Читать книгу The Dangerous Places - Louis Golding - Страница 13

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Elsie Silver heard a great deal about Mr. Horowitz during the next three or four months. It was quite possible to get heartily sick of the name of Mr. Horowitz, though obviously he had been an estimable, probably even an attractive, man. One got so irritated sometimes, that one felt one could tear out the little pointed red beard by its roots, if it was anywhere handy. Until one remembered what had happened to the red beard, and the blue eyes, and the well-kept fingernails; and then one felt a little uncomfortable.

It was also possible to get irritated by Yanka herself; but one could not dislike her. She was an intensely religious woman, though there were times when she seemed to be confusing the adored features of the dead Mr. Horowitz with the features of her Saviour, as portrayed in the highly coloured prints on the walls. She was brave and chivalrous. To risk her life for a complete stranger, as she was doing every hour of every day, needed formidable gallantry. It was to be gathered that Elsie was not the first person she had helped in this way, and helping Elsie was not the sum total of her present activities, though that was not to be gathered from a single word she let fall. Despite her desperate garrulity, on matters which concerned the safety of others she kept her counsel. There was no doubt she felt she owed a special debt of service to the Jews, whom so many Gentiles were treating so atrociously. She would have felt the same way, Elsie concluded, if there had been no Mr. Horowitz. But there had been a Mr. Horowitz, and she had adopted him, probably with more passion than she knew herself, and was proper for a Roman Catholic spinster to entertain for a middle-aged Jew, who was her employer, a husband, and the father of three children. But he was dead now, and the work she was engaged on was one way of lighting candles to his memory.

It was all very difficult, sometimes quite intolerable. The fact that, if Yanka had refused Elsie the shelter of her roof, Elsie would very likely within a day or two, or a week or two, have been shot or incinerated, did not make the situation any the less difficult. It was true that, whereas in Warsaw she had been living literally underground, here in Cracow she was only metaphorically underground. The physical circumstances were by no means disagreeable. She knew she would be lucky if, during her escape into freedom, she never faced greater hardships. So long as she was careful, but exceedingly careful, over such matters as drawing curtains and switching on lights, she had a fair freedom of movement between the two rooms and the bathroom. The view from the window of the street behind was not inspiriting, but there was a certain amount of sky, and one could see what the sun and the moon were doing. The food was monotonous, but adequate. It was clear that Yanka’s associates must be helping out with the rations.

But the boredom and the anxiety, these were difficult to bear, and the first would have been more tolerable, if not for the second. She had had a good deal of training in the endurance of boredom during the war-years in Germany, when she had been a very exalted lady, the wife of one of the leading figures in the Reich, and had had practically no dealings, apart from her domestic arrangements, with any of the many millions over whom she was exalted. She had had three residences, a town house in Berlin, a villa in Baden, a châlet near Salzburg, and she ran around from one to another, as she often told herself, like a white mouse revolving in a cage. So she had played endless games of patience, and had tended her hair, her skin, and her fingernails, with the desperate absorption with which some mystics contemplate their navels. But here in Cracow, in Yanka’s apartment, though she had the equipment for one of these occupations, she lacked all but the most elementary equipment for the other, and both seemed infantile. The one occupation she was interested in was Mila, and that was removed from her. She tried to read books, a diversion she had rarely indulged in, but found she could not concentrate on them for long. And with Yanka’s assistance of an evening, she began to acquire an odd talent or two. She learned Morse, which might be useful some time, and did surprisingly well at it. She also began to learn Polish. That brought Mila nearer, partly because it was Mila’s language, and even more because it might be useful some day on the escape to the frontier. She also got some satisfaction from studying two elementary phrase-books in the Czech and Slovene languages, issued for the use of German soldiers doing garrison duty in Bohemia and Slovakia, for the next stage of the projected journey was definitely across the frontier into one or other of those regions. In fact, she often discussed with Yanka the general lines which an escape to the sea might follow, thus acquiring a knowledge of European geography in which she had hitherto been almost totally lacking. There was the route from Bohemia to Austria, and from Austria to any of three countries, Jugoslavia, Italy, and Switzerland. The first two countries had sea-coasts, but they were under the German heel. The third meant safety but there was still one German-occupied country or another, France, or Italy, before you reached a quayside and a ship. Then there was the route by way of Slovakia, to Hungary. Father Josef had had the idea that it might be easier to move about in Slovakia than in Poland. So you got to Hungary, which was still an unoccupied country, and then you might either make for Yugoslavia again, or for the free Turkish sea-coasts far off across vast regions of infested land. Any way the distances were fantastic. And how were they to be covered? By train, by car, by cart, on foot? Perhaps by a combination of some or all of these. It all seemed as fabulous and impossible as a journey in a rocket to the moon. But that was what they had set out to do. Others had done it already. Vaguely, rumours were coming through to Poland on the underground grape-vine, that people destined for the death chambers had escaped by one of these routes. But if there was any truth in the rumours, the escapers had been tough youngsters, playing a lonely hand.

