He looked at her uniform and nodded. ‘So you’re training to be a nurse. That’s excellent. We’re going to need nurses — lots of them.’
‘I’ll be ready whenever you need me,’ she said.
Nineteen
Adam’s new role was far more complex and demanding than Zenon had intimated, but he threw himself into it, determined to prove himself and expunge the memory of his failed mission.
To cover his tracks, he rented rooms in three places and used different identity cards in each one. He had spent hardly any time in the only lodging where he was registered under his real name, because this was where he ran the biggest risk of being caught. It was a cramped dusty attic in a house whose façade was pitted with shells fired at the beginning of the war in 1939. The landlady, whose officer husband had been captured by the Russians and deported to Siberia, looked at him askance each time he dropped in to check whether anyone had asked for him, but didn’t ask any questions. The day she told him that two Germans in plain clothes had come asking about him, he had moved out.
He wasn’t registered at all in the room where he spent his nights. Although it was illegal not to register tenants, and his landlady ran a risk of being arrested if the Gestapo discovered she had an undeclared lodger, he felt he could trust her. Ever since starting work for the Underground, he had increasingly come to rely on his instincts about people. From her sidelong glances, he could tell she guessed why he didn’t want a record of his stay. Thanks to her cooperation, he slept secure in the knowledge that no one would come looking for him there.
The third room he rented was his office where he listened to illicit short-wave radio broadcasts and prepared reports for his superiors, as well as writing news items and articles for Underground newsletters and bulletins. Adam was aware that in disseminating genuine information, he was performing a vital service for the nation. People were continually being fed German propaganda, and unless they were willing to risk their lives by listening to illicit broadcasts from London and Washington, the AK publications were one of the few means of finding out what was really going on.
The fall of France the previous year had dealt a terrible blow to Poland’s hopes of Allied assistance, but now that Hitler had broken his non-aggression pact with Stalin and invaded the Soviet Union in June, there was a strong likelihood that their former enemy would join the Allies. The AK leaders felt optimistic that 1941 might prove to be the turning point of the war. For one thing, the Polish army imprisoned in the Soviet Union would now be released, and, for another, instead of having two tigers on its back, Poland now had only one.
But Adam had discovered that there was far more involved in his work than sitting in front of a radio listening to broadcasts transmitted from neutral and Allied countries and summarising them for the Underground newsletters. Although the Underground newspapers were printed on small hand-presses or mimeographs, a shortage of paper continually threatened the dissemination of information. As the AK had few legitimate channels for obtaining paper for its publications, Adam hit on the idea of posing as the representative of a manufacturing firm that needed to import it.
Ethnic Germans living in Poland had special privileges, and with his excellent knowledge of German, Adam felt sufficiently confident to pose as a Volksdeutsche. He started frequenting the Tatra Tavern in the Zoliborz district in the hope of making useful contacts. The Tatra was one of the Nur für Deutsche establishments that the Germans appropriated exclusively for themselves, so in his guise as an ethnic German, Adam was entitled to enter. Downing one vodka after another while a woman in a slinky backless gown crooned a throaty rendition of ‘Lili Marlene’, he looked around the bar to see if he could strike up a conversation and initiate some contact with a German or Volksdeutsche who might be useful.
After a couple of fruitless weeks, Adam was losing patience with his scheme. He was sitting at the bar one evening thinking of giving up, when his eye fell on a short man with sparse brown hair and eyes set into his pale face like raisins stuck into a lump of dough. He was alone and, from his eager expression, seemed to be looking around for company. Adam slipped onto the stool beside him and started a conversation. After he had complained about the ignorant Poles, and rejoiced at the civilising advent of the Germans, their conversation became more animated and, before long, his new friend Horst was showing him photos of his Frau, Ilke, in her dirndl surrounded by his three sturdy sons in their lederhosen outside their home in Munich. Horst missed his family and wished he was back home but he’d been sent to Warschau by his firm to sell newsprint.
