Читать книгу The Dangerous Places - Louis Golding - Страница 9

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The usual droves of drab motor-lorries were packed in the station square, and over against the south pavement was a shining magnificence of black Mercedes cars. It might almost have been the Wilhelmstrasse itself. I hope, Elsie said to herself wryly, that our friend, Heinrich Himmler, hasn’t taken it into his head to pay a state visit to Cracow again. No, no, she assured herself, a dozen Mercedes cars don’t make a Himmler. Then another name presented itself to her mind. Frank. Who had told her that he was the head of the Gouvernement Général, here in Cracow? She suddenly realized that Herr Frank might well have told her so himself, for he had received the appointment quite early in the War, and she had met him once or twice in Berlin at musical parties after his appointment. He was very fond of music. He played the piano quite passably well himself. He was a tall, dark, cadaverous fellow, with a heavy jaw. She had not found him attractive in Berlin. They did not speak well of him in the Warsaw ghetto.

They had turned right into a street now. She looked up and saw its name. Pawia Street. She heard footsteps coming close and quick behind. It was all she could do to prevent herself switching her head round to see was it Karl Heinz Frank. The donkey she was! As if Herr Frank would be slouching up and around the station approach in case Elsie Brockenburg turned up at Cracow with false papers!

What had they turned right for? Perhaps St. Philipp Street was left? She suddenly realized how desperately urgent it was to get to St. Philipp Street, number seven, where the man with spectacles and a black pointed beard was waiting to give them a hand, the man Rangowski, a ghost, a shadow, with no feature except the black beard. But he was the contact, the next link in the chain. It was strange, here in this town. We must get to St. Philipp Street at once. The day was getting on. There was a tinge of pink in the clouds towards the west. A German soldier came round a corner, stalking towards them. No, no, you mustn’t drag Mila into this doorway beside you. You mustn’t! You mustn’t! The soldier was passing them.

“Bitte schon,” she asked. “Can you tell me where St. Philipp Street is? Near St. Florian’s Church, I think!”

He saluted respectfully.

“Ja, gnädige Frau!” He turned and gave exact instructions. “Go straight up Pawia till you get to Kurniki, then turn left into the Platz. Cross the square, and you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, Junge!” she said. The young man was quite flattered by the smile the nice German lady gave him. They went on their way. Ah yes, here was the Church, only a couple of minutes away. This was Kurniki Street. Turn left till you reach the square—across the square now, and this is St. Philipp Street. There, across the cobbled roadway, thirty yards away was number seven. “We’re there,” Elsie whispered. “Do you see, Maria?” They crossed the street, entered the house, quite a good middle-class house, it seemed, up a few steps to the ground-floor. Here was the door, the one on the right. There was a neat little brass knocker. Elsie knocked. There was no reply. There was no point in knocking so diffidently. She had only come to buy a fur coat. She knocked again, more loudly. This time she heard footsteps after a few seconds. A small dark man opened the door. He was wearing no jacket, but the rest of his attire was good and neat, well-polished shoes, well-pressed trousers, a good quality shirt.

“Yes?” he asked, opening his eyes. He had clearly not been expecting any visitors.

It was Mila who spoke, and in Polish, as arranged.

“Can you tell me, please, if Mr. Rangowski is at home, Mr. Antek Rangowski?” she said.

The man turned his eyes from Elsie to the girl.

“What?” He put his hand to his ear as if he had not heard properly.

“Can you tell me if Mr. Antek Rangowski is at home?”

He looked sharply from the girl to the woman.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “there must be some mistake. Excuse me.” He wasted no more time, and shut the door.

They stood there and gasped, as if a jugful of cold water had been thrown in their faces.

“We’ve got it right, haven’t we?” said Elsie. “He did say number seven, didn’t he, the ground floor, the door on the right?”

“Yes, yes,” Mila assured her.

“You said it after him. It was number seven, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, number seven.”

“What can have happened?” asked Elsie. She was speaking in as casual a voice as possible. She must not let the girl see how alarmed she was.

“Perhaps ... Mr. Rangowski ... has gone?” suggested Mila. Perhaps he had, in fact, been found out and taken away.

“Yes, he left,” agreed Elsie. She looked helplessly towards the other door, the door on the left.

“I don’t think we ought to stand about too long,” murmured Mila. The exigencies of underground behaviour seemed to come easy to her.

“Perhaps we’ll try the other door,” said Elsie. “Maybe he did make a mistake.”