Boredom was not only negative, but positive. The bones of Mr. Horowitz, encalcined though they were, sometimes rattled so excruciatingly that Elsie could have screamed with boredom. Yanka singing was something just a little more excruciating than that, and one went into one’s own room, pleading migraine, for which, fortunately, nothing is a palliative, not aspirins, not cold compresses, not massage of the temples. Boredom, then, during the next two months was acute, but it was not so desolating as anxiety, anxiety over Mila. Was Mila happy? Was anyone bullying Mila? What was the state of Mila’s health? And, even more frightening, was Mila too happy? Had the incense-laden twilight starred with tapers, the august ceremonials, the beatific nuns at their labours, the priests erect and mysterious at the altar—had these subdued Mila as hunger and squalor and terror had not? The child had seemed confident, that day in St. Anna’s, that nothing of the sort could happen. But she was faced with a confidence far more mountainous than her own.

If Mila found peace that way, how impertinent it was to grieve for it! But the grief did not lie in Mila’s finding peace. It lay in the doubt, the anxiety. It lay in the thought that the superb game would then be over almost as soon as it was begun.

The superb game. It was that, too. It was a game that not many played, and very few won, and it was far easier, as she had been told, to play it single-handed. For herself, it did not interest her to play it alone, or with any other partner than Mila. Her partner, too, had high stakes to play for. Unless her heart was dreaming of another game.

As Father Josef had promised her, she kept in touch with Mila through Yanka, who went down to visit her every two or three weeks. The girl was in good health, Yanka reported. The food was better than she had had for a long time, and it was regular. The work was hard, but it made her tired enough at night to sleep well. And the release from tension was building up her nervous strength. But the apprehension that was uppermost in Elsie’s mind could not be discussed with Yanka. Perhaps it could not be discussed with Mila herself, if it had been possible to see her. The girl sent her fondest love.

May became June, June slipped into July. At the end of July Yanka appeared one day with a set of Polish papers.

“You’re talking Polish quite nicely,” said Yanka. “These papers might be useful to you later on. We thought you’d better have them.”

“And Maria?”

“She has them, too.”

“Fine,” said Elsie listlessly. German papers, Polish papers, Bolivian papers—it all seemed to be pretty academic. I’ll become fat, she told herself, like a goose kept in a cellar. If they’d only let me go out for a brisk little walk now and again, it wouldn’t be so bad. After all, whatever happens, when I make the jail-break, I’m still a high-class German. Perhaps that’s what they’re fattening me up for; I have to put on another two or three stones, then I’ll really look reichsdeutsche.

But she knew she was just getting peevish. There was nothing to be done about it. She could not possibly endanger Yanka more than she was already endangering her. She was a prisoner till the next link in the chain was forged. July would become August. Nineteen forty-three might become nineteen forty-four. At the worst, somebody, some time, would win the War. Then you could slip off the whole chain ... if by that time Mr. Horowitz hadn’t pushed you through the window on to the pavement below.

