Nocturne

by Diane Armstrong

  Assuming she didn’t understand German, he said in halting Polish, ‘I soldier. I orders obey.’ He winced as she swabbed the wound with iodine.

  She didn’t reply. There was no point getting into a discussion with a sadist who thought it was his duty to murder children.

  ‘Why this hospital is German soldiers taking?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Because we also obey orders,’ she retorted. ‘Our orders are to heal the sick, even barbarians who murder women and children.’

  He shrugged. ‘But that is war, nicht wahr?’

  ‘Your country gave us Beethoven, Schubert, Schiller and Goethe,’ she blurted. ‘Aren’t you ashamed to stoop to such barbarism?’

  He looked amazed. ‘Du liebst Schubert? Die Winterreise, ja?’ And before she could reply, he began to sing the organ grinder’s plaintive song in a melodious baritone. Gone was the icy stare; the hard features had softened and he was a music-lover paying homage to his favourite composer.

  When he’d finished, he sighed. ‘I to my Mutti listen and to Gott pray every day. I good man. Germans good mans. Mein Führer says we must to Polen go to help the Vaterland. We must liquidate Jews and Slavs to make Germany safe. War makes bad mans.’

  Furious at his justifications, she turned to leave when she heard screaming, yelling, gunshots and boots clattering in the corridor. The ward door swung open and a unit of SS officers burst in.

  ‘Hande hoch!’ they yelled. ‘Alles raus!’

  ‘These people can’t walk,’ she protested. ‘Most of them can’t even get out of bed!’

  Their leader, a stocky man with a swarthy complexion, who didn’t look German, raised his pistol and shot the patient closest to him through the head. ‘Alles raus!’ he screamed. ‘Alles!’ He glared at Elzunia. ‘Du auch.’

  ‘Halt!’ Wolfman called out in German. ‘Some of us are German, and the Polish nurses and doctors are looking after us. They are good people. Leave them alone.’

  ‘We have orders from Berlin,’ the officer snarled. ‘All Polish bandits are to be eliminated, along with their city. If you don’t like it, tell Himmler.’

  Terrified, the patients staggered, limped and crawled from their beds, while Elzunia tried to support the ones who trailed intravenous drips. Those who stumbled or fell were shot, and the floor became slippery with blood, the thick metallic smell making Elzunia’s stomach rise into her throat. As she passed the other ward she saw the physical education teacher lying across her bed, unconscious. The sheet had been thrown aside and blood trickled between her thighs. Elzunia pressed her hands to her mouth to stop herself from screaming. They were in the jungle now and wild beasts were in charge.

  They were herded into the basement, the patients, nurses and doctors. A key turned in the door. They were locked in.

  ‘Holy Mother of God, what are they going to do to us?’ Janka whispered. She was shaking so much her teeth were chattering.

  Elzunia put her arm around her friend. She had faced death so many times she no longer felt afraid. As long as it was over quickly.

  Someone was turning the key in the lock. The door opened and one of the SS men was standing there, revolver in hand, and beside him stood Wolfman.

  ‘I’m ill. I need someone to look after me,’ he barked to the other officer. He pointed at Elzunia and Janka. ‘These two will do!’ Elzunia’s knees shook. She didn’t fear death, only what might precede it.

  They walked in front of Wolfman along the corridor, past the eerily empty wards, and were almost at the entrance when he tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Schnell!’ he said, and with a nod of his head indicated that they should run for it.

  Hearts in their mouths, they crept along the passageway past the entrance and glanced outside. SS officers were milling around the forecourt, looking as pleased with themselves as guests at a wedding.

  Elzunia and Janka bobbed down and kept going until they came to a window. Janka raised it, biting her lip as it scraped against the weathered frame. They jumped down and, without looking back, reached a clump of bushes just before they heard an explosion. Through a pall of dust and smoke they saw that the lower part of the hospital building had been blown away and the wall was sliding down as though in slow motion, until it collapsed into a heap of broken masonry.

