‘Is she all right over there in the corner?’
‘No good arguing with her.’
‘I mean we both of us might go over and talk to her.’
‘For God’s sake not.’
Nothing of any note took place during the rest of the party, until Norah and Pamela were leaving. Throughout that time, Pamela had continued to sit in the corner. She accepted another drink from Jeavons, but ceased to read the ARP bulletin, simply looking straight in front of her. However, before she and Norah went off together, an unexpected thing happened. She came across the room and spoke in her accustomed low, almost inaudible tone.
‘Are you still working with the Poles?’
‘No—I’ve switched to the Belgians and Czechs.’
‘When you were with the Poles, did you ever hear the name Szymanski?’
‘It’s a very common Polish name, but if you mean the man who used to be with the Free French, and caused endless trouble, then transferred to the Poles, and caused endless trouble there, I know quite a lot about him.’
She laughed.
‘I just wondered,’ she said.
‘What about him?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Was he the character you were talking to outside that Polish hide-out in Bayswater?’
She shook her head, laughing softly again. Then they went away. The ARP people left too.
‘There’s enough for one more drink for the three of us,’ said Jeavons. ‘I hid the last few drops.’
‘What do you think of Pamela Flitton?’
‘That’s the wench that gave Peter Templer such a time,’ said Jeavons. ‘Couldn’t remember the name. It’s come back. He said it all started as a joke. Then he got mad about her. That was the way Templer put it. What he didn’t like—when she wasn’t having any, as I understand it—was the feeling he was no good any more. How I feel all the time. Nothing much you can do about it. Mind you, he was browned off with the job too.’
‘Do men really try to get dangerous jobs because they’ve been disappointed about a woman?’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Jeavons admitted.
The enquiry about Szymanski was odd, even if he were not the Pole outside the Ufford. Neither Pennistone nor I had ever set eyes on this man, though we had been involved in troubles about him, including a question asked in Parliament. There was some uncertainty as to his nationality, even whether the territory where he was stated to have been born was now Polish or Czechoslovak, assuming he had in truth been born there. Most of his life he had lived on his wits as a professional gambler—like Cosmo Flitton—so it appeared, familiar as a dubious character in France, Belgium and the Balkans; in fact all over the place. He had a row of aliases: Kubitsa: Brod: Groza: Dupont: to mention only a few of them. No one—even MI 5 was vague—seemed to know when and how he had first appeared in this country, but at an early stage he was known to have volunteered for the Belgian forces. This offer was prudently declined. Szymanski then tried the Free French, who, with the self-confidence of their race, took him on the strength; later ceding him with relief to the Poles, who may have wanted to make use of him in some special capacity. The general opinion was that he had a reasonable claim to Polish citizenship. The Czechs raised no objection. There were those who insisted his origins were really Balkan.
‘It seems fairly clear he’s not Norwegian,’ said Pennistone, ‘but I’ve learnt to take nothing on trust about Szymanski. You may have him on your hands before we’ve finished, Dempster.’
Szymanski was one of those professional scourges of authority that appear sporadically in all armies, a type to which the Allied contingents were peculiarly subject owing to the nature of their composition and recruitment. Like Sayce of my former Battalion, Szymanski was always making trouble, but Sayce magnified to a phantasmagoric degree, a kind of super-Sayce of infinitely greater intelligence and disruptive potential. The abiding fear of the Home Office was that individuals of this sort might, after being found stateless, be discharged from the armed forces and have to be coped with as alien civilians.
As it happened, Szymanski’s name cropped up again a day or two later in our room. Masham, who was with the British Mission in liaison with the Free French, was waiting to be summoned by Finn, to whom he was to communicate certain points arising out of Giraud taking over from Darlan in North Africa. Masham asked Pennistone how the Poles were getting on with Szymanski, who had caused a lot of trouble to himself in his Free French days.
‘Szymanski’s gone a bit too far this time,’ Pennistone said. ‘They’ve sent him to detention. It was bound to come.’