She read newspapers, both the secret newspapers that the underground printed on flimsy little squares of paper that you could slip in with your toothpaste, and the papers the Germans printed, particularly the local newspaper, the Krakauer Zeitung. It interested her to see cropping up from time to time the names of people, both civil and military, she had known at one time or another in Berlin. Herr Frank was keeping quite a court up in the Wawel, the ancient castle on the hill, where the Kings of Poland had lived for centuries. She was more than interested when one day she read a reference to a certain Colonel Otto von Umhausen, who had been for some time, it seemed, officer in charge of the Wawel garrison. She had known Otto quite well in the days before the War. At times it seemed as if he had it in mind to enter the running for her favours with his friend, Willy von Brockenburg. But in love, no less than in soldiering, he was an incurable dilettante. He had retired gracefully before the more vehement wooing of Brockenburg.

He was a dilettante in another art, too, the art of music. He was quite an accomplished violinist, and even something of a composer. It came back to her quite clearly now that, at a reception in a house on Unter den Linden, he had played a violin and piano sonata with the prominent lawyer, Karl Heinz Frank, who was obviously destined to high honours as the régime broadened its boundaries. She wondered idly whether it was a mere coincidence that Umhausen had been appointed to the Wawel, or if the Governor himself had not arranged an agreeable partner for the musical moments in which he sought relief from the ardours of his task.

She sighed sadly. It was a pity that, for various reasons, it would be difficult to have a word or two with Otto von Umhausen. He had really fallen for her heavily, and he had always been absolutely devoted to Willy. She knew quite well that it might be an embarrassment for him to be confronted with Elsie von Brockenburg. But all she wanted him to do was to arrange for Mila and herself to cross the frontier; not much for him, everything in the world for them. She had gathered that German officers on duty in Southern Poland made frequent visits to Slovakia. Food was abundant there, particularly the fruit of the pig. “Schweinland”, they called it heartily. They took their own French wine with them, helped themselves to pork and women, and had a great time. Wouldn’t it be possible for Otto to hand them over to one of his own trusties? Or he might even take them across himself, for that matter? An officer of his standing would have no more to do than wave his hand, and the frontier guard would line up at the salute, and the car would glide through, like a knife through butter.

She shook her head. Perhaps it wasn’t so easy as all that. And how on earth was she to get through to Umhausen? And supposing she got through to him, would he recognize her? A lot had happened to her since she had seen him last, and latterly she had not been able to look after herself very assiduously. She looked into a mirror, and looked away quickly. The foundation was still there, but what a lot of immensely hard work and costly materials would have to be applied before it was the face of the woman to whom Otto had once paid court so ardently!

She let the newspaper drop to the floor, and picked up the Czech-German phrase-book. She must not allow herself to entertain such dangerous opium-dreams! The good priest had not forgotten her. When the time came, he would do what he could.

Then a few days later, the Krakauer Zeitung published an announcement which made Elsie throw back her head as if someone had suddenly struck her sharply under the chin. The Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, Wilhelm Furtwängler conducting, had at last found it possible to fulfil its long-heralded engagement at the Stary Teatr, the Old Theatre. The performance would be given for the Winterhilfe, to provide comforts and warm clothes for our gallant soldiers on the Russian front. It would be heard under the distinguished patronage of His Excellency, the Governor, Herr Frank.

There could be no doubt at all that at that function, at least, Otto von Umhausen would be present, both because of its semi-official nature, and because Umhausen genuinely liked music. In that same moment, Elsie Silver determined that Elsie von Brockenburg would be present, too.

