While Still We Live (3 page)

Sheila placed the diary on top of a suitcase. Before the mirror, she combed her fair hair, added more powder to an already perfect skin. Her brown eyes looked back at her reprimandingly. “You had no need,” they said severely, “to keep staring at him.”

Barbara, white-faced, sad-mouthed, interrupted her thoughts.
“Sheila, aren’t you ready? We are waiting. And we have other guests, too, now. Adam Wisniewski and his father have ridden over from their house. Adam’s regiment is moving north, and it is stationed tonight near Lowicz. It is requisitioning more horses. Adam got leave to see his father, and they have come over here to say goodbye. He’s Andrew’s greatest friend. Did you meet him when Andrew was in London last year? Adam passed through there on his way to the Dublin Horse Show. He rides, you know.”

“So I saw.”

“Mother would like me to marry Adam. Can you see any reason why I don’t fall in love with him?” Barbara was half-smiling.

“None.” Sheila paused. “Except that you fell in love with Jan Reska.”

Barbara must have been thinking of Reska too. Her voice wasn’t very steady now. “It’s funny...” She took Sheila’s arm, and together they walked slowly towards the staircase.

“What is?” Sheila asked gently.

“Falling in love. How you do it, with whom...” Barbara managed to control her voice better. “Mother wants to see all her children married to people she likes. Of course you knew that was why she asked you to visit us this summer? She was so eager to see you, after Andrew came home from London and talked about you most of the time.”

“Oh.” Sheila had wondered about that. After all, that was one of the reasons which had made her decide to accept Madame Aleksander’s invitation: she had wanted to find out, too, if she were really in love with Andrew.

“You would have been just my choice for a sister-in-law,”
Barbara was saying. She watched Sheila’s face as if hoping for a denial that Sheila wouldn’t be her sister-in-law. She saw, instead, a look of embarrassment and unhappiness well mixed. In some things, Barbara thought, the British girl seemed so much older than she did—in other things, such as falling in love and recognising it, Sheila was so much younger. It was incredible that people should be afraid of their emotions, instead of enjoying them.

“Don’t worry, Sheila.” Barbara’s sun-tanned arm went round Sheila’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Mother has other things to think about now. She is talking downstairs about leaving for Warsaw to do hospital work if war comes. She nursed in the last one, you know.”

In the hall, there was the sound of many voices, even laughter.

“Is the news better?” Sheila asked, as a heavily laden Maria, followed by a twittering Zofia, bustled past the girls.

Barbara shook her head slowly. All pretence of lightheartedness was gone. Then Maria’s broad back had pushed the dining-room door wide open, and Madame Aleksander had seen them, was coming forward to welcome Sheila.

“You aren’t shy?” she asked gently, looking at the girl’s wide eyes. And Sheila immediately lost the composure she had been mustering. The faces around her were so many, so vague. Then suddenly, they focused sharply. She found herself looking into the brown eyes of the tall cavalry officer. She
would
have to pick on him, she thought angrily, and looked quickly away. She had the feeling that it wasn’t quickly enough. He was smiling.

Andrew was beside her now, looking very strange and serious in his uniform. There were the introductions to be completed: Father Mazur, Pan Wisniewski, Mr. Russell Stevens, Captain
Adam Wisniewski. There was a scraping of chairs. The last party in Madame Aleksander’s house was about to begin. As if everyone were admitting it secretly to himself, there was a sudden restraint, a hush that continued after the priest’s blessing was over.

Teresa ended it. Her eyes, round with excitement at having been included in a real grownup party, were examining the elaborately embroidered cloth, the silver vases and candlesticks.

“When did you get all this, mother?” she asked suddenly.

The men roared with laughter. The priest’s serious face relaxed into a smile. Aunt Marta, looking more Roman matron than ever in her best black dress, said severely, “Teresa, they were your great-great-grandmother’s. At times, they have been buried deep in the earth to save them from the Cossacks. But when it was safe to bring them out, they came out for special occasions. Tonight is a special occasion.” With that, Aunt Marta turned to Pan Wisniewski and began a conversation about the requisitioning of horses, the low price of hogs, and the long summer drought. Madame Aleksander was talking with Father Mazur, their voices so low that Sheila guessed the latest news was under discussion. Captain Wisniewski was doing his best to entertain Barbara with his most recent troubles. Now and again, the captain would glance across the table to Sheila, as if including her; and then Sheila would hastily renew her conversation with Andrew on her right. The American on her left seemed to understand that Andrew had a lot to say, for he kept silent and devoted himself to the variety of food which Maria and the other women were serving. Maria’s habit of entering into the conversations with a crusty comment or two seemed to amuse Mr. Stevens. His Polish, Sheila noted, was more fluent
than her own efforts. His appetite was certainly better.