There was a barracks, under the control of a British commandant, specially to accommodate delinquent Allied personnel.
I asked how recently that had happened.
‘A week or so ago.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Masham. ‘Though one’s got to admit the man was rather a card. It looks as if this North African switch-over will mean a back place for de Gaulle.’
‘Has anyone else hanged himself in his braces in that Free French snuggery behind Selfridge’s?’ asked Borrit.
‘Nobody hanged himself in his braces there or in any other Free French establishment,’ said Masham, rather irritably. ‘You’ve got the story wrong.’
Like all his Mission, Masham was, as he himself would have expressed it, plus catholique que le Pape, far more Francophil than the Free French themselves, who on the whole rather enjoyed a good laugh at less reputable aspects of their own corporate body. When in due course I had direct dealings with them myself, they were always telling stories about some guerrilla of theirs who divided his time between being parachuted into France to make contact with the Resistance, and returning to London to run a couple of girls on Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘What did happen then?’
‘There was some fuss about an interrogation.’
‘De Gaulle was pretty cross when our people enquired about it.’
‘He’s got to run his own show, hasn’t he?’ said Masham. ‘Anyway, it looks as if he’s on the way out. By the way, Jenkins, the successful candidate for the job you applied to us for caught it at Bir Hakim.’
Kucherman rang up at that moment, and, by the time I had finished with Belgian business, Masham had gone up to see Finn. Transfer to the Belgians and Czechs meant no more physically than ceasing to sit next to Pennistone, though it vitiated a strong alliance in resisting Blackhead. The two Allied contingents with which I was now in liaison were, of course, even in their aggregate, much smaller numerically than the Polish Corps. At first sight, in spite of certain advantages in being one’s own master, responsible only to Finn, a loss in other directions seemed threatened by diminution of variety in the general field of activity. A claustrophobic existence offered, in this respect, the consolation of exceptional opportunities for observing people and situations closely in a particular aspect of war. Our Section’s viewpoint was no doubt less all embracing than, say, Widmerpool’s in his subterranean lair; at the same time could provide keener, more individual savour of things noted at first-hand.
It had been stimulating, for example, to watch the quickly gathering momentum of the apparatus—infinitesimally propelled, among others, by oneself—that reduced to some order the circumstances of the hundred and fifteen thousand Poles permitted to cross the Russian frontier into Iran; assisting, as it were, Pennistone’s ‘one man and a boy’ at the receiving end. Hundreds of thousands were left behind, of course, while those who got out were in poorish shape. All the same, these were the elements to form the Second Polish Army Corps; later so creditably concerned at Monte Cassino and elsewhere. Regarded superficially, the new Belgian and Czech assignments seemed to offer problems less obviously engrossing. However, as matters turned out, plenty of channels for fresh experience were provided by these two. Even the earliest meetings with Major Kucherman and Colonel Hlava promised that.
Precise in manner, serious about detail, Hewetson was judged to perform his duties p
retty well, though he possessed no particular qualifications as expert on Belgian affairs, still less those of Czechoslovakia. Before I took over from him, he gave me a briefing about the characteristics of the Allies in question.
‘An excellent point about the Belgians,’ he said, ‘is not caring in the least what they say about each other, or their own national failings. They have none of that painful wish to make a good impression typical of some small nations. It’s a great relief. At the same time their standards in certain respects—food and drink, for example—are high ones. They are essentially easy to get on with. Do not believe disobliging propaganda, chiefly French, about them. They are not, it must be admitted, indifferent to social distinction. Their assistant MA, Gauthier de Graef, likes telling a story, no doubt dating from the last war, of an English officer, French officer, and Belgian officer, when a woman rode by on a horse. The Englishman said: “What a fine horse”; the Frenchman, “What a fine woman”: the Belgian, “I wonder what she was née”. Of course I don’t suggest that would happen today.’
‘One can’t make the classless society retroactive.’