Mila shook her head. “I don’t think he’d make a mistake like that.” Then she acted quickly. “All right! We’ll ask!” Perhaps there had been a mistake, but clearly she thought it most unlikely. She walked over to the other door, and pressed a bell-push. The bell shrilled harshly. A woman came to the door, tall and severe, in black clothes. A pair of pince-nez bristled on her nose.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Can you tell me, please, if Mr. Rangowski lives here?”

“Not here,” the woman said. Without an instant’s delay she closed the door in Mila’s face.

Mila turned. Elsie was beside her. “Let’s go away at once,” said Mila. They went through the front entrance and out into the street again. They turned right. They might as well turn right as left. Then they turned left. How narrow and winding the street was, like a village street. How old the houses were! The whole town seemed old and pious, like a nun. In every second house there was a niche holding a Madonna. Tower beyond church-tower rose above the steep roofs. How quiet it all was! No, it was not really quiet, it was only quiet in comparison with Warsaw. There were cars hooting as they approached corners. There were boys ringing bicycle-bells, horses and carts clanging over cobbles. Here was a tram coming trundling down behind them, the driver stamping his foot on the gong to get them to the pavement.

Where have we got to? How far have we travelled? Are we still in the same place, though we’ve moved from Warsaw to Cracow?

I mustn’t let Mila become aware of this horrible emptiness at the pit of my stomach. I wonder how she’s feeling? I wonder if she’s feeling as lost as I am? (She looked sideways down into Mila’s face.) If she is, she doesn’t let it get her down. I hope my face doesn’t give too much away. What a wonderful child it is! I could take her in my arms and hug her till she had no breath left, even here, in this street. I mustn’t let myself get too emotional about her. It won’t help either of us. What a first-rate little human creature it is! How infinitely more real and good and reliable she is than any other person I’ve ever cared for in all my life before....

It was as if the girl had some idea of the pleasant words that were saying themselves in Elsie’s mind. She looked up into Elsie’s eyes and smiled.

It isn’t very easy not to cry.... But of course we’re both under a certain amount of strain, aren’t we?

Elsie reached her hand out to Mila’s and squeezed it; Mila’s hand squeezed back. Then the hands went apart again. Who is it that’s helping who to get away? That’s what I want to know. I suppose we can say we’re both useful to each other. They had followed the tramlines into a large square. This was obviously the centre of the town. At one corner was a tall church with two towers. In the middle was a building with arches and arcades, which seemed to be a sort of market, overflowing in stalls and handcarts on to the cobbles. A great many cars and lorries were parked against walls and pavements and nosing their way towards the narrow exits from the square. Mila must remember this, thought Elsie, if she remembers anything. It was as if the girl heard her thoughts.

“This is the Rynek,” she breathed. “She bought me a toy sledge on one of those stalls. I fed the pigeons just nearby. There are just as many pigeons here now as then.” She stopped. Then suddenly the sound of a trumpet lifted itself high up above the roofs. “Look!” said Mila, “do you see him?” She pointed to one of the two towers of the church at the corner of the square. On a covered gallery a man stood, a trumpet at his lips. The melody lasted some thirty seconds, then ceased. Then the man turned and walked along the gallery and played the same melody again. Then he played it still once more. “I remember now,” Mila said. She swallowed, then went on. “Daddy told me about it. For hundreds and hundreds of years, every hour of every day, a man has stood with a trumpet——” But she could not go further. “Shall we have some coffee now?” she asked.

“Of course we will. Why didn’t we think of it before? No, not coffee, tea. You can have coffee. I’ll have a nice cup of tea.” (A nice cup of tea, she repeated to herself. I might be a Lancashire housewife, with a bit of a headache.) Not far off was a hotel, the Deutscher Hof, with a café attached. “That looks all right,” said Elsie.

“It was called the hejnal,” exclaimed Mila.

“What was?”

“That tune. Yes it looks a nice café.” They went in and sat down and gave their order. There were newspapers around, stretched out on bamboo frames. The radio was blaring out the tale of German victories on all fronts. There were officers and business-men about, with their local girl-friends, presumably volksdeutsche. It looked like a gemütlich little place in Berlin, on the Nollendorfplatz. They sipped their cups, and Elsie smoked. For Germans only, she said to herself. How long were they going to get away with it? Was there a chance of going to a small hotel and spending at least one night there, till somehow they managed to achieve some sort of contact to make up for the one that had failed them? After all, there must be just as many people here as in Warsaw who hated the Germans—that is to say practically everybody, excepting for these neither-fish-nor-flesh volksdeutsche. It seemed an even more religious town than Warsaw, that might mean the hatred was even deeper. But how did you get into touch with anyone? The moment you breathed a word into anyone’s ear, you were totally in his hands. What was to prevent you choosing the one wrong person in twenty? So what happened if you went to a small hotel ... it didn’t matter whether it was a small one or a big one ... you gave up your papers to the porter. What chance was there of your ever seeing them again?

