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Title: The Dangerous Places
Author: Golding, Louis (1895-1958)
Date of first publication: 1951
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hutchinson & Co., undated
Date first posted: 12 January 2020
Date last updated: 12 January 2020
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1639

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Al Haines, John Routh, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






THE DANGEROUS PLACES

by Louis Golding





  for
  ANNE and MARK LABOVITCH
  who weave other patterns





CHAPTER I


[I]

It's close and heavy, the woman said to herself. There's far too many
blankets on the bed. It's not blankets. There's dust in my nostrils and
in my mouth and in my ears. I can't move. There's dust and rubble all
over me.

Who am I? What's my name? What's that rattle like pins on my ear-drum?
The stuff's all over my hair. If Brauner shampoos me from now till next
Friday, she won't get it out.

Brauner? Who on earth's Brauner? She's my maid. Then who am I? You've
lost your papers, have you? Then you might as well call yourself
Channah, he said. Who said? Where am I?

Boom! What's that? A gun? That's right! Or it's a bomb, maybe. It must
have been a bomb that put me here. I'm alive. It's certainly not heaven,
and I don't think it's hell, is it? No, it isn't. It's earth right
enough. So I'm still alive. It would take more than a bomb to kill
old....

(A name winked like a firefly in the depth of the darkness. She shied
away from it as a nose shies away from a sudden whiff of ammonia.)

I was in the Post. That's right. Post Sixteen. The air was stifling with
the stench of wounds. Medical supplies were dwindling. The dead were
piling up, for it was getting harder to bury them. Prr! Prr! Prr! Yes?
That's machine-guns. It's cold! Air's coming in. (She licked her lips.
There was the taste of blood under the dust.)

"Channah," said the young doctor in Post Sixteen, "they've just brought
in a little girl in a dead faint. They've dumped her under the slope of
the roof at the corner there. See if there's anything you can do."

Post Sixteen. In the cellars under the tall grey houses of Kupieka, in
the Warsaw ghetto. I was rolling and unrolling bandages. Then they let
me swab the pus away and tie up the wounds. How did I get down here?

Hands dragged me down. I was going to tear their eyes out, but the hands
pulled me away, down into the cellars and the sewers. There were two
Germans in the street in black uniforms. One got hold of an iron spike
and stood it upright on the pavement. Another got hold of a baby and
lifted it and brought it down on the spike till the point stuck
through....

Then it was like an electric bulb exploding, light and darkness at the
same time. I knew what a lump of filth I was all the time I was Frau
General, Aryan and German, lawfully wedded wife of Willy von
Brockenburg, Hitler's man, Goering's man. Pretending all those years I
knew nothing of what was going on in the concentration camps and the
extermination camps. But I knew all the time, of course. I knew all the
time.

Just as I've known since the moment I came to myself down here that I'm
Elsie Silver, Elsie Silver, Elsie Silver, the trollop who betrayed the
Jews, her people, and England, her country.

Hands reached out for me and dragged me down into the cellars. Then the
fighting started. I swabbed pus and did up wounds. But I never took
myself in. I never thought I'd made up for what I'd done, and what I
hadn't done. I was boiling a heap of bandages in a bucket when the young
doctor called out to me and sent me to do what I could for a young girl
they'd just brought into the Post. So I got up and went forward.

Then the bomb fell, I suppose.

If I tried hard, I think I could shake off this rubble and get clear.
But I'm bone lazy. I've never tried hard at anything. Besides, I don't
want to get clear. I'm afraid of the Jews. And the Germans. And Himmler.
He's after me. He got Willy, my husband, and he'll get me too. I like it
the way it is, this buzzing in my ears. The drowsiness creeping along my
veins like luminal. What bad luck, to come up out of it a few minutes,
just time enough to remember what a cow I am! Won't be long now. Not
unpleasant, not bad at all. And safe, very safe. If only no grit in my
hair....

The sea's like glass all round.... Grey glass. Dark. Can't see
through....

Then a faint voice, a girl's voice, came through the grey glassy water,
weak as the voice of a young bird fallen out of the nest. _Wasser_ the
word was, tiny and far-off and near at hand.

"No!" murmured a voice inside her skull. "I don't want to come back. Let
me go. It's good. It's like bees buzzing and droning. No more Himmler.
No more Elsie Silver. No more Frau General. No more Channah. All over."

"Channah!" the young doctor said, a little more sharply than before. But
it was a different sort of sound from the sound the girl made. For the
girl was a living girl, and the young doctor was dead; she knew for
certain he was dead. She was certain that the whole of Post Sixteen had
been wiped out, excepting for herself, and, apparently, one small girl,
calling for water. "Didn't you hear, Channah?" the dead doctor went on.
"That little girl I sent you.... See what she wants."

The buzzing and droning thinned in the ears. Light spread through the
grey glassy waters. It was not water now in the nostrils, but air, the
hard smell of dust, like snuff. You might stop being Elsie Silver or the
Frau General von Brockenburg, for you were those people entirely for
your own sweet sake. It was different to stop being Channah. You were
Channah for other people's sake.

"Yes, doctor, at once," said Elsie obediently to the voice in her brain.
She made to move from under her bedclothes of rubble, but they were far
heavier than she had thought. There was no strength in her. The effort
almost made the slowed-down heart stop beating. She had succeeded in
nothing more than moving her head a centimetre or two. She lay quite
motionless for some time, feeling her blood to be as thin as water, and
not knowing from what empty reservoir it could draw virtue to thicken
again. It was not quite dark. Just enough light filtered into the place
for her to see the rubble that covered her, some great slabs of masonry
lying askew on her left, and on her right the sloping wall-section that
had held death at arm's length from her and her companion. The girl lay
in the deeper darkness, still beyond her eye's range. A second time she
strained at the neck-tendons, skewing her neck round still further; then
at last her eyes came to rest where the girl was. She, too, was almost
covered by a bedding of dust and small chunks of lath and plaster, but
at least the nose and mouth were free. You could just make out the
profile, or thought you could, the delicate forehead, the fine
cheek-bones, the delicate chin.

She tugged at her limbs again with increased urgency. You must get to
the girl, not only because the dead doctor had given you charge of her
but because she was so small and frail. The guns boomed from time to
time. The machine-guns stuttered from far off and close at hand. Then,
once again, a sound issued from the lips of the girl, this birdlike
noise in its moral weight so much more resolute than the guns, though as
sound it had hardly more lineament than the face from which it issued. A
moment later, as if there were no other fitting answer in Hitler's
Warsaw to the last uttered breath of a trapped child, a smother of dust
and plaster came down like a wry rain. While the air was still opaque
with it, the inexpugnable determination came to the woman also trapped
there that she must find somehow, from somewhere, the strength to free
herself, thrust over to the girl, and lift her out of the tomb that was
closing around them both. She tore at her nerves as with fingernails in
the smooth walls of a crevasse. Somehow the broken and bleeding
fingernails found lodgment in the smooth walls. Somehow she lifted
herself from the vast inertia which lay on her like lead. She was over
at the girl's side, sweeping the dust away from her mouth, tearing the
rubble away from her lips.

"There now, little one, there now," she murmured, lifting the supine
head to her bosom. "You're all right now, see." She bent her ear down
upon the girl's mouth, waited in an agony of suspense, then became aware
that a faintest movement of air touched the lobe of her ear.

"You see, doctor?" It was the dead young doctor from Post Sixteen she
was addressing now. But the doctor's voice was silent. His last thought
had been realized. Only his spectacles were glinting in the hole between
the straddled wall-blocks. The rest was up to herself.

There was a little strength again in her fingertips. She got the girl
clear, so that the whole frame was exposed. It did not seem there were
any bones broken. She got her arms at last round the girl's body and
pulled her up from the waist. She was not so small as she had seemed
when most of her was invisible under dust. Eleven? Twelve? More? But in
Elsie's profoundly enfeebled arms she might have been a mature woman, or
a heavy piece of furniture. It felt, as Elsie tugged and pulled and
tugged, that the veins in her forehead were standing out like cord; that
the shoulder-blades might crack at any moment. Time was itself a heavy
piece of furniture, that could be budged, maybe, by a gang of men in
shirt-sleeves, with muscles like huge, smooth stones, but not, no, not
by a corrupt woman, who had lain about for years on satin bed-sheets,
her head resting on down pillows soft as water. Then at last she reached
the jagged lumps that lay between them and the obliterated Post, only to
find that there was no way out there; they were trapped. She laid the
girl down, and scrabbled in the debris below to see if there was any way
out under; she sought to climb the desolate rocks. But the intact
ceiling that had saved them now held them fast.

Suddenly, with whatever there was in her lungs, she gave tongue.

"No!" she protested. "No! No!" She had been ready, anxious, to die
herself. But the girl must not die. She forgot the inexorable enemies
that lay in wait inches beyond the barrier, starvation, disease, the
enemy's guns and bombs, the fire-engirdled city, the enemies crouched in
all the vast fields that stretched beyond river and hill and wood to the
limits of all the horizons. "Help!" she cried. "Help!" She spoke to the
girl again, soothing her. "Klaninke, little one! Can you hear me?" There
was no reply. She brought her mouth still closer towards the girl's ear.
"Can you hear me?" She placed her finger under the young chin. Oh, the
girl heard. She nodded. She felt the pressure of the chin once and still
again on the side of her finger. A tear came into Elsie's eyes, and drew
a warm line down to her trembling mouth. The girl was aware of her, of
arms protecting her, and, maybe, of a brain scheming for her.

She had asked for water. "Are you thirsty?" Elsie went on. Again the
girl nodded. "Poor little one. There'll be water soon. It will be
possible to wait, yes?" The girl nodded again. She was trying to talk.
It was not easy. It would probably not be easy for some time, after the
horror of the interment in the bomb ruin, let alone the nameless horrors
that must have gone before.

"Don't talk now. Just nod your head, or shake it. Are you in pain?" The
girl nodded. "Is it much pain?" The girl shook her head. "I'm going to
ask your name. If you feel you can talk, and would like to tell it me,
say what your name is." She listened, her ear close against the child's
lips. There was silence for some time, then at last the name came.

"Mila," she whispered. She tried to say something more. "_Der
ta...._" But that was too much for the moment. The word was not
finished.

"Mila! What a pretty name! There, don't think of anything more now."


[II]

"Help!" came a muffled cry from among the rubble that had been Kupieka
Street. "Help!" And a young man, dodging mortar-fire, making for cover,
heard the desperate sound. In addition to the German arms he had looted,
he now carried a message to the next man he met.

"Hallo, _chaver_!" a voice cried. "Oh, it's _you_, Feivel! That's a good
haul you've made there! Let me have one of those rifles, will you?"

Another young man had come up out of some hole in the ground. The face
was as black as smoke.

"Lend us a hand, Shmul!" the first said urgently. "There's a woman alive
in the ruins of Post Sixteen!"

"The poor soul! I'm with you, Feivel!"

They picked their way back into Kupieka, and into the jagged chaos that
had been Post Sixteen, till they came up against the lumps of wall
behind which the woman called so desperately. The young man called Shmul
switched on his torch and thrust his arm through a gap. "Put your hand
out to me! Can you reach?" He waited for some moments, then a hand rough
as a cat's tongue seized his convulsively. "Wait! I've a drop of brandy
here! Take a sip! Give some to your daughter!" He took a flask from his
pocket and thrust it through.

But the outstretched hand did not move. It remained frozen there. The
woman herself was suddenly rigid. Not a sound was on her lips. Some time
passed.

"Do you hear, woman?" Feivel asked testily. "There's no time to lose."

Then he felt the gritty hand release his own. It fumbled till it found
the flask in his other hand. Then the woman spoke. Her words came
curiously slow and hushed.

"For my daughter," the woman whispered.

She had never felt herself so wildly, so gloriously flattered in all her
life before. _Your daughter_, he said, _your daughter_. Princes and high
statesmen had in her time uttered to her the most immoderate
compliments. Her pulses had not quickened. There, in the stench and
darkness, Elsie Silver blushed hot with joy. She had never wanted a
child, and had been careful enough to see she had none. But she had not
wanted a child because the concept Elsie Silver, mother, was just too
silly, too farcically out of the question. It was against nature, as it
is against nature for a homosexual, or a eunuch, to have a child. And
yet, accredit either of these with maternity or paternity, though there
may be an embarrassed snigger on the lips, in the heart the compliment
rocks like a peal of bells.

"What a fool you are!" a voice whispered in Elsie Silver's head, while
her heart rioted. "Any slut has a baby, any sow in a sty has ten.
Besides, she's got nothing at all to do with me, this little homeless
ghost from God knows where. Both of us homeless ghosts from God knows
where."

"Don't worry," a voice within her countered. "If any two creatures ever
were mother and daughter, it's you and this one." She placed the brandy
to the girl's lips, a drop or two coursed down the throat. The girl
coughed and shivered. She might live, if these men had them out in time.

"Won't you get on with it?" Elsie begged them.

"Give yourself a drop too," ordered Shmul. "Then you can both have a
swig of water to wash your mouths." She lifted the brandy flask to her
lips. The brandy in her throat lit up a thought in her with a rush and a
whistle, like a match flame at a gas jet.

"I'm going to take her away... outside, away from here," she
explained, as if the idea were to get the girl out of a stuffy cinema.
"Thank you." This was for the water. The girl's lips nuzzled the bottle
like a lamb at a sheep's udder.

"Yes," said Shmul quietly, "you'll take her away."

"Of course," confirmed Feivel. "Outside, away from here."

They both thought the idea farcical. At this stage one did not get away
from the Warsaw ghetto, and certainly not very far. Shmul wanted to
laugh. He had been on the verge of hysteria more than once during the
last day or two. It was as if the sole of his foot were sticking out of
bed and someone came up now and again to tickle it with a feather. His
muscles twitched now, but he did not laugh.

It was the same with Feivel. He, too, thought the idea of this woman
getting herself and her daughter out of the ghetto was chimerical. But
there was another thought in his head. How wonderful it would be if the
impossible happened and they got away somehow, to England, to America,
perhaps even to Palestine! Hadn't Israel's God and the people of Israel
always specialized in the impossible? So let us say the miracle
happened. Perhaps the two women some day would remember him, and the
_mitzvah_, the holy deed, he had done on their behalf. For to save life
is a _mitzvah_, which has preference over all other _mitzvahs_. It would
be good to think of someone remembering him over there in Eretz Israel,
at the foot of Mount Zion, or against Rachel's Tomb, maybe, among the
silver olive-groves. His family had been wiped out a year, two years,
ago. He had never married. There would never be children to light
candles for him, for in a few days, if not sooner, he would be dead.

Perhaps this mother and this girl would light candles for him, Feivel.
He looked round, flashing his torch. There was an iron bar sticking out
of a heap of rubbish a few feet away. He tugged at it and it came loose.

"This will be useful, Feivel," he said. He tapped a large block by his
foot. "We'll start here, eh?"

It was a curious business, sitting there in the darkness, with the girl
in her arms, and the two men groaning and grunting as they heaved away,
and the mortar shells popping and the siege-guns booming, and now and
again a bomb dropping like a lump of a small planet. On the physical
plane she knew that it was difficult for any female creature to be so
wretched as she was. Despite the gulp of water, her mouth was again as
dry as soot. She ached in every limb. Above all, she detested the
feeling of grit in her hair, biting on itself like teeth. She had always
been one to keep her hair smooth as petals. Even lately, as Channah,
down here amid the cellar damps and the sewers, she had kept her hair
decent. She felt, she told herself, like hell.

Yet, despite all this, she was more happy and serene than she had been
in all her life before. The girl lay in her arms, abandoned to her, as
completely hers during these minutes, this half-hour, as a new-born
child is completely its mother's and lies snuggling against the warmth
of her breast. For this half-hour at least, or for a few hours, or for a
half-day, she could say she was responsible for the breath of life in
the girl exactly in the same degree as the mother could say it of the
new-born child, torn from another kind of womb by another kind of
doctor. She could tell herself before she died, as she was quite likely
to do quite soon, that she had known once, for a brief time, the totally
selfless love of motherhood.

"How does it go, young men?" she asked many minutes later.

"It will be well!" they said.

So she sat in the darkness, she and the strange daughter in her arms,
till the stones at last were rolled away, and the young men took them
out, with immense labour, to Post Four, which was still in some sort of
going order.


[III]

The two young men entered the Post, Feivel holding the girl in his arms,
Shmul supporting the woman, her head on his shoulder, his arm round her
waist. There were still a couple of oil-lamps in the middle of the
cellar, and there were a few candles burning in bottles. Shmul found
room for the woman on the edge of a blood-soaked mattress. Feivel walked
away a foot or two to find a more salubrious place for the girl.

"Where are you taking her?" cried Elsie. "Leave her!"

"All right, all right!" said Feivel. He put her down beside Elsie. He
knew what a state of nerves the wretched woman must be in. Another woman
turned sharply round from an arm she was dealing with.

"What's the matter?" she cried. She was tall, sallow, forbidding.

"Good God!" muttered Shmul. "Frau Cohen-Berger! They've brought her over
here!" It was clear that he did not like Frau Cohen-Berger. He was gone,
suddenly. He was good at that, coming and going suddenly, a talent quite
a few Germans had had occasion to deplore.

Frau Cohen-Berger turned to her case again. She got busy fixing up a
sling for the arm. Then she moved on to another case which looked like
being a long job. Feivel strode up to Frau Cohen-Berger.

"You're in charge here now?" he asked.

"I am. Who are you? What do you want?" She had no time for civilities.

"I've a flask of brandy here, the real stuff." He uncorked it. She
sniffed.

"You've no iodine? Well, thank you. It'll help."

"I could get some iodine too. Can you do with some German
field-dressings?"

She took them from him reverently, as she might once have taken a rare
manuscript, or an ivory.

"You're a good man. We're out of everything. It's like baling a sinking
ship with a thimble." She turned round to get on with her work.

"Listen, doctor," he said. "I want you to help me."

She turned. Her face was hard and distrustful again.

"Yes?"

"My wife and child... they're suffering badly from shock. A bomb
buried them. Can you do something for them?" He felt terribly ashamed.
He did not like bargaining at a time like this, and he did not like
lying at any price.

"I see," she replied. She had never felt herself Jewish. She did not
like Jewish ways. She was German, from one of the good Frankfort
families. It was just like an _Ostjude_, an Eastern Jew, to haggle and
barter, as if life and death were a saddle or a roll of cloth. Nothing
for nothing. "I'll do my best," she said bleakly. "But you realize, of
course, we're all trapped. It'll be over soon."

His ears burned. "Thank you," he said humbly. "You're a _lamed-voonik_,
a holy one." The doctor turned from him impatiently, and he came back to
Elsie.

"How are you feeling now?" asked Feivel.

Elsie smiled wanly, and looked down at the girl, who was supported
against the wall now, with her head on her shoulder. Mila's eyes were
still closed.

"I've been trying to get up," Elsie said. "My legs won't carry me. I'd
like to wash her a little."

"_Mishkosheh_," he said, gesturing with his flat, outspread hands.
"Don't worry, please. The doctor's coming. I'll see what I can find."

There was half a bucket of fairly clean water in the Post for the use of
the doctor and her helpers, but it would be wise to fight shy of that.
He found a few inches in a battered petrol tin in the passage outside.

"Come," he said. "I've got a cloth too."

She smiled at him.

"You've got other jobs to do. No, I'll manage." She took the cloth from
him, soaked it in the water, and brought it close to the girl's face.

"Mila," she murmured. "Are you awake?" The girl nodded. "Could you open
your eyes?" The girl opened her eyes. "I want you to see the face of the
man who saved us."

There was a shadow of a smile on Mila's lips.

"Thank you, _chaver_," her lips went. Then she waited, as if to gather
more strength before she spoke again.

"_Leshonoh habo beyerushalayim!_ Next year in Jerusalem!"

"What's that? What's that?" asked Elsie. She stared from Mila's eyes to
Feivel's and back again. It was not German, not Yiddish. It was Hebrew,
wasn't it? She had heard Hebrew prayers down in the cellars. Often she
had heard the younger folk converse in Hebrew. But the sound, the tune,
perhaps the actual words, went back many years before that... to her
girlhood in her father's kitchen in Doomington, in Oleander Street.

What was the matter with the man? His cheeks were burning. His eyes were
all aglow. It seemed to Feivel that in those words, uttered by a girl
half dead in a cellar of the Warsaw ghetto, there was something as
astonishing as a rose growing out of a dry bone. There was miracle in
it, like the burning of the Bush that was not consumed. For the first
time he knew with holy certainty that the fighting against stupendous
odds, the wounds, and the dying had not been in vain, not even if
precisely not one single soul emerged from this gehenna.

"What did she say, man?" insisted Elsie, for the girl's eyes were closed
again.

"Next year in Jerusalem!" breathed Feivel.

"Oh, I see," Elsie muttered. She said nothing for some moments. Then, a
little querulously: "What did I say?" she asked, as if she and Feivel
had been arguing and Feivel had insisted that they would stay here in
Warsaw, all of them, and all would die here. Jerusalem? The word shook
fitfully across the lens of her mind, like the image of a swaying bough
beyond a window. Jerusalem? It was a long way off.

"Please," said Feivel. "Let me wipe her face with the cloth, then I'll
go."

"Certainly," said Elsie. She could afford to be generous. There would be
a lot more than that to do for Mila. The young man got to it, and
swabbed the girl's face, delicately, carefully, as if it were something
that had become inexpressibly precious.

"What's your name?" asked Elsie. "We'd like to remember it." He would be
dead soon, very likely, but she and Mila would be getting away
somewhere, somehow, if they only got some strength into their limbs.

He flashed a smile of extraordinary tenderness at her.

"Feivel Tumin," he said. He was quite young. The mouth was working, as
if he would break into tears any moment. Mila opened her eyes, as if
she, too, were anxious to imprint his image on her mind.

"Thank you, comrade," she said. "It feels better now."

Feivel rose from his knees and handed the rag over to Elsie. He did not
look back.

"_Shalom!_" he called out to them. "Peace!"

"_Shalom!_" they said as he disappeared into the passage beyond the
cellar.

A moment or two later the doctor was beside them. A bargain was a
bargain. She had traded some of the time she could ill afford from the
desperate demands of the seriously wounded for a flask of brandy and a
handful of field-dressings.

"Your husband's gone?" she asked.

"He had to go," replied Elsie. "He's on patrol."

A cursory examination indicated that the woman was suffering mainly from
shock, hunger, and weakness, like almost everyone else. She turned her
attention to the girl, an odd, peaky-faced little creature she seemed,
her face old for her body.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Fifteen."

('Oh, she's fifteen,' Elsie thought. 'She's quite a girl. I thought she
wasn't more than eleven or twelve. Not a mere child. Quite a pal.')

There was a superficial wound on the flesh of the abdomen, and some
abrasions above the ribs. She, too, was weak with shock and privation.
She needed stimulants, hot-water bottles, blankets, good food. As well
ask for the moon. Anyhow, she could spare them both a little of the
brandy. There would be a bowl of watery soup in a minute, and a grey
potato each. She went on poking away with her hard fingertips. A thin
leather belt fastened round the girl's waist had some string suspended
from it. She pulled on the string and drew up a small wash-leather bag
which had been hanging between the thighs. Yes, of course. It was not
the first time she had come across a bag like that.

"Precious stones?" she asked Elsie.

Elsie nodded. What else could it be?

"Very well." She replaced them, and shrugged her shoulders. Doubtless
the mother had her load of jewels too. A fat lot of use they'd be to
them, if they were as many and as large as the Shah of Persia's. "We'll
do what we can for you," the doctor said, "and it's not much. Anyhow,
you can have some clothes. There's no shortage of _those_."

"Thank you," muttered Elsie. Even the clothes of dead women would be
preferable to garments that felt more like gravel than cloth.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Five hours, ten hours passed, and Mila did not awaken. There were
moments when a sudden wild fear took possession of the older woman: the
girl had stopped breathing, she was dead. But no. The breath still
hovered above the lips like the odour above fruit. A trace of colour was
coming back into the cheeks.

She herself was sleepy too. She needed desperately the refreshment of an
hour or two's sleep. But she fought hard against it. Anything might
happen to Mila while her vigilance was relaxed. She might die, or
someone might spirit her away.

But fatigue claimed her. She slept. Then she awoke. She looked round and
saw that Mila was still sleeping.

"I must get her out somehow. To-morrow, if possible," Elsie muttered.
"She's not very strong yet, but time's getting short. They're blasting
the place to powder. I must get her out." She looked round as if she
expected to see a cavernous opening appear in the sweating walls.

"What did you say?" asked the woman by her side. The doctor had put
Elsie with her earlier on, washing and sterilizing bandages, then
rolling them ready for use again. The woman had come from Galicia with
her husband and two children, in a draft of Jews who had been told, like
some millions of others by the time the tally was complete, that they
were to go to a labour camp in the East. But something had happened on
the way, and she had been separated from the draft. Elsie had heard the
story a dozen times, her companion's mind was like a nipped gramophone
record perpetually stuttering over its fracture.

"Did you say something?" the woman asked again, turning her head
lethargically. Without waiting for a reply, she returned mechanically to
her work. "It was terrible in that truck," she went on. "We were packed
so close, no one could move a finger. Avrom was carrying the baby. In
the middle of the night the train stopped and the S.S. came with whips
to drive us out." She looked round as if she expected the S.S. might
come into the cellar any moment with their whips. "It was so dark, and
people were crying, and over the noise of the soldiers I heard Avrom.
'Rochel!' he was calling. 'Rochel!'..."

Elsie no longer listened. The woman's voice was a thread in a tapestry
of noises, the moan of the wounded, the sleepy buzz of conversation
which sometimes sharpened into petulance, the clink of utensils, the
voices of children crying with pain or hunger.

It was the third day in the cellar, but that was an arbitrary
measurement of time. Every hour, every minute, every second was weighted
with lethargy, so that while the battle, of which reports came through
spasmodically, transpired in time, the atmosphere within thickened from
layer to layer in a sort of cotton-wool eternity. Above was a city grown
fabulous and remote, with a sky and stars for its roof and a wayward and
unpredictable weather of disaster for its climate. In contrast, the
cellar had the reassurance of a fixed cosmogony. It was larger and more
rambling than the cellar which had housed Post Sixteen. One bay was
screened off with hessian and served as an operating theatre, another,
containing a large rusted boiler, was occupied by serious casualties,
one or two lucky ones on camp-beds, but most lying on palliasses or the
flagstones. The walls dripped, the air was fetid, reeking of sweat,
dirty dressings, and urine. It was like a railway waiting-room crammed
with travellers for whom there were no trains and no destination. They
would move no further than they were, some having arrived at a stoical
resignation which was the nadir of despair, some bitter or querulous,
some filled with the hallucination of glory, their eyes shining with
feverish happiness. There were also others who crawled out again to
continue the fight with one arm or one leg--in any event, to die
fighting. Elsie Silver did not see herself as a Boadicea brandishing a
spear. But she felt that even she, the least combatant of females, might
well have gone up to the fighting in some sudden fit of wild boredom,
hurling a stone, perhaps, as it was not likely any more lethal weapon
would be assigned to her.

But she was not alone now. The time had gone when the order of the
universe was shaped by the appetite or whim of Elsie Silver. There was
Mila to think of. She thought of nothing else from moment to moment
under the sweating roof. It was ridiculous to love this small girl so.
Why? What claim on her love had she? The questions were as ridiculous as
any possible answer. It was all making her head ache. Her eyes were
heavy with sleep. The bandages they had given her to unravel slipped
from her fingers. She closed her eyes, and was soon sleeping again. Then
once more she awoke. She turned at once to Mila. The girl had a bowl of
soup beside her to which she was helping herself quite happily. Elsie
smiled with pleasure. Mila smiled back. They brought a bowl of soup over
to her too. She ate greedily.

"Good, yes?" she asked Mila. Mila nodded. She sighed, and lay back,
half-dozing. Then, it may have been ten minutes later, or half an hour
later, she felt the touch of a hand on her own. The touch was very
light, so as not to awaken her if she slept. She opened her eyes. The
girl's eyes were not far from her own, staring into them curiously.

"Who are you, please?" the girl asked.

"My name is Channah. Are you feeling better now?"

"Channah? Yes, Channah, I am feeling better."

"Where are you from, Mila?" The girl turned her head away. Elsie reached
for her hand and stroked it gently. "Say nothing. Only when you wish to.
Rest now, you are very tired."

The girl turned her head again.

"We were from Plok," she whispered. That was the last she said for half
an hour or more. Then at last she spoke again. "She was very beautiful.
You are not so beautiful, but you are kind." She was obviously speaking
of her mother, and her mother obviously was dead.

"I want to look after you, because she isn't here," breathed Elsie. "Is
there--were you with anyone else?"

Mila's voice in answer was almost inaudible.

"My father... we heard that a friend from Plok was in the Post, a
doctor. And we were finding our way. Then he cried out loudly. It
was--it was his heart again.... He fell down...."

"Mila, Mila, you must not speak of it, only when you are strong again."

"I will be strong soon. I am not strong now."

"Quiet. You must rest. Put your head on my shoulder again. There,
there." She felt the girl's fingers tighten round her own.

So Mila had been down here in the labyrinth with her father. And he had
had an attack of angina, probably, which had finished him off.

Elsie waited a little time till she felt the grief in the girl's heart
was a little less turbulent. Then she spoke.

"If they were here, would they want you to stay here--for ever?" The
girl opened her eyes wide. "Would they?" Elsie insisted gently.

"No, they would not want me to die here. He did not want to die here,
nor my mother either. But we shall all die here, of course."

"No," said Elsie. Her voice was quite harsh. "I am going to try and get
you out. You must help me, Mila. You must be good."

The girl's mind tried to get to grips with the thought. It was not
necessary to die here. It had not been ordained by God for people to die
here. It was being said that it might be possible for people to get out
of here... away from cellars, and people dying, and the smell of
blood and bandages.

"I will be good, Channah," murmured Mila. "I will try and help. How do
we get out, Channah?"

How? That was only one question. Whither would they go? To do what? For
the time being it was enough to answer the first question. How?

"I want to think now, Mila," she said. "I want to think what can be
done." She took in hand the grubby bandages in her lap and started to
straighten them out and roll them. The woman from Galicia was talking.
She had been talking the whole time. It was like water dripping from a
bad tap.

How to get out? She was no fool, and she knew that getting out was going
to be inconceivably difficult, particularly now, when the ghetto was not
merely sealed off but was being systematically pounded into rubble.
Well, if they would be killed, they would be killed, but when you
survive a direct hit, you feel from then on that bombs and shells may be
for other people, but not for you.

She had got in, and somehow she would get out. She had been down here
some two weeks, as far as she could make out. During that time she had
been pretty prostrate, yet, despite herself, she had heard and seen
things; she had learned a great deal. She knew, for instance, that quite
a number of young men and women had been steadily coming in and going
out for months and months. Some of them had taken children out and
carried them off to safety somewhere. But for the most part they had
been smuggling in arms and supplies and money, and had then gone out for
more. The traffic had not wholly ceased even during these recent days of
the culminating onslaught.

But these people were connected with some organization or other, the
Jewish Youth Fighters, the Polish or Russian underground movements, and
with these the widow of General von Brockenburg had less than no
contact. Was there anyone at all to whom she could address herself? Post
Sixteen had gone, and with it the few acquaintances she had made in the
ghetto. Then an answer suggested itself simply and at once. The answer
was her one-time lover, Oskar von Straupitz-Kalmin, whom she had loved
to distraction years ago in Berlin, and had chanced to meet again in
Warsaw when she had come here to be with her husband during his last
hours. It was he who, through the agency of a certain Wolff, a
master-baker, had arranged for her disappearance underground in the
ghetto. That was to be for a few days only, until the hounds of Himmler
had stopped baying for her blood. But the Battle had broken out, and she
had stayed down in the labyrinths for longer than that; she had hoped
she would die down here.

It was Oskar von Straupitz-Kalmin who had got her down here. It was he
who must get her out again, and with her the girl she had rescued under
the pulverized pavements. But she realized at once that the job of
contacting Oskar, if he still survived, was, in fact, exactly the job of
getting out. If he survived, always assuming he still survived, he was
beyond the circle of roaring fire that hemmed in the ghetto. He might as
well be a thousand miles away as one mile.

Then the secondary figure of the agent, Wolff, superimposed itself upon
that of Oskar, Wolff in his ubiquitous bowler hat and greeny-grey suit
dusted with flour. Oskar had delegated her to Wolff; Wolff had provided
false papers for her; it was to his own house in the ghetto Wolff had
brought her, and from that house she had fled raving into the cellars.
She had seen Wolff only once again, some five days later. He had called
her aside and offered to take her out of the ghetto by a secret route.
He thought it only fair he should try to restore to Oskar the woman
friend he had confided to his charge. But Elsie had said she did not
want to go; she saw no reason why she should not stay on and die there,
in the ghetto cellars.

But, anyhow, where was Wolff now? He had seemed a curious sort of
fellow, occupied with other more secret jobs than baking bread. He might
be dead. He might have left the place by his own secret route. But the
chances were that, sooner or later, if he survived, he would find his
way to this intact cellar. Then it occurred to her that there _was_ one
person, down there, in Post Four, who might conceivably help her, and
that was Frau Cohen-Berger, the doctor-in-charge, who (she was certain)
played a part in the Battle quite apart from her medical duties. Out of
the corner of her eye Elsie noticed the curtains that screened the
operating bay drawn apart. The doctor came out kneading her tired hands,
and walked towards the far end of the cellar where the cook kept a
cauldron of thin soup on the boil. Elsie got up from the heap of
thread-bare bandages which she was rolling with the help of the woman
from Galicia. The woman was telling her tale again. She went on telling
her tale without realizing that Elsie was not beside her.

"Excuse me, doctor," Elsie started, pulling at her sleeve.

"Yes," said the doctor abruptly. Her eyes were grey and uncompromising.
You might as well appeal to a lump of granite, they seemed to say.
Things have gone too far for pity. Everyone must prepare to die with as
much dignity as he can muster.

"There's something I want to ask you," Elsie began. But the woman
stopped her.

"You want to know if there's any chance of getting out of the ghetto?"

Elsie was conscious of a flare of resentment.

"Why do you say that?" she objected. "As a matter of fact, I was going
to suggest...." She tried to think out some technical matter she
might bring up. But you could not deceive those level grey eyes.

"Quite right," Elsie muttered. "I was."

"Don't worry," the doctor said, a shade more kindly. "I'm asked that
twenty times a day. Even the toughest ones have their moments. You're
thinking of your daughter, of course."

"Yes."

"You must try and face up to it. There isn't a hope of surviving." She
looked round. She didn't want to be overheard. It was a simple and
obvious statement of fact, but it sounded a little harsh put into plain
words. "Think of it from the girl's point of view. Supposing it wasn't
impossible, and you got her out. You don't want me to go on, do you?"

"We all know what it's like out there."

"At the best you'd just prolong her sufferings. For every Jew who
survives, not merely in Warsaw but in Poland, God will have to enact a
separate miracle. And there are no miracles."

"I'm prepared to take a chance," muttered Elsie.

The doctor turned away.

"I'm sorry. You know how it is. I must see what food's left. There's
practically nothing coming in."

"Please," demanded Elsie. She tugged at her sleeve again. She looked
very forbidding.

"What's happened to Wolff, the master-baker?" Elsie whispered urgently.

The doctor's lips tightened, as if to keep back some cutting answer.
Then she thrust off without a word. Elsie returned to her mattress.

"Well, what happened?" a voice demanded eagerly. It was the woman from
Galicia. "Did she let you have something? They say a whole sausage was
brought in to-day. Sometimes I've begged her on my knees for a crust,
but she wouldn't drop you even a crumb. She's just as bad as the
Germans. Avrom was carrying the baby when we went off. Then, in the
middle of the night, the train stopped...."

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was some two hours later that Elsie saw Wolff. He had materialized so
suddenly that for an instant she thought he was an hallucination. He was
standing with a group by the hessian curtain in front of the
operating-couch. His old-fashioned bowler hat was on his head, with such
an architectural quality of permanence that it was the bowler hat rather
than the flesh-and-blood man that made her realize he was substance, not
shadow. The bowler hat had already survived tall churches, spacious
warehouses, great blocks of flats. The man himself would probably die,
but some day the bowler hat would turn up again, only slightly dinted,
in a hollow among the mounded rubble of the Warsaw ghetto, rimmed round
with purple willow-weed. The greeny-grey suit had no superficial
hoar-frost of flour; the greyness was from the dust of former bakings
deeply impregnated into the fabric. In the short while since she had
seen him his face had changed a good deal. His plump face was thinner,
with a pinched look about the mouth. The clothes hung loosely on his
frame. But when he saw who this woman was who strode towards him so
urgently he smiled warmly as at an old friend.

"How are you, _Frulein_? So you happened to be out of the way.
Congratulations." He hesitated a moment and smiled sadly. "If
congratulations are in order."

"Herr Wolff, I want to speak to you."

He inclined his head courteously, and gestured with his hand as if the
entire cellar was his private office and it was at her service.

"By all means, _Frulein_," he murmured. He walked away with her a few
paces, till they were out of earshot. She turned to him abruptly.

"Last time we met you asked me if I wanted to get out of here. I didn't
want to go then, but I do now. I've taken charge of that young girl
there. She's Polish, from Plok. You see her? She's alone in the world.
I want to know what are the chances of getting her out."

He looked at her sadly.

"_Frulein_, I was asked by your friend to do what I could for you. It's
all different now. I'm afraid...."

"Yes?"

He said nothing. He shook his head.

"There's no hope?"

"Hope's just a word, and a word that means nothing any more. You're
asking the impossible. Things are getting more desperate every hour and
the only route into the city is reserved for the few supplies we're
still receiving, at immense risk to the people concerned." He looked at
her as if to beg her not to press him further.

"Apart from this route you've mentioned--is there absolutely nothing
else?"

"Nothing, _Frulein_."

"Are you sure?"

He shifted his glance from her face but did not answer. Suddenly he
turned on his heel and was gone. Elsie stood for some moments, dazed and
incredulous, as if she had to convince herself that he had not been an
apparition after all. Why had he been forced to turn his eyes from her?
Was it because he was ashamed he could do nothing for her? Or was he
ashamed because he could and would not? Did he feel that he was letting
Oskar down, Oskar the one-time Junker aristocrat, who still possessed so
preposterous a charm that even a Jew enmeshed in the Warsaw ghetto could
not gainsay it?

And what news, if any, had he of Oskar? He might at least have spared
time to answer that, however null the rest of his tale was. She shook
her head miserably and shuffled back to her place against the wall. It
was some half-hour later that, on raising her eyes from the job that had
been assigned her, she saw the bowler hat move through the semi-darkness
towards the exit from the cellar. She was not certain that it was not a
product of her own despondent imagination until she saw the bowler hat
enter once more and leave by the opposite exit. This time she was aware
of a slight movement in Wolff's left hand. The hand raised itself from
the wrist, the five fingers erect. She understood. Five minutes later
she rose and went out after him. She came across him in a recess at the
end of the passage.

"Go on if anyone comes," he whispered. "There's something I didn't tell
you. There might be a way."

"You can trust me," she murmured. He stared at her hard. "I believe I
can," he decided. "Listen. The time's up. The fact is"--there was an
almost imperceptible hesitation--"I've been tidying up." He poked his
head out from the recess and looked right and left.

She nodded. She understood. He proposed to make a getaway on his own.
Well, who could blame who, for anything?

"If you can make it, it will cost money. I've got some zloty for you."

"That's all right," she assured him. "We've got one or two pieces
of...."

"Yes, of course," he interrupted her. Then he was silent for some
moments. "You know it will be hard enough on your own. Having someone
with you makes it ten times more difficult."

It was as if a lump of ice was pressed up against her heart's flesh.
"She's the reason I'm trying to go," she said quietly.

"Very well." He shrugged his shoulders. "What's your idea? What do you
hope to do?"

"I don't know. I want to take her away."

"You don't talk Polish, do you?" he asked suddenly.

"No. Just the few words I've picked up down here."

He slapped his thigh.

"You can't get _away_; not out of the town, I mean. Don't you see that?"

"I don't see."

"I mean, it doesn't matter what false papers are made out for you, you
daren't move more than a few yards if you don't talk Polish. Don't you
see?" His voice sounded quite fretful. "You might go on for days, then
one day you're stopped every five yards. Papers are not enough." Despair
began to creep along her veins. Her eyelids twitched. "No." He shook his
head decisively. "We could get you beyond the Wall. You could go to
earth somewhere in Warsaw, though it's much harder for two than for one,
as I've told you. And that's all. You'd probably have to separate, and
wait in a cellar or a bricked-up room with a concealed door till it's
all over. There are other people around the place doing exactly the same
thing."

"Other people have got away from Warsaw," she muttered. "We'll do it."

"Yes, yes. But they were young and as hard as nails. People who could
live in a cowshed for days and days. Or lie under a culvert, chewing
grass. And they'd be _alone_. And they'd talk the language."

Then an idea tapped like a hammer against her forehead.

"The language? Of _course_ I talk the language."

"But you just said...." he stammered.

"The _Herrensprache_, Herr Wolff. I talk the language of the supermen.
Listen." The ideas were flooding through her brain, almost too quickly
for her tongue to keep pace with them. "You can arrange to get us out of
the ghetto, you say? Well and good. Into some place on the other side of
the Wall? Fine. Well, it's not enough. I've got to get away, for reasons
of my own, away from Warsaw. It may be all right for some people to stay
in here. Not for me; not for us. I shall be a _Volksdeutsche_. Do you
understand? You can get papers for a _Volksdeutsche_ as for anybody
else?"

"I suppose so. If they're false, they're false."

"Well, I'll show them how to be a _Volksdeutsche_. I'll make the Germans
themselves feel below standard. I've had experience, Herr Wolff. Do you
understand?"

"I understand." He understood why Oskar von Straupitz-Kalmin set such
store by her. She was certainly a woman of quality.

"Quick. Let's work out some story, here and now." She was feverish with
inspiration. "I'm _volksdeutsche_, from some town not far from the
German frontier. No. I'm not merely _volksdeutsche_. I'm _deutsche_. It
was my husband who was _volksdeutsche_. My husband had a factory, a
textile factory. Like my own father, in fact, Herr Wolff, for your
private ear. Tell me a small manufacturing town near the frontier, will
you? Quick."

"Bielsko," said Wolff.

"Very well, Bielsko. My husband had to spend most of his time in
Bielsko, where the business was. I loathed the place and the people. I
lived most of my life in Germany, even after I got married. In Hamburg,
say, or Berlin. That's the sort of papers they'll have to make up for
me. You get it?"

"Yes, but...."

She would not allow herself to be interrupted. "Then there's Mila."

"Yes," he added grimly. "She's in Warsaw, after all, not in Bielsko."

Problems stood up against her no more than a match-stalk in a flooding
gutter.

"Mila? She's my niece, my husband's niece, that is to say. Her mother
and father were killed in Warsaw recently, somewhere in the outskirts.
They thought they were fairly safe. The child's in a bad state. So I've
come up to Warsaw to take charge of her and give her a holiday
somewhere. Have you any idea where? Somewhere up in the mountains."

"Mountains? The only mountains are south, of course."

"South? That's perfect. That's on the way, isn't it?"

"On the way where?"

"To Hungary, the Balkans, the sea."

"The sea," he repeated. "The sea." His voice was remote and impersonal
as the sea itself. Silence fell between them. The light died slowly out
of her eyes. The blood slackened in her pulses.

"My dear _Frulein_," Wolff murmured at length. "You are jumping. Like
an antelope." He sighed and shook his head. "It is a long way to the
south. It is a long way even to Warsaw. Now please listen to me for a
few moments. I don't wish to discourage you. What for? You can build up
in your own mind whatever story you like, for yourself and the girl. But
papers are papers. They are not stories. They are just to show, in case
somebody asks for them. If they are satisfied, and they give them back
straight away, well and good. If they are not satisfied, and the papers
are looked into--it is no good at all. The only thing I can say is they
will be the best papers that can be found."

"Yes, of course." She felt deflated. She must keep her imagination in
hand. She must not jump... like an antelope.

"The papers may be made specially for you," Wolff was saying. "Or they
may find real papers of two people who are dead. The girl speaks good
German, yes?"

"Yes."

"It is perhaps simpler you should be mother and daughter. We will see."

"Yes. Mother and daughter," Elsie whispered. The words were like bubbles
in wine.

"It is a strange thing with papers," he went on. "The only thing is
courage. Well, enough of words now." He came out of the recess where
they had been speaking. "I must have some time to work things out. Let
me ask once more. You truly want to go?"

She repeated his words. "The only thing is courage. Isn't that so?"

"Fine. We'll meet here; five minutes after the young student goes off
duty. That's about three hours after midnight." The bowler hat rolled
on, as if there was no man beneath.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The hours went by. Down there it was always the same, the same dark
twilight, mistily punctuated by lamplight and candlelight; the
reverberation of gunfire, the coming and going, the muttering and
moaning, the sudden sharp spurt of temper. When was daytime? When was
night? Somehow the human creature knows, it is one of those things we
retain knowledge of almost to the end.

Frau Doktor Cohen-Berger suspended her enormously protracted spell of
duty. The young student took over from her. He, too, at length took
himself to his palliasse. If there was a dead hour in the Post it was
now, with even Death a little more torpid than he had been. It was life
obscurely striving to maintain itself till the unseen dawn broke, to
receive through the ruin of wall and floor a last little wallet of light
and air to carry beyond the threshold.

"It's three o'clock now," Elsie told herself. The girl was asleep beside
her. She touched her gently on the shoulder. "Mila, come." It was not
easy to wake her. "Mila, come."

"Yes, yes." The girl awoke startled.

"We're going out." Elsie rose from the mattress. They had each been
given a coat, but she thought it better to leave the two coats behind.
It would look as if they were slipping out for a moment. Besides, they
would certainly have to acquire some fresh clothing when they got beyond
the Wall.

Mila rose. She understood. There may already have been a fair amount in
her young life of rising and slipping away quietly.

Wolff was waiting for them in the recess, as arranged. "For the present,
keep your distance," he whispered. "Here's a torch for you. If you're
challenged, say you can't rest. You're trying to find your husband."

"Fine. Go forward. Remember the child's still weak," returned Elsie.
Then she bent down and whispered into Mila's ear: "You understand, Mila?
We're now going to try to get out." Mila pressed her hand. "If it gets
too much for you, we'll rest. See?"

"Yes," murmured Mila.

They set out. They moved for some time from passage to cellar, from
cellar to tunnel. The journey was on several levels, up and down sloping
ramps and flights of stone stairs, through trap-doors and lifted
gratings. Once or twice, when they had penetrated deep down, and thick
blankets of earth and masonry insulated them, they were plunged into a
frightening silence. Sometimes the insulating layers were so thin that
they could clearly hear the clatter of the Battle. The catacomb world
was by no means unoccupied. Men and women with invisible faces overtook
them or came towards them on errands, public or private. Once Wolff's
torch picked out two men some distance ahead of them, who suddenly
ducked and hid as if they too were engaged in some secret occupation for
which they wished no witnesses; perhaps, with no Wolff to aid them, they
were searching for the end of the thread which might lead them out of
the labyrinth. Their nerve, maybe, had failed; the will to die can snap,
no less than the will to live. Or perhaps they had some urgent message
to deliver, which they must keep hidden even from their leader. Like
rats they scuttled, and were invisible.

Wolff took his time. He was aware that the two females he was conducting
were not sturdy farm-girls. He stopped frequently.

"Are you all right? And the girl, too?"

"It's a bit longer than I thought," Elsie murmured. "When do we get into
the sewers?"

"Oh no. We don't get into the sewers this way, that's why it takes
longer. There's only one sewer exit now, and they might be on to it any
time. A part of the route has caved in. We've got to come above ground;
a narrow passage that bears down upon Krochmalna Street. You remember
it?"

"No, I've not been here long."

"Of course not. Our boys overlook the passage from one side, the Germans
from the other." He stopped and looked at the girl. "We're liable to be
fired on from both sides if they see anything moving. But it's dark. It
ought to be all right, if we take it carefully. Can the child make it?"

"I'm not a child," asserted Mila quite vigorously. "I'm fifteen." Her
whole being was freshening up in the excitement of the adventure. "I'll
make it, if _you_ will."

"We know we're not embarking on a school picnic," said Elsie severely.
Wolff grimaced and moved on. The way led, as before, across cellars,
through trap-doors, up ladders; then suddenly, as they emerged from a
coal-chute, air struck clean in their nostrils.

"Wait," whispered Wolff. He stuck his head out cautiously, looked
upward, and left and right. "It's all right. Move slowly. Don't make a
sound." There was a sudden pop-pop of mortar-fire. "That's all right,"
he assured them. "It's not for us. Are you all right, both of you?"

"Yes, yes," cried Mila.

"Of course we're all right," said Elsie, with less enthusiasm but with
dignity. They thrust out on all fours.

At my time of life, thought Elsie. But of course it isn't really
happening.

Suddenly the whole sky lit up as if a furnace door were swung open, then
shut again.

"Down!" said Wolff.

They threw themselves down and lay flat as lizards. Wolff removed his
bowler hat and set it down before him, as if it were a fourth member of
the party.

"There, on the right! Do you see it?" he whispered. "The Wall! We're not
far now!" The ghetto Wall swung, squat and dark, just above eye-level
beyond a canyon sliced from the street buildings by a bomb. He spoke of
it as if it were any wall that might shut off any recreation park. It
had become a casual object in the landscape of his movements.

The Wall, thought Elsie. Yes, the Wall. Higher than mountains. Higher
than the mountains where the Tibetan monasteries are. Not too high for
Elsie with her blood up, she told herself with the ghost of a smile.

"Now!" ordered Wolff.

They scuttled forward again, crouched immobile once or twice again. At
last they reached a hole in the left-hand wall hemmed round by a close
of rubble. It must have been the egress from a sewer once, for the way
was down an iron ladder encrusted with hard filth. A connecting passage
led straight into a large cellar.

"We'll stop here," said Wolff. "It's fairly dry in this corner." He
shone his torch to show them where he meant. "I want you to sit down.
There are a few things I must say to you. It's fairly safe here. Nobody
from the ghetto is likely to stumble upon us, and the Germans still
don't know about this way out," He shone his torch on his watch. "We've
made good time," he stated. "I've started things moving since we spoke
earlier on. In half an hour or so Sem will be here. He's all right. He's
a Pole, from Warsaw. But he's all right. He'll take you to Marta, the
old woman, and get your papers for you. Understand?"

She understood. She had not had any training in conspiracy, but she
learned fast. If Wolff was a person of some importance in this obscure
clandestine world, there must be a buffer between himself and the next
contact to which they might be assigned.

"I'll be leaving you after I've had a few words with Sem. After that it
will be up to you. Had this happened when I first suggested it, I could
have handed you over to your friend. Now...." he shrugged his
shoulders. "It's different now."

"Will you tell me," she asked him. "Is he alive or dead?" Even as she
spoke she knew what the answer was, and she knew that the answer caused
no pang in her heart.

"I don't know," Wolff said shortly. For him, too, it was not a subject
to dawdle over. "I'm not asking who you are. I've never asked anyone, of
course, and no one told me." He turned to the girl. "And you, Mila. Have
you understood all we've said?"

"Everything, thank you."

He held up his torch to her face, so that he could scrutinize it more
carefully than he had been able to till now.

"An expert would know you're both Jewish," he observed. "With the girl
he need not be an expert."

Elsie reached her arm round Mila's shoulders, and pressed her close.

"You are not right, I think."

"If it's better for Channah to go alone," said Mila, "let her go alone."

"Please," exclaimed Elsie urgently. "You're upsetting the child! Let the
matter be."

