22 Britannia Road Part 6

He steps aside and she dips her head to go through the wooden door, thankful that she has been given another chance. Bent over like that, for a moment she is reminded of Sunday church visits with Ja.n.u.sz's family. She instinctively lifts her hand to cross herself. She will work harder. No more daydreaming. She's so fired up by her convictions, she turns back and asks the foreman if she can stay behind and sew for a few more hours.

'Go home,' he says, not unkindly. 'Go on, get on with you.'

'I don't want anyone looking at my son.'

Ja.n.u.sz sighs. 'It's just a doctor.'

'There is no need to get other people involved,' insists Silvana. 'There is nothing wrong with Aurek.'

Ja.n.u.sz will not be talked out of his decision. He explains they need to know how to stop the child fighting at school, how to stop him making odd noises and acting crazy. What he really wants to know is how to make the child love him.

When Ja.n.u.sz looks at Aurek it is as though he sees the boy through a curtain, a fine curtain that you cannot take hold of in your hands, a curtain like a fast-falling flurry of snow that changes landscapes and blocks out all chance of understanding. He wants the doctor to show him how to see through it, how to bring the child into the light.

In his mind he sees a lively, chatty little English lad with his pockets full of cigarette cards, conkers, string, penknives and homemade catapults. He wants a boy who asks him to explain how aeroplanes work and machines turn.

Somewhere behind that snowy, hemmed-in world Aurek inhabits is his real child. Of that Ja.n.u.sz is sure. A doctor will know what to do. Modern medicine will give Ja.n.u.sz back his son, and he will be able to teach him how to ride a bicycle and make model planes. They will play cricket together in the back garden and go to football matches.

Ja.n.u.sz and Silvana sit in a crowded waiting room with the child between them, surrounded by the sounds of legs crossing and uncrossing, magazine pages being turned, the wet gurgles and wails of babies and the dry misery of hacking coughs and stifled sneezes. Ja.n.u.sz checks his watch.

'There is nothing wrong with him,' insists Silvana.

'That's what I hope.'

Aurek has started humming, a rumbling purr, like the drone of bees. Ja.n.u.sz tries to catch Silvana's eye, wanting her to stop the boy making that noise, but she is staring at the exit as if she is planning to escape at any moment.

Beside the door, a young woman sits, swinging her foot. Her tan stocking is darned at the ankle. She reminds him of Helene. He can't help staring. The woman looks up from her magazine and their eyes meet. But she is nothing like Helene. It is a mistake he makes all the time, seeing her in other women, tiny fragments of recognition in the brim of a hat, the movement of an ankle, a collar, the curve of a neck, a wave of the hand. It's a weakness in him that won't go away. A shameful hunger in him, like a man who has long ago stopped drinking but still dreams of the taste of vodka burning his lips.

Ja.n.u.sz can feel the woman's gaze shift to take in his wife and son beside him. She turns back to the magazine on her lap and he suddenly feels foolish. It is a relief when they are finally ushered into the doctor's office, a small, dark room lined with books in gla.s.s cabinets.

The doctor is a tall man with a stooped back and a head of thick grey hair. He moves methodically, steadily. Ja.n.u.sz has confidence in him. Like so many English men of the middle cla.s.ses, the doctor's clothes are shabby but still look expensive: a thick wool jacket wearing thin at the elbows, over-washed white cuffs, discreet gold cufflinks. Polished black leather shoes that shine like oil.

He is gentle with Aurek, approaching him slowly, spreading his hands as if to show he has nothing to hide. No sudden movements. Calm and steady.

Blood pressure, weight, height, head circ.u.mference, pulse.

Aurek, in his vest, nervous as a stray dog.

'Nothing wrong with him as such,' says the doctor, taking off his stethoscope and laying it on his desk. He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a sweet. 'There you are, young man. A barley sugar for your troubles. That's it; let your mother get you dressed again.'