You couldn’t sit here all evening. You mustn’t look as if you hadn’t anything to do or anywhere to go. Besides, the day was drawing in fast. When was curfew? Above all, one must not be around after curfew. She observed Mila was looking at the clock and looking over to the sky. The same thought was in Mila’s head. It might be another hour to curfew, hardly more. “Herr ober!” she called out. “Zahlen bitte!” The waiter came over, she paid. “Come, Maria!” she said. They were out in the square again. There were too many people in the square. They turned into a narrow street, Anna Street, the name was. Something must happen, God. Something must happen. Not for my sake, for Mila’s. I don’t chase you around often, God, but it would be a good thing if you did something for this child. She’s had a pretty tough time. So have her parents, too, her family, her friends. So have all Jews. Make something happen.

The thing that happened within seconds was black and terrifying. It happened some twenty yards further down the street, on the opposite pavement. On both sides of the street pedestrians and traffic were moving this way and that. Elsie and Mila, on the right-hand pavement, were not aware of the black car cruising down the street, not till it made a sudden swerve over to the left side of the street with a loud squeal of brakes. Suddenly the rear left-hand door was flung open, two men, gleaming like pitch, sprang out and pounced upon a young man walking up the street, his arm in a girl’s arm. In hardly two seconds more, the young man was bundled into the rear of the car, and it sprang forward with a roar. The effect was exactly as if an enormous spider had hurtled forth from its web, and with a terrifying flail of legs had pounced upon a wretched fly, and hurtled back into its web again, to squeeze the thing into juice at its leisure. Elsie stopped. The girl stopped. Everyone in the street stopped in their traces, as if they had been pulled up by a wire stretched taut across the street at knee-level.

Almost in that same moment, Elsie became aware of another young man isolated some two or three feet away from her. He was only about seventeen years old, but he was dark and needed a shave. She saw with startling clarity the fuzz of hair on his cheeks. He had some textbooks and exercise books under his arm. He was obviously a student. His eyes were like small black pools over which burned a blue haze of flame, like methylated spirits. The flame was hatred. She had never seen hatred so desperate in all her life before.

The young man hated Nazis and all things Nazi with a passion perhaps greater than that with which he had ever loved God. If he so hated Nazis, surely there must be kindness in his heart for Jews, the people whom the Nazis so hated that they sought to wipe them from the face of the earth. She made up her mind, with something of the instantaneity with which the Gestapo men had swooped upon the youth on the other side of the street and carried him off.

In a moment she was by his side.

“I beg you,” she whispered, with frightful urgency. “We’re Jews, this little girl and I. We’re alone here. Help us.” Even as she started speaking, her own words ringing in her ears, she saw the mistake she had made. She did not need the young man’s swift recoil, the suspicion thickening in his eyes. She was talking German, the hated speech. He took her for some sort of provocateur. She flung herself round to Mila.

“Maria,” she said. “Speak Polish. Tell him.”

“We’re from Warsaw!” the girl said under her breath. “They’ve killed all my people. We’ve nowhere to go. Help us!”

He stared at Mila for some moments, his eyes burrowing, it seemed, into her skull. Then he turned away. “Follow!” he said, as he turned. They let him walk on several yards, turning their attention for some moments to a shop window, though they had not the faintest idea what was behind the glass. Then they turned their heads again. The young man had his hands behind him. One held a missal. With one finger of the other hand he summoned them to follow. They went after him to the bottom of the street, then he turned right into a broad, tree-lined boulevard. They followed. There was a church looking out on the trees, the Church of St. Anna. He turned in through the church portals. After a minute or so they entered. It was dark. The windows were small, the lamps had not been lit yet, only the sanctuary light shone at the high altar, a few candles gleamed at the side altars, a few tapers drooped before the images of saints. They looked round for the young man, but the darkness had swallowed him. There were two or three old women and a girl at the altar nearest the door.

