Nocturne

by Diane Armstrong

  ‘Perhaps I could slip away a little later,’ she said after an awkward pause.

  ‘Perhaps you could,’ he murmured, pressing his lips passionately into her palm as a shadow fell across the terrace. He looked up to meet the compelling gaze of a tall blonde in the doorway and cursed his bad luck. Coming across past conquests had become an occupational hazard in these circles, but to make matters worse, this was a woman he had dropped rather abruptly.

  He breathed out again when he noticed a faint smile on her lips and a flute of champagne in her hand. As she raised it in his direction in a silent toast, Adam bowed. He was still bowing when she took three rapid steps towards him and tossed the contents of the glass in his face.

  Elena leaped back as though attacked by a tiger. ‘Santa Maria! My dress!’ she shrieked. Glaring at Adam, she uttered a torrent of Spanish invective, and rushed across the dance floor, holding out her dripping skirt.

  Alone on the terrace, Adam mopped his face and scanned the ballroom. The architect of his misfortune had vanished inside and Elena was surrounded by a group of babbling women examining the wet stain on her dress, offering suggestions, and pointing to the washroom. The band leader tapped the lectern, raised his baton, and the orchestra struck up a Strauss waltz. The ballroom swirled with chiffon, silk and organza, and the French chandeliers sparkled with the refracted flashes of diamonds, sequins and pearls.

  As the couples waltzed past the terrace, they whispered and cast disapproving glances in his direction. He wasn’t surprised. The men envied him his reputation as a Lothario, while their wives, some of whom knew him far more intimately than their husbands suspected, felt a vicarious satisfaction in seeing him humiliated in public.

  ‘See, that’s what you get for burning your candle at both ends.’ His friend Piotr had come out on to the terrace and was shaking his head with mock disapproval. Adam sensed a touch of Schadenfreude in his friend’s playful remark. Piotr was timid with women and couldn’t understand Adam’s success. ‘I don’t get it,’ he would often complain. ‘You’re certainly no Adonis, but the women are always falling over themselves to get into your bed.’

  Adam had no illusions about his appearance. His jaw was long and bony and his cheeks were pitted with pock marks, but he knew that success with women had nothing to do with looks. Women desired you because you liberated them from their inhibitions, not because you had regular features.

  ‘Well, it looks as though my candle has gutted tonight,’ Adam said as he looked across the ballroom where Elena was standing provocatively close to the French consul and pealing with laughter at everything he said. She caught Adam’s eye and jerked her head away as she led the consul on to the dance floor.

  There was no point prolonging the embarrassment. Adam was heading for the door when a tall man with a neatly clipped moustache came towards him, hand outstretched.

  ‘How do you do? I’m Charles Watson-Smythe,’ he said in halting Polish.

  Adam couldn’t disguise his astonishment. Polish was a language very few diplomats bothered to learn, especially the British ones.

  ‘I’m really an honorary Pole,’ the Englishman was saying. ‘I’ve lived in your beautiful city for several years. In fact, I’m engaged to a lovely Warszawianka — that’s what you call the girls from Warsaw, don’t you?’

  ‘We can speak English if you like,’ Adam said. ‘I spent three years in London doing postgraduate work in political science.’

  ‘That’s very tempting, but I do feel I should practise my Polish whenever I get the chance.’

  Watson-Smythe had come to his rescue at an awkward moment. A real gentleman. There was no equivalent of this word in Polish, with its connotation of discretion, breeding and courtesy. According to some of the Polish diplomats, the English said one thing to your face and another behind your back. They had a reputation for being evasive, noncommittal and sometimes downright duplicitous, but their manners were always impeccable. ‘They smile and say, “So sorry” while they’re stabbing you in the back,’ his foreign-office colleagues used to say.

  ‘I must say, I don’t know how you Poles manage to drink that vodka of yours by the glass. I went to the shindig your people gave at The Bristol last week. It was some air-force do. Those airmen can drink anyone under the table, and they certainly know how to charm the ladies!’

  Adam laughed. ‘That’s why I’ve joined the air force!’

