Spring Will Be Ours (86 page)

‘A little.' He turned to brush her hair with his lips.

There was a movement at the head of the queue, and a voice, and they looked up and saw a tall man with a beard, wearing a T-shirt over his sweater stamped with the Solidarność logo. He was calling out and waving copies of a magazine, moving slowly down the queue.

‘Would you like to help us help the struggle for freedom in Poland? Profits from
Polish Solidarity Campaign News
go to Solidarność in Poland.'

‘That's our magazine,' said Ewa.

‘Yes.'

‘We should have taken out a subscription. Or joined. Or something.'

‘We can buy it now.'

The man was taking money, giving out copies. He drew near to them and Stefan felt in his pocket.

‘How much?'

‘Twenty pence,' said the man, and gave them their copy, and moved on. ‘Would you like to help us help the struggle …'

They looked at it, quickly, as the queue began to move towards the box office. The front page was headed: Solidarity's First Year. There was a picture of a street blocked by buses and cars decked with the Polish flag, watched by thousands of people. The caption read:
Hunger marches block Warsaw city centre.

Ewa watched Stefan flick quickly through the pages. Anna Walentynowicz had visited London, just a little while ago. He moved along the pavement, scanning the headlines, not looking up. At the box office, Ewa said: ‘Stefan? Where do you want to sit?'

‘What? Oh – sorry.' He lowered the magazine. ‘I don't mind – somewhere not too close to the front, that's all.'

She bought the tickets, and they went inside. When they had found their seats, and sat down, she asked carefully: ‘Stefan? If anything happens – I mean in Poland … could you go back? What would happen to you if you went back?'

He rubbed his hand across his lips. ‘I don't know. I don't imagine I would be very popular. None of us who did anything active would be.'

Ewa was silent. Then she said, not wanting to know, but suddenly feeling she had to: ‘When does your return ticket expire?'

‘At the end of the year.' He put down the magazine, and turned towards her, putting his arm round her shoulders. ‘There is perhaps a possibility … that I should go back by the end of the year. At least for a visit. You understand?'

Ewa looked at him, and saw in his eyes an expression she had seen before: tender apology. She turned away, feeling her own eyes fill with tears, and then the lights went down, the curtains drew back, and the film from Poland began.

Sunday 13 December
Jerzy woke early, from a dream he couldn't remember. He lay next to Elizabeth, feeling his heart racing, knowing only that the dream had been something about his father, not wanting to know more than that. He opened his eyes. It was still dark, and cold outside the bed, but he had to go for a pee. He waited until his heart had slowed down, pushed back the bedclothes and stumbled out to the bathrooom. God, it was cold. The house was absolutely soundless, deep in sleep; when he came out, he could just hear the milk float whining along the street at the far end. He was thirsty; he went into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. It began to hum, spilling a patch of light on to the floor, and he had a drink of juice, still half asleep. In the light from the fridge he saw the radio on the table, yawned, and switched it on, to get the news before he went back to bed. And stood there, rigid, still holding his glass, the fridge door still swung open.

‘Good morning, this is Pauline Bushnell.

‘Poland is in the grip of a major crisis. The country's leader, General Jaruzelski, has declared a state of emergency, the government's been taken over by a military council, there've been arrests. The move follows a crackdown by riot police on the Warsaw headquarters of the union Solidarity.'

‘Oh, Christ. Oh, my Christ.'

‘Britain faces another day of icy weather – after a night of record low temperatures.

‘And the American authorities are having second thoughts about a visa for the Reverend Ian Paisley.'

Jerzy kicked the fridge door shut and sat down at the kitchen table. He turned up the sound.

‘… About two hours ago, the Polish Prime Minister and Party Leader, General Jaruzelski, went on the radio to announce that a state of emergency was being declared, and that the country was being taken over by what he called “a military council of national salvation”. As he spoke, police were occupying Solidarity's main offices in Warsaw after a raid there at around midnight in which there were arrests and documents were seized …'

The bulletin was a long one. There was a report from Kevin Ruane: ‘Solidarity extremists'had been interned, with dozens of others, including ex-First Secretary Gierek. Phones and telexes were cut off – Tim Sebastian had managed to telex a message describing security men in steel helmets with visors, armed with truncheons, on guard outside the Solidarity offices in Warsaw. When the bulletin had finished, Jerzy realized he was shivering violently. He got up, and carried the radio out and down the corridor to the sitting room, and dialled Ewa's number. He stood shivering in the dark, hearing her phone ring, and voices on the radio, turned down, discussing the British weather.

