Spring Will Be Ours (30 page)

‘I'm keeping watch.'

‘Stubborn bastard. Suppose …'

‘Go on!'

Paweł ran across the room and down the stairs. Jan strained his eyes through the shifting dust. Across the city he could hear the spatter of machine guns, a sound grown almost as familiar as traffic. Here it was still quiet: it felt threatening, unnatural. Why had it all gone quiet? He ran his tongue over dry lips, suddenly afraid. He had a flash of himself five or six years ago, a schoolboy listening to his father's stories on Sunday walks through the Lazienki Park, stories from the 1914–1918 War, of slavering wolves in the snowy forests near Wilno, of artillery drawn across frozen lakes by moonlight, battles where the bodies of men and horses littered the field. His father had never talked about fear, never. Hadn't he ever been afraid? Jan fumbled in his shirt pocket for the cigarette stub, and in the quietness outside heard something scrape. His head jerked up; he leaned out across the sandbags.

‘Get back inside!' That was Wroński, but he nearly went through the roof.

‘Sir!'

Wroński swiftly crossed the room. ‘Paweł says you have something to report?'

‘I saw something move at the end of the alley, sir … and just now I heard … a scraping sound.'

The Lieutenant flattened himself against the wall, and peered.

‘Well …' He drummed his fingers against his leg. ‘If they've covered us at the far end, we'd better check this end. We're nowhere near getting through the cellars that far, it'll have to be above ground.'

If we had a radio, thought Jan. If every unit had a radio … But they hadn't, they had a handful of arms.

Wroński was looking at him. ‘Do you want to go? You've done a good stint up here – you can both go.'

There was a split-second pause.

‘Yes, sir,' said Jan.

‘Yes, sir,' said Paweł.

‘Very well – check either side of the alley, report back at once.'

‘Sir.' They walked quickly towards the door.

‘Piotr and Feliks to report up here.'

‘Sir.'

They found them playing cards at the kitchen table.

‘Wroński wants you upstairs. We've been ordered out.'

‘Why? What's up?' Piotr pushed back his chair and frowned.

‘We may be covered.'

‘Christ.' Piotr went white.

‘Oh, for God's sake,' said Paweł. ‘Nothing's happened yet, get upstairs.' He and Jan went out into the passage, bumping each other. At the front door, he said: ‘After you.'

‘Thanks a lot.' Jan reached for the handle, slowly opened the door and they crept out. Dust was everywhere: at once, he began to cough.

‘Shut up. Shut up!'

He clapped his hands over his mouth, doubled up, fighting to control himself. Breathing in light, panting, much too shallow gasps, they moved slowly along the wall, knowing Wroński was above them, and had heard the coughing. Who else had heard?

There were five houses on either side of the alley ahead: it ended in a T – two corners which might each conceal waiting Krauts. They crept, keeping low. Second house from the end. Last house. Palms dripping with sweat, slipping on the rifle. Inch by inch, the last few feet. Quick as a flash – look round the corner.

An empty street. Paving stones torn up, hasty wooden crosses marking shallow graves.

Across to the other corner.

No one.

Jan felt sweat pouring everywhere, from his neck, his armpits, the backs of his knees, as he turned, panting, to Paweł, and nodded the all clear.

‘Well,' whispered Paweł, grinning. ‘Thank Christ for that. Well done.'

They made their way back slowly, slowly, wanting to get there, desperate not to cough, not to run, not to do anything which might be noticed from the far end.

Two doors from their house, one door to go, their own door held open from within – and the sudden, speeding, out-of-nowhere black spider from Hell.

‘Goliath!' screamed Paweł.

They fell inside, the door slammed behind them, and then it exploded into a thousand splinters, and they were hurled face down on the floor.

Feet thundered down the stairs above them. Jan felt himself dragged along the passage, realized he was unhurt. In the kitchen, Piotr hauled him on to a chair, Feliks held a cup of water to his lips. Wroński came in with Paweł draped across him, and then went back to fetch Marek, who'd held the door open. White-faced and gasping, they all looked at each other, passing cracked cups.

‘Phew.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘You all right?'

‘I think so. You?'

‘Just about.'