The pinpricks of light from the tall white candles had spread into a rich glow as the sunset faded. There was a steady flow of talk, but the animation was tense and strained. Andrew was quiet, gentle, sympathetic, but there was a hard look in his eyes whenever the subjects of present news, probable war, or Germany were introduced. So he and Sheila talked of London, of the friends he had made there last winter, when he had visited England with a Purchasing Commission for army supplies. Then Andrew spoke of her Uncle Matthews, who, he was sure, would blame him for not having made Sheila leave Poland ten days ago.

“No,” Sheila said quickly, emphatically. “No, Andrew. Please don’t worry about that. My uncle knows by this time that you did try to get me to leave two weeks ago, when you left Warsaw for Gdynia. He also knows me. I think...”

Andrew smiled at that Sheila avoided Captain Wisniewski’s very direct look.

“I must say I had rather a shock today when I got back to Warsaw and discovered you had never gone to England,” Andrew admitted. “Why didn’t you go when you said you would?”

“I meant to. But somehow there were so many things I still had to do. And there was a wedding in the village to which I was invited. It is strange, isn’t it, how a village can catch you up in a way that a big city never touches you?” Sheila was suddenly aware that the American was listening, too. She turned to him and smiled to excuse her neglect. “Hello,” he said very seriously. “I’m Russell Stevens. Remember me? I’m the fellow that came in with Andrew.”

“I’m Sheila Matthews,” she countered weakly.

“I know. I’m a friend of Andrew’s.” He watched the heightening colour in her cheeks with matter-of-fact interest. “And how does our English friend enjoy the Polish countryside? It’s all too marvellous?”

The mocking note of quotation in his voice annoyed Sheila. I am
not
an impressionable schoolgirl, she thought irritably. She glanced involuntarily across the table, and then wished she hadn’t. Captain Wisniewski had given up all pretence of talking to Barbara, and was watching her quite openly. The calm scrutiny opposite, with its implied masculine confidence, had its effect. The neat little speech which she was preparing for Mr. Stevens’ benefit suddenly disintegrated.

“Go on,” Mr. Stevens said encouragingly. “You look very charming when you are indignant.”

She checked her next words in embarrassment. At a time like this, she would only argue emotionally. Perhaps Mr. Stevens had guessed what she was thinking, for he gave her an unexpected smile and glanced at his watch. That was the third time he had looked at it in the last half-hour.

Sheila said, “I’m sorry I am giving you all this trouble. The journey to Warsaw, I mean. But you don’t have to put me on a train. I’ve caught midnight trains abroad, before now.”

“On the eve of a war? And what a war!”

Sheila was silent.

“I’m not worrying about you, Miss Matthews. You are one of the lucky ones. You are leaving.” He looked round the room. Food and wine had slackened the tense conversations. The animation was gone. A calm fatalism had taken its place.

“They’ve suffered more than our countries have,” Sheila said slowly.

“We’ll learn.” The American’s voice was grim. Suddenly he was alert. “What’s that?”

Sheila listened tensely. So did Madame Aleksander and Barbara. But it was only the engine of a high-powered car.

“Someone to visit you, Madame Aleksander,” Stevens said, more for the sake of ending the sudden silence than for anything else.

“An emergency, perhaps?” Wisniewski’s strong, deep voice suggested. Both he and Andrew had risen to their feet as the brakes screeched on the driveway. Their uniforms emphasised the serious look they interchanged.

Maria entered with a short announcement. “There’s a man to see the English lady.”

“A gentleman to see Miss Matthews,” Madame Aleksander said pointedly.

“He’s a German,” Maria said, equally pointedly.

For one painful moment all eyes were fixed on Sheila’s astonished face, and then suddenly, everyone had something interesting to say to each other. To Sheila, it was as embarrassing as silence would have been.

Teresa was already out of her chair. “Mother, I want to see a German.”

“Stay where you are, Teresa.”