‘Hello?' Her voice sounded cracked with sleep.

‘It's me. Something – something's happened. Poland's under martial law. It's just been on the news.'

A long, shocked silence.

‘You'd better listen – the bulletin's over, I had to listen to it all before I rang you, sorry. There've been masses of arrests, it all happened in the middle of the night.' His teeth were chattering. ‘Is Stefan asleep?'

‘Of course.' Her voice dropped. ‘I'll … I'll wake him up. Oh God. He was supposed to be going home for Christmas.'

‘You didn't tell us.'

‘No. I … I couldn't.'

‘I'm freezing,' said Jerzy. ‘I've got to go back to bed. Ring me later, okay?'

‘Okay.'

‘Tell Stefan they said all the phones were cut off.'

‘What, from outside, you mean?'

‘Everywhere, I think. I might have got that wrong. Talk to you later.'

‘Will you ring Mama?'

‘Yes, in a bit. Goodbye.'

He put the phone down and went shivering out and into the bedroom, still carrying the quiet voices on the radio, and fell into bed. He huddled next to Elizabeth and she woke up, and turned over, saying sleepily: ‘You're frozen.'

‘Hold me, hold me.' He buried his face in her neck, her hair.

‘What's happened? Are you ill?'

‘Poland's in a state of emergency – martial law. It's on the news.'

‘Oh, my God.'

‘Hold me. I'm so cold.'

She rubbed his back, his arms and chest, until he was warm again. There was nothing more on the radio about Poland, and after a while she leaned over and switched it off.

‘I'll hear it all later, okay? Have you rung Ewa?'

‘Yes.' He was drowsy again, longing to go back to sleep, he couldn't help it. They lay very close, under the rugs and the duvet, hearing the first few winter-morning birds begin to call as darkness faded, and then they fell asleep. When Jerzy woke again, he thought perhaps he had dreamed about Poland, too. Then he heard Elizabeth in the kitchen, listening to the news, and the bulletins repeated, and he thought of Warsaw, snowbound, cut off, patrolled by tanks, and felt a great weight begin to crush him: a sense of shame which he knew was absurd, and misplaced, but which nonetheless overwhelmed him – that in Poland the iron curtain had slammed down, and he was outside it, safe, cosseted, free.

She stood by the low bed, looking down at his sleeping face turned towards where she had been lying before the phone call: inside, next to the wall beneath the uncurtained stained-glass window. The medallion was buried in the pillow, but in the light from the desk lamp she'd left on she could see the chain round his neck, beneath rough brown hair. His skin was rather coarse, open-pored, unremarkable features thick and blurred with sleep – such an ordinary face, but she felt as if it had always been beside her on the pillow, that that was where it belonged; impossible that he should ever be somewhere else, somewhere without her. The dressing gown she had bought him lay sprawled across the foot of the bed, soft dark blue wool, incredibly expensive.

‘Ewa! You shouldn't buy me something like this. You know I can't do the same for you.'

‘But do you like it?'

‘Of course I like it, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever had, but you know I won't be able to –' He didn't finish the sentence. He wouldn't be able to take it with him. Then she would keep it, for when he came back. She had refused to think he might not come back.

And now he might never be able to leave her.

She crept into bed beside him. He murmured –
‘Kochana?'
– and put out an arm and pulled her close. ‘Who was that?' She shut her eyes, thinking: I needn't tell him, not yet. Let me have just one more hour, just that, before I tell him, and see what it does to him. Let me protect him, and be protected. She kissed his lips, his cheeks, put her arms round him and held him, and he began to kiss her, opening her lips with his tongue, moving to lie on top of her, naked, pulling up her nightdress, covering her face with his warm hands, his eyes still closed, still half asleep. She felt him begin to push his way into her, and all she wanted was to open herself to him, to be his woman, and she found the strength to say to herself: This is the ultimate deception, and to push him away and sit up, clasping her knees, shaking.

