While Still We Live (21 page)

“Yes. Wounded badly. But he got through.”

“And Sierakowski isn’t sending us reinforcements?”

“He’s sending them to the main road. That’s where the attack has come.”

Wisniewski smothered an oath. It isn’t as simple as this, he thought again.

Olszak was watching him keenly. “I wanted to see you,” he repeated. “I thought you might have now changed your mind about that job. Have you?”

Wisniewski raised his head. He returned Olszak’s look. “No,” he said at last.

The blank look of amazement spread across Olszak’s face. When he spoke, his voice was angry, sarcastic. “Still believe in no capitulation?” I’ve been mistaken, he thought, as his cold eyes rested on the younger man. His disappointment increased as his amazement ended. He tried to think of something to say which would cut through this young fool’s stubborn pride, but his chagrin was too great to let him speak. May he rot in his own blindness, Olszak thought savagely. If he couldn’t rid himself of that, then he was of no use. Not with all the qualities of courage and honesty and energy in the world would this young man be of any use. Olszak rose to his feet. It was particularly bitter that he should have always prided himself most on his ability to judge essential character.

“No,” Adam Wisniewski said again. “There will be a capitulation.” He paused and then said slowly, quietly, “You were right.”

Olszak’s anger gave way to further amazement. He sat down once more, and wiped his brow. “You shouldn’t speak in such riddles. It’s bad for my temper.” He was looking at the younger man once more, and he knew how much such an admission
must have cost Wisniewski.
You were right
. Two nights ago, when Olszak had spoken of capitulation, of continuing the fight by guerrilla warfare, Wisniewski by violently denying the possibility of one had refused the other. But now that he admitted the possibility of capitulation, why did he still refuse the task of forming a guerrilla force? And then, still watching Wisniewski’s face, he guessed the reason.

Olszak said, “Two nights ago you refused because you thought I was wrong. Now you refuse because you found you were wrong. You don’t trust yourself, any more. Why don’t you leave that decision to me? Why blame yourself? There was no chance of success.”

So Olszak had heard about the failure of the breakthrough. Well, that saved some explaining. “Thank you,” Wisniewski said with overpoliteness. His voice hardened. “Ninety-five per cent of my men lost. That’s a franker way to state the case.” He rose and walked towards the window.

“It was a miracle that the five per cent did get back,” Olszak said as he rose and followed him.

“All quiet, sir,” the gunner was reporting. “Can’t make head or tail of this. Can you, sir?”

“Don’t worry. They are coming soon enough,” Wisniewski said. “Keep your ears open for any signal from our snipers.”

“Yes, sir!”

Olszak said too casually, “Surely five per cent could have slipped through. Why did you bring them back?”

“A few men wouldn’t have formed a break-through.” The younger man’s voice was tired, as if he were weary of explaining that to himself. Yes, some of the five per cent could have slipped through, but that wouldn’t have been a fighting wedge. That
would have been merely escape, and escape didn’t help those who were left behind.

“No,” agreed Olszak. So you came back, he thought. To this hell. Admitting defeat. His thin, neat hand rested on Adam’s arm.

“Time enough to escape when there is nothing left to fight with,” Adam Wisniewski said roughly. But he didn’t shake off the other’s hand. He nodded to the red sky, smoke-streaked, above their heads. His eyes turned towards the direction of the Vistula. “And we needn’t be sorry for ourselves. These are the people I’m sorry for, Olszak. You and I are trained for fighting. These civilians aren’t. They are the ones who suffer most.”

From the street so strangely silent amid the uproar of destruction to the north and to the west, there came three sudden shots, evenly spaced. Adam Wisniewski’s hand tightened on Olszak’s arm, gripped it as if pleading for silence. The machine guns’ angry chatter began once more.

“Damnation, it wasn’t so simple,” Wisniewski burst out. “It wasn’t so simple, damnation.” Over his shoulder he shouted, “These bottles ready, Zygmunt? Take a couple of grenades. Two for me. Leave the rest here. Quick.” He motioned the less seriously wounded man to stand by the gunner. To the sentry at the gap in the wall, he gave last instructions about the grenades, about signalling Cadet Kurylo and his men on the opposite side of the street. In fifty seconds, the dejected room was an alert battle station.

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 something 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.