The little dark kitchen was no longer dark – dusty sunlight poured in through the gaping doorway at the front: they felt as exposed as if they were out on the street.

‘Right,' said Wroński, breathing fast. ‘Two to the front room – Marek, Adam. Cover the passage. Piotr – upstairs back bedroom. Paweł and Jan – back to the balcony, fire on anything that moves. Are you up to that? Everyone clear?'

‘Sir.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Jan pulled himself to his feet, hauled up Paweł. They stumbled out of the kitchen and up the stairs, followed by Piotr, hearing Wroński step cautiously to the front of the house again. Peering back down the stairs they saw him, pistol cocked, creep to the gaping doorway, peer out and duck back inside. There were running footsteps in the alley: Wroński raised his pistol. Then everything happened at once.

A burst of machine-gun fire peppered the front of the house: Wroński leapt back out of the passage, into the front room. For a split second, Jan and Paweł stood frozen.

‘He's hit? He's hit!'

‘I don't know – come on!'

They ran blindly up the stairs, and the whole house shook with the violent impact of a mortar, fired from God knew where, and with a great, horrible, tearing yawn the front wall above the doorway split open, and came thundering into the hall. Jan and Paweł clung to each other; above them, Piotr began to scream.

Thick, choking plaster dust billowed through the wounded wall; broken beams and brickwork shifted and settled. Upstairs, Piotr was sobbing. Beneath them, a mountain of rubble blocked the passage, the bottom stairs, the entrance to the front room. Beyond was the sunny alleyway, and the sound of German voices. And Polish voices – from other houses, yelling, firing.

‘That'll stop them,' croaked Paweł. ‘They won't come in now.'

‘Of course they bloody will. Come on, for Christ's sake get upstairs.'

They scrambled on all fours, finding Piotr huddled on the landing.

‘Get up! We're alive, aren't we? Get up!' Jan hauled him to his feet. ‘Go on – back bedroom, that was your order. Move!'

Piotr fled along the landing.

In the front bedroom they found the whole balcony had fallen away, the windows blasted out, a hole where the sandbags had burst and tumbled out. Beyond the edge of the floorboards there was now only a treacherous drop. They stood, confused. Then Jan began to walk slowly across the room.

Paweł grabbed him. ‘What the hell … don't be a fool! Stay here.'

‘I want to see what they're doing.'

‘They're waiting to kill us!'

From the direction of the palace came a sudden new shriek from the Stukas, and the house shook violently. They waited, hearing Piotr through the roar of sound: ‘I can't stand it! I can't stand it!' He ran back to them. ‘Let me stay with you, let me stay …'

Jan put his arm round his shoulders. ‘Okay, okay, we're here, we're with you, now stop it. Stop it!'

Piotr went on sobbing. ‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry …'

‘Stop it!'
Jan slapped him, hard across the cheekbone, and pushed him down on to the bed. ‘That's enough, you little shit, all right? That's enough.'

Piotr stopped. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his mouth hanging slackly.

Jan dropped to his stomach; he began to slide across the floorboards.

‘You fool!' snapped Paweł again. ‘Do you want to kill us all? You think you're such a hero.'

‘I don't.' Jan didn't think he was anything, he just knew he couldn't do nothing. Beneath him, the floorboards were wobbling, creaking; he moved very, very slowly, until he was six inches from the edge, and could raise his head, and look out. Three German soldiers stood across the alley, guns raised. Jan could see two bodies, a white and red armband on one, and he was sure the other was Polish, too. He looked again at the Krauts: they were young, no more than twenty; they had thick belts of ammunition round their waists. He felt a rush of anger and envy. His fear was gone – fear was for babies like Piotr, gibbering on the bed behind him. Now there was only a blinding pinpoint of rage.

The Krauts were very, very close. He reached for the catch on his rifle.

Behind him, Paweł hissed: ‘Don't!'

‘This is what we're here for!' Jan hissed back. He thought: I'm going to get the one on the right.

He raised the rifle, moved just another inch forward, held the young Kraut in his sights. The boy had deep rings round his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for a long time, either. Jan aimed for the chest, and fired.