Adam’s hand tightened around his glass. ‘Allow me to buy you a schnapps,’ he suggested. He and Horst toasted each other, clinked glasses and crossed arms as they drank a Bruderschaft. Several drinks later, the German’s face was glowing with bonhomie and brotherhood while Adam kept up with him glass by glass without losing sight of his goal. Before the evening was over, several bottles had been emptied and they shook hands on a deal in which a truckful of newsprint would be delivered to Adam and paid for at market price.
After their third meeting, Adam was ready to spring the trap. Unknown to Horst, someone was standing in the shadowy doorway opposite, taking photographs of the illicit transaction, including the hearty handshake at the end, and the two schemers agreed to meet at the Tatra for a drink the following night.
Horst was already sitting at a table in the far corner of the noisy bar and waved when he spotted Adam. Over their schnapps and vodka, Adam casually pulled out the photos from his inside pocket and held them up. Horst blinked. ‘Aber warum … wersteht nicht … I do not understand,’ he stammered, staring at Adam in bewilderment. Adam said nothing but continued to hold up the photos like a winning hand of cards. Horst blanched and his eyes widened as understanding dawned.
‘Don’t worry, Horst, there’s no reason not to continue our agreement,’ Adam said smoothly as he signalled to the waitress for more drinks.
Horst nodded several times, relieved. ‘Ach so,’ he said, looking at Adam uncertainly and mopping his forehead, which was suddenly beaded with sweat.
As they lifted the glasses to their lips, Adam said thoughtfully, ‘Except from now on, you will only charge us forty per cent of your original price.’
The German leapt from his chair. ‘Forty per cent? Gott in Himmel, this is impossible! I cannot! My company will be bankrupt. I will lose my job!’
Adam spread the photos out on the table and pretended to examine them. ‘I wonder what the Gestapo will think about a German doing illegal business with a Pole,’ he said with the pleasure of a gambler producing his trump card. He almost felt sorry for Horst. The success of this enterprise inspired him to try his luck with German soldiers. His hunch proved right. Always short of cash, they were prepared to sell blankets, belts and sometimes even pistols that the AK desperately needed. And once they had made a sale, the trap was sprung, and they were forced to continue supplying the merchandise for fear of being exposed.
Although Adam was delighted with his success, these transactions left a bad taste in his mouth. Masquerading as a fictitious person, using false papers and carrying out secret missions seemed legitimate ways of fighting the enemy, but he despised the duplicity and blackmail that these business deals entailed, especially when they involved establishing friendly relationships with people in order to deceive them. He felt uncomfortable about duping men like Horst. Although he knew that these deals were essential in the struggle against their oppressors, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was involved in a dirty business that diminished him as a human being. It was a troubling equation and one he was unable to resolve.
He was leaving Zenon’s office after being summoned to discuss his progress when he almost collided with Dr Wieniawski in the corridor. It was like going to bed tormented by a problem and waking to find that the solution had sprung into your mind while you slept. The old doctor would help him resolve his ambivalence.
They entered a modest café nearby and sat down at
one of the rickety tables near the grimy window where someone had scrawled the words Niech zyje Polska! on the dusty pane. Long live Poland! The better quality establishments now displayed the hated Nur für Deutsche signs, but this café, with its threadbare curtains, chipped tables, worn-down chairs and penetrating odour of stale cabbage, was at least open to Poles.
As he scanned the dog-eared menu, most of whose dishes were crossed out, Adam noticed that the old doctor had aged considerably since they’d last met. The lines on either side of his mouth had deepened, and the papery skin on his hands was blotched with liver spots. Adam’s stomach rumbled but on his modest AK allowance he couldn’t afford even these relatively low prices, and he ordered a glass of tea. Dr Wieniawski also confined himself to tea, and, from the way his suit hung on him, Adam surmised that it had been a long time since he, too, had had a good meal.
They talked about the German invasion of the Soviet Union and what it might mean for Poland, and then turned to Churchill’s disastrous campaign against Rommel’s Afrika Korps in Libya. They agreed that, with the British army stuck in North Africa and Greece, the only hope for Europe was the Soviet Union. With Stalin now fighting alongside the Allies, Germany’s grip on Europe might finally be loosened.