"When setting out on an adventure like this we must face all the facts.
Listen!" he cried suddenly. "That's Sem! He's coming! Quiet!" Elsie and
Mila turned their heads sharply and heard the sound of stealthy feet
approaching. Then a voice came, tense and low.

"Sem!" the voice announced.

"Lob!" returned Wolff. Doubtless Wolff had almost as many names as there
were people he had dealings with. "It's me! They're both here!" He was
speaking Polish. "Come through!"

A young man came through from the passage beyond the cellar. With one
hand Wolff flashed the torch on him. In the other hand he held a pistol
with which he covered him. It was Sem right enough. He replaced the
pistol where it belonged.

"I will explain to him," Wolff announced. "His German is not good, but
you'll be able to understand each other. And you'll be able to help out,
won't you, Mila?"

"I think so."

Herr Wolff and Sem talked for some minutes. Then the older man handed
over a bundle of zloty. There was a movement from Elsie.

"Please, no!" Wolff insisted. "Whatever you have you will need. You have
a long way to go. Well, I'll be leaving you now. So, _junges
Mdchen_"--he turned to Mila--"good luck to you!" Mila made the ghost of
a curtsy in the darkness. She was a well-bred child.

"Thank you very much," said Mila, a trifle primly.

"As for you, _Frulein_--it seems fitting, doesn't it? I brought you in
here. I take you out again." He paused a moment and shone his torch up
against the clammy ceiling. "We're in Warsaw now," he said, "at Panska.
The Wall was above our heads just back there."

Elsie reached impulsively for his hands. "No," he said. "Don't thank me
yet. You never know. They may have got wise to the old woman.
Besides----" he hesitated.

"Yes?"

"You've not got very far, have you?" He answered the question himself.
"Further than a great many others, anyway. In any case, it's not _me_
you've got to thank," he added gravely. "You must thank your friend. It
may be he won't be in a position to do you any more kindnesses.
Good-bye, _Frulein_." They shook hands. "I've still got one or two
things to clear up. And you, Mila. Good-bye to you both. You'll see them
through, Sem. Good luck." He took off his bowler hat, replaced it, and
moved towards the ghetto again, the whistling bombs, the hurtling
shells.

"Come," requested Sem. "This way."

They followed. There was a descending ramp, another steel ladder,
another passage, another cellar.

"We're almost there," said Sem. He pushed aside a clutter of old boxes,
buckets, baskets, draining-boards. A tunnel gaped beyond. They entered
and crawled along for some ten or twelve yards till they reached another
clutter of boxes and baskets, also duly pushed aside. "We're there," Sem
announced. They entered a small blind cellar, quite dark except for a
faint hint of light low down in the wall ahead. He moved some boxes out
of the jumble in the corners. "Please to sit," he said, then took up a
length of rusted metal piping that lay against the wall. He lifted it
and banged hard against the ceiling, twice, three times. Then he waited
for some time, and banged again, twice, three times. Then, at last,
after an equal interval, the response came twice, three times.

"Good," Sem said. "She's in. Not to hurry. We wait till she thinks it's
all right."

Twenty, thirty minutes passed. Then they heard the sound of someone
descending into the adjoining cellar-room. Feet flapped across the
floor. Then some heavy piece of furniture was shoved aside. Chinks of
light appeared round a trap-door on ground level.

"The Arc de Triomphe," murmured Elsie.

"Hopingly, not the Brandenburger Tor," Sem brought out.

"Or maybe David's Gate in Jerusalem," Mila piped up with startling
shrillness.

Oh dear, oh dear, Elsie said to herself. A grown-up young woman, with
clear ideas about things.

The trap-door was lifted out of a groove. A dim grey light drizzled
through, a dim sour smell.

"All right," a woman's voice complained. "Don't hang about all day." She
spoke Polish. A grizzled old head appeared. Wisps of grey hair hung from
it like the tatters of a floor-cloth. "What have you got there?"

"A woman and a girl," Sem replied. He crawled through, to receive them.

"Now you, little one," said Elsie.

Then suddenly the girl threw both arms round her, and hugged her as if
she would never let her go. The frail body was trembling convulsively.

"Mila, Mila, what is it?"

She seemed to have relapsed into the condition of numb terror which had
possessed her during the first night and day after the rescue.

"I don't want to come! I don't want to come!" she sobbed.

"All right, sweet one, all right." Elsie patted her head. "It will be
all right soon. I, too, am very tired. It has not been an easy journey."

The girl's frightened, Elsie realized, terrified out of her wits, here
on the threshold of the huge, hostile, outside world. She has memories
of German soldiers beating people with their rifle-butts and kicking
them with big nailed boots. There in the ghetto it was wretched, but it
had become familiar. People starved, people were killed, but they died
among friends: and they had pride in what they were despite their
sufferings. It was her father's graveyard, but the child had for a time
heard the word Jew uttered with pride and dignity. In the world beyond
it was an obscenity and a death-word.

"Aren't they coming?" scolded the old woman. "Do they think I've got
nothing else to do?" She poked her head through again. "If you want to
go back, you're welcome to!"

"Mila," whispered Elsie. "Listen, Mila, please. You said your folk would
like you to try and get away. Well? Wouldn't they, Mila? Wouldn't they?"

Mila lifted her head. "I'm sorry, Channah. I'll be good." She got down
on her knees and went through. Elsie followed.

They found themselves in a cellar-room just below pavement level.
Daylight filtered through a narrow length of thick panes brown with
dirt. There was enough light to see that the place was used for washing,
obviously on a professional scale. It was evident that when Marta was
engaged in her more public calling, a clothes-horse and mangle were
drawn against the trap-door that led into the underground ghetto world.

"How much?" she was asking Sem. "I can't risk my skin for nothing. If
they catch me...." She made a gesture as of a knife being drawn
across her throat. Elsie understood hardly one word she said, but got
the meaning.

"You know very well, you old crow," said Sem. He was quite small, with a
curious shock of hair starting upright from his skull, like a cock's
comb. He might be a mechanic or a truck-driver.

"If you haven't got enough," Elsie murmured fearfully, "we could help
out."

"It's good she not know you have something more," advised Sem. "Perhaps
she find it difficult resisting temptation. Not look frightened, now. If
she do any bad thing, _she_ know--bang!" He placed his forefinger at his
head to show the sort of thing that would happen to her. "Is a fixed
price," he continued, chiding the old woman comically with his
forefinger. "But she feel she is a good woman for business if we have an
argument." He took the wad of money from his breast-pocket and peeled
off the due amount. The old woman stuck forth a skinny claw with a cry
of pleasure, then went off to count up the notes on the flap of the
mangle, like a dog going off to crack a bone at his leisure. "Please to
listen, _Frulein_," Sem continued. "Soon I go. I get papers like Lob
say, for you and girl. He also say you not want to stay in Warsaw."

"No, no. We must get away."

"But where? Is Germans everywhere. Town is more safe than country."

"We want to go to a port somewhere, the sea."

He looked doubtful. "You mean Gdynia? Dantzig?"

"We are going on a ship to Palestine!" Mila broke in urgently.

Sem looked at her compassionately, but said nothing. It was clear he
thought Palestine as inaccessible as the moon.

"Whatever happens, we won't stay in Warsaw," insisted Elsie. "We'll go
south. We'll be on our way. What's the next big town south?"

"Cracow."

"I was in Cracow," said Mila, "a few times, before... before those
people came."

"You see," said Elsie, as if that established some point or other. "So
let it be Cracow."

"Let it be Cracow," Sem repeated. "You can hide in Cracow, like you hide
in Warsaw. Then, maybe, something will happen." It was clear that he did
not think it in the least likely that anything propitious would happen.
"But wherever you are and you are out in street, you must hold head like
this." He lifted his head to show the demeanour they must adopt. "If
not"--he shrugged his shoulders--"is nothing no good."

"We will do our best," she told him, smiling. But her heart was knocking
as she remembered it knocking in the rarefied air on the high top of a
Bavarian mountain. "Won't we, Mila?" The girl nodded looking from one to
the other.

"I come back in five days, six days," said Sem. "Till then you must be
here, not move anywhere." He looked round. It was not an endearing
place, but it was less distressing in most ways than the place they had
just come from. "The old woman will bring you lady clothing, _fr Dame_,
and for girl, also." He turned to the old woman, who had some time ago
finished counting the money and found a place for it under her skirts.
"I go. No monkey-business now. If anything goes wrong, the Big One will
have you cut up into little pieces. Understand?"

"That's all right," she grinned. She patted the place under the skirts
where the money was. So long as it was made worth her while, nothing
would go wrong.

"Good-bye, _Frulein_," said Sem, "and you, young one. I come back when
all is ready." He inclined his head towards each in turn, then stooped
to lift up a bundle under the wooden stairway. It was a bag of plumber's
tools. Presumably he was a plumber who had come to attend to the taps or
something. He climbed into the upper room. They heard his feet over
their heads. A door slammed.

"Hi you!" the old woman exclaimed, turning to her guests. "Jew-women!
Push that back along here, will you?" She indicated the heavy mangle.

"She wants us to push this machine back," translated Mila. She went over
to it.

"Don't you dare touch it, Mila!" commanded Elsie. "Come on, you!" She
turned to the old woman. "Come on! Give me a hand!" She had, after all,
been the wife of a great soldier. The woman chewed her own lips as if
they were some sort of sticky toffee. Then she shrugged her shoulders,
and came up to the machine. Between them the two women got it back where
it belonged.

"Now something to eat and drink," Elsie commanded, gesturing with her
fingers at her mouth. The girl looked from one woman to the other with
bright eyes.

"Shall I tell her what?" she asked.

"_She_ understands!" said Elsie.

She understood right enough. Mumbling and bumbling away, she was already
flopping in her loose slippers up the wooden stairway.

"Oh, my God!" Elsie cried suddenly, and clutched her heart.

"What's the matter, Channah? What's the matter?" Terror had jumped into
Mila's eyes.

"Nothing, nothing at all!" said Elsie quietly. "I'm sorry I frightened
you. Nothing's wrong here." She tapped at her heart. It was better to
reassure the girl on that score straight away.

"What was it then?"

"Oh, I was just thinking."

Channah did not wish to say any more. Mila turned to see if there was
anything she could do to make the place a bit more comfortable. Elsie
stood a moment or two thinking. Her thoughts were that she had been till
a few moments ago, a dim denizen of the Warsaw ghetto, Channah who had
been doomed to die, if not from the bomb that had nearly dispatched her,
then from one of the twenty deaths that lie waiting for a rat in a
closed cellar.

And now, a few moments later, she was not merely Channah, she was
already something a little more. Already she had jolted the teeth of
this Polish harpy. Already she had shown that Elsie Silver was not dead
yet, not wholly dead.

But her heart had turned over not because she was merely excited, she
was frightened too. God knows what a devastatingly weak hand she had!
Had she already overplayed it at the very outset of a game which would
need not only infinite resource but infinite self-control? What was to
prevent old Marta walking straight out and coming straight back with a
Gestapo patrol? Well, what? You could go on turning the thing round and
round in your head till the question creaked inside your skull, like one
of those wooden rattles that demented enthusiasts nourish at football
games.

"See we have something hot!" Elsie suddenly called up the staircase.
"Tell her, Mila, what I said!" ordered Elsie imperiously.

"See we have something hot!" translated Mila.

"Yes, _pani_, soon! At once!" wheezed the old woman.

Elsie smiled. It didn't matter how weak the cards were. You must _bluff_
your way through the card-game that was to be played from now on, on a
table-top that might cover lands and seas, or might be no bigger than
this same rickety table in this same small room.

                 *        *        *        *        *

There was a tap in the cellar, and a bucket to carry water over to the
copper. There were some thin gritty fragments of washing-soap around.
They washed and dried themselves on somebody else's towels. They even
had the end of a comb between them. They washed and combed their hair,
and felt better. Soon the old woman was down with two chunks of bread
and a basin of some dark hot liquid which was probably soup, though it
may have been an _ersatz_ coffee. She kept her distance from Elsie, and
the wrinkled mouth remained pursed in a frozen 'O', as if she felt that
her client had some tie-up with a devil; for though the woman was a
Jewess, she talked and held herself as if she were a Christian, a German
for that matter. The small one seemed to have claws too.

"You can sleep if you want to, after you eat," declared Marta. "I don't
suppose I'll have much time for washing. If anybody knocks, don't worry.
It may be somebody with a basket of clothes, though usually I pick up
the stuff myself. Anyhow, don't open the door, whoever it is. Stay down
here."

Mila translated. They thanked her. She went off upstairs again. They
ate; then they lay down. They had soft things under them and over them,
and something to raise their heads.

"If we can sleep, Mila, well and good," murmured Elsie. "If not, we must
just lie down and let time go by. Are you sleepy, Mila?"

The girl was silent for some moments. Then: "Please, Channah, will you
tell me?" she whispered.

"Yes, Mila?"

"Where do you come from, Channah?"

She had known, of course, that questions must come. She knew that with
this child there must be no duplicity; Mila must sooner or later know
the exact truth, though she would be shocked by it, as any Jew, anywhere
in the world, must be shocked by it.

"I want you to know everything, Mila," she said.

"You were not born in Germany, were you? You aren't like the other Jews
from Germany."

"I was born in England, Mila, but I am not English now. I am German, I
married a famous German, and you will have to know his name."

"But you're _Jewish_, Channah?"

"I am Jewish. But I have been a bad Jew. I forgot everything. I could
have done something, perhaps a good deal. But I did nothing. Only once,
there was an old Jew from England, and he came to Germany, and I helped
him to get away again. That was all I did. I have been bad."

"You did not do anything to help _them_--the Germans, I mean? You didn't
help them in their wickedness? No, you did not, Channah. I am sure you
did not."

"No, I did nothing to help them."

"But you helped _us_, Channah, down in the cellars of the ghetto. I saw
with my own eyes."

"It is a strange story, Mila. I think you're tired now, and you ought to
sleep. I'll tell you the whole story, Mila, whenever you ask me. Go to
sleep now, Mila."

"Good night, Channah."

"Good night, Mila."

But they did not sleep. Soon the girl spoke again.

"Channah!"

"Yes, Mila?"

"Do you think it will be possible?"

"To get away, Mila? I don't know. It will be good to try. You are young
yet."

"You are not old, Channah."

"We shall have to be clever. We shall have to bluff our way." She
paused. "We won't shuffle along, Mila, as if apologizing for something.
We must walk with our heads in the air, like that young Pole said."

"Yes, Channah. It isn't _we_ that should feel ashamed. It's _them_."
Again there was a brief silence; then once more Mila was speaking.
"Where will we try to get to, Channah?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. You should try to sleep, Mila. To a port
somewhere, to the quayside. We will get on to a ship."

"And then?"

"I don't know, Mila. I don't know. It depends on where the ship goes
to."

"But surely you'd like to go to Eretz Israel? Where else can a Jew go
to?"

"Why not, if the ship went there?"

"But if the ship did not go there, one would have to take another ship."

"Yes, Mila. You're shivering. Come closer. Are you warmer now?"

"Why would you not like to go to Eretz Israel?"

"I'm getting sleepy, Mila. We will talk again. Some day, perhaps, on a
ship, with the sky sharp and blue overhead, and a white road of water
behind us."

"Yes, yes, Channah," the girl said drowsily. "And there will be
seagulls. I have never seen seagulls."

"And porpoises," whispered Elsie. "Good night, little one. It is
morning, but we will say good night."

They were very tired and were asleep soon. The German barrage had a
fresh lease of life within a half-hour. The house shook over their heads
like a rickety truck on a rough road, but it did not awaken them.




CHAPTER II


[I]

In the air above Marta's house, and in the tormented acres beyond the
adjacent Wall, the Battle raged. That was the warp and woof of the
fabric of things. It would have been more horrific if, suddenly, the
shells had stopped screaming and the bombs thundering, for it would have
meant total wilderness had been achieved, total death.

Twice a day the old woman brought their food down to her lodgers. Apart
from that she made the pretence that there was no other furniture in her
cellar than her washing equipment. Each day she would go out with a
basket of clean linen, and come back with the dirty linen. It was
strange how those confined odours of soiled clothes, bad soap, and
thickening water became more nauseating than the odours of wounds and
urine had been in the underground labyrinths of the ghetto. But so it
was. Doubtless it was largely a subjective thing. The old woman's
clientele included some detachments of German personnel, and the
closeness to the soiled vests and underpants of the enemy had an
intimate horror that their actual presence might not have provoked.

But despite the tumult without, and the strain of waiting within, in
these odours hardly to be borne, the nights had a strange sweetness
outside all previous experience. The woman and the girl were as close to
each other as they had been when trapped in the cellar; but physical
pain, at least, was gone. Mila talked. Suddenly the girl was possessed
of the need to get her story uttered, exhumed out of the dark places of
her heart. And Elsie listened, rapt. Though the whole picture of Mila's
background did not build itself up during the next few days, a good deal
of it was fairly clear by the time they went forth on the next stage of
their journey. Certain terms of reference in Mila's world were outside
Elsie's experience. It was only later that she saw them all in some sort
of perspective, the town Mila was born in, her parents, the young
friends here in Warsaw who had been so profound an influence upon her.

Mila had been born some fifteen years ago in the small town of Plok, a
few hours away north-westward on the Vistula. Her father, David Cossor,
had come from a family at once prosperous and pious, the leading Jews in
their community, importers of fine goods from Czechoslovakia, Bohemian
glass, china, wrought iron. The business had taken him regularly to
Prague, where he met Mimi, a creature angelic in her beauty, as she
emerged from her daughter's spell-bound recollection of her. After Mila
was born, the small family regularly spent several months in Prague,
both to escape the bleak Polish winter and for the sake of its
cosmopolitan culture. During these years David became a devoted
'cultural Zionist', as they termed it, a follower of the principles of
Achad Ha'am, who envisaged the Jewish Homeland as a large-scale Hebrew
University, a torch of civilization lifted high over the desert wastes
of the Near East, a beacon to all mankind, as in the centuries gone by.
Both in Plok and Prague, David Cossor had been punctilious about Mila's
education, secular and Jewish. When the Germans fell on Poland like a
thunderbolt, the Cossors, like many small-town Jews, fled to Warsaw,
thinking there was more chance of safety there. Either something would
happen to arrest the German advance, or they would be well placed for
escape towards the southeast. It was not to be foreseen that the Germans
and Russians would crack Poland in two, and that on one side of the line
the Jews would be at once trapped like animals in cages. David Cossor
had been reading the signs more accurately than many, for he had been
for some time converting his possessions into jewels, as Jews had
bitterly learned how to do for many generations. When he arrived in
Warsaw, he lived in comfort for a little time in an apartment in the
Jewish quarter, which only began to be so disastrously overcrowded when
the Germans put their Jew schemes into operation late in 1940, as they
occupied one country after another and siphoned off the Jewish
communities into the ghettos they progressively walled-up and sealed
off. At the same time the expropriation began, and the circumstances of
people like the Cossors were sorely reduced. First, David got through
his stock of currency, then he started selling up the jewels, though he
always managed to maintain a reserve of diamonds for whatever desperate
emergency might lie ahead. Further, he demanded that this reserve should
be divided up and concealed on their three persons, for it was well
known that with the flash of an axe the members of a family could be
separated from each other, and for ever. Meanwhile, both food and
housing conditions deteriorated dreadfully. The conditions were not such
that a creature as delicate as Mimi Cossor could exist in them, and late
in 1941 she died. Mila had adored her mother, with her delicacy and
fragile grace, but also she loved her father, and probably came closer
to him, now in the time of his bereavement, than she had hitherto. She
did what she could to make up for her mother's loss, and thus brought
out in herself certain qualities of resource and courage of which she
was already to show evidence in the few days following Elsie's discovery
of her, stricken numb though she was by a later calamity.

While his wife was alive in the ghetto, David Cossor had not been very
active in the community. He had been on several committees, and had
lectured on art and philosophy to students old and young, in whom a
fantastic devotion to the activities of mind and soul developed, the
more insistently the trains hooted at the sidings, and the red glare of
the ovens winked and flickered from the skies over Treblinka and
Ausschwitz. During this period Cossor had devoted most of his energies
to the task of maintaining the physical and moral fibre of his wife and
daughter. After Mimi's death he felt the necessity for manual labour to
take his mind off his grief, and enrolled in the sanitary department, in
good company, for a number of men distinguished in the arts and sciences
were his colleagues. During this period Mila attended a ghetto school,
fervidly Zionist in its outlook. Teachers and pupils filled their days
and nights with the mystic dream of Zion, while, at the same time, as
enlisted _chalutzim_, or pioneers, they studied the practical problems
of colonization with the zeal of emigrants who might be receiving their
permits and travel-warrants in a week or a month.

When the ghetto rising broke out towards the end of April, David Cossor
and his daughter at once descended into the cellars, to do whatever
might be asked of them. Cossor did not survive long. He had tried to
hide his heart ailment even from himself, and then it destroyed him on
the threshold of Post Sixteen, on the day the bomb fell leaving no
survivors there, excepting Mila his daughter, and Elsie Silver, of whom
neither would have survived if the other had not been by her side.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The days in the washing-cellar were not uneventful. On the third
morning, there was a sound beyond the trap-door hidden by the mangle.
After the due formalities a man emerged. He took no more notice of these
two females already there than if they, too, were bundles of washing.
His days and nights in the Warsaw ghetto were at an end. He disappeared.
An hour later Sem arrived to take their passport photographs, his
equipment hidden in his plumber's bag of tools. He seemed rather pleased
with himself. There had been a useful haul of forms from the official
printing-works in Cracow. The next day Wolff turned up. He acknowledged
the presence of Elsie and Mila with the flicker of an eyelid. Then he
disappeared at once. It could be deduced from various directions that
the long agony of the Warsaw ghetto was almost over.

Next day another thing happened. This was a screwed-up piece of
newspaper that fell out of a washing-basket that old Marta was emptying
on to the floor.

"A newspaper!" Elsie said to herself. "Of course! There _is_ an outside
world!" She unscrewed the piece of print. Marta went on separating the
linen. Mila was polishing the shoes with a piece of sacking, though they
would undoubtedly be getting other shoes soon. _Der Krakauer Zeitung_,
Elsie read at the head of the sheet of paper. She read the date, too.
May the third, 1943, the day the bomb had fallen. The newspaper was four
days old now. Cracow. That was an interesting omen. The profusion of
swastikas showed exactly the sort of paper it was. Then her heart
started beating furiously. It seemed to her that that happened even
before her eye consciously registered the man's name. The man's name was
Heinrich Himmler.

At the head of the page there was a respectful paragraph regarding the
celebrity's movements. Herr Reichskomissar Himmler had officially
pronounced himself well satisfied with the results of his inspection of
conditions in Warsaw, the seat of the _Gouvernement Gnral_. He was on
his way to the secret Headquarters of the Fhrer himself, to deliver his
report in person. He had left Warsaw yesterday, that is to say, some
four days before Elsie's reading of the news item.

"That's terrific!" she proclaimed, in English. The old woman looked
round dubiously, then looked away again. Mila looked up startled,
perhaps even a shade frightened.

"Please, Channah!" she murmured under her breath.

Elsie blushed.

"Yes, of course, I know. Stupid of me. I'll be more careful in future."

"Good news?" asked Mila.

"A gentleman I know has left town. His friends will still be around, but
it makes everything easier somehow."

"_Mazel tov_!" breathed Mila. "Good luck!" There was no harm in talking
Hebrew. The old woman did not know one of them was English, but she must
know they were both Jews right enough.

Elsie turned suddenly to Marta.

"When are you bringing us our clothes, old woman?" Her voice was firm
and resonant as a schoolmistress. Marta turned her bleary eyes towards
Mila.

"What did she say?" she quavered, her hand behind her ear. Mila
translated. "Tell the Madame to-night or to-morrow!"

"Mila," requested Elsie. "Tell her that won't do. Tell her to leave her
washing alone and go out at once and get our outfits for us!" Mila did
as she was bid. The old woman was obviously raising objections. She was
busy. She hadn't orders. What about the money? "Tell her we'll look
after her!" Elsie exclaimed. She herself went up to the old woman, and
turned her shoulders round. "Do you hear, mother of light and sweetness,
you'll be all right." She repeated the words, always in German: "You'll
be all right." She made the universal money gesture, the rubbing of the
thumb over the fingertips. "Understand?" She clapped the old woman on
the back. She chucked her under the chin. The old woman's sooty
resistance crumbled. She arched and bridled like a pleased kitten.

"At once?" she wanted to know.

"At once!"

Marta tittered, stooped down for the empty basket, then went off up the
stairs, the soles of her boots flapping. She was back some hours later,
grinning all over. This was a cup of conspiracy with cream on top. The
lady must be no mere Jewish woman, like those wretched creatures you
used to see until recently shuffling under the Wall, hollow-eyed, the
yellow star on their arms and on their backs. Perhaps she was just
political, perhaps even only criminal, nothing more serious than that.

The old woman removed a top layer of soiled linen, and there the stuff
was: shoes, stockings, underclothes, a girl's felt hat, a modest hat for
a grown-up, two outdoor outfits, a coat and skirt for the woman, a coat,
dress, and jumper for the girl. There were two hand-bags, too, even some
handkerchiefs, and a few articles for the toilet.

"The stuff doesn't look at all bad," murmured Elsie. "There've been so
many people around," she said to herself, "who haven't any use for it
any more." She picked up the coat and skirt. The style and material were
good. The label was that of the Galeries Lafayette in Lyons. "Lyons!"
she breathed. "Ah well, Lyons!" She shrugged her shoulders. One had
learned a lot in three weeks of Warsaw. One had, for instance, bandaged
a woman who had plaited a gold chain inside the leather handle of a
cheap hand-bag. Another woman had sewn some jewels behind the buttons of
her coat, covering them over with a little padding and lining. Elsie
examined the buttons of the two coats. Her own were hollow, and could
take a fair share of the jewels she now carried in the bag suspended
from her waist. Mila's buttons could be adapted quite easily, too.
"Altogether more convenient!" she murmured. "So long as we always
remember to change buttons if ever we change coats!"

Then she reached for the underclothes. "What are they like?" she mused.
But suddenly her fingertips recoiled. "That's all right! That's fine!"
she said aloud. Mila opened her eyes.

"I've got to be a German woman of good class, my dear, till we get away.
And to be it, I must _feel_ it. You, too, must feel Polish, a well-bred
little Polish girl."

"Yes, Channah, of course."

"So we must get these things washed at once," decided Elsie. "That's one
luxury we _can_ allow ourselves in this guest-house. Tell her, Mila!"
Mila told the old woman. The old woman nodded. It looked as if the old
woman would stand on her head, if Elsie told her to stand on her head.
"In the meantime, we must see how this stuff fits," decided Elsie.
"We'll try it on."

Mila nodded. She looked at her own things. They were too simple to go
wrong. But the lining had come away from Elsie's coat, a pocket was
ripped, the skirt was too long, there were several bits and pieces that
made it just not quite right, perhaps added by a later hand since it had
been acquired from Lyons.

"It's not _right_!" said Elsie. The suspicion of a tear was in her eye.
She felt more helpless and frustrated than she had felt with a mile or
two of the ghetto Wall around her, for then she felt nothing at all. "I
can't be a big-shot in this thing."

"I can make it _right_," said Mila. "She will give me a needle and
cotton."

For the next hour or two, Marta washed the underclothes, Mila worked
away smartly with the needle and cotton, thimble and scissors. As soon
as Marta had gone upstairs with her money, Mila set to work stowing away
their jewels inside and behind the coat-buttons. She made a very neat
job of it.

"You're wonderful," said Elsie. "Where did you learn it?"

"My mother had golden fingers," breathed Mila.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Sem came once more, about eight o'clock on the morning of the seventh
and last day in the washing-cellar. As ever, he had his bag of plumber's
tools with him. Beneath the tools, he carried the documents, inside a
grubby envelope wrapped up with a sheaf of spanners and pliers in a
dirty length of cloth. Elsie and Mila were wearing their new outfits. A
slight deference of hand to heart indicated his awareness of their
improved appearances. The Polish manners they talk of, thought Elsie,
are not confined to lieutenant-colonels. He handed the papers over. They
were made out in the names of Lydia Radbruch, of Frankfort, and Maria,
her daughter, unimpeachably Aryan, doubtless, as far as the records went
back.

"From now on you're Maria," said Elsie. "Understand, Maria?"

"Yes, mama, I understand. Some day I'll be Mila again...."

"Of course, my child."

There was obviously something more Mila wanted to say. Elsie waited.

"But whatever I call you," muttered Mila, "you'll always be the second
mama." She had her eyes on the ground. She did not say easily things she
felt deeply.

"Yes," whispered Elsie. She wanted to say more than that; she wanted to
say that no words anyone had ever said to her had made her feel happier
and prouder. But she was tongue-tied. She turned at length to Sem. "Have
you worked out the train?" she asked.

"Train to Cracow is ten o'clock," he said. "You go straight to railway
station, yes? Better that German ladies should not take tram, and taxis
is only four in all Warsaw." He ticked them off on his fingers, with a
smile--one, two, three, four. "Better you take ricksha. In Cracow I have
address for you, nice people, will look after you good."

"You mean we go into hiding again? But why? We're Germans, aren't we?
We've got our papers! Why can't we go to a hotel till we work out the
next stage of the journey?"

He looked at her curiously, and rather pitifully. The woman had some
nave ideas.

"Even with real papers, they take people away in a moment, like
this"--he snapped his fingers--"if they want to take away. It is danger
everywhere, but is most dangerous in hotel. You give papers to porter,
porter take papers to police. And finish. Understand?"

"Yes, I understand." She felt like a lump of wood. "You have an address,
then, in Cracow?"

"Listen." He put his hand to his mouth, and looked up the stairway, as
if to make sure old Marta was not eavesdropping. "The address is St.
Philipp Street, seven," he whispered, "by St. Florian's Church. Say
again." She repeated the words. "St. Philipp Street, seven." "On ground
floor. Door on right. Wait." He thought a moment. "You not speak Polish,
_pani_?"

"I speak Polish," said Mila.

He turned to her. "Whoever comes to the door," he said in Polish, "you
ask if Mr. Antek Rangowski lives there. If he comes, he is a man with
spectacles and a black beard with a point, like this. Then you say: 'I
have come in answer to advertisement to buy a fur coat.' He will then
ask you inside. You go in after him. Repeat all that, _prosze pani_."
She repeated the instructions. "Excellent," he said. He turned to Elsie
again. "The girl will explain," he said. "Is better you go now. And
me"--he smiled--"I stay here to look at taps. Old woman!" he called up
the stairs. "Make ready now!"

"It is ready!" the old woman called down the stairs. "They're not going
to be all day, are they?" She was getting impatient.

"Good-bye, Sem! And thank you!" Elsie said.

"_Dowidzenia, panu_!" said Mila. "Good-bye!"

They shook hands. "Good-bye! Good fortune!" said Sem. He turned and
belaboured a tap with a hammer. If nothing was wrong with the tap now,
there would be quite soon. Elsie and Mila climbed the stairs and entered
Marta's ground-floor for the first time. It was not dark, yet the things
in the room were in a sort of dark haze, the unmade bed along the wall,
the table, the chair, the plaster Madonna in a corner, the smudged bride
and bridegroom in a frame. Their vision was directed to the window and
the door and the things that might lie beyond them.

"Wait!" said the old woman. She picked up a basin of dirty water, went
up to the window, opened it, and looked sharply left and right. Then she
flung the water into the street. Then she turned again. "Now go!" Then
the old crone's voice softened. "The Mother of God go with you!"

"Good-bye!" they both said, went out along the front passage and for one
moment stood framed in the threshold, hesitating, as one might hesitate
on a beach before venturing a foot into the incalculable sea. Then Elsie
banged the door behind her. They turned their heads sharp left, as by
agreement, for on their right, not many yards away, was the Wall, the
Wall of the ghetto, that dark and brilliant and timeless place. On their
left stretched the city, which was like a gigantic time-bomb that might
blow up in their faces if they made one false move.

They intended to walk warily.

The street was Luka. The battle seemed to be holding its breath before
a final horrific assault. But perhaps you could not call it a battle
when only one side had the steel and fire, the other having not much
more than their fingernails. There were not many people about. Apart
from going to their jobs and coming back from them, and manoeuvring on
the daily scrounge for food on the furtive black-market corners, it was
safer even for the 'Aryan' Pole to stay indoors. The Germans shot first
and asked questions afterwards, and both police and soldiers were free
with rifle-butts and hob-nailed boots.

A few doors away there was a couple of children on a doorstep, solemnly
snipping away at a piece of cloth; beyond, a lanky woman wheeled a
barrow cluttered with valueless oddments, and two old men stared up
listlessly following the reconnoitrings of a plane in the middle sky.
Luka led into Wronia. There was more movement there. A tank waddled
along the street like a hippopotamus that had emerged from a marsh and
had gone out adventuring. A few blocks north an armoured car up against
the pavement disgorged a crew of soldiers in grey-green. Now and again
the siege guns boomed, like metal doors slamming. Nearer at hand
machine-guns rattled. It was curious how slight a protection the coat
from Lyons felt against all those things. The legs were hollow, Elsie
realized with dismay, like cardboard cylinders. If something heavy
suddenly pushed you in front or behind, the legs would give at the
knee-joints. She looked sideways down at the girl. The head was up in
the air. There was a flush in the pale cheeks. Her own words came back
to her. "We won't shuffle along, Mila, as if we're apologizing for
something." Her chin thrust up. She squared her shoulders. After all, as
the Jewish wife of General von Brockenburg, she had had some training in
coolness and courage.

The way was sharp left into Wronia. From round the corner of Panska an
S.S. man appeared and approached them. His face was familiar, those
eyes, that chin. Where had she met him before? The answer came to her at
once. She had met him all over Germany, in the days when the word 'Nazi'
and the thing 'Nazi' was on no one's tongue among all those turbulent
millions, excepting for the tongues of a few beer-garden louts. She had
loved that chin and those eyes, and for their sake had elected to stay
on in Germany, forswearing all else. They had belonged to her lover and
her husband. Then, one day, looking out from Herr Wolff's window into a
street in the Warsaw ghetto, she had seen an S.S. man with those same
features....

At that moment the S.S. man reached them. Mila was not in his path, but
he took a half side-step to send her flying against the wall. The blood
roared in Elsie's temples. The S.S. man had become something more than
all Nazis and all Germans in general, he had become a specific
storm-trooper, the same who had impaled the Jewish baby upon the spike.
The blood roared, the fingers arched like talons. In one moment, now as
she stood in Wronia, she would have thrown herself upon the man, and
clawed his eyes out, as she would have done upon that earlier occasion
under Wolff's window, if two strangers had not hurled themselves from
the darkness of an alley and snatched her away from the unspeakable and
splendid folly.

Once again her hand stayed. Her wrist was grasped by a hand
astonishingly strong, considering that it was a small girl's hand. She
looked down into Mila's eyes, large with comprehension, severe with
reproof. Her arm fell. The sweat gushed from her forehead. No harm
threatened, for the man was ignorantly swaggering along, and by now more
than a block away.

"I'm sorry," Elsie's lips went. "It won't happen again." She meant from
now on she would not let Germany havoc her, as it had done twice lately.
The first time it would not have mattered, for she had been alone,
accountable to no one. Now she had an overriding responsibility. She had
come close now to destroying not only herself. She would _use_ Germany,
her knowledge of the place, the people, the speech. She and the girl
might be captured and shot in less than half an hour; or their fantastic
impossible adventure might have a successful issue months, or years,
from now. But she would never again be shocked into panic by Germany.
She would be impervious to it.

They walked on towards a main street down which the loaded trams clanged
and crawled. She was doing well, she thought; she was putting up a fine
show of casualness. But, after all, she had been an actress of a sort,
sometimes better off the stage than on. Mila, however, had not; she was
only fifteen; she had been through hell for several years. She felt
proud of her, it was a first-rate performance. She had the feeling that
a bald, middle-aged man nearby was eyeing them suspiciously. Was he
thinking Mila, and even she herself, didn't look as Aryan as they
should? Was he a genuine _Volksdeutscher_, one of those who had sprung
up like fungi overnight when the Germans had marched in, and had since
then been more rabidly Nazi than the Nazis? Or perhaps he was merely one
of those men who mentally undress every personable woman they meet? He
blinked, and turned his face away. At the next corner a ricksha stood up
against the pavement. A blear-eyed, elderly man sat behind the
contraption, hunched over the pedals. "Come!" commanded Elsie. They
strode up to the ricksha. "_Zum Hauptbahnhof_!" she demanded.
"_Schnell!_" The man looked left and right. What was he looking around
for? "All right! Get in, both of you!" he growled. He did not like
Germans. Possibly, too, there was some restriction against taking more
than one passenger. He clanged his bell, and the thing turned round into
Jerozolimskie Allee. The railway tracks were on their left. On their
right they trundled past bombed buildings, past buildings they were
speedily putting up again, past seedy men in morning suits and smart
German officers gleaming like furniture polish. Some ten minutes later
they were at the station square. The station buildings, so much as had
survived the bombing, were new and yellow and ornate. A large hotel in
the same style faced it, the Hotel Polonia, firmly announcing itself as
_Nur fr Deutsche_. Elsie and Mila dismounted, and Elsie tipped the man
lavishly. The man lifted his head, stared into Elsie's eyes, the
shoulders slumped again, and with one sharp twirl at his bell, the
contraption was away.

There were a frightening number of Germans in various types of uniform
in the station approach. Probably there were quite as many, at least as
vigilant, not in uniform. The next few minutes were going to be a little
hair-raising. Could anybody with half an eye see that these clothes
weren't made for them? Didn't their bodies, impregnated with the odours
of the ghetto cellars, carry about with them an odour they could never
lose till their dying day, though they bathed in vats of scent? Could
the Germans fail to see they both had that impalpable Jewish
something... where is it, what is it? Is it a phantom curve of the
nostrils? Didn't Willy say it was the way the skull fitted on the
neck-bones?

She clenched her fists. "Bilge!" she said aloud, in English. "Smile,
Maria!" she demanded, in German. "You funny little monkey, smile!" She
tweaked Mila's ear. A wan smile spread over Mila's face. She could
hardly be expected to smile quite so soon with all her teeth. "That's
the way!" she encouraged her. "You remember when I came to little Jan's
christening and Uncle Ignaz sat in the ghoulash?"

"It was not ghoulash, mama, it was _barszcz_!" Mila was warming to it.

"No! Ghoulash!"

"_Barszcz!_"

They were approaching the ticket office now. The discussion looked like
becoming quite animated, when a German patrolman on railway duty came
over to them. He was a big fellow in a big helmet, his tightly drawn
belt making him look a little pregnant. His leggings shone like glass.

"Papers!" he demanded.

(This was the moment. Sweet and easy, now, like a kitten in a basket.)

"_Mit Vergngen_!" she fluted. "With pleasure!" He looked up. She handed
over both sets of papers.

"Are you from here?" he asked. The accent was Hamburg, wasn't it? There
_is_ such a thing as luck, after all.

"_Aber, bitte_!" she begged. He looked up inquiringly. "Frankfort," she
corrected him. "But I've spent most of my life in Hamburg." (Carry the
attack. Never wait for it.) She smiled charmingly. "That's where you're
from, isn't it?"

"_Ja, gndige Frau!_" (_Gndige Frau!_ Did you get that?) "And the
little one? Your daughter?" (He wasn't even checking up on _her_
papers.)

"Yes! A naughty young woman, too! She's been arguing my head off! It was
ghoulash, Herr Unteroffizier, not _barszcz_, wasn't it? Come along now,
Maria!" (Don't overdo it. Enough is as good as a feast.) She reached her
hand forward for the papers, replaced them in her hand-bag, and waited a
moment, so that he should not suspect that he was being rushed into, or
out of, anything.

"_Guten tag, gndige Frau! Frulein!_" The lower mouth dickered for a
moment, then, he clicked his heels, bowed, and walked off. Elsie's heart
felt coiled and tense inside her, like a watch-spring; any moment it
might kick and jump loose. She could not speak for a full minute. Then:

"We'll get our tickets, Maria!" she brought out. "Then we'll find some
sort of meal."

"Yes, mama," agreed Mila dutifully. "And I won't argue any more. It
_was_ ghoulash." The tension hardly distressed Mila at all. That was
fine. She had had three or four years of it. She had grown tough. They
threaded their way through the mob of peasants, soldiers, and small
officials that milled round and round the station. They went over to the
ticket office.

"Two for Cracow," demanded Elsie, with the hauteur that might be
expected from a German lady, above all a German lady in Poland. "First
Class." The clerk handed the tickets over. So, in the old days, she
might have bought two tickets for a movie on the Kurfrstendamm. "Now,
Maria, dear," she fluted. "We'll go across and have a nice breakfast at
the Polonia. Come, my dear."

They went across. The commissaire opened the door for them respectfully.
The _Herrenvolk_ was buying its German papers at the bookstall, taking
its ease in the chairs of the lobby. It was a rather faded place,
billowy with brown plush. Aspidistras and palms gloomed disconsolately
in large pots behind bamboo tables. There was a discreet gallery above
the main dining-room.

"How charming!" murmured Elsie. "And look!" At a table close by a
gentleman was helping himself to a dish of four fried eggs. They had
fried eggs, quite tolerable coffee, and fairly white bread. A rich cream
tart was being displayed. "Could _we_ have that?" asked Mila
incredulously. "All that, and another one!" Elsie assured her. "And I
shall have cigarettes. Cigarettes, waiter!" she demanded, not at all
sure it was her own voice making so peremptory a noise. He brought a
packet of Mewy, the good sort. It was all very expensive, but money need
not worry them, for the present, at least. There was no more serious a
misadventure than a fit of hiccups, for it was a long time since Mila
had had so princely a meal. "Keep the change!" demanded Elsie. The
waiter almost touched the ground with his forehead. "_Danke, vielen
Dank, gndige Frau._" One might almost have thought the lady to be the
wife of a high-ranking officer.

                 *        *        *        *        *

There was a cursory control at the ticket barrier, but Frau Radbruch and
her daughter went through to the train without the slightest difficulty.
The third-class carriages were crowded to suffocation; they contained
nothing but Poles. On this train all the first-class carriages were
labelled: for Germans only. She saw a carriage rather emptier than the
others, though a large man lifting his luggage to the rack seemed to be
big enough to take four places.

"Up here, Maria!" Elsie called through the open corridor window. Mila
climbed the steps and moved along the corridor. By that time the large
man had sat down, and the two people sitting facing each other in the
further corners became visible. They were German officers sitting
upright, hands on knees, like Karnak gods with eyeglasses. There was a
moment of panic, but not more than that. German officers (she told
herself). That's one type of animal that need not frighten me. Not _me_,
that is to say, the Frau General, the one-time Frau General, to be
exact. She planked herself down in the empty corner-seat before someone
else took it. There was room for Mila in the opposite corner. The time
for departure came. The train tarried. There was a hold-up somewhere.
Perhaps some Jew had been found trying to make a getaway.

"I'll have my magazine, darling. It's in your bag. Thank you." She spoke
in her most beautiful German. Mila took out her magazine. They settled
down to while the minutes away till the train got off. The train lurched
slightly, the couplings clanked, the wheels were turning. They were
leaving Warsaw. She turned to look at Mila's face. The eyes were
distended wide with incredulity. The girl raised her hands to her
stomach. Elsie knew what was going on inside her. The wheels were
turning round and round, as they were turning inside her, too. She hoped
they would not be sick. It was actually unwise to have that rich cream
tart. They were out of the station now. That was the ghetto northward,
whatever was left of it, a church or two, some warehouses, some blocks
of flats not yet pulverized. She saw with dismay the large tear form in
the corner of Mila's eye. It was not to be wondered at that the child's
heart was stricken. There lay the adored mother with the golden fingers,
her father, her friends, the burning pallid boys and girls, whose
monument of loose brick grew higher, broader, more shapeless, from hour
to hour.

But a little girl named Maria Radbruch, on a visit to Cracow, must not
weep because she leaves the noisy city of Warsaw behind. Elsie took out
her handkerchief, and screwed a corner into a point.

"These awful smuts!" said Elsie. "Let me take it out for you! There
now!" That was fine. The smuts gave no more trouble after that. They
were passing through the drab suburb of Wola now. The town dwindled
behind them, the bombardment ceased like a rundown clock, the planes
over the airfield at Okeie, like snuffed candles, died in the sky. The
large man did accounts. One of the officers filed his fingernails. The
other stared out of the window. Now and again they addressed a few words
to each other, but they were not talkative.

One hour, two hours went by. The train chuffed and chugged over the flat
green miles of young oats, barley, maize. On the edge of the scruffy
villages the black swine rooted and charged in little inconsequent
sorties. There had been rain. A hundred pools, running into each other
like globules of mercury, reflected the drooping willows and the pale
sky. Suddenly the landscape clotted into forest, league upon league of
forest. Then as suddenly the train was out of forest again, leaving it
behind like a wall of black mist. There was a restaurant-car on the
train, _nur fr Deutsche_, of course. Elsie thought it better they
should go and have a meal, though their breakfast could have kept them
going for days. The big man had finished his accounts and was taking a
distressingly affable interest in Mila. It was doubtless only an
approach to a _tte--tte_ with the girl's mother, who was really a
pleasant handful of woman, now you had finished the accounts and you
could sit back and give her the once-over. But it was a relief when the
man came round and said luncheon was being served.

There was a pleasant _Moselle_ on the list of wines. It was delightful.
"You have a sip, too, Maria," Elsie said. "It will do you no harm at
all." Then she lowered her voice. "We'll stay over our coffee as long as
possible," she said. "And when we get back, we'll be awfully drowsy,
won't we? There's no need to encourage the gentleman, I think."

"No, mama," agreed Mila.

"We're doing very well indeed, Maria. It will be all right even if there
is a control. But I do not think there will be."

"If there will be, there will be." The girl had lived too long on a
razor-edge of chance to worry overmuch. There was quite a vigorous
control at Kiele, but it did not concern them. A larger consignment of
food-smugglers than usual had boarded the train at preceding stations.
There were, for instance, hefty lumps of lard stuck above the wheels;
there were flitches of bacon hanging from string outside the windows,
ready to be dropped or raised again as exigencies of inspection
demanded. The excitement died down, and Elsie and Mila sank back into
their seats.

"Sleepy, Maria?" murmured Elsie. "Close your eyes, darling. There now.
I'll have a nap myself." Soon she was sound asleep. She did not awaken
again till she felt Mila tugging at her sleeve. "It's Cracow, mama!" the
girl said. "We're nearly there!" She blinked and yawned, and gazed on
the panorama ahead of her as if she had seen it a hundred times
before--the pyramid of the Kosciuszko memorial plateau on her right,
straight ahead the spire of the Marianski Church, and on her left the
great hulk of the Wawel Castle.

They had covered one stage of their journey. But the journey had been
only in space. In terms of danger they might as well be nearer to it, as
further away. Danger might fell them to earth five minutes from now, or
they might, for any length of time, pass through and beyond it, as
easily as you pass through the spray of a waterfall.

"Have you finished your magazine, darling?" Elsie asked. "Then bring it
with you."

"_Guten Abend_," the three men in the carriage said respectfully, with a
click of heels.

She flashed a smile to them.

"_Guten Abend._ Come, Maria." They came down upon the platform and
walked towards the station exit. The place was crowded, but nobody
showed the least interest in them. "You see, Maria," she said. "We're in
Cracow." The suggestion was that things, after all, were not terribly
difficult. Perhaps the next stage of the journey would not be so
terribly difficult, either. Then suddenly she remembered that for Mila
it was not the first time she had been in Cracow. Was the child
remembering those earlier visits? Perhaps she was, perhaps she wasn't.
Mila's next words were clearly designed to let her 'mama' know that her
mind, too, was devoted to the solution of immediate problems.

"Are you looking forward to your new fur coat, mama?" she asked.

"I should like the squirrel," murmured Elsie, "and bless you."


[II]

The usual droves of drab motor-lorries were packed in the station
square, and over against the south pavement was a shining magnificence
of black Mercedes cars. It might almost have been the Wilhelmstrasse
itself. I hope, Elsie said to herself wryly, that our friend, Heinrich
Himmler, hasn't taken it into his head to pay a state visit to Cracow
again. No, no, she assured herself, a dozen Mercedes cars don't make a
Himmler. Then another name presented itself to her mind. Frank. Who had
told her that he was the head of the _Gouvernement Gnral_, here in
Cracow? She suddenly realized that Herr Frank might well have told her
so himself, for he had received the appointment quite early in the War,
and she had met him once or twice in Berlin at musical parties after his
appointment. He was very fond of music. He played the piano quite
passably well himself. He was a tall, dark, cadaverous fellow, with a
heavy jaw. She had not found him attractive in Berlin. They did not
speak well of him in the Warsaw ghetto.

They had turned right into a street now. She looked up and saw its name.
Pawia Street. She heard footsteps coming close and quick behind. It was
all she could do to prevent herself switching her head round to see was
it Karl Heinz Frank. The donkey she was! As if Herr Frank would be
slouching up and around the station approach in case Elsie Brockenburg
turned up at Cracow with false papers!

What had they turned right for? Perhaps St. Philipp Street was left? She
suddenly realized how desperately urgent it was to get to St. Philipp
Street, number seven, where the man with spectacles and a black pointed
beard was waiting to give them a hand, the man Rangowski, a ghost, a
shadow, with no feature except the black beard. But he was the
_contact_, the next link in the chain. It was strange, here in this
town. We must get to St. Philipp Street at once. The day was getting on.
There was a tinge of pink in the clouds towards the west. A German
soldier came round a corner, stalking towards them. No, no, you mustn't
drag Mila into this doorway beside you. You mustn't! You mustn't! The
soldier was passing them.

"_Bitte schon_," she asked. "Can you tell me where St. Philipp Street
is? Near St. Florian's Church, I think!"

He saluted respectfully.

"_Ja, gndige Frau!_" He turned and gave exact instructions. "Go
straight up Pawia till you get to Kurniki, then turn left into the
Platz. Cross the square, and you can't miss it."

"Thank you, _Junge_!" she said. The young man was quite flattered by the
smile the nice German lady gave him. They went on their way. Ah yes,
here was the Church, only a couple of minutes away. This was Kurniki
Street. Turn left till you reach the square--across the square now, and
this is St. Philipp Street. There, across the cobbled roadway, thirty
yards away was number seven. "We're there," Elsie whispered. "Do you
see, Maria?" They crossed the street, entered the house, quite a good
middle-class house, it seemed, up a few steps to the ground-floor. Here
was the door, the one on the right. There was a neat little brass
knocker. Elsie knocked. There was no reply. There was no point in
knocking so diffidently. She had only come to buy a fur coat. She
knocked again, more loudly. This time she heard footsteps after a few
seconds. A small dark man opened the door. He was wearing no jacket, but
the rest of his attire was good and neat, well-polished shoes,
well-pressed trousers, a good quality shirt.

"Yes?" he asked, opening his eyes. He had clearly not been expecting any
visitors.

It was Mila who spoke, and in Polish, as arranged.

"Can you tell me, please, if Mr. Rangowski is at home, Mr. Antek
Rangowski?" she said.

The man turned his eyes from Elsie to the girl.

"What?" He put his hand to his ear as if he had not heard properly.

"Can you tell me if Mr. Antek Rangowski is at home?"

He looked sharply from the girl to the woman.

"I'm sorry," he said, "there must be some mistake. Excuse me." He wasted
no more time, and shut the door.

They stood there and gasped, as if a jugful of cold water had been
thrown in their faces.

"We've got it right, haven't we?" said Elsie. "He did say number seven,
didn't he, the ground floor, the door on the right?"

"Yes, yes," Mila assured her.

"You said it after him. It _was_ number seven, wasn't it?"

"Yes, number seven."