'Is it normal...' Ja.n.u.sz hesitates. He doesn't know how to say this. 'Is it normal that he doesn't seem to know me?'

The doctor reaches for a pipe that lies on his desk and begins filling it with tobacco from a small leather pouch beside it. He glances up at Ja.n.u.sz.

'You've been apart for a long time. You and your wife can help him of course by showing him that you are happy together. That's important for the child's development. But, really, there's nothing terribly wrong with the boy.'

'I say this,' Silvana b.u.t.ts in. 'I say this, but he won't listen.'

Ja.n.u.sz coughs, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 'I just want to make sure the boy is all right.'

The doctor lights his pipe, sucks on it, continues speaking.

'Your son is underweight and small for his age. He shows signs of having rickets; his chest, that knotted look to his sternum. But it's to be expected given his history. Unfortunately we see this a lot at the moment.'

'He hides food around the house.' Ja.n.u.sz can hold back no longer. 'He's not like other children. He pleases himself. Sometimes he talks quite normally. Other times he makes bird noises. What's wrong with him?'

'He's been through a war,' says the doctor wearily. 'Give him time, a secure home, proper food and plenty of discipline and he'll be right as rain.'

The doctor shakes Ja.n.u.sz by the hand and gives him a prescription for cod liver oil and malt extract.

'I suggest liquid paraffin for the lice. He's got quite an infestation. Leave it on his hair for thirty-six hours and take care to avoid him approaching any naked flames.'

Silvana does not shake the doctor's hand. She holds Aurek tightly, guarding him in a way that makes Ja.n.u.sz think of the prisoners of war he has seen, the ones who fear their boots and coats will be stolen.

On the way home, Ja.n.u.sz tries to feel hopeful. There is nothing wrong with the boy. All he needs is a home and time to settle in. That sounds right. For all of them.

At break time, Aurek slips between the school railings, runs across the road, around the back of the co-operative dairy with its sign that says milk in giant glossy blue tiles, past a big house with broken gla.s.s in its windows, and stops at the main road. A policeman is walking towards him, and Aurek ducks into the garden of the empty house.

Through overgrown bushes where brown seeds stick to his clothes and weeds p.r.i.c.kle his skin, he makes his way to the back of the derelict house. n.o.body will look for him here. All he wants is to be left alone. To be allowed to wander through the easy hours of the day and sleep through the dark nights curled up against his mother.

Climbing through a window, he drops into the gloom of a large room. Cupboards full of dust and dirt stand with doors hanging from their hinges. He kicks at layers of bird droppings and old leaves to reveal a red-tiled floor. A pigeon flaps across the room and out of the window.

This is a forgotten place. He'd like to live in this house. Just him and his mother. No separate bedrooms. They stayed in a house once, a cottage in the woods. He wanders through the dim rooms, sc.r.a.ping lacy cauls of pale mould from damp walls. Stopping at the kitchen, he finds a tall wall cupboard, its doors long since fallen off. He climbs inside, settling himself among the dust and pigeon mess.

He takes his wooden rattle from his schoolbag and sets it down beside him. He knows it's a stupid baby toy and not for a boy his age, but his mother says the rattle is full of Polish magic. It was carved from magic wood. He is sure she is wrong, but still, he is careful with it. Just in case.

He stares at his hand-me-down shoes and reties one. They are a size too big and his narrow feet slip around in someone else's footsteps. Aurek kicks at the wall, scuffing his shoe over and over. Birds fly in and out of the house and he listens to the applause of their wings, their rumbling coo. It's a lovely sound. Peaceful. There are no other children to call him names. No adults to force him to sit up straight and write his letters.

His voice starts as a vibration in his throat, like a kitten purring. He c.o.c.ks his head on one side, trying out different notes, a musician tuning up. When he has the right tune, the same lilt and fall in the song as the birds roosting above him, he opens his mouth and raises his voice. The house echoes with the sound of pigeons.