The idea sounded in the last degree difficult and frightening. But think yourself into the situation for a moment. You are a reichsdeutsche. You go up in your plain black dress, looking not excessively distinguished, but smart, and serious, and intelligent. You do not attract too much attention, because you are not the ravishing beauty you used to be, and for sufficient reasons you are not wearing the Brockenburg pearls and emeralds. Nobody thinks of asking who you are, for it is clear that no woman who is not unimpeachable would dare to turn up at a function of this sort. One just did not look like a pistol-drawing, bomb-throwing assassin, with an arsenal in one’s hand-bag. Umhausen would be there, that was certain. It should be possible to meet him in the foyer, before the concert started, or during the interval, or after the concert was over. He might be with the Governor, surrounded by a platoon of bodyguards. That would make it more difficult, that was all, though she believed that Hans Frank was unlikely to recognize her; they had met very rarely.

And when she met Otto, what happened then? She refused to work it out in advance. She was certain he would not, he could not, betray her, not only because of the affection he had always had for her, but because he had been devoted to Willy, who had helped him out of one or two serious scrapes.

The first thing to do was to get a ticket. It was unlikely there would be any left for sale at the ticket office on the night of the concert. But how on earth was she to go out and buy a ticket? Yanka would have to get one for her. But could she? The concert was for Germans only. How could Yanka get hold of a ticket? She bit her lip with anger. She would have to give up the idea.

But she couldn’t and wouldn’t. Her boredom suddenly rose up inside her in a great gust of nausea. She was going mad here. She must do something, however risky, to try and break out of it. Mila was slipping away. There might be no Mila by the time Father Josef came through with an escape-plan—if he ever did till the damned War was over.

There was only one thing to do. She must get round Yanka. She must get down on her knees, so to speak, and tell her if she didn’t have a break, she would crack up—and that wasn’t far from the truth, either. A concert by a great orchestra, under a great conductor, would just put her right; it would keep her right for months to come.

So that evening, when Yanka came home from the office, Elsie told her of the immense kindness she wished her to do for her. She put all the cajolery she knew into her voice. Her eyes swam large and lustrous and pathetic. To her surprise Yanka neither twittered with disapproval nor gibbered with alarm.

“For money you can buy anything from a German,” said Yanka contemptuously. “If a Pole chooses to go where he shouldn’t go, it’s his own look-out. But it’s always dangerous being out on the streets. The concert itself will be packed with Gestapo.”

“If I’m reichsdeutsche, then I’m reichsdeutsche. I went into the station at Warsaw and came out of the station at Cracow. There’d be a lot more Gestapo there, wouldn’t there?”

“I suppose you’re right, Lydia. The only thing I must ask you is to be very careful when you leave the house, and when you come back again. Oh, wait a moment.” Her lips tightened. She shook her head. “No, Lydia, no. There’s one thing you mustn’t do. You can’t be out on the streets after curfew. I’m afraid that settles it.”

“Where is the Old Theatre? Isn’t there a church close by I could slip into? Isn’t there somebody with a bed, just a few yards from the Theatre? I must get out for an hour or two. I must, Yanka. I’m sure Father Josef would understand. It would be worse if I suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night!”

“Hush now, Lydia, hush!” She patted Elsie’s knee. “Let’s think a moment. Let’s see who lives round there.” She shut her eyes and thought for some moments; then suddenly opened them again. “Let’s see the newspaper,” she demanded. “Where’s the advertisement? Ah, here it is! How silly we both are! It begins at six o’clock. The Germans themselves don’t like getting back late when it’s dark. You could get back well before the curfew, if you don’t mind coming out before the concert ends.”

“You’re a darling, Yanka!” Elsie sprang from her chair and hugged her. “You’ll have to help me wash my hair that night, and find some stuff for my fingernails.”

“I still have a lovely little manicure-set,” breathed Yanka reverently, “that Mr. Horowitz once gave me for Christmas. You can use that!”