When they’d finished discussing the international situation, the conversation took a lighter turn. Adam bided his time for the right moment to raise the issue that bothered him, but his companion alternated between nodding too energetically to whatever he said and drifting off into a world of his own. The doctor was clearly preoccupied with his own problems but, whatever they were, he didn’t allude to them.
‘There’s something I’d like to discuss with you because I value your opinion,’ Adam said finally. The doctor looked up. This time he was paying attention.
‘I’m good at my work but something bothers me. I feel I’m betraying my values and stooping to their level,’ Adam said. ‘Can the end really justify the means if we become ruthless in the process?’
The waitress placed two glasses of tea on the table, wiped her red hands on her apron and apologised for not being able to provide sugar. The doctor blew on his tea and took small sips, staring into his cup as though the answer was to be found inside.
‘If we win this struggle, when it is over, we’ll be able to resume normal life,’ he said at last.
Adam shifted in his hard wooden chair. ‘But who will we be by then?’
‘When a patient stops breathing, you don’t worry about setting his broken leg,’ the doctor said. ‘The only thing you’re concerned with is clearing the airways. We’re clearing the airways for our nation. You’re worried what we will be if we compromise our values, and that’s a reasonable concern. But what will we be, what will the future for our children be, if our nation ceases to exist and the Nazis rule the world?’
‘But who will we be if we compromise our morals?’
Dr Wieniawski studied his companion. ‘I admire your scruples but they’re misguided. It’s naïve to think you can play by the rules when you’re involved in a life-and-death struggle with someone who’s determined to destroy you and doesn’t recognise any rules. This isn’t a dispute over territory: it’s a struggle of ideologies, a matter of survival, and it can’t be won wearing kid gloves. Would you stop to consider animal rights while a lion was tearing you to bits?’ He gave Adam a sympathetic glance. ‘We would all like to live up to the moral standards our mothers taught us, but in times like these we have to look at the larger canvas.’
The door opened and a pretty young woman entered. She wore a floral dress that showed off her figure, and a toque secured with a wide band around the back of her smooth blonde hair.
As her gaze fell on their table, she exclaimed with a false laugh, ‘Well, if it isn’t Dr Borowski!’
Adam looked at his companion, waiting for him to tell the girl she’d made a mistake but, to his surprise, he inclined his head in her direction. ‘Well, if it isn’t Bozena!’ he said in an ironic tone. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up. I must say I’m surprised to see you here. I would have thought you’d be gracing Warsaw’s fashionable cafés with your boyfriend.’
The girl chose to ignore his comment. ‘My sister works here,’ she said. ‘How’s life treating you these days?’
‘I’ve been fortunate enough to be forced into premature retirement by the thugs who smashed up my clinic. Perhaps you heard about it,’ he said through his teeth.
Adam looked from one to the other, puzzled by the hostile undercurrent.
As soon as the girl pushed open the swing door to the kitchen, Dr Wieniawski placed a few zloty on the table and they left.
At the end of the block, they stopped beside a lamp-post and looked at the sign pinned to it which said Nur für Deutsche. All along the street, similar signs decorated each lamp-post.
‘I like that!’ the doctor chuckled. ‘The Germans have appropriated the cafés, and they hang our people from the lamp-posts, so, to return the compliment, someone has stuck these notices up to say we’re reserving the lamp-posts for them!’
Adam felt a surge of pride. The signs had been his idea. He knew it would only be a matter of hours before they were all torn down but, in the meantime, they infused some humour and hope into the lives of the Poles, and perhaps a little apprehension into the minds of their oppressors. They watched as two helmeted policemen stopped beside a lamp-post to read the sign and looked around, not sure what to make of it.
‘It’s a good thing the Germans don’t have a sense of humour,’ Dr Wieniawski murmured as they turned into a side street.
As they were passing the Prudential Building, Adam was about to comment that at least Warsaw’s tallest landmark was still standing when his companion told him what had happened at the clinic.