‘Another saying of Gauthier’s is that when he wakes up in the night in a wagon-lit and hears a frightful row going on in the next compartment, he knows he’s back in his own beloved country—though I must say I haven’t been subjected to the smallest ill-humour myself on the part of my Belgian charges.’
‘They sound all right.’
‘One small snag—Lannoo was given promotion the other day, and has already left for his new job. The Belgian authorities still won’t make up their minds whom to appoint in his place. I’ve been dealing with Gauthier de Graef for weeks, who of course can’t take the decisions his boss could. I suppose this delay is the sort of thing the Belgians themselves grumble about.’
As it turned out, the official appointment of Kucherman came through only on the day when Hewetson left the Section. There was some misunderstanding about certain customary formalities, one of those departmental awkwardnesses that take place from time to time and can cause coolness. The fact was Kucherman himself was a figure of much more standing at home than the average officer likely to be found in that post. Possibly some of the Belgian Government thought this fact might overweight the job; others, that more experience was desirable in purely military matters. At least that was the explanation given to Hewetson when things were in the air. As he had said, a particular charm possessed by the Belgians was, in a world everyday increasingly cautious about hazarding in public opinions about public affairs, no Belgian minded in the least criticizing his Government, individually or collectively.
‘One of their best points,’ Hewetson repeated.
In short, by the time I introduced myself to Kucherman, a faint sense of embarrassment had been infused into the atmosphere by interchanges at a much higher level than Finn’s. Kucherman was only a major, because the Belgians were rather justly proud of keeping their ranks low.
‘After all the heavy weather that’s been made, you’ll have to be careful not to get off on the wrong foot, Nicholas,’ said Finn. ‘Kucherman’s own people may have been to blame for some of that, but we’ve been rather stiff and unaccommodating ourselves. You’ll have to step carefully. Kucherman’s a well known international figure.’
I repeated these remarks of Finn’s to Pennistone.
‘Kucherman’s a big shot all right,’ said Pennistone. ‘I used to hear a lot about him and his products when I was still in business. He’s head of probably the largest textile firm. That’s just one of his concerns. He’s also a coal owner on an extensive scale, not to mention important interests in the Far East—if they still survive. We shall expect your manner to alter after a week or two of putting through deals with Kucherman.’
The picture was a shade disconcerting. One imagined a figure, younger perhaps, but somewhat on the lines of Sir Magnus Donners: tall: schoolmasterish: enigmatic. As it turned out, Kucherman’s exterior was quite different from that. Of medium height, neat, brisk, with a high forehead and grey hair, he seemed to belong to the eighteenth-century, the latter half, as if he were wearing a wig of the period tied behind with a black bow. This, I found later, was one of the Belgian physical types, rather an unexpected one, even in a nation rich in physiognomies recalling the past.
On the whole, a march-past of Belgian troops summoned up the Middle Ages or the Renaissance, emaciated, Memling-like men-at-arms on their way to supervise the Crucifixion or some lesser martyrdom, while beside them tramped the clowns of Teniers or Brouwer, round rubicund countenances, haled away from carousing to be mustered in the ranks. These latter types were even more to be associated with the Netherlands contingent—obviously a hard and fast line was not to be drawn between these Low Country peoples—Colonel Van der Voort himself an almost perfect example. Van der Voort’s features seemed to have parted company completely from Walloon admixtures—if, indeed, it was Walloon blood that produced those mediaeval faces. Van der Voort’s air had something faintly classical about it too, something belonging not entirely to domestic pothouse or kermesse scenes, a touch of the figures in the train of Bacchus or Silenus; though naturally conceived in Dutch or Flemish terms. Kucherman’s high forehead and regular features—the French abbé style—was in contrast with all that, a less common, though a fairly consistent Belgian variant that gave the impression, on such occasions as the parade on their National Day, of the sudden influence of a later school of painting.