  His infatuation with flying had begun fifteen years before, when he had read about the airman who had made the first solo flight from Warsaw to Tokyo. Adam was ten years old at the time and he cut out every article he could find about the flight. He spent so much time studying the aviator’s head-hugging leather helmet and huge goggles that his mother said he’d wear out the newsprint.

  He’d almost jumped out of his skin with excitement when his uncle took him to an air show. The moment he set eyes on the Potez two-seaters with their huge silver wings, he saw himself in the cockpit. His throat closed up when the planes lifted off like gigantic metal birds. One moment they soared into the sky and the next they were hurtling towards the ground. Jesus Maria! The spectators clutched their throats and covered their mouths with trembling hands, hardly daring to look. But at the last moment, as they all gaped in disbelief, the planes suddenly rose again in a series of somersaults, loops and arabesques.

  After they touched down, the prettiest girls Adam had ever seen rushed towards the pilots and walked away with them, arm in arm. It was then Adam thought that being a pilot and having girls vying for your attention must be the closest thing to heaven on earth.

  At first, his father had regarded his fascination with flying with indulgence. After all, most boys wanted to be train drivers or firemen but they outgrew their childhood fantasies. Later, he approved of Adam’s decision to enter the diplomatic service, but he was shocked when earlier that year Adam had announced his intention of joining the Polish Air Force.

  ‘War’s coming and I’m not going to sit back. I want to fight for Poland,’ Adam had said.

  ‘Polish Air Force? You mean Polish air circus!’ his father thundered. ‘These machines are made for entertainment, not war. Airmen are undisciplined louts, only interested in womanising and carousing. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. Our family has always fought in the cavalry and that’s what you’ll do.’

  Adam had choked back his anger. Nothing had changed since he was a little boy. His father still dismissed his ideas and persisted in laying down the law. The Russian campaign of 1920 in which he had distinguished himself was long over, but in his own mind he was still the colonel demanding unconditional obedience, even though his son was now twenty-five.

  ‘Father, with all due respect, the cavalry is a relic of the past,’ Adam said, ignoring his mother’s desperate gestures in the background signalling him to not upset his father.

  ‘You call the cavalry a relic? How dare you insult Poland’s heroes! You’re not fit to polish their boots. All you’ve ever done is chase girls and drool over photographs of aeroplanes.’

  Adam clenched his fists. The morning light slanting from the window caught the glass on the photograph that stood on the walnut sideboard. It depicted his father in his cavalry uniform. The peculiar elongated tasselled cap on his head, and the sabre at his waist reminded Adam of a chocolate soldier in a Viennese operetta, an image that gave him the courage to press his point.

  ‘Flying isn’t a novelty any more, Father. Even Marshal Pilsudski’s daughter is learning to fly. As a matter of fact, she’s joined my aeronautical club.’

  But his father refused to be mollified by this reference to the Polish hero with whom he had fought several campaigns.

  ‘Your ancestors fought the Teutonic Knights, the Swedes and the Turks. I fought the Russians to gain this nation’s independence …’

  Adam suppressed a yawn. ‘Well, I’m not going to fight for it on the back of a horse, tilting my lance at tanks like a Polish Don Quixote. The cavalry is an anachronism. I
t will make Poland a laughing stock —’

  His father swung his arm back and struck Adam’s face with such force that he reeled back against the sideboard and sent the photograph crashing to the floor. Adam strode out of the house without another word and, for the first time in his life, didn’t kiss his father’s hand before leaving.

  Lost in his painful reverie, Adam had to ask Charles Watson-Smythe to repeat his question.

  ‘So, have you broken many hearts since you joined the air force?’ the Englishman asked in a genial voice.

  Adam suppressed a smile. ‘I do my best.’

  ‘I bet you do.’

  The Englishman was no longer smiling and his comment had a jarring tone. Adam supposed it was due to his poor command of Polish.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Watson-Smythe said. ‘Would you be good enough to wait a moment? There’s someone I’d like to introduce to you.’

  Adam was leaning on the balustrade with his back to the ballroom when he heard footsteps on the tiled terrace behind him.

  ‘I’d like you to meet my fiancée,’ the Englishman said.