“This way!” Elsie whispered. They walked down the central aisle towards a part of the church which was quite deserted. In the north transept was a leather curtain; doubtless, beyond the curtain was the vestry. They sat down and waited, their heads bowed down upon the back of the bench in front of them. Five minutes later the curtain was pushed back and a priest emerged. He walked over into the nave, across to the high altar, where he genuflected, and stood for a few moments in meditation. Then he came slowly down the central aisle, seeking to make out the features of the strange woman and girl. He paused briefly alongside them, and scrutinized them; then he continued down the nave, till he came up to the cluster of worshippers at the side altar. There, once more, he paused for some moments, as if to make sure there was no one among them he distrusted. Then, finally, he returned to the chapel in the north transept, and stood by the side altar, half-turned to them. He waited, doing nothing at all. It was clear it was for them he waited. If they craved his help, they must go to him. Elsie touched Mila’s arm. “Come!” she whispered. They moved slowly across the nave to the transept-chapel, and went up to him. This time she remembered the matter of languages.

“Tell the Father, Maria, I cannot speak Polish,” she murmured. “Tell him we are Jewish, and we beg him to help us.” Mila translated.

“Who is the lady then? What language does she speak?” the priest asked.

“She is German. I am Polish.”

“Where have you come from?”

“We escaped from the Warsaw ghetto a week ago.”

“The Warsaw ghetto!” the priest repeated. Already the words had a vibration of terror and splendour. They were a password. They exerted a claim. “Come!” He held back the portière, opened the door, and they entered. Yes, this was the vestry, with its smell of incense, its heaps of missals, its cupboards and chests, the church garments hanging on pegs. An electric lamp hung from the ceiling. Over against a large, carved chest the priest was standing, a tall man with deep-set eyes, cadaverous cheeks, a jaw at once strong and fine. “I am Father Josef,” he said. He pointed to two chairs, and seated himself on the edge of the chest. Elsie and Mila sat down. Automatically Elsie’s eyes turned towards the door, “No,” the priest said. “Tell the lady we cannot be overheard in here. You are not related, are you?”

“No, Father. We have only known each other a week or ten days. But she is my mother, according to our papers.”

“What sort of papers have you?”

“Reichsdeutsche, Father.”

He thought a moment. “Yes, I see,” he said. “It requires courage. But to be Jewish, and not to die, requires courage. Where do you come from, my child?” He was weighing them both up carefully.

“I was born in Ploçk. We came to live in Warsaw after the War broke out. My mother and father died there. This lady is my only friend in all the world.” She spoke gravely, giving the facts without pathos.

How did you come to be in Cracow? Were you given no address to go to?”

“These are our papers,” she said. “They were given to us by a young man, Sem.” She told him what had happened in St. Philipp Street.

“Saint Philipp Street,” the priest took up at once, “number seven. Ah yes.” He sighed deeply. “We are in God’s hands. It can happen to anyone at any hour of the day or night.” If he still had any doubts at all about the credibility of the strangers, the mention of the last contact at St. Philipp Street had finally dispelled them. “We might as well be dead at once, as falter in this work out of meanness and cowardice. Well, children”—his voice became brisk and practical—“there is no time to waste. We must think of something to do with you, for a day or two, at least. But there is one thing I must know. Why did you leave Warsaw? You could have hidden just as well in Warsaw as you could be hidden here—and Warsaw is a bigger town.”

“We wanted to get on our way,” said Mila. “We want to find our way to a port.”

“A port!” repeated the priest. “My child, my child!” It was as if they wanted to get to the sun or the moon.

“Yes, we know it will be hard,” the girl said. “But we hope God will be with us. He has been with us so far.”

“Yes, my child. But the Lord’s ways are inscrutable and He has formidable enemies. Let me say at once, I don’t see what more you can do, both of you, than disappear for a time, somewhere in these parts. The reign of Antichrist will come to an end in God’s good time.”

“What does he say, Maria? He thinks we can’t get away? He wants us to stop here till it’s all over?”

“Yes, that was it,” said Mila.

“Tell the Father we know how hard it is. But we’ve got so far, and we’ll go further. Tell him all we want is to get across the frontier, to another country. We’ll find our own way from there. We know the Germans will be there, too, but we’ll be a stage further on our way.”

Mila translated, then the priest spoke again.