  They crouched there for what seemed an eternity, hands over their ears until Janka tugged convulsively at Elzunia’s arm. ‘That explosion came from the basement. They must have thrown grenades in there.’ Tears were rolling down her cheeks. ‘Jesus Maria, they’ve killed them all.’

  ‘So much for the Red Cross banner,’ Elzunia said harshly.

  Janka looked at her questioningly. ‘That Nazi saved us. He must have taken a fancy to you.’

  Elzunia didn’t reply.

  ‘I feel guilty,’ Janka whispered. ‘I want to apologise to all the nurses and doctors and patients because I got out and they didn’t.’ She dropped to her knees and put her hands together. ‘I’m going to pray for us all.’

  Forty-Four

  After their escape, Elzunia and Janka were transferred to a makeshift hospital that was being set up in the basement of an apartment block in the Old Town. To equip the wards with the bare essentials, they and the other nurses had to run up and down the stairs, knocking on doors and begging the tenants to contribute mattresses, sheets, blankets and pillows, and whatever else they could spare. Some helped willingly, others grudgingly, while some refused outright, even after Elzunia explained politely that the way the Old Town was being pounded by artillery, they themselves might one day benefit from their own generosity. All they needed now was for a doctor to arrive.

  From the moment the new doctor loped into the hospital, Elzunia thought he was too casual. Lanky as a beanpole, with a tram-driver’s cap perched on the back of his head, she was convinced he’d never command respect. For one thing, he was always cracking jokes, and, for another, he didn’t want the nurses to address him as Dr Zawadzki, but to call him Andrzej. How could he expect to be taken seriously if he insisted on being treated like one of them? Dr Zawadzki — Elzunia still couldn’t bring herself to call him by his first name — operated on an oak refectory table donated by the nuns at the convent nearby, and he worked by the weak light of a small generator that hummed so loudly they could hardly hear themselves speak.

  He often whistled or told jokes as he removed chunks of shrapnel or amputated crushed limbs, and seemed as cheerful as though he were working in the best equipped operating theatre in the world.

  ‘Who’s first on the list?’ he asked, and rubbed his hands as if anticipating a joyous event although his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and long hours spent in the musty cellar.

  Even before they saw Captain Wajda being brought in on a stretcher, they heard him let fly a string of curses that made Elzunia blush. He propped himself up, glared at the doctor and shouted, ‘I will not permit you to amputate my leg!’

  Before Dr Zawadzki could respond, the captain whipped out a revolver from his military jacket and pointed it first at the doctor then slowly swept it around in an arc that encompassed the nurses, who shrank back against the wall. His face was ashen and beads of perspiration bubbled on his forehead. ‘You’re not going to knock me out with an anaesthetic either,’ he said through tightly clenched teeth. ‘I don’t trust any of you. I want to be conscious so I can see what you’re doing. Just fix the leg.’

  Shocked, Elzunia glanced at Dr Zawadzki, but, as usual, he looked as if he were enjoying a good joke.

  In a cheerful voice, he said, ‘I can see you’re very good at giving orders, Captain Wajda, but I’m the one in charge of this hospital.’

  ‘Well I’m the one in charge of my leg,’ the captain retorted, ‘and no one’s going to cut it off.’

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Just tell me, do you intend to shoot me and my nursing staff now or later? Because I’m not going to waste my time patching you up if you’re going to put a bullet through my head.’

  ‘Make no mi
stake about it,’ the captain barked. ‘I’ll shoot any nurse the minute she tries to stick a needle into my arm or you if you pick up a saw. Remember, I’ll be watching every move.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at that leg,’ the doctor said.

  The knee was shattered and the thigh bone protruded through the skin as though it belonged to someone else’s leg and had accidentally become attached to this one. But, despite the intense pain, the captain continued to hold his revolver in both hands, pointed at the doctor. ‘I know you doctors like to amputate these days,’ he said through his teeth.

  ‘That’s because we love the sound of saws grinding through bones,’ Dr Zawadzki said with a pleasant smile. ‘But it’s also because we don’t have the facilities for prolonged medical treatment, and amputating limbs saves lives. But, if you’re willing to risk gangrene, I’ll see what I can do. Only we have a rule here: the doctors use the scalpels and the patients don’t carry firearms. So if you’ll kindly put that aside, we can proceed; otherwise, you can leave and start praying.’