The force almost made him cry out, but he didn't, it was the German boy who shrieked, and slumped to the ground. At once, his companions raised their own rifles: Jan sprang up, and as he did so, Paweł ran forward to grab him, and pull him away, and so they were both hit, and both fell to the floor. Jan felt a pain fiercer than anything he could ever have dreamed of plunge into his jawbone, and he threshed and doubled up, and threshed wildly again, rolling over and over on the floor, trying to get away from it, hearing Paweł yelling and screaming: ‘Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,' and then a great black wave of sickness and pain swept over him, and dragged him down into nowhere.

He existed now only as a swollen, throbbing, agonizing jaw: the rest of his body had meaning only in relationship to this part of it, where knives of pain twisted through his cheek, his gums, his neck and head, driving deeper and deeper until he could do nothing but lie on the floor and cry for his mother like a child, no longer caring who heard him, who saw him, who wanted him to get up and move, wanting only to die.

‘Mama! Mama!' She was coming towards him, smiling, her hair piled up, a blue jug of water in her hands; she moved quickly over the cool stones of a courtyard filled with the sound of fountains.

‘Water …'

She smiled at him again, then tipped up the jug and let the water splash on to the stones, trickling down into the damp earth between them, a drop falling quite accidentally into his mouth, before she turned and left him, and he began to scream.

Someone else was beside him now, cruelly touching his face, whispering: ‘This is the last shot we have left.' He opened his eyes, and saw a girl bent over him: she wore a filthy, bloodstained apron with a red cross; there was a syringe in her hand, and she began to roll up his sleeve. Quickly she slipped the needle into his arm, and pressed the plunger. He stared at her, and at the figures moving behind her in the room. Then she withdrew the needle, and stood up, saying: ‘It'll start to work quite soon.' He did not believe her; she was another torturer, there was another lance of pain driving through his jaw, and still no water. Then she was beside him again, with a chipped cup and perhaps two inches of yellowish water at the bottom. ‘Here.' She raised his shoulders and he sipped, wanted more, fell back on to her arm and was dragged down once more into nothingness.

When he woke, the pain was still there, but the stabbing knives were not. He lay watching candlelight flicker on the far wall, and listening to the groans of the other men. He wanted water, but he was too sleepy to ask for it, and he closed his eyes again. The next time he woke there were no candles, only a thick grey light at a gap in the wall; he could make out another wall, beyond, and a burned-out doorway. They must be on a ground floor, next to a courtyard. In this hour before the dawn, in this disembodied, placeless place, a refuge where he didn't know anyone, and didn't care about anyone, he began to drift towards the real enemy, the pain coming up to meet him once more, relentlessly. Then he heard a voice cry out, and somehow knew whose it was.

‘Paweł?' He struggled on to his elbow, peered at the shapes on the floor. He could barely open his mouth, forced himself to mumble: ‘Where are you?' The shape next to him swore. ‘Paweł?' A nurse moved across the room towards him.

‘Who are you calling?'

‘Pa-weł Sta-sze-wicz. My … friend … I … can … hear him.' He didn't care what he sounded like.

‘Staszewicz? Yes – you came in together, didn't they tell you last night? He's over there.' She pointed to a figure on a mattress a few feet away, and hesitated. ‘Can you remember anything of what happened?'

Jan closed his eyes. He was in a room tilted nauseatingly above a crater … no, they'd blasted the front of the house away, like that boy's face. Like his face? He raised a hand and felt his jaw, carefully. It felt enormous, disgusting. How had it happened? He remembered he had killed someone, one of the enemy, yes, and when they tried to kill him, Paweł had tried to stop them … Jan groaned. Paweł shouldn't have done that. Someone else had been there, too, yelling … And all the boys downstairs. And Wroński …

‘Tell me …'

He felt the nurse kneel down beside him. ‘You're very lucky to be alive.'

A new knife of pain began to stab between his teeth, and he groaned again. ‘Die. Die.'

‘No! No – you must see your friend. You two are the only ones from the house who got out – except for the boy who came to tell us. A little fellow – Piotr. He told us he hid under the bed in the room where you were fired on. The ones downstairs were all killed …' She took his hand. ‘I'm very sorry.'

He managed to whisper: ‘Piotr?'