"What can have happened?" asked Elsie. She was speaking in as casual a
voice as possible. She must not let the girl see how alarmed she was.

"Perhaps... Mr. Rangowski... has gone?" suggested Mila. Perhaps he
had, in fact, been found out and taken away.

"Yes, he left," agreed Elsie. She looked helplessly towards the other
door, the door on the left.

"I don't think we ought to stand about too long," murmured Mila. The
exigencies of underground behaviour seemed to come easy to her.

"Perhaps we'll try the other door," said Elsie. "Maybe he _did_ make a
mistake."

Mila shook her head. "I don't think he'd make a mistake like that." Then
she acted quickly. "All right! We'll ask!" Perhaps there _had_ been a
mistake, but clearly she thought it most unlikely. She walked over to
the other door, and pressed a bell-push. The bell shrilled harshly. A
woman came to the door, tall and severe, in black clothes. A pair of
pince-nez bristled on her nose.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Can you tell me, please, if Mr. Rangowski lives here?"

"Not here," the woman said. Without an instant's delay she closed the
door in Mila's face.

Mila turned. Elsie was beside her. "Let's go away at once," said Mila.
They went through the front entrance and out into the street again. They
turned right. They might as well turn right as left. Then they turned
left. How narrow and winding the street was, like a village street. How
old the houses were! The whole town seemed old and pious, like a nun. In
every second house there was a niche holding a Madonna. Tower beyond
church-tower rose above the steep roofs. How quiet it all was! No, it
was not really quiet, it was only quiet in comparison with Warsaw. There
were cars hooting as they approached corners. There were boys ringing
bicycle-bells, horses and carts clanging over cobbles. Here was a tram
coming trundling down behind them, the driver stamping his foot on the
gong to get them to the pavement.

Where have we got to? How far have we travelled? Are we still in the
same place, though we've moved from Warsaw to Cracow?

_I mustn't let Mila become aware of this horrible emptiness at the pit
of my stomach. I wonder how she's feeling? I wonder if she's feeling as
lost as I am?_ (She looked sideways down into Mila's face.) _If she is,
she doesn't let it get her down. I hope my face doesn't give too much
away. What a wonderful child it is! I could take her in my arms and hug
her till she had no breath left, even here, in this street. I mustn't
let myself get too emotional about her. It won't help either of us. What
a first-rate little human creature it is! How infinitely more real and
good and reliable she is than any other person I've ever cared for in
all my life before...._

It was as if the girl had some idea of the pleasant words that were
saying themselves in Elsie's mind. She looked up into Elsie's eyes and
smiled.

_It isn't very easy not to cry.... But of course we're both under a
certain amount of strain, aren't we?_

Elsie reached her hand out to Mila's and squeezed it; Mila's hand
squeezed back. Then the hands went apart again. _Who is it that's
helping who to get away? That's what I want to know. I suppose we can
say we're both useful to each other._ They had followed the tramlines
into a large square. This was obviously the centre of the town. At one
corner was a tall church with two towers. In the middle was a building
with arches and arcades, which seemed to be a sort of market,
overflowing in stalls and handcarts on to the cobbles. A great many cars
and lorries were parked against walls and pavements and nosing their way
towards the narrow exits from the square. Mila must remember this,
thought Elsie, if she remembers anything. It was as if the girl heard
her thoughts.

"This is the Rynek," she breathed. "She bought me a toy sledge on one of
those stalls. I fed the pigeons just nearby. There are just as many
pigeons here now as then." She stopped. Then suddenly the sound of a
trumpet lifted itself high up above the roofs. "Look!" said Mila, "do
you see him?" She pointed to one of the two towers of the church at the
corner of the square. On a covered gallery a man stood, a trumpet at his
lips. The melody lasted some thirty seconds, then ceased. Then the man
turned and walked along the gallery and played the same melody again.
Then he played it still once more. "I remember now," Mila said. She
swallowed, then went on. "Daddy told me about it. For hundreds and
hundreds of years, every hour of every day, a man has stood with a
trumpet----" But she could not go further. "Shall we have some coffee
now?" she asked.

"Of course we will. Why didn't we think of it before? No, not coffee,
tea. You can have coffee. I'll have a nice cup of tea." (A nice cup of
tea, she repeated to herself. I might be a Lancashire housewife, with a
bit of a headache.) Not far off was a hotel, the Deutscher Hof, with a
caf attached. "That looks all right," said Elsie.

"It was called the _hejnal_," exclaimed Mila.

"What was?"

"That tune. Yes it looks a nice caf." They went in and sat down and
gave their order. There were newspapers around, stretched out on bamboo
frames. The radio was blaring out the tale of German victories on all
fronts. There were officers and business-men about, with their local
girl-friends, presumably _volksdeutsche_. It looked like a _gemtlich_
little place in Berlin, on the Nollendorfplatz. They sipped their cups,
and Elsie smoked. For Germans only, she said to herself. How long were
they going to get away with it? Was there a chance of going to a small
hotel and spending at least one night there, till somehow they managed
to achieve some sort of contact to make up for the one that had failed
them? After all, there must be just as many people here as in Warsaw who
hated the Germans--that is to say practically everybody, excepting for
these neither-fish-nor-flesh _volksdeutsche_. It seemed an even more
religious town than Warsaw, that might mean the hatred was even deeper.
But how did you get into touch with anyone? The moment you breathed a
word into anyone's ear, you were totally in his hands. What was to
prevent you choosing the one wrong person in twenty? So what happened if
you went to a small hotel... it didn't matter whether it was a small
one or a big one... you gave up your papers to the porter. What
chance was there of your ever seeing them again?

You couldn't sit here all evening. You mustn't look as if you hadn't
anything to do or anywhere to go. Besides, the day was drawing in fast.
When was curfew? Above all, one must not be around after curfew. She
observed Mila was looking at the clock and looking over to the sky. The
same thought was in Mila's head. It might be another hour to curfew,
hardly more. "_Herr ober_!" she called out. "_Zahlen bitte_!" The waiter
came over, she paid. "Come, Maria!" she said. They were out in the
square again. There were too many people in the square. They turned into
a narrow street, Anna Street, the name was. Something must happen, God.
Something must happen. Not for my sake, for Mila's. I don't chase you
around often, God, but it would be a good thing if you did something for
this child. She's had a pretty tough time. So have her parents, too, her
family, her friends. So have all Jews. Make something happen.

The thing that happened within seconds was black and terrifying. It
happened some twenty yards further down the street, on the opposite
pavement. On both sides of the street pedestrians and traffic were
moving this way and that. Elsie and Mila, on the right-hand pavement,
were not aware of the black car cruising down the street, not till it
made a sudden swerve over to the left side of the street with a loud
squeal of brakes. Suddenly the rear left-hand door was flung open, two
men, gleaming like pitch, sprang out and pounced upon a young man
walking up the street, his arm in a girl's arm. In hardly two seconds
more, the young man was bundled into the rear of the car, and it sprang
forward with a roar. The effect was exactly as if an enormous spider had
hurtled forth from its web, and with a terrifying flail of legs had
pounced upon a wretched fly, and hurtled back into its web again, to
squeeze the thing into juice at its leisure. Elsie stopped. The girl
stopped. Everyone in the street stopped in their traces, as if they had
been pulled up by a wire stretched taut across the street at knee-level.

Almost in that same moment, Elsie became aware of another young man
isolated some two or three feet away from her. He was only about
seventeen years old, but he was dark and needed a shave. She saw with
startling clarity the fuzz of hair on his cheeks. He had some textbooks
and exercise books under his arm. He was obviously a student. His eyes
were like small black pools over which burned a blue haze of flame, like
methylated spirits. The flame was hatred. She had never seen hatred so
desperate in all her life before.

The young man hated Nazis and all things Nazi with a passion perhaps
greater than that with which he had ever loved God. If he so hated
Nazis, surely there must be kindness in his heart for Jews, the people
whom the Nazis so hated that they sought to wipe them from the face of
the earth. She made up her mind, with something of the instantaneity
with which the Gestapo men had swooped upon the youth on the other side
of the street and carried him off.

In a moment she was by his side.

"I beg you," she whispered, with frightful urgency. "We're Jews, this
little girl and I. We're alone here. Help us." Even as she started
speaking, her own words ringing in her ears, she saw the mistake she had
made. She did not need the young man's swift recoil, the suspicion
thickening in his eyes. She was talking German, the hated speech. He
took her for some sort of _provocateur_. She flung herself round to
Mila.

"Maria," she said. "Speak Polish. Tell him."

"We're from Warsaw!" the girl said under her breath. "They've killed all
my people. We've nowhere to go. Help us!"

He stared at Mila for some moments, his eyes burrowing, it seemed, into
her skull. Then he turned away. "Follow!" he said, as he turned. They
let him walk on several yards, turning their attention for some moments
to a shop window, though they had not the faintest idea what was behind
the glass. Then they turned their heads again. The young man had his
hands behind him. One held a missal. With one finger of the other hand
he summoned them to follow. They went after him to the bottom of the
street, then he turned right into a broad, tree-lined boulevard. They
followed. There was a church looking out on the trees, the Church of St.
Anna. He turned in through the church portals. After a minute or so they
entered. It was dark. The windows were small, the lamps had not been lit
yet, only the sanctuary light shone at the high altar, a few candles
gleamed at the side altars, a few tapers drooped before the images of
saints. They looked round for the young man, but the darkness had
swallowed him. There were two or three old women and a girl at the altar
nearest the door.

"This way!" Elsie whispered. They walked down the central aisle towards
a part of the church which was quite deserted. In the north transept was
a leather curtain; doubtless, beyond the curtain was the vestry. They
sat down and waited, their heads bowed down upon the back of the bench
in front of them. Five minutes later the curtain was pushed back and a
priest emerged. He walked over into the nave, across to the high altar,
where he genuflected, and stood for a few moments in meditation. Then he
came slowly down the central aisle, seeking to make out the features of
the strange woman and girl. He paused briefly alongside them, and
scrutinized them; then he continued down the nave, till he came up to
the cluster of worshippers at the side altar. There, once more, he
paused for some moments, as if to make sure there was no one among them
he distrusted. Then, finally, he returned to the chapel in the north
transept, and stood by the side altar, half-turned to them. He waited,
doing nothing at all. It was clear it was for them he waited. If they
craved his help, they must go to him. Elsie touched Mila's arm. "Come!"
she whispered. They moved slowly across the nave to the transept-chapel,
and went up to him. This time she remembered the matter of languages.

"Tell the Father, Maria, I cannot speak Polish," she murmured. "Tell him
we are Jewish, and we beg him to help us." Mila translated.

"Who is the lady then? What language does she speak?" the priest asked.

"She is German. I am Polish."

"Where have you come from?"

"We escaped from the Warsaw ghetto a week ago."

"The Warsaw ghetto!" the priest repeated. Already the words had a
vibration of terror and splendour. They were a password. They exerted a
claim. "Come!" He held back the _portire_, opened the door, and they
entered. Yes, this was the vestry, with its smell of incense, its heaps
of missals, its cupboards and chests, the church garments hanging on
pegs. An electric lamp hung from the ceiling. Over against a large,
carved chest the priest was standing, a tall man with deep-set eyes,
cadaverous cheeks, a jaw at once strong and fine. "I am Father Josef,"
he said. He pointed to two chairs, and seated himself on the edge of the
chest. Elsie and Mila sat down. Automatically Elsie's eyes turned
towards the door, "No," the priest said. "Tell the lady we cannot be
overheard in here. You are not related, are you?"

"No, Father. We have only known each other a week or ten days. But she
is my mother, according to our papers."

"What sort of papers have you?"

"_Reichsdeutsche_, Father."

He thought a moment. "Yes, I see," he said. "It requires courage. But to
be Jewish, and not to die, requires courage. Where do you come from, my
child?" He was weighing them both up carefully.

"I was born in Plok. We came to live in Warsaw after the War broke out.
My mother and father died there. This lady is my only friend in all the
world." She spoke gravely, giving the facts without pathos.

How did you come to be in Cracow? Were you given no address to go to?"

"These are our papers," she said. "They were given to us by a young man,
Sem." She told him what had happened in St. Philipp Street.

"Saint Philipp Street," the priest took up at once, "number seven. Ah
yes." He sighed deeply. "We are in God's hands. It can happen to anyone
at any hour of the day or night." If he still had any doubts at all
about the credibility of the strangers, the mention of the last contact
at St. Philipp Street had finally dispelled them. "We might as well be
dead at once, as falter in this work out of meanness and cowardice.
Well, children"--his voice became brisk and practical--"there is no time
to waste. We must think of something to do with you, for a day or two,
at least. But there is one thing I must know. Why did you leave Warsaw?
You could have hidden just as well in Warsaw as you could be hidden
here--and Warsaw is a bigger town."

"We wanted to get on our way," said Mila. "We want to find our way to a
port."

"A _port_!" repeated the priest. "My child, my child!" It was as if they
wanted to get to the sun or the moon.

"Yes, we know it will be hard," the girl said. "But we hope God will be
with us. He has been with us so far."

"Yes, my child. But the Lord's ways are inscrutable and He has
formidable enemies. Let me say at once, I don't see what more you can
do, both of you, than disappear for a time, somewhere in these parts.
The reign of Antichrist will come to an end in God's good time."

"What does he say, Maria? He thinks we can't get away? He wants us to
stop here till it's all over?"

"Yes, that was it," said Mila.

"Tell the Father we know how hard it is. But we've got so far, and we'll
go further. Tell him all we want is to get across the frontier, to
another country. We'll find our own way from there. We know the Germans
will be there, too, but we'll be a stage further on our way."

Mila translated, then the priest spoke again.

"There's no country in the world where the enemy's more savage than in
ours. Even Germany itself is not so horrible. It would be extremely
difficult to get beyond the frontier into Germany, but supposing it
would be possible. You're already travelling on German papers. The lady
knows the language and the people. We have contacts over there. If you
must move further, perhaps it would be the best thing to go to Germany,
and perhaps from there, in God's good time, to Switzerland, say?"

"What does he say, Maria?" asked Elsie, her breath coming short and hard
in the throat. She had heard the word 'Germany'. She went so pale, the
priest rose, filled a glass from a water-jug and took it to her. Her
eyes thanked him. "But no," she said, when Mila translated. "Tell him
no. It's impossible for me to go to Germany. If my foot touches the soil
of Germany again, I shall die. I know that, Maria. Tell him that. And I
think you wouldn't want to go on without me, would you, Maria?"

"She must not distress herself," said the priest, "nor you either, my
child. Say I was only discussing what might be possible. Beyond the
other frontier are Bohemia and Slovakia. The Germans are there,
too--thick as lice." His eyes darkened. He bit his lip, as if he
reproved himself for speaking so, even of so odious an enemy. "But they
say it is a little easier to move about there. Maybe----" Suddenly he
looked up through the window to the darkening sky, then he looked at his
watch. "We can talk about these things later," he said. "You must be
under a roof before curfew. Wait." He started pacing to and fro across
the room, his hands behind him, his head bent forward. He was muttering,
but Mila could not make out what he was saying. Clearly the task he had
set himself was not easy. Then he stopped. He had come to some sort of a
decision.

"Listen," he said. "Time's getting short. We've got twenty to
twenty-five minutes, at most. I have an idea what will have to be done,
but we can't stop to discuss that now." He paused, while Mila
translated. "The thing is to get you into safety for to-night, and
probably to-morrow, too. You can't stay here. The sacristan's all right,
but there'll be a number of people coming in and out to-morrow. I'm
going to take you to my brother's flat in Koletek Street, beyond the
Castle. I have the key. My brother's a business-man, and I pick up his
letters. He's away for another two days, in Lvov. You'll have to be out
before he gets back."

"Ask him, isn't it dangerous for him?" said Elsie. "If he lets us have
the key, and instructions how to get there, perhaps we can find our own
way."

"Tell the lady to be silent," the priest said shortly. "She must do as
she's told, there's no time for being heroic. There's not much danger
till after curfew. There's no vehicle we can take, so we'll go through
the gardens. When there's no one about, we'll walk as quickly as we can.
There are probably some tins in the apartment. Here's a little bread."
He went up to a cupboard, took out half a loaf, and wrapped it in a
cloth. "I'll carry it," he said. "I'll come for the letters to-morrow,
or the morning after. I may send for them. Come! We must be on our way!"
Without another word, he went to the door and strode through. They left
the church together, as if they were old parishioners of his, crossed
into the gardens, and set off briskly to move left under the blossoming
trees along the fringe of the old town. It was strange how bitter the
air was, despite the dark richness of boughs and the odour of blossom.
There were a few civilians about, who doubtless had good reason to be
out so near curfew-time; but there were soldiers enough, sitting lonely
on benches, or standing about in disconsolate groups. This was the time,
and such was the sort of place, when you might expect young men to be
winking at girls in parks, or clasping them tight in the thicker places
of the boskage. But not German soldiers in Cracow; hatred seeped out
towards them through the narrow streets, and wrapped them round under
the may-blossom, as if their garments had been soaked in vats of
worm-wood. As the three moved on, they saw to the south a hillside
crowned with a great mass of masonry, a towered church and a
many-windowed castle, stark against the evening sky sharp with the first
stars. Beneath the hill, the gardens turned left. Behind them came,
clear and sweet, the thin tune of the trumpet on the high spire. Closer
at hand, a church bell tolled the hour.

"Cha!" muttered the priest. "It's curfew-time! No! Don't start running.
It's only two minutes from here." They continued round the foot of the
hill, passed one street, and came to a second. "Here we are," the priest
told them. "On this side. Four houses away."

There was no one about, at the doorways, or on the stairs, of the house
they came to. Doubtless only Poles lived there, and from now on it was
time to stay at home. "Here," said the priest. He had the key ready, and
opened the door. The three of them glided in like cats. The priest
pulled the door to silently, without closing it, and laid the half-loaf
of bread down on a chair. "I must go at once," he said. "There are two
things you must remember. Don't switch any lights on. Keep away from the
windows during the daytime. Oh yes. There is a telephone. Don't answer
it if it rings. I will send for you as soon as I can. Good-bye, my
children." He raised his hand in blessing over them. "God be with you."
He opened the door again, pulled it to after him, the lock clicked. He
was gone.

They stood there in the small dark lobby, quite silent for a minute or
more. They were only a glimmer to each other, for the only light that
came through was the pale afterglow of the evening sky, that had had a
journey to make through an outside window, the room this side of it, and
the half-opened door which gave upon the lobby. Suddenly Elsie felt
Mila's hands go around her neck, bring her face down to the level of her
own, then place a kiss upon her mouth, a kiss of gratitude, of warm
comradeliness, of profound affection.

"You dear child," said Elsie, pleased to find that the tears, which had
been coming far too easily lately, stayed where they belonged. "Isn't he
wonderful? Father Josef, I mean?" Mila was silent. "Isn't he, Maria?"
She put her arm round her and patted her back affectionately.

"Channah," said Mila. "When we're alone like this, absolutely alone,
won't it be nice not to have to play the lie?"

"But, of course, Mila," said Elsie. "Of course." She was conscious of a
flicker of disappointment. It always embarrassed her slightly when the
girl called her 'mama,' though she knew quite well it was merely part of
a routine; yet it gave her a curious thrill of pleasure, almost
physical, like stroking her hair, or her legs encased in sheer silk
stockings. "But it's going to happen quite a lot, isn't it, my dear,
while we're travelling on these papers? And the more automatic it is,
the better."

"All right, mama," said Mila. She had taken it as a mild reproof. "So
there _are_ people like him in the world. And a Christian, too."

"We'd better find out where we are," said Elsie. "There's a door here on
the left." She reverted to the conversation in progress. "The Nazis
aren't Christian, Maria."

"No, of course not. But he's a _galluch_, a priest!" It was that,
apparently, she found so unbelievable. Perhaps the priests in Plok had
been less noble creatures. Or she had never come to close quarters with
a priest before.

"This is the kitchen," said Elsie. "Do you see? Here's the sink. Here's
a shelf with pots and pans. Here's a cupboard, with some tins in it. How
hungry I am! Aren't you, Maria? What will the priest's brother say, when
he comes back, to find his cupboard bare? Let's go on." There was
another door, which led into the bathroom. There was only one more door,
leading into the bed-sitting-room, with a single bed in an alcove. "No
wonder the priest wants us out before his brother comes," smiled Elsie.
"Where's that loaf? Ah, here it is, on the chair here. What a meal we're
going to have, even if there's nothing but bread and tap-water."

Mila was away in the kitchen.

"Channah!" she called. "Here's something soft in a bowl! It smells like
heaven itself! It's _strawberries_!"

"Quiet! Quiet!" enjoined Elsie. "Strawberries! It can't be true! I knew
we were dreaming. We'll get up in a minute with the smell of dirty
shirts in our noses!" There was also an egg, which they mixed with
unsweetened milk from a tin; also a tin of dried beetroots. They had a
meal which almost made them drunk. They drew no curtains. They lit no
gas. They only drew water from the tap in so small a trickle that it
made hardly any sound. If no one knew they were in the apartment, they
would go on not knowing. The telephone rang once, but they ignored it,
of course, and it stopped.

"And now----" Elsie said.

"It's been a day, hasn't it, Mila? We'd better get to bed, I think."

They duly went into the bed-sitting-room, undressed, and got into bed.

"It's very strange, Channah," Mila murmured. "It's like being all by
ourselves in one of those tiny planets that go round and round, away
from the earth and moon and everything."

"Yes," said Elsie. "It's all very strange." Her mind was in another
bedroom, possibly in that big castle, only three minutes' walk away. She
wondered if His Excellency Herr Frank, the chief of the _Gouvernement
Gnral_, when he went to bed that night, would feel himself in a happy
little planet, going round and round.

"What are you thinking, Channah?"

"My heart's a little planet, too, going round and round."

"When will you tell me, Channah? The things you said you would tell me.
We're so together, yet I can't see you. It's as if a mist is in front of
your face."

"It'll be many, many hours before the priest comes to tell us what he
can do about us. There won't be anything else to do, but talk. So we'll
talk, Mila. It's better you should know what there is to know. Good
night for now, Mila."

"Good night. Good night. Thank you, Channah."

                 *        *        *        *        *

About three o'clock next afternoon, the key turned in the door. Elsie
Silver was in the middle of her tale. She sat in an easy chair, Mila was
curled up in front of her. Elsie's narrative broke off in mid-air. If
someone had a key, it could not be anyone frightening. It was the young
student who had led them to St. Anna's the day before. He spent the
minimum of time in the apartment. He carried a brief-case, which
contained some salami, and a loaf of bread cut into three sections, so
it did not bulge like a loaf of bread.

"Father Josef says he will like you to be at St. Anna's to-morrow,"
reported the young man, "at this same time. He thinks you could find the
way."

"Yes," Elsie agreed.

He turned to the bookshelf and put three or four books into the
brief-case, where the cut loaf had been. They were his ostensible reason
for the visit to the apartment.

"Good day," the young man whispered. "May Our Lady guard you!" He closed
the outside door, and was gone.

Elsie continued her interrupted tale. The tale was as follows.

"I was born a poor girl, Mila, in the city of Doomington, in England. We
were five daughters. Our father was Sam Silver, a tailor. The sister
just older than me was Susan. Now don't jump out of your skin, Mila
dear. You've already met Susan's daughter, up in Warsaw. Or, at least,
you've heard a lot about her. You see, we two girls, Susan and I,
travelled around a good deal. I'll tell you about her soon. But I want
to tell you about myself, first. When I was a girl your age, I had
already sung and danced in public. That was the only thing I ever wanted
to do, to sing and dance. In fact, I became quite a star."

"A star," repeated Mila, her eyes round with incredulity. "Can you still
sing and dance? What sort of songs do you know? Perhaps, if we have luck
and arrive somewhere...."

"If we have luck and arrive somewhere, Mila, yes, I will clear my
throat, and see if I can remember some of the songs I used to sing. But
they weren't quite songs for young girls, you know."

"That's all right," said Mila. "I'm very grown-up really."

"I think you are in some ways. More grown-up than I am. Well, I was
telling you. I went to London, and my name was 'in lights' as they say.
Then once I went to France, and met an Englishman with a title, and
married him. But he was rather soft, so I left him."

"So you were a _von_, Channah?"

"Yes, and I became a _von_ again. Let me tell it you in order, Mila.
From France I came back to England, and that wasn't a very lucky
business, either. I was very unkind to one of my sisters, and it upset
me a great deal, so I made up my mind to go to Germany."

"Yes, Channah?"

"I settled in Berlin, and I became very well known there. In Berlin I
had a man-friend, he, also, was a man of family. I always seemed to go
in for the aristocracy. I've got to tell you about him, because I met
him again only three or four weeks ago. Yes, in Warsaw. Funny isn't it,
Mila, the way the threads of the story tie up together?"

"What was he? What did he do?"

"He did nothing. He was just good-looking. His name was Oskar von
Straupitz-Kalmin."

"That sounds a very noble name."

"Yes, he was a Herr Graf, from an old family. I loved him very much
indeed."

"But you didn't marry him?"

"No. I was still married to the Englishman. The years went by, and I
stayed on in Berlin, because I wanted to be with Oskar, and because I
wanted to be in Berlin, and because they liked me there. I was very
popular. Then I met a man, the famous German I told you about. Do you
remember, in Maria's washing-cellar?"

"Yes, I remember. Do you think I would know his name?"

"Yes, I am sure you would know his name. This is the part of the story
which it's very hard for me to tell."

"Channah!"

"Yes?"

"Please. You've only got to remember one thing."

"What is it?"

"Where we met, Channah. So what can anything else matter, that happened
before?"

"How old are you, Mila? Did you say you're fifteen? You're like a wise
old woman. Bless you, Mila!"

"You see, I don't think you'd be happy till you talked about it. Even if
something goes wrong to-morrow, it would still be a good thing for you
to talk to-day. Am I not right, Channah?"

"I can only say again what I've just said. Bless you, Mila! I liked this
man a great deal, but I did not love him, as I loved the Herr Graf. He
was one of the big men of the Nazi party, he was close to the Fhrer,
and to Goering. I should have left Germany when the Nazi party came into
power, but I didn't. I stayed on. I liked it all too much, the
excitement, and the rich food, and the danger, too, I suppose, and the
way the Germans worshipped me."

"Didn't they know you were Jewish, Channah?"

"It was the big men in the Party who decided who was Jewish, and who
wasn't. Then the time came when I couldn't go back to England and be
Jewish again, not even if I wanted to. I stayed on. My soul got more and
more rotten. Oh no, Mila. That's the truth of it. I didn't wipe it all
out by looking after a few casualties in the Warsaw ghetto. By the time
the War came, my husband had made me an Honorary Aryan. He was by that
time an Army General."

"What, Channah? Is this true?" Her eyes were wide with incredulity.

"I told you it would be painful to you. Yes, it is true, Mila. Perhaps I
should have told you that in Warsaw, in the cellars, before we left."

"But, Channah, how can you say such a thing? I was almost dead, and you
saved me. What can it matter who you were married to? All that's over
now. We're travelling towards a new life."

"It was a very dull and lonely and bitter life being the Frau General.
It was like being a white mouse in a gold cage, I used to say to myself.
The Herr General loved me to the end, but after the War broke out, he
had other things to think of. He had one great enemy, and that was
Himmler, who had sworn to get rid of him. He did just that a month ago,
when the Herr General was flying to the Russian front. Himmler arranged
to have his aeroplane shot down when it was flying near Warsaw. He did
not die straight away, so he sent me a message asking me to escape to
Switzerland or Sweden. I thought I couldn't do that, not while he was
still alive. I flew up to Warsaw, to be with him. And then he died. I
was in great danger from Himmler, and then I found out that my friend,
the Herr Graf, thought the only thing I could do was to throw Himmler's
men off the scent, by disappearing inside the ghetto, where there were
so many people without names or papers. This was arranged by Herr Wolff.
You remember? That was how I met him, Mila. And while I was staying in
Herr Wolff's apartment, something happened. It happened in the street,
as a matter of fact. I know now it was just an ordinary piece of Nazi
_Schweinerei_. I saw two storm-troopers murder a Jewish baby by sticking
it on a spike, but it was so horrible, and also so casual, I threw
myself at them, and was going to claw their eyes out. I wouldn't have
gone very far, of course, but before they could break my skull in, some
people tore me away, and rushed me down into a cellar, where the
storm-troopers were too frightened to follow. One of my rescuers was the
Boy. You remember, the young leader of the underground fighting?"

"Yes, of course, the Boy."

"And I have a feeling the other was my niece, the Raven. I didn't find
out she was my niece till later on. A Russian agent was brought into the
Post, in a bad way. He called for the girl, and she was brought in. I
was attending a wounded man at the time, but I overheard the messages
that the Russian brought for the Raven. It was my sister's daughter,
right enough. Her father became quite a big person over there. Now he is
a General on the Caucasus front, and he was doing very well, I
gathered."

"Your sister's daughter, Channah? The daughter of a Red Army General?"

"Yes, Mila."

"And you were married to.... to..."

"To a Nazi general. Yes, Mila. You're right. We are quite a family."

"Would you like to see your family again, Channah?"

"I don't think they'd very much like to see me, Mila."

"I think they would have felt differently about you, if they'd seen you
down in the cellars, like I did."

"I don't know the least thing about them. I don't know who's alive and
who's dead. There's been bombing over there, too. There was only one of
them who wrote to me after the New Order began; that was the one I
treated so badly. After the War came, of course, I heard from nobody."

"Perhaps some day we'll find out all about them, after we get to Eretz
Israel. Perhaps we'll go to England on a visit. If you come from Eretz,
they'll feel different about you."

"You're a dear child, Mila. We're a long way from anywhere still."

"But we've started, Channah. We're on our way. You said so yourself."

"Yes, Mila, of course. We've started. We're on our way."

"Tell me more about your family."

"All right, Mila, you little nuisance. There was mother and father, and
they had five daughters, Esther, Sarah, Susan, me, and May."

She talked that day, and she talked the day after, and there was a good
deal to say still, for, as she talked, she was remembering things she
thought she had long forgotten. The girl sat entranced. It was a
stranger world to her than Tartary or Lilliput. It seemed to Elsie, as
from time to time she looked sideways down on Mila where she sat curled
up on a rug--it seemed this child was a Sixth Silver Daughter; or a
daughter of the next generation, like Raven, Susan's daughter. You might
well say this was her own daughter, she told herself, with a curious
ache at the heart, with a joy that throbbed like a nagging tooth. It was
a family affair, that was it, in a room where they dared not stand up
for fear of someone seeing them through a window, whence they dared not
move until they were given the word, lest they be hurled like carcasses
on a truck, and carted off and asphyxiated and burned, like rubbish, in
an incinerator.

At four o'clock on the second day, the key turned in the lock again. The
student entered with his brief-case, took out the books he had borrowed
yesterday, put some others in their places.

"Wait ten minutes," he said, "then come to the church." He went off. Ten
minutes later they went after him, two German ladies strolling through
the gardens of the old fortifications. The lads in grey-green winked at
them from under the may-blossom.


[III]

Father Josef was in the vestry, seated at a table, wearing his
spectacles. He removed the spectacles, laid them down sharply on the
table, and rose. There seemed to be no time for civilities.

"Tell the lady arrangements have been made," he said. "A lady, Yanka, is
waiting at the corner of the next street, Szewska Street. She is wearing
a black felt hat, and has a red hand-bag under her arm. She speaks
German. Translate, please." Mila translated. "When the lady leaves here,
she will go up close to Yanka, and stoop down as if she has lost a
ticket. Yanka will then take her through the town to her own house. The
lady must not seem to be following her. Yanka will then go up to her
apartment, which is number six, on the second floor. Repeat."

"Number six, on the second floor."

"She will leave the door on the latch. Five minutes later, the lady will
go up after her. If there is no one about, she will push the door open
and go through. If there is, she must try later. Will you say all that?"

Mila conveyed the information.

"Tell the Father how grateful we are to him," said Elsie. The words did
not need to be translated. Father Josef went on straight away.

"Yanka is a clerk in a builder's office. She has a small extra room
where a divan is fixed up for the lady."

"The Father says," explained Mila, "there will be a bed in the lady's
place for you." Mila's face was without expression.

Fright scratched at Elsie's heart like fingernails.

"A bed for _me_?" she asked. "But of course, the Father said a bed for
you _and_ me?"

There was no mistaking the import of the expression in her voice and
eyes. His manner softened. Probably he had not realized before that,
though the woman and the girl had only met a week or so ago, they had
already become immensely devoted to each other.

"I had hoped to hide you both together," he explained. "But it is always
much more difficult to hide two persons than one. It is not only space,
it is food as well, and a great many other things. As for you, my child,
you will work in the kitchen of the Convent School of St. Ursula. You
will stay there until it is safe for you to join your friend. Tell her
this."

There was little colour yet in Mila's cheeks, but there was none as she
conveyed this plan.

"But tell him we wish to be together," implored Elsie. "It is not right
for us to be separated. It is not right."

"The lady will understand that if it had been possible for you to be
kept together, that would have been arranged." Time was getting short.
The way Father Josef was tapping his feet on the ground looked a bit
ominous. "It is hoped that Yanka will find it possible to visit you, my
child, from time to time, in the Convent. At all events, she will be
able to give news. Nothing more than that can be done. The lady has come
to me for help, and she must understand she is being given the only
help, I say the _only_ help, that is just now available. There have been
arrests lately. We are dealing with matters of life and death, not
choosing this way or that. Sister Carmela is waiting for you, my child,
at the Chapel of Our Lady, near the West entrance." Then a thought
suddenly struck him. "Ask the lady if she is afraid that some sort of
pressure will be exercised, to make you abandon your own faith." Mila's
lips trembled. She clearly wished to say something now on her own
account. But he gestured impatiently towards Elsie. It would be
impossible if he found himself discussing the situation with the girl as
well as the woman. "Ask her, my child, will you?"

"No, Mila. Tell the Father that whatever happens in your soul is your
own concern, not mine." Elsie's voice was grave and calm now. Mila was
no stripling. She knew that they were both completely in the priest's
hands, and that he was risking his life to save theirs, as every single
person was doing who was involved in the concealment.

"I want to say something to you, Channah," said Mila slowly. For the
moment it was as if they two were alone in the room, and she had
whatever time she needed to say what she had to say. "I could have left
the ghetto in Warsaw, more than once, if I had wished to go into a
Convent. My father begged me to, but I thought I should stay on with the
other young people. But it's different now. I've begun my journey to
Eretz Israel. I'll stay where the Father puts me, and when the time
comes, we'll set out on the next stage of the journey."

Time was pressing, but Father Josef did not ask Mila to translate into
his own language the words she had just uttered. It was clearly
something that lay between the girl and her friend. There was one thing
he felt he must say to them both. His voice was quite gentle now.

"You will both remember, I hope, there are many Jewish children who are
being looked after just now in the Convents and other Catholic
institutions, and in the homes of priests."

"Yes."

"They will come to no harm, my children."

Elsie smiled. "Please thank the Father, Mila," she said. "What else can
I do, but thank him, again and again."

"It will be possible for messages to pass between you," said Father
Josef. "And then, when something is worked out, you will be told.
Perhaps it will not be long."

"We will not keep Father Josef waiting, nor Sister Carmela, nor the
lady--what is her name? Yes, Yanka. It is disappointing, Mila, of
course, that we should be separated so soon. But we may be together
again before long, as the Father says." There was a smile on Elsie's
face, but the eyes were misted. "Good-bye for the time being, Mila." She
held her arms out. Mila's eyes were stone-dry. Not even a hint of tears
came easily to those eyes, which had learned too young to weep for
sorrows far more grievous than old men or women are normally acquainted
with. She came over to Elsie. They kissed each other, the woman and the
girl, not too fiercely, for that would have made the moment less
tolerable than it was.

"Thank you, Father Josef," Mila said. "I shall find Sister Carmela.
Good-bye."

"One moment," the priest said. "Tell the lady there is a way out of the
church through this door here. It is better you should leave by separate
ways. The lady will be on Szewska Street. She is to turn left again. You
both understand, we will not be idle. We will do what we can do. God
bless you, my children." Again he raised his hand in a gesture of
benediction.

"Good-bye, Father," they both said, and walked their different ways.




CHAPTER III


[I]

A young woman with a black felt hat and a red hand-bag under her arm was
duly waiting at the corner of Szewska Street. Elsie fumbled with her own
bag, dropped a piece of paper, or seemed to, bent down, straightened up
again. The young woman was already moving away northward, along the line
of the gardens. Elsie followed. After a little time they turned to the
right, then right again. They walked through the street of the town for
some twenty or thirty minutes, but Elsie did not take much stock, either
of time or place. If, during that passage through the town, a suspicious
patrolman had asked her for her papers, she would not have carried off
well the pretence of being a full-blooded German, mistress of the
Universe.

To be separated from Mila, two or three days after the great adventure
started, was heart-breaking. Yet, if Father Josef decided they must
separate for the time being, surely it was the only sensible thing to
do? Yes, of course. It was the _only_ thing to do. Was there any chance,
when the word 'Go' was given, that Mila might be less anxious to leave
than she was now? If they got over into Slovakia, and beyond Slovakia
into another country, there would still be endless dangers to overcome.
Anywhere was still endless leagues from the sea-coast. Would Mila be
less anxious to go? She did not believe it. It would not be the thought
of danger that would hold the child back. What, then? What are you
worrying about, Elsie?

She is a very impressionable child, you know. She probably always was.
Father Josef gave his word that no attempt is made to win these children
over to his faith. Some priests and nuns will be more fastidious about
that than others. But the important thing is what happens _inside_ these
children, subjected to these influences... the deep peace, the
incense, the music....

That's Mila's affair, not mine. If that's the way her heart takes her,
what right have I to say or do a thing? But if I am to go on without
her, I won't want to go on. I know that. I might as well have gone out
like a candle-end, down there in Post Sixteen.

I don't think it's going to happen. I don't think she can stop being a
Jew, any more than I did, though God knows we're very different sorts of
Jew. It will be all right, I think. But I hope something will happen
soon. Yes, the good priest has it in hand. I'm sure there'll be news
soon. It's a long way, isn't it? The young woman's still walking ahead
there. She's turning again. Oh, at last now, at last.

The young woman went through the doorway of a big house; not yet a slum
house, but it would be in time. Elsie waited for five minutes, then she
went up after her, to the door marked six, on the second floor. No one
was about on the landing. Elsie pushed the door open, and went in. The
lock clicked to behind her.

Yanka was waiting three or four yards up the lobby. She had taken off
her black felt hat, and her dark hair stood up like two frozen waves on
each side of the central parting. She was tall and thin, with large matt
eyes like the black felt of her hat. Against her black dress her fingers
twined and untwined, like the stalks of pale underwater plants. A thin
gold cross hung on her breast.

"Pull the door, please," the woman whispered. "Is it shut properly?" She
spoke in German, with a heavy Polish accent.

Elsie turned and tugged at the door.

"It's quite shut," she said.

Then the woman came forward. In a moment she had flung her arms round
Elsie's neck and kissed her hard on both cheeks.

"You poor Jewish thing," she breathed. "I am so miserable for you all,
you poor, poor, sad people. Come." She got hold of Elsie's hand, pulled
her towards the room at the end of the passage, and opened the door.
"This is your home," she said, "as long as you need it. God bless you!
Sit down, please. I have some sort of coffee. That is the first thing I
will do. I will make you a cup of coffee. No. First you must see your
room. It is through this door." Once more she took Elsie's hand in hers,
and led her to the inner room. "It is a little hard, I think." She was
feeling the bed, under its old chintz counterpane. "Then you shall have
my mattress. Yes, I am younger than you. Oh, you are looking at the holy
pictures, and the crucifixes, and the little Madonna here?" The room was
crowded with sacred objects. So was the first room, for that matter.
"You are Jewish. If I had thought of it, I could have taken them into my
room. Whenever poor Mr. Horowitz called me into his room, I used to put
my little cross--this same one I'm wearing now, do you see?--I used to
slip it inside my dress like this. After all, your religion is your
religion, and if you are going to stay nobody knows how long in this
room----"

It seemed to Elsie that now at least she must get in a word somehow.

"Please! You mustn't dream of touching a thing! No, no! This bed, too!
You can't guess how wonderful it is, after the beds I've been sleeping
on lately! I must be as little trouble to you as possible, I beg you."

"Really, you are so _kind_." It was as if Elsie was conferring a great
favour on her by not insisting that she should change the room about for
her. "And now for a nice cup of coffee," she said, as she returned to
the other room. "Oh, by the way, what shall I call you? My underground
name is Yanka, but I'm Tana Kapinski, as you'll see from my letters. You
have German papers, haven't you? I should call you by the name on your
papers."

"I'm made out as Lydia Radbruch."

"Thank you, Frau Radbruch. I wish I had a few grains of real coffee
left." She went over to a small sink and got busy with a percolator.
"Whenever poor Mr. Horowitz had a heavy problem on his hands, he'd call
me into his office, and get me to make him a brew of my special coffee."
She stopped and sighed deeply. "He used to say not even his wife could
turn out a cup of coffee like mine. They're both dead, done for, burned
to ashes. And, I believe, their three children."

"Excuse me," asked Elsie somewhat diffidently, "I suppose Mr.
Horowitz... he was your employer at one time?"

"Oh, how foolish of me," said Yanka. "Of course, how should you know who
Mr. Horowitz was? You're not from Cracow, after all! He was the most
wonderful man I ever met in all my life. That's what he was. The most
wonderful man, though he was only a Jew. And his eyes were so blue, like
a saint's. He had a small red beard. His skin was like silk."

"Yes," breathed Elsie. She felt a little embarrassed. The young woman
was clearly hardly sane about Mr. Horowitz. And it was not very
comforting to remember that the small red beard and the silk-like skin
had been reduced to ashes in some incinerator somewhere.

"I had hopes that perhaps some day he might even see he must go further
on the journey, and enter Holy Church. But no. It was not to be." Her
eyes filled with tears. She had for the moment forgotten that the poor
creature to whom she was giving house-room was Jewish, too. "There's not
much pressure in the gas these days," she said querulously. "But we must
thank God for small mercies, mustn't we, Frau Radbruch?"

"Lydia," said Elsie faintly. To go on being Frau Radbruch for weeks,
months, God knows how long, might become something of a strain...
that among other things.

"Oh, thank you, _Lydia_!" said Yanka, with something of an effort. "And
would you like a little meal now, or later?"

"Later, if you don't mind."

"I used to make special cakes for him," said Yanka, "to eat with his
coffee. _Ponczki_, we call them. You aren't Polish, are you? You
wouldn't know them."

"No."

"He used to break them up and dip them in his coffee. He could sing like
De Reszke himself. They asked me several times to their parties. He sang
like a nightingale. He was very fond of the aria from _Bohme_: you
know: '_O suave fanciulla_'. Do you know it?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"It goes like this." Suddenly Yanka broke into song. Her voice was high
and shrill and sweet.

'Good God!' thought Elsie. 'She's supposed to be alone. And here she is
doing a party piece. What will the neighbours think? I wonder how thick
these walls are.'

The singing stopped.

"What's the matter, Lydia? What are you looking so frightened about? Oh,
my singing! Please don't worry. I often sing when I'm alone. I can even
sing when I'm typing."

"Yes, I see," muttered Elsie. "It's like company, so to speak."

"Yes, that's right. But I've got _real_ company now. It may be for
months and months. I'm so proud I can be of some help to you. I've
always loved Jews; even before I met Mr. Horowitz, I would never hear a
word against them. Do you take sugar? Oh please, I've plenty. He was a
terrible sweet tooth, you know. He used to suck bon-bons by the dozen.
Mr. Horowitz... Mr. Horowitz... Mr. Horowitz...."


[II]

Elsie Silver heard a great deal about Mr. Horowitz during the next three
or four months. It was quite possible to get heartily sick of the name
of Mr. Horowitz, though obviously he had been an estimable, probably
even an attractive, man. One got so irritated sometimes, that one felt
one could tear out the little pointed red beard by its roots, if it was
anywhere handy. Until one remembered what had happened to the red beard,
and the blue eyes, and the well-kept fingernails; and then one felt a
little uncomfortable.

It was also possible to get irritated by Yanka herself; but one could
not dislike her. She was an intensely religious woman, though there were
times when she seemed to be confusing the adored features of the dead
Mr. Horowitz with the features of her Saviour, as portrayed in the
highly coloured prints on the walls. She was brave and chivalrous. To
risk her life for a complete stranger, as she was doing every hour of
every day, needed formidable gallantry. It was to be gathered that Elsie
was not the first person she had helped in this way, and helping Elsie
was not the sum total of her present activities, though that was not to
be gathered from a single word she let fall. Despite her desperate
garrulity, on matters which concerned the safety of others she kept her
counsel. There was no doubt she felt she owed a special debt of service
to the Jews, whom so many Gentiles were treating so atrociously. She
would have felt the same way, Elsie concluded, if there had been no Mr.
Horowitz. But there _had_ been a Mr. Horowitz, and she had adopted him,
probably with more passion than she knew herself, and was proper for a
Roman Catholic spinster to entertain for a middle-aged Jew, who was her
employer, a husband, and the father of three children. But he was dead
now, and the work she was engaged on was one way of lighting candles to
his memory.

It was all very difficult, sometimes quite intolerable. The fact that,
if Yanka had refused Elsie the shelter of her roof, Elsie would very
likely within a day or two, or a week or two, have been shot or
incinerated, did not make the situation any the less difficult. It was
true that, whereas in Warsaw she had been living literally underground,
here in Cracow she was only metaphorically underground. The physical
circumstances were by no means disagreeable. She knew she would be lucky
if, during her escape into freedom, she never faced greater hardships.
So long as she was careful, but exceedingly careful, over such matters
as drawing curtains and switching on lights, she had a fair freedom of
movement between the two rooms and the bathroom. The view from the
window of the street behind was not inspiriting, but there was a certain
amount of sky, and one could see what the sun and the moon were doing.
The food was monotonous, but adequate. It was clear that Yanka's
associates must be helping out with the rations.

But the boredom and the anxiety, these were difficult to bear, and the
first would have been more tolerable, if not for the second. She had had
a good deal of training in the endurance of boredom during the war-years
in Germany, when she had been a very exalted lady, the wife of one of
the leading figures in the Reich, and had had practically no dealings,
apart from her domestic arrangements, with any of the many millions over
whom she was exalted. She had had three residences, a town house in
Berlin, a villa in Baden, a chlet near Salzburg, and she ran around
from one to another, as she often told herself, like a white mouse
revolving in a cage. So she had played endless games of patience, and
had tended her hair, her skin, and her fingernails, with the desperate
absorption with which some mystics contemplate their navels. But here in
Cracow, in Yanka's apartment, though she had the equipment for one of
these occupations, she lacked all but the most elementary equipment for
the other, and both seemed infantile. The one occupation she was
interested in was Mila, and that was removed from her. She tried to read
books, a diversion she had rarely indulged in, but found she could not
concentrate on them for long. And with Yanka's assistance of an evening,
she began to acquire an odd talent or two. She learned Morse, which
might be useful some time, and did surprisingly well at it. She also
began to learn Polish. That brought Mila nearer, partly because it was
Mila's language, and even more because it might be useful some day on
the escape to the frontier. She also got some satisfaction from studying
two elementary phrase-books in the Czech and Slovene languages, issued
for the use of German soldiers doing garrison duty in Bohemia and
Slovakia, for the next stage of the projected journey was definitely
across the frontier into one or other of those regions. In fact, she
often discussed with Yanka the general lines which an escape to the sea
might follow, thus acquiring a knowledge of European geography in which
she had hitherto been almost totally lacking. There was the route from
Bohemia to Austria, and from Austria to any of three countries,
Jugoslavia, Italy, and Switzerland. The first two countries had
sea-coasts, but they were under the German heel. The third meant safety
but there was still one German-occupied country or another, France, or
Italy, before you reached a quayside and a ship. Then there was the
route by way of Slovakia, to Hungary. Father Josef had had the idea that
it might be easier to move about in Slovakia than in Poland. So you got
to Hungary, which was still an unoccupied country, and then you might
either make for Yugoslavia again, or for the free Turkish sea-coasts far
off across vast regions of infested land. Any way the distances were
fantastic. And how were they to be covered? By train, by car, by cart,
on foot? Perhaps by a combination of some or all of these. It all seemed
as fabulous and impossible as a journey in a rocket to the moon. But
that was what they had set out to do. Others had done it already.
Vaguely, rumours were coming through to Poland on the underground
grape-vine, that people destined for the death chambers had escaped by
one of these routes. But if there was any truth in the rumours, the
escapers had been tough youngsters, playing a lonely hand.

Boredom was not only negative, but positive. The bones of Mr. Horowitz,
encalcined though they were, sometimes rattled so excruciatingly that
Elsie could have screamed with boredom. Yanka singing was something just
a little more excruciating than that, and one went into one's own room,
pleading migraine, for which, fortunately, nothing is a palliative, not
aspirins, not cold compresses, not massage of the temples. Boredom,
then, during the next two months was acute, but it was not so desolating
as anxiety, anxiety over Mila. Was Mila happy? Was anyone bullying Mila?
What was the state of Mila's health? And, even more frightening, was
Mila too happy? Had the incense-laden twilight starred with tapers, the
august ceremonials, the beatific nuns at their labours, the priests
erect and mysterious at the altar--had these subdued Mila as hunger and
squalor and terror had not? The child had seemed confident, that day in
St. Anna's, that nothing of the sort could happen. But she was faced
with a confidence far more mountainous than her own.

If Mila found peace that way, how impertinent it was to grieve for it!
But the grief did not lie in Mila's finding peace. It lay in the doubt,
the anxiety. It lay in the thought that the superb game would then be
over almost as soon as it was begun.

The superb game. It was that, too. It was a game that not many played,
and very few won, and it was far easier, as she had been told, to play
it single-handed. For herself, it did not interest her to play it alone,
or with any other partner than Mila. Her partner, too, had high stakes
to play for. Unless her heart was dreaming of another game.

As Father Josef had promised her, she kept in touch with Mila through
Yanka, who went down to visit her every two or three weeks. The girl was
in good health, Yanka reported. The food was better than she had had for
a long time, and it was regular. The work was hard, but it made her
tired enough at night to sleep well. And the release from tension was
building up her nervous strength. But the apprehension that was
uppermost in Elsie's mind could not be discussed with Yanka. Perhaps it
could not be discussed with Mila herself, if it had been possible to see
her. The girl sent her fondest love.

May became June, June slipped into July. At the end of July Yanka
appeared one day with a set of Polish papers.

"You're talking Polish quite nicely," said Yanka. "These papers might be
useful to you later on. We thought you'd better have them."

"And Maria?"

"She has them, too."

"Fine," said Elsie listlessly. German papers, Polish papers, Bolivian
papers--it all seemed to be pretty academic. I'll become fat, she told
herself, like a goose kept in a cellar. If they'd only let me go out for
a brisk little walk now and again, it wouldn't be so bad. After all,
whatever happens, when I make the jail-break, I'm still a high-class
German. Perhaps that's what they're fattening me up for; I have to put
on another two or three stones, then I'll really look _reichsdeutsche_.

But she knew she was just getting peevish. There was nothing to be done
about it. She could not possibly endanger Yanka more than she was
already endangering her. She was a prisoner till the next link in the
chain was forged. July would become August. Nineteen forty-three might
become nineteen forty-four. At the worst, somebody, some time, would win
the War. Then you could slip off the whole chain... if by that time
Mr. Horowitz hadn't pushed you through the window on to the pavement
below.