For several minutes Elsie felt quite light-headed as she moved along the streets to the Stary Teatr. The sunlight would have gone to her head she told herself, if she had not had a nip of vodka to brace her up. (The quarter-bottle of vodka was only one of several specifics that Yanka had in reserve for urgent occasions.) She wasn’t at all certain she was walking quite straight, for when you suddenly start walking from street to street, instead of from room to room, your feet are a bit uncertain which goes in front of which. But she felt fine. She knew her face and figure could still hold their own with the next woman’s.

It’s really ridiculous, she thought. Nobody’s yet looked at these silly papers in my hand-bag, not since the moment I got them. It’s quite possible nobody’ll ever look at them, for I won’t be around at the sort of time and in the sort of place when people get curious about papers. So long as I keep my head up, that’s all that matters. So long as I stare people straight in the eye, like these three storm-troopers swaggering along towards me. I won’t get out of their way, I won’t. I’m not a Jew, not a Pole. I’m a high-class German lady. Break apart, scum! There you are, Elsie! Be tough!

The only doubt she had, as she got nearer to the theatre, was whether she would actually get those few moments with Otto von Umhausen. If he was in Cracow, he would probably be there. But he was quite possibly not in Cracow. And even if he was at the concert, was it likely he would be walking about in the public parts of the place? He was certainly very close to the Governor, who was more abominated, at all events in Poland, than anyone in human history, excepting the three arch-monsters whose names were more widely known. Wasn’t it likely that His Excellency and his entourage would retire to a private room during the interval?

All these thoughts passed through Elsie’s mind without distressing her unduly. She realized they had been there all the time, and that she had carefully suppressed them, lest they should endanger her outing. She would have her outing anyhow, and she would listen to some good music, excellently performed, even though she would have preferred Johann Strauss to Brahms, for her tastes in music were not solemn.

As she approached the theatre, she became aware that there were quite a number of people guarding the approaches, both in uniform and in plain clothes. There was the briefest moment of panic. But that passed at once. She had reached a point where it was as dangerous to turn back as to go on. There succeeded a mood of brilliant exhilaration. She sailed on along the pavement like a swan. The commissaires at the doors looked only curiously at her ticket. She passed through into the foyer, her eyes soft as wood-smoke, her heart bright and bitter with hatred for the people whose shoulders she touched. She took her time, and looked round, as if for a friend with whom she had a rendezvous. But though there were German officers in plenty, there was, as yet, no Otto von Umhausen. She got a programme, and was shown to her seat, which was towards the back of the stalls, and overhung, therefore, by the slope of the amphitheatre. She looked down the ramp of the stalls, but as far as she could see, Otto von Umhausen was not there. If he’s come, he may well be up there, she told herself. She settled down to study her programme. The Seventh Symphony was not till after the interval. The concert began with the Brahms Akademische Festouvertüre. “Entschuldigen,” a lady said. Elsie withdrew her knees. The lady passed on her way to her seat, a gentleman in attendance. The performance of Schubert’s Great C. Major followed the Brahms. It was hot. She fanned herself for some moments with her programme, then opened it to study the programme notes, one eye cocked on the audience as it settled in its places. Quite a number of officers arrived, including a much decorated little group that provoked a patter of heel-clicking, like hail-drops. But Umhausen was not among them. The orchestra filed in, there was excitement and applause. The leader entered, to receive his special tribute. It was bountiful. Then the great man entered. The place roared its welcome, even the officers put their decorum aside, and clapped, and shouted. The baton imposed silence. The Festouvertüre was launched upon its journey, a little solemn at first, but it got going happily very soon. It was all great fun, thought Elsie. Some day I must listen seriously to classical music. It’s not such hard work as I used to think. Mila will have to take me in hand. There used to be a good deal of music at Ploçk, she said, didn’t she? Ploçk! What a funny name! She realized with fright that, unless she held, herself well in hand, she would scream with laughter because Ploçk was such a funny name. Go easy, Elsie! I know that tune, don’t I? A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go! How very odd! A-hunting we will go, here in Cracow! Shades of the playground in Doomington a long time ago! What was that teacher’s name who took us for singing class? Miss Brodie, wasn’t it? She would often go just off the note, and blush.