When the day begins to fade, Aurek sees a man standing in the doorway of the old house, like a black shadow. The enemy has found him.

'Aurek?' says the enemy quietly. 'Come with me, son. It's time to go home.'

Aurek climbs out of the cupboard and follows him through the leaves and broken tiles out into the street with his hands in the air, surrendering. He's not going to admit it but he's glad they are going home because he can feel the failing heat in the hedges and pavements and smell the night descending. Aurek is afraid of the dark. He likes to close his eyes to it and keep them closed until dawn.

He picks up a stick and holds it like a gun, shooting at windows and doors. He presses it close to his side, then swings around and shoots people in the back as they pa.s.s. Sticking his head round the door of a pub, he sprays machine-gun fire into the half-empty saloon bar. A boy about the same age, sitting at a table, stares straight at him. He has a face full of brown freckles, cheeks the colour of bacon.

The boy gives him a grin, nods his head, folds his fleshy chin into his solid neck. Aurek shoots him dead. A bullet to the heart. The boy gives a thumbs-up and falls off his chair in a swoon, clutching his hand to his chest. Aurek is transfixed. Then the barman is shouting at him to clear off and Aurek runs ahead, waving his stick in the air the way soldiers do when they want to move people quickly. By the time he gets home, Aurek has killed everybody.

He sits at the kitchen table eating bread and dripping, and Ja.n.u.sz breaks his stick gun into pieces.

'No more war games,' he says. 'I don't like you playing like that.'

Aurek thinks it's a useless thing to break his twig gun. He knows there are enough sticks and twigs in the world for him to make guns out of until he's an old, old man. Surely the enemy knows that too?

Poland

Silvana

'Do you have to go?' asked Silvana. She was sitting on the only chair they owned, nursing Aurek, stroking his soft baby curls, idly marvelling at his plump cheeks and long lashes. The boy was fourteen months old and never stopped smiling.

Ja.n.u.sz shrugged.

'My father says it's inevitable.'

Silvana shifted Aurek on her knee. This conversation had been going back and forth between them for a week now.

'But what will we do?' she asked.

'You'll stay with my parents.'

'And if I don't want to?'

'Then go to your your parents,' he said. 'Whatever happens, you can't stay in Warsaw. It won't be safe.' parents,' he said. 'Whatever happens, you can't stay in Warsaw. It won't be safe.'

The day he left, heading for the railway station to sign up as a soldier, Silvana stood on the kitchen table and looked out through the skylight, hoping to catch a glimpse of him walking across the park. She wanted to see him joining the other soldiers going to fight for their country, but she saw only crowds of people walking in the sunshine as though it was just another summer day in the city. She got down from the table and felt a weight in her stomach. A greasy block of fear. She was alone. She realized she should have made more of an effort to make friends. The truth was she knew no one in Warsaw. Ja.n.u.sz and Aurek had been her only life. And now Ja.n.u.sz was gone.

In the weeks that followed, the summer heat gave way to storms and the German soldiers arrived, marching in time in the pouring rain, motoring down the shopping streets and boulevards of Warsaw, bringing a cargo of terror that hit the city, tearing up buildings, raging through the streets. Silvana was too scared to risk taking her son outside, and too scared to leave him alone in the flat. She sat huddled by the stove. She received a letter from Ja.n.u.sz's mother telling her to hurry up and come home. They were worried for her safety. She had heard nothing from her own parents.

Curfews were announced. German trucks with loud-speaker systems trundled through the streets, blasting out orders, telling people to stay inside. The trams stopped running. People were not allowed to gather in groups of more than three. The sound of gunshots woke her in the night. Silvana's days pa.s.sed in a blur, sleeping, sitting by the stove, playing with Aurek, trying to summon up the courage to leave the flat and find a way out of the city back to Ja.n.u.sz's parents.