‘One day that bitch will get what she deserves,’ he fumed. ‘I’ll personally shear those blonde locks off her head in public so everyone knows she was a Nazi whore.’
Adam lowered his voice. ‘So at the clinic you were known as Dr Borowski?’
The old doctor nodded. ‘The clinic was a good cover. I was able to carry on with my Underground work without arousing suspicion, until that little viper got her revenge because I failed her in the exams. I would have liked to fire her but that would certainly have aroused suspicion.’ He paused. ‘You know I got involved in a strange business at the Jewish cemetery. I had a feisty Jewish trainee nurse who used to sneak out of the Ghetto —’
He was about to launch into the story about Elzunia and the secret burial but Adam had to cut him short. He would have liked to hear about the girl in the Ghetto but it was already late and he had to return to his office. The doctor was right. He had to put aside his personal scruples and keep his eyes focused on the larger canvas to hasten the end of the war. Stirred up afresh, Adam hurried back to his office to listen to the radio broadcast from Turkey so that he could file his next report.
Twenty
‘Look at this,’ Lusia exclaimed, passing Elzunia a notice from the Ghetto Provisioning Committee. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,’ she said. ‘Now they’re publishing recipes for cooking those frozen, rotting vegetables that the Germans dump on us!’
Elzunia started reading aloud. ‘Place frozen potatoes in cold water for twenty-four hours and use immediately. Use frozen onions as soon as they start thawing. Frozen meat is safe to use.’ She blew on her fingers, which were swollen with chilblains. The January frost seemed more severe than ever that year and she wondered how she would manage to get through the winter. With a bitter laugh, she said, ‘I’d like to see some meat, frozen or otherwise.’ She scanned recipes for making grain coffee from dried beetroot, lentils and barley. ‘Some tips for getting rid of chalk and sawdust from the bread would be useful.’
‘Isn’t life strange?’ Lusia mused. ‘We can be murdered any moment at the whim of any Nazi but we still look up recipes and find things to laugh at.’
There was a thump on the stairs outside and they looke
d at each other in alarm. A moment later, they heard moaning. Elzunia went to the door on tip-toe and opened the door a fraction. A woman was sitting on the stairs, her legs sprawled in front of her like a rag doll, holding her right ankle.
‘I twisted it on that wretched broken paving outside, and it’s swelling up,’ she panted when she saw Elzunia. ‘I can’t stand on it.’
She was the latest addition to the room across the landing. Elzunia and Lusia had watched with dismay as several families squeezed into the room that had once been solely occupied by Pani Szpindlerowa. To create more chaos and confusion, the Germans were constantly redrawing the boundaries of the Ghetto, and, with each change, its area shrank further, creating more overcrowding. These changes, which took place without any warning, maddened the inhabitants and drove them to despair, because each time the boundaries were redrawn, thousands found themselves out in the street, without a roof over their heads.
Elzunia sat on the landing and palpated the ankle as Dr Borowski had taught her. ‘It isn’t broken but you’ve probably sprained it,’ she said. ‘Come in and I’ll strap it for you.’
‘Tell her to make a poultice from the frozen potatoes to reduce the swelling,’ Lusia called out. ‘At least they’ll be good for something.’
While Elzunia was bandaging the ankle, the woman said, ‘I’m Madame Ramona, the clairvoyant. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.’ She spoke with the regal air of a monarch addressing lesser mortals, and scrutinised Elzunia with her piercing black eyes.
Elzunia pretended to blow her nose as she tried to suppress her giggles. What an ego.
‘I charge for telling people’s fortunes but come and see me tomorrow and I’ll tell yours for free,’ Madame Ramona said.
When Elzunia knocked on the door the following day, Madame Ramona was dressed for the part. She wore a floral kerchief over her hair, earrings that hung down to her shoulders, and a long skirt made up of gaudy scraps of material stitched together. She reminded Elzunia of the gypsy matriarch who used to accost passersby in the old market square, offering to tell their fortunes.
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