She read newspapers, both the secret newspapers that the underground
printed on flimsy little squares of paper that you could slip in with
your toothpaste, and the papers the Germans printed, particularly the
local newspaper, the _Krakauer Zeitung_. It interested her to see
cropping up from time to time the names of people, both civil and
military, she had known at one time or another in Berlin. Herr Frank was
keeping quite a court up in the Wawel, the ancient castle on the hill,
where the Kings of Poland had lived for centuries. She was more than
interested when one day she read a reference to a certain Colonel Otto
von Umhausen, who had been for some time, it seemed, officer in charge
of the Wawel garrison. She had known Otto quite well in the days before
the War. At times it seemed as if he had it in mind to enter the running
for her favours with his friend, Willy von Brockenburg. But in love, no
less than in soldiering, he was an incurable dilettante. He had retired
gracefully before the more vehement wooing of Brockenburg.

He was a dilettante in another art, too, the art of music. He was quite
an accomplished violinist, and even something of a composer. It came
back to her quite clearly now that, at a reception in a house on Unter
den Linden, he had played a violin and piano sonata with the prominent
lawyer, Karl Heinz Frank, who was obviously destined to high honours as
the rgime broadened its boundaries. She wondered idly whether it was a
mere coincidence that Umhausen had been appointed to the Wawel, or if
the Governor himself had not arranged an agreeable partner for the
musical moments in which he sought relief from the ardours of his task.

She sighed sadly. It was a pity that, for various reasons, it would be
difficult to have a word or two with Otto von Umhausen. He had really
fallen for her heavily, and he had always been absolutely devoted to
Willy. She knew quite well that it might be an embarrassment for him to
be confronted with Elsie von Brockenburg. But all she wanted him to do
was to arrange for Mila and herself to cross the frontier; not much for
him, everything in the world for them. She had gathered that German
officers on duty in Southern Poland made frequent visits to Slovakia.
Food was abundant there, particularly the fruit of the pig.
"_Schweinland_", they called it heartily. They took their own French
wine with them, helped themselves to pork and women, and had a great
time. Wouldn't it be possible for Otto to hand them over to one of his
own trusties? Or he might even take them across himself, for that
matter? An officer of his standing would have no more to do than wave
his hand, and the frontier guard would line up at the salute, and the
car would glide through, like a knife through butter.

She shook her head. Perhaps it wasn't so easy as all that. And how on
earth was she to get through to Umhausen? And supposing she got through
to him, would he recognize her? A lot had happened to her since she had
seen him last, and latterly she had not been able to look after herself
very assiduously. She looked into a mirror, and looked away quickly. The
foundation was still there, but what a lot of immensely hard work and
costly materials would have to be applied before it was the face of the
woman to whom Otto had once paid court so ardently!

She let the newspaper drop to the floor, and picked up the Czech-German
phrase-book. She must not allow herself to entertain such dangerous
opium-dreams! The good priest had not forgotten her. When the time came,
he would do what he could.

Then a few days later, the _Krakauer Zeitung_ published an announcement
which made Elsie throw back her head as if someone had suddenly struck
her sharply under the chin. The Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, Wilhelm
Furtwngler conducting, had at last found it possible to fulfil its
long-heralded engagement at the _Stary Teatr_, the Old Theatre. The
performance would be given for the _Winterhilfe_, to provide comforts
and warm clothes for our gallant soldiers on the Russian front. It would
be heard under the distinguished patronage of His Excellency, the
Governor, Herr Frank.

There could be no doubt at all that at that function, at least, Otto von
Umhausen would be present, both because of its semi-official nature, and
because Umhausen genuinely liked music. In that same moment, Elsie
Silver determined that Elsie von Brockenburg would be present, too.

The idea sounded in the last degree difficult and frightening. But think
yourself into the situation for a moment. You are a _reichsdeutsche_.
You go up in your plain black dress, looking not excessively
distinguished, but smart, and serious, and intelligent. You do not
attract too much attention, because you are not the ravishing beauty you
used to be, and for sufficient reasons you are not wearing the
Brockenburg pearls and emeralds. Nobody thinks of asking who you are,
for it is clear that no woman who is not unimpeachable would dare to
turn up at a function of this sort. One just did not look like a
pistol-drawing, bomb-throwing assassin, with an arsenal in one's
hand-bag. Umhausen would be there, that was certain. It should be
possible to meet him in the foyer, before the concert started, or during
the interval, or after the concert was over. He might be with the
Governor, surrounded by a platoon of bodyguards. That would make it more
difficult, that was all, though she believed that Hans Frank was
unlikely to recognize her; they had met very rarely.

And when she met Otto, what happened then? She refused to work it out in
advance. She was certain he would not, he could not, betray her, not
only because of the affection he had always had for her, but because he
had been devoted to Willy, who had helped him out of one or two serious
scrapes.

The first thing to do was to get a ticket. It was unlikely there would
be any left for sale at the ticket office on the night of the concert.
But how on earth was she to go out and buy a ticket? Yanka would have to
get one for her. But could she? The concert was for Germans only. How
could Yanka get hold of a ticket? She bit her lip with anger. She would
have to give up the idea.

But she couldn't and wouldn't. Her boredom suddenly rose up inside her
in a great gust of nausea. She was going mad here. She must do
something, however risky, to try and break out of it. Mila was slipping
away. There might be no Mila by the time Father Josef came through with
an escape-plan--if he ever did till the damned War was over.

There was only one thing to do. She must get round Yanka. She must get
down on her knees, so to speak, and tell her if she didn't have a break,
she would crack up--and that wasn't far from the truth, either. A
concert by a great orchestra, under a great conductor, would just put
her right; it would keep her right for months to come.

So that evening, when Yanka came home from the office, Elsie told her of
the immense kindness she wished her to do for her. She put all the
cajolery she knew into her voice. Her eyes swam large and lustrous and
pathetic. To her surprise Yanka neither twittered with disapproval nor
gibbered with alarm.

"For money you can buy anything from a German," said Yanka
contemptuously. "If a Pole chooses to go where he shouldn't go, it's his
own look-out. But it's always dangerous being out on the streets. The
concert itself will be packed with Gestapo."

"If I'm _reichsdeutsche_, then I'm _reichsdeutsche_. I went into the
station at Warsaw and came out of the station at Cracow. There'd be a
lot more Gestapo there, wouldn't there?"

"I suppose you're right, Lydia. The only thing I must ask you is to be
very careful when you leave the house, and when you come back again. Oh,
wait a moment." Her lips tightened. She shook her head. "No, Lydia, no.
There's one thing you mustn't do. You can't be out on the streets after
curfew. I'm afraid that settles it."

"Where _is_ the Old Theatre? Isn't there a church close by I could slip
into? Isn't there somebody with a bed, just a few yards from the
Theatre? I must get out for an hour or two. I _must_, Yanka. I'm sure
Father Josef would understand. It would be worse if I suddenly started
screaming in the middle of the night!"

"Hush now, Lydia, hush!" She patted Elsie's knee. "Let's think a moment.
Let's see who lives round there." She shut her eyes and thought for some
moments; then suddenly opened them again. "Let's see the newspaper," she
demanded. "Where's the advertisement? Ah, here it is! How silly we both
are! It begins at six o'clock. The Germans themselves don't like getting
back late when it's dark. You could get back well before the curfew, if
you don't mind coming out before the concert ends."

"You're a darling, Yanka!" Elsie sprang from her chair and hugged her.
"You'll have to help me wash my hair that night, and find some stuff for
my fingernails."

"I still have a lovely little manicure-set," breathed Yanka reverently,
"that Mr. Horowitz once gave me for Christmas. You can use that!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

For several minutes Elsie felt quite light-headed as she moved along the
streets to the _Stary Teatr_. The sunlight would have gone to her head
she told herself, if she had not had a nip of vodka to brace her up.
(The quarter-bottle of vodka was only one of several specifics that
Yanka had in reserve for urgent occasions.) She wasn't at all certain
she was walking quite straight, for when you suddenly start walking from
street to street, instead of from room to room, your feet are a bit
uncertain which goes in front of which. But she felt fine. She knew her
face and figure could still hold their own with the next woman's.

It's really ridiculous, she thought. Nobody's yet looked at these silly
papers in my hand-bag, not since the moment I got them. It's quite
possible nobody'll ever look at them, for I won't be around at the sort
of time and in the sort of place when people get curious about papers.
So long as I keep my head up, that's all that matters. So long as I
stare people straight in the eye, like these three storm-troopers
swaggering along towards me. I won't get out of their way, _I won't_.
I'm not a Jew, not a Pole. I'm a high-class German lady. Break apart,
scum! There you are, Elsie! Be tough!

The only doubt she had, as she got nearer to the theatre, was whether
she would actually get those few moments with Otto von Umhausen. If he
was in Cracow, he would probably be there. But he was quite possibly not
in Cracow. And even if he was at the concert, was it likely he would be
walking about in the public parts of the place? He was certainly very
close to the Governor, who was more abominated, at all events in Poland,
than anyone in human history, excepting the three arch-monsters whose
names were more widely known. Wasn't it likely that His Excellency and
his entourage would retire to a private room during the interval?

All these thoughts passed through Elsie's mind without distressing her
unduly. She realized they had been there all the time, and that she had
carefully suppressed them, lest they should endanger her outing. She
would have her outing anyhow, and she would listen to some good music,
excellently performed, even though she would have preferred Johann
Strauss to Brahms, for her tastes in music were not solemn.

As she approached the theatre, she became aware that there were quite a
number of people guarding the approaches, both in uniform and in plain
clothes. There was the briefest moment of panic. But that passed at
once. She had reached a point where it was as dangerous to turn back as
to go on. There succeeded a mood of brilliant exhilaration. She sailed
on along the pavement like a swan. The commissaires at the doors looked
only curiously at her ticket. She passed through into the foyer, her
eyes soft as wood-smoke, her heart bright and bitter with hatred for the
people whose shoulders she touched. She took her time, and looked round,
as if for a friend with whom she had a rendezvous. But though there were
German officers in plenty, there was, as yet, no Otto von Umhausen. She
got a programme, and was shown to her seat, which was towards the back
of the stalls, and overhung, therefore, by the slope of the
amphitheatre. She looked down the ramp of the stalls, but as far as she
could see, Otto von Umhausen was not there. If he's come, he may well be
up there, she told herself. She settled down to study her programme. The
Seventh Symphony was not till after the interval. The concert began with
the Brahms _Akademische Festouvertre_. "_Entschuldigen_," a lady said.
Elsie withdrew her knees. The lady passed on her way to her seat, a
gentleman in attendance. The performance of Schubert's Great C. Major
followed the Brahms. It was hot. She fanned herself for some moments
with her programme, then opened it to study the programme notes, one eye
cocked on the audience as it settled in its places. Quite a number of
officers arrived, including a much decorated little group that provoked
a patter of heel-clicking, like hail-drops. But Umhausen was not among
them. The orchestra filed in, there was excitement and applause. The
leader entered, to receive his special tribute. It was bountiful. Then
the great man entered. The place roared its welcome, even the officers
put their decorum aside, and clapped, and shouted. The baton imposed
silence. The _Festouvertre_ was launched upon its journey, a little
solemn at first, but it got going happily very soon. It was all great
fun, thought Elsie. Some day I must listen seriously to classical music.
It's not such hard work as I used to think. Mila will have to take me in
hand. There used to be a good deal of music at Plok, she said, didn't
she? Plok! What a funny name! She realized with fright that, unless she
held, herself well in hand, she would scream with laughter because Plok
was such a funny name. Go easy, Elsie! I know that tune, don't I?
_A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go!_ How very odd! _A-hunting
we will go_, here in Cracow! Shades of the playground in Doomington a
long time ago! What was that teacher's name who took us for singing
class? Miss Brodie, wasn't it? She would often go just off the note, and
blush.

I don't suppose Otto's here at all. Come to think of it, I'd rather he
weren't here. Aren't they _excited_, these people! Well, of course they
are. It's the Berlin Philharmonic, and it's Furtwngler himself. The
conductor pointed to the leader, the leader bowed to his own special
acclamation, the orchestra rose at the maestro's bidding. The maestro
went off, came back again, went off, all this several times. Then he
returned, tapped the baton sharply, the Schubert Symphony took the deep
waters. It will be the interval after this. What's this instrument full
of mystery and twilight? Is it the horn?

The whole idea is absolutely ridiculous, as well as dangerous. It's not
fair to Mila, or to Father Josef, or to Yanka. But in any case, Otto's
not here, so the question doesn't arise. I suppose that's the horn
again, like a soft bell tolling in the distance. I'll have to leave
Beethoven till another time. The Salle Pleyel, in Paris, say. But I
still have a fancy for Rio de Janeiro. This is the slow movement, I
suppose. Slow? I'd like it to go on for ever. Well, not for ever. I'd
rather it stopped before curfew, to give me good time to get back. Dear
Mr. Horowitz, I'll run into his outstretched arms like a long-lost
daughter.

The symphony is over. This man behind my left ear will break my
ear-drum. Sit tight, Elsie. You don't want to move before everybody else
moves. They're overdoing it, four times, five times. Oh, at last. He
refuses to come out again. He's worked hard, poor man. Give him a rest.
The players followed. The platform was empty. The audience dispersed
into the corridors and the foyer.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was in the foyer she met him, on her way towards the exit-doors. It
was, of course, Otto von Umhausen, the wavy fair hair, the long-drawn
nose, the broad shoulders magnificent under the impeccable uniform. He
was coming straight towards her. He was alone, too, quite alone. It was
as if somehow he had become aware she was there, and had contrived this
opportunity to meet her face to face. He was within two yards of her.
She advanced a yard towards him, and stopped him in his tracks.

"Otto," she said, quite easily, as if this was the Adlon Bar, and they
were meeting casually for a cocktail, as in the old days. "You recognize
me?" Her voice was quite low, of course. First she saw the anger in his
eyes at the impertinence of a woman who dared to waylay him thus; then a
sudden spark of recognition; then in swift succession, the certainty
that it could not be Elsie Brockenburg, then the certainty that it was.
"You must help me," she said, always with that easy smile. "Will you?"

There was a dead silence for some moments. There was no expression at
all in Otto's eyes. They might have been made of glass. Then he spoke.
His voice, too, was low.

"If you don't go straight on and out----" he said. He said no more. His
eyes turned towards a storm-trooper three yards away.

Without a word, quite unhurried, she moved off towards the exit-doors.
It was getting sultry. A lot of people were going out into the street to
get some air. Moving along the street, her knees like papier mch, it
suddenly occurred to her it would look good if she smiled a good evening
at someone. Two women who had walked beyond her, turned. She smiled, and
bowed. They smiled, and bowed in return, though they were a little
embarrassed that they could not recall who she was.

She turned the corner, and continued without haste on her journey. She
was sick with humiliation. It was not Umhausen who had humiliated her,
but she herself. How could she ask chivalry from a German soldier, an
accomplice of the unspeakable Frank, a partner in the infamy which was
further removed from chivalry than any act in the human chronicle? Was
it possible Umhausen had dispatched an underling to go after her? Was it
footsteps she heard on the pavement behind her and were they shadowing
her? She kept herself under control. She did not once quicken her steps.
She was nearly dead by the time she pushed Yanka's door open.

"Well, Lydia, what was it like?" asked Yanka. "Was it wonderful?"

"It's nearly killed me," she replied. "You have a drop of that vodka
left, haven't you, dear? Oh, thank you, thank you!"




CHAPTER IV


[I]

It was some two months later, and coffee and _ponczki_ time in Yanka's
apartment, after the evening meal. Yanka looked up.

"You have not said one word, Lydia, since we sat down. You are
miserable."

"It comes and goes," said Elsie.

"I saw the girl in my luncheon hour."

Elsie raised her head sharply.

"How is she?"

"She says, as she said before: 'How soon do we go off again?'"

"Yes," Elsie sighed. "How soon?"

Yanka said nothing. Her fingers made a drubbing on the table, so sharp
Elsie felt it had a meaning.

"Yes?" she asked. "Do you know anything? Is there any news?"

Yanka still said nothing. But with her left forefinger she made a tiny
gesture of reproof. It meant: We are conspirators. We must always keep
our mouths shut until we are told to open them. But, of course, you
silly thing, I know something. There will be news soon.

There was news a week later.

"Listen, Lydia. It is arranged. Please do not be excited. Let me give
you your instructions. Maria is receiving hers. I will give you them
again and again till you are word-perfect. As you know, nothing will be
on paper."

"Of course not."

"First, I want to tell you this. We've had the idea for some time that
there's a group of people in Slovakia that organize the escape of Jewish
children from Poland. I believe they've helped grown-ups, too, but it's
the children they work for mainly. They managed to establish contact
with Palestine. Or probably it's the other way round."

"From Palestine? Then it's Jewish, of course?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"I just asked." She felt a blush steal across her cheeks, and wondered
if Yanka could fail to notice it. The blush seemed to spread from her
cheeks across the skin of her whole body, till it felt as if she was
standing in the blast of a large open oven-door. It was only natural
that Jews, from Palestine, and from other places, too, should help Jews.
As Sem and Father Josef and Yanka proved, there were other people than
Jews who were helping Jews.

The only Jew who had not helped Jews had been Elsie Silver, the wife of
an illustrious Nazi warrior. When, on one occasion, mysterious voices
had telephoned, asking her to help rescue Jews incarcerated in Hitler's
camps, she had let the voices die in vacancy. Now the mysterious voices
addressed her again, but this time they _offered_ her help, and, of
course, she must take it. She could only tell herself, in the depths of
her heart, that it was not for herself but for another she had first
asked for it, and for that other she must go on taking it.

"You're not listening, Lydia," Yanka reproved her. Elsie blinked as if
she were just awakened from sleep.

"Forgive me, Yanka. My thoughts wandered. You know how it is."

"They mustn't wander when things are being worked out for you," said
Yanka with a shade of severity. "What was I saying? Oh yes. It's only
now we've got confirmation the organization has managed to set itself up
in Slovakia. There's a Slovakian Jewess in charge of it. Miriam, they
call her. It seems she's a clever woman, and brave."

"And brave," echoed Elsie. It occurred to her that there was another
brave woman in the picture, sitting hard by. "I've met a brave woman in
Cracow, too," she murmured.

"Please," begged Yanka. She blushed down to her collar-bones. "When once
you're across the Tatras and in Slovakia, there's more freedom of
movement. The country's not occupied by the Germans, like Poland is.
You'll make contact somewhere with Miriam, or one of her agents. I can't
tell you where, probably in Bratislava. They'll send you on the next
stage of the journey. In the meantime, you must first be smuggled across
the Slovak frontier."

"Of course." That was very much the point. Bratislava was beyond the
Slovakian frontier. It was, in fact, no distance from both the Austrian
and the Hungarian frontiers. In Hungary the moral climate was different,
she had been told. The Germans had not occupied the country, any more
than in Slovakia. Their influence there was far less pervasive. There
was air. The sun shone. A Jew could breathe and move. Only one frontier
away was a country with a sea-coast. But first you must be smuggled
across the Slovak frontier.

"This time you mustn't be so much of a high lady. You must look more
like the wife of a _kleinbeamter_, a small official. You'll wear one of
my old hats and that dark grey overcoat over your costume, which doesn't
look like anything in particular. It's going to be cold, too, up in the
High Tatras. I've got some real country shoes for you as well. You'll
need them. There'll be tough going. You're to hand back your Polish
papers. You'll still travel on your German papers, but you'd better
travel third class. Yes, yes. There's third class also, reserved for
Germans. You'll meet Maria at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, in The
Rynek, outside the Deutscher Hof, as they call it."

"To-morrow morning?" Joy and fear sprang in her heart at once.

"You understand? When once the next link in the chain is made, it's
important to move quickly. Yes. The Deutscher Hof. You remember? Where
you had coffee the day you came. At Tarnow you change for the branch
line by Nowy Saz to the frontier village of Piwnichna. It's quite a
little spa, so you won't attract any particular attention. Besides,
they're not particularly on the look-out for refugees in those parts.
Why jump out of the frying pan into the fire? It's smugglers they're
after. You'll go out of the station and turn right for the road that
leads north, away from the frontier-posts. You'll go on for a kilometre
or more. It'll be all right. There are several small pensions up that
way. Then you come to a smithy on your left hand, just where the woods
come down to the road. If the train is more or less on time, there'll be
a girl hanging round the smithy, inside or outside. She's about sixteen,
with coal-black hair. Her name is Zosha. If she's there, go up to her
and ask here where Frau Pfeiffer's pension is. She'll ask you which
Pfeiffer. You will say Anna. Then you'll both know. If she isn't around,
go in and ask the blacksmith about Herr Pfeiffer. He'll arrange for
Zosha to come along. Is all that clear? I'm going to give you all these
names again. Look, I'll write them down, and you'll memorize them. Then
tear up the paper. Is that all right? Sure? Good. Zosha will take you up
into the woods by a roundabout way to her own home, three or four
kilometres away. Her father has a small farm, but her real job is
smuggling. She's been paid to smuggle you across. She has contacts on
the other side. The journey over the mountains will be easier for the
girl. She can move more quickly."

Elsie looked up sharply.

"I hadn't thought of it," she said. "The success of the job might depend
on the speed we can move at? Is that it? I had a vague idea we'd go
across in a haycart, covered with sacks. That sort of thing."

Yanka shrugged her shoulders.

"Probably that sort of thing happens sometimes. But not often, I think.
The frontier guards aren't fools."

"Then I'm likely to be a nuisance to Maria? If it came to running like a
young person, I mean. I'm rather out of form."

"Yes?" Yanka waited.

"Then, I suppose, I'll make the attempt separately. I'm not going to get
in the child's way. Anything but that. If we both make it, we make it."

"Well, that's what they thought," said Yanka. "Maria will go first.
She'll wait till you join her."

"How long will it take before I see her again? Where will I join her?"

Yanka made no reply. There was a faint reproof in her eyes. Even if
there are more details available, one does not burden oneself with one
more than's necessary to carry one to the next link in the chain.

"I trust all will go well with you," said Yanka. "It is in the Lord's
hands."

Yes, the road was dark ahead. Only a single light gleamed wanly from far
off, a brave and clever woman beyond the frontier. And that light might
be extinguished, at any moment in any day.

"Thank you," murmured Elsie. "You, and Father Josef, and all of you."
She paused for a few moments, then spoke again, a little awkwardly, as
if well aware that it was most unlikely that the thing she asked would
be granted. "Is there any chance of my seeing Father Josef before I go?
I would like to thank him. Perhaps I could slip in after Mass?"

"It is better that people should not meet each other again," said Yanka.
"Not while the Shadow's still over us."

"So that you and I won't meet again, when once we leave you? Oh yes,
Yanka. We will, some day."

"You'll need the help of many other people besides Father Josef and me,"
Yanka said drily, "before you're quite safe. You'll have a long round of
visits if you'll want to see them all. I'll say prayers for your
safety."

"If I could pray, I'd give thanks to God for you, Yanka. But prayer
doesn't come easily to me."

"There are various ways of praying, Lydia. Would you like to get your
things together now, or in the morning?"

"There's so little, it will take no time. I think I'll wash my hair. I
always feel better for that."


[II]

There was a girl standing outside the doors of the Deutscher Hof as
Elsie moved across the square at ten o'clock next morning. For a moment
Elsie was not sure it was Mila, for this girl was heavier and bigger;
her clothes were different, too, from those Mila had worn before. And
then she realized, and with an odd pang, that it was, in fact, Mila. The
child was growing up. At Mila's age five months make a lot of
difference.

It's odd, isn't it (she asked herself) that I should feel put out
because the child's growing up? Do real mothers feel this way when they
see it happening?

"Hallo, mama!" said Mila, clear-eyed and smiling. You wouldn't say,
would you, they were the eyes of a girl who had been going through a
period of spiritual torment? No. The religious light of candles burning
before the images of saints did not glow there. There was no smell of
incense in her hair.

"Hallo, Maria!" At that moment the silver trumpet sounded from the high
balcony on the tower of Santa Maria. They both looked up.

"He's clear to-day, isn't he, mama?"

"Yes, isn't he?" Above all, the conversation must be casual. It was a
terrible strain not to throw your arms round the girl and hug her. There
was so much to ask and to tell, yet it must seem as if they had last
been together a half-hour ago. "Are you sure you've got all the things I
asked you for?" She saw that Mila had not only her hand-bag, but a
shopping-bag stuffed with food, which, doubtless, the good nuns had
given her.

"Yes, mama. It's all here." They were already strolling towards the
station. They had time. They got their tickets and took their seats,
without any excitement, in their reserved German carriage. The train
chugged off out of the station. The first frontier lay ahead. At every
station more and more peasants got in, till the train was as full as a
stocking with its leg. But nothing occurred to mar the comfort of Frau
Radbruch and her daughter. No one wanted to see any documents. They had
a little snack, and glued their eyes on their German papers and
magazines.

Yet, to Elsie at least, the journey was a nightmare. She and Mila had
been separated for nearly half a year. Before long they would be
separated again. For how long, this time? Was it certain they would come
together again? Of course it was not. How could anything be certain on
this adventure, when the air you breathed was compounded of uncertainty
and danger, and time had no relation any more with signs on clocks or
calendars, but was only the connecting element between contacts.

There was more than an hour to wait at Tarnow for the branchline train
south, so they went into the German buffet, where they could at least
have some sort of hot drink, and get a few things said, one thing above
all, which had only clarified itself on the way to Tarnow during these
few hours in the train.

"The days are getting quite short, Maria, aren't they?" Elsie said in a
natural voice, lifting her cup of ersatz coffee. Then, without a change
of expression, and only slightly lower, she went on: "_It's going to be
easier for you to get away without me. I think you ought to keep on when
you get across. Don't you, Maria?_"

"But then there's always the winter to look forward to," said Mila
pleasantly. "Skating and all that." Then she, too, slightly lowered her
voice. "_I'm going to wait till you come. I won't move without you._"

"No, it's not so bad. I've tasted better coffee, but I've also tasted
worse. _I won't argue, Maria. Were you happy at that school? Didn't you
sometimes feel you'd like to stay on for ever?_"

"And we might get some eggs, too, mama. Scrambled eggs. _Never. Not for
one moment. I was always thinking of the new school, night and day._"

"Well, I feel much better now, don't you? I think it's time for us to
take our places. Bill please, waitress! And don't look at me as though
you'd like to throw me under the engine. I can't help being a superior
German lady. Come along, Maria dear!"

They rose and got into the train. It was terribly crowded, but Elsie
managed to sit down. Mila stood beside her, gazing out of the window.
With a hiss and a lurch the train moved off. It was a pleasant journey
through green meadowland, and woodland indigo and golden, rising slowly
towards a line of hazy hills in the south. In the hollow places splashes
of yellow leaves and red leaves bubbled over into a brew of berries. On
the wooded slopes sycamore burned into brass, oak hardened into bronze.
The train stopped at every tiny station, amid fields whence a clamour of
geese and rooks rose louder than the train or its passengers.

They had agreed to say as little as possible to each other, but now and
again they sought each other's eyes and a message passed between them.

_What luck we're having, Mila! Wouldn't it be splendid if it kept on
like this?_

_We're in the country, Channah, the green fresh country! Whatever
happens, I've seen grass again, and meadows, and cows, and the leaves
rolling over and over in the wind, and birds not knowing which way
they're going, and trees burning from the top downwards, and hills
far-off._

What's the matter, Mila? What's the matter? She was aware that the
messages were no longer passing between them. The girl was still looking
out of the window, but you could feel she saw nothing of what she was
looking at. Her eyes were looking inward now, not outward, and were
sombre.

She's remembering the padlocked years in the ghetto, Elsie said to
herself. It's not even her mother and father she's thinking of. It's the
boys and girls who were her friends, the _habonim_, the builders,
studying how to milk cows and breed poultry for the time to come in
Palestine; the boys and girls who will never see a tree again, or hear a
bird; the boys and girls who are probably dead already. _Please, God,
save this one anyhow, if you're there, God. And if you'll let me come
through with her, that'll be fine, too._

The hills were becoming steeper now, the slopes covered for the most
part with conifers. In the hollows of the rock outcroppings the
pine-needles lay deep and soft. The streams ran ragged down the clefts
they had carved for themselves. You were in frontier country now, in the
High Tatras. At the last station three or four men of the _Grenzschutz_,
the frontier police, had got into the train. You could recognize them by
the massive binoculars they had. They had rifles slung over their
shoulders, pistols at their hips, jackboots, and a couple of white
enamel edelweiss-flowers stuck in the side of their caps as special
insignia. Their cartridge-belts bristled like teeth. They were tough
young men.

The train stopped and they got out with the remaining passengers. They
were at Piwnichna, the frontier station. Beyond those wooded mountains,
whose high points were grey spines of rock, lay the next country.
Outside the station several more frontier guards were lounging about,
but they took no notice of them. The clusters of pensions and small
houses that made up the village lay on their left. As arranged, they
themselves turned right, and walked on without haste. There were one or
two small pensions on the road, a couple of cafs, a farmhouse or two.
And then, at last, some two kilometres away, where the woods pressed in
on the road again, there was the smithy they had been told of. Just
beyond the smithy a cart and horse were drawn up against the grass
verge, with a man and girl beside it. The man was busy, or pretending to
be busy, at an axle-tree, fitting a nail in place of a missing
linch-pin. The girl was adjusting the horse's head-harness. She was
about sixteen, a lean and rangy creature. Black hanks of hair escaped
from under her dark green kerchief, sprawled over with faded print
roses. She wore an old sleeveless jacket lined with sheep-skin, and a
woollen home-spun skirt, longer at one side than the other. This could
only be the girl they had been told of, the smuggler girl who was to
lead them across the frontier. The man, doubtless, was her father.

They approached, and Mila spoke to her.

"Please can you tell us where Frau Pfeiffer's pension is?"

"Which Pfeiffer?" the girl brought out, screwing up her coal-black eyes.

"Anna," said Mila.

"Go on, both of you," the girl said, without further ado. Her words came
harsh and staccato, as if speech was a skill she was not adept in. They
continued for two or three minutes, then the girl came up beside them,
still uttering no word, and went ahead. She moved for some hundreds of
yards in long, loping strides, without effort, then turned right into a
path that climbed into the woods. It was clear they were expected to
follow. They went after her.

For a time it was fairly easy to keep her in sight, for the path cut a
clear swathe through the pines. But she was moving at a pace which
Elsie, at least, and probably Mila, too, would find it impossible to
maintain for more than a few minutes. Elsie was not a young woman, and
she was burdened with a case which already felt as if it was loaded with
bricks.

"Give me that!" Mila demanded.

"No!" panted Elsie. "You've got your own!"

"Yes, yes!" She took it from her. The back-breaking climb continued. The
ascent became steeper now, and the path wound through large outcrops of
limestone. The girl was relentless. It was only for a minute at a time
that she allowed herself to be visible. Then the eerie twilight
swallowed her again. Elsie's heart was beating like a hammer. The blood
flared in her face.

"No!" proclaimed Mila explosively. "It won't do!" Mobilizing all the
strength she had in her lungs she thrust forward and overtook the guide.
She pulled fiercely at her sleeve.

"My mama!" she brought out. "She is not young! Please! Slow down!"

Zosha turned and looked at the other girl contemptuously.

"Townspeople!" she sneered. "Maybe Jews! All right!" She waited till
Elsie overtook them, then moved on, her pace somewhat reduced. The
journey continued, along the slope, down a gully, across a stream, up
into the thick wood again. The general direction was away from the sun,
eastward, along a line parallel with the frontier. It was hard going.

'I'm not going to give in,' Elsie swore. 'I'm not. I suppose this is
nothing compared with what's ahead of us.' The flesh between calf and
heel-bone ached as if wasps had stung it. The silence was broken by the
sudden harsh shriek of a jay. Then the silence spread again, absolute
like engulfing water. Again the silence was broken. It was a sudden low
whistle of alarm from Zosha. "Down!" the sound meant. She had heard
something. She flung herself down behind a tree, and lay flat and
invisible. The others followed suit. They strained their ears for the
crack of a twig or the thresh of shifted pine-needles, but they could
hear nothing, nothing at all. Then Zosha got on her feet again. Elsie
and Mila rose, too. They went on. The back-breaking journey continued.
At last they found themselves on a long descending slope that led down
to the flat land again, where the wood cleared abruptly. It was getting
dark now, but through the tree-trunks they caught a glimpse of fields, a
dilapidated wooden farmhouse, one or two out-buildings. As they stood at
length on the wood's edge, a dog suddenly gave tongue, gazing out on a
squalid farm-yard, hazed over with wood-smoke. A few scraggy chickens
pecked at the hard earth, a tethered goat chewed and mumbled. Three
geese turned towards them like one fowl and hissed loudly. A cat sat
disconsolately on the wooden doorstep. Sharp in their nostrils, keener
than other odours, came the nutty rank smell of goats.

The girl waited till her charges reached her. Then, her head averted,
she looked sidelong at Elsie, weighing her up. For a moment the lips
parted to show a white flicker of teeth. If that was a smile, it was not
a kind one.

Then she talked. The words were like iron pellets.

"I'll go in. If all's well I'll show myself at the door. Then go into
the shed there. I'll bring soup." Then she went down, appeared again,
and went back into the house. The two others went down after her. For
some odd reason these last few yards were more desperately difficult for
Elsie than all the ardours that had gone before. Her knees were like
rubber. Her inside was pulsating like a valve. Then, at the door of the
shed, she was violently sick. The spasm over, she leaned back against
the shed, almost doubled over with weakness. She thrust back her dank
hair from her forehead, and smiled.

"That's fine now, Mila. She just wanted to get us into training. Don't
make such big eyes, girl."

"Oh, poor Channah! I could have killed her!" She lifted the latch of the
stable door, took Elsie's arm, and led her in. "Sit down here," she
said, "and I'll make it comfortable." There was a manger near the door,
with some leather trappings on hooks. Towards the rear wall was a heap
of straw and some empty sacks. "Here!" said Mila. "It will be warm, I
think!"

"Yes," murmured Elsie. "It wouldn't make much difference if it were
broken bottles." She laid herself down. Before Mila had smoothed the
straw down and fitted up a stuffed sack for pillow, she was asleep,
inert as a lump of clay. For quite a long time before she came to
consciousness again, she had the sense of a hand tugging again and again
at her shoulder, and of a voice going round and round in her ear-drum,
like the dried pea that goes round in a rattle. Her fatigue fought hard
to keep her anaesthetized, before at length it capitulated. She was
aware it was Mila shaking her urgently, and Mila's voice.

"Channah, Channah, dear Channah! I must awaken you! I don't want to, but
I've got to! Channah, Channah! Get up!"

Her eyes had already been open for some moments, and they registered
things seen before her mind comprehended words heard. They saw the light
of dawn coming in through great chinks in a double door, seeping round
the haunches of a squatting horse shuffling and puffing not many feet
away. There was a girl kneeling beside her, shaking her, a pack on her
back, a kerchief round her head. There was a bowl with soup, and a bowl
with none, two mugs, and a hunk of bread on the earth floor just beyond
the straw bed she was lying on.

Then sound, images, associations fused. Complete awareness switched
itself on, like an electric contrivance.

"Yes, Mila? What is it? Is anything wrong?" She tried to sit up, but was
immediately almost felled by the spasm of pain in her back and thighs.
"It's not a trap, is it?"

"No, Channah, no! Are you all right? I couldn't wait any more! I had to
wake you up and say good morning to you before I go."

"Before you go, Mila? What are you talking about? You can't go _now_,
not so soon! Oh, Mila!" Then at once she was in total possession of her
senses. Why on earth shouldn't she go now, so soon, if everything was
ready?

"She told me an hour ago, we'd go off at dawn. She'll be here any
moment. I've held back from waking you till the last minute. Oh,
Channah, if only you were coming, too! Why do they separate us like this
all the time?"

"Have you had any food? A hot drink?"

"They brought in soup and bread last night. I had mine, but I didn't
want to waken you. It was better for you to sleep. When she called me
this morning, she brought coffee. Here's yours. It's cold!"

"That's all right. I could eat straw. So you're going now, any minute?"

"Yes, Channah. What can I do?"

"You can do nothing but be a good girl and go. I'll be with you soon."
She paused. "Did the girl give you an idea how soon?"

"She didn't. It can't be more than a day or two. It's only a few miles
to the frontier, after all. And then I suppose she has to... she has
to pick up some stuff. Oh, Channah, it's going to be so hard for you.
It'll kill you."

"I take a lot of killing. We both do. We're doing fine, Mila. When I
next see you..." She could not permit herself to finish the sentence.
When she next saw Mila, if she saw Mila again, the back of the journey
would be anything but broken. Mila seemed to divine her thought. She
reached for the cup beside her.

"Will you have this? It's cold. There'll be something hot soon, I'm
sure."

"Oh, Mila, what's that pack on your back?"

"I don't know. It's bits of jewellery, I think. There was more than she
could take, and she said she'd pay me if I took some. So I said yes, and
she went off to the hide-away and got some more."

"Doesn't it make it all... a bit more dangerous?"

"No," said Mila. "It's worse being a Jew than a smuggler. We must keep
out of their way, that's all. Oh, she's here!" They heard the click of
the latch and one of the stable doors was pulled open. The girl, Zosha,
stood outlined against the grey light, herself a thing black and grey, a
shadow to flit imperceptibly from tree-trunk to tree-trunk, to lie on
the woodland floor like a storm-broken bough. A heavy pack was slung
from her shoulders.

"Ready?" asked Zosha.

"Yes," breathed Mila. She threw her arms round Elsie and for a moment
laid her cheek against hers. "_Shalom!_" she murmured.

"_Shalom!_" replied Elsie. Despite the sick pang at her heart, she was
speculating whether that salutation had been on her lips in all her life
before. It had not, she thought. It was better to hold on to
nonsense-thoughts like that, she knew, than suddenly to start
blubbering, as she knew she was going to the moment Mila had gone.

"Tell her she must keep inside all day," Zosha said to Mila. "She can go
out at night."

"She says you must keep inside all day. You can only go out at night."
Once more she bent down, then she lifted Elsie's head and kissed her.
"Keep well! _Shalom!_" she whispered. Then she straightened up, and went
off. The door-latch clicked behind her. As she had known she would,
Elsie started blubbering. "Let it go!" she told herself. "Buckets full!
It's the only sort of fun you're going to have for a long time!" The
attack over, a sharp stab in the stomach told her how hungry she was.
She raised herself from the waist with immense care and betook herself
to the cold soup, the cold coffee, the dry bread.

"_Horcher!_" she murmured. "_Fouquet!_ Caviare! Pressed duck!"

Then, with as much care, she lowered herself to her straw palliasse
again, and fell again at once into profound sleep.


[III]

Again she did not become awake through the natural process of waking
from sleep, and it was first through the nutty rank smell of goat she
became conscious that once more another person was involved in her
awakening. The smell first; then, after an immeasurably slight interval,
the feel of hard bristles on her cheek and of arms thrown round her
back, blunt fingertips exploring the soft places under the
shoulder-blades. Then total consciousness. Then, her mind working,
proceeding from element to element, with the speed of lightning. A
peasant, the man who had this squalid little farm; Zosha's father,
doubtless; the man who was fiddling about yesterday with the axle-tree
of the cart, outside the smithy.

I mustn't tear at his eyes. He'd knock me out, and get on with what he
wants. Then he'd hand me over to the guards. No, he wouldn't. It would
draw the sort of attention to him he wants to avoid. I must think fast.
He doesn't know I'm awake yet. He's warming up. He won't stay at this
point long. I can't, no I can't, not even for Mila, let him get on with
it.

But before the minute arc of time was traversed during which these
conclusions were succeeding one another, she was aware she was screaming
at the top of her voice, and pummelling his horrible face with her weak
fists.

"Quiet!" he boomed at her--that was the meaning of it, whatever the
Polish word was--and put his hand over her mouth. That's something done,
she told herself. However deeply tucked away his farm is in the neck of
darkness, he's still afraid of people overhearing a woman screaming.
Then he pulled his arm out from under her, and lurched to his feet,
shaking his head, and grumbling miserably. She had the feeling straight
away she was not likely to be incommoded this way again. He was the sort
of man who only believed in rape with consent.

"You might get me a hot cup of coffee!" she said. She had enough Polish
for that. He went off grumbling and growling all the time, but he was
back soon not only with hot coffee, but with bread and some eggs. He
kept his eyes turned from her. They were red-rimmed and foolish. She
felt quite sorry for him.

"But my dear!" she told him, in English: "That smell of goat!"


[IV]

Three days passed, and they were fairly uneventful. The cat came in and
took a fancy to her, thus brightening things up. It was company, and it
kept other creatures away. The horse was company, too, when the man
brought her in of an evening and unharnessed her. The horse was a bit
restless, but so was she. They got on well with each other. The man
brought her enough to eat and drink, but otherwise treated her as if she
had cholera, which did not upset her. She drowsed away the daylight
hours, and gave her muscles the chance of recovering from the inordinate
strain they had been subjected to. They would soon be subjected, she
knew, to a more punishing one. She looked forward keenly to the brief
stroll after dark, though the dog made a lunatic clamour when she issued
forth. She had never known stars so large and bright as these, in a sky
which seemed to fit tight as a cap over these mountains.

An unpleasant episode occurred on the second day. The dog had suddenly
started one of his uproars, of which it was impossible, at least for
Elsie, to say whether they meant something or nothing. On this occasion,
apparently, it meant something. In a minute or two the man came in. "Get
up at once!" he said. His thoughts and words were few, his gestures
simple. It was always impossible to misunderstand him. She got up from
the straw, her heart knocking painfully. "This way! Run!" He ran ahead
of her into the wood. Some thirty or forty yards inside was a small
hollow, thick with drifted leaves and fallen pine-needles and broken
twigs. He thrust his arms inside and flung the stuff aside in great
armfuls, like a dog burrowing with its fore-paws into the sandy scarp of
a warren, till he revealed a criss-cross stretcher of branches laid over
an opening cut into the woodland floor. He pulled the stretcher aside to
give access to a shaft that descended some six feet or so. The shaft had
a rough ladder clamped against one side. "Get down there!" the man
demanded. She went down, though it was not easy, and she had not reached
the bottom before the man had pulled the stretcher over the shaft and
begun to cover it with twigs and leaves. There was room enough to sit
down, but hardly more, with her knees drawn up, and her back arched
against the earth wall. She found there was some paper and sacks down
there, and a square of tarpaulin, all materials, doubtless, for the
wrapping of the smuggled goods. The darkness was not wholly darkness, it
was like being under twenty feet of water. Through the roof of twigs and
leaves air came down to live on.

It was uncomfortable, it was even horrible; yet it was not so bad as the
time she had crawled along the sewer into the Warsaw ghetto. But the
liability to an experience of this sort put the inquiry into her head,
whether life at this price was quite worth it, seeing how speculative it
all was. It was dreadfully uncertain that she would ever get anywhere,
and beyond the furthest bound of guess-work what she would do when she
got there.

But no. Sitting there with the crick in her neck, in the damp cold hole,
she knew now that the impulse to take her own life, which she had once
known, had gone for ever, and would not return in the most direful
circumstances. They might kill her, enemies or even friends, but not she
herself. And to be fair to herself, on that earlier occasion, when she
had been brimful of the desire for death, and death had, in fact, taken
control, the time when she had lain trapped under the bomb-wreckage in
Warsaw, she had not herself summoned him; she had merely made no effort
to bid him be gone. Till she heard the voice of Mila crying from the
deeps. That had made the difference.

It accounted for a good deal now, but not all. She knew she would never
sneak off in time to come, because it was dishonourable to incur a debt
from life, and not to discharge it by dying the death life itself
imposed on you. She knew that, whatever discomfort, pain, danger,
boredom lay in wait for her, her brain would always stand aside, curious
as to the pattern that was being evolved, and the finale that would
round it off. It was _fun_. The word was ridiculous, but conclusive.

"So I hope he'll be back soon," she told herself, "my poor nasty he-man,
and let me out of this." A thought ambled through her mind. "I wonder
whether anybody unpleasant _has_ turned up. The dog barked like mad, but
that means nothing. He'll bark like that at a chicken pecking at a lump
of potato-peel. Has he put me down here with the idea of softening me
up? If I don't say yes to him the next time he cocks an eye at me, am I
to believe there'll be another holiday in the hidey-hole?"

She did not have the opportunity of deciding this, for Zosha returned in
the early morning of the fourth day. She came in. Elsie, as it happened,
was awake. She was back in the stable now.

"It's you, Zosha? How's Mila?" She asked breathlessly. She had Polish
enough for that.

"_Dobzhe!_ Good!" That's all she had to say on the matter. It was
enough, and it was tremendous.

"Thank you! Thank you!" In her wild relief the mad thought occurred to
her she must show her gratitude by presenting her with one of the jewels
she still had hidden on her person. But she realized at once that would
not be sensible, if she hoped to join Mila again.

Brief instructions followed. The dialect in these parts was thick, but,
as always, the words were few and simple. Zosha and her father would be
busy all day. Doubtless, Elsie thought, they had merchandise both to
deliver and collect. She must be ready to leave early next morning, or
the morning after, she was given to understand. There would be food for
the day soon. On no account was Elsie to show herself during their
absence. Then Zosha went off, the indefatigable creature, tough as hide,
sinewy as a willow-sapling. The father brought the food in. It was not
he who wore the trousers in that house, excepting for certain
specialized functions. Elsie lifted her mug of coffee from the ground,
her hand trembling and her eyes (she was irritated to discover) misted
over.

"To you, Mila! You've made it!" she said aloud. "God bless you! See you
soon, I hope!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

Two mornings after they left at cock-crow. Zosha once again carried a
pack crammed with goods, bits and pieces of broken-up jewellery junk.
There would be good Slovak cigarettes to come back later. Elsie carried
a pack, too, in which were rolled up her heavy coat and one or two other
objects of clothing. She knew that the journey ahead was going to be
extremely strenuous and unpleasant, yet, at the moments of her maximum
exhaustion, when she was quite convinced she would die if she had to
climb any more of those frightful rocks, or crouch for two more minutes
in a cave as cold as a refrigerator--even at those dreadful moments she
could never quite make up her mind whether it was more, or less,
unpleasant than she had anticipated. She was, however, certain that
crossing did _not_ seem so dangerous as she had imagined, though she
realized that the journey did not seem so dangerous merely because
Zosha's skill and instinct were side-stepping the dangers. On two
occasions she herself either saw or heard the patrols, but from Zosha's
behaviour it was quite clear they were close at hand more often than
that. On each occasion they went to earth immediately and waited till
the danger had passed by. Then Zosha took her off helter-skelter across
the area left comparatively safe for a short period. Only comparatively
safe, she was to learn later from Mila. There were still animal-traps
planted at strategic points, electrified wires or wires hung with bells,
look-out posts planted on tree-tops and on commanding rocks. It was
those wild scampers, after the patrol had passed by, that made the day
most nightmarish. But it was all a nightmare, the miles of forest, the
exposed screes, the plunging slopes. She was soon in a state of such
exhaustion that she could only continue because all volition had gone
out of her numbed faculties. She was a twitching automaton, putting one
foot in front of the other, scrambling jerkily on hands and knees as if
Zosha pulled the strings. Yet, despite this, certain of her faculties
seemed to be living in an acute ether they had not known before. In the
woods, from a tree far-off and down below, came the clack of the wings
of a disturbed wood-pigeon settling into its nest. A weasel shifted a
handful of light leaves. Between rocks and sky, hawks hovered. An eagle
swooped out of the afternoon. From a hollow a wailing rose that made the
blood freeze. A wailing went back to it over the cold leagues. What
creatures were they, with voices so hateful and melancholy?

Woods began again. Wood-pigeons heeled over in the late light. From
somewhere far below, thin and precise, came the tap of a woodpecker,
like a spinster tapping at a typewriter. She was not conscious that
their pace had slackened, but the slopes were descending now. The
streams were making their way to the south, not the north. Surely
melancholy Poland was behind them? They had crossed the frontier?

"Slovakia now?" she asked, pulling aside the matted hair from over her
eyes.

"_Tak!_" the girl said. "Yes." Quite casually, as though the journey had
been to the village post office. At that moment Elsie only knew she
would have liked to smash Zosha's face in. How long ago could she have
told her the patrolled area was behind them? The creature was hard and
grey as flint, young as she was.

"Could I rest now? I must rest," groaned Elsie.

"No." The girl was implacable. Perhaps the danger was not over yet. The
journey continued through thick pine-woods, with here and there a
clearing, where timber was being felled. An animal barked, not a dog. A
fox, wasn't it? Where there's a fox, there's poultry. There were farms
somewhere not far off. In some farm somewhere, in some barn or stable,
Mila was awaiting her.

"My daughter?" she brought out. "How soon? Where is she?"

Zosha projected a thumb down the slope. That was all the information she
was going to give. They continued for another ten or fifteen minutes.
Then she stopped.

"Wait here!" she said. "Sit!" She went off and returned some minutes
later, the pack no longer on her shoulders. Somewhere, close at hand,
was her Slovakian cache. "Come now!" Those were not words. They were a
gesture of the head. It took Elsie a long time to rise, for all her body
was like lead. When she at last staggered to her feet, the very eyelids
seemed so heavy they were dragging her head down. She _had_ to sleep,
there was no getting away from it. She couldn't go a step further.
Slovakia didn't matter, Bratislava didn't matter, not even Mila
mattered, she must sleep. The drowsiness of one bedded in a snow-drift
must be like this, she mused dimly. Her feet were splaying under her,
her head was bobbing from side to side like a tethered balloon.

Suddenly she felt a sharp hand-slap, first on the left cheek, then the
right. The head settled with a crick on the neck-bones again. The legs
tightened up.

"All right!" she said through her teeth. Both cheeks flamed, like plates
where methylated spirit has been ignited. "Good girl, Zosha!"

Now at last was the last lap. The evening light, like a coloured mist,
was scarfed round the trunks of pine and fir, of oak and beech. Beyond
the woods a stretch of pasture rippled in great waves towards another
line of hills. Some three hundred yards away a deep-gabled log-built
farmhouse stood off from a fringe of meadows, protected from the east by
a thicket of ragged elms. Far off in the plain beyond, flocks of sheep
curled and floated, like handfuls of plucked feathers. A wing of light,
like a swallow's, glanced up from a coil of water.

"That house!" said Zosha. "Family Galbany lives there!"

"Is she there too?" whispered Elsie. "My daughter?" The girl nodded.
Elsie clasped her hands and ran forward a yard or two, till her
stiffness stopped her, like a rope stretched in front of her. She turned
in a passion of gratitude, but her words were checked on her lips. Zosha
was not there. She stumbled a few yards this way and that, back along
the path, in among the trees. She was not there.

"Zosha!" she called out. There was no reply. "Zosha!" Silence. For a
minute or two she stood there wondering whether the whole venture was a
dream. But no, with these blistered feet and chafed shoulders, it was no
dream. Zosha was being funny then, she had shown all the time a streak
of rather savage humour. She leaned against a tree, waiting for Zosha to
reappear, so as to conclude her job, and hand her charge over to the
next contact. But Zosha did not reappear. Suddenly fright was added to
all Elsie's other discomforts. She was in a country where she had never
been before, where they spoke a strange uncouth language. She was in a
frontier region, with its patrols and check-points. She opened her mouth
to shout "Zosha! Zosha!" with all her lungs, then at once clamped her
hand over her face. If trouble was lurking anywhere, what could be more
idiotic than to draw attention to a foreign woman yelling a foreign name
in a border-land wood?

Then suddenly a happier thought possessed her mind. This was Slovakia,
not Poland. In Poland the Germans were in occupation. In Slovakia they
were not. Perhaps they would never be. It was easier to move about in
this country. She had entered the orbit of that brave and clever woman
of whom Yanka had spoken to her in Cracow. What was her name? Miriam.
That was it. She raised her aching hand in salute to the unincarnated
wraith... tall or dark, lean or stocky, girl or old woman? She did
not know. She might not ever know.

"Good-bye, Zosha," she murmured. "That's why you've gone off. Because
there's Miriam, now."