  Elzunia stepped forward. ‘We have a special locked cupboard where we deposit the weapons.’ She spoke briskly, as if this was a common occurrence. ‘I’ll give you a receipt and you can collect it when you’re discharged.’

  Captain Wajda hesitated for a moment and dropped the revolver into her hand. As she placed it in the bottom of their increasingly depleted medicine chest, Dr Zawadzki gave her a knowing wink.

  Their next patient was a sapper whose arm had been blown off. After Dr Zawadzki had cauterised the stump, Elzunia dressed and bandaged him, chattering to distract him from the pain. He was a dour man with deep lines that disillusionment had carved into his long face. He stared into space and didn’t react to Elzunia’s conversation. She assumed that his silence was due to pain and stoicism, so she was taken aback when he suddenly spoke.

  ‘Before the Uprising started, the chief promised I’d get so many explosives, I’d be shitting dynamite — pardon the expression, miss. But you know how much they gave me? Fifty kilos of explosives. Fifty kilos. For the whole of Warsaw. And I had six hundred sappers under me! You know what our military chief told me when I said I had to have more explosives? He said, “Don’t worry about it. In three days’ time, either we’ll be dead or we’ll be free.”’ He sighed. ‘Well, miss, it’s been ten days now, and those murdering bastards are knocking Warsaw down building by building. I reckon we’ll be dead long before we’re free.’

  Elzunia was mulling over his words as she plunged the instruments into a metal saucepan of water boiling on a primus stove, when Janka’s bright face appeared in the doorway. ‘Quick, come outside! Our boys have captured a German tank!’

  As Janka started running up the stairs, she caught her skirt on a nail. ‘Bloody hell!’ she cried, examining the strip that had torn off. She turned to Elzunia and called out, ‘Come on! Don’t be long!’

  Dispirited by the sapper’s words and what they implied for the future of the Uprising, Elzunia couldn’t summon up much enthusiasm over a captured tank. ‘I’ll come in a minute. I’ll just finish up,’ she called back as Janka ran off.

  She had just finished sterilising the instruments when a powerful blast rocked the building and she heard glass shattering. For a moment there was deathly quiet, far more terrifying than the explosion. Then she heard screams that raised goose pimples on her scalp and she rushed outside.

  Thick black smoke poured from the tank and unfurled in the sky like evil flowers. She looked around and her throat closed up. Through the smoke and dust she saw that the pavement and roadway were littered with bits of bodies, as though a stage manager had arranged a grotesque tableau. Arms, legs and long coils of intestine were scattered everywhere, and the faces on the severed heads were twisted in terror. Some people were wandering around dazed, silent, with vacant eyes and hands covering their mouths, while others moaned or screamed hysterically and kept asking if anyone had seen their loved ones. A young woman beside her was searching frantically among the bodies, her lips moving in an agitated prayer. She bent down, picked something up from the pavement and let out a howl so visceral that Elzunia could feel it vibrating inside her body. The woman was holding a baby’s foot, still wearing its tiny white leather shoe.

  The Germans had booby-trapped the tank.

  A woman with blood running down her face noticed Elzunia’s armband and planted herself in front of her.

  ‘Take a good look around, miss. This is what you AK people have got us into.’ She spat each word out. ‘Go on, have a good look. Let this be on your conscience!’

  Elzunia felt sick. She leaned against the wall of the building, her head in her hands, when she felt an arm around her shoulders and turned to look into Dr Zawadzki’s face. He didn’t comment on the carnage or try to console her but kept his arm around her while she sobbed.

  ‘We’d better go inside,’ he said quietly when her shoulders had stopped heaving. ‘We’ll have a lot of work today.’

  Suddenly her stomach twisted into a tight coil. ‘Janka?’ she murmured through dry lips.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I have to find her,’ Elzunia whispered.

