the crest of another contraction and then again and again.
‘Not both of them together,’ the nurses bustled. ‘There, there darlings, not so loud. You’ll disturb the other patients. Here breathe some of this.’
A mask clamped to her face. Nausea. Sweat poured down her. Her head swam. She couldn’t tell her cries from Hanka’s. The pain.
‘Breathe, little mother, breathe. Go on.’
A cloth, cooling her forehead.
‘Oh God, she’s bleeding.’
‘Where’s that Doctor? He should be here.’
‘Here, this will help.’
‘Push, dearie, push. Now, now.’
‘Yes, yes, you’re there, once more.’
A hot, searing pain tore through her. She screamed, screamed again. Over the din she heard them.
‘A boy. A boy.’
‘Hers is a girl.’
‘A big healthy boy.’
Sylvie heard Hanka murmur, ‘Yes, a boy. A boy. A boy, Ivan.’
The fragile cry of babies, a whisper, a hiccup.
Sylvie fell back on the sheets, looked over at Hanka. No more screams now. Her eyes were shut. Silence. Only the nurses’ uniforms whispered.
‘Boze mo’y, Boze mo’y. Poor child. Poor thing. Poor Makarov.’
Sylvie woke at the crack of dawn. She glanced at Hanka. White, so white, like her mother had been, there on the ground in the woods. With the spot of red spreading through the sheets. Poor thing, poor thing. Grey eyes fluttered open. A faint serene smile. ‘I’ve given him a boy.’ And then the eyes closed.
Sylvie stared and stared.
Then slowly, stiffly, she crept out of bed, tried her feet. They held her. But her thoughts were askew. Sore. Like the soreness inside her. She was cold. So cold. Mama was dead. Mama, mama hold me. Help, she must get help. Caroline, help me. Where are you Caroline? Poor child, poor child. Katherine. Poor Katherine.
Sylvie fumbled clothes, dressed, put on her coat. Her hands shook. Two babies lay sleeping peacefully in cots at the end of the room. She studied them closely. Breathing. They were both breathing. Two fist-like faces beneath dark, downy heads. Four tiny wrists and clenched fingers. Sylvie stared. Then determinedly she lifted one tiny form, wrapped it in a blanket. Stealthily, she made her way down the stairs. Mama, mamushka, I’ve brought you your baby. See, Caroline, your baby. Look, look, aren’t you happy. Pleased. Pleased with me.
Cold air lashed her face. Where were they? Where were they?
The stables, she remembered. The stables. She knocked loudly. ‘Take me to Pan Stach. Please, please, take me to Pan Stach.’
Ten days later Jacob Jardine arrived at the French Consulate in Krakow. He was worried. Deeply worried, as he had increasingly been over the months of Sylvie’s absence. The telegram summoning him had been something of a relief. He had come as quickly as was feasible, hoping that the word ‘unwell’ the telegram used was not a euphemism for ‘critical’.
Memory and Desire Page 32
