Olszak said, “Anything I can...?”
“Get back to Sierakowski or the nearest field telephone. The frontal assault on the main road is only half of the attack. The Germans are about to send a column of tanks through this street. If they carry it, they’ll outflank the main road. Tell him to reinforce the junction of this street and the main road. We’ll try to delay the tanks until his men are in position. Half an hour. That’s the most we can promise.”
“But how do you know?”
“I didn’t. Not until the snipers gave us the warning. I could only guess. This afternoon, this street was blasted by artillery. Since then—nothing, except machine-gun fire to try and draw us out. An hour ago, I went up towards the German end of the street. They were digging. Clearing away. The street at their end had been blocked by ruins which were practically tank-traps. Now, a sniper has given us warning that he has seen tanks being moved up to enter this street.”
“Then retreat to the end of this street. Face them there, with reinforcements.”
“No. Once they really start moving, they are hard to stop. The place to face them is up here. Just at that part of the street where it is narrowest, where it twists, just where they will think they have got free of these blocks of cement.” He turned towards the gap in the wall where Zygmunt waited impatiently. “Better reach Sierakowski,” he said to Olszak. “We can’t stop them permanently. We can only delay them for a little.”
“And what about that job I wanted you to do?”
Adam Wisniewski was placing the two grenades in his pockets. Like Zygmunt, he held a bottle of petrol with its phosphorus-soaked cork in his arm.
“Better wait and see how far I am wrong, this time.”
Olszak’s thin lips smiled. “The meeting is on the twenty-seventh. Usual place. At the same time. Remember?”
“I hadn’t forgotten.” There was an answering smile. There was a touch of the old Adam Wisniewski as he pulled his helmet over one eye. The weariness had gone from his face, the stiffness from his body, as he bent to step through the gap in the wall.
Olszak watched the crouching figure, grenades in his pockets, petrol-bottle cradled in one arm, the borrowed rifle slung over his shoulder, reach the impatient Zygmunt. They knelt for a moment by a shell hole, smothering their helmets and covering their bayonets with a coating of mud. And then the two men, doubling low, were circling round like hunters towards the German end of the street.
“Come on,” Olszak said to the very tall, very young man who had come with him here. He removed his pince-nez and placed them carefully in his breast pocket. “Quick.”
“What about this wounded man? We ought to take him back.”
“Later. Come on.”
The other followed unwillingly. “But—” he began.
“Come on.” Olszak was already through the informal door. He crouched as Wisniewski had done, choosing each available patch of cover with a quick eye and determined pace.
“I didn’t mean to overhear you,” the young man was saying as he caught up with Olszak, “but don’t you think he is mad? An attack through this narrow street, where there is only machinegun fire? The Germans can’t be taking this street seriously.”
“Shut up, and come on,” Olszak said angrily. “If we get separated, run for that outpost and field telephone, near where we left the car. You know what to tell them. Seemingly.”
That silenced his companion. Even at the field telephone, he offered no addition to Olszak’s quick sentences.
“Well, I only hope he is right. That’s all,” he ventured as they at last reached their abandoned car.
The first explosion answered him. The ground danced beneath their feet. Olszak looked at the other man, as they picked themselves up. This time, he didn’t need to say anything.
* * *
Adam Wisniewski squirmed round the last block of cement which separated him from the road. Twenty yards away, Zygmunt would be crawling forward too, under cover of a broken wall. By this time, Cadet Kurylo should have received the final signal: two of his sharpshooters would now be stationed as far forward as the other snipers, and the nose of his machine gun would be pointing to crossfire with the gun in the Café Kosciusko. The snipers were picking their shots carefully, enough to distract the Germans’ attention, yet not enough to destroy the Germans’ belief that this abandoned street was theirs for the taking. Adam Wisniewski listened to the savage machine-gun fire replying to the single shots. He thought of his seven men crouching in the ruins of the street, shooting, eluding, changing positions. He was listening now to see if their firing power had been diminished. Six now instead of seven? Five or four? The shots were fewer, farther spaced. His men were silent now. Were they obeying orders, or had they in fact been wiped out? The machine guns, seemingly satisfied, had fallen silent too. In this desert of jagged stone and powdered brick, Adam waited. Desperation was in his heart. And then, out of the background of harsh noise, came a definite sound. It grew louder, focusing itself on this street. The first tanks were approaching.