“There’s no country in the world where the enemy’s more savage than in ours. Even Germany itself is not so horrible. It would be extremely difficult to get beyond the frontier into Germany, but supposing it would be possible. You’re already travelling on German papers. The lady knows the language and the people. We have contacts over there. If you must move further, perhaps it would be the best thing to go to Germany, and perhaps from there, in God’s good time, to Switzerland, say?”

“What does he say, Maria?” asked Elsie, her breath coming short and hard in the throat. She had heard the word ‘Germany’. She went so pale, the priest rose, filled a glass from a water-jug and took it to her. Her eyes thanked him. “But no,” she said, when Mila translated. “Tell him no. It’s impossible for me to go to Germany. If my foot touches the soil of Germany again, I shall die. I know that, Maria. Tell him that. And I think you wouldn’t want to go on without me, would you, Maria?”

“She must not distress herself,” said the priest, “nor you either, my child. Say I was only discussing what might be possible. Beyond the other frontier are Bohemia and Slovakia. The Germans are there, too—thick as lice.” His eyes darkened. He bit his lip, as if he reproved himself for speaking so, even of so odious an enemy. “But they say it is a little easier to move about there. Maybe——” Suddenly he looked up through the window to the darkening sky, then he looked at his watch. “We can talk about these things later,” he said. “You must be under a roof before curfew. Wait.” He started pacing to and fro across the room, his hands behind him, his head bent forward. He was muttering, but Mila could not make out what he was saying. Clearly the task he had set himself was not easy. Then he stopped. He had come to some sort of a decision.

“Listen,” he said. “Time’s getting short. We’ve got twenty to twenty-five minutes, at most. I have an idea what will have to be done, but we can’t stop to discuss that now.” He paused, while Mila translated. “The thing is to get you into safety for to-night, and probably to-morrow, too. You can’t stay here. The sacristan’s all right, but there’ll be a number of people coming in and out to-morrow. I’m going to take you to my brother’s flat in Koletek Street, beyond the Castle. I have the key. My brother’s a business-man, and I pick up his letters. He’s away for another two days, in Lvov. You’ll have to be out before he gets back.”

“Ask him, isn’t it dangerous for him?” said Elsie. “If he lets us have the key, and instructions how to get there, perhaps we can find our own way.”

“Tell the lady to be silent,” the priest said shortly. “She must do as she’s told, there’s no time for being heroic. There’s not much danger till after curfew. There’s no vehicle we can take, so we’ll go through the gardens. When there’s no one about, we’ll walk as quickly as we can. There are probably some tins in the apartment. Here’s a little bread.” He went up to a cupboard, took out half a loaf, and wrapped it in a cloth. “I’ll carry it,” he said. “I’ll come for the letters to-morrow, or the morning after. I may send for them. Come! We must be on our way!” Without another word, he went to the door and strode through. They left the church together, as if they were old parishioners of his, crossed into the gardens, and set off briskly to move left under the blossoming trees along the fringe of the old town. It was strange how bitter the air was, despite the dark richness of boughs and the odour of blossom. There were a few civilians about, who doubtless had good reason to be out so near curfew-time; but there were soldiers enough, sitting lonely on benches, or standing about in disconsolate groups. This was the time, and such was the sort of place, when you might expect young men to be winking at girls in parks, or clasping them tight in the thicker places of the boskage. But not German soldiers in Cracow; hatred seeped out towards them through the narrow streets, and wrapped them round under the may-blossom, as if their garments had been soaked in vats of worm-wood. As the three moved on, they saw to the south a hillside crowned with a great mass of masonry, a towered church and a many-windowed castle, stark against the evening sky sharp with the first stars. Beneath the hill, the gardens turned left. Behind them came, clear and sweet, the thin tune of the trumpet on the high spire. Closer at hand, a church bell tolled the hour.

“Cha!” muttered the priest. “It’s curfew-time! No! Don’t start running. It’s only two minutes from here.” They continued round the foot of the hill, passed one street, and came to a second. “Here we are,” the priest told them. “On this side. Four houses away.”

There was no one about, at the doorways, or on the stairs, of the house they came to. Doubtless only Poles lived there, and from now on it was time to stay at home. “Here,” said the priest. He had the key ready, and opened the door. The three of them glided in like cats. The priest pulled the door to silently, without closing it, and laid the half-loaf of bread down on a chair. “I must go at once,” he said. “There are two things you must remember. Don’t switch any lights on. Keep away from the windows during the daytime. Oh yes. There is a telephone. Don’t answer it if it rings. I will send for you as soon as I can. Good-bye, my children.” He raised his hand in blessing over them. “God be with you.” He opened the door again, pulled it to after him, the lock clicked. He was gone.