‘Hey.' He lay on his back, rubbing a hand across his eyes. ‘What did I do?'

She buried her face in her knees.

‘Ewa?' He sat up beside her, put an arm round her. ‘What's the matter? Something about the phone call? Was there a phone call?'

‘Yes, there was. It was Jerzy.' She couldn't raise her head.

‘Someone is ill? Your mother?'

‘No.' She took a deep breath and looked up, into his kind, concerned, sleepy face, and said flatly: ‘Poland's under martial law.'

Stefan stared at her.

‘What?'

‘He said Poland's under martial law. It was on the seven o'clock news. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry …' She reached out towards him, but he didn't take her hand.

‘Is the news on now?'

‘No, it'll be on again at eight.'

‘What did he say? What's happened? Quick!'

‘Just … that there've been arrests, it must have all happened in the middle of the night. He … he said all the phones are cut off.'

Stefan flung back the bedclothes. ‘Excuse me – I have to try …' He went quickly to the phone, not bothering with the dressing gown, and picked up the receiver. She saw him begin to dial, then he put down the receiver, and turned to look at her. ‘You want to make some tea?'

‘What? Oh, yes, of course.' She got out of bed, shivering, and picked up the warm wool dressing gown. She tried to give it to him as she passed, but he was already dialling again, and didn't look up. She left it hanging on the chair behind him.

Out in the kitchen, she switched on the gas under the kettle and stood leaning against the stove, trying to get warm, and listening. She heard Stefan dial, and wait, and put down the receiver and dial again, and again, and again. He slammed down the phone and called out: ‘International operator – what's the number? Where do I find the number?'

She hurried back and searched for the code book, among the papers, then on the bookshelves, all the time hearing him dial and dial, and finding it at last tucked between the directories on the floor. She flicked through the pages.

‘You just dial 100 and ask for Freefone BTI.' She wrote it down.

‘Thanks.'

He dialled it, and she went back to the kitchen, thinking: If Stefan were mortally wounded, he would still be polite to his friends. She waited to hear him get through, but the kettle came to the boil and she heard the receiver slam down again. She made tea, suddenly remembering Elizabeth in this kitchen, in the summer, saying so lightly: ‘Life is cruel', and then Stefan was in the room, wearing the dressing gown, looking rumpled and pale.

‘I can't get through. I mean not to the operator, either. Every bloody Pole in the country must be trying.' He put his hand over his eyes.

Ewa went over and put her arms round him. ‘I'm so sorry,' she said again.

He shook his head. ‘We must listen to the next bulletin, okay?'

‘Of course. Tea's made.' She felt like a wife, comforting. ‘Shall we take it back to bed?'

‘Sure, sure.'

She put the things on a tray, and they went back into the large, cold room. ‘Here.' Ewa gave him the tray and went to light the gas fire. She heard the cups rattle violently, and got up to see Stefan just standing there, about to drop the tray. She ran.

‘Come on, come back to bed, you're shocked, come on, darling, I'll look after you…'

She took the tray, and put it on the desk, and led him across the room. She helped him into bed, and arranged the pillows, and drew up the bedclothes, and then poured him tea, and helped him to drink it. After a while, the colour came back into his face, and she climbed in beside him.

Dawn was breaking. They sat propped up on the pillows, drinking tea, and waiting for the eight o'clock news.

The hotel dining room was open for breakfast from seven every morning. It was a large, hideous room, acres of patterned carpet beneath pale brown tables with rounded corners and spindly legs, and chairs with plastic seats. It was lit, first thing in the morning, by dull blocks of neon; in the evenings, there were wall lamps, clinging to embossed and patterned paper. Danuta had twelve tables to look after; even in winter there were tourists, especially now, in the lead-up to Christmas, and businessmen, and couples. Beyond the swing glass doors was the foyer, brightly lit; beyond the swing fire doors at one end of the room were the kitchens. Danuta came out of the kitchens, carrying a tray of bacon, eggs and tomato for four, and set them down on the table at the side, by the coffee machine. She filled coffee cups for four, and carried them, and then the breakfasts over to the table where four men in suits, from somewhere outside London, sat trying to make jokes and conversation. They brightened as she approached.