The Demi-Monde: Winter (38 page)

Trixie couldn’t sleep. She was too excited to sleep. Too much had happened, too much was going to happen. Her mind was a whirl of plans and possibilities as she revelled in the thrill of revolution. And, after last night, she was a real revolutionary.

According to Heydrich, revolutions were a natural manifestation of the frustrated will of the People. But as Trixie sat sipping her coffee she was determined that it would not be her will that was frustrated. She might be bone-tired, her arm and her ear might be aching like the very devil and her body might be covered in bruises, but this wasn’t a time to rest. Revolution, as she was discovering, was hard work.

There was the sound of boots clumping across the warehouse and she looked up to see Lieutenant Gorski marching towards her. From the expression on his face he seemed to be even more frightened and confused than ever.

‘They’ve taken the Major,’ he gasped.

‘Calm down, Gorski,’ snapped Trixie. ‘Who’s taken the Major?’

‘Lieutenant Adamczyk came to the inn where the Major was resting ten minutes ago. He had orders from Chief Delegate Olbracht to arrest the Major for treason and Crimes against the ForthRight.’

‘What about the Daemon – Miss Williams – did Adamczyk take her as well?’

Gorski shook his head. ‘No, that long-haired bloke nipped out of the back door with the Daemon and the Shade before Adamczyk had a chance to nab ‘em.’

Trixie nodded. She might have guessed that Vanka Maykov would be too fly to be captured: he had the look of a man who was light on his feet. By now he would have Norma Williams and the Shade hidden away somewhere waiting to see how things panned out.

‘Well, Lieutenant Gorski, you’d better get your men on their feet. We’ve got work to do.’ She looked at the bodies of the soldiers sleeping on the ground around her, spotted the snoring Wysochi and woke him with a prod of her boot. ‘Time to get up, Sergeant, time to get revolting.’

Wysochi blinked his eyes open and then checked his watch. ‘Fuck off. It’s only eight o’clock. I’ve only been asleep for an hour.’ With that he rolled away from Trixie and pulled his dublonka over his head.

Trixie kicked him again. ‘Major Dabrowski has been arrested. Young Gorski here’s seen Adamczyk take him away.’

‘Taken him where?’

‘Over to the City Hall,’ spluttered Gorski. ‘Chief Delegate Olbracht’s spitting teeth about the raid last night. He’s talking of executing the Major for treason. He wants to put him in front of a firing squad.’

The mention of a firing squad at least persuaded a sour-faced Wysochi to sit up and stretch.

Gorski gabbled on. ‘A message has been received from the Leader himself saying that the ForthRight views the raid on the barges as an act of treason. But the message also says that if we give up the weapons and the Daemon, then the city of Warsaw will be pardoned. Only those directly involved with the taking of the barges will be arrested …’ He trailed off, obviously realising for the first time that as he had taken part in the raid on the barges then he would be one of those destined to be put up against a wall and shot.

‘Should I take my men to go over and free the Major?’ asked Wysochi as he lumbered to his feet.

‘No. Let’s take an army.’ And with a nonchalant wave Trixie signalled to the crowds of people packed into the warehouse.

Wysochi looked where she was pointing: there, sitting on crates, standing around chatting or just generally idling away time were crowds and crowds of people. ‘Who the fuck are all these people?’

‘Volunteers,’ said Trixie. ‘Word of what happened last night has got around. They’ve come to volunteer to fight the ForthRight.’

‘So many.’

‘There are over a thousand kids here.’

Kids like me. ‘

Most of them are useless but they’re willing.’

‘What are they waiting for?’

‘Rifles … orders … and for you and your men to get up off your arses and help organise them.’

‘But what about Olbracht?’ asked Gorski. ‘He’s ordered that the rifles be surrendered.’

Trixie laughed. ‘Fuck Olbracht …’

By ABBA, being a revolutionary was having a terrible effect on her language.

‘… we’re revolutionaries, Lieutenant, and we’re dead even if we give up the rifles. And as revolutionaries we take orders from nobody.’