They stood there in the small dark lobby, quite silent for a minute or more. They were only a glimmer to each other, for the only light that came through was the pale afterglow of the evening sky, that had had a journey to make through an outside window, the room this side of it, and the half-opened door which gave upon the lobby. Suddenly Elsie felt Mila’s hands go around her neck, bring her face down to the level of her own, then place a kiss upon her mouth, a kiss of gratitude, of warm comradeliness, of profound affection.

“You dear child,” said Elsie, pleased to find that the tears, which had been coming far too easily lately, stayed where they belonged. “Isn’t he wonderful? Father Josef, I mean?” Mila was silent. “Isn’t he, Maria?” She put her arm round her and patted her back affectionately.

“Channah,” said Mila. “When we’re alone like this, absolutely alone, won’t it be nice not to have to play the lie?”

“But, of course, Mila,” said Elsie. “Of course.” She was conscious of a flicker of disappointment. It always embarrassed her slightly when the girl called her ‘mama,’ though she knew quite well it was merely part of a routine; yet it gave her a curious thrill of pleasure, almost physical, like stroking her hair, or her legs encased in sheer silk stockings. “But it’s going to happen quite a lot, isn’t it, my dear, while we’re travelling on these papers? And the more automatic it is, the better.”

“All right, mama,” said Mila. She had taken it as a mild reproof. “So there are people like him in the world. And a Christian, too.”

“We’d better find out where we are,” said Elsie. “There’s a door here on the left.” She reverted to the conversation in progress. “The Nazis aren’t Christian, Maria.”

“No, of course not. But he’s a galluch, a priest!” It was that, apparently, she found so unbelievable. Perhaps the priests in Ploçk had been less noble creatures. Or she had never come to close quarters with a priest before.

“This is the kitchen,” said Elsie. “Do you see? Here’s the sink. Here’s a shelf with pots and pans. Here’s a cupboard, with some tins in it. How hungry I am! Aren’t you, Maria? What will the priest’s brother say, when he comes back, to find his cupboard bare? Let’s go on.” There was another door, which led into the bathroom. There was only one more door, leading into the bed-sitting-room, with a single bed in an alcove. “No wonder the priest wants us out before his brother comes,” smiled Elsie. “Where’s that loaf? Ah, here it is, on the chair here. What a meal we’re going to have, even if there’s nothing but bread and tap-water.”

Mila was away in the kitchen.

“Channah!” she called. “Here’s something soft in a bowl! It smells like heaven itself! It’s strawberries!”

“Quiet! Quiet!” enjoined Elsie. “Strawberries! It can’t be true! I knew we were dreaming. We’ll get up in a minute with the smell of dirty shirts in our noses!” There was also an egg, which they mixed with unsweetened milk from a tin; also a tin of dried beetroots. They had a meal which almost made them drunk. They drew no curtains. They lit no gas. They only drew water from the tap in so small a trickle that it made hardly any sound. If no one knew they were in the apartment, they would go on not knowing. The telephone rang once, but they ignored it, of course, and it stopped.

“And now——” Elsie said.

“It’s been a day, hasn’t it, Mila? We’d better get to bed, I think.”

They duly went into the bed-sitting-room, undressed, and got into bed.

“It’s very strange, Channah,” Mila murmured. “It’s like being all by ourselves in one of those tiny planets that go round and round, away from the earth and moon and everything.”

“Yes,” said Elsie. “It’s all very strange.” Her mind was in another bedroom, possibly in that big castle, only three minutes’ walk away. She wondered if His Excellency Herr Frank, the chief of the Gouvernement Général, when he went to bed that night, would feel himself in a happy little planet, going round and round.

“What are you thinking, Channah?”

“My heart’s a little planet, too, going round and round.”

“When will you tell me, Channah? The things you said you would tell me. We’re so together, yet I can’t see you. It’s as if a mist is in front of your face.”

“It’ll be many, many hours before the priest comes to tell us what he can do about us. There won’t be anything else to do, but talk. So we’ll talk, Mila. It’s better you should know what there is to know. Good night for now, Mila.”

“Good night. Good night. Thank you, Channah.”

About three o’clock next afternoon, the key turned in the door. Elsie Silver was in the middle of her tale. She sat in an easy chair, Mila was curled up in front of her. Elsie’s narrative broke off in mid-air. If someone had a key, it could not be anyone frightening. It was the young student who had led them to St. Anna’s the day before. He spent the minimum of time in the apartment. He carried a brief-case, which contained some salami, and a loaf of bread cut into three sections, so it did not bulge like a loaf of bread.

