Part 7 (1/2)

Ja.n.u.sz

'Come with us,' said Bruno, and Ja.n.u.sz shook his head.

They were sitting at the kitchen table in the cottage.

'You can't stay here. The Russians will pick you up. The government wants all Polish troops to resist. We can make our way to France. I've got money. If we can get to Budapest without being picked up, the Polish consul there will arrange a pa.s.sage to Ma.r.s.eilles and we can join the French and the British. Come with us.'

Earlier, Bruno had picked up the basket of potatoes under the windowsill and proclaimed himself the cook. Franek had plucked the chickens and Ja.n.u.sz had got water from the well. Now they had eaten and were sharing the remains of a bottle of vodka Bruno had produced from his rucksack.

The two men had been curious about what Ja.n.u.sz was doing in the cottage on his own. They'd asked so many questions he found himself telling them the truth just to get them to be quiet.

'Dog!' said Franek. He coughed and laughed and slapped his knees and spat on the floor. 'You said you were burying a dog! I knew you were lying. I knew it. You're a deserter.'

Ja.n.u.sz glared at him. 'You weren't there.'

'You did the right thing,' said Bruno. 'You'd only be in a prison camp by now if you had stayed on the train. You can still fight. That's what we have to do. We Poles have always fought for our freedom.'

'Fight or run away. You'll end up dead either way,' said Franek. 'That's the way things are now. You might have the angel of death riding on your shoulder. You look like you have. You're going to be called soon enough.'

Ja.n.u.sz ignored him. They were sitting back after their meal, the heat of the fire on their faces, an oil lamp burning on the table.

'I don't care,' said Franek, belching loudly. 'Eat, drink and loosen your belt. Nothing better. Who knows when we'll be able to again, hey, Bruno?'

Bruno picked through the remains of the chicken. 'We'll fight for our country and when we come back, we'll go to my house in Torun. I was the manager of a soap factory and I have a large house. We'll drink Polish vodka until we fall down dead drunk. Then we'll wake up and do it again. Of course, that's if the looters haven't stolen everything. The crime rate in the city has gone up crazily this summer. I can only imagine it's worse in Warsaw?'

'There were stories in the papers,' said Ja.n.u.sz. His head was throbbing and his throat felt dry. Sleep was weighing down his eyes.

'Thieves like wartime,' said Bruno. He finished the last drops of vodka in the bottle and threw it on the floor. 'All of them: Polish thieves, Jews, Lithuanians, Russians, Germans, Slovakians. They're all at it. Don't believe the newspapers who talk of our brave people working against the Germans. There are spies and criminals who are profiting from this war already.'

'I've never been to France,' said Franek. He was cleaning his fingernails with the blade of his pocket knife. 'I'd never been out of my village before I joined up. What about you, Ja.n.u.sz?'

Ja.n.u.sz looked at the fire burning in the hearth. 'I have to get back to Warsaw. I have to see my wife.'

'Be my guest.' Franek waved his knife in the air. 'Warsaw is in that direction. Just follow the German tanks and the guns. Nice knowing you, dead man.'

Bruno wiped his hands clean on his trousers. 'The best you can do is get out of Poland. There are truckloads of men heading to Romania and Hungary. Come with us while you can. The borders are still easy enough to cross, but they won't stay that way for long.'

Ja.n.u.sz stood up. He didn't feel like having this conversation. 'I'll get some logs in. It's cold tonight.'

He stepped outside and felt the night air clear his head. He trudged across the yard. Out there, under the starless night, with the damp smell of vegetation, it was possible to believe that the men sitting in the cottage were just figments of his imagination. They'd leave tomorrow and it would be as if he had never met them. And then he'd go home. He began to pile logs into his arms. Footsteps came across the yard and he stopped, peering into the blackness. Bruno stepped towards him, smelling of chicken fat and woodsmoke.

'I thought I'd give you a hand. What I was saying inside earlier? I meant it. I can't get to France with Franek on my own. I need someone with me who's got his head screwed on right. You can't stay here. Franek's right about you being judged as a deserter...'

'I got separated from my unit.'

'And then you hid up here. I've seen what happens to deserters. n.o.body knows what the h.e.l.l is going on any more. People are scared. They don't know who to trust. I saw an execution just days ago. A lad in civilian clothes wearing military boots. He was picked up by a lieutenant. He was made to stand in the middle of the road as the troops went past. The lieutenant said deserting was a sign of cowardice. Then the crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d shot him. There was no court-martial, nothing. The lad had military boots and civilian clothes and that was enough. There are army units marching all over the country. If they find you here...'

Ja.n.u.sz picked up a log and balanced it with the others in his arms. 'I'm not a deserter.'

'That's for them to judge. Come with us. I've got money. Enough to get us to France.'

Ja.n.u.sz didn't want to ask how Bruno had got his money. He thought it would be better not to know. As he straightened up he saw a flash in the darkness.

'There's a light. Over there.'

A soft yellow beam moved through the trees. The sound of an engine echoed in the distance.

'It's a motorbike,' said Bruno. 'It must be about half a mile away. There are troops nearby.'

'Polish?'

'Russians, I'd have thought. There it is again. Look, you can stay here and get picked up by them. Or come with us.'

'You make it sound like I don't have a choice.'

'You don't.'

Franek opened the door to the cottage, holding up the oil lamp. 'What are you two doing? This fire's nearly dead. I'm freezing in here.'

The lamplight twinkled in the dark. Ja.n.u.sz dropped the logs and ran towards him. 'Put the light out.'

'Get your boots, Franek,' said Bruno, coming up behind him. 'We're leaving. Hurry.'

Ja.n.u.sz stepped inside the cottage behind Franek, and Bruno shut the door. Just before he cut the oil lamp, he caught a glimpse of Bruno and Franek pulling on their boots and coats: an overweight man who was surely too old to fight and a scared jackrabbit of a boy. Bruno touched his shoulder.

'So? Are you coming with us? Will you come to France?'

Ja.n.u.sz nodded. He saw the reality of the situation. If he was captured as a deserter he might be killed. If he managed to get to Warsaw, he'd be taken prisoner.

'Well?' said Bruno.

'I'm coming.'

He would go with these men and fight for his country. He pulled on his coat and stepped out into the night.

Ipswich

Ja.n.u.sz goes into the kitchen, opens the pantry door and takes out a wooden box filled with shoe polishes, boot brushes and soft cloths. He glances out of the window. Silvana is in the garden, Aurek prancing behind her like a shadow.

Pus.h.i.+ng a hand through the brushes and cloths, he pulls out a bundle of letters. He picks through them carefully. The first letter Helene wrote him. That's the one he wants to read again, although he knows every word by heart. Written on thin blue paper, her handwriting is spidery, as if she rushed to get the words on the page. Accented and punctuated with a leaking ink pen, her letters have the look of handwritten bars of music.

The words are hopeful and plain, simple as only love letters can be. She has covered the page on both sides with her inky thoughts, and Ja.n.u.sz reads, his fingers tracing her words. He is on a farm in the hills behind Ma.r.s.eilles. The stone buildings around him are solid and glow honey-coloured in the sunlight. Helene stands in the distance waving to him and begins to walk towards him. He wills her to come closer, but he can't do it. His imagination always keeps her at a distance.

Ja.n.u.sz looks up to see Silvana coming across the garden. A piece of hair has escaped from under her headscarf and Ja.n.u.sz stares at it, watching it coil over her forehead like a small grey question mark. He hurries to put the letters back and replaces the box in the pantry, his movements quick and furtive.