In fact, as both Gorski and Wysochi quickly found out, revolutionaries did take orders, but only those issued by Trixie Dashwood. She knew exactly what had to be done and had no hesitation in telling people how to do it. They spent the morning dealing with the seemingly never-ending line of young men and women – that there were so many women amongst them came as a pleasant surprise to Trixie – volunteering to fight for Warsaw. Each of them had to be assessed and issued with a white armband on which were scrawled the letters WFA – the initials of the Warsaw Free Army – then they were divided into pairs, each pair issued with a Martini-Henry rifle and one hundred rounds of ammunition. This done, the volunteers were clustered into groups of twenty to be shown how to load and fire the rifles.

When Wysochi enquired why only one rifle was being issued per two volunteers her answer had surprised even him with its callous pragmatism. ‘We don’t have enough rifles to go around,
Sergeant, remember we’ve still got to arm the WFA. So for now one of the pair will have the use of the rifle during the day and the other will have it during the night. Anyway,’ she added quietly, ‘a week after the first SS attack only half of the buggers will still be alive. Then they’ll have a rifle each.’

Trixie relished the bureaucracy of revolution and as the hours ticked by, the mob of overexcited, ill-disciplined volunteers was gradually formed into something approximating to an army. But the one thing that Trixie hadn’t anticipated was how the news of her involvement in the Battle of Oberbaum Bridge had spread. On numerous occasions volunteers came up to her and thanked her for what she had done for the people of Warsaw, insisted on shaking her hand, enquired if she would be leading a regiment, asked if they could have the honour of serving under her command …

It had been heady stuff and perhaps if she hadn’t had the stoic presence of Sergeant Wysochi at her side, it might have embarrassed her. Wysochi, though, encouraged this hero worship. ‘It’s important, Miss Dashwood, for soldiers to have a hero. They see you, a girl, a non-combatant, fighting and beating the best the ForthRight can throw at us and they begin to believe.’

‘Believe what, Sergeant?’

‘That all this might not be as utterly bloody hopeless as I think it is.’

‘It’s noon, Sergeant,’ said Trixie quietly. ‘Time, I think, to march to rescue the Major. Now we’ve got an army we’ve got to make sure that those bastard delegates don’t do something silly.’

It took a while for Wysochi to cajole the volunteers into ranks but finally, after an hour of screaming, swearing, shoving and kicking, he pronounced himself happy. At a shouted command
of ‘Advance’ from Trixie the ragtag army lurched forward. The Uprising had begun.

It was an amazing sensation for Trixie to be marching at the head of her amateur army through the streets of Warsaw.

Her army. Ridiculous.

Only a day ago she had been a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl and today she was in command of an army of revolution. ‘Command’: now that was a word that gave her pause. Since the time she had taken command of the barge no one had once questioned her authority, no one had once protested that they weren’t prepared to take orders from a woman. She had assumed command and everyone had assumed her right to do just that. Certainly, she had the formidable Wysochi as her shadow, but it was still remarkable that men and women should so readily do as she told them. Maybe she had a talent for war: after all she loved leading, she loved giving orders and loved taking responsibility.

And now she was finding that she loved adulation.

It was a fine sunny Winter’s day and as they marched, the people of Warsaw came out to watch and cheer them along. Somewhere along the line the volunteers had found a drum and an accordion so now as they marched they sang and the people lining the streets joined in with gusto. Soon the avenues of Warsaw echoed with the words of patriotic songs and the crash of boots on cobbles. Before Trixie had led her army half a mile the march had turned into a parade, into a celebration. Children began to dance along beside the marching fighters, old men stepped out of the crowd to shake Trixie’s hand, flowers were thrown …

The singing stopped when they wheeled into Pilsudski Square.

There, facing them, was a long line of resolute-looking, green-coated infantry. The six delegates stood immediately in front
of the soldiers with Major Dabrowski, head heavily bandaged, guarded by two more soldiers, a little to the side. Trixie raised her arm and behind her, her army came to a stuttering halt. Immediately a deathly hush fell across the square.

Trixie swallowed hard and brought her fluttering heart under control. This wasn’t a time to falter; this was a time to be resolute. ‘Bring the Warsaw Free Army into line, Sergeant,’ she ordered in a loud voice, clearly audible to her army, ‘and then let’s go and hear what these traitorous bastards have to say for themselves.’

Together she and Wysochi walked across the cobbled square, with only the snap of their boot heels on the stones invading the heavy silence. In truth she felt a little awkward, as though she, little Trixie Dashwood, had no right to be performing as a leading actor in this revolutionary pantomime. But the look on the face of Chief Delegate Olbracht told her that he, at least, took her very seriously indeed.