The first day at Eaton Square—by then almost a preserve of the Belgian ministries—the name of Sir Magnus Donners did indeed crop up. He had been in the headlines that morning on account of some more or less controversial statement made in public on the subject of manpower. Kucherman referred to this item of news, mentioning at the same time that he had once lunched at Stourwater. We talked about the castle. I asked if, since arrival in England, he had seen Sir Magnus. Kucherman laughed.
‘A member of your Cabinet does not want to be bothered by a major in one of the smaller Allied contingents.’
‘All the same, it might be worth while letting him know you are here.’
‘You think so?’
‘Sure of it.’
‘Certainly he showed great interest in Belgium when we met—knowledge of Belgian affairs. You know Belgium yourself?’
‘I’ve been there once or twice. When my father was at the War Office, I remember him bringing two Belgian officers to our house. It was a great excitement.’
‘Your father was officier de carrière?’
‘He’d come back from Paris, where he’d been on the staff of the Peace Conference. By the way, several Belgian officers are living at the same block of flats as myself. I don’t know any of them.’
Kucherman asked the name of the place.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Clanwaert is there. You will be dealing with him about Congo matters. An amusing fellow.’
‘I have an appointment with him tomorrow.’
‘He was formerly in the Premier Régiment des Guides—like your Life Guards, one might say. I believe he fought his first engagement in 1914 wearing what was almost their parade uniform—green tunic, red breeches, all that. Then a love affair went wrong. He transferred to La Force Publique. A dashing fellow with a romantic outlook. That was why he never married.’
The Force Publique was the Congo army, quite separate from the Belgian army, officered somewhat on the lines, so it seemed, of our own Honourable East India Company’s troops in the past.
‘Kucherman’s going to be all right,’ said Finn.
Even Gauthier de Graef, who had all his countrymen’s impatience with other people’s methods, and would not have hesitated to grumble about his new chief, agreed with that judgment. He was a tall young man with a large moustache, who, after a frantic drive to the coast to catch up the remnant of the Belgian forces embarked for England, had jumped the last yard or so over water, as the boat had already set sail from harbour.
‘I needed a drink af
ter that,’ he said. ‘A long one, let me assure you.’
I was just off to see Kucherman or Hlava one morning, when General Bobrowski was put through on my telephone. Bobrowski, even for himself, was in a tremendous state of excitement. He explained that he had been unable to make contact with Finn, and now he was told that neither Pennistone nor Slade were available. It was a matter of the most urgent importance that he had an appointment with Finn as soon as possible. He appealed to me as Pennistone’s former assistant in Polish liaison. Finn was at that moment with one of the brigadiers; Pennistone probably at the Titian—where it was quite likely he would learn of whatever was on Bobrowski’s mind—and Slade was no doubt somewhere in the building negotiating with another section. Slade returned at that moment and I handed Bobrowski over to him. I wondered what the trouble was. Bobrowski became easily excited, but this seemed exceptional. Pennistone outlined the enormity on my return.
‘Listen to this,’ he said. ‘Tell me whether you believe it or not.’
He was partly angry himself, partly unable not to laugh.
‘Let’s go and have lunch. I’ll tell you there.’
The story was certainly a strange one.
‘Szymanski’s out,’ said Pennistone.
‘Out of where?’
‘Jug.’
‘He’s escaped from the detention barracks?’
‘In a rather unusual way.’
‘Did he break out?’
‘He left by the front door.’
‘In disguise?’
‘It appears that first of all a certain amount of telephoning took place from the appropriate branches, Polish and British, saying that Szymanski’s conviction had been quashed and his case was to be reconsidered. Then two British officers arrived bearing the correct papers to obtain his body. Szymanski was accordingly handed over to their custody.’
‘This was bogus?’
‘The next thing was, Szymanski himself appeared shortly after at the prison, wearing the uniform of a British second-lieutenant and explaining that he knew the way to get out of anywhere. In fact, the prison hasn’t been invented that could keep him inside.’
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 3 Page 52