When the coal ran out, she went downstairs and sat in the hallways of the first-floor flats. They had radiators that worked and it was warmer there. Many people had left and the apartment building felt empty. The Kowalskis, the couple who had taken her into their flat when she gave birth to Aurek, had stayed. They had become new Germans, Volksdeutsche Volksdeutsche, with red linen bands on their sleeves embroidered with a black swastika, and refused to talk to her now, acting as if she were not there when they pa.s.sed her in the corridors.

Silvana was sitting on a radiator when she saw a family from one of the ground-floor flats leaving. A man and a woman with a little girl. The man carried two suitcases, the woman another. That's how she knew they weren't coming back.

They left the door open and she slipped inside. In the kitchen she found stale bread, a few potatoes and some onions. There was a little coal left, so she lit the stove and made soup. She wandered through the flat. It was like stepping into a magazine picture. The piano, black wood with a shine that reflected her face in it, was covered in a pale-orange silk shawl with long, delicate fringing. Silvana pressed the keys. The notes rang clearly and Aurek stirred in his baby carriage.

She stayed there a week, wandering through the empty rooms. She dusted the ornaments and swept the richly patterned carpets. At least if someone did come, they would see she'd cared for the place. Each day she bundled up her son and went out, trying to get a bus out of the city. Each day she queued for hours and then came back to the flat again.

She was asleep in the master bedroom when the soldiers came. A hand grabbed her arm and she was jerked up onto her feet.

'You shouldn't be here,' said an officer, stepping through the group of soldiers. 'These apartments are for German citizens only.'

He told the other men to leave and then, taking off his leather coat, walked around examining pictures and ornaments.

'These are nice,' he said, lifting a bra.s.s candlestick from the marble mantelpiece. Silvana shrugged. It wasn't her candlestick. He could have it. He could have anything he wanted. He looked at Aurek, who was sitting on the rug playing with his rattle, and she felt suddenly afraid.

'I am going to be living here,' he said. 'I'll need a maid. You'll have to find somebody to take the child.'

He put his hands on her shoulders. 'You're a pretty girl. It's very simple. If you have the right papers you can become German. It would be better for you. You can stay in Warsaw that way. You don't want to be sent to Germany to work on a farm. A city girl like you? No. Of course not. That's it. Give me a smile. I can help you.'

She lay down like he told her to and hoped her obedience would save her. She would not be difficult. She would be anonymous, not interesting enough to remember and too compliant to be worth hurting. And all this decided in the time he took to unb.u.t.ton her dress.

His clothes smelt of the rain. Her face was pressed against the pillows and she twisted her neck so that she could watch the curtains at the window. They were patterned with dancing children holding hands. The hem was yellowed and dirty where it touched the floor. They needed washing. Finally he rolled off her.

'Good girl,' he said, panting heavily.

He straightened his uniform, picked up his coat and left, telling her he'd be back later with the right papers for her.

Silvana washed herself in the bathroom, splay-legged in the bath, wiping herself dry on her dress. In the master bedroom she found a skirt and a blouse, some stockings, underwear and a fur coat: gingery fox with a brown silk lining. At the bottom of the cupboard was a pair of blue leather shoes with a bow at the ankle and tapered heels.

It was dark in her old flat. In a suitcase she packed baby clothes and put her alb.u.m of film stars on top. She opened the meat safe in the kitchen and took their savings from it. Ja.n.u.sz had withdrawn their money from the bank in August.

'It's all right,' she told Aurek, swaddling him in a blanket. 'We'll be all right. Your daddy will come home soon.'

But Ja.n.u.sz had deserted her. That's what she really felt. He had left her and this had happened. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, told herself to stop snivelling. She washed her face and dried it, put on some lipstick and tidied her hair.

It took hours to walk through the city. Everywhere, the windows of buildings were shattered and roads were blocked. Silvana walked to the banks of the river. She could still feel the soldier, the sticky itch on her thighs, the bruised rush of him inside her, the shame of it. She stood looking at the swiftly moving water. It would be so simple to let that water carry her away.