‘It’s Lady Dashwood, is it not?’

‘It is.’

‘You are aware, my Lady, that it is an act of sedition to parade within the ForthRight carrying unlicensed weapons.’

Keep it simple, Trixie, but keep it decisive. Make sure the crowd can hear. Make sure the crowd can understand.

‘I do not recognise the jurisdiction of the ForthRight within the territory of Warsaw.’

Chief Delegate Olbracht gave a snort of derision. ‘Who the Hel are you to decide what is or is not recognised by Warsaw?’

Trixie laughed, and waved her good arm behind her, indicating her makeshift army. ‘I have a thousand reasons giving me that right. I have a thousand fighters at my back and all of them are proud, free Varsovians. I am acting Commander of the Warsaw Free Army.’

‘Ridiculous. You’re just a girl. How can a girl be commander of an army?’ laughed Olbracht. ‘You have no rank. You are not authorised to speak before the Administrative Committee.’

‘I have assumed command in the absence of Major Dabrowski’ – she nodded towards the Major – ‘who, I understand, is being held under arrest by Enemies of the People.’

If this revolutionary cant is good enough for Heydrich, it’s good enough for me.

‘You can’t do that.’

‘The Hel I can’t.’ Trixie raised her voice so that it carried throughout the square. ‘I fought with some brave men last night to arm the Warsaw Free Army. I watched some of those brave men die to capture the rifles that will prevent that swine Heydrich butchering the people of Warsaw. Their deaths give me the right to speak.’

Olbracht shook his head. ‘Then answer me this: why would you fight for us Varsovians? You’re not even a Pole.’

There was a murmur through the ranks of Trixie’s army: her Russian was so good that obviously a lot of them hadn’t realised that Trixie was an Anglo.

‘I stand here ready to fight for Warsaw because this is not a fight between the Varsovians and the ForthRight: this is a fight between all free Demi-Mondians and the forces of evil. This is a war of survival, a war where all those who have the temerity to be different from Anglo-Slavs – from Aryans – be they Poles or nuJus or Chinks, must stand and fight or be swept away.’

Trixie could hardly believe she was saying this. For her to be actually standing up for the UnderMentionables was simply astonishing.

By ABBA, she had changed. ‘

I have heard from Heydrich’s own mouth the plans he has for the non-Aryan races of the Demi-Monde and those plans will lead
to the annihilation of the Polish people. I have heard from Heydrich’s own mouth that the Final Solution will mean the death of every Pole, every nuJu and every man, woman and child living in the Ghetto.’ Trixie raised her voice until she was almost shouting. ‘I tell you straight, today we must make a decision. Today we must decide whether we fight together or we die together.’ She was rewarded with cheers from the ranks of the WFA fighters.

The Chief Delegate stepped forward and, raising his voice above the hubbub of the crowd, addressed the thousands of volunteers standing in the square. ‘The Administrative Committee of Warsaw has received a communication from the Great Leader: if we will surrender the Daemon known as Norma Williams and the weapons stolen yesterday then the Party will only punish those directly involved with the abduction of the Daemon and those who committed the act of piracy. You are ordered by your legally appointed Administration to lay down your weapons.’ Not one of the WFA fighters moved but the ripple of unease amongst their ranks was palpable. ‘A handful of lives to save millions!’ shouted Olbracht.

‘You trust Heydrich?’ retorted Trixie and immediately cursed herself. This wasn’t some debating society. This wasn’t a time for discussion. Debate and discussion implied doubt, and a revolutionary couldn’t afford doubt. Doubt implied weakness and a lack of will.

The Chief Delegate leapt at the chance given him by Trixie. ‘We must trust Comrade Leader Heydrich!’ Olbracht shouted. ‘Our Leader is a man of honour. He has generously offered us a way of settling this nonsense so that the people of Warsaw are not punished for this girl’s recklessness.’ He turned to Dabrowski. ‘Major Dabrowski, you are the real commander of the Warsaw Free Army, and as an officer and a gentleman you are duty-bound to put the welfare and the well-being of the
people before your own interests. I am ordering you, as the Chief Delegate of the Administration Committee of Warsaw, to instruct these people to lay down their weapons, to disband this ridiculous Free Army and to surrender the miscreants and the Daemon to the custody of the Checkya.’