“Father Josef says he will like you to be at St. Anna’s to-morrow,” reported the young man, “at this same time. He thinks you could find the way.”

“Yes,” Elsie agreed.

He turned to the bookshelf and put three or four books into the brief-case, where the cut loaf had been. They were his ostensible reason for the visit to the apartment.

“Good day,” the young man whispered. “May Our Lady guard you!” He closed the outside door, and was gone.

Elsie continued her interrupted tale. The tale was as follows.

“I was born a poor girl, Mila, in the city of Doomington, in England. We were five daughters. Our father was Sam Silver, a tailor. The sister just older than me was Susan. Now don’t jump out of your skin, Mila dear. You’ve already met Susan’s daughter, up in Warsaw. Or, at least, you’ve heard a lot about her. You see, we two girls, Susan and I, travelled around a good deal. I’ll tell you about her soon. But I want to tell you about myself, first. When I was a girl your age, I had already sung and danced in public. That was the only thing I ever wanted to do, to sing and dance. In fact, I became quite a star.”

“A star,” repeated Mila, her eyes round with incredulity. “Can you still sing and dance? What sort of songs do you know? Perhaps, if we have luck and arrive somewhere....”

“If we have luck and arrive somewhere, Mila, yes, I will clear my throat, and see if I can remember some of the songs I used to sing. But they weren’t quite songs for young girls, you know.”

“That’s all right,” said Mila. “I’m very grown-up really.”

“I think you are in some ways. More grown-up than I am. Well, I was telling you. I went to London, and my name was ‘in lights’ as they say. Then once I went to France, and met an Englishman with a title, and married him. But he was rather soft, so I left him.”

“So you were a von, Channah?”

“Yes, and I became a von again. Let me tell it you in order, Mila. From France I came back to England, and that wasn’t a very lucky business, either. I was very unkind to one of my sisters, and it upset me a great deal, so I made up my mind to go to Germany.”

“Yes, Channah?”

“I settled in Berlin, and I became very well known there. In Berlin I had a man-friend, he, also, was a man of family. I always seemed to go in for the aristocracy. I’ve got to tell you about him, because I met him again only three or four weeks ago. Yes, in Warsaw. Funny isn’t it, Mila, the way the threads of the story tie up together?”

“What was he? What did he do?”

“He did nothing. He was just good-looking. His name was Oskar von Straupitz-Kalmin.”

“That sounds a very noble name.”

“Yes, he was a Herr Graf, from an old family. I loved him very much indeed.”

“But you didn’t marry him?”

“No. I was still married to the Englishman. The years went by, and I stayed on in Berlin, because I wanted to be with Oskar, and because I wanted to be in Berlin, and because they liked me there. I was very popular. Then I met a man, the famous German I told you about. Do you remember, in Maria’s washing-cellar?”

“Yes, I remember. Do you think I would know his name?”

“Yes, I am sure you would know his name. This is the part of the story which it’s very hard for me to tell.”

“Channah!”

“Yes?”

“Please. You’ve only got to remember one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Where we met, Channah. So what can anything else matter, that happened before?”

“How old are you, Mila? Did you say you’re fifteen? You’re like a wise old woman. Bless you, Mila!”

“You see, I don’t think you’d be happy till you talked about it. Even if something goes wrong to-morrow, it would still be a good thing for you to talk to-day. Am I not right, Channah?”

“I can only say again what I’ve just said. Bless you, Mila! I liked this man a great deal, but I did not love him, as I loved the Herr Graf. He was one of the big men of the Nazi party, he was close to the Führer, and to Goering. I should have left Germany when the Nazi party came into power, but I didn’t. I stayed on. I liked it all too much, the excitement, and the rich food, and the danger, too, I suppose, and the way the Germans worshipped me.”

“Didn’t they know you were Jewish, Channah?”

“It was the big men in the Party who decided who was Jewish, and who wasn’t. Then the time came when I couldn’t go back to England and be Jewish again, not even if I wanted to. I stayed on. My soul got more and more rotten. Oh no, Mila. That’s the truth of it. I didn’t wipe it all out by looking after a few casualties in the Warsaw ghetto. By the time the War came, my husband had made me an Honorary Aryan. He was by that time an Army General.”