How far was that house at the foot of the slope? Two, three hundred
yards. There would be neither Zosha nor Miriam to guide her over that
distance. But if she could not travel three hundred yards under her own
steam, she was not likely to get far on her journey to Rio de Janeiro,
or wherever she was headed for.

She turned her back again on Poland, and for the last time; then
staggered down to the edge of the woodland on to the open path, and out
to the lane beyond. A boy was coming up behind a pair of ambling oxen.
He looked at her for a moment, then turned his eyes away. Perhaps he had
seen other weary travellers descend out of those woods. She dragged
herself on to an unlatched gate in a low fence bordering the lane, and
walked through. The meadow beyond was beaten into farm-yard earth. Above
the yard stood the farmhouse, with a name and date carved in florid
letters out of the lintel over the door:

    JANO GALBANY 1910

A woman was feeding chickens beside the house, a basin in the crook
of her arm. She straightened up as Elsie came near, and stared into her
eyes, but said no word. A dark-blue kerchief was bound round her
forehead, its ends lying behind her neck. She wore a square-cut
sheep-skin jacket over a white blouse with puffed sleeves.

"_Panni_ Galban, you?" Elsie asked tremulously.

She nodded, then with her free arm signalled to a small window under the
angle of the gable. A hand appeared and flickered an answering signal,
pink and swift like the tip of a cat's tongue. There could be no doubt
whose hand that was. With a quick gesture the woman flung the remaining
grain in a wide arc into the sun, so that they seemed rather like
ash-berries than pellets of maize. Then she looked swiftly right and
left along the lane. There was nothing to worry her anywhere. Through
the scuffle and squawk of chickens she thrust over to Elsie, and took
her arm.

"Good evening," she said, in Polish, "God be with you!" The folk would
have at least a few words of Polish in these frontier parts. "She awaits
you! Come!" She saw how exhausted Elsie was, and put her arm round her
shoulder, holding her up. "This way!"

"Good evening, _panni_," Elsie mumbled. "Such a long...."

"Please not to talk now!" They went up three wooden steps, and entered
the main room of the house. The woman shut the door behind them. With
the click of the latch there was a wild scramble of flying limbs down an
exposed stairway at a corner of the room.

It was she.

"Mila! Mila!"

"Channah! You're come! You're here!"

This time, at least, they did not remember that those were not the names
by which they should address each other. Their arms were round each
other. They kissed each other. They kissed each other again and again.

Then Panni Galban broke in.

"Let her go, Marisha! Let her go up and rest!"

Between them they managed to get Elsie up into the low-hung gable room.
There was no bed on legs there, but a beautiful couch had been made up
in the sweet-smelling straw, spread out with clean coarse sheets and
covered over with a gay embroidered counterpane. Almost at once there
was a hot stone, wrapped in a blanket, to put into the bed. Soon after
there was a huge bowl of hot soup and a glass of ice-cold milk. Panni
Galban was kind.




CHAPTER V


[I]

It was late autumn, but there was a curious springtime feeling in the
air. It was not due to the bright sun that shone all day, for they were
high in the mountains and the nights were bitter. But the first stage of
the journey was behind them. There was a sense of loosening, as when the
piled ice-blocks of a river start cracking, and the water begins to run
this way and that. There might be a frost later on, but for the time
being the sun is upon the eyes.

They had found friends back there in Poland, but they had been gifts of
fortune. Where would they have been now, if Wolff had not still been in
the Warsaw ghetto? If the young student in St. Anna Street had not led
them to Father Josef? But here, in Slovakia, not only did they have
friends, but their friends had names. The farmer was named Jano Galbany,
like his father before him; his wife was Zuzanna, his son Jozko. Those
were real names. It was heartening to be dealing with names, and not the
shadows of names. There was one other name known to them, Miriam, still
only a shadow-name. But she was a woman, too, and an instrument so
sensitive, she had received impulses all the desperate way from
Palestine, and had transmitted them beyond the Polish frontiers. Perhaps
at that very moment impulses towards their salvation were crossing and
criss-crossing along invisible wires, over plains and rivers and hills.

It was true the danger was far from over yet. In a single instant the
mechanism called Miriam might be as irretrievably smashed as a watch
cracked by a hammer. Miriam or no Miriam, lands and seas stretched wide
and far between them and the end of danger. But they had stepped out of
the grave-cloths. They had come up out of the tomb.

It was true that they were still hedged round with secrecies. They kept
to the one room all day, as before, but it was a room, not a stable. It
was only Zuzanna, the woman, they had anything to do with. The husband
and the son went on with their work as if Elsie and Mila were not there.
They did not show their faces at the window by day, or light the room up
by night. But all these were elementary precautions. They were not
manacles.

"I wonder what she's like," murmured Mila from her straw couch, on the
second night after Elsie's arrival. Elsie had been more or less
unconscious till then.

"You mean Miriam?" asked Elsie. She was aware that in Cracow they had
given Miriam's name to Mila, too, as well as to herself, and the name of
the town where she had her headquarters.

"Yes, Miriam."

"Perhaps we'll find out in Bratislava," speculated Elsie.

"Perhaps yes, perhaps not," mused Mila sadly. "Did they tell you she's
in touch with Palestine?"

"Yes, Yanka told me."

"Sister Carmela told _me_. I wonder if she looks like Sister Carmela?"

"Why should she look like Sister Carmela?"

"Because Sister Carmela's so tall and beautiful, and has such quiet
eyes." ("Ho-ho!" Elsie said to herself. "So she didn't get through her
convent days without her little schoolgirl pash!")

"I think if Sister Carmela were Jewish, she'd do work like this Miriam,
organizing escapes for... for people like us."

"There's a lot of people besides Jews who are risking their lives on
this escape work. We've met some already. There's Sem, and Father Josef,
for instance, and Yanka, and your nuns."

"Yes, it's true. But what are the people outside doing? Surely they must
know by now what's going on? We often used to ask ourselves that
question in the _kibbutz_ discussions in Warsaw."

"They know in Palestine. Yanka told me that Miriam is in touch with
Palestine. They must be helping her with food and supplies."

"Yes." There was a silence for some time. Then: "If Miriam has
connections with the outside world, she could have escaped to Eretz long
ago if she'd wanted to."

"Yes, of course."

"I _wonder_ what she's like," insisted Mila. She seemed quite
exasperated that she could not build up a mental image of her. "I don't
think she can be like Sister Carmela, for she's Jewish. She wouldn't be
like my mother, either. She must be tough and strong. My mother was
always so delicate, like a flower."

"One doesn't know," observed Elsie. "Sometimes people who are tough
inside look like nothing in particular outside."

"Anyhow, she's wonderful, whatever she looks like."

"And I hope she's sleeping safe and warm, wherever she is. And you go to
sleep, too. Good night, Mila."

"Good night, Channah." Then: "Good night, Miriam." She was asleep soon.

                 *        *        *        *        *

There was a good deal of speculation about Miriam during the next few
days and nights, though the woman was only a name, and nothing was known
about her but the nature of her work. She seemed to have taken hold of
Mila's imagination much more powerfully than even Sister Carmela, though
there was no shape to her hands, and no colour to her eyes.

Word came through on the fifth evening that they were to set out for
Bratislava the following morning. A priest from those parts, by name
Father Pekarek, had been on a visit to a dying relative in his native
village not far off. He would come in a horse-and-cart a few kilometres
out of his way to pick them up at eight next morning, and take them to
the station at Podoline, where the branch-railway into the mountains
ended. From there the line went to the junction-station of Poprad, some
two hours away, and they would reach Bratislava, all being well, about
eight that evening. Father Pekarek would look after them the whole time.
They were once again to look as nondescript as possible, say the wife
and daughter of a small clerk or shopkeeper. Shepherded by Father
Pekarek, it was highly unlikely that anyone would dream of asking them
for papers. If they did, the priest would know how to tackle the
situation.

At eight o'clock next morning Father Pekarek duly turned up, sitting
alongside his driver. They were announced not only by the gay clip-clop
of the horse's hoofs, but by a hearty peal of laughter that set off the
dog barking, the chickens cackling, the cows mooing. There was nothing
conspiratorial about the priest or his driver.

"He's here! The priest!" cried Zuzanna. "Have you got everything? Your
food parcels? Your cases?" (There had been a metamorphosis of rucksacks
into fibre suitcases.) "Come at once!" They tumbled down the steps and
into the yard. The priest lumbered down out of the cart and came over.
He wore a battered black felt hat, and a long soutane shiny with the
grease-patches and wine-stains of many a year's good feeding.

"The blessings of the Lord be on you!" he boomed, "and a good morning,
too!" (He was speaking Slovak.) Then he turned to Elsie and Mila. "So
you're my babies, eh?" But he took all three into his arms, one after
the other, and kissed them roundly. "Well, what are we waiting about
for? We've a train to catch."

"Whoa there, Pejko!" the driver called out to the horse, which was a bit
fresh.

"Whoa there, Pejko!" repeated the priest. Then, not quite so loud: "You
talk Polish? Good! Let it be Polish!" He lifted his charges into the
rear end of the cart where there was a heap of straw and sacking, and a
couple of old sheep-fleeces. Then it occurred to him that the youngster
might prefer a seat in front with the driver; or, perhaps, he himself
preferred a seat behind with the woman. "Come you, what's your name?
You'd rather go in front, wouldn't you? What did you say your name was?"

"Maria, Father."

"Marisha, eh? Fine! Come Mrs. Neighbour, kiss them good-bye!" They bent
down and kissed Zuzanna warmly. Husband and son appeared at the door and
waved. "Say good-bye to all of them! God bless you, children! Hup-la,
Pejko, Ludvik! Off we go now! Hup!"

Ludvik cracked his whip and slewed the horse's head round.

"Hup!" he shouted. They were off. It was an almost intoxicating air of
comfort the priest radiated. Elsie had not closely studied priests
before, but this one, she felt, despite his immense _bonhomie_, must be
as saintly as priests are made. He was also, if anyone was, a countryman
to the broad tips of his fingers, and the billiard-ball polish of his
high Slav cheek-bones. As a priest performing his churchly functions, he
doubtless carried about with him the faint smell that priests have of
incense and tapers and mothballs in vestment-stored cupboards. But
perched up beside her in the cart, his stubby legs stretched out before
him, his smell was of the earth and farms, of milking and gelding,
hay-tossing and potato-picking. Perhaps he had a bit of a farm on the
outskirts of Bratislava, and he spent his evenings with his soutane
tucked up round his waist, his feet stuffed into a pair of leggings,
cocking a bland eye at his pigs and calves. It was a simple face, hardly
fitted, you might have thought, to deal with the simple theological
issues that present themselves in the training of a country priest.
Except that the priest was clean-shaven, and Ludvik, the driver, had a
burly red beard growing round his chin like a ruff, you felt they could
have changed places with each other without doing each other violence.
They both had the same stocky shoulders, broad hands, high cheek-bones,
bright blue eyes.

"Hup! Hup!" shouted Ludvik.

"Hup! Hup!" shouted Father Pekarek back to him, and roared with
laughter.

They were making good progress. The horse was in as good a temper as the
two men, the two women also, for that matter. They had gone through the
first village. They went up a fairly steep slope beyond. The down slope
on the other side was somewhat steeper. They were coming slowly down
from the High Tatra country. "Ye-ow! Ye-ow!" squealed the brakes. The
scraggy chickens dithered and cackled across the road. The goats stared
silently, with tufts of green-stuff dangling from their jaws. The dogs
barked and chased their tails. It was a fine crisp morning. Elsie and
Mila are one stage further on their way out of the charnel-house!
Hallelujah!

Conversation, of course, was not brisk. Now and again Father Pekarek
addressed a remark to Elsie in his own language, but rather by way of
friendliness, than for the sake of exchanging thoughts. Once or twice
when it seemed important for him to get a thought off his chest, he
shouted it out to Mila, who gave it back to Elsie. The importance was
not in the thoughts themselves. "Ask her doesn't she think it's a fine
day?" "Tell her to look at that flight of geese!" "Ask her does she like
Hungarian wine. They drink a lot in these parts." But it was
conversation. They were comrades. For the most part he sang songs. He
had a rollicking baritone voice. And when he wasn't singing, he was
hallooing to the peasants chopping wood at their doors, or working out
in their fields. The peasants touched their caps and smiled back to him.
He clasped his hands over his stomach, and twiddled his thumbs with
loving-kindness.

It was on a stretch of road that traversed the rolling plain, under the
ruins of the Stara Zubovna castle, that the fairy-tale thing happened.
Elsie was drowsing, for she had been up early, but in the curious and
blissful sense of confidence that the priest gave off like warmth from a
stove, her mind was wandering with an unusual freedom. She was at
Juan-les-Pins, stretched out indolently beside her first husband on the
tiger-coloured sands; she was playing draughts with dear, kind Yanka in
the Cracow apartment; she was in the kitchen of her father's small house
in Doomington, where the anarchists came to drink tea-with-lemon, and
make eyes over the rims of their tumblers at the Silver daughters. One
of them was speaking,

"_Zugt mir a mol, Yiddene. Fin vannet kimmt ir?_"

The meaning of the words was clear enough: "Now, just tell me, Jewish
woman, where do you come from?" But the accent? She wondered vaguely
what sort of Yiddish accent that was. The anarchists came from widely
scattered areas in the Eastern-European homelands. The Poles made fun of
the Lithuanians for calling _fleisch_ '_flaysh_.' The Lithuanians made
fun of the Poles for calling _flaysh_ '_fleisch_.'

"Hijo! Pejko!" the carter called out to the horse, as he shied from a
flock of sheep that came bleating up the road.

The words buzzed a little more loudly at her ear-drum again.

"_Zugt mir a mol, Yiddene. Fin vannet kimmt ir?_"

She gave no answer, for the words were not uttered on the
North-Slovakian plateau, but in the Silver kitchen. They belonged not to
now, but to a quarter of a century ago. And they were not addressed to
her either; doubtless, to her mother, or Esther, her eldest sister.

Then she felt a nudge of an elbow in her ribs.

"_Ni, Yiddene?_" a voice asked behind the swish-swish of Pejko's tail.

She turned her head imperceptibly, fearfully, because surely she was
bewitched, she was hearing voices. When she had turned her head far
enough, she saw the blue eyes of Father Pekarek staring into her own; or
rather, she saw one blue eye, for the other was screwed up in a wink.
Her mouth opened till it was a round hole. She felt her eyes goggling in
their sockets, like old-time toffee-apples impaled on sticks. She tried
to say something, but she could as soon at that moment have sung
'_Ho-yo-lo-ho_,' the Battle-cry of Brnnhilde.

So Father Pekarek spoke again, again in Yiddish, and louder this time:

"Well, _Yiddene_, what do you expect? A Jew has _saychel_, sense, hasn't
he?"

He spoke so loud, in fact, that alarm went rat-tat-tat at her head, like
a door-knocker. Her eyes switched to Ludvik the driver, and back again
to Father Pekarek, in an anguished appeal. For God's sake, they said,
what about _him_? Be careful!

Father Pekarek threw his head back, and roared till the cart rattled.
She didn't know what the joke was, but it was impossible not to laugh
with him. Ludvik turned his head, and smiled broadly. Only Mila remained
serious; not tragic, as she still was most of the time; but serious,
deeply interested. What on earth was all this fantastic clatter about?

Then at last Father Pekarek stopped laughing. Taking a white-spotted red
handkerchief from his sleeve, and wiping his eyes, he leaned forward
towards Ludvik.

"_Sie hot moira fun dir, Laibel. Hast geherrt a za zach?_ She's
frightened of you. Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

Ludvik also screwed up one blue eye in a wink, then turned and cracked
his whip over the horse's rump. "Hup, there! Hup!" he shouted.

"You see, _yiddene_," explained Father Pekarek. "He's my brother. We
work together."

"Yes, I see," said Elsie weakly. "I thought I saw a family likeness. The
Yiddish came to her more freely than it did all those years ago in her
father's kitchen. Then, it was merely a way of talking. Now it was a
file smuggled in a loaf of bread into a prison cell. It was a rope for
shinning down walls. The preposterousness of it all struck her, like a
blow of the hand. "Two brothers, eh? Two Jews? It's not true! How can it
be true?"

"What does it matter?" asked Father Pekarek, shrugging his shoulders.
"Is it better to go for a ride in a truck to a crematorium? So they
might catch you, sooner or later? So let them catch you. But it's been a
nice life in between times, no?"

She was silent for some moments. Then admiration took the place of
astonishment.

"It's very clever, the way you do it," she murmured, "and clever of you
to think of it."

"No," he said shortly. "It wasn't I who thought of it."

"It was Miriam," Elsie suddenly gave forth. She hardly knew the words
were on her tongue.

He turned round swiftly.

"How do you know about her?"

"They told us in Cracow. I suppose, because----"

"That's all right," he said. He preferred not to pursue the subject. But
she insisted.

"You see, when we got to Cracow, the man they sent us to wasn't there.
They'd caught him. They wanted us to have a line of advance in case...
in case anybody fell out."

He looked at her for some time out of the corners of his eyes.

"Of course," he concluded. "I should have got that straight away." Then
suddenly an emotion, which had been dammed up behind his tongue, broke
loose. "She's wonderful," he cried, "she's a saint from heaven! We were
already in line, my brother there and me, and she managed to steal us
from under their very noses, him, and me, and six others. It was in
Zilina, in the big stadium there, that they built with Jewish money. Any
moment they could have knocked her down and smashed her to pulp with
their rifles."

"Is she... what sort of a woman is she?" asked Elsie. Then she drew
back the words. "I'm sorry." She knew one shouldn't ask questions.
"We've both been thinking about her a great deal. It's only that she
makes you feel... you're not alone any more."

"What sort of a woman should she be? An ordinary woman. A wife. A
mother. Her man used to import coffee, or wine, or something. A woman
like you--a _yiddene_. You could meet her at the grocer's shop in the
morning. She'd be in the synagogue for the _yomtovim_, the holy days."

"A woman like me," Elsie said to herself. "Like _me_? Oh no, I think
not." The lobes of her ears tingled as if a match had been held near
them. Why did she suddenly feel so miserably, so frighteningly, small
and silly, she, the fine lady, the husky-voiced flasher of bright eyes,
who had once held enraptured audiences in her hand, and squeezed them
till they wept?

"What did you say?" asked Father Pekarek.

"I didn't say anything... er... er...." She was obviously
searching for a name to address him by. It seemed rather odd to go on
calling him Father Pekarek.

"Keep on with Father Pekarek in public," he said. "In private, I'm
Gerstl. And you?" He suddenly felt he had said enough. He had no call to
start gabbing because he revered that other woman, because he idolized
her. "I was asking you a question."

"Where do I come from? From the ghetto in Warsaw. The girl and I escaped
together while the fighting was still on. I didn't know her before, but
she's like... she's like my daughter now. She's Polish."

"A sweet girl, no evil befall her. And before Warsaw, what were you?
Your Yiddish is so German."

"I was from Germany. I married a German. But before that I was English."

"English, eh? You've travelled around a bit. Oh, there's an inn here.
It's a dreary road from here to Polodine, flat and high and without
trees. Let's have a glass, yes? Hi, stop, Ludvik!"

The inn was as much a farmhouse as an inn. There was a glass of milk for
Mila, and a glass of wine for Elsie. There was no trouble in getting
either, for the wine was on a shelf, and the milk was in the cow, which
shared the bar with the customers. The two men threw back a glass of
_borovicka_, which is a liqueur half flame, half juniper. All this was
accompanied by a good deal of blessing to-and-fro and hand-kissing. Then
the cart clip-clopped off again towards the station some three or four
kilometres away on the windy plateau. Father Pekarek was obviously
concerned about something. Then he gave voice to it.

"By the way," he brought out. "There's the matter of papers. "What
papers have you got? Did they get out Czech papers for you?"

"We've got papers as _reichsdeutsche_ mother and daughter. They're in
the bag here. Do you think... perhaps I ought to tear them up?"

"No. As you talk German so well, who knows when they might come in
useful? They don't check up often in the trains. If they do, I can
tackle it. Remember. You're from the Gora region on the frontier, where
they use a lot of Polish words, and they talk with a strong Polish
accent."

"The girl talks Czech as well as Polish. Her mother was from Prague."

"That's fine. Then the girl may have Czech papers made out, too, while
you're in Bratislava. She'll see to all that." He meant Miriam, of
course.

"Then we might separate again, when we cross the next frontier?"

"She'll see to all that," he repeated. "Grown-ups and youngsters are
always different problems."

"Yes, of course. We separated back there, on the Polish side, too."

"You see? Don't worry too much, _yiddene_, or you'll get a headache.
Perhaps it would be better if you _did_ have a headache, I mean, for the
journey. Just talk as little as possible. Better not talk at all. You
understand?" She nodded. "In ten hours you'll see the Danube. The Danube
flows into the Black Sea. Do you hear, _yiddene_? The Black Sea."

"What did you say?"

"I said in ten hours you'll see the Danube, and the Danube flows into
the Black Sea." He puffed out his chest and extended his arms, as if to
indicate to her the expanding horizons.

"The Black Sea," she murmured dimly. It was as if her headache were
already descending on her. "Where's that?" He looked at her curiously.
She shook her head and blinked. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was thinking of
something else." She reached out after some sort of visual image of a
Black Sea, but her mind was flooded with mist, like a valley-bottom. The
Black Sea, her lips went again. But all context had gone out of the
words. Black Sea. Sargasso Sea. Veni, vidi, Vee Sea. Black Sea.

"Podoline! The train's in already! Over the lines, there. See? Come, my
babies, out! Whoa, Pejko! Whoa!"


[II]

Two hours to Poprad. The high, bleak, snow-dazzled mountains closing in
on the right, in the valley the jade-green river, a lake black as pitch
encompassed by black stone-pines. All change here for Bratislava. Keep
close to Father Pekarek, and be a stone-dumb lady, you on one side, the
girl on the other side. Due westward through the noontime hover peaks to
right and left. The peasant women at the stations in the white-and-red
embroidered things, their cheeks like polished apples; the men with
their carved staves, their sheep-skin coats, the deep-set eyes in the
weather-beaten faces. Talk as little as possible. Better not talk at
all. You have a headache. Mila quite happy with her book. When the baby
offers you a grubby lump of cake in his grubby fist, smile sickly, and
screw up your face, and drowse again, your head on one side.
_Ruzomberok._ Fancy living in a place called Ruzomberok. Ha! Ha! Oh,
what's that? Left! Right! Left! Right! A sergeant and half a dozen men,
left, right, along the platform, red bands about their caps. An
inspection? No, they get into the train. The train goes on. They get out
of the train at a place called Zilina. Way down the platform, a company
of passengers, men, women, and children, all with suitcases. Jews. They
have the yellow star sewn over the left breast. Guards in front, at the
rear. There's a camp in this town. Or maybe they're moving on further
somewhere. Thank God Mila's sitting with her back to that end of the
platform. Control that jaw, Father Pekarek, or somebody might get wise
to you. Of course. Of course. This is the place where Miriam rescued you
and your brother. Move on, train, move on. The gap-toothed castles
commanding the passes, perched up on the isolated sugar-cone hills.
Those Jews with yellow stars and their suitcases. How pale they were,
forlorn, frightened. My people. There, but for the love of God....
Don't take too much for granted. How much of the love of God have _you_
in your banking account? The river broadens out into shallows, narrows
between steep banks. Silence in the railway carriage. The baby asleep
across the mother's lap, lying like a bale of cloth. Father Pekarek deep
in the study of his missal. Was he a bit worried that I have so mixed-up
a background? Yes, I was German. Before that, I was English. Why should
it worry him? Naturally he was interested. It's getting dark. Trenin.
Castle outlined on the hill, against flaring streaks of sunset. Towers,
steeples, pepper-box turrets, gathering the darkness round them. I
suppose Father Pekarek will see this Miriam to-night. He'll have a
report to hand over. _If_ she's in Bratislava. She may be this
peasant-woman in the corner, with the basket of green-stuff. Doing a
good job, these people. Good. Mila has closed her book now. Too dark to
read. What's she thinking of? Miriam, Miriam. Quite captured Mila's
imagination. I wonder what she's like? Piestany. Haven't I heard of this
place? A spa? Mud-baths? The darkness thickening, the hills declining.
Trnava. Old Father Pekarek gesturing with his thumb. We can't be far off
now. A river, a broad river, in the valley below, and the low red moon
reflected in it. The Danube. Beyond the Danube is another country.
Poland in sight this morning. Yes, this morning. It seems like a hundred
years ago. Hungary in sight to-night. It will be better in Hungary, much
easier, _when_ we get there. Houses, cafs, a petrol station, coming out
to meet the train. A church, a cinema. The outskirts of a town. Below
us, the town consolidating, descending in a gentle slope to the river.

Bratislava.


[III]

"Well, my child, how's the headache?" asked Father Pekarek, as he helped
Elsie out of the train. He spoke in German. Then, with his voice at her
ear. "It's all right. Everyone speaks it here. And you, Marisha? You'll
be pleased to stretch your legs, eh?" They walked out into the station
square, which stood well above the town. The world was bathed in
moonlight. Beyond the station regions, left and right, the road
extended, bordered with white houses that rose out of moon-dripping
greenery. Beyond the town, to the west, a spur of hills came down to the
mackerel-silver river, and continued northward beyond the broad valley.
Between hills and woods a massive square citadel bore down towards the
town below, from which churches and civic buildings thrust up towers
that seemed sheeted in hammered silver.

"Come!" said Father Pekarek. "We'll take this." A tram in the square
before them was a solid block of light. They went bowling off down the
hill towards the river, along a broad main street, into a large square,
till they reached a section of the city with older buildings, narrower
streets. They got off at a corner where, on their right, the castle hung
over them, and they turned left on a street called Szilagyi, that thrust
back upward from the river region. The faint howl of zither music came
out through the doorway of a caf, as a customer pushed the door before
him. Through the steamed windows showed the red-plush of padded walls
and benches, the white gleam of marble table-tops. Some five minutes'
walk away was a tall block of buildings on the right-hand side of the
street, whose chromium-fitted doors and big plate-glass windows imposed
a later mood on the yellow baroque town. Here, before crossing the road,
Father Pekarek paused and looked up swiftly. Certain windows were lit up
on the broad faade, others were not. He seemed satisfied.

"Cross the street," he said, "and enter the vestibule of the building
opposite us. Go up slowly to the fourth floor, and stop at the door
marked _Udvardi: Modes_. I'll be with you a few minutes later."

They did as he told them, and four or five minutes later he was by their
side. Then he took a key-ring out of his pocket and opened the door into
Monsieur, or Madame, Udvardi's establishment. A passage led through an
area cut up into small offices by glass partitions. Beyond this extended
a large span of flooring, lined with cupboards and open wardrobes, from
which countless women's frocks on hangers dripped limply, stood up
stiffly, swirled foamily, according to the nature of the material and
the trimmings.

"You're not going to be short of clothes," Father Pekarek said,
"whatever you're going to look like when you leave this place." He
stopped at the long parade of tailor-mades that defiled on his right
side, thin, flat-chested ghosts with the moonlight falling aslant on
their shoulders. "A lady from the town, maybe?" He walked on. "Maybe, a
dairymaid from a country farm?" The peasant embroideries stood out,
thick and firm, on bodice and sleeve. "Perhaps another time, Marisha,
there'll be more chance to look at the _schayreh_, the goods. We'd
better get you to bed now. It's been a long day." They entered a smaller
room lined with cupboards at the further end, then he unlocked a
cupboard-door and pulled it aside along a metal groove. Beyond the door
hung a collection of fluffy marabout peignoirs. Thrusting both arms in,
he pushed the hangers back left and right along the metal bar from which
the garments were suspended. A door was revealed here. For this, too,
Father Pekarek had a key. "A clever man, yes?" he smiled, as he turned
the key and opened the door. "Come, step over." They entered the
cupboard, passed through the door, and found themselves in a small
passage, with another door at the end of it.

"Wait one moment," said Father Pekarek. He knocked three times, paused
quite a long time, then knocked three times again. There was no sound
beyond the door. "It's all right," he assured them. "He's not in. No
light was showing, but I always like to make sure." Then he used another
key, opened another door, and switched a light on. "Come in!" he smiled.
"Come in! It's warm, eh? Central heating! You should be comfortable."

They entered, and both Elsie and Mila looked instinctively towards the
windows. The blinds were not drawn. The light streamed through.

"The windows!" they both gasped, and started forward, as if to repair
the error.

"_Mishkosheh!_" Father Pekarek assured them, with a reassuring wave of
the hand from the wrist down. "There's no need for black-out till the
alarm goes, and it doesn't often go--yet. All in good time!" he said
with satisfaction. "There's a nice fat oil refinery just along there.
And there's the bridge, of course."

"The bridge!" Elsie repeated. She walked up to the window and looked
out. There it was, some half-mile over to the left, an iron bridge over
the broad river, a small building on the quayside at the beginning of
it, half a dozen cars nosing their lights across it, over into Hungary,
where you could breathe quite freely, they said. She felt a hand in
hers. Mila was standing beside her, her nose at the window, looking
curiously like an urchin staring at a display of rich pastries or
handsome toys through the window of a great store.

"You see, dear?" she murmured. "We're moving. Those houses there, beyond
the bridge--that's Hungary! Isn't it wonderful?"

The voice of Father Pekarek broke in.

"Excuse me, _yiddene_. Not yet."

She turned.

"Not yet? What do you mean?"

"The Germans have the bridgehead for fifteen kilometres or more. You
think they'd leave it nice and easy, like a garden-gate? They took it
over before the War. Like a kennel with a big dangerous dog."

"I see." She felt rather flat.

"Don't worry, _yiddene_. It's only fifteen kilometres. And the Danube is
a long river. And there's other frontiers. Forget about it." He changed
the subject abruptly. "He often has friends here, sometimes for an hour
or two, sometimes for longer."

"He? Who?" Elsie's eyes went, but not her tongue. She knew the tongue,
at least, must not ask questions. The unspoken question went unanswered.
Perhaps it was Mr. Udvardi, the merchant in Modes, perhaps not. Father
Pekarek would tell them, if it was advisable.

"Sometimes we take the place over, maybe for quite some time, if
necessary. He's as good as gold, with a real Jewish heart. He doesn't
want a penny for it, either. Yes, yes, sit down, both of you. But he
still likes to come back now and again. _You_ know how it is?" Elsie
knew how it is. There was for a moment or two a slight air of
constraint, owing to Mila's presence, but it was dispelled almost at
once. Things had to get said, and arrangements made. Besides, young
girls who, by the way of a war-time ghetto, had come so near the portals
of the next world, had few illusions left about this one. "There's
another way in back there, from the street behind. I have that key, too.
I must tell you something. If he comes in sometimes with a friend, it
will only be for a short time." He shrugged his shoulders, as if hoping
too much would not be made of the frailties of the flesh. "He may not be
in for days. He knows some guests are expected to-night. He'll knock
like I did, three times, then wait, then knock three times again. When
that happens, you just bolt the sitting-room door from this side. You
see? The... other room's beyond a short landing on that side." He
preferred not to speak of it as the bedroom.

Elsie looked round.

"Yes," she agreed. "As you say, it's most comfortable. Isn't it, Mila?
Very different from Zosha's stable, yes?"

"Yes," whispered Mila. "Very comfortable." But Elsie, at least, knew
that Mila preferred Zosha's stable, because she was an austere young
woman, and bosomy plush chairs, art-gallery nudes, grand pianos draped
with embroidered Chinese shawls, Satsuma vases on mantelpieces,
bear-skin rugs, fans stuck behind bright oil paintings of blue grottoes
and smoking volcanoes--she knew that these things were not to Mila's
taste.

But certainly the place was comfortable. And certainly people were being
kind to them in the last degree.

"It will be good," said Mila, "for Channah to rest a little before we go
further. And it's beautiful to have all that sky to look on, too." She
went back to the window. "And the river!" she cried. "The Danube!" she
marvelled, as if it had taken some time for the implications to sink in.
"_Die schne blaue Donau!_" Her voice trembled. "I never thought I'd see
the lovely blue Danube!" She resumed control of herself. "Do people
escape down the river, Father Pekarek, on log-rafts?"

"Doubtless, that happens, too, at the right season," Father Pekarek
assured her. "There are small cargo-steamers that go down the river
regularly. Who knows?" He was far from committing himself. "Perhaps the
young one will go first, _yiddene_. You'll be ready for that?"

"Of course," Elsie replied. "We both understand."

"But when, which way, who knows?" He looked at his watch. "It's getting
late. I've still got things to do, but let me explain things here. The
door there, it leads out to the bathroom. This is the little kitchen."
He went over and opened a door in the left-hand wall. "There's
everything here, you see. He looks after himself very nicely. And his
friends, of course. The old woman comes in with bread and milk and
anything else you want. She's all right. Her name's Ilonka. She'll knock
three times, too, twice over. They say she makes a plate of _chollent_
or _lockshen_-soup you'd think your own mother made it. _Ni, kinder_, is
there anything else you want me to tell you?"

They sat looking at him with great eyes, dead silent. Probably they were
afraid they could not prevent their voices misbehaving if they talked.
He smiled, and shook his head, and came over to them.

"It's better for me to come in this way and go out that," he said,
indicating the other room with his thumb. "The people on the other side
of the street probably think that here's another priest who's no better
than he should be. Well, it can't be helped." He took Elsie's hand in
one of his own, Mila's in the other. "_Shalom_, children, _shalom_. Good
luck to you. Yes, you want to say something, Channah?"

"I only wanted to say thank you for us to... to Miriam, in case we
shan't see her. I don't suppose we shall."

"Yes, yes!" cried Mila ardently. "If we could only see her!"

He spread out his hands, and cocked his head to one side.

"Maybe," he said. "_Shalom_, children!"

"_Shalom!_"

"_Shalom!_"

He went out and slammed the door behind him. He was at once swallowed
up, as into a roomful of cotton-wool.

"What are you crying for, Channah?" Mila wanted to know.

"Crying? Whoever heard of such a thing!" protested Elsie. "Crying,
indeed! Come, let's see what there is in the pantry!"

Everything was better than they had hoped in the pantry. Everything so
far was better than they had hoped in Bratislava. They could even sit
before the window with the blind not drawn and look out upon the deep
woods and the great sweep of the river that emerged from them. The
moonlight glistening on the leaves endowed them with a phantom blossom,
as if they were vast thickets of flowering hawthorn. The red lights and
green lights of barges moved easily between the banks of Slovakia and
Hungary, as if ghetto-walls and the barbed-wire palisades of
extermination camps were a myth, and there were no bath-houses to strip
in, and trucks to carry off agglutinated bodies, and ovens to consume
them.

They sat there silent for one hour, two hours, then at last, hand in
hand, went to their beds.


[IV]

Ilonka, the old woman, was wonderful. Her face was wrinkled like a
crab-apple, so much of it as you could see peeping out of the kerchief
tied round her head. Her hands were knobbly with age, like oak-roots,
but were tough and efficient as a young woman's. She talked Czech,
Slovak, German, Hungarian, and Yiddish, all equally unintelligibly,
having been employed during various stages of her long career by ladies
or gentlemen of all those races. Secrecy was the breath of her nostrils,
whether she was helping her employer to pleasure with a light o' love,
or a handful of Jewish children to get away from the Nazi furnaces. She
was so old that she could no longer clearly get into perspective the
ages of females younger than herself. For Mila, for instance, she
brought a doll--Andulka, the name was--and crowed with pleasure as
Andulka lowered and lifted her eyelids on being moved to the horizontal
position and back to the vertical position. Mila was her usual
well-mannered self about it. The moment Ilonka appeared on the scene,
she would lift Andulka and nurse her in her arms, to the great delight
of the old woman, who would start crooning a nursery rhyme in one or
other of her languages. For Elsie she proposed another entertainment, to
which, moreover, there could be payment attached. It seemed a pity to
let the nights and days go by without gleaning occasional profit or
pleasure out of them. She could arrange it easily, she said. As for
Mila, she would present no problem. She would guarantee to occupy her
attention in the salon.

It was vaguely flattering, thought Elsie, to be taken for a tart in her
twenties by a lady in her late seventies, or in her eighties, perhaps;
but for various reasons she thought the proposition unattractive.
However, Ilonka did not remain entirely deprived of the thrill of
vicarious love-making. In the afternoon of the second day, while Ilonka
was washing clothes in the little kitchen, there was a triple knock on
the outer door, followed by a pause, and the triple knock a second time.
Without a word, Elsie rose and bolted the sitting-room door, then sat
down to her book again. Ilonka in the kitchen heard the signal, and in a
minute or two was singing chirpily as a kettle. Mila went on darning the
stockings she had in hand. In due time, there was again a triple knock.
This doubtless meant that the visitors were at the door, taking their
departure. Elsie rose, and unbolted the sitting-room door. Not a word
was said by anybody during or after the episode. But Elsie was aware
that Mila must have both understood its nature, and that it had been to
her no more than a spilth of muddy water running down a window pane,
which is washed away, and the glass remains as clear and clean as
before.


[V]

Four nights and four days had gone by. It was now the fifth night.

"What's the matter, Channah? You must tell me. You've sat there for an
hour without saying a word."

"I've told you, Mila, dear. Nothing's the matter, nothing. I mean
nothing's different. Sometimes waiting is harder work than crossing
mountains. That's all."

Mila sighed and turned her attention to the doll, Andulka, again. She
had developed quite a real devotion to Andulka, though at first she had
only pretended to one, to give pleasure to old Ilonka. Perhaps making
little Andulka like a princess was only something to do to while the
time away. Perhaps, for a time, she was yielding to the child within
her, whose existence had been cut so tragically short.

But something _was_ the matter with Elsie. She had been obscurely aware,
from the moment that Yanka in Cracow had told her of the existence of an
escape organization, that sooner or later questions would be put to her
to establish her _bona fides_. The idea had grown during the journey to
Bratislava with Father Pekarek, following the two or three questions he
had asked her on the drive to Podoline. She was sure now that Father
Pekarek would have reported to his associates the fact that there was
something unusual about her. He had not been alarmed, but he had been
puzzled. She had sensed that. And when an underground worker is puzzled,
it is his duty to report the fact.

Someone, then, would put questions to her before she was helped across
the next frontier. Who? Miriam? Probably not. The head person remains in
the background when operations like these are undertaken. Whoever it
was, the questions would seem quite harmless, but their sum total would
be a cross-examination.

The tragic joke was that her _bona fides_ was absolute. In the Warsaw
ghetto no one had stood in more desperate danger of death than she.
After the appearance of Mila, she had made up her mind, in the first
place for Mila's sake, to seek to escape the Warsaw death. She was not
an innocent person; she had been a most disloyal one. Two weeks of
wound-washing had not expunged her guilt. But as a hunted human being in
deadliest danger, she had the right to accept whatever help might be
extended towards her, whether from Gentiles like Yanka, or Jews like
Father Pekarek or Miriam, all the more as Mila's safety, for a time at
least, had been tied up with her own. But now? Doubtless, Miriam and her
associates would take Mila's escape into their own hands. But she, too,
wanted to live, for her own sake as well as Mila's. The will-to-die had
been ground to powder in her.

Was it likely that Miriam and her friends would wish to make themselves
responsible for her deliverance, if she told them the whole truth of who
she was, how she had got into the Warsaw ghetto? They must either
believe her tale, or not believe it. If they believed it, what assurance
was there they would feel themselves called upon to rescue the widow of
a Nazi leader, merely because she had been kind and helpful to a small
Jewish girl? Might they not take the view that she had seized the
opportunity the association with Mila might provide her, to find out all
she could about the escape organization? Might they not consider it
possible that she would use the information she had gained to buy her
way back into the favour of the Nazi hierarchy with whom she had for so
long thrown in her fortunes?

Or, say, they would not believe her story that she was Elsie von
Brockenburg. It was all a lie. Then manifestly she was a spy, charged
with the duty of finding out all she could, and passing it on to her
employers.

It was desperately manifest she must not tell the truth.

But she had already told the truth to Mila, practically the whole truth.
It was only the name of Brockenburg that had been withheld from Mila,
and that merely because Mila had not allowed her to tell it.

Did that affect the situation? It did not in any degree at all, though
she had never by word or gesture indicated to Mila that she must keep
her knowledge to herself. She knew that Mila believed in her totally.
She also knew exactly how Mila would behave in case they took her aside
and asked her to tell whatever she might know about the antecedents of
her friend. Because Mila believed in her, Mila would say she knew
nothing at all about her before the moment "Channah" released her from
the bomb-rubble. She would therefore say nothing that could possibly
throw any doubt on the veracity of any tale that she might be forced to
tell these people in Bratislava, or anybody they might encounter later,
should they get safely into Hungary.

So this emerged. Whenever they questioned her, as she was certain they
must, she must lie to them. She could not tell the truth, because it
would be equally fatal whether they believed her or whether they did
not. If they did not believe her, she was merely a liar who went on
lying. If they _did_ believe her, clearly it was impossible for them to
have any traffic with her, the woman who was Brockenburg's widow. She
would be a shocking embarrassment. She could not be handed over to the
authorities, even as a hostage for Jewish lives, for she knew too much.
They would quite simply have to knock her on the head. And that was
nonsense. There is no point in being knocked on the head, just when you
are becoming, perhaps for the first time, a tolerably decent human
being. She refused to be knocked on the head. She would face up to the
occasion, whenever it arose.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On the afternoon of the fifth day Ilonka announced that they were to
expect a visitor in an hour or so. Ilonka was not very excited about it.
It was only a woman. She got through her work as quickly as possible and
made off towards the door.

"But to-morrow a gentleman, yes?" she wheedled.

"Good day," said Elsie.

"Good day," Ilonka said. "The Virgin in Heaven bless you both!"

The visitor appeared less than an hour later, coming in from the
outside. There was the usual signal, then the sound of the key in the
door, then a woman entered.

"_Shalom!_" she said. "How are you both? My name is Rivkah." She came
forward, and held out her hand, first to Elsie, then to Mila. But she
seemed to think it a little formal to be holding out her hand to a young
girl. She bent down and kissed her.

"_Shalom!_" replied Mila, her cheeks colouring with the delight the
salutation gave her.

"_Shalom!_" said Elsie, conscious of that slight constraint which always
beset her, when Jews treated her spontaneously, without qualification,
as one of themselves.

"I'm going to talk Yiddish," said Rivkah. "You talk Yiddish, both of
you?" (For, of course, there were Jews herded into the Polish ghettos to
whom Yiddish was a hardly more familiar language than Basque.)

"Yes, yes," said Mila eagerly.

"Yiddish, with quite a lot of German," admitted Elsie.

"Yes, of course, you're German," Rivkah said, with a smile. "Gerstl told
me." She took her hat and coat off. She was going to make herself
comfortable. She was not a woman of striking appearance, or, rather, she
would not have been in normal times. What was striking about her in
present circumstances was that she looked unmistakably Jewish, with that
jet-black hair of hers, built up above her skull in a rather
old-fashioned Jewish-orthodox way, and the heavy black brows over the
velvety dark brown eyes. You would not expect, in the Bratislava of
1943, a Jewish-looking woman to go up and down the place in so
unconcerned a way. She could have thinned out the eyebrows, for
instance, and done the hair differently. Well, one was on the fringes of
eastern Europe. Perhaps that was the way some Hungarian women looked; or
women with some gypsy blood in their veins. For the rest, she looked
rather neat and formal, with her black frock of good quality, and the
double row of cultured pearls.

"The first thing I've got to do is to say _mazel tov_ to you both,"
Rivkah was saying. "Please, let's sit down, shall we? A cigarette? It's
already something to get as far as Bratislava."

"We'd have been still in Poland if not for you... and the others who
are working with you," said Elsie. "What's the good of trying to thank
you? What can one say?"

"_Mirzashem_; by the will of God. Good luck should continue." She was
fumbling in her hand-bag. "Ah, here it is! I've managed to get hold of
some chocolates. Here's a little packet for you." She held them out
towards Mila. Mila came over and thanked her. "By the way, what's your
name? You've only been a number so far."

"The name on my papers?" asked Mila. "Or my real name?"

"Oh you can tell me your real name," smiled Rivkah reassuringly. "What's
a name on papers? You'll probably have a different name on different
papers next week."

"I'm Mila," the girl said, "Mila Cossor."

"_Shalom_, Mila. Tell me about yourself, will you? Perhaps, if it
doesn't hurt too much, you can tell me about your people?" She was
clearly a woman of unusual delicacy and dexterity, despite the strength
in the set of the lips, and the firmly moulded line of the jaw.

Mila told her story without faltering, till she came to the moment when
she first reached consciousness in the bombed ruin of Post Sixteen. Then
she turned her head and sought Elsie's eyes; then she got up from her
chair, went over to Elsie, and took her hand. "It was Channah here who
saved me," she said. "It was as if my mother herself sent her. I would
have been dead if Channah had not come to me."

"No, no," murmured Elsie. She put her hand on Mila's shoulder, and
patted it.

"But of course it's true," said Mila.

"Sometimes God is there to reach out His hand," said Rivkah quietly.
"Sometimes it seems He is not there." Then, a moment or two later: "Had
you two met before, there in Warsaw?"

"No," they both said. "No."

"You'd been in Warsaw nearly two and a half years, yes, Mila?"

"Yes."

"And you... Channah? Forgive me, it's the only name I have."

"Yes," said Elsie. "That's the name one of the leaders gave me down in
the cellars. I'd lost my papers." The moment had come. The first lie lay
waiting on the tip of the tongue. There would be other lies. "My real
name was Bieber. Hilda Bieber. But that's not the name on my papers, of
course."

"No, of course not. Gerstl told me you travelled from Warsaw as a
_reichsdeutsche_. It must have been frightening sometimes."

"Yes," Elsie agreed. "It was, from time to time. But I hope I didn't
show it."

"She didn't," said Mila, "not once."

"But what could have been worse than being trapped month in, month out,
behind that Wall?" mused Rivkah. "Just waiting, waiting. How long was
it, Channah?"

"A couple of years," said Elsie.

"A couple of years!" Rivkah sympathized. "It must have seemed like two
centuries. Well, thank God, it's a long way behind you now."

"It's like a dream," said Elsie. "It's as if it had never happened."

"And, please God, if you ever get to Eretz Israel, that will be like a
dream, too. Another sort of dream."

"Oh, it will be wonderful!" cried Mila. "We dreamed of it night and day
in Warsaw, in our group, our _kibbutz_. And to think that some day it
might still be true! Have they made ghettos in this country, too? Are
the girls and boys in _kibbutzim_?"

"Yes," said Rivkah, "we managed to get some of them away before they
were sent across the frontier." She turned again to Elsie.

"You were from Germany, weren't you? Gerstl told us. You know--Father
Pekarek."

"Yes, I'm from Hamburg."

"I met a lot of boys and girls from Hamburg," Mila broke in. "Did you
know the Liepmanns? I knew Karl and Lotte. Their father was a jeweller."
It was quite clear what Mila was up to. She was normally much more
silent than this, she was not the sort of girl that liked to take the
centre of the floor. But she knew exactly what was going on. She knew
that Elsie had told two lies already. She was trying to get in the way
of the examination. But, of course, she could only hold it up for a
minute or two at most.

"The Liepmanns?" Elsie repeated. "Jewellers? The name's familiar. No, I
don't think we knew them."

"Bieber, did you say, Channah?" Rivkah broke in. "We had some Biebers in
Bratislava. Things could have been worse for them. The three boys got
away. Would they be any connection of yours, Channah?"

"No. My husband was from Hamburg. My own family was English."

"Yes, of course. So Gerstl said. Hamburg, did you say? Hamburg." She was
apparently piecing things together in her mind. "I'm sure you're
connected with our Bratislava Biebers. What line of business was he in?
Your husband, I mean?"

(What line of business was my husband in? For Heaven's sake, don't
hesitate. Say the first thing that comes into your head.)

"He was a coffee importer," said Elsie.

"Now isn't that a coincidence!" cried Rivkah. "Didn't I tell you? Where
were his offices?"

But it wasn't a coincidence! And Elsie realized the mistake she had
made, in the very moment of making it. She knew exactly why the
profession of coffee importing happened to be lodged in her head. It was
Father Pekarek, Rivkah's colleague, who had planted it there. They had
been talking about Miriam. _What sort of woman was she? An ordinary
woman, just a Jewess like you or the next woman. Her husband used to
import wine, or coffee, or something._

You couldn't go back on your husband's profession, now. You couldn't
suddenly remember he had really been a diamond merchant. To hell with
these Bratislava Biebers, who had probably never existed, anyhow. The
only thing to do was to go on with your lying as casually as you know
how. His offices in Hamburg...

"Oh, An der Alster. One hundred and fourteen."

"Such a beautiful street!" sighed Rivkah. "I knew it at one time." She
stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. "The white sails, and the
cafs among the willows by the waterside!"

"Yes, beautiful," murmured Elsie. She knew there was grimness to come,
the air was already tense with it, but she dreaded it for Mila's sake
more than her own.

Rivkah's next words showed that she was not the least sensitive person
there.

"Oh, Mila," she said. "There are one or two things I'd like to discuss
with Channah. They don't concern you at all. I'd like to be alone with
her. Will that be all right?"

Mila got up from her chair, deathly pale.

"Yes, Rivkah, of course," she said. "I'll go into the bedroom." But she
stood there and hesitated.

"Yes, Mila?" said Rivkah. "I think you're upset. You are, aren't you? It
happens like this sometimes. There are things to talk over."

"Rivkah," said the girl. "I'd like to see Miriam. I'd like to talk to
her." What she meant, of course, was this: "You are suspicious of my
dear, wonderful Channah. It is shameful. Isn't it enough to have been
through hell in Warsaw, and since then? Haven't you got any imagination,
any sympathy? If you'd seen her in the ghetto, as I did, you wouldn't
have dared to suspect her. But you're only one of the lesser people. I
wish to see Miriam herself. She couldn't possibly make so terrible a
mistake."

Elsie's eyes were fixed on Rivkah. She saw the colour steal across her
dark cheeks as Mila addressed her. She realized at once what it meant.
Rivkah felt self-conscious and guilty. For Rivkah _was_ Miriam. And
Miriam could engage in prodigies of deceit with her enemies, the Nazis
and the Slovak Fascists, but she could not but be ashamed to be caught
out deceiving, though for the most correct of reasons, a young Jewish
girl.

"We'll have to think about it," the woman said. "It isn't always easy."
Without another word Mila opened the door and went out.

"I'm sorry about the child," said Rivkah. It was the strength rather
than the sweetness that showed now in the lines of jaw and mouth.

"You _are_ Miriam," said Elsie. Rivkah said no word. She gazed steadily
into Elsie's eyes. "It was in your face when the girl spoke to you, just
now," Elsie went on.

"Why did you tell me that tale about your husband?" asked the other. "My
own husband was a coffee importer before they took him in. I used to do
his accounts. We had connections with all the coffee-importing firms in
the German ports. There was no Bieber in Hamburg who imported coffee.
There was no coffee firm there with an office in An der Alster. What are
you hiding? Who are you?"

The moment had come, the moment of supreme danger. As a Jewess among the
highly placed Nazis, she had known desperate moments. None was as
desperate as this, now that she was a Jew surrounded by Jews fighting
not for their own lives, but for the lives of their kinsfolk. There was
only one hope of deliverance. She must act with a brilliance and mastery
beyond anything she had ever attempted, during the many years in which
she had been some sort of an actress.

She acted the dewy uprising of tears into her eyes, and the evanescence
of the colour from her cheeks. She induced the trembling in her lips and
the hands that raised themselves slowly towards her face, then fell
inertly to her lap again. She acted superbly well, because she was
acting truth and not merely lies. And it was the truth that subdued
Miriam and saved Elsie Silver.

She raised her head and looked Miriam straight in the eyes.