He kept his head low and waited. At least, he thought, it looked now as if the snipers hadn’t been killed. It looked now as if they had been following instructions; some of them, anyway. Sweat, as intense as his relief, lay cold on his brow.
The noise of the tanks ground nearer. He tightened his grip on his box of matches, if only to steady the sudden treacherous trembling of his hand. His stomach was caught in nausea. He swallowed painfully, and drew his arm across his eyes to wipe away the sweat. The waiting moments always got him this way. The waiting moments were the worst. Once he started action, once he saw the tanks, he’d forget all these fears and worries. He’d only remember, then. He had a lot to remember. These damned murdering swine. He’d remember.
The first tank was edging its way cautiously past the ruined walls of the houses. Once it cleared that narrowed piece of street, it would be less skittish. It would increase speed. Let it. Kurylo and the gunner in the café would know how to deal with it when it was isolated. For it wouldn’t be followed by the row of tanks which it now led so arrogantly. The second tank was his. The third was Zygmunt’s. At this narrow part of the street, two flaming tanks would hold up the traffic. Long enough. Long enough for Olszak to give his warning. And then, the snipers would know what to do. They all knew what to do. God give them accuracy and timing.
Then he saw the first tank, nosing slowly into the street in front of him like a lumbering monster out of a hideous underworld. He raised his body slowly to free his shoulders. His fingers were on the pin of a grenade as the tank gathered speed. The second tank followed. He pulled out the pin, counting. His arm followed through in a careful arc. I’ve missed, too late, I’ve missed, he thought with growing desperation. And then the grenade exploded under the tank’s tracks. The huge bulk swung round to face him as its direction was lost. It twisted uneasily and then lay helplessly across the narrow street. A sniper was shooting to distract attention. Another sniper joined in. The cupped match in Wisniewski’s hands spluttered against the phosphorus cork. This time, he threw quickly, aiming for the tank’s waist where body and turret met. He saw the bottle gleaming strangely in the phosphorous light as it landed safely. And accurately enough. He flattened himself tightly against the earth as the explosion’s hot blast scorched his neck and hands. All his breath was smashed out of him as the air current lifted him a few inches off the ground and then dropped him. The massive block of concrete beside him trembled, and then against its other side he heard the sharp hail of machine gun bullets. He couldn’t even allow himself the pleasure of looking at the flaming tank. Here was one that no more would grind horse and human flesh into pulp. He began to crawl backwards, away from its blistering heat and sickly smell, away from the fireworks of its ammunition. As he reached the cover of ruins farther back from the road, he was thrown on his face once more. Zygmunt had aimed his petrol bottle well.
Wisniewski found he was shouting. How long he had been shouting was somethin
g he didn’t know, and what he was shouting didn’t make sense. He stopped suddenly, and then laughed at his caution. No one could hear him. Not in this inferno of sound. All he had to worry about now was a German machine gunner, or a German sniper. Or a shell. They were using trench mortars again. There was an explosion behind him, and a wall to his right crumbled as a shell’s fragment ploughed into it. He picked himself up again, and, his rifle held ready, ran for new cover. That shell had been aimed at the large block of cement behind which he had sheltered as he waited for the tanks. The Germans didn’t take long, he thought savagely. Well, even they weren’t infallible. This was one time they hadn’t been so clever. A handful of men had deluded them. A handful of men... He felt better when he discovered that thought. He felt so much better that, crouching under the rim of a shell hole, he was surprised to find that the spreading stain on the shoulder of his tunic was not oil but blood.