She stumbled on in the stolen high heels and arrived at the bus terminal.

'There are no buses heading north today,' said the guard when she asked.

'I have money,' she told him. 'I can pay. It's only me and my son. I have to get to my parents-in-law.'

'I can't work miracles,' said the man, eyeing the banknotes in her outstretched hand.

He found her standing room on an overcrowded bus. Yelling at the other pa.s.sengers to move down and make room for one more, he took her money and wished her luck. The bus was going the wrong way, heading east, but Silvana didn't care. Ja.n.u.sz was gone. Her home was gone. All she had was her son, another woman's clothes and a strong desire to leave the city.

The bus pa.s.sed through wooded countryside and villages, market towns and open fields. When it broke down, Silvana hitched a ride on the back of a cart. She found another bus. When that ran out of fuel, she got off and walked.

On the road ahead stretched a long line of people with handcarts and farm carts loaded with mattresses, pulled by horses. Silent women pushed perambulators, bicycles weaving through them all, avoiding the crush of the slow-footed crowds.

Silvana swapped the high heels for a pair of wooden clogs and walked for days. She had no idea where she was going, but then n.o.body else seemed to either. Aurek howled at the wind and dribbled miserably. Around his lips an angry red scab appeared, worsening every day. He caught a cold. Green snot bubbled in his nose and he was hot to the touch. Nothing she did could make him happy. When a woman walking beside her offered to nurse him for her, she only hesitated for a moment before she took off her fur coat, wrapped him in it and handed him over, glad of the rest.

A storm had been gathering in the skies all afternoon and a biting east wind began to blow. Silvana looked up to see a black cloud to the west. It moved fast and began spreading out, rushing forwards like spilt ink, covering the sky, shutting down the daylight in minutes. The first splatter of rain fell, icy and needle-sharp. With a crash of thunder the storm was over them.

Silvana was soaked through in moments. She looked around for the woman carrying Aurek, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Over the sound of the whistling wind and the rain came another sound. It grew louder until it became a deafening drone. Silvana turned her face towards it. A low-flying formation of planes cut through the sky, their undercarriages gleaming.

Silvana swung round in panic, calling for her son. How could she have given him to another woman? How could she have been so stupid? People were dragging children down from the carts they were travelling on. Men and women ran through the rain. Horses were driven off the road into the fields, heading for the trees.

Then she saw her. The woman with Aurek. She was crossing the road, towards the fields. The hum of the planes grew louder. The air changed and a gust rushed over her. Silvana began to run towards the woman. She heard the sound of screaming and the crash of thunder, smelt something burning. Looking up, she saw one of the planes spiralling in a high-pitched dive. Then there was only a great heat like a furnace door being opened and she fell.

She opened her eyes and felt a shooting pain in her leg. Her hands were cut and b.l.o.o.d.y, and her ankle had a deep wound in it. The storm had pa.s.sed over and the water lying in puddles all around gleamed darkly. Silvana stumbled over the bodies of women and children and fallen horses. She was barefoot, and slipped and fell in a pool of blood slicked like oil across the road. On hands and knees she crawled. She pulled herself to her feet and searched for Aurek, offering up her life to any number of saints if she could just find the woman who had her boy.

Her mother's words were in her head. Just don't love the baby too much. You don't know what it's like to love someone and lose them Just don't love the baby too much. You don't know what it's like to love someone and lose them. For the first time she understood. And she grieved for her. She grieved for her mother terribly.

She saw the coat first, the orange fur up ahead of her, like a wounded animal in the mud. The woman lay beside it, her legs twisted, as though she had jumped from a height and landed badly. Silvana touched the coat. It was sticky with blood. Her heart leapt, thudded and slowed as she opened the coat.

'My baby,' she whispered. He was lying in the coat's silk lining, his face quite calm.