"I was a Nazi's whore," she said. "A long time ago the man asked me was
I Jewish, and I lied, and said no. I lived with him for years, and
thought I loved him, and that he loved me. A few weeks ago he found out
I was Jewish, and told them. They arrested me and thrust me into a
contingent of Western Jews bound for the Polish death camps. I was in
the last group unloaded in Warsaw before the uprising.

"I could not tell you the truth, because I was so ashamed. I was ashamed
because I had betrayed the country where I was born, and I had betrayed
my people. I was ashamed because I had loved a Nazi, and believed in
him." She stopped for a moment, as actors do, to get the _feel_ of the
audience, when sound and sight reveal nothing, for the audience is as
silent and immobile as stone. There is no saying whether the audience is
rigid with embarrassment and disbelief, or is swept completely off its
feet into the illusion. And if the first, there is still time to
retrieve failure by one final assault with the whole battery of art. She
continued very quietly:

"I found my way into the cellars before the fighting started, and then I
helped a little, when the wounded were brought in. But I did not want to
live. There was nothing to look forward to except the shameful memories.
After a week or two, a bomb destroyed the First Aid Post I worked in. I
was knocked unconscious, and then recovered some time later. I was
passing out of myself again into complete darkness, and this time I
should not have come back again. Then I heard this girl, Mila, calling
from the wreckage. I freed her, and determined to get her away from
Warsaw to safety somewhere." Again there was a small pause. Then: "I've
helped to get her here to Bratislava. I know she's now in good hands.
You can do what you like with me. Whatever you do will be better than I
deserve. I have nothing more to say." She let her head fall forward on
to her chest. Her hands lay in her lap like peeled twigs. A number of
minutes went by, three, five, ten. Rivkah smoked one cigarette, then
another. She got up from her chair and paced the room, forward,
backward, again and yet again. Then she went over to Elsie, and touched
her lightly on the shoulder.

"I didn't know," she said. "We'll see. I would like a word or two with
Mila."

"Yes, of course."

She went across to the other door, and twenty minutes went by, and more.
It was quite clear what was going on inside there. It's rather odd,
Elsie told herself. My life hangs on the way that girl is answering the
questions that Miriam's putting to her. I know I can trust Mila's love
and intelligence. But Miriam's a clever woman. Should I have told Mila
in advance what she must say if they questioned her? I don't know. I'll
see soon.

In due course, Mila came into the room. Her eyes were happy. There was
colour in her cheeks.

"She told me to say '_Shalom_' to you," said Mila. "She was sorry she
couldn't come back to say it herself. She didn't know it was so late."

"Yes, it was rather a long time," said Elsie.

"The silly woman!" Mila burst out impetuously. "As if I didn't know what
she was up to! She's nice. I like her. But I'm certain Miriam wouldn't
have been so silly."

"You never know," said Elsie. "Anyhow she asked you to say '_Shalom_' to
me? She may have meant that as a sort of message. Do you think so,
Mila?"

"That's the way Jews talk to each other these days, Channah."

"That's what I mean, my dear. Come, let's have a hot drink of
something."

A few days later Gerstl reappeared at the flat. He had abandoned the
church, and was clearly some sort of professional man, with that
wing-collar, that black coat, the attach-case, the herring-bone
trousers.

"_Shalom, yiddene_," he said. "You also, _maidl_!"

"_Shalom!_" they replied.

"Don't make such big eyes," he requested. "I'm a doctor." A stethoscope
suddenly shot up from behind his waistcoat, like a conjuror's trick.
"You see? Don't be upset," he went on. "I've come to take the little one
away."

"Yes," said Elsie. "So my heart told me the moment you came in."

"Isn't Channah coming, too?" asked Mila, her jaw jutting forward.

"Not on this journey. There's only room for one."

"How soon will she follow?"

"Who knows?" he shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe a few days. Maybe more."

"Can I ask where?" asked Elsie. "Where are you taking her to? Where
shall I join her?"

"You know how it is," said Gerstl.

"I know, but I forget each time."

"What can I do, Channah?" asked Mila, suddenly breaking down. "I'd
rather stay till we can both go together. I don't want to leave you. I
don't!"

"So maybe neither of you would be able to go," Gerstl pointed out. "You
should be packing your things already, Mila."

"Yes, Mila, at once, now!"

"All right, like you say," muttered Mila. She moved off, dragging her
feet along the floor.

"You should be dancing and singing," insisted Gerstl severely.

"I'll be with you soon, Mila dear, wherever it is," Elsie declared.

"Please God!" affirmed Gerstl. He turned to Elsie. "She'll be coming to
see you soon, in a day or two. She knew. She told me to tell you."

"You mean Rivkah? Or perhaps Miriam?" she added innocently.

"One of the women," he said. It was impossible to say whether he had
been told to be as secretive as this. "Will you give the girl a hand? We
should be off as soon as possible."

"Come, Mila dear. Cheer up. We shall be one frontier further forward
soon, both of us. All right, cry, Mila. Will you let her cry for just
five minutes, Gerstl?"

"Just five," said the doctor, taking out his watch.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was very lonely during the next two days. The loneliness was all the
acuter because of the windowful of sky, and the people you could see
through the window, on foot and in vehicles, talking to each other,
laughing with each other, parents, children, sweethearts, friends. The
great river rolling by and the great bridge across the river, made you
feel that you had chains round both feet.

And everything was in a state of suspense. How was Mila faring? What was
Miriam thinking? It was a difficult time.

Then, on the third evening, there was a triple knock on the outer door.
As usual, she bolted her own inner door. If it was somebody who wanted
to see her, she would soon unbolt it. The knock on the inner door did
not come till ten minutes later. She opened it, and there stood a
strange young man, with pince-nez, a receding chin, sloping shoulders,
and a sandy drooping moustache. He held by the hand a thin emaciated boy
with a greatcoat over him. But there was a third person with him, for he
looked back and kept calling: "Dorrit! Dorrit!" before he turned and
greeted Elsie.

"My name's Petr," the young man said. He talked German. "She wants you
to look after them, till they're ready to be taken over. There's a
little girl inside there, her name is Dorrit. This is Ruvven. Dorrit
will come in soon. She's frightened."

"I'll do my best," Elsie whispered. Her eyes were on the boy's face. She
had never seen a face more utterly desolate, not even down in the ghetto
cellars. "What's happened to him? What's he been through?"

"He was in... a place in Poland," said Petr. "He's Polish. The girl's
named Henka. She's Czech. They both talk Yiddish. She was in one of the
local places." He was obviously avoiding naming the camps from which,
somehow, the young people had been rescued. "They mustn't be allowed to
remember what they've been through. Everything starts from to-night." A
movement in a mirror caught his eye. He lowered his voice. "She's come
in. Don't take any notice of her for a minute or two."

Elsie turned to the boy.

"Well, Ruvven, won't you take your coat off? It's warm in here."

The boy made no response. He stood leaning against the table, his head
drooping. It was as if no one had addressed him. Petr took the coat off;
the suit the boy wore was tattered and mud-stained. Through a hole in
one leg the knee showed bruised and blue.

She turned to the girl, but the girl was invisible again.

"She's behind that armchair," said Petr. "She likes to get behind
things. She feels safer."

Suddenly, piercingly, the girl broke out: "I'm not going back! I won't!"

Petr advanced a few inches towards the armchair. "No, Dorrit! Of course
not! This kind lady's going to look after you! You're going to another
country, with trees, and dogs, and horses." Then the girl's face thrust
out from behind the chair for a moment. The dark eyes burned. As Elsie
advanced towards her, the face disappeared again.

"There'll be clothes for them to-morrow, and more food," Petr said.
"You'll make do with what you have to-night."

"I'll do all I can," said Elsie. "Tell her when you see her. I'll do all
I can."

"_Gute Nacht!_" said Petr. Not _Shalom_.

"_Gute Nacht!_" she replied. She looked after him for a moment as he
went off. What a woman that must be, she thought, to gather such an
assortment of helpers round her! This Petr was probably not a Jew. He
certainly looked no hero, with that receding chin and those sloping
shoulders. That must be his strength, she realized, in this topsy-turvy
underground world, that he looks anything in the world but a hero. Then
another thought presented itself to her. Was it merely a coincidence
that these two youngsters had been entrusted to her care at this moment?
Or was it intended as a test of her ability and loyalty? She did not
find the question hard to answer. Miriam would not have jeopardized the
recovery of the young people, merely to carry out an experiment. It
would have been inept and cruel. She, Elsie, happened to be here, and
the youngsters happened to arrive. That was all there was to it.

One thing, however, was certain; she was going to have her hands so
full, there was not going to be much time to worry over Mila. For that,
at least, she was grateful to them all.

So she set herself to the task of winning the youngsters back to some
degree of serenity, aware though she was that it might well have
appalled an expert, and there were few amateurs so shamefully
inexperienced as she. It was not often that Ruvven and Henka were both
asleep at the same time, and even then Elsie did her best to keep
herself awake, she was afraid that one or the other, or both, if they
awoke while she slept, might do something which would draw attention to
their hiding-place. She wondered how they had got so far as Bratislava
in their present condition, from whatever hell-hole they might have been
delivered. Of the two, the lad must have been easier for his rescuers to
handle, for so long as it had been physically possible to keep him more
or less out of sight, he must have given little trouble, for he was in a
sort of dream, from which at all times it was difficult to rouse him,
even to give him his meals. The spoon of broth, half-way between the
bowl and his mouth, would start shaking and would slip from between his
fingers. Or he would crumble his bread, and go on crumbling it, without
raising a crumb to his lips. But there were moments in which he seemed
to come completely to himself. His face would contort with grief, and
tears flow in streams down his cheeks. His eyes would settle upon the
window, or upon a knife on the table, with a fixity which terrified her.
But soon the mist would come down again, and the eyes grow grey as
frozen puddles. As for the girl, she was in a state of such twitching
terror, it was difficult to see how she could have been handled on her
way to Bratislava, unless she had been kept under by some sort of
soporific. She was capable, for no ascertainable reason, of giving way
to sharp spasms of fury. She would knock the chairs down and throw
things about the room, and it was only by luck that she failed to smash
the window, once with a candlestick, once with a heavy book-end,
performances which might have entailed disastrous repercussions.

It was a hard job that had fallen to Elsie, much harder than the
bandage-washing and wound-wiping that she had been entrusted with in the
Warsaw Casualty Post. For the most part, those others were merely
physical casualties. These two were sick with more subtle disorders, and
each needed entirely different treatment. She must be gentle with the
one, firm with the other. The boy must be compelled to eat, the girl was
sometimes as voracious as a pariah-dog. Sometimes a song would soothe
the boy and make the girl fractious. But somehow, by infinitely hard
work, she smoothed them out and began to make almost normal human beings
of them.

During these weeks, Petr visited her from time to time, bringing sweets
for the youngsters, bon-bons and sugared biscuits and blocks of _halva_.
Probably he was also charged with seeing how the woman from Germany was
standing up to the task assigned her. On his third visit he brought a
message from Miriam.

"She'd have been here before," he said, "but she has been away up
country. She is a very busy person."

"Yes, I'm sure," said Elsie. "Henka, you must have your soup at once, or
you'll have no _halva_."

"Don't you want to hear what the message is?"

"Of course I do. What is it?"

"She's sorry, she says."

"Sorry? What about? Oh yes, of course." She was sorry she had doubted
her. She turned and smiled at him. His knees suddenly felt soft and his
lips trembled, she looked so beautiful at that moment. He had not
realized before she was so beautiful a woman. "Tell her I'm happy about
it, will you? I've not had much time to think about anything, of course.
No, Ruvven, no. You must finish off your plate, or you'll never be a
strong young _chalutz_ over there in Eretz."

"I'll tell her as soon as I see her," said Petr. "Is there anything else
you want? The shoes are all right, eh? Ilonka is behaving properly?"

"Everything's fine. There's only one thing I want to know. You said you
might be able to tell me next time."

"As soon as there's news, it will be brought to you."

"Is Mila well? Do you know that?"

"It's not the region I work in, but I think you'd have been told if
anything had gone wrong."

"It's a long time ago now, too long. Oh well, I must start on their
baths. I don't know how I'd have managed without that evening bath. It's
your turn first to-night, Ruvven. Get ready."

"_My_ turn," proclaimed Henka.

"I'll comb your hair till it's like silk, Henka. But it's Ruvven's
turn."

"All right," the girl said sulkily. "Ruvven's turn."

                 *        *        *        *        *

A week later there was news of Mila. It was Miriam herself who brought
it late at night, coming in from the office side of the apartment. The
young people were asleep in the other room. Elsie saw at once the nature
of Miriam's news. Her heart was suddenly a lump of lead.

"What's happened? Have they caught her? Is she dead?"

Miriam went up to her and put her arm round her shoulder. "Please," she
said. "I want you to sit down. I'll tell you what I know."

But Elsie did not sit down. She thrust her shoulder from under Miriam's
hand.

"What can you tell me? Is she alive or dead? They've not got hold of
her? Oh no! Not that!"

"Channah, this isn't easy for me! I know how much the girl meant to you.
I can only tell you what has been told me. As far as we know, they
haven't captured her. We don't even know whether she's dead or alive.
She might be either."

Elsie was suddenly aware of a strange to-do going on with her fingers,
and looked down to see them opening and shutting with incredible speed
on the palms of her hands. This won't do, she told herself, and extended
her fingers till they were as rigid as sticks. Then the wretchedness
broke out through her lips.

"You should have let me go with her!" she cried. "I'd have looked after
her."

"I beg you," said Miriam quietly. "There must be no reproaches! We're
all of us, always, in danger every moment of the night and day. Some are
lucky. Some aren't. You could not have looked after her better than
Gerstl--Father Pekarek. You don't even know the language."

"I'm sorry. You must forgive me." She sat down on the chair Miriam
pushed towards her. "It's a dreadful blow. It makes everything so...
so pointless. It's been _such_ hard work."

"I tell you, Channah, nobody can say what happened. Who knows? Some day,
perhaps----" She stopped. She did not think it wise or kind to bolster
the woman up with pink words. "I'll tell you all I know. That's the best
thing, I think."

"Yes," Elsie whispered.

"It was with Gerstl she left you here, wasn't it? Gerstl had already
become Dr. Suchon, I think. At the station they met one of our Polish
couriers, a young woman named Sorra, dressed as a nurse. They took the
train to the east, and got off at Neme, not far from the new Hungarian
frontier. You realize that they watch the river-frontier like hawks,
don't you?"

"I should have thought so."

"They remained in hiding in Neme for some time, because they heard that
there was new personnel at the control posts. It took some time to buy
over a few new contacts. Then, at last, they thought they could try it.
It was arranged that an accident should take place on the road between
Neme and Sahy, a village on the frontier. Mila was run over by a
passing motor-car. That was part of the plan, you understand. It wasn't
the first time that one of our children has been run over on one of
these roads, and a doctor happened to be driving by at the time of the
accident. So Dr. Suchon examined the case, gave it first-aid, and
decided it was imperative to get the victim into the hands of a
first-rate surgeon in Budapest as soon as possible. He had no trouble in
getting an ambulance, for one was awaiting his call, and the ambulance
turned up with Sorra already inside it, and another girl on a stretcher,
another refugee, of course. Mila was then loaded into the ambulance, and
the five of them, including the driver, made off for the frontier. The
guards had been tipped off, of course, on the Slovak side. The trouble
occurred on the Hungarian side, where a new sergeant had been put in
charge at the last moment. They were challenged, and the whole thing
went wrong. The driver tried to make a getaway. He and Gerstl and the
other child were killed. Sorra and Mila ran off into the woods, Sorra
quite badly hurt. She was captured half an hour later. Nothing has been
heard of Mila since. She may be in hiding somewhere, or she may be dead.
You must face it. The child was wounded, and it's mid-winter. You must
make up your mind what you wish to believe."

A silence fell. Neither woman did anything to disturb it for many
minutes. It would be a good thing if I could die now, Elsie Silver said
to herself, sitting in this chair. Can it all have been so pointless,
the small girl crying out from the rubble, and all that went after? If
she had not cried out, she would have been dead many months ago, and I
would have been dead. It's been hard going, and to what end? If I stay a
moment longer in this chair I'll start howling like a bereaved bitch in
a kennel. I can't do that. I'd be ashamed before this woman who's had
blows and knows how to take them.

She got up from her chair, and walked over to the window, and stood
gazing over the river into Hungary. Once more a long time passed. A
greyness, a dimness washed down over her eyes, like a twilight rain
condensing on a car's windscreen, when the wipers are not functioning.
Behind her was the warm room and the watching woman, in front of her was
vacancy. Then she was conscious of a slight prickling at the base of her
scalp, not unlike that produced by one of the electrical appliances at
the hairdresser's. As the tiny needles jigged and danced, she remembered
she had experienced the same sensation many years ago, not once, but on
a series of related occasions. They were the occasions on which, before
even her physical eyes beheld him, she had foreseen the man whom she was
to love more than any man she had ever known, her lover, Oskar von
Straupitz-Kalmin. On just such a disc of darkness, she had apprehended
his curling hair slightly receding from the temples, his blue eyes, the
scar running down from beside his nostril to his chin. Now the image was
multiple. It was a room with a table in it. Seated on a wooden chair,
with her back against the table, was Mila. She was talking. There were
several other young people sitting about on the floor listening to her.
It was there, across there, beyond the river, the plains, the villages;
beyond the suburbs of a great town, down the narrow streets of an old
quarter, in a high house, up the stairs, beyond a door.

The images were faint. They did not endure long. The grey dimness faded.
It was real river, real fields, real lights, bordering the high-roads
and clustered in villages.

She turned and came back to Miriam.

"I know that all the chances are that Mila's dead," she said. "But
something happened just now as I stood at that window that makes me
believe she's not dead and that I'll see her again. I need not tell you
more about it. It would sound foolish to you. But you are a kind woman,
and I thought I should tell you this."

"It must be a great comfort to you," said Miriam softly, "to have such
experiences at a time like this. I've met one or two other people--"

"No," Elsie interrupted. "I'm not that sort of person at all. It's
happened to me only once before, I mean in connection with one other
person. I know quite well it may be only a trick of the heart. Because
it happened once before, my heart made it seem to happen again. We'll
not talk about it, please. We'll try not to think about it. We must talk
of something else. What do you wish to do with me, Miriam?" She paused.
"Forgive me. Perhaps I shouldn't take it for granted you really are
Miriam. If you are----"

"Yes, Channah, I'm Miriam. You see, I trust you. If I hadn't trusted
you, I couldn't have told you the story you've just heard."

"Thank you again. I got your message from Petr."

"I'm called Miriam," the other went on. "But my real name is Fleishmann,
Gisi Fleishmann. That's the name by which I'm known to the authorities.
So long as they permitted emigration to Palestine, I was in charge of
that. On one level I still work with them. I look after welfare in the
assembly camps." She opened her hand-bag and removed a small yellow
bakelite brooch in the form of the Shield of David, and pinned it on her
breast. "I usually wear this," she pointed out, "when I move around. You
see these letters: H.Z.? That stands for _Hospodrsky Zid_. I'm one of
the privileged ones. That's on one level. On another level... you
know the work I do on that level. You see, Channah? All the cards are on
the table. Although----" she paused.

"Although what?"

"Although you didn't tell me the whole truth. You didn't tell me, for
instance, who your husband was. No, no." She raised her hand. "I know
all I want to know. I say again, I trust you. There are times when
instinct must be enough. You ask what we wish to do with you, Channah.
We have no claim on you. We've helped you, because it's our duty. We'll
go on helping you till you reach the next link in the chain."

"What about those children?" Elsie asked suddenly, looking towards the
other room. "I hadn't any idea I could be of any use in that way at all.
But they're better than when they came."

"When you leave them, there'll be someone to take your place. I think,
from now on, your heart's in Hungary." Elsie was silent. She did not
want anything she said to affect Miriam's deliberations. If Miriam
wished her to stay, she would stay. When these children went, there
might be other children. But sooner or later she would be in Hungary.

"That's true, isn't it?" repeated Miriam. "Your heart's in Hungary from
now on. It was somewhere over there you saw her, not here, this side of
the river." Elsie nodded. "Listen, Channah!" Her eyes stared hard and
deep into Elsie's eyes. "It works in with a plan we have for you." The
voice was firm and terse. "It involves a good deal of risk."

A sad smile alit on Elsie's face.

"It's just as risky to take risks as not to take risks," she murmured.
"Besides, what do I care now what risks I take?"

"It's riskier not to take risks, we think," said Miriam quietly. "If our
people could have been made to believe that, there'd have been much less
fuel at this moment piled up for the ovens. Listen, Channah! We have a
plan for you! Can I talk to you, or shall I come back another time?"

"I'd much rather you gave me something to think of, something
besides----"

"Yes. I understand. You're an attractive woman. You know that. You don't
look particularly Jewish. With good makeup and good clothes, you could
get anywhere and do anything."

"I see the idea," said Elsie quietly. "It's interesting, and I don't
think it would be too much for me. You want me to vamp some Nazi
officer, do you? That would be all right, if you didn't want me to go
back to Germany to do it."

"We don't."

"Or a high-up civilian, maybe?" Miriam was silent. She preferred to let
Elsie talk, it seemed. "It's a very flattering suggestion, of course,
and I'm going to try anything you ask me to. It'll be a bit distasteful,
of course, the way I feel about those people now. In some ways it was a
cleaner job crawling through the Warsaw sewers. The only thing is----"

"Yes?

"My husband was quite influential, as I told you. He introduced me to
some really highly placed Nazis from time to time. It would be too
idiotic if by some chance the man you have in mind----"

"Let me tell you at once, he's not a German. He's a Hungarian. The work
lies on the other side of the river."

"I see." She thought a moment. "If I come up to the light of day, I'll
be using my German papers, I suppose?"

"Exactly."

"I'm to be a _deutsche Dame_ again?"

"Not exactly a _Dame_. You're to be picked up in a hotel lounge by a
Hungarian officer."

"A real Hungarian officer, or one of your... colleagues?"

Miriam did not answer the question, at least, not directly.

"You'll be able to recognize each other," she said, not more than that.
There was never any point in breaking the rule about not saying one word
more than was for the moment necessary. "It'll all be worked out. He'll
be returning from Berlin to Budapest, and spending a day or two here. I
might say it's not unusual for him to find a good-looking woman to relax
with in Bratislava."

"How far does all this go? It would be helpful to have some idea."

"The personal aspect doesn't concern me in the least. That, too, will
work itself out. This would be a job like any other."

Elsie got up without a word, and went to the cupboard where she kept her
coat. Then she took a pair of scissors from a small table nearby.

"I'll probably have a new outfit?" she asked.

"You must look smart. It will be the Five o'clock at the big hotel here,
the Savoy-Carlton. There will be serious competition. But you won't need
to fear it, of course. He'll be expecting you."

"Am I to have his name?"

"Do women who pick up officers in hotel lounges usually have their
clients' names in advance?"

"I'm sorry. If I ever had much experience, I'm rather out of practice
now. These buttons," she pointed out, "I'd like to hand them over to
you." She attached the threads that held the top button.

"Stop, please! They contain jewels, I take it?"

"They're Mila's, not mine. They were her father's. I think they'd both
prefer you to have them. You must need a lot of money for the work you
do."

"You'd better hang on to them. You've still a long way to go."

"I take it the Hungarian gentleman is in easy circumstances?"

Again Miriam did not reply. "I'd rather you transferred your buttons to
another garment. We need money in Hungary, too."

"You must take this one, at least. If I remember rightly, it was a
sapphire."

"Very well, Channah. Thank you." She looked at her watch. "I must leave
you soon. There are a few details we ought to fix up. I'll need your
passport, too."

Elsie brought out her passport, and handed it over.

"It's like handing over a false limb," said Elsie.

"You get attached to a false limb, very nearly as much," the other woman
smiled.




CHAPTER VI


[I]

It was about five to five on a frosty mid-January day that Elsie Silver
approached the swing doors that opened on to the lounge of the
Savoy-Carlton Hotel. The encounter with the Hungarian officer was to
take place soon after five, but it seemed a good thing to Elsie to
reconnoitre the territory first. The commissionaire thrust the door
before her, and she passed through. The place was comfortable, without
splendour. There was an air of discretion about it, the black-coated
male staff, the rosy-cheeked women in embroidered peasant blouses. She
went straight up to the desk, and asked whether the Graf von Felsenburg
had arrived. It was a name which would do as well as any other.

"Is he staying here, madame?" asked the porter, passing a finger down
his list of bookings. The name was apparently unfamiliar to him. He
spoke, tentatively, in Hungarian. The lady had a Hungarian chic.

"_Deutsch sprechen, bitte!_" requested Elsie. The porter repeated the
question in German.

"No, we are to meet here," said Elsie.

"Doubtless he will be in the salon there," the porter indicated, with a
respectful wave of the hand. "That's a good-looking one," he said to
himself. "A year or two older than some of them, but she could knock
most of them sideways!"

Elsie descended two broad steps to a tea-room and cocktail lounge. There
were quite a few people around, but the place was so big it still looked
fairly empty. There were two young women drinking a cocktail at the bar,
very soigne, both of them. There was another young woman at a
tea-table, smoking. It was hard to say whether they were just
respectable women, or just not. Perhaps, in the case of the smoking
lady, the length of the cigarette holder decided the issue. There were
more nondescript groups round about, civilians and officers, with or
without women.

Elsie advanced, looking towards the pillar at the left-hand rear of the
lounge, where she was to seat herself at a small table beside a palm
planted in a large blue urn. Apart from the black spot of grief which
danced perpetually before her just beyond eye-range, she felt more
keenly tuned up than she had felt for years. She felt clean and sharp in
all her pores, excepting that she had smoothed rather more rouge on her
cheeks than she liked, and the bow of the lips was defined a trifle too
voluptuously. She knew that she was well dressed, if a thought too
brightly. The style of the best garments of _Udvardi: Modes_ was exactly
suited to her purpose. Her scalp tingled as if each hair had been
separately drawn through glacier-water.

There was another reason for her satisfaction. She was aware that she
had done things with her hair, eyebrows, and the shape of her mouth,
which had already made her quite a different woman, unless you had known
her well, from the Elsie Silver once celebrated in the Berlin cabarets,
and well known in the English-style glossy journals. There was no
knowing how sly the transformation might be, if ever she got herself
into the hands of an accomplished beauty expert.

She advanced slowly. There was the pillar, there was the palm in the
blue urn, there was the glass-topped table beside it. And, on her line
of advance, between the table and herself, were a pair of shoulders. The
head set upon them was turned away, but the moment the shoulders focused
her eye, the way they were set back towards the spine and supported the
well-shaped head, she knew who the man was. She would have known him
even if his wavy fair hair had been covered, or if he had been wearing
civilian clothes. He was Otto von Umhausen, whom she had last seen in
the foyer of the _Stary Teatr_ in Cracow on the night of the Furtwngler
concert, the man who had turned her down when she had asked for his
help.

She did not slow down her leisurely progress. Not the faintest tick of
panic quickened her heart-beat. She knew that Umhausen would not betray
her, though he had not chosen to help her. If he had wished to set the
hounds of the Gestapo upon her, he could have done that in Cracow, and
they would have rooted her out in a few hours. She was now passing
within a few inches of the well-shaped shoulders. There was an empty
chair in front of him; he was presumably waiting for his Slovak doxy.
Hadn't they told her in Cracow that the higher officers stationed in
South Poland had a weakness for Slovak pork and Slovak women?

She did not ask herself whether it was wise or foolish. One moment she
was on her way to the table by the blue urn. The next moment she was
seated facing von Umhausen.

"_Ach, du, Lisl!_" Otto exclaimed, coming out of a haze. "But why----"
Then the words stopped in his mouth, as he perceived, first that this
was not Lisl, and secondly who, astoundingly, she was. She smiled at him
easily.

"You see, Otto, I got across the frontier without you!"

"What do you mean?..." Then curiosity got the better of his anger.
"How on earth did you manage----" Then once more he checked himself.
"What on earth do you want? She's a devil! She'll give me hell!"

"If you could order me a _crme de menthe_," Elsie said, her eyes
languishing. She was certain that _crme de menthe_ was the drink to
order.

He looked down at his watch, then round to the entrance.

"There's no time," he said. "She can't be more than another minute now.
You must go away!" His voice was getting shrill. There had always been
something a little babyish about him.

"At least," she said, opening her hand-bag, "you can let me have a
cigarette." She, too, had a long cigarette holder, a useful property.

"Certainly," he stammered. He opened up the packet before him, his
fingers shaking.

"And if you could let me have just a few _Kronen_," she murmured, "it
would help." She saw his face blush deep-red as he felt for his wallet.

"Here you are!" he brought out under his breath, shuffling over a few
notes. Her hands closed expertly over them. "Go away, now! Go away!"
Elsie Silver reduced to this! Elsie von Brockenburg, a cheap whore! He
looked as if he would burst into tears any moment. She smiled sweetly,
stuffed the notes into her new red leather bag, got up, and left him.
Then she seated herself at the table by the blue urn. As she sat down,
she saw the woman Otto had been waiting for sweep flouncing over to him.
The woman had obviously come in on the end of their little
_tte--tte_. It took quite a lot of pressure on Otto's part before the
woman consented to sit down, and the simmering went on for some time.

'Poor Otto!' Elsie thought. 'He could have done better for himself!' She
could almost forgive him for his behaviour in Cracow, she was so sorry
for him. Then she looked at her watch, and tapped the floor a little
impatiently. I wonder what that man looks like, she said to herself. She
still knew no more about him than that he was a Hungarian officer. There
were already one or two Hungarian officers in the place, as well as
several Germans and Slovaks. He was to station himself close to her,
remove a handkerchief from his sleeve, wipe his chin, and drop the
handkerchief as he was replacing it. She hoped that the wrong man would
not drop a handkerchief, for that was a trivial mishap that could happen
to anybody. But the wrong man would not expect to see a woman with a red
hand-bag, sitting at that particular table, she realized. At all events
there was one good thing. The presence of Umhausen, which might have
been awkward, was certainly not going to complicate things. She knew
that her request for money made it impossible for him to imagine that
she was anything else but a caf harlot. He had never been a very subtle
creature.

Then at last a man entered the lounge, in the uniform of a Hungarian
colonel, she judged it to be. He was the sort of man whose presence
imposes itself wherever he goes, in a bus, a hotel lounge, even a
railway station. One sensed an awareness of him, hotel staff sidling
forward to see if there was anything they could do for him, people
sitting at tables pointing him out, women losing the thread of
conversation with their men, as their eyes fell on him and followed his
movements. He was about thirty-six or thirty-seven, some years younger
than she was. He was tall and his _tenue_ was impeccable. His uniform
might have been a tailor's show-piece, his leather shone like mahogany.
He was lean, with a ruddy-dark complexion, and coal-black hair. The nose
was high-pitched, the cheek-bones finely moulded, the chin lean as a
blade. There was race in all his bone-structure. The eyes and mouth were
far less ascetic, the eyes having a dark brilliance, the mouth being
slightly protruded, making the lips full and sensuous. He was, Elsie
told herself, a handsome devil. This was the man. It did not occur to
her to doubt it for one instant. The newcomer hesitated a moment, and
surveyed the field, like an old-time commander with field-glasses on a
hill-top; then he sauntered towards the bar, where two women sat,
sipping their cocktails. He examined them without rudeness, almost
impersonally, then apparently made up his mind that neither was
satisfactory, and strolled back through the lounge, examining the
several other ladies who were by this time available. Then, at length,
he came towards the table where Elsie was sitting, expertly assessed her
style, and incidentally assured himself that the hand-bag she had on the
table before her was red leather. Satisfied on both the public and
private counts, he sat himself down at the next table, one shoulder
slightly, only slightly, turned towards her.

"_Die Dame wnsht?_" a voice wanted to know. "The lady would like?" It
was a waiter. It was easy to be unaware of a waiter's approach, with
that black-eyed danger sidling along the territory.

"A cup of tea," she said, both because that was lady-like, and because
it would be proper to let a stronger drink be ordered for her.

The waiter bowed, and went over to the next table. His demeanour was now
almost abject.

"_Und der Herr Graf, bitte?_" (So it was a gentleman of title, was it?
But wasn't it difficult to be a Hungarian gentleman, and have no title?)
"A glass of cognac," the Herr Graf demanded. The waiter went off. The
Herr Graf removed the handkerchief stuck a little foppishly into his
sleeve, wiped his chin, then dropped his handkerchief as he sought to
replace it.

"Yes, of course," said Elsie to herself. "But it was a little
superfluous."

The little comedy was about to begin. It had begun already. The man
turned his head an inch towards hers. She turned hers an inch towards
his. He caught her eye, she turned her eye away. He took out his
cigarette case, removed a cigarette and dallied a moment, as if there
might be someone in the neighbourhood who might also approve a
cigarette. But no. The lady hard by, for instance, the lady with the red
leather hand-bag, might be a genuine lady awaiting a late-comer. He
closed the cigarette case and replaced it in his pocket. The lady was
probably getting a little impatient for her tea. She opened her
hand-bag, looked through its contents, held up the little mirror to her
nose, put it back in the bag. His eyes sought hers, found them, and held
them rather longer than before. A smile came to her lips, a smile subtle
and disturbing. He tugged at his lapels, and cleared his throat. She
opened her bag once more and brought out her own cigarette case. Before
she could open it, he had risen from his chair, and was standing by her
side, bent forward from the waist, his cigarette case held out to her.

"_Gndige Frau, darf ich?_ May I?"

"_Charmant!_" she said, her eyes delicious under the curled lashes, as
she helped herself. The head was slightly to one side.

He flicked his lighter.

"Does madame mind if I sit down beside her?" Tone and manner were still
diffident, as if, even now, at this last moment, he might have found out
his luck was too good to be true.

She shrugged her shoulders because one does not show too much
enthusiasm. But the words were:

"Why not? It would be delightful."

The waiter was approaching. He had sized up the situation. Without a
word he set down both tea and cognac at the one table.

"Please," asked the Herr Graf. "Won't madame take a little something
with her tea?"

"Most kind, Herr Graf! Would there be a glass of Danziger Goldwasser?"

"But yes, madame!" the waiter informed her, and was away. She looked
through the corner of her eye towards the table where her old-time
friend, Otto von Umhausen, had been sitting with his _petite amie_. Otto
was just leaving. She had a feeling he would not be able to resist
giving one last look in her direction. She was right. She winked. He
turned his head away hastily, and went off, the woman on his arm.

Well, for the time being, at least, that was the end of Germany.
Hungary, perhaps, lay ahead.

The Herr Graf lifted his glass to wish her good health. First in
Hungarian, then in German:

"_Zum wohle!_"

"_Zum wohle!_" she said, smiling over the rim of her glass. "My
Hungarian is rather limited."

"I must teach you," he insisted. Then he lowered his voice, for there
were people now sitting at tables quite close at hand. "You're
travelling on German papers, aren't you?" he asked. "You have them with
you?" The words were matter-of-fact, the manner remained debonair and
mischievous.

"Yes, they're here. The name's Lydia Radbruch." You might have thought,
if she had had a fan, she would have tapped him on the arm with it.

"Try me!" he dared her. "Try me!" Then again in the lower voice: "Have
you a case or anything? Is it... at that place?"

"No, no," she assured him, with the air of one saying: "Now, now,
naughty!" She went on: "It's at the station. They gave me the ticket."

"Good. We'll send my chauffeur, Istvn, for it. No, not now. Soon. What
sort of a head for drink have you? We must have quite a few.

"I'm out of practice."

"That's all right," He signalled for the waiter. "Same again?"

"No, Herr Graf. Please. At _this_ time of day!" she objected coyly.

"Waiter! Another Danziger Goldwasser!" He drained his glass. "And for me
another brandy. Make it a large one." The waiter clicked his heels in
imitation of the German manner and went off. "It's all right, Frau
Radbruch," he said. "You can pass it along to me when you feel you've
had enough. You'll get a little girlish and silly over the fourth or
fifth."

"Yes, certainly." He had it all well in hand. "And then?"

"I'll take you outside to the car. While Istvn makes you comfortable,
I'll book a room for you adjoining mine. They like a certain decorum in
this place. Then we'll go for a drive into the fields behind the town,
while the man gets your case at the station. Then we'll have a little
dinner in my own suite." The waiter was coming back now. His tone
changed. "No, I won't believe it," he vowed. "Not a day over thirty."

"Flatterer!" she reproached him. "Very well, then, thirty-two." The
waiter put the drinks down, and made to go off, a handsome interim
_pourboire_ on his plate.

"_Ober!_" exclaimed the Herr Graf. "This is ridiculous! Bring the
bottles!"

"_Mit Vergngen_, Herr Graf!" said the waiter. "With pleasure!" He was
off again.

"What was the Christian name? Lydia? No! You must be Mimi!"

"As you please!"

"After the next drink call me 'Pali.' 'Count' and 'Pali' will see you
through."

"May I ask when you intend to leave Bratislava?"

"That's not decided yet." (You never get anywhere by asking a direct
question.) "Here he is, with the bottles." The waiter filled their
glasses. "To your beautiful eyes... Mimi!"

"Happy days... Pali!"

They had quite a good deal more to drink before at last they rose from
the table. They were both on top of the world. She giggled and stumbled
a little, and he caught her arm.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, under his breath.

"Of course I am!" She was quite short about it. He was not giving her
credit for the merit of the act she was putting on. The staff were
jumping to attention all round the vestibule. They were near the swing
doors now.

"You've been on the stage, have you?"

"What a lovely evening!" she said. "What a lot of stars are out
already!" Nobody was under any obligation to answer irrelevant
questions, whoever asked them. He led her round through the swing doors
and to the left, where a superb Mercedes was parked. The chauffeur
saluted them, then opened a rear door. He was in civilian uniform, and
not a young man. He was obviously a personal retainer.

"No, Istvn, in front! I'll drive!" said the Herr Graf. He himself
insisted on making her comfortable under the rugs. "Bring madame's bag
from the station!" he demanded. "Here's the ticket!"

"_Szolglatra, Grf Ur._ At your service, Herr Graf!"

"I'll be back in a moment, Mimi dear."

"Don't be long, Pali."

He was back a minute later, a happy smile on his face, and got into the
driving seat beside her. A moment later, he pressed her thigh. She knew
what that meant. Obediently, she laid her head on his shoulder, while he
put his arm round hers. Then he started up the engine and drove off.

"Holy saints!" murmured Istvn as the car turned towards the river.
"Doesn't he know how to pick them, my Herr Graf. Like his dear father
before him, bless him! What an eyeful! What an apricot!"

The Count and the lady were out of view of the hotel a few yards down
the street. At the end of the street was the embankment, with the bridge
some seven hundred yards away on the left. The car turned right. Elsie
was already sitting upright in her seat, the Count had both hands on the
steering wheel. They travelled in complete silence for some time under
the castle and the sloping woods beyond the castle; then, some ten or
fifteen minutes later, they turned inland again into the low hills.

What is all this about? Elsie asked herself. Who is he? He must be a
hundred-per-cent person or Miriam would not have stage-managed this
meeting. Am I still being tried out? That's idiotic. I've already been
told too much. Excepting about my silent friend on my left here. Do you
realize, woman? If I were a really bad hat, I've got absolutely nothing
on the gentleman. Nothing. Excepting, by arrangement, he dropped a
handkerchief. But there's only my word for that. I'm a pick-up, just a
plain straight forward pick-up.

But for God's sake, I'm beyond the trying-out stage. He's the real
thing, like Miriam. What is he running this frightful danger for? Miriam
is at least a Jew. Is he? Or is he part Jewish? Is that it? If
anything's idiotic, that is. A Hungarian Count, an officer in the
Hungarian Army! But _anybody_ can be part Jewish. No. It's not that. He
loves excitement, is it that? Or he's in the pay of the Allies? Or maybe
he's a saint, like Miriam? Oh Hell! Perhaps some day I'll find out.
Perhaps not.

The fur rug had slipped to one side. She adjusted it round her knees
again. "Pardon me!" he said, and helped with his right hand. He was at
least aware of her, but no more than that. The night was fine, the air
clear. Below the woods the Danube wound out of hills, and making a great
loop, disappeared south-eastward into the plain. At the further end of
the bridge lights clustered like a swarm of bees. The lights of villages
further away twinkled frostily among the blank Hungarian fields.

She might some day, perhaps even soon, get an answer to the questions
that beset her. Or she might not, if it did not suit the plans in which,
among others, Gisi Fleishmann and the Hungarian Count were partners. At
all events he would work out for her, perhaps with her, the crossing
into Hungary, probably quite soon. She would fulfil, to the utmost of
her ability, the plan designed for her of which Gisi had spoken. But she
would not leave Hungary until she had found out about Mila all there was
to be found out.

"You were in the Warsaw ghetto uprising, weren't you?" The words broke
sudden and sharp into the silence in which they had both been immersed.

"Yes, for over two weeks. It was difficult to keep track of time."

"You were not long in the ghetto before that?"

"Only a matter of days."

"What were conditions like in the ghetto?"

"They were horrible beyond words. I could see that, though I was there
so short a time."

"Tell me about the German attempt to wipe out the ghetto. They used
siege-guns and bombers, didn't they? And flame-throwers for close work?"

"I was working the whole time in a First Aid Post, in a cellar. It
wasn't easy to get a picture of what was going on above. But I worked on
some of the casualties."

"The nightmare of the death camps had a good deal to do with the
rising?"

"Yes, a good deal."

The inquisition stopped as suddenly as it started. Why had it started?
There was none of his questions to which by now the answer was not well
known. Was he testing her out, as, earlier, Gisi had tested her out? But
the questions did not go far or deep. Was it a response to some sporadic
impulse which impelled him, from time to time, to transfer his
imagination to those tormented realms of fire and darkness? The silence
was as complete as before. They were turning right now, into the city.
The comfortable white villas, set in their sparkling gardens of
evergreens, were behind them. The tyres were hissing along tramlines.
Tall steeples soared above them over baroque church-faades. It seemed
to her a good idea to put a dab of rouge on her cheeks and a film of
lip-stick on her mouth, as if both had been undergoing heavy attention.
At the end of the street she saw the square where the hotel stood, and
the lights of the verandah. Then, once more, she felt the pressure of
his thigh against hers. Dutifully, she once more laid her head upon his
shoulder, once more he clasped her body to his.

"We're here, Mimi darling," he said, as they drove up to the hotel.

"It's been wonderful, Pali dear," she breathed. He kissed her cheek
swiftly, as if it were the colophon to a crowded page of kissing.

Istvn was waiting under the glass verandah, as he would have been
waiting if the car had not returned for another six hours. He stepped
forward and opened the door.

"It's even more wonderful to be back," cooed the Count, as amorous as
any turtle-dove. She looked even more radiant than before the drive and
the night air. A few tresses that had escaped from under her hat curled
like vine-tendrils over the ivory forehead. The mouth flared like
poinsettia.

Down on the pavement, quite openly, he put his arm round her waist, and
led her through the doorway, across the entrance hall and over to the
lift. In the lift they smiled at each other, outlined kisses to each
other, as if they were youngsters on honeymoon. "This way, sweetheart!"
he murmured, and led her along the passage, past the door of his own
room, to the door of hers.

"When shall I ask them to bring up dinner, sweet?" (One of the
floor-maids was passing at that moment.)

"I'm famished. Shall we say half an hour? I'll have a quick bath." She
smiled, and sighed, and went in.

They were together again half an hour later, in the sitting-room that
lay between their suites. The table was delightfully arrayed with good
linen and shining silver and vases of hothouse flowers. As the waiters
came in and out, the conversation was romantic and amorous. In the
absence of the waiters the conversation was more business-like.

"We go through formalities at both ends of the bridge," he pointed out.
"You'll be expecting that."

"Of course."

"It should be fairly simple on the Slovakian side. The Germans will be
more business-like at the other end."

"I'd be expecting that, too."

"It's impossible to anticipate any questions they might ask. I'm sure
you'd have an answer for them."

"I believe so."

"I'm told your passport covers your former movements?"

"Yes, that's so."

"We must see what happens. I'll do my best in any event. I hope you have
confidence in me, madame."

"I have confidence in you because of the woman who sent me to you. I'd
like to know a little more about you than I'm allowed to."

"You know all that's necessary to know to get across the Danube
to-morrow morning." A waiter entered. There was the prompt change of
tone and manner. "I'll never forgive him, honey-sweet," he languished.
"You should have waited for me."

"Well, darling, we've met at last, haven't we?"

When dinner was over, the waiters cleared away with the expeditiousness
indicated on such occasions, while the love-birds drank coffee, smoked
cigarettes, toasted each other rapturously over the brims of their
brandy-glasses. Then, when the last waiter had gone, the Count and his
guest rose from their chairs.

"I hope, Frau Radbruch," he said, with the stiffness he reverted to as
soon as they were alone, "you won't find eight o'clock to-morrow morning
too early to get up?"

"As early as you like, Herr Graf," observed Elsie remotely.

"I'll come into your room and waken you. Then please come over here
again in your peignoir. We'll breakfast together. The maid will pack for
you. We'll leave at nine."

"I'll be ready, Herr Graf."

"One more thing. Please let me have your passport, in case there's an
inquiry to-night. I believe there will not be."

"By all means. Here it is." She removed it from her red bag.

"The chances are one in a hundred," he went on, "but it's better to be
prepared. If there's a knock at either of our doors, you'll come
straight over to my bedroom."

"Certainly."

"Thank you. Goodnight, Frau Radbruch."

"Goodnight, Herr Graf."

He bowed. She inclined her head. They each went to their own rooms.


[II]

The vestibule next morning was like an Italian peasant's feast-day, with
smiles and paper money fluttering like bannerets.

"_Auf wiedersehen_, Herr Graf!"

"Come soon again, Herr Oberst!"

"_Bon voyage!_"

"_Glckliche Reise!_"

"_Do videnia!_"

Elsie stood smiling by, like the wife of a Governor-General on a state
occasion.

"Good-bye," she fluttered to the last cohorts of staff assembled outside
the glass verandah.

"Come soon again, _gndige Frau!_" they beamed. It was really a very
affectionate, as well as ceremonious, send-off for a lady from the
Warsaw sewers.

The car turned left along the embankment towards the bridge. It was only
a half-mile away, and they were there in two or three minutes. Half a
dozen cars were ahead of them waiting to go through passport and customs
examinations. The control buildings were on their right hand, just this
side of the bridge. Under the bridge the river ran green and bright.
Beyond the white-washed houses, the bare trees, was Hungary.

The car braked, and Istvn waited a moment.

"Here!" said the Count. He held out a sheaf of papers. Istvn got out
and walked over with them to the control buildings.

"You're all right, madame?" asked the Count. It was the first time he
had uttered a word of genuine concern outside the framework of the
masquerade.

"Perfectly," she said. She felt hollow, as if there were nothing inside
her ribs. His arm tenderly slid round her waist. She turned her head and
looked languishingly into his eyes. His fingertips smoothed her
eyebrows.

"It's going to be so wonderful," he mooned.

"Heavenly!"

"What have I done all these years without you?"

"Darling, I mustn't think. I couldn't bear it."

The patter continued for some minutes. It was hard work, with the tongue
having a tendency to stick to the palate, and the heart dropping several
beats at a time. Then at last Istvn reappeared. Behind him were three
officials, two wearing the red cap-band of the police, the other the
green band of the customs. The Count turned down the window beside him.
He still had his left hand round Elsie's waist.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked sharply, in the voice of one who is not
accustomed to being held up at frontiers.

"Your papers, Herr Oberst," he said, handing them over. "Thank you, Herr
Oberst." The Radbruch passport was still in his hand. He cleared his
throat, he looked at the passport photograph, he compared the photograph
with the original. But he did it all respectfully, as one who has a
slightly ridiculous duty to perform.

"_Gndige Frau_ is with you, Herr Oberst?" It was a rather rhetorical
question. She was very much with him at that moment.

"That is so," conceded the Count. The policeman addressed Elsie:

"_Gndige Frau_ intends to spend how long in Hungary?"

She looked up at her companion through her lashes, and smiled with faint
embarrassment.

"A week, perhaps two weeks," she said.

"Oh, much longer," said the Count, with conviction.

"I don't know," she pouted.

The senior policeman took the passport in hand. He was probably from
headquarters. It was up to him to treat the matter a little more
heavily. First he looked at the passport from close to, then from a
little further away; then, still without a word, he stared for some
seconds into Elsie's face. Then he blinked, and turned towards the
Count.

"_Entschuldigen!_ Excuse me!" he said. "_Gut!_" he assured his
colleague. "Stamp it." He handed it over. Then, a little flat-footedly,
he went back to the control building.

"One moment, please! Excuse me, _die Herrschaften!_" begged the younger
policeman, and he, too, went off.

"Excuse me," pleaded the customs-man in the red band. "The luggage. Is
this all?" Two suitcases were in front beside the driver.

"There's a big case back there," said Istvn.

"Ah, let it be." He scribbled a mark on the two suitcases, saluted,
begged again to be excused, and went off. A minute later, the junior
policeman was back with Elsie's passport.

"Excuse me," he murmured, and handed it over.

The Count excused him. Frau Radbruch excused him. Istvn excused him.
There cannot have been many crossings of frontiers at that epoch with so
much excusing going on hither and thither.

A few minutes later that barrier across the bridge was drawn up, and the
clot of cars loosened and drove slowly across.

"Your people may take things a little more seriously, darling," he
murmured, "over at the German station."

"I'll know how to deal with them, precious," she assured him. She felt
very frightened indeed.

He repeated the routine at the German passport-control. He left the bags
in the car, and sent Istvn out with the two sets of papers. Several
minutes passed and Istvn did not return. Her heart was beating fast. He
saw her fingers drumming a tattoo upon her lap, and pressed his own
fingertips down on them.

"Gently! Gently!" he reassured her. "It will be all right!"

How clever he was, she said to herself. How clever they both were, he
and Miriam! Isn't it a good thing I know absolutely nothing about them!
Nothing!

"Here they come! Smile!"

It was Istvn, and three German frontier-men. They handed the Count's
papers over with a salute and a click of heels, then turned to the lady.

"Are you Frau Radbruch?" a sergeant asked. There was only the click of
heels.

"Yes, sergeant," she said, smiling sweetly.

"The Herr Leutnant would like a word with you."

"Certainly," she murmured. "Where is he? In that funny house?" Showing
not the slightest hesitation, she prepared to get out of the car.

"Ask the Herr Leutnant to come here, sergeant!" the Count demanded. He
took out his wallet and allowed the sergeant's eye to rest a moment on a
folded document in a mica case.

Perhaps Elsie knew the mentality of the people they were dealing with
rather better than he.

"No, darling!" she pouted. "The dear man! It's his duty! Of course I'll
go!"

"Very well! I'll come with you."

The Herr Leutnant was sitting at a deal table with his back to a coke
stove. There was a fly-blown portrait of the Fhrer on the wall behind
him. He got up as he sighted the Count, and saluted.

"_Heil, Hitler!_" he proclaimed. "_Heil, Hitler!_" responded the two
others. "The Herr Oberst will excuse me, I must make an inquiry or two
about the lady," explained the Herr Leutnant. He was tapping the
Radbruch passport on the table before him.

There was a minute pause, then:

"Of course you will, Herr Leutnant," the Count said agreeably. "It is in
order for me to be present with my"... again there was a pause...
"with my friend?"

The atmosphere was easier.

"But, of course. Unless, maybe, the lady would prefer it otherwise?"

"How kind you are, Herr Leutnant!" she said softly. "It's as you
choose."

"German?"

"But certainly."

"When did the lady arrive in Bratislava?"

"Yesterday."

"Coming from?"

"I was in Cracow for a time." He referred to the passport again. The
entries seemed satisfactory.

"What was the lady doing in Cracow? On holiday?" he gallantly hastened
to suggest.

"Yes. I was on holiday."