From where he lay, he could see two columns of flame from the street. He wondered where Zygmunt was now, where the others were. Probably crouching into holes in the ground like himself, waiting as he was for this sudden barrage to spend its temper before they could make their way back to the Polish lines. His fingers touched the wet stain on his tunic. Nothing serious, not serious enough to prevent him from reaching the Vistula. Nothing was going to prevent him now from doing that. Not now. The twenty-seventh was the meeting day. Tomorrow he could give Olszak his answer. He edged cautiously out of the shell hole and began his slow journey back to the Café Kosciusko. In front of him, the sky over Warsaw was bright blood-red.
15
RECRUITMENT
Sheila had lost all count of time.
When the door opened, it wasn’t Steve or Schlott or any of the others. It was Olszak, a thinner, wearier, grimmer Olszak. “You’ll catch another chill,” he warned her. His calm voice brought her back into the room. “And somebody may think you are showing a light to attract enemy planes.”
Sheila guiltily pushed the board back into its position across the window. “I forgot,” she said inadequately. I truly forgot about the candles.”
Mr. Olszak was smiling. “Frankly, I don’t think it matters so much now. But it’s a waste, of good candle. How’s your hand?”
“It’s all right.” She looked at him quickly. “Who told you? Steve?”
“Yes. I found him at Korytowski’s flat when I reached there tonight. He has now gone with Korytowski to find Madame Aleksander.”
“Should they tell her, so soon?”
“They were discussing that when I left them. Their courage in that respect was very low. You may seen them here, instead.”
“Why didn’t you go with them and give them some support?”
“Well, Stevens was worried about you alone here. And I thought I’d like to see you.”
Sheila was touched that this man should have made the frightful journey through the streets to see her. She smiled.
“So, you’ve forgiven me for nearly killing you?” Mr. Olszak asked. “I hardly expected such a warm smile of welcome. Thank you.” He sat down at the table. He thought it would be wise to talk about past things and to avoid tonight’s happenings. Sheila’s eyes were too hard, too bright. “Well, we got the woman, Elzbieta. Again, thank you. You did a very good job.”
“What about the man?”
“Henryk, or rather Heinrich Dittmar? He never came back to the porter’s lodge. He has disappeared.”
Sheila suddenly remembered the feeling of being watched as she had entered the police car in the dark street, that night. Perhaps she had been right, after all... Perhaps...
“Yes?” asked Mr. Olszak.
She told him what she had imagined that night and then had laughed away.
“If you were right, we shall soon know. He will make it unpleasant for any of us he can recognise again. You will be all right. In fact, your case will be stronger with the Germans. If I remember rightly, one of my men had you in a very decided grip, which rather distressed me at the time.”
Mr. Olszak poured himself some vodka. “I am glad,” he went on in his quiet smooth voice, “that you recovered so well from your illness. You are still somewhat thin, and probably—if I could see your cheeks—too white. But I must say you worried me for quite a while. You never thought I had a conscience, did you?”
“I think you believe in what you do, and nothing will stop you.”
“Same thing. Won’t you have some wine?”
Sheila shook her head. She had promised herself the pleasure of giving Mr. Olszak a shock whenever she saw him again. And here he was, and she couldn’t remember what she had been going to say to him.
“Why don’t you wash your face?” Mr. Olszak, it seemed, was determined, not to let her think.
She stared at him. He was drawing a handkerchief out of his pocket as he went over to the bucket of water. “Come here. I’ll get rid of the worst streaks.” He bathed her face carefully, and while she finished the cleaning process, he searched for a towel. Madame Knast’s best curtain had to suffer some more tearing.
“Organise yourself. That’s the thing. Organise,” he was saying. He surveyed their joint efforts critically. “Much better. But as I thought, too pale. Did you eat all the butter I sent? And the eggs? And did you drink the wine?”
“I ate and drank everything. I couldn’t stop eating. Barbara said—” Sheila’s voice faltered.
“Comb your hair. It’s terrible,” Mr. Olszak said quickly. Then as she looked round in a puzzled way, “Isn’t there a comb here?” He fumbled through his pockets.