  Adam turned and the smile died on his lips. It was his former lover, the woman who had thrown champagne in his face half an hour before.

  As Adam raised her hand to his lips and murmured the usual pleasantries, the Englishman’s expression remained affable. His fiancée gave Adam a mocking smile and returned to the ballroom, but Charles Watson-Smythe continued to make small talk, clearly enjoying Adam’s discomfiture. It was Adam who lost the contest and made an excuse to leave. As they shook hands, the Englishman said amiably, ‘We allies must stick together in these troubled times, you know.’

  Cursing under his breath, Adam collected his hat and coat from the pert cloakroom attendant and, without paying her his usual compliments, hurried out into the night.

  Two

  As soon as Elzunia heard the drone of aeroplanes high above the city, she rushed to the window and started counting.

  ‘Look at them all!’ she shouted and ran for her father’s field-glasses. Before she had time to use them, Stefan had grabbed them from her hand.

  ‘It must be the air force on an anti-aircraft training exercise,’ he said.

  ‘Gosia’s cousin reckons our pilots are the best in the world,’ Elzunia said. ‘He says they’ll knock the Germans out of the sky in no time.’

  ‘I’d like to know how they’re going to do that with their antiquated planes,’ Stefan scoffed. ‘They don’t even have a retractable undercarriage. Junkers are the best planes ever built.’

  Elzunia pulled a face. She didn’t know what a retractable undercarriage was and she certainly wasn’t going to ask. Stefan was an insufferable know-all. Just because he was four years older and understood mechanical things, he always made her feel ignorant.

  ‘You don’t know everything,’ she said.

  Her mother gave her a sharp glance. ‘Don’t be rude to your brother,’ she said.

  Elzunia glared. It wasn’t fair. Their mother always made excuses for Stefan. She always sided with him — never with her.

  ‘Well, I know more than a snotty thirteen-year-old who goes around with a toy Red Cross box and thinks war’s a game,’ he sneered.

  Elzunia turned to her mother. ‘How come he’s allowed to be nasty to me?’ she complained, but Lusia didn’t seem to hear.

  With an irritated gesture, their father put down his newspaper. ‘Leave your sister alone, and stop the quibbling,’ he snapped at Stefan. ‘You should have more sense at a time like this. It’s about time you pulled yourself together and acted your age.’

  Stefan turned back to the window, red-faced at the rebuke, while Elzunia shot him a triumphant look. At least her father stood up for her.

  Stefan peered through the field-glasses. ‘They don’t look like ours,’ he said slowly.

  A moment later a shrieking sound turned Elzunia’s skin to gooseflesh. An explosion followed that sounded as though a thousand cannons had gone off at once.

  ‘Quick, Elzunia, get your mask and run!’ her father shouted, and they all rushed down the stairs three at a time, hardly taking a breath. A nearby nightclub was the closest shelter and they reached it just before the next bomb hit. Crouching in the basement, Elzunia clamped her hands over her ears and shook each time she heard the explosions. Every bone in her body vibrated with the shaking of the cellar walls. Did this mean they were being attacked? How long would the bombing last? All around her, the adults discussed the situation, their faces tense. Some of the women were white-faced and their eyes were full of fear, while others murmured prayers. The men said that Hitler must have finally carried out his threat to invade Poland, but the Polish army and air force would soon repel them and show them what Poles were made of. With each explosion, Elzunia’s breathing became so rapid that she felt dizzy. So was this how war began? What if their building was hit? What would happen to all their things? Where would they go? Would they be buried under the rubble?

  A fine heroine you are, she told herself. She had broken out in a cold sweat and her moist hands could hardly hold her first-aid box. She prayed she wouldn’t need to use it.

  Her father put his arm around her trembling shoulders. ‘It’ll be over soon, Dzidzia,’ he said.

  Her brother leaned forward. ‘Is poor little Dzidzia scared?’

  She turned away from his mocking glance. If only the bombing would stop.