"Could the lady give any reference to a respectable German... friend
in Cracow?"

"Indeed yes. You could refer to Herr Oberst Otto von Umhausen. He is
Officer in Charge of the Wawel Garrison, and a close friend of his
Excellency. He could answer all inquiries." The voice had the suggestion
that if there were any inquiry about her talents in bed, Herr von
Umhausen could deal with that, too.

The Herr Leutnant for a moment looked as if he would collapse into his
jackboots.

"Yes, of course!" he muttered. "Of course! Much displeasure to have
disturbed you, madame!" He reached for the rubber stamp and well and
truly stamped it home.

"Thank you, Herr Leutnant!" she said, her eyelids fluttering. "What a
dear you are!" The Count took up the passport and they returned to the
car. Nobody was interested in the luggage. The barrier was raised. The
car passed through. Istvn wound up the screen, then turned to the
right.

"Permit me to congratulate you, madame," the Count said. "You give me
confidence." A dingy workers' suburb was opening out before them. "This
is the Vienna road, the old Imperial Highway, but soon----"

She heard no more than that. Her eyes were fixed on a lamp post. The
lamp post detached itself from its moorings and heeled over in an arc
towards a grocer's shop. The shop swung over and round towards a tree.
Then the tree came loose and swung round and over. Two or three times
the three objects revolved slowly round each other in a great circle.
Then darkness took them.

She came to herself some time, and some distance, later, with a blinking
and a spluttering, and a trickle of fire down her gullet. They were
outside a frame-shack caf among grey fields and grey waters, and a grey
road ahead, and tall reeds and grey-green willows. A woman stood on the
steps of the caf, and a man beside her. Beside the car was Istvn with
a bottle of grey-green liquor on a tin tray. Leaning over towards her
was the Count, holding a glass to her mouth.

"You're all right, now?" he asked. "Would you like to get out and walk a
bit?"

"Where are we? Is this Hungary?" she asked, looking round on the cold,
dank fields lying under the roadway, and the sharp reeds massed like
swords.

There was the faintest pressure of his thigh against hers. He was
reminding her that now she had come to herself the first duty was to
remember there was a part to maintain. He waited till the pressure might
have conveyed his meaning. Then he spoke again, his voice tender as a
mother's.

"Yes, my sweet, this is my country. We've left the German bridgehead
behind a long time ago. Don't talk now. So long as you're yourself
again. Another drop of _slivovitz_? Yes, darling, it's terribly strong,
isn't it? That's right. Close your eyes for a minute or two." He
addressed a word or two to Istvn in Hungarian. Istvn addressed a word
or two to the caf people behind him. She closed her eyes.

This was Hungary, where Mila was. That thought for a moment expelled the
other thought, even of the tense minute at the control post; Mila was
somewhere in a room high up, sitting on a wooden chair, with her back
against a table talking; young people on the floor listening. She tried
to cajole the vision into her brain, as if her brain were the room high
up. But there was no prickling of the skin at the base of the scalp. The
vision would not spread itself out on the brain's floor. Another thought
was there instead. Those two peasant people on the steps of their sorry
little caf in the wilderness, the knowingness, the solicitude, in their
eyes. They clearly thought her Excellency was feeling the baby-stirrings
in the womb. She smiled. It occurred to her that, in fact, she was. She
had felt them for some time now. But it was not the usual type of
foetus.

She opened her eyes. The caf people were back indoors.

"I'm feeling quite all right now, Pali dear," she said. "Let's go on."

"At once, sweetheart." He made a sign to Istvn. Istvn got into his
seat. "We'll wind the screen up," murmured Pali, "it'll be cosier." She
gave him a grateful glance. She had not noticed before that the car was
a limousine. It meant that they could for some time now drop the
'sweetheart' and the 'darling' business, which was, after all, just a
bit exhausting.

They started off, and were away again. The Count removed himself from
the close contact with the passenger. He did not address a word to her
for some minutes. It would be kindly to let her come to herself in her
own time. Then he spoke.

"It must have been rather a strain, Frau Radbruch. I'm sorry."

She turned and smiled.

"Well, for just a moment or two," she admitted. "But it's odd. It wasn't
the tension that did it. Exactly the opposite. It's because it was all
over so quickly. It was all so different, getting away from the other
places, such a gruelling job." She heard a voice chattering away so
affably, and wondered for a moment whether the voice was her own. It was
probably the release from the tension, helped out by the shot of
_slivovitz_. The stuff was burning behind the base of her breast-bone,
hot and round, like a light-bulb. She went chattering on. "I don't
suppose it was more than half a mile," she went on, "from the cellar in
Warsaw to old Marta's laundry, just beyond the Wall. But it felt like...
like an area defended in depth. You know, the Siegfried Line. Or
crossing the Tatras with Zosha. I haven't told you about Zosha, the
smuggler-girl? Oh that was work, that was! Those ravines! Those stones
that went slithering down under you! That was something! Ha! Ha!" She
tittered like a factory girl in a bar parlour. She looked helplessly to
see what effect all this was having on him, and was certain she noted a
_frisson_ of distaste. "I really must beg you----" she started
desperately. Then she passed out again, completely, as if she had fallen
into the hold of a merchant ship stuffed with black featherbeds. She
recovered in due time, there was no way of seeing how much later. The
landscape was still all river, and stumpy willows, and a wild goose
flying ahead with long neck outstretched. She felt refreshed and
vigorous, completely herself again. She turned her head.

"Herr Graf!"

"Yes?"

"You must forgive me! I think that's what I was going to say to you when
I passed out. That's the second time, isn't it? Please don't think I'm
an hysterical woman."

"Frau Radbruch, I assure you." He inclined his head. "I think I
understand."

"It's happened once or twice, lately," she told him. "I'm not so young
as I used to be."

"I don't suppose you had experiences like these... till lately?"

"There were other dangers from time to time. But on the whole I lived a
very sheltered life, too sheltered."

"Wouldn't you like to get back to peace and safety as soon as possible?"

She paused a moment, choosing her words.

"I think there are a few things to be done first."

"I was given to understand," he said, "that that is how you feel." There
was a slight note of satisfaction in his voice. "It is exactly how I
feel. You will have gathered that."

"Yes. I'm told I might be of use to you. If I can be, I will be very
happy. That's why I wanted you to understand I don't usually behave like
a little schoolgirl. I believe I can be relied upon."

"I would be glad to think so," he said. The relationship was quite
professional again. For some time they travelled on in silence. The
river was not only on their left hand. It seemed to have split up into a
hundred small rivers, nosing darkly through cold and shining meadows. It
was a strange, water-logged world, with no towns and few villages. Here
and there, on the edge of a reedy lagoon, a farm or mill sought to
buttress itself against the prevailing water, or a pale church lifted
its bulbous spire to a heaven that seemed as watery. The sun was warm
for January, but the sheath of ice in the backwaters was often unbroken.
Sometimes, into the clumps of reeds, a chunk of forwandered ice, brought
down by the main stream, thrust its snout like a grey-ribbed tapir.

"This isn't a bright countryside," murmured Elsie.

"It's not a bright world," the other said bleakly. "But we must do what
we can do." He turned upon her suddenly, as if she were responsible for
sustaining this play-acting for too long a time. "It's about time you
knew something about me, isn't it?"

A faint flicker of temper darted along her tongue.

"I should have thought----" she started. But she broke off. "I'm at your
service," she said.

"What should you have thought?" he insisted. "What?"

"It's about time we both knew something about each other."

"I beg your pardon. I know something about you already. I have the
advantage over you." His voice gleamed like a blade with a fine edge to
it. "Perhaps, Frau Radbruch, you will permit me?" He took an oblong
leather wallet out of his pocket, like certain cigarette cases by
Asprey. She noticed an embossed coronet on the top left-hand corner, and
below it the initials A.P. He opened it and took out a printed card
about the size of a small post-card. This, too, had the coronet on the
top left-hand corner. She read the name: Grf Apor Pl, followed by
certain qualifications. But they were in Hungarian, and were meaningless
to her.

"I don't understand," she murmured.

"No," he said. "I hardly thought you did. Let me introduce myself then.
I am Count Pali Apor. I'm a Colonel in the Debreczen Hussars, seconded
to military intelligence at the War Office. That is about as much as you
need know."

"If you forbid me to ask any questions, I will, of course, refrain from
doing so. Excepting that I must have a clear idea what is expected from
me."

"I propose to give you that without delay. It is not simple, and far
from easy. You will be expected----" Then he stopped. The next words
came from him as if he had tried to repress them, and failed. "What
question did you want to ask me? What was it?" He was, after all, human
enough to have some curiosity. She would gratify it.

"There's one question I find it impossible not to ask you, though, of
course, if for some reason you prefer not to answer it--you won't."

"I am quite certain I know what the question is."

She shrugged her shoulders. If he was as clever as all that, working for
him would be difficult at times.

"You are wondering why a man of my background is operating in a Jewish
underground movement? Isn't that so?"

"That's so." But perhaps it wasn't so dazzlingly clever a piece of
divination.

"I'll tell you at once, as much as you need know. My family has ranked
among the bitterest anti-Semites in Hungary. I was as bitter as any of
them till... three or four years ago. That was partly due to the fact
that I'm half a Jew. My mother was Jewish."

"There, at least, I have the advantage over you," Elsie informed him.
"Both my parents were Jewish."

"That makes it simpler," he observed, with tightened lips.

"But I think I know exactly what it's all about. I've lived in Germany a
good many years."

"Do I answer your question? Would you like to inquire further?"

She looked coldly into his eyes for some moments. She was not going to
be bullied by him, neither because he was half a Jew, nor, still less,
because he was half a Gentile.

"As I said before, I would like to know what you have in mind for me."

"Very well." His lips were tight-drawn. She knew they would have to walk
carefully with each other, if work of any value was to be done. And
nothing else mattered.

"No!" he shouted suddenly. "No! I'm sorry! You will have to hear the
story! I have only met you a few hours ago, but it's likely we'll meet a
good deal in the months ahead of us, if nothing goes wrong. If anything
does--then we'll meet in front of a firing squad!" She wanted to let him
know that, having extricated herself from the dbris of her Warsaw bomb,
she preferred to die of old age. She certainly preferred to die no death
at all, until she knew exactly what had happened to Mila. But it would
be unwise to interrupt the strange man now. How very good-looking he was
at this moment! The eyes were like huge purple grapes, with firelight
glinting over their surfaces.

He went on.

"There is only one other human being who has heard the story. She, also,
is a woman. You know her." She nodded. It was evident he meant Miriam.
"A noble creature," he said. "A mouse of a woman to look at, until she
fixes her eyes on you. Then she is anything at all. A gazelle. A lion."
He relapsed into silence, though a moment ago he had been full of his
own tale. It was extraordinary, she said to herself, what happened to
people the moment they started speaking of that woman, even to a man
like this tortured Hungarian aristocrat in whose veins the mixed blood
seethed like chemicals in a retort over a burner. But no, it was not
extraordinary. It was she, Miriam, who was extraordinary. She was the
stuff that heroes and martyrs are made of. Yet she, too, was not
extraordinary. She was one of a nameless company, and only by a freak of
fate would one name or another be remembered, excepting by those who had
been close to them, for even those who had been delivered by them would
not know their names.

There was a small town on the other side of the river. Were there Jews
there, too? How soon would the hideous rake start combing those houses
that looked like a dream beyond the still water, combing the streets,
the adjacent woods and fields? Would that small town, too, in the hour
of need, discover a Gisi Fleishmann, who would give up all hope of her
own safety, like the Gisi Fleishmann of Bratislava, so that two, twelve,
twenty Jews might be smuggled into safety, while she herself stayed on,
to board with a smile the train that, at the end of it all, rumbled off
to the inevitable crematorium?

"That's Komrion," he said. "There's an inn on this side of the river.
Or we can eat a little later at Esztergom."

"Later, if you wish. I could hardly eat now." She knew that it was now
imperative for him to speak, though probably, when they had set out,
nothing had been further from his mind than to tell the story that so
tormented him to this total stranger.

He bent his head, as if to acknowledge her sensitiveness, and started to
speak. He spoke with extraordinary restraint, with a sort of deliberate
dullness, as if he knew that, if he let his emotion burst through the
protecting slag, he would be a mass of flame.

"I have told you already, madame, that on my father's side I am
descended from one of the oldest of the Hungarian noble families. We
stem from the Lake Balaton region, in Transdanubia. The founder of our
family is on record as having led the first revolution against St.
Stephen's christianization of the territory. To come down to more recent
times, my father was an extremely extravagant man who, while still
young, squandered most of his substance in the over-zealous pursuit of
pleasure. He also committed the unpardonable sin of falling hopelessly
in love with a Jewess, the daughter of a neighbour's bailiff. It is a
fact that she, too, belonged to an ancient family. They were
Transdanubian Jews who were settled in the country long before the time
of the Magyar invaders, more than a thousand years ago. Despite this, to
my grandfather, as to most Hungarians with similar antecedents, a Jewess
was a plain clot of filth; he was, in fact, one of the most malignant
anti-Semites of his time. His disgust and fury were beyond bounds when
my father brought my mother to the family residence in a state of
advanced pregnancy. It was my father's idea of a joke. It took a good
deal of money and ingenuity to hush up the affair, but the situation was
simplified when Mother committed suicide soon after I was born, and my
father died some months later.

"My grandfather then took over the responsibility of educating me in the
way a Hungarian nobleman should go. The strong affection he undoubtedly
had for me was complicated. He was never able to forget the abhorred
strain that ran through my blood, and marred the perfect blue of our
Magyar ancestry. In many ways there was a good deal, there was too much,
similarity, between us. I was as fierce, proud and high-spirited as he
was, and clashes were frequent. If it had not been for those, I might
well have grown up in complete ignorance of my Jewish ancestry, but the
increasingly irascible old man would often lose all restraint and damn
the Jewish poison in his grandson's veins, that made him so stiff-necked
and arrogant.

"One day the old man went too far." The Count turned his head away. She
was conscious of the vast effort he was making to maintain the even
tenor of his narrative. He went on again. "In the height of a quarrel my
grandfather called me the son of a Jewish whore. I told him I loathed
him and wished he was dead. He looked at me with startled eyes, and
tried to speak, but was unable to, his lips were completely out of
control. Then, as if in direct response to my words, he dropped to the
floor with a haemorrhage caused by a burst blood-vessel. I watched him
die, with a composure which terrified myself no less than him. My
silence and impassivity were the last things he was conscious of.

"In due course I entered the Royal Hungarian Army, and assumed the rle
natural to a young man of my class. I was always, however, a man divided
against myself. The knowledge that I was half a Jew was a perpetual
torment. At one time I joined the anti-Semitic agrarian party, but very
soon was overcome with a feeling of self-loathing, and left. I found it
impossible, however, not to continue taking a morbid interest in Jewish
affairs. Some years after the Nazis acceded to power in Germany, I
manoeuvred myself on a military mission to Berlin. The Nazis were not
averse from allowing the right kind of visitor, particularly when he was
a Hungarian nobleman with a good anti-Semitic history, an insight into
the Third Reich's methods of dealing with the Jewish vermin. They cannot
have been unaware of my mixed blood, but they must have calculated that
that very condition would produce an exceptional zeal." He paused. "They
were right," he said. She was not looking at his face, and was glad she
was not, for she knew there was a smile on his lips, at that moment, not
easy to bear.

"It was on that visit to Berlin that I realized that the thing involved
has nothing to do with a man's being Jewish, or half-Jewish, or not
Jewish at all. It is a simple issue, madame, and I don't need to expound
it. The struggle inside me continued, none the less. I called myself a
neurotic, a Jewish decadent. It was one man who decided the issue for
me, absolutely and for ever. That was also in Berlin. One man in one
moment, the smile on his face."

He relapsed into silence again, and she did nothing to break it. She was
aware that in the little pit of space between the back of the car and
the wound-up glass screen that separated them from the driver, a third
passenger had installed himself. She did not know whether the Count
would give her the name of the third passenger, and if she would
recognize it, if he gave it. She thought she probably would not; it
would be, so to speak, a nameless name, the distillation of the
infinitely diffused evil, featureless, without odour, without light or
shade.

"The name is not generally known," he said, as if in comment on the
unuttered thought. "Indeed, he shuns the radio talks or the newspapers,
as an owl or a bat shuns the sunlight. I believe he is in Budapest at
this moment. He has been officially granted unlimited powers,
independent of frontiers, and Budapest is one of the chief stations of
his _tourne_. He has still things left to do in Budapest, which he has
succeeded in doing in Warsaw, Prague, Bratislava, and elsewhere. He
sometimes contacts me, for though we are officially in different fields,
he hopes I might help him to establish Ausschwitz in Hungary. It would
save so much rolling stock. I don't need to tell you, it's a hope in
which I encourage him. It might be useful for you, too, to meet him
sometime."

"His name?" He had perhaps forgotten he had not mentioned it.

"Yes. Eichmann, Adolf Eichmann, an Austrian. He is about thirty-six
years old now, a good husband, a good father, a one-time oil-salesman."
The voice rasped like a file. "He is tall, but not tall enough to
attract attention, slight and long, like a reptile that can disappear
into a fissure at the shake of a stick. His hair and eyes are
colourless, like a louse. I met him in May 1942, soon after Himmler had
given him absolute powers to work out the practical details for the
Jewish mass-murder. He had blue-prints and models before him, models of
the bath-houses in which the victims were to be asphyxiated, and the
incinerators to which they would be carted off. He removed a tiny
trap-door in the roof of the model bath-house, and dropped a pinch of
green crystals through, the crystals which give off the lethal gas in
which the naked victims splutter and choke till they die. He smiled as
he dropped the crystals through. That smile decided all the issues for
me." He turned suddenly on his companion as if she had sought to
remonstrate with him. "It was the Fiend's smile, madame. Through the
chink in his face all the fires of Hell glared, as they still glare, for
he is alive still. He decided my life for me, and my death. He smiled on
you, no less than on me, and all Jews. He smiles, and you and I are both
here, in this car. We will get to Budapest soon, but it may not be the
end of the journey. We may get as far as the bath-house, where he sits
perched on the roof, to drop the green crystals through the trap-door. I
hope the prospect does not depress you, madame."

She shook her head. She very much wanted to stroke the back of his hand,
and tell him not to be so Hungarian and romantic and silly. He looked
quite a pathetic boy at that moment. But she remembered there would be
enough hand-stroking, in the way of duty, before long.

"I'll do all I can to avoid it," she said. "And so will you, I hope,
Count Apor."

The unecstatic sentiment was like a spray of cold water flung in his
face. There was almost an audible intake of breath.

"Why, of course," he said. "I'm not an idiot!" he added irascibly.

That was manifest, and called for no comment. But she still had only the
haziest idea of the job that had been assigned to her. She hoped he
would come round to it at this point, but he seemed merely to have
fallen into one of his silences.

"I'm hoping you'll let me know what is expected of me in Budapest," she
said. "It _is_ Budapest, I take it?"

"Yes, it _is_ Budapest. You're to carry on from the point reached last
night in the hotel at Pozony." She raised her eyes. "I beg your pardon,
Bratislava, Pressburg, as you will. You will be installed as my
_Freundin_ in a small apartment I have... for my friends, in
Belvros, on the Pest side of the river. It will be made as little
embarrassing as possible for you. A Hungarian officer, even in Military
Intelligence, will not attract undue attention when he visits, or is
visited by, his mistress, when she is a woman"--he hesitated a
moment--"a woman who is presentable, and carries herself well." She
inclined her head a little to acknowledge the tribute. "The intention is
to facilitate contacts between myself and certain individuals in the
city. There may be other individuals regarding whom you will receive
instructions as the time arises. There is, first of all, Clothilde. She
is a beauty expert in Luigino's establishment, on the Vaczi Utca. An
appointment will be made for you by telephone, and this Clothilde will
be asked for. That will arouse no suspicions, for the woman is excellent
at her job, and it is customary, I understand, for a client to insist on
the services of her own expert. Then there is Ferencz Kollar, a young
assistant at the Csanady bookshop on the Esk Utca. He is a Hungarian,
and an expert on foreign fiction. That is all you need to know about
him. You will have a good deal of leisure time, and will doubtless want
to occupy part of it with some entertaining light reading. You read
French as well as German, I take it?"

"And English. My French is a little rusty."

"You will browse among M. Csanady's bookshelves from time to time, and
Kollar will be happy to choose your books for you. You understand?"

She understood perfectly. There would be messages to transmit both ways
between the Count and Kollar, and, of course, between the Count and
Clothilde.

"I understand."

"It would seem fairly safe, but there are no guarantees."

"Of course not."

"The previous arrangements were less satisfactory."

She made no comment, for she did not know what he wished to convey. He
might have meant exactly what he said: the previous arrangements were
not satisfactory and it had been necessary to improve on them. Or he
might have meant something drastic had happened to the people previously
involved. There was no point in pursuing the matter further.

"I will arrange an appointment for you with Clothilde to-morrow after
lunch. She will perform her normal duties, and that's all. You have to
get to know each other. You will visit the bookshop the next day. You
will not think you are being rushed into your duties and you will
produce, it is hoped, a sense of leisure and luxury. But there is no
time to lose. If they had realized years earlier that there is no time
to lose, the enemy would not have been so hideously strong now, and
myriads of lives might have been saved."

"They?" she murmured. She would have liked to know exactly what he
meant. Were "they" the Allies, the Jews? But he had stopped. It seemed
that that was all he chose to tell her for the moment. He had said
nothing about the nature of the messages she was to transmit. But there
was one thing she herself wanted to say to him, while they were, so to
speak, discussing first principles.

"There's one more thing----" she started.

He turned his head.

"Yes?"

It was, of course, the matter of Mila; She wanted to tell him that
though it was ridiculous to believe that the young girl she loved was
still alive, she _knew_ she was, and there was to be no argument about
it. She hoped that she would get him to understand that, although she
welcomed her job, in fact, found it glorious, she could not be totally
dedicated to it till she had found Mila, or, at the worst, was given
definite proof she was dead. (Which would not happen, for she was _not_
dead.) She wanted to discuss with him the possibility of setting up some
inquiry in the frontier region at Sahy.

And then she realized it was quite impossible to talk to this man about
Mila. His perspective of the situation was masculine, abstract,
impersonal, hers was feminine, intensely personal. The catalytic agent
of her conversion had been a stark and simple act of horror, the
splitting of a baby on a spike in the Warsaw street; with him it had
been the trivial sprinkling of a pinch of crystals through a hole, by a
creature almost as invisible and featureless as an electric current. He
would despise her for what would seem to him the obsessive
pseudo-maternity of a middle-aged woman. If, among his other activities,
he was involved in the rescue of the entombed Jews, as doubtless he was,
he would conceive his operations in terms, not of the loved individual,
but of numbers on lists, whether tens or thousands. He would, in fact,
consider her preoccupation with Mila foolish and dangerous. She could
not, at least at this stage, discuss it with him.

He repeated his question, for she had not replied.

"Yes? What's that one thing?"

"Excuse me," she said. "I would rather not discuss the matter now."

"Come! What is it?" There was a note of impatience in his voice.

She looked him squarely in the eyes.

"Please. I would rather not discuss it."

A muscle started twitching at the left corner of his mouth. He was a man
who did not like to be thwarted.

"Well?"

She said nothing. She had a right to say nothing. Even if he were a
Gestapo inquisitor, she had the right to say nothing, whether or not she
had the strength to resist him.

He turned his eyes from her at length. The country on their right hand
was fairly hilly now. There was rising ground on the opposite bank, too,
beyond a welter of marshes. Some minutes later, where the road forked
left towards the river, Istvn slowed down, as if awaiting orders. The
Count tapped at the window. Istvn turned his head. Left, the Count
gestured. Soon they were in the outskirts of a small town, dominated by
a massive church built on a steep bluff over the river.

"This is Esztergom," the Count said. "It will be simpler if we lunch
here." A patrol of soldiers was approaching. Automatically his arm was
round her waist again, her head on his shoulder. The patrol saluted, and
marched on.

They ate in the hotel-restaurant in the cathedral square. There was a
soup, and a _gulys_, and a platter of _almsrtes_. "_Apfel-strudel!_"
she proclaimed delightedly. Everything was delightful to these two
calf-eyed lovers, mooning and murmuring over the paprika.




CHAPTER VII


[I]

Beyond Esztergom the river makes its first great right-angled turn
southward, the road goes criss-cross through wooded hills to meet it
again, among birch and pine, oak and chestnut, marching from slope to
slope.

Suddenly, on the crest of a hill, Elsie saw the noble prospect for the
first time--the wide river, the sinuous islands--Buda, the high town on
the hills, Pest, the broad town in the plains. The splendid bridges
still spanned the river.

"How beautiful!" she murmured. He made no comment, but there was a
lover's pride in his eyes. Then, later, indifferently, he said: "You've
been here before, madame, of course?"

"No," she told him. "Alas, no." It occurred to her how little of this
shattered Europe she had seen, while it still had glory. There was
England where she was born, an England restricted to her native
Doomington, the capital where she had had her first success, and the
provincial towns where she had gone on tour. Then, in the twenties,
there had been the South of France, and just one gilded strip of that.
Then it was Germany, marvellous, malignant Germany--and Germany was
Berlin, Berlin, Berlin, monomaniac Berlin, pig's knuckles, Danziger
Goldwasser, scent behind the ears, sulphur spitting up from between the
paving stones. Then, when Hitler's war had come, and she was the wife of
one of Hitler's first generals, there had been the triple treadmill:
apartment in Berlin, villa in Baden, chlet in Salzburg, round and round
and round again, a white mouse in a cage, round and round from Berlin,
to Berlin.

She had been no traveller these many years. No Budapest, no Vienna,
even.

"You will find it necessary to know the city well," he told her. "That
will be seen to."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The process of learning the city began the moment they had come through
the suburbs and swung out upon the great embankment which, like its
fellow on the left bank, sweeps splendidly downstream for two miles or
more. On the Buda side, here was the Var, the Fortress, on its great
hill. That was the Bastion there, with its pepper-box towers. That was
the bridge the Englishman built, the Lancziid, and next lower down, the
Erzsbet bridge. Across the river, there was the long faade of the
Parliament buildings and the great hotels; then, beyond, the domes of
the Basilica, the spires, the warehouses, the chimneys, of Pest.

Then, suddenly, there was a detour in the road, where a bomb had fallen
not long ago. A few minutes later they were held up by a convoy of
tight-packed German lorries en route for the eastern fronts. The War was
back with them again.

The job on hand was back with them again. There was a pressure of his
knee against her thigh. Apparently a familiar face had showed up on the
pavement, or in a passing vehicle. Good day, he smiled. He bowed. He
waved a friendly hand. He was showing off his new mistress. She nestled
up to him, and was becomingly self-conscious. How well dressed the men
were, how smart the women! What a lot of nice things in the shops! There
were German troops about, of course there were, but far less than in the
Polish or Slovakian cities. My God, those two men on the opposite
pavement there, with beards and stooped shoulders, and gesturing
hands--they were _Jews!_ Could it be possible? No yellow star on the
breast, no arm-band on the sleeve? No corporal chivvying them along with
the butt-end of a rifle or the point of a bayonet? Could it be possible?
Rubbing shoulders on the pavements with Gentiles, and not pitch-forked
into the gutter?

There it was. The blight had not spread yet over the face of this
country. Perhaps it would never reach here, or, at least, it would not
eat down the whole way to the bone? Alas, little Mila, that you're not
with me to see this sight! Your heart would have danced with joy.

They had crossed the bridge now. They were on the Pest side of the
river. Northward along the embankment extended the line of great hotels
like palaces.

"This is the Belvros quarter," the Count said. "I think you'll find it
quite as chic, madame, as the Tiergarten, or Mayfair." He had the
defensive arrogance about his city which all metropolitans show east of
Vienna. They drove up the Esk Square for three blocks to Zlfa Street,
and turned right. The houses were somewhat heavy and pompous, in the
Munich manner of the early twentieth century.

"I hope you'll find the apartment comfortable," he ventured, with the
implication that till then there had been no complaints. "There's a
first-rate shelter, too," he assured her, "though we're not often
troubled, so far." They stopped at number twelve, and climbed one floor.
It was an odd feeling, walking into a house, not slipping into it like a
burglar; an odd feeling to have a front door patently held open for you,
and to enter without looking furtively right and left. And Lotte was an
odd feeling, too, Lotte the cook-maid, waiting for you at the end of a
passage, with a smile of complicity on her lips and eyes, with the bosom
of a nursing mother, the neatness of a nun. Lotte's name in Bratislava
yesterday had been Ilonka. She had met Lotte in Grnewald, and she was
Teresl; she was Jeannette in Antibes, Ada in London. She was a good
soul.

The apartment, too, was curiously familiar, though she had not made a
special study of the apartments of kept women. On the contrary, she had
been far more familiar with the apartment of a kept man, her own Oskar,
that is to say. But she knew it all, the easy chairs upholstered in
aubergine silk, the white rugs, the mirror-backed cocktail-bar, the
bathroom with all the bottles and douches and sprays, the broad low bed,
the mirrors, the shaded lights, the perfumes of bygone women, that
pattered like ghosts, the perfumes of women yet to be, that mewed like
unborn babies.

"Are you going to be happy here, darling?" asked the Count. (Lotte was
in attendance.)

"How clever of you to have everything ready in time! How very thoughtful
of you!" He had evidently telephoned from Esztergom. He smiled, slightly
flattered. They had a dear little tea-party, with cakes from Gerbeaud,
sticky as a vat of molasses and dainty as a Faberg box. Lotte had lain
in a staggering quantity of them. The ladies resident from time to time
in the apartment evidently had a great addiction to them. You ate them
with a spoon.

"From Gerbeaud!" said the Count.

"Really?" asked Elsie, fingering the delicate little napkin. "How
pretty!"

"I mean the cakes!" he pointed out, shocked. It's as if one had said of
a pair of shoes that they were Lob, and the name meant just nothing.

"Oh, of course. The _cakes!_" she said. "From Gerbeaud! Just fancy!"

She had a bath. Even if one had a napkin as large as a bath-towel one
felt one would like a bath after a plateful of Gerbeaud cakes. He
telephoned. He was all cock-a-hoop. His friends had not heard him so
enthusiastic for some time. Such a bundle! Such an eye-filler! Such
curves! When can I see her, Pali? Keep your hands off her, Adam! Poor
old Pali, he's got it badly this time! I hope _this_ one doesn't run off
with the silver! They were talking about Pali's new bit of comfort that
evening all along the Corso.

She came out of her bath looking like a Gloire-de-Dijon rose, and
smelling like a bank of night-scented stock. Lotte had usefully
supplemented Elsie's equipment. The Count seemed to remember the
dark-red snood in which the hair was so charmingly assembled in the
Florentine manner; also the scarlet velvet mules. The peach-coloured
marabout-trimmed peignoir, and the peach pyjamas, had an independent
history. A little distance away Lotte hovered, like a lesser acolyte not
too close to the altar, in case either celebrant required further
ministrations.

He nodded.

"Come back in two hours with more flowers. There's not enough." She
curtsied and went off. He turned to Elsie. "A routine will work itself
out," he said. "Probably you'd like to rest. You don't begin till
to-morrow."

"I'd be grateful for a little rest," she admitted. "Most agreeable after
a bath."

"Very well. There's a great deal I can do here. I'll have a bath, too,
and write letters, and will be leaving the apartment just when Lotte
arrives here. Then I'll go to my own place and change. We'll dine late
at the Duna Palota."

"It sounds enchanting," she said. "Au revoir, Count."

"Oh just one or two technicalities. You'll be careful with your
black-out, madame. They're rather strict. Further, I'll attend to your
arrival-report at the local police station. I'll have your papers. Au
revoir, madame."

She went into her bedroom and closed the door. He went into the bathroom
and turned on the taps.


[II]

The Duna Palota was one of the chain of de luxe hotels on the Pest
Embankment. The white-and-gold room was the most crowded and fashionable
of its dining-rooms. It was evident that Count Apor did not intend to
hide his light o' love under a bushel. They were ushered by the _matre
d'htel_, the celebrated Mario himself, with that ostentatious intimacy
which is held to be so flattering, to a table in an open alcove. The
orchestra was Harlem, for this was Budapest, where negroes are smarter
than gypsies. The food was Tour d'Argent, for pressed duck in Budapest
is smarter than _gulys_. It was quite evident that they were attracting
a good deal of attention, and that was flattering, for her outfit was
Udvardi, Bratislava, which is not high chic. She believed the results
would be more spectacular when she visited Fleurot, the dressmaker on
the Vaczi Utca, with whom the Count had fixed an appointment for the
next day.

They gazed earnestly into each other's eyes, and uttered sweetnesses at
each other. They could do that automatically now, as you blow your nose,
without thinking about it. They also danced. That was different. They
both danced beautifully, though he was much more in practice than she
was. There were moments when she felt the earth curiously hollow under
her feet, and the thought of her kinsfolk too tightly packed for
dancing, in the pens by the abattoirs, tapped short and hard like a
tack-hammer on her skull. But she and Apor were engaged on a job of
work, and she knew they were both doing it well.

How well her companion was doing it she perceived for the first time as
they returned to the table after their second dance. Their progress
carried them by a table which had not been occupied some minutes
earlier, when they passed it on their way towards the dance floor. She
was aware of the handsome young man even before she set eyes on him,
through that instinct she had which made her aware that handsome young
men were around. She was aware, too, that it was not herself he was
looking at, which might have been expected, but her companion; and he
was looking at the Count with an extraordinary fixity.

They sat down and she took stock of the table the young man was sitting
at. It consisted of the young man himself, a middle-aged man and woman,
presumably his parents, and a fair young woman, possibly his fiance.
The three were Jews, the girl was not. She could see that at a glance.
She could see the young man was already flushed with drink. She sensed
there was going to be trouble. The father was a comfortable
paterfamilias of the upper bourgeoisie, a type familiar to her from
bygone Kurfrstendamm days; a type which, after feeding well but
excessively at Toepfer's, or the Kaiserhof, with almost impeccable
Gentile friends, would go naughtily slumming to the cabaret where Elsie
Silver was putting her latest numbers across. He did not look so
self-assured as he would have done then. The same was true of his wife,
dressed quite austerely in a simple black dress; she was a woman of
ample proportions, yet, without the jewels she doubtless owned, and, in
deference to the spirit of the time, was not wearing, she looked
curiously reduced and naked, like a clipped wire-haired terrier. The
young woman was pretty, and worried. She might have been worried because
she was out in public with her Jewish friends, in a time when such
friendships were more embarrassing than they had ever been; she was more
worried about the young man. His attention was riveted on Count Apor. It
was impossible to doubt he knew exactly who the Count was. His hand
trembled, not only with alcohol, as he lifted his wineglass to his
mouth. He was muttering now quite audibly. There was no mistaking the
hatred that glared in his eyes.

"Tell me, Count," she asked under her breath. "Who's that young man
there? Do you know each other? Is there going to be any awkwardness?"

"They're Jews, of course," he said. "I don't know them. The young man's
probably in the Army." She looked up, surprised. Jews did not usually
serve in the Army in Hitler's Europe. "That's all right. I mean the
labour corps. He probably hates it like poison. If he's got to be a
soldier, he'd rather have a gun in his hand. There's a lot of Jews
sweeping up mines on the Russian front."

"Look at him. I don't like it."

"You see, now? You begin to get some idea of my reputation? That's all
that's wrong with him. He loathes me. All the Jews do. They think I'm
one of the most dangerous enemies they have in this country."

She looked at him with admiration and a little fear.

"How well you do it!" she murmured. "How filthy it must be for you!"

"For half of me," he reminded her grimly. "If he gets more offensive,
I'll have to do something about it. I'll have to call a waiter and have
him thrown out. The waiters are already sitting up and taking notice. Do
you see? Beside that screen there."

"Let's dance," she begged. "I'd hate anything to happen."

"Certainly." They rose, and he took her to the dance floor. They danced,
and, instead of returning, stood clapping with the enthusiasts a moment
or two, then danced again. They could see that at the young man's table
matters had now reached a crisis. Mario had been summoned to the scene.
Another waiter, with the physique of a public-house chucker-out, was in
attendance. The girl rose first, on the verge of tears. The father was
pale with anger, the mother pale with fright. At last the young man
rose, and went off uncertainly, his mother following him. The father did
what he could to repair the damage, then he, too, left. The incident was
over. Two minutes later, Elsie and Apor were back at their table again.

"You'd better finish that glass. Come close. We're too serious. Darling,
you dance like an angel!"

"What a heavenly night we're having! If it could only go on for ever and
ever!" And then to herself: 'The poor devil! Did anyone ever take on so
hard a job before? Look! You'd think he had a coal burning inside him!'

And he to himself: 'Shall I send her packing now? How long can I go on
playing this game before it stops being a game? For God's sake, Pali!
You've other jobs in hand now! Have some self-control!'

He turned to her.

"Can you drive a car, madame?"

"I'm not good, but I get by."

"You can have Istvn to-morrow. But I shall need him after that. I've a
lot of work to catch up with. It will be useful for you to get the hang
of the town, and I'll put my little Opel at your disposal."

"Most useful."

"I'll ask young Vilmos Ulgay to show you round a bit." She raised her
eyes. "It's all right. He's not at all a ladies' man. There'll be no
complications. One more dance, shall we?"

"One more dance."

How tenderly he embraced her as they floated over the polished floor,
like wisps of mist over still water.


[III]

It was convenient to have the little Opel to buzz around in. It took a
day or two to get used to the feel of gears and pedals again, but that
was to be expected. It was a long time since she had sat behind a
steering wheel. Young Vilmos Ulgay was convenient, too. He had been
asked to have a drink with them on the second day, and she saw at once,
as the fingers and eyelashes fluttered into the room, why it was felt he
could so safely be trusted to be her cicerone. The fair crimped hair,
not less the fingernails, seemed to have been treated with as much
devotion as Clothilde applied to her clients. But Elsie had met his like
often enough before in various places, and she was not surprised to
learn that he had fought with singular ferocity at the battle of
Voronezh, where the Russian troops had inflicted a crushing blow on the
Hungarians. His anti-Semitism was a little maniacal. There were no
Russians, only Jews. They were all Jews, the Georgians, the Kalmouks,
the Uzbeks. When their sight-seeing peregrinations through the city
carried them to the fringes of one of the Jewish quarters in Terzvros
and Erzsbetvros, he would take his handkerchief from his pocket and
hold it to his nose.

"The smell!" he protested. "Oh, my dear, the _smell!_ I can smell them a
mile off, dear lady, can't you?"

"It depends on the wind," she conceded with a smile.

They took turns at driving. "Fair's fair, my dear!" he insisted. "Share
and share alike!" She was strongly tempted, once or twice when she was
at the wheel, to crash head-on into an oncoming lorry, only to hear him
scream. But she resisted the temptation. He was witty, and he was
useful.

Clothilde, on the other hand, was not witty. But she was adept, in more
senses than one, Elsie discovered as the weeks went by. She was
brilliant in the manipulation of hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, eyelids and
mouth, to such a degree that Lydia Radbruch began to look quite
startlingly unlike the woman she once had been. Clothilde did not seem
to apply to herself the treatments she applied to her clients, for she
had a strong moustache and her hair was like a wind-swept tree-top.
Probably she was tired of beauty treatments by the time the day was
over. The first visit was purely professional, except for the
interchange of two words. Elsie was lying recumbent on a long chair with
a mud-pack on her face. The red hand-bag, which had helped to identify
her before, hung from a hook. A red hat hung beside it.

Clothilde leaned close to Elsie's ear.

"Channah," she whispered. It was an affirmation, not a question. Elsie
nodded. "Malkeh," said Clothilde. That was all. Her underground name was
Malkeh. On the next visit there was a note from the Count to convey to
Clothilde. She opened the red bag and handed it over, stuck between two
pieces of paper money. Clothilde read the note, memorized it, then
reduced it to ashes.

"You take so much trouble with me, Clothilde," said Elsie.

"Not at all, madame. Enchanted." Then the language changed.

"_Shalom!_"

"_Shalom!_"

The method was similar at the Csanady bookshop, though Ferencz Kollar,
the young man who was the contact there, was not Jewish. He was Gentile,
and Communist, as she was to discover later. The shop specialized in
foreign books, and she was browsing among the shelves where French
fiction was kept when the young man came up to her. He had flat feet,
which was probably why he was not in the Army, but for the rest, he was
trim and dapper; he had a mud-splash moustache in the Chaplin and Hitler
mode. He looked from the red hat to the red hand-bag, and addressed her.
He spoke Hungarian first, but she smiled and shook her head. Then he
talked French.

"Has madame read this novel by Colette? It is the last one to come in. I
can recommend it to madame."

She examined the title.

"No, I've not read it. Is it amusing?"

The young man chuckled, and gestured with joined thumb and forefinger.

"Oh, _madame!_" The implication was that it was not only amusing, it was
_risqu_, just the thing for a lady of leisure to read in bed, after
breakfast, with a box of chocolates beside the tray. There was no more
intimate interchange than that, for it was a public place.

On her next visit, a Cocteau novel was recommended.

"Shall I wrap it up for you?" the young man asked. But imperceptibly he
shook his head, answering the question, his eyes said no.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll take it with me." Perhaps a message had
been slipped in between the uncut pages, she thought. Perhaps a message
had been written in invisible ink. It was better to take no risks.

There was one more contact during these early months. His public name
was Kroli, and he was a waiter. His underground name was Leon, and he
was Jewish, as Clothilde had been. In fact, as far as she could see, he
took Clothilde's place. There was no Clothilde any more.

So the Count told her, quite clearly, one evening.

"You will go to Luigino's as usual to-morrow morning," he said, "for
your hair-do, or your facial, or whatever it is. You will go as before
to Clothilde's cubicle, but they will tell you there will be another
assistant to look after you. You will express your annoyance, and say
you will return when Clothilde is back again. They will then probably
tell you that Clothilde has been dismissed. But she has not been
dismissed. They have caught her. If they make her talk, the consequences
may be uncomfortable. You realize that?"

"That is one of the risks we run. I've always understood that."

"Another contact has already installed himself. It would be necessary,
in any case, for you to meet him, even if Clothilde had not passed out
of the picture. He is a waiter in the Caf Flora on the Andrassy Utca.
You will transfer to the Caf Flora to-morrow for your mid-morning
coffee and afternoon tea. You will see what tables he serves, and the
day after transfer yourself to one of his tables. He is broad, with grey
eyes, a snub nose, and a shock of chestnut-brown hair. He is Hungarian
by origin, and for all you know he is still Hungarian. He has a small
nick in the flesh above his right cheek-bone. You will wear that red hat
again, and carry the red hand-bag. As soon as you have established
contact, you can store away the hat again, if you choose. When he sees
you, he will say: '_Cacao_, madame?' and you will say, in German: '_Kann
es nicht leiden._' From that point the rest is routine. You will ask for
a newspaper, and he will some time later take the newspaper from you. Or
you will ask for pen and ink and notepaper, and the notepaper will be
more interesting than it seems. As I have said, the man's name as a
waiter is Kroli. He is also Leon."

"Kroli, Leon," she repeated.

"It is about time we were seen out in the Mercedes together," he said.
"Will you call for me, here?"

"That will be pleasant, Count. I need not wear the red hat till
to-morrow?"

"Not till to-morrow."


[IV]

A picture gradually built itself up in Elsie's mind of the activities in
which Count Apor was engaged, though he never again spoke with the
shattering candour he had displayed on the journey between Bratislava
and Budapest. From time to time he allowed her to become aware of
certain details. Others came from other sources. The picture only
gradually attained any sort of completeness, like a landscape shrouded
in mist, from which the mist lifts only capriciously, revealing now this
tree, that stack, and the rest is still invisible. Then a moment comes,
and all the major elements are clear. One knows in that same moment that
certain details will be obscure till time's end.

The Magyars have long memories, and in the years preceding the War they
had not forgotten that only two or three decades ago they had been ruled
from Vienna. An army always prepares to fight the last enemy, and the
Hungarian intelligence section on Austria was so complete that Apor
could give the precise number of buttons sewn on the tunics of its
soldiers up to the time of the Anschluss. When he was seconded from his
regiment to military intelligence, he was one of those who realized that
Magyars were not the only people who remember. Hitler, too, had a strong
feeling for the past, and it was probable that, besides taking over
Austria, he would take over her old responsibilities, of which Hungary,
according to certain views, was one. Apor decided it might be profitable
to interest himself in the number of buttons worn by the Reichswehr,
too. In fact, he had managed to make himself an expert on the subject,
from buttons to Panzers. It was only recently that he had been able to
put his knowledge to good account. The fact that Germany, gently till
now, had compelled Hungary to become her ally, had only increased the
scope of his usefulness. His most valuable achievement so far had been
his assignment to liaison between the Hungarian divisions on the Russian
front and German Intelligence, which had meant the continuance of those
journeys to Vienna, Berlin, and elsewhere, of which Elsie had already
heard. He had been given the opportunity of meeting certain important
gentlemen, who did not always bother to be discreet in the presence of a
well-wisher and a vitriolic anti-Semite. Moreover, for some time now
they had been pressing him to persuade the Hungarian General Staff to
allocate more troops for the Russian front. By keeping the bargaining
open, he had managed to learn much. It was on one of these journeys that
the Count had met Miriam in Bratislava, though he had earlier learned of
her existence in Budapest.

He told Elsie, one day, how that had happened. She had assumed that
somehow Miriam's name had come into his possession during the course of
his duties at Military Intelligence, though the connection between
Intelligence in Budapest and underground rescue work in Bratislava
seemed difficult to establish. Further, it was difficult to see, if her
name was in Apor's files, how it could be excluded from the files of his
colleagues in another department, who could hardly fail to initiate some
action against Miriam and her associates. But, in fact, it was not in
any such way at all that he had learned of Miriam's existence. He told
the story, and in a few words, for it was not easy to talk of. Elsie was
aware that his mother had been Jewish, and had committed suicide soon
after her son's birth. His father had died broken-hearted soon after her
death. Only one scion of that ancient family survived, Apor's uncle. He,
too, had died, leaving behind him a son and daughter, Apor's first
cousins. Not long after the entry of Hungary into the war against
Russia, the young man had been beaten up and killed by some Fascist
hooligans of the Arrow Cross gang. The girl, left alone in the world
except for her notoriously anti-Semitic cousin, sought out the Jewish
underground, who realized the value of her courage and her burning
hatred. Apor in his turn proceeded to seek out his cousin. His motives
were complex and profound. She was his only relative on his mother's
side, and towards his dead mother, and by extension to her, his attitude
was one of immedicable guilt. He had long been possessed of a sense of
personal responsibility for his mother's suicide. He now developed a
similar sense regarding his cousin's murder, for it was in the behaviour
and utterances of people like himself that the Arrow Cross hoodlums
found their inspiration. He felt it imperative for him to abase himself
before the girl, and show himself ready to make atonement by any means
open to him, however tortuous and dangerous. Intuitively convinced that
the girl would be involved in just such activities as those to which he
felt he must devote himself, he at length established contact with her.
It had been a task of surpassing difficulty to beat down her suspicions,
but he had succeeded. It was, in the first place, through her that he
had at last found his way to the extraordinary woman in Bratislava, Gisi
Fleishmann, or Miriam, and through her to the organization called
"Kusta."

Some time later, Elsie Silver, too, was to meet "Kusta" in action, in
the person of Miriam. But, reflecting on the matter there in Budapest,
Elsie knew that she had long been aware of "Kusta", but only as an
activity, a benevolence, to which she had not been able to attach a
name. For she had been one of its beneficiaries, like Mila, like others
whose numbers she could not guess. Already, in Cracow, she had been
given a certain amount of information by Yanka, the typist, whose guest
she had been for so long. The information was, according to rule, given
in barest outline, no more than was necessary for Elsie to know to carry
her forward on the next stage of the journey. There was a group of
people in Slovakia, she had been told, that organized escapes from
Poland, chiefly of children. Probably it fulfilled other functions, too,
but she had not been told about them. Yanka had implied that contact
existed between the group in Slovakia and a central agency in Palestine.
There was an immense distance between those two points, not merely in
space. How was contact established and maintained between them, by
people of what resource, daring, and intelligence? Yanka herself had
told her of one, Miriam, of course. Now things were beginning to settle
into a pattern. The chain led from Miriam to Apor, from Apor to
Clothilde. When Clothilde had fallen out of the chain, it led back to
Apor, then from Apor to Kroli-Leon, the waiter. From Kroli-Leon it led
through Palestine, probably, to the ends of the earth.

"Kusta" described itself, on its business cards and stationery, as an
import-and-export firm, with offices in Istambul. Its offices were
probably one dingy little room, with a number of files and folders, and
a handful of "clerks." It did not seem probable that it did any actual
importing or exporting of goods, for it was only a commercial bureau as
far as the notepaper was concerned. It was, in fact, a secret resistance
and rescue headquarters set up by Palestine Jews in neutral Turkey. By
dint of immense effort and with the assistance of agents both unpaid and
paid, it had managed to establish a chain of contacts between various
Jewish communities in Europe. The chain was not strong. It often broke
down. But one way and another it linked Palestine to Istambul, Istambul
to Sofia, to Bucharest, to Budapest. "Kusta" in Budapest extended
contact to Poland, Czechoslovakia, Austria, and Germany. Money and
helpers were transmitted from one link to the next. Information and
refugees were passed back. In this way, at least a trickle of survivors
was smuggled from the beleaguered ghettos of Europe to the Black Sea
coast of Rumania, and from there shipped to Turkey. "Kusta" arranged
their final journey to Palestine. It also tried to arrange other points
of departure, and sometimes succeeded.

Count Apor's importance to "Kusta" was, of course, immense. Advance
knowledge came to him, from time to time, of details of the "definitive"
extermination policy in neighbouring countries. The time involved might
be slight, but it gave a margin to work in, to stimulate certain
bargaining policies which more than once had kept whole train-loads from
the furnaces, at least temporarily. The more time was saved in that way,
the greater was the likelihood that Himmler, Eichmann, and their men,
would not have got round to total extermination of all available Jews by
the time the Nazi power was crushed under the hammers forged for its
destruction.

There was no doubt that sooner or later the Germans would occupy
Hungary, exactly as they had previously occupied the neighbouring
countries. There were still some eight hundred thousand Jews in Hungary.
To them, too, the "definitive" policy would be applied, the moment the
Germans were in possession. For Apor and his associates the period in
which their work was potentially of the maximum value was approaching.
It was also the period of maximum danger.

                 *        *        *        *        *

First, then, the young woman, Clothilde, disappeared, going the way of
Father Pekarek and she could not guess how many others, the way she
herself might go any day, any moment. As far as Elsie was ever able to
determine, Clothilde was a straightforward agent of "Kusta." She was
Austrian Jewish, though her papers declared her to be French, and she
was entirely occupied with rescue work and transmission of funds. There
was a certain tension apparent in Count Apor's demeanour for some days
after her disappearance. But it was presumed they had not been able to
make her talk. Moreover, all communications, excepting very rarely, were
memorized and immediately destroyed. It was most unlikely any
compromising documents had been found on Clothilde's person, or in her
room. The tension passed.

The bookseller's assistant, Ferencz Kollar, was a native Hungarian, and
a Communist. He had other affiliations. Count Apor detested Communism,
and was not enthusiastic about Russians. He had not had personal
experience of the Bela Kun regime that had been established in Budapest
after the First World War, for he had been eleven years old at the time,
and lived deep in the country with his formidable grandfather. But he
regarded the episode with the horror usual in his class. None the less,
he did not scruple to transmit information to the Russians through the
flat-footed, sleek-haired bookseller. There was only one enemy. "I
wonder what my respected grandfather is thinking," he confided to Elsie
during one of his rare bursts of confidence, "of my association with
this choice piece of Communist sewage!" She could not but be aware of
how relieved he was when a new area of operations swung into his lens.
The area was Jugoslavia. The contact man between Kusta and Jugoslavia,
and between Apor and Jugoslavia, was Kroli-Leon, the waiter.