“My handbag. I can’t remember what happened to it. I had it—” Steve had taken a sack of sand over his shoulders and he had left her and she had helped the young girl, had used both her hands to grasp the slipping heavy corners of the sandbag. And then there had been nothing but hurry and effort and strain...
Olszak, watching her eyes, said sharply, “What’s that tearing your pocket’s seams?”
She looked down slowly and began to laugh. “My handbag. I jammed it in. I must have.” It was tightly wedged into the pocket. Her coat tore farther as she tugged and pulled.
“Easy now,” Mr. Olszak was saying. “That’s a nice coat.” He didn’t add, “And it may be a very long time before you have another one like it.”
Sheila was still laughing as the bag came free.
“Stop that. Stop it, and comb your hair. Here, give that bag to me.” He opened it and his thin fingers searched quickly for the comb. “I remember the first day I looked into this small contraption. I wondered how anyone could ever cram so much inside. Do you remember that day? In Colonel Bolt’s office?”
Sheila took the comb and began tugging at the ends of her hair. They were harsh and singed. Her eyebrows had the same dry feeling. So had her eyelashes.
“Do you remember?” Mr. Olszak insisted.
She nodded. As she combed her hair, she was remembering. Mr. Olszak and Mr. Kordus and Steve. Steve who knew so much without understanding the full meaning of what he knew.
“How is Colonel Bolt?”
“Everywhere. The man’s energy is boundless.” There was a little smile in Olszak’s eyes as if he believed in other ways of spending one’s energy.
“And how is Mr. Kordus?”
The smile was still in place, but there was a hard edge to it. “When did you hear of Kordus?”
The frank question took away much of Sheila’s assurance. She heard herself give the direct answer she hadn’t meant to give so quickly.
“Steve heard that a Mr. Kordus was Special Commissioner to the Security Police.”
“I believe he is. But who told Stevens?”
The story was neatly extracted with Mr. Olszak’s usual skill. Sheila was left with no feeling of triumph at having jolted Mr. Olszak, who had consistently dominated her since their first meeting. She began to wish she had never given in to her impulse to watch Mr. Olszak jump. For he hadn’t. On the contrary, he was in full cry after a probably innocen
t Stevens.
“But he has no axe to grind,” she protested in the American’s defence.
“My dear young lady,” Mr. Olszak was at his silkiest, “have you ever known a journalist without an axe to grind?”
“I’m sure he would have told you himself whenever there was time. He’s been busy.” Somehow, her sarcasm was wasted. She said, suddenly uncomfortable and chastened, “Shouldn’t I have told you then?”
“Of course. And before this. And found out the name of Stevens’ informant, who points and talks too much.”
“But the man didn’t know you were Olszak. He pointed you out as Kordus. And Russell Stevens didn’t tell him the truth.”
“Stevens is really too inquisitive.”
Sheila’s temper flared as her worry over Stevens grew. “All right, then. I shouldn’t have told you. I should have let you go on thinking that no one ever found out that Olszak was Kordus, or Kordus was Olszak.”
“No one knew, except three men who made my appointment possible and who are working with me. No one knew... See, you’ve shaken my confidence, Miss Matthews: I should say, ‘No one, I hope.’ Does that please you?” There was a gentle little smile round the thin lips. She was not only worried, but ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” she said miserably.
“No, don’t be. I’m glad you had the very natural impulse to—shall we say, tease? You’re a high-spirited creature, Miss Matthews, and you’ve resented the way I’ve used the curb and the snaffle. You don’t like a tight rein, do you?”
Sheila smiled in spite of herself. Mr. Olszak’s idea that women were like highly bred horses amused her. “And now you are giving me a lump of sugar,” she said.
“It’s surprising,” Mr. Olszak said, “how well we understand each other.” And then he was silent, his arms folded, his chin sunk, his eyes watching the flickering candles. “When a man knows too much,” he said at last, “either you make him one of your party or you eliminate him. These are the only ways to silence him.”