I don’t suppose Otto’s here at all. Come to think of it, I’d rather he weren’t here. Aren’t they excited, these people! Well, of course they are. It’s the Berlin Philharmonic, and it’s Furtwängler himself. The conductor pointed to the leader, the leader bowed to his own special acclamation, the orchestra rose at the maestro’s bidding. The maestro went off, came back again, went off, all this several times. Then he returned, tapped the baton sharply, the Schubert Symphony took the deep waters. It will be the interval after this. What’s this instrument full of mystery and twilight? Is it the horn?

The whole idea is absolutely ridiculous, as well as dangerous. It’s not fair to Mila, or to Father Josef, or to Yanka. But in any case, Otto’s not here, so the question doesn’t arise. I suppose that’s the horn again, like a soft bell tolling in the distance. I’ll have to leave Beethoven till another time. The Salle Pleyel, in Paris, say. But I still have a fancy for Rio de Janeiro. This is the slow movement, I suppose. Slow? I’d like it to go on for ever. Well, not for ever. I’d rather it stopped before curfew, to give me good time to get back. Dear Mr. Horowitz, I’ll run into his outstretched arms like a long-lost daughter.

The symphony is over. This man behind my left ear will break my ear-drum. Sit tight, Elsie. You don’t want to move before everybody else moves. They’re overdoing it, four times, five times. Oh, at last. He refuses to come out again. He’s worked hard, poor man. Give him a rest. The players followed. The platform was empty. The audience dispersed into the corridors and the foyer.

It was in the foyer she met him, on her way towards the exit-doors. It was, of course, Otto von Umhausen, the wavy fair hair, the long-drawn nose, the broad shoulders magnificent under the impeccable uniform. He was coming straight towards her. He was alone, too, quite alone. It was as if somehow he had become aware she was there, and had contrived this opportunity to meet her face to face. He was within two yards of her. She advanced a yard towards him, and stopped him in his tracks.

“Otto,” she said, quite easily, as if this was the Adlon Bar, and they were meeting casually for a cocktail, as in the old days. “You recognize me?” Her voice was quite low, of course. First she saw the anger in his eyes at the impertinence of a woman who dared to waylay him thus; then a sudden spark of recognition; then in swift succession, the certainty that it could not be Elsie Brockenburg, then the certainty that it was. “You must help me,” she said, always with that easy smile. “Will you?”

There was a dead silence for some moments. There was no expression at all in Otto’s eyes. They might have been made of glass. Then he spoke. His voice, too, was low.

“If you don’t go straight on and out——” he said. He said no more. His eyes turned towards a storm-trooper three yards away.

Without a word, quite unhurried, she moved off towards the exit-doors. It was getting sultry. A lot of people were going out into the street to get some air. Moving along the street, her knees like papier mâché, it suddenly occurred to her it would look good if she smiled a good evening at someone. Two women who had walked beyond her, turned. She smiled, and bowed. They smiled, and bowed in return, though they were a little embarrassed that they could not recall who she was.

She turned the corner, and continued without haste on her journey. She was sick with humiliation. It was not Umhausen who had humiliated her, but she herself. How could she ask chivalry from a German soldier, an accomplice of the unspeakable Frank, a partner in the infamy which was further removed from chivalry than any act in the human chronicle? Was it possible Umhausen had dispatched an underling to go after her? Was it footsteps she heard on the pavement behind her and were they shadowing her? She kept herself under control. She did not once quicken her steps. She was nearly dead by the time she pushed Yanka’s door open.

“Well, Lydia, what was it like?” asked Yanka. “Was it wonderful?”

“It’s nearly killed me,” she replied. “You have a drop of that vodka left, haven’t you, dear? Oh, thank you, thank you!”