“But, mother,” Stefan said, his brown eyes urgent, “I’d like to see what kind of car he has. Listen, all the children are looking at it.” Through the open windows, the voices of the children had indeed grown louder. Sheila, as she rose from the table, saw many people outside on the grass. The villagers were beginning to arrive. It must be nearly eight o’clock.

She excused herself with a slightly bewildered smile, and
hurried into the hall. Russell Stevens followed her along with Stefan and Teresa.

“And
don’t
be long with your German friend,” he warned her. “We’ve only ten minutes.” He gave her a grin, and went outside with the children.

Maria was pointing to the music room. “He’s in there,” she said unceremoniously. All her friendliness was gone.

Sheila pushed aside the white panelled door. The man, who had been sitting uncomfortably on the piano stool, rose and faced her. He was a complete stranger.

Sheila widened her eyes to see better in the darkening room. The man moved to the window. She followed him there, and they stood looking at each other in the last of the evening light.

“I think there’s a mistake,” Sheila said in German. “I don’t know you.”

The man was staring at her curiously: a white-haired, square-faced man with tight lips and clever eyes.

“No, Miss Matthews,” he said in English, “you don’t know me. My name is Johann Hofmeyer. I have business connections with your uncle, Mr. John Matthews. He had just wired me about you.”

“Then he sent you here?”

The man bowed. “He telegraphed yesterday, and gave me your address. I am at your service, Miss Matthews, to take you back to Warsaw. There is a plane to Bucharest which you could catch tonight.”

Sheila’s confusion left her. She was suddenly on the alert.

“My uncle doesn’t have a branch of his business in Warsaw,” she said.

“I am not in your uncle’s business.” There was a suspicion
of a smile. “I have my own business. I export the finest Polish table delicacies. Your uncle’s firm is a very good customer. I have been under obligations to him. So, when he telegraphs me in urgent language, then I feel impelled to do as he asks.”

Sheila relented. “I am afraid I have given you unnecessary trouble. I am very sorry. But I am just on the point of leaving for Warsaw.”

“And when are you leaving Warsaw?”

Sheila smiled. This man was quick. “By a train about midnight,” she answered.

Mr. Hofmeyer produced a bulging pocketbook. He handed her several pieces of paper, neatly clipped together. “Your plane tickets. Give up the idea of a train, Miss Matthews. You are sure you won’t come with me now?”

Sheila shook her head. “It’s very kind of you, but my friends are waiting for me.”

“So. Well, at least my journey here wasn’t wasted. I can let your uncle know that you
are
leaving Warsaw, tonight.”

Sheila was thinking, why does he keep looking at me like this? She said, “How did you know when I came into this room that I
was
Sheila Matthews?”

She couldn’t fathom the man’s half-smile, the suddenly guarded look on his face.

“Am I really so like my uncle?” she asked gently, and waited tensely for the reply.

“No. Not really.” Then, as if he had said too much, Mr. Hofmeyer turned towards the door.

“Mr. Hofmeyer,” Sheila began awkwardly, “thank you for coming here. I should think it must have been a very unpleasant journey for you, at the moment.”

The man caught her meaning. “I’ve lived in Poland for twenty years. There are a number of Germans here, landowners and business-men. We are accepted as Poles.”

Sheila looked at the square face, white, heavy-lined. She couldn’t read anything there. If the man worried about his status in Poland at this time, it wasn’t evident. A blank look had spread over his features. His face had become unmemorable, undistinguished.

“Goodbye, Miss Matthews. My regards to your, uncle.”

“Goodbye.”

Sheila heard his light firm step cross the parquetry floor in the hall.

Involuntarily, she stood close to the window. There was a crowd of children in the garden. The American’s tall shoulders were, surrounded by a waist-high sea of sleek heads and bright clothes. He was showing them how the lights of his car switched off and on. Sheila heard the children’s Oh’s and Ah’s of bliss. In the general clamour of thin light voices, Mr. Hofmeyer’s square figure had hurried down the steps of the house. The villagers, who had been staring through the dining-room windows, turned to watch him as he entered his car. As it swung into the road and gathered speed, there was the beginning of a song from the other side of the house. A woman’s voice was chanting a four-lined stanza, a man’s followed it with another verse, and then a slow rhythmic chorus came from the other peasants, and quickened to a crescendo. The villagers were saying goodbye in their own way.