  As soon as they emerged from the shelter, she knew the world had changed. It wasn’t just the fire engines racing through the streets, the pall of dust that dulled the brightness of the September sunshine, or the sparks from all the fires that rose into the sky. It was the smell. At first she thought it was the smell of smoke and burning buildings but it was more pervasive, more frightening. It was the smell of fear.

  Over the next few days, Elzunia’s hair rose on her arms each time the sirens shrilled to warn them of imminent bombardment. ‘Why hasn’t our air force shot down those Stukas?’ she kept asking.

  Every morning they huddled around their large wireless to hear the latest news, pressing their faces against its walnut case to ensure they didn’t miss a single word. The air alerts were interspersed with mysterious announcements that made no sense at all but made Elzunia feel uneasy with their stuttering urgency. Attention attention, arriving arriving between eight and twelve. Her father explained that these messages were in code for the army. But what if the soldiers weren’t listening and missed them?

  Three long days had passed since the Germans had attacked, but if this was war, it wasn’t what she had expected. She had envisaged gallant warriors performing heroic rescues and fighting courageous battles. She had not anticipated huddling in dark shelters, teeth chattering, as they waited for the next bomb to fall.

  It was all so confusing. From her history lessons, she knew that battles were either lost or won, but right now no one seemed to know what was happening. Someone said that the Polish Air Force had repelled the Luftwaffe, the army had taken over Gdansk, the English and French had attacked Berlin and General Bortnowski was on his way to save Warsaw. When she heard that, she jumped up and cheered, but then someone else said the exact opposite and painted such a bleak picture of what was happening that her stomach folded in on itself and she picked the skin around her thumbnail. She didn’t know what to believe and the worst thing was that her parents didn’t either. And all the time the air alerts kept coming, buildings kept falling and fire kept raining down from the heavens until the sky glowed scarlet, and she closed her eyes, pressed her hands together and whispered urgent prayers to the Blessed Virgin to protect them and their house.

  In the days that followed every hope was crushed. It turned out that General Bortnowski’s army had been cut to pieces and the Germans with their panzer tanks had cut across Poland like scythes mowing down fields of wheat. They were rushing towards the capital. Hardly anyone could believe the news that the Polish army had been decimated and everyone was asking, ‘How could this happen
to our army? Where’s the cavalry? When will our allies come to our aid? Why hasn’t our air force protected us from German dive bombers?’ To Elzunia, these questions were more unsettling than the rumours because no one had any answers.

  She was still trembling after another air raid when her mother placed her finger against her lips. ‘Ssh. Szpilman’s playing Chopin,’ she said. In between the air alerts, coded messages and news bulletins, Warsaw Radio broadcast the city’s popular pianist playing the Military Polonaise.

  Elzunia glanced at her mother. Lusia’s eyes were closed and an ecstatic expression smoothed out the anxious lines on her face. The stirring notes rekindled a fierce patriotism. There was still hope in a world where such music existed. It reminded them who they were, and reaffirmed their pride in their nation and boosted their spirits. But Elzunia didn’t feel comforted. This time in Chopin’s rousing music, she could hear the tread of soldiers’ boots and the rumble of approaching tanks.

  The polonaise ended, and the notes were still lingering in the air when a fanfare introduced an important announcement. They blanched when they heard Colonel Umiastowski announcing that German panzers were racing towards Warsaw. He ordered men of military age to leave the city to avoid being captured, and eventually to regroup.

  Panic gripped Elzunia’s chest as she heard her parents discussing the situation.

  ‘We’ve all been misled,’ her father said bitterly. ‘Our military and political leaders have miscalculated the disparity of weapons between us and the Germans. Or else they deliberately deceived us. And now they’re telling the men to abandon the capital.’

  Elzunia’s hands shook at the thought of being separated from her father. She looked at him anxiously. Thank God he was too old to be mobilised.

  ‘Miss Elzunia, are you ready?’ Their maid, Tereska, was standing in the doorway holding a string bag. Tereska could barely read and write but she was very shrewd. ‘Put this ribbon around your hair,’ she said while Elzunia protested that she wasn’t going out looking like a child. ‘Go on,’ Tereska cajoled. ‘The younger you look, the better chance we’ll have of getting food.’