Part 9 (1/2)

'No, it's very kind of you but we mustn't take up any more of your time,' says Tony. 'I must say, it has been a real pleasure to talk to you, Mrs...'

'Please, my name is Silvana.'

'Silvana. What a beautiful name. And I will make sure Peter brings back the clothes you've lent him.'

As Silvana and Aurek walk them to their car, Ja.n.u.sz appears, walking up the hill, back from work, a newspaper and his dictionary under his arm, his face grimed with oil and dirt.

'This is my husband,' she says, glad to see Ja.n.u.sz's welcoming smile. She feels exhausted by Peter's father and all his talk, exhausted by her own girlish reaction to him earlier. She wants her husband beside her. He knows how to talk to people. She has long ago lost the skill.

'What a view you have up here,' Tony says to Ja.n.u.sz after they shake hands. 'I've always liked this terrace. I know a couple who live in the street, the Holborns?'

'Doris and Gilbert? The Holborns are our neighbours,' says Ja.n.u.sz. 'Yes, we know them very well.' He sounds proud. 'Everybody keeps to themselves here, you know how it is. But the Holborns are very friendly.'

'I should call in on them again. I haven't seen Gilbert in ages. If you see them, say h.e.l.lo from me. Tell them if there's anything they need they can give me a call.'

Ja.n.u.sz doesn't get angry with Aurek that night. n.o.body mentions the truancy. Instead Ja.n.u.sz says he is pleased Aurek has found a friend.

'A black Wolseley? That's a lovely car to own. I wouldn't mind a car of my own. Hey, Aurek? That's what we'll get one day, and I can drive you out to the woods to play.'

Silvana remembers Ja.n.u.sz as a young man, always mad about cars. It reminds her of who they both once were. He hasn't changed. She feels something move within her, as though someone has put his hand on her heart and squeezed it. It is love. Not just grat.i.tude but real love.

'You look different,' he says.

'Do I?'

'Yes. There's something about you today.'

She laughs, a womanly sound. She can feel a warmth inside her, as if the sun has been s.h.i.+ning on her. Ja.n.u.sz puts his arms around her waist and kisses her. She closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of his skin. It takes her back to the riverbank where they met, to the dusty seats of their hometown's cinema, where their hands touched in the dark.

Is it really possible that meeting Peter's father, the man with a brand-new smile, has nudged the block of coldness wedged inside her for so long?

Poland

Silvana

Silvana walked away from the wreckage of the plane and sat down at a crossroads beside an abandoned, wooden handcart and a pile of spilled blankets. She sat there for a long, long time. The rain turned to sleet. She put on her fur coat and cradled her child inside it. He was crying l.u.s.tily and the sound was something wonderful to her.

Someone stopped in front of her and she looked up. A woman stared down at her.

'Go away,' Silvana said. 'Get away. Get away from my baby.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' the woman said briskly. 'I don't want your child. I want you to get up. You're going to die sitting here in the cold.'

She was older than Silvana, and even in that terrible weather, wearing, as she was, a man's overcoat and peasant boots, she had a worldliness about her, an aura of sophistication that made Silvana see her not as she was, with her ragged clothes and thin pale face, but as she could be, as she probably had been, a red-lipped pouting beauty with diamonds in her hair.

'Come on,' the woman said, frowning so that her pencil-thin eyebrows creased. 'Get up off your a.r.s.e and get moving.'

Silvana sat up straighter, tried to tidy her hair. 'Leave me alone. Just go away.'

'I am not going away. You and the child will die of the f.u.c.king cold if you don't get up. And what is the point of leaving those blankets in the mud? Pick them up and wrap them around him. He looks half frozen.'

Something in the woman's voice, the clear commanding sound of it, made Silvana get up, picking up the blankets as she did so.

'His name's Aurek,' she said. She lifted the boy so that the woman could see him. 'This is my son. I'm his mother. I lost him and then I found him.'

'Did you? Well, you're the sorriest-looking mother I ever saw.'

The woman held out a pair of flat, lace-up leather shoes. 'Here, take these. You can't go barefoot, you'll get frostbite. They're all I have. They're dance shoes, although with that wound on your ankle, you don't look like you'll be dancing for a while.'

The woman's name was Hanka. She said she sang in clubs in Warsaw, and named places Silvana had never heard of.

'I was going to get my big break and sing with an American orchestra, then Hitler messed things up for me.'

Hanka laughed. 'You're lucky I met you. I'll look after you. You and your miserable baby.'

They walked together along muddy roads and endless tracks, until Hanka finally persuaded a farmer to let them stay in his barn.

'Do you have any money?'

Silvana shook her head. She'd spent the savings she and Ja.n.u.sz had on the bus journey and food along the way.

'Jewellery?'

Silvana looked at her wedding ring. She touched her throat and felt the small gla.s.s medallion Ja.n.u.sz had given her.

'No,' she said.

Hanka frowned, hands on hips. She grabbed Silvana's hand.

'Give me your ring. We need food, right? Then give me your ring.'

Silvana watched as Hanka handed over her wedding ring to the farmer.

'Is that all?' the man asked.

Hanka put her hand on her hip and looked slyly at him. 'What else do you want?'

She walked away and he followed her into a stable. Silvana stood in the farmyard waiting. The farmer came out later, pulling his belt tight on his britches, telling them they could stay as long as they liked.

'Oh now, don't look so worried,' Hanka told Silvana afterwards when the farmer's wife had silently brought them dishes of beetroot soup and cups of hot tea.

'He won't touch you. I've told him you're out of bounds. You need to wise up. Hart ducha. Hart ducha. It means strength of will. That's what you need, Silvana. I can sell myself if I must, but I am my own person. I do what I want. Look at you. Let me guess. You married a peasant and this is your child, whom you believe will make your fortune one day.' It means strength of will. That's what you need, Silvana. I can sell myself if I must, but I am my own person. I do what I want. Look at you. Let me guess. You married a peasant and this is your child, whom you believe will make your fortune one day.'