“What, Channah? Is this true?” Her eyes were wide with incredulity.

“I told you it would be painful to you. Yes, it is true, Mila. Perhaps I should have told you that in Warsaw, in the cellars, before we left.”

“But, Channah, how can you say such a thing? I was almost dead, and you saved me. What can it matter who you were married to? All that’s over now. We’re travelling towards a new life.”

“It was a very dull and lonely and bitter life being the Frau General. It was like being a white mouse in a gold cage, I used to say to myself. The Herr General loved me to the end, but after the War broke out, he had other things to think of. He had one great enemy, and that was Himmler, who had sworn to get rid of him. He did just that a month ago, when the Herr General was flying to the Russian front. Himmler arranged to have his aeroplane shot down when it was flying near Warsaw. He did not die straight away, so he sent me a message asking me to escape to Switzerland or Sweden. I thought I couldn’t do that, not while he was still alive. I flew up to Warsaw, to be with him. And then he died. I was in great danger from Himmler, and then I found out that my friend, the Herr Graf, thought the only thing I could do was to throw Himmler’s men off the scent, by disappearing inside the ghetto, where there were so many people without names or papers. This was arranged by Herr Wolff. You remember? That was how I met him, Mila. And while I was staying in Herr Wolff’s apartment, something happened. It happened in the street, as a matter of fact. I know now it was just an ordinary piece of Nazi Schweinerei. I saw two storm-troopers murder a Jewish baby by sticking it on a spike, but it was so horrible, and also so casual, I threw myself at them, and was going to claw their eyes out. I wouldn’t have gone very far, of course, but before they could break my skull in, some people tore me away, and rushed me down into a cellar, where the storm-troopers were too frightened to follow. One of my rescuers was the Boy. You remember, the young leader of the underground fighting?”

“Yes, of course, the Boy.”

“And I have a feeling the other was my niece, the Raven. I didn’t find out she was my niece till later on. A Russian agent was brought into the Post, in a bad way. He called for the girl, and she was brought in. I was attending a wounded man at the time, but I overheard the messages that the Russian brought for the Raven. It was my sister’s daughter, right enough. Her father became quite a big person over there. Now he is a General on the Caucasus front, and he was doing very well, I gathered.”

“Your sister’s daughter, Channah? The daughter of a Red Army General?”

“Yes, Mila.”

“And you were married to.... to ...”

“To a Nazi general. Yes, Mila. You’re right. We are quite a family.”

“Would you like to see your family again, Channah?”

“I don’t think they’d very much like to see me, Mila.”

“I think they would have felt differently about you, if they’d seen you down in the cellars, like I did.”

“I don’t know the least thing about them. I don’t know who’s alive and who’s dead. There’s been bombing over there, too. There was only one of them who wrote to me after the New Order began; that was the one I treated so badly. After the War came, of course, I heard from nobody.”

“Perhaps some day we’ll find out all about them, after we get to Eretz Israel. Perhaps we’ll go to England on a visit. If you come from Eretz, they’ll feel different about you.”

“You’re a dear child, Mila. We’re a long way from anywhere still.”

“But we’ve started, Channah. We’re on our way. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, Mila, of course. We’ve started. We’re on our way.”

“Tell me more about your family.”

“All right, Mila, you little nuisance. There was mother and father, and they had five daughters, Esther, Sarah, Susan, me, and May.”

She talked that day, and she talked the day after, and there was a good deal to say still, for, as she talked, she was remembering things she thought she had long forgotten. The girl sat entranced. It was a stranger world to her than Tartary or Lilliput. It seemed to Elsie, as from time to time she looked sideways down on Mila where she sat curled up on a rug—it seemed this child was a Sixth Silver Daughter; or a daughter of the next generation, like Raven, Susan’s daughter. You might well say this was her own daughter, she told herself, with a curious ache at the heart, with a joy that throbbed like a nagging tooth. It was a family affair, that was it, in a room where they dared not stand up for fear of someone seeing them through a window, whence they dared not move until they were given the word, lest they be hurled like carcasses on a truck, and carted off and asphyxiated and burned, like rubbish, in an incinerator.

At four o’clock on the second day, the key turned in the lock again. The student entered with his brief-case, took out the books he had borrowed yesterday, put some others in their places.

“Wait ten minutes,” he said, “then come to the church.” He went off. Ten minutes later they went after him, two German ladies strolling through the gardens of the old fortifications. The lads in grey-green winked at them from under the may-blossom.