  She stumbled among the dead and dying, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Only one thought pushed her on, to find Janka. She tripped on something, looked down and caught her breath. The woman lying there with her face contorted in a silent scream was Madame Françoise. This was the woman whose malice and jealousy had caused all their misfortunes. For years, Elzunia had fuelled her hatred of this woman with hopes of revenge as she envisaged ways of making the woman pay for what she had done. But now, looking down at her lifeless body, she felt no triumph, only a hollow sense of the transience of life.

  She forced herself to keep moving until on the far side of the road she saw a scrap of white apron stained with blood, and beneath it a shred of skirt with a long rip. Her knees buckled and she sank to the ground. Janka’s body had been torn in half by the explosion, but she couldn’t find the upper part.

  Gritting her teeth, Elzunia took off her cape and covered her friend up. ‘Now no one will see your panties,’ she whispered.

  She wanted to lie down in some dark corner and weep, but when she returned to the hospital Dr Zawadzki was already tending to the crowd of bleeding, broken people lining up to be seen.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked towards the operating table on unsteady legs. They worked hour after hour, and there were times when she swayed on her feet and could hardly see, and still the patients kept coming. She had never longed for anything as much as an hour to put her head down somewhere and sleep, but the doctor kept going, always with a smile and a quip to relax the patients. Ashamed of showing her weakness, she gulped strong black coffee and kept working.

  When they’d done what they could for the last patient, they flopped into chairs. Elzunia was certain she’d never be able to get up again.

  ‘Thanks,’ Dr Zawadzki said. ‘You did a terrific job. But I wonder how you’ll cope on a busy day!’

  Her eyes filled as she thought of Janka. ‘That could have been me. If I’d gone out a minute earlier, I’d have been blown to bits out there as well.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s a matter of chance, isn’t it? Being born is a zillion to one chance, and staying alive is an even bigger one these days. Still, there’s no point dwelling on it, so I just keep working.’

  ‘The people hate us now,’ she said. ‘They blame the AK for all this. Don’t they realise we’re doing it for them?’

  He was shaking his head. ‘But we’re not doing it for them. We’re fighting because we want to be free and live with honour and dignity, and we’re prepared to fight for it.’

  ‘How many lives are honour and freedom worth?’ she asked in a hollow voice. ‘And what’s the good of honour when you’re dead?’

  He shrugged. ‘You can only answer that in hindsight. In the meantime, you and I have a job to do.’

  Elzunia thought about booby-trapped tanks and shook wit
h rage. ‘How can they do this? It’s inhuman.’

  ‘Unfortunately it’s all too human. It’s war.’

  His reply reminded her of Wolfman’s words and she bristled.

  ‘That’s just making excuses for their barbarism. We’d never do anything like that,’ she protested.

  ‘We never know what we’re capable of,’ he mused. ‘For good or evil.’

  She wondered how to articulate a question that had been nagging at her ever since she’d listened to the sapper. ‘Dr Zawadzki, do you think we can win?’

  He didn’t reply and she looked up. He’d fallen asleep standing against the wall with his tram-driver’s cap tipped over his eyes.

  Forty-Five

  Elzunia was clambering over mounds of broken masonry on her way to the water pump when the shelling started again. She crouched behind a wall with her hands over her ears while bricks rained down, burning timber beams snapped off, and façades of apartment blocks slipped down and collapsed as though in slow motion, sending up sprays of cement and dust as they crashed to the ground.

  She didn’t venture out until the shelling stopped. The narrow cobbled streets of the Old Town, once so quaint with baroque buildings with their illustrated façades and open-air cafés, now resembled a surreal lunar landscape of dust and rubble. A broken street sign hung crookedly from a metal pole, creaking as it swung overhead. It was impossible to identify any landmark apart from the occasional church spire poking into the sky like a reproach.

  A few people had already gathered at the pump with their basins, jugs and buckets, complaining about the shortage of water and the risks they took dodging the shells to fill their containers.

  ‘The devil take them and their uprising,’ an old man was grumbling. ‘Now that the filtration plant’s been hit, they’re telling us to dig wells. Next they’ll be telling us to grow our own barley.’

  Elzunia headed back to the hospital with her pail of water. She walked slowly to avoid spilling it and changed hands every few seconds.