For some time now Apor had had tentative connections with the guerillas
there, but contact had been difficult to maintain. It came later to
Apor's knowledge that Allied Military Intelligence proposed to explore
more intensively the possibilities for espionage in that region. After
making considerable difficulties, the British had been induced to
commission and train young Jews from Palestine--"_shlichim_," or
messengers, they were called--to be dropped into Hungary and the
Balkans. In each country young men and women were to be used who had
been originally native to that country. They would be chosen, as far as
possible, because they looked "Aryan" enough for the job. One or more of
these _schlichim_ would establish contact with Count Apor in Budapest.
(In this context Apor's name was Shimmun.) Shimmun, through Frau
Radbruch (whose name was also Channah), and through Channah to the next
link in the chain, Kroli-Leon, would transmit information to the
British Military Mission in Jugoslavia, working in association with
Marshal Tito in his mountain headquarters. The Palestinians, as British
agents, would assist in the escape of Allied prisoners of war. As Jews,
working in liaison with "Kusta," they would assist in Jewish rescue
work, and exert themselves to the utmost to create resistance cells
among the cowed masses of Hungarian Jewry, in association with whatever
foci of resistance the Hungarian Zionists had already set up. A great
deal of work was at hand for them to do. They were not to be found
wanting.


[V]

This conversation took place about a month after Elsie's arrival in
Budapest.

"Count Apor, there's a matter I want to talk to you about. I can't
postpone it any longer."

"Yes?"

"I've been on the point several times of bringing it up, and each time
I've failed. I know why. You think in terms of broad issues. Your
operations are on a large scale. The matter in my mind concerns one
small girl, a Polish orphan I met in the Warsaw ghetto. I don't see how
you can fail to think it contemptible that she should take up so large a
place in my thoughts."

"Your thoughts are your own affair, Frau Radbruch."

She bit her lip.

"You see? You talk exactly as I expected you to."

"What do you want from me? How is it my affair? I know about the girl.
They told me in Bratislava that you and she appeared on the scene
together, and that the girl was killed when she was being taken across
the frontier by one of Kusta's men. It's regrettable. But there have
been thousands and thousands of young people killed, and there will be
many more."

"I don't propose to tell you what this child meant to me from the moment
I found her in Warsaw. I don't expect you to understand that, and
there's no reason why you should. It's strictly my affair. I was
definitely assured in Bratislava that while the others were definitely
killed or captured, nothing was found out about Mila. Mila is her name.
I must find out what happened to Mila."

"You expect me to help you, Frau Radbruch?"

"I don't expect you to. I beg you to." It was all she could do to keep
her emotion out of her voice.

"I am committing myself to nothing. How do you imagine I could possibly
help you?"

"You've not had me much in your confidence, Count Apor, and that's as it
should be. But I know the connections your office have with the Secret
Police, and the Secret Police work hand in hand with the Frontier
Police. I suggest that inquiries could be set afoot to find out from
them what really happened near Sahy on the day they intercepted the
ambulance in which Mila was being smuggled across. Yes, an ambulance was
being used. I'll tell you all I know. You can check up with Bratislava
for any further information." She turned her eyes to examine his face,
and turned them swiftly away. There was no evidence of anger, or
impatience, even. His face was quite impassive. "If Mila was killed,"
she went on, "her body should have been found by now; also, if she was
wounded, and died somewhere of exposure later." She would match his
composure with her own. "If there's no trace of her, several things
might have happened. Are you interested, Count Apor? May I go on?"

"If you will."

"She might have been captured, and will now be in their hands, if she's
alive. It should be possible to ascertain that. If friendly people have
sheltered her, people friendly to us should be able to trace her.
Finally, she may have got away to Budapest. She knew that that was, for
both of us, the next stage on our journey. She may at this moment be in
this town somewhere, waiting for me to contact her."

"I should like to point out," he said drily, "that the rescue
organization might have picked her up in their net. She may, by this
time, be in a Black Sea port waiting for transport to Palestine."

"If the organization had found her, she would have asked about me. I
don't believe that she would have moved on before she knew what had
happened to me."

"You are confident of that?"

"Absolutely."

"Supposing I decide that it would be indiscreet and dangerous to set
inquiries afoot, Frau Radbruch?"

"If you decide that, Count Apor, I will have to do what I can on my own
account."

"On your own account?" He raised his eyes.

"I know perfectly well what could happen to me if I crossed you. But I
also know you won't permit yourself to behave as our enemies behave."

"There's not much you can do on your own account, is there, Frau
Radbruch?"

"I've always kept away from the Jews in this city. Most of them are
dreadfully frightened. They see the cloud coming up over the horizon.
But some are not. I'd put myself in their hands. I don't see how the
rescue organization could fail to do for us whatever was in its power.
But above all, Count Apor... please permit me to say that, as far as
I can see, the task would not be indiscreet or dangerous... not for
_Shimmun_."

He rose, and went over to his desk, and got out some papers.

"You have a golden tongue, Frau Radbruch," he said, without turning his
head. "I'll see what can be done." Then he turned and smiled. "Channah
was in good form to-day," he said. "And I think it's about time Count
Apor and her friend, Frau Radbruch, were seen out in the Mercedes again.
Don't you?"

"That would be delightful," she agreed. "Frau Radbruch and Channah are
both deeply grateful."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Five, six weeks went by, and it seemed he had no report to give her on
the matter of Mila. She did not herself raise it. She did not believe he
could have forgotten, and an inquiry of this sort probably needed
careful handling. When he had something to report, he would report it.

During these weeks the tension in the capital increased. Those who hated
the Russians more than the Nazis grew more fearful from day to day, as
the failure of German arms on the Russian front grew more apparent.
Those who hated the Nazis more than the Russians, had reason to fear
that unpredictable terror would be unleashed in their city, before the
day of deliverance. There were many who feared the deliverance as much
as the servitude from which it must deliver them. The vast multitude of
Jews had most of all to fear. Whatever happened, defeat to anybody,
victory to anybody, in their ears already the drums of doom were
thudding.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Apor and Elsie were in the Count's apartment.

"The town's looking very festive to-day," she said lightly. "What's
happening?"

"It's March the fifteenth."

"Yes?"

"The big day in our country, the anniversary of the 'forty-eight
Revolution. You may have heard about it."

"Vaguely. That's what all the flags are about?"

"That's right. They should be at half mast."

She raised her eyes.

"Indeed?"

"Hitler has summoned the Regent to Berchtesgaden. He flew this morning.
Quite a lot of people know about it, but they think he's just making
another demand or two--more rolling-stock, more troops for the Russian
front. It's more than that. The Germans will occupy Hungary to-day, or
to-morrow, or the day after. Didn't you see a lot of German troops
about?"

"More than usual?"

"Yes. More than usual. It's going to make things harder for us than
they've ever been before."

"We carry on, I suppose."

"We carry on. Though in one way it can hardly make any difference. It
will be the same if we're caught out next week, as it would have been
last week."

"Of course."

"I'd like you to lose that Radbruch passport you've got. The fellow who
let it by on the German side of the Bratislava bridge was a nitwit."

"You were pretty convincing."

"So were you. But the passport wasn't. It had holes as big as a
cartwheel. I'll ring up Security and get them to make out fresh papers
for you. In case anything happens any time."

"Good."

"If anything does, there's only one thing that matters. You understand?"

"I understood from the beginning."

"I want to say a word about your girl."

There was a catch at her heart.

"Yes?"

"Nothing has been found out. Nothing."

She swallowed her chagrin.

"I hardly dared hope there would be, after all this time."

"If by any chance she's still alive, and in the frontier region, it's
going to be tough for her. The Germans will be in force along the
frontier."

"She's still alive, Count, and she's not on the frontier. She's in
Budapest."

"How do you know?" There was swift suspicion in his voice. "Who told
you?"

"Nobody told me. I know. Please don't ask me how I know. The knowledge
is here." She laid her hand on her heart. "It sounds ridiculous, but I
_know_."

"Very well. If that's how you feel about it, that concludes the matter."
He stopped, and thought for some moments. "Listen, Frau Radbruch," he
started again. "You're not going to start poking round the Jewish
districts looking for her? If she's alive and in Budapest, she's
presumably living among Jews. Otherwise she's living as a Christian with
false Aryan papers. That means she's still the wrong sort of person for
you to meet. The police might be tipped off about her at any moment.
They may even now be keeping an eye on her. We can't take risks. I
forbid it."

"I have some sense of responsibility," she assured him quietly. "We'll
see what will happen."

"Very well. I want you to take tea at the Flora. Take this newspaper to
the young man there. He'll find it interesting."

"Delighted. I like that young man. How good-looking he is!"


[VI]

It was true that Admiral Horthy had been summoned to Berchtesgaden. As
the formula was well known, and it was realized that occupation was
imminent, there was a sporadic rising among the population, chiefly in
the country districts, but it was quickly put down. The Germans occupied
on the nineteenth of March. They were in possession of a list of
opposition Hungarians, including the Jews who had refused to hide behind
the wainscoting like mice, and they carried out an immediate purge. In
the first week of April, all Jews were ordered to put on the yellow
star. Thereafter, from week to week, almost from day to day, new
discriminatory laws were introduced, so that within a few months all the
Jews in Hungary ran through the whole gamut of misery and shame which,
in Germany, was extended across several years. Soon the Jews of Budapest
were all herded into blocks of Jewish houses, each signalized by a
yellow star over the main doorway, painted on a black shield. They were
not allowed out of their homes before eleven in the morning, and after
five in the evening. During those hours, all parks and public places of
entertainment were barred to them. Their cafs had a great star daubed
on their front windows. The deportations began, too, as had been
anticipated, but for some reason these did not proceed as quickly as had
been hoped by Herr Eichmann, Herr Himmler's supreme plenipotentiary in
these matters, and his friends in Budapest, of whom Count Apor was one.
They were pleased to note that the rate of deportation was quicker among
Jews who lived outside the capital, where they were beyond the
protection of certain sinister obscurantist influences who, in good
time, would be uncovered and ruthlessly extirpated. But even during the
first months of the occupation, a certain innocent pleasure was to be
derived from the spectacle of large congregations of Jews routed from
their homes in the provincial towns and villages, and herded into
disused brick factories, actually sometimes even in the firing kilns.
There were no disused brick factories in the capital, and only one
prison of the fortress kind; and for the most part the metropolitan
Jews, numbering at this time some quarter of a million, were ordered to
remain in the quarters of the city they infested, chiefly in the eastern
quarters of Pest, duly stigmatized by the yellow star. It was possible,
however, to establish several detention barracks in the city,
_tolontchaz_, as they were called, of which the principal one was
situated at Misonyi Utca, which adjoins the Keleti railway station. The
Eichmann battalions did not get going till quite late, and, by the same
token, there was no vigorous action on the part of the forces of
resistance, which were loosely grouped together into the Hungarian
Independence Front, as they called it. But it was convenient to all
right-thinking men to have a goodly number of Jews assembled in the
_tolontchaz_. Trains could start rolling into the Keleti railway
station, and roll out again. And in due time the firing squads would
crack their sharp whips.


[VII]

It was an afternoon of mid-May and Elsie, having finished her morning
cup of coffee, was waiting with her note-case open, to pay her bill.

"Thank you," she said, as Kroli-Leon handed the bill to her. Then:
"Excuse me," Leon said, rubbing, in a way he had, the small scar of
nicked flesh above his left cheek-bone. "Did madame have a brioche with
her tea?" She had not had a brioche. "Excuse me," he said again, "I'll
make out a new bill, and cancel this one." But instead of destroying the
cancelled bill, he handed it over with the amended one. She had no doubt
he was attempting to convey a message to her, and she was right. He had
scribbled two words on the cancelled bill. They were

    LIEBE MILOS.

The colour left her cheeks. With trembling fingers she lifted to her
lips one of the glasses of water on her table, and gulped it down. Then
she stuffed the piece of paper into her bag, settled her bill, and rose.
Then, with all the self-control she was capable of, she walked to the
caf door, and out into the street. She did not see the group of German
officers on the pavement, or the traffic in the road, or the bright
clouds in the sky. She saw nothing, heard nothing. She was only
conscious that a well-dressed woman at any hour of the day, and least of
all at that hour of the day, must not start carolling like a skylark if
she is not to attract attention.

_Mila is alive, alive, alive! Mila is alive, alive!_

For, of course, Milos was Mila, just as much as Julius was Caesar. How
clever of Leon to make the name masculine! For, if something had gone
wrong by any chance, and someone for whom the two words had not been
intended had seen the slip of paper, no harm would have been done. It
could be expected that a kept woman might occasionally receive messages
from other men than her patron.

_Mila is alive, alive!_ the skylark went on singing, _Mila is alive,
alive!_ There was nothing to stop the skylark singing _inside_ your
head. But keep heel and toe down on the pavement, woman! Don't run! It
would be as conspicuous to run as to sing! Heel, toe! Heel, toe!
Besides, where would you run to? Where is she?

Where I always thought she was. Somewhere in the city here. Up in a high
building. Sitting in a chair, her back against a table, with boys and
girls sitting on the floor in front of her, and she's talking, talking,
telling her adventures.

But where, exactly, where? I must see her at once, as soon as it's safe
for both of us. She might be over there in the Jewish quarter behind the
Erzsbet bridge, or in one of the Jewish houses scattered up and down
the place. My own little Mila with a great horrid yellow star on her
dress again. As if she hadn't had enough of it during those hideous
years in Warsaw.

Perhaps she's putting a brave face on it, with false Aryan papers, and
anything's liable to happen to her at any moment. I must get her out of
it. It's time we went further, to the quayside, where there's a boat,
and the sea beyond. Apor will get himself another contact woman. The
air-raids are becoming unpleasant, too. We must both get away. We've had
enough.

She found she had walked round the block and come back on the street
again where her car was parked. Her steps quickened. She fumbled in her
bag for the key, as if she would just get down to the wheel and drive
off to Mila. Then she stopped. She remembered she hadn't the faintest
idea where Mila was. She might, or might not, be in the quarter behind
the bridge. She might be over in Buda, or out in the country. Only one
person could tell her, Leon, the waiter at the caf.

And how on earth had Mila known she was still alive, to be found in
Budapest, at the Caf Flora? Of course. Leon again.

She must go back to the caf and arrange for a meeting at another caf
in his time off, where, like any other customer, he could sit down
beside a woman, and order two glasses of beer, and things could get
said.

She did not go back to the caf, after all. It might look a little
strange to somebody that she should go out and come back so soon again.
One sticks to a routine. She walked the whole way up to the Millenium
Monument and the Park beyond, and walked and walked till she was tired.
She was not seeing Apor till next day. She went back to her apartment,
had a small meal, and a good deal of Tokay, partly because it was a
celebration, and partly because sweet white wine always made her sleepy.
She almost fell asleep dragging her limbs to the bedroom, passed out
completely the moment her head touched the pillow, and got up a couple
of hours later, for, to her immense astonishment, she found herself
singing at the top of her voice. It was evidently the impulse to sing
fulfilling itself, the impulse which she had repressed earlier in the
day. There was an air-raid in progress, but she was much too comfortable
to think of going down into the cellar. Soon she was asleep again, a
cherubic smile on her face, like a small girl.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It did not occur to her to withhold her news from Count Apor. He would
have perceived, anyway, that she was racked with excitement. She closed
the door behind her, and spoke at once.

"I've heard from Mila, Count! She's alive! I always knew she was!"

He looked up, startled.

"How do you know? Who told you?"

She was almost as startled as he was, to see the expression in his eyes,
a swift flicker of displeasure, quickly gone as soon. Why? Why should he
be annoyed? Was the annoyance for a professional reason? Because he
disliked and distrusted the idea of any secret activity not passing
through his fingers? Because he himself had failed to glean any
information about Mila, and someone else had succeeded? It could not be
for a _personal_ reason, because, for some farcical reason, he was
jealous? Farcical was the word. The annoyance was purely professional.

She handed over the bill that Leon had made out.

"You see," she said. "He wrote down these two words."

He took the bill in his hands and examined it for some time.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't like it. Messages should be destroyed as
soon as read. There shouldn't be anything on paper at all, if it's
possible to avoid it. I don't like it."

"But, Count," she protested, "look how innocent it is." She tore the
slip across, and then across again. The timbre of her voice softened.

"Aren't you glad for me, Count? It's the only thing in the world I
wanted!"

He did not look up.

"Forgive me," he said. "I should be soundly kicked! It can't be from
anybody but her, and I congratulate you warmly."

"I'm going to make a date with Leon, to meet me in another caf, less
smart, a caf of the people. I'll want him to tell me everything he
knows. I'll want to meet her, too, at the first possible moment."

"Very well," he agreed. "It would be impertinent to ask you to be
careful. You're both capable people."

She thanked him.

"I'll let you know everything I learn. If you're interested, I mean."

"I assure you I'm extremely interested. Would you like a game of
draughts to-day, or backgammon?" They often played one game or the
other, to while away the time during which he would be expected to make
love to her. They played chess sometimes, but she found it tiring,
excepting during an air-raid, when it kept the mind off things quite
pleasantly.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Elsie and Leon met by arrangement in the Caf Szolna, on Leon's evening
off two days later. It was an easier place to be in than the elegant
Caf Flora. The waiters still wore the regulation uniform of full-dress
coat, but the coat was greasier, the mirrors were more fly-blown, the
air was smokier, the marble-topped tables were grubbier, the gypsy band
was noisier. It was more _gemtlich_, as they said in another country.

She did not yet know much about Leon, little beyond the few things that
Apor had told her, namely that he was a Hungarian Palestinian who worked
for "Kusta" and had especial connections with the _schlichim_, the
messengers, that were dropped in Jugoslavia, and smuggled through into
Hungary. The information that Count Apor transmitted through Elsie
Silver to Kroli-Leon at the Caf Flora, set out upon a devious journey
to unimaginable termini.

'And is this the sort of work my little Mila's been doing, too?' Elsie
asked herself as she swung open the doors of the Caf Szolna. 'She must
have been, or she wouldn't be in touch with this Leon. She couldn't have
started it yesterday, or the day before, so she must have been in
Budapest some time. How long's it been, then? Is she well now? She is,
or she'd not be on a job like this. Did she bring back no injury from
the frontier excitement?' Yes, Elsie had a good deal of information to
get from Leon, and there was no reason for him to withhold it. She stood
inside the caf and looked for him in the corner where he had indicated
he would meet her. There he was, with his broad shoulders, his grey
eyes, and the heap of chestnut-brown hair, subdued with grease and comb.
He was rubbing the dead-white scar above his left cheek-bone to bring
the blood into the skin, as if it were better to blur any mark of
identification.

He got up as she approached, a pleasant grin on his face. It was a
strong chin and the hand he extended to her, for he was not a waiter
now, was a good hand. His lips outlined the Hebrew word "_Shalom_"
before they said, in German, "good evening." Her lips, then her voice,
responded. Then she sat down. It was an easy place. It was in too much
of a side-street for the Germans to have found it. With ordinary care,
one could talk. She plunged straight into it.

"Is she well? That first."

"Strong as a horse. I've seen her again. I told her you got the message
and it nearly broke her heart that she couldn't come, too. It wouldn't
do, would it?"

She knew what he meant. Every effort must be made to prevent any contact
which might compromise her.

"So she's here, in Budapest? Where? Is she wearing the star again?"

"She was for a time, after the occupation. Then she tore it off. The
youngsters she's working with are living as Christians. It's more
dangerous in one way, but they're freer to go on with their work."

"How do you mean?"

"If you're wearing the star, and you're out because you've got orders to
be out, it's a sort of passport. Nobody touches you. Otherwise...
there are frequent raids and so on. You know that."

"Yes, of course. How did she know I was here? You didn't tell her, did
you?"

He looked at her quizzically.

"Come, come, _liebe Dame_. How would I have the faintest idea that
either of you was interested in the other?"

"Of course. How silly of me. How _did_ she know then?"

"The simplest thing in the world. She saw you out in the big car with...
that one."

"Good Lord!" She blushed, she felt such a fool. Obviously if you go out
in a rather showy car, in rather showy clothes with a very handsome
officer, in order to be seen, all sorts of people are likely to see you.
"She saw us, did she? Of course she did! Why on earth shouldn't she?"
She turned full on him, with a note of real plaintiveness in her voice.
"Why on earth didn't the little horror wave at us, and try and stop the
car, or something? Just for that once, anyhow. It would have saved me
endless misery! When did you say it was she saw us? How long ago?"

He did not answer that last question.

"_Aber bitte!_" he pleaded. "Really!"

"Really what?"

"Please, please, just think a moment!"

She thought a moment, and did not see what he was getting at.

"What are you getting at, Leon?"

He shook his head, as if she were a small girl who just refused to get
the hang of a lesson in arithmetic.

"Madame, madame! Just think of the company you were in!"

Then it came to her, like the smack of a pool into which you take a high
dive. Really, she had never felt such a dunce in all her life. For,
obviously, Mila was not going to start yodelling at a grand motor-car in
which her beloved, her one-time beloved, Channah was lolling and
strumpeting with a big-time Hungarian officer!

"What can she have thought?" she asked, her eyes big with scare.

"Exactly what your heart tells you. She thought you were a whore, who'd
sold out to the enemy in order to get yourself a good time. And please,
don't look so startled! Some of it is exactly what you wanted people to
think. Not all of it, some of it. You wanted everyone to think you his
whore!"

"So she thought that, too! For God's sake, what effect did it have on
her?"

"Can't you guess? She was broken-hearted!"

There was half a pint of beer in her mug, and she gulped it down like a
sailor. "Some more! At once!" she demanded. "But she doesn't think that
now, does she?"

"_Ruhe! Ruhe!_ Take it easy! You remember the message she sent you?"

Yes, yes. She remembered the message. _Love, Milos._ She would have sent
no love, if she had not been given an idea of the true set-up.

"Who told her? You told her, of course?"

"I told her."

"But... but..." she stammered. It was all very obscure. "How did
she know you knew... that horrible woman... I mean me?" She had a
sudden vision of an appalled and furious Apor. "You didn't tell her you
knew me, did you?"

Leon felt, if he had been having fun, he had had fun enough. It was
about time he took things in hand.

"I've known her for two or three months," he explained. "She's the
organizer and leader of a group of _habonim_, builders, that is, which
is doing first-rate work. She's quite one of the best youngsters at the
job I've met, inside or outside Palestine. Yes, I've been to Palestine,
too." He talked as if he was an old man, and in some ways he was. But he
was only a few years Mila's senior, four or five at most. "She's been
carrying on where she left off in Warsaw. You see... I know quite a
lot about her; and about you, too, for that matter."

"Well?" It wasn't the subject of _habonim_ she was interested in.

"I had a feeling she had something on her mind. Everybody has, of
course. But everybody else is only too ready to talk about things. She
wasn't. She would start brooding, and look thoroughly wretched. I asked
her once or twice what was biting her; so did some of the others. But
she shut up like an oyster. I determined I'd say nothing more about it.
If she ever wanted to talk, she'd talk.

"Then one day last week she called me aside, and spoke to me. It was the
day, in fact, before you got your little message, the third of May, to
be exact. Does the date mean anything to you?"

She thought, not for long. The memory came back to her like a shot.

May the third. The date on a newspaper which had fixed for all time for
her the date of the bomb that had destroyed Post Sixteen.

"It was the day I found her. Yes, the day of the bomb. May the third."
Her eyes glittered. "That was it, wasn't it? It was the day I found her
a year ago, and she remembered, and she felt sick and awful? Was that
it?"

"Yes, madame, exactly that. She was so miserable that day, that she
simply had to talk to someone, or burst. So she talked to me. She wasn't
very nice about you, of course. Not at first. She said she'd met a woman
whom she'd thought to be the most marvellous creature in all the
world--after her mother and father, of course. She'd met her in Warsaw.
She told me all about what you did for her. I don't need to go into all
that. Then she let fly."

"I see. She told you she'd seen me with a Hungarian officer? She didn't
know how it could be possible? She said I was a rat."

"Really, you might have been there!" he marvelled. "Those were her exact
words!"

"A rat, eh? Then you told her?"

"I suppose I shouldn't have told her. I _know_ I shouldn't! But there
you are!" he exclaimed defiantly. "I did!"

A tear went plop into her beer-glass.

"Never mind," she said, sniffing slightly. "You didn't do any harm!" She
groped for his hand under the table, and squeezed it hard. One had to
express one's thanks, somehow, and one hadn't established a kissing
basis. Besides, he was only a boy. "Oh dear! Oh dear!" she said, and
pretended to wipe the smoke out of her eyes. It was very smoky in there.
"You don't think you've finished, do you? Oh no, you're not. You know
how she got away from the frontier, do you? Did she tell you? Now tell
me!"

He told her.

The girl had learned to be quick as an eel. For a moment or two after
the ambulance had been stopped, she lay thin and flat on the floor of
the vehicle, one of her own blankets drawn over her. In the murky
half-moonlight she perceived a ditch alongside the road ahead, and at
the moment she judged the excitement to be at its height, she slithered
down out of the ambulance and streaked for the ditch, her belly still
close to the ground. There was firing and yelling, but somehow, with the
abrupt movements of an animal, she managed to get away a distance of two
or three fields along the drainage ditches, till she spotted a low
culvert to crawl into. There she lay concealed, while the patrol ran
round roaring and shooting for some time, and then left. She nearly died
of cold, but had the tenacity to remain hidden all that night, and most
of next day. In the evening, she crawled out and unstiffened, and set
out, as she put it simply, to the south, for Budapest. A few days of
extreme hardship followed, but she managed to survive these, too. She
lived on roots in the fields, and found some dropped trifles on the
outskirts of farms, crusts of bread and animal mash. She helped herself
to some eggs once or twice, and managed to get some milk from a cow. She
found savage dogs did not bark at her, they merely shook their rumps,
and wagged their tails.

When she judged herself to be a safe distance from the frontier, she
came out into the open. A farmer and his wife were kind to her, but she
did not trust them enough to ask them to let her have some new clothes
in exchange for one of the jewels sewn up into the buttons of her coat.
She went on again, trudging southwards. One day she was mooching
disconsolately along a road where a gang of pioneer soldiers was engaged
in road-building, in charge of a sergeant. As she passed by, trying to
attract as little attention as possible, she heard the sergeant let fly
at one of the men. The language was Hungarian, of course, but she
recognized one word, which he ejected like a clot of black spittle.
"_Zsido!_ Jew!" the sergeant yelled. She turned her eyes swiftly, and
became aware that the man he was abusing was Jewish, for he wore a
yellow arm-band. The other members of the road-gang were Jewish, too,
with yellow arm-bands for the straight Jews, and white for the
proselytes. The Hungarian army, she realized, was using Jews for its
rough jobs. She hung about for some time, hoping the opportunity might
present itself to have a word with one or other of the men. An hour or
two later, they knocked off for a roadside meal of black bread and
salami, and, holding out her hand, she came sidling up to the man the
sergeant had shouted at, who sat a little apart, fuming and miserable.
She looked pitiful enough with her mud-stained clothes and torn shoes
and her black wisps of hair hanging over her eyes.

"_Zie redden Yiddish?_" she muttered. "You talk Yiddish?"

He looked up swiftly.

"Who are you?"

"A _yiddische madel._ A Jewish girl. I've run away from Poland. Please,
Jew, help me."

He broke off a chunk of bread and handed it to her.

"Take!" he ordered. "Eat! What do you want?"

"I want to get to Budapest. I have a friend who'll join me there."

"I'll give you what I've got. It's only a few _fillrs_, a few
farthings. It won't get you far. Wait. These others are Jews, too."

"No, I don't want money," she said. "I'll get there. Give me a name.
Some good family to go to."

"Of course, _madel_. It should be with luck. Go to my own mother.
Listen." He gave her a name and address in the Dob Utca. She repeated
it. "Say it again." She said it again. "_Shalom!_" they said to each
other, and she shuffled off, throwing the hair out of her eyes, and
munching the black bread.

So Mila went further on her way to Budapest. It was child's play, she
told Leon, compared with travelling in Poland, even though she did not
know the language. And at last she arrived in the Dob Utca, and
presented herself to the mother of the Jewish soldier who had been
breaking stones. She was a kind woman, but poor, with several children
sleeping in each of two beds, so some days later she was taken over to
another family, smaller and more prosperous, a master tailor, who lived
not far off in the Kirly Utca. She was given the genuine papers of a
Jewish girl from Kassa, a town in Slovakian Hungary, and duly reported
to the police. Everything was still very easy-going, in those days
before the March occupation. But after March the restrictions got very
much in the way of her work, so she went to live in a non-Jewish house,
with Christian papers found for her by friends in the _kibbutz_. It was
a dangerous freedom, but for the present she was carrying on.

"She is a girl of great character," said Leon. "You would think her a
_sabra_, a girl born in Eretz, that is the kind of girl she is. Even in
Eretz there are not too many with spirit and character like hers. Some
weeks after I met her for the first time, the opportunity came for her
to be taken across the Roumanian frontier, to join a small convoy of
refugee boys and girls that was waiting there. But she would not go, she
said. She was waiting for that dear friend of hers, with whom she had
escaped from the Warsaw ghetto. Without her, she would not go. Besides,
she knew there was good work to be done by her in this city, among the
young people. She told them there was no doubt that some day the same
thing would happen to them as had happened to all the other Jews in
these countries. She said how shameful it was to be led off in trucks,
like cattle, to be slaughtered, when death is less certain when you have
a gun in your hand, and far more pleasant. She had many tales to tell
them, about the way arms were smuggled into the Warsaw ghetto, and even
made by hand. She would make them pale with excitement as she told tales
of the young leaders in the rising, the Boy, and Sonia the Raven, and
others." He stopped, and looked at his watch.

"No," begged Elsie. "You must not go so soon."

"It's not that," said Leon. "This is my night off. I was thinking that
this is one of the evenings in the week, and at this time, that she
talks to the _kibbutz_, air-raids permitting. She is like a bottle of
wine to them."

"Tell me," said Elsie. "The room where they meet, is it at the top of a
high house?"

He looked at her, puzzled.

"Yes. They are high houses in that street. Why do you ask? Are they
being spied on? Please say at once."

"And she sits there on a chair, a table behind her, and the boys and
girls sit on the floor, listening?"

"I say again. How do you know this?"

She smiled at him.

"Sometimes I am a _macheshafeh_, a witch. Don't be alarmed, Leon. It
does not happen often. In a lifetime, once or twice. And that is how I
saw her, when I was still in Bratislava, on the other side of the
Danube."

"There's nothing more to it than that?"

"Isn't that enough? Listen. I must see my girl. You know that. I can't
possibly go on unless I see her. You must fix it up somehow."

"She said the same thing."

"Blessings on her! Of course she did!"

"It won't be easy, will it? Not very safe, either."

"It wasn't easy getting out of the Warsaw ghetto."

"Of course not." He coloured, as if his ingenuity, perhaps even his
courage, had been brought into question. "You are both doing good work,"
he said. He meant that unnecessary risks should not be taken, but it was
not the sort of sentiment he liked to give voice to.

"We must meet," she said firmly. "If something happened to you, I'd find
some other way to meet her. Can you arrange it, then?"

"I can arrange anything," he said. And he meant it. To arrange a meeting
between these two would be simple.

"I'll let you know, over your pastries, when we next meet," he assured
her. "I'm dry. I'm not used to talking so much. How about another
litre?"

"My figure," she reproached him. "Half a litre will do."

                 *        *        *        *        *

She told Count Apor of the agreement she had reached with Leon, that he
was to bring Mila and herself together somewhere. She had anticipated he
would not be pleased, and he was not. But she had also anticipated he
would not try and oppose her, and he did not. He merely said: "I don't
need to remind you that there are more people on the look-out than there
have ever been before."

"No, Count," she assured him, "you do not. I also want to tell you this.
I'm going to try and persuade this girl to get out of Hungary with me. I
don't think she'll be persuaded, but I think it's my duty to try."

"You say Leon tells you she's doing good work. But so are you. Do you
think so, or don't you?"

"I do. If I were alone, I'd stay on till... till one thing or the
other happened. But I'm not alone now. I must think of Mila." She saw
the odd smile on his face. "You smile," she said. "We've had this
discussion before. The girl is merely a unit to you in an arithmetical
sum. I think it would be the same if the girl were your own sister.
That's so, I think?"

He looked at her coolly. "That's so."

"Mila is not that to me. I feel it my duty to persuade her to get away."

"Why? There are two hundred and fifty thousand Jews in Budapest. There
are still hundreds of thousands left elsewhere in Hungary. I told you of
the detachment that was marched off from Szeged last week? There's no
transport for them. They will be literally marched, on foot. Their
destination is Poland. It's not very likely that more than a fraction
will get there."

"I ought to point out that Mila has _left_ Poland. She's managed to get
away. You know the sort of time she had before she got away, don't you,
more than three years of it? It hasn't been a holiday for her since
then."

"We're all soldiers, old men and women, small boys and girls."

"It's about time she had some leave then," she said coldly.

"Very well." He shrugged his shoulders. "You'll take the utmost care,
all three of you."

"I think you can rely on us."

                 *        *        *        *        *

It had been arranged that she was to make her way to number fourteen Pl
Utca, at nine o'clock one evening. Though the district abuts on a Jewish
section in the Erzsebetvaros quarter, it is not one where suspects
loiter in dark doorways, with cloaks and broad-brimmed hats. It is a
respectable, antiseptic region, like Marylebone in London, where the
doctors live, not far from their nursing-homes. She went on foot, and
had to restrain herself from running, for at the end of the journey was
Mila, who had so long been so far off, with doubt and danger and terror
between. But there was no point in running, for she had to be at the
indicated house punctually, and leave exactly half an hour later. She
reached the house, and found the brass plates of doctors and other
professional men fixed on either side of the door. She pressed the
second left-hand bell, as she had been told to, and almost at once the
door was opened by a servant in a tail coat. He bent his head
respectfully.

"Frau Thalberg," she told him, as instructed. He ushered her in, closed
the door behind her, and with a movement of the hand requested her to
follow him. He led the way up a well-carpeted staircase, past a landing
half-covered with a glass conservatory, and round to the next passage
above.

What sort of house is this? she asked herself. Are they medical people?
Are they secret Jews, secret Communists? Are they wild zealots under
their morning coats and striped trousers, manufacturers of hand
grenades, assemblers of an arms cache?

She was at the door. The man opened it for her. She entered. The door
was pulled to behind her.

Mila. There she was, held in a pool of lamplight thrown down by a
central chandelier. A blue Chinese carpet rippled away from her, wave
beyond woven wave. Mila, but what a different Mila! What a big girl she
had become in the half-year since her departure from Bratislava! A big
and lovely girl, her eyes glowing like agates, her hair black and
lustrous, flat on each side of the parting, her chest full and firm, a
young woman.

"Mila! Darling Mila! How you've grown!"

"Oh, Channah! Channah!"

They ran towards each other and embraced and kissed. Then they stood
apart and stared and stared into each other's eyes. It was Mila who
spoke first:

"To think that I could have such thoughts about you! Channah! I'm
ashamed!"

"But, my dear, what else could you think?" she raised a hand and stroked
the girl's eyebrows with the tips of two fingers. "Your eyebrows were
only this high when you left me." She traced a line under Mila's chin.
"Let's sit down and talk. I'm a bit tired. I've been so excited all day,
I've been walking and walking like mad." She sat down on a chaise longue
over against the heavy brocade curtains, Mila drew up a chair close to
her. "We are safe here, aren't we?" she asked, as if it were an
afterthought.

"We wouldn't be here if it wasn't," Mila replied a little complacently.
"I came in another way, ages before you did, and we won't go out at the
same time, either. They're nice people," she added. She obviously meant
the people who lived in this apartment. It would have been interesting
to know who they were, but one didn't ask unnecessary questions.
Probably Mila knew as little as she did. They were people of quite
pleasant taste. There was a handsome tiled oven in one corner. Opposite
them extended a long refectory table, from some old monastery in the
country. Modern pictures, not French but still good, were on the walls.
It might well be a doctor's waiting-room, which he also used as his
dining-room.

"You see," Mila explained. "Leon arranged it."

"What a grand young man he seems to be," Elsie commented.

"He's fine. That's how they are, over in Eretz. I've learned a lot about
them."

"You'll be wanting to move on soon yourself, won't you, Mila?"

"I want to, Channah, of course I do. But I mustn't. There's so much to
do here. He's given you an idea, has he?"

"Leon? Oh yes. But, Mila, it's going to get worse and worse in Hungary."

"Maybe. That's why I can't go away and leave my friends. I know so much
more than they do, because I've been through so much more. It's my place
here, among the other young folk. It's different for you, Channah.
You're older than I am. Why don't you go away? It wouldn't be hard to
fix it up, through Roumania to one of the Black Sea ports."

"I'm doing a job, too," Elsie pointed out.

"Oh yes, of course. Leon told me. He had to. Naturally he didn't tell me
the name of... of your employer." She didn't sound as if she was very
impressed by the job. Now and again one carried a message, and the rest
of the time one dined in fine restaurants, and lolled about in grand
cars. That is, when the air-raids didn't upset the picnic.

"The air-raids are rather tiresome, too, from time to time," Elsie went
on. "I'd like you to get away from them. You've had your share."

"The _air-raids!_" said Mila. "They'll have to get a lot worse before
they worry _us_. But they can't be good for your nerves, not at your
age." Elsie grimaced. Not at your age. You had to put up with it from
the young. "We can join up later on, when it's all over. You know
where." Elsie knew where. The child meant Palestine. They had never seen
eye to eye on that point. It was no good going on with _that_ discussion
till their whole half-hour was used up.

"I knew you wouldn't leave Hungary, Mila," she summed up. "I won't go,
either, without you, that's all there is to it."

"So we stay. If I only knew----" Mila started. Then she stopped. She was
not at her ease.

"Yes?"

"If I only knew you were happy in the work you're doing."

"It's worth while," Elsie assured her. "It's certainly more comfortable
than Zosha's stable. But what about yourself, Mila? What a terrible time
you must have had, getting away from the frontier!"

"It was exciting!" Mila insisted.

"I want to know everything about everything, from the moment you left
me. Do you get proper things to eat? Have you got a nice cellar where
you're living? How much time have we got?" She looked at her watch. "Oh
dear! Oh dear! How silly they allow us just half an hour when there's so
terribly much to tell each other! Have you got light summer things to
wear? How are you off for money? Have you got any of those jewels left?
Those are the same buttons, aren't they, on a new coat?"

"They're the same buttons," said Mila, smiling. "But there's nothing in
them. We want all the money we can lay hands on. You know what for?"

"Fine, Mila. Most of my buttons are still loaded. They're all yours."

"My daddy would have been pleased to know what happened to them. They've
travelled a long way, haven't they? From Plok to Budapest." Then
suddenly she rose from the chair, sat down beside Elsie, and laid her
head on her shoulder, once again the small girl she had been only a year
ago.

"I just want us to sit like this. Let's not talk. We'll talk next time.
It's wonderful being together again, Channah. I only want to say...
please, I'm sorry about the thoughts I had."

Elsie said nothing more. She merely sat stroking the girl's hair till
the time came to leave.


[VIII]

The weeks went by, and became months. There were times when Elsie found
the strain she was living under so intolerable, she had to run for the
nearest place of refuge, washroom or whatever else it might be, and
stuff her mouth with a handkerchief, to prevent herself crying out. And
she felt the strain not only on her own account, but much more acutely
on Mila's. First there was the private strain of the double life each
was leading. But there was the strain of public events, the ever
increasing threat of danger. Danger was manifold. There was the nagging
misery of the progressively more unpleasant air-raids in which everyone
was involved; for every night the British raided with fleets of bombers
and carpeted the industrial parts of the city, while by day the American
planes made precision raids on specified targets. There was the
intensive anti-Jewish campaign in the city, which grew more foul from
week to week. There was the far-flung campaign against the advancing
Russians, who first reached the borders of the country, then like a tide
swept beyond the borders in ever charging waves, till finally, in the
first weeks of October, they stood compact in a great arc beyond
Budapest, like a massive block of hot air sucking all the natural
moistness from the space between, till the whole city felt brittle, a
heap of bone-dry timber that might burst into flame at any moment, and
fill the sky with its roaring.

But life went on as before. There was a job to do, sometimes harder,
never easier, than before. Difficulties developed in the maintenance of
her contact with Leon, and there were times when he had to ask leave
from his job at the Caf Flora, pleading the fictitious heart trouble
which kept him out of the army. She had no doubt he was away working for
"Kusta," perhaps northward in Slovakia, perhaps eastward in Roumania; or
it might be that he had been summoned to Marshal Tito's headquarters in
the Jugoslav mountains to hand in a personal report, supplementing the
reports he had sent by other means. She learned that he had increasing
difficulty in reinstating himself at the Flora, and that finally they
had dismissed him. He took employment at another caf, the Poprad, but
it was much less suitable for their purpose.

A difficulty developed with Count Apor, also, and this was graver. She
kept an assignation with him one afternoon in his apartment and found
him moody, silent, and restless. When he did speak, his words were
laboured and intermittent, and he tended to lose the thread of
conversation as though his mind was elsewhere.

At first, Elsie thought he had wind of something. Something had gone
wrong. In the climate of tension in which they both lived even a single
word stressed unduly, a name written on a piece of paper where there
should be no name, a shadow in a doorway, these could spell danger. But
if something had happened he would have told her. She could not ask him.
Between them there were no superfluous questions, particularly questions
that betrayed fear.

"Have you got the thing ready?" she said. They did not refer to the
messages she carried more explicitly than that.

"Your diligence is commendable," he said bitterly. "You never forget
your work." He avoided her eyes.

"Thank you," she replied drily. "That is the idea, I believe."

Suddenly she knew what it was. As instinctively as one is aware that
somebody is walking in one's footsteps, so as a woman she knew that he
wanted her. He had, indeed, wanted her for a long time now but it had
not been in the contract and he had scrupulously respected the terms of
their association. The sometimes elaborate formality of his behaviour
when they were alone was expressly designed to put her at a distance
from him and so exorcize temptation. Now the strain on his nerves was
telling. She felt compassion for him.

"I think I should go now," she suggested quietly. "I'll wait for you to
phone me."

He intercepted her at the door and his hand on her arm gripped with
unnecessary violence.

"I didn't say you could go," he said harshly.

"It would be better, wouldn't it?"

He did not reply but pulled her close to him. His body trembled and his
voice was hoarse and reluctant. "Why aren't I good enough for you?" he
demanded angrily, and held her against him with a savage violence, as if
he was afraid of what she might reply and wished to stifle it.

Suddenly he relinquished his grasp of her and walked to the window. "I
have some idea of the life you lived in Berlin, the people in Bratislava
had to tell me," he went on, each word thin and separate as pellets of
lead. "If your patrons were good enough for you in Berlin, what's wrong
with me? Tell me that, will you?"

"They didn't have all the facts in Bratislava," she said quietly. "Of
course you're good enough for me. Any shoeblack is good enough for me,
and too good. I could go to bed with you very easily, and have a good
deal of pleasure out of it. But will you believe me, Count?" He was not
looking at her, and she sought to draw his eyes to hers. "Will you
believe me, Count?" she repeated. But his eyes remained fixed on the
carpet. "If I went to bed with you, it would be the first time in my
life I went to bed with a man I didn't love, in one way or another.
Please forgive me that I'm speaking so frankly." He said nothing. What
was there for him to say, but one thing?

He turned on her furiously.

"How dare you humiliate me in this way? How dare you?"

"Because I'm not afraid of you. And because I think it would turn out to
be a bad thing for the work we're doing. I beg you, Count. I'm not so
strong as I seem to be."

He got up and flung himself towards a further door.

"Come back!" he hurled at her. "Come back an hour from now!"

She duly returned an hour later. His behaviour was quite impeccable. The
episode of an hour ago might have been merely a dream. The conversation
remained throughout on a political level, excepting for one moment, when
it concerned another woman than herself.

"I have bad news regarding Gisi Fleishmann," he told her.

"What's happened? Have they got her at last?"

"They shot her as she was jumping out of a train that was taking her to
Ausschwitz. It was a pleasanter death to die. She was a brave woman."

"Yes, she was a brave woman," breathed Elsie. "May she rest in peace."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The sense of tension and danger was somewhat eased by a crepuscular
social existence she managed to conduct. There was, for instance, a
certain Mlle. Inesia she met at the Caf Flora. It was on a day when
something had prevented the Count from meeting her for cocktails, as had
been arranged, at the Duna Palota. It might have been a bomb, of course,
in the morning's air-raid. There was a woman sitting at the next table,
who obviously was in the same situation as herself, judging from the way
she kept on looking at her watch, and peering outside to the pavements
of the Corso. From the style of clothes the woman wore, her jewellery,
and the amount of makeup she had on, Elsie could not help concluding
they had something else in common. She, too, was probably a "kept"
woman, with different terms of service.

The time passed, and still neither man came. "Tut-tut!" Elsie went.
"These men!" said the other. Then they turned to each other and smiled.
One preferred to think it was not a bomb that had dislocated the
rendezvous. "French?" asked the other woman. She used the Hungarian
word. "No!" said Elsie. "German!" "I'm Roumanian!" the other pointed
out, this time using the German word. They exchanged cards
punctiliously, with the formality only achieved by people in dubious
positions. "Frau Radbruch." "Mademoiselle Inesia." A little friendship
convenient to them both had begun. They did not exchange confidences
about the lives they had lived before they came to Budapest, or the men
to whom they now ministered. But there was a good deal they could do
together, air-raids permitting. They went for little outings in Elsie's
car in the warm summer afternoons. They crossed the river and took the
bright yellow funicular up to the Fortress Square. On their evenings
"off" they would go to a cinema together. The films were not very
exciting, largely Goebbels films from the Neubabelsberg Studios, before
the Allied bombing flattened them. Once there was a film, and a pre-Nazi
film, a good deal more exciting than it set out to be, at least to one
member of the audience, for the actress who played the part of brunette
confidante to the blonde Brigitte Helm was a certain Elsie Silver. Frau
Radbruch sweated with apprehension as she sat beside her friend,
Mademoiselle Inesia, in the dark movie-house, but there were no
complications. Now and again an American film might pop up somewhere,
not too ostentatiously, but there it was, almost a manifesto, an avowal
that the Admiral and M. Szlasy, the leader of the Hungarian Fascist
Party, the Arrow Cross, had between them not quite tied up the Hungarian
soul in a brown-paper parcel and handed it over for indefinite keeping
in the Wilhelmstrasse cellars.

So there was a film now and again, once or twice a play, but no
concerts. The last concert Elsie had been to was the Furtwngler concert
in Cracow, and she had not enjoyed it. The two women went to each
other's flats, too, on occasions when it was certain their men would not
descend upon them. They played little card games, and drank tea, and ate
Gerbeaud cakes. It was a nice change. Once or twice Mlle. Inesia even
organized a "bridge" at her own apartment. But the two other ladies were
not so well-mannered as Mlle. Inesia, and one betrayed a rather
penetrating interest in Elsie's connections and background. Elsie was
sure it was nothing but female curiosity, but thought it more prudent
not to accept an invitation to a third "bridge." Mlle. Inesia might have
been an agent like herself, or she may have been merely what she seemed.
Elsie was not curious, and did not find out. One day in September she
should have come to Elsie's apartment for tea. She did not arrive. That
was the last of her.

There was a certain amount of social activity in the company of Count
Apor, too. He did not often take her to shows or movies, which he tended
to despise as time-wasting frivolities fit for Pest boulevardiers but
not for Magyar aristocrats. And, of course, she did not accompany him to
the formal parties which he attended either in his dynastic or military
capacity. But there were border-line parties on which he thought it wise
to have her company, where the married women felt themselves
broad-minded, and some of the other women lived in the same sort of
twilight as herself. There was one party, however, which he suggested
she might go to, from which she preferred to be absent.

"There's going to be an interesting woman to-night," he told her, "at
the Abonyi party. You remember?"

"Yes, I remember, I was to come, too."

"I learn that Ingrid von Ihume's going to be there. She's found out I've
accepted the invitation."

"Have I met her?"

"No. She's been in Berlin. She's a lady of the very bluest blood."

"Then, of course," she said without expression, "I've not met her."

"She's coming because she heard I'll be there. She adores me." He said
this with pardonable vanity. "She's a most beautiful woman." She waited.
This was not her world, and she had no comments to offer. She wondered
whether he wanted her to be there so that one woman might be played off
against the other, but decided that that was not so. His body might go
up in fire from time to time, but his heart remained aloof and icy.

"And because Ingrid is coming, another distinguished guest has invited
himself. I shouldn't say he's distinguished exactly. But he's important.
He's particularly important in Budapest at the present moment.
Practically nobody knows his name, at all events, in the world at large.
They're talking about him here more than he's ever been talked about
before, but that's only because of the Ingrid von Ihume affair. He's
gone quite insane about her... if he's not always been insane."

"Who are you talking about? Have you talked about him to me before?" But
even as she asked, she saw once more the look of unspeakable loathing in
his eyes which had been there on the drive from Bratislava to Budapest,
when he had talked to her about Adolf Eichmann, the architect of the
Jewish extermination. "You mean Adolf Eichmann?" she said.

"He's been able to send millions of people to the ovens, and he's not
turned a hair. Now a pretty woman is leading him on a string, and he's
pulling out his hair in handfuls. He suspects everything and everybody.
He's smoking and drinking himself sick. He won't travel by air for fear
someone has put grit into the bearings. He has an arsenal in his car
like a Chicago gangster. A posse of guards is with him night and day."
Apor banged his fist on the table. "It's ridiculous!" he shouted. "As if
any hell he goes through could make up for one millionth of the agony
he's been responsible for! At all events"--his voice calmed
down--"Ingrid is doing what _she_ can." He turned to her. "Well, Frau
Radbruch? Would you like to come to the party?"

"No," she said quietly. "No. As we've always agreed, it's not wise for
me to turn up when we suspect that high-ranking German officers might be
present. I saw a gentleman loaded down with iron crosses in the caf
yesterday, and he looked at me in a very interested way, which I didn't
like at all."

"What happened? Was anybody with him?" He was evidently uneasy.

"I tried the frontal attack," she said. "I smiled at him, then I picked
my teeth with my hand over my mouth. He looked uncomfortable, and got
his head down into a newspaper."

"So you won't come?"

"No. With your permission I won't come."

But she hadn't given him the real reason, which was that she did not
dare to imagine how she would behave if she found herself in the same
room as the ineffable assassin. Perhaps she would suddenly find herself
trying to claw his eyes out, as had happened to her with German soldiers
once or twice before. Perhaps in the extremity of her revulsion her
heart would simply stop beating, and she would fall dead. It was better
to keep away from Adolf Eichmann.

It should be said, however, she did not succeed entirely in keeping away
from old friends. At one of the permitted parties she was presented to
Otto von Umhausen. "Herr Baron, may I present Frau Radbruch...?" She
smiled at him in the most well-bred manner. "We've met before, haven't
we, Herr Baron?" she said lightly. "What a gadabout you are!" There was
not the least nervousness in her heart. The time for Otto von Umhausen
to betray Elsie Silver had long gone by. He could hardly betray her now,
without betraying himself. Besides (Elsie realized) he is not among the
most noxious of his kind.

Otto von Umhausen bowed, and looked a little yellow about the gills.
Then he promptly turned his attention to the plump little soprano he had
brought with him. Or that is what she called herself in that artistic
atmosphere.

She saw Mila, also, several times during this period of intense
excitement.

"Hallo, Channah, darling! I'm a Swede!"

"You're what, darling?" She held her at arm's length and examined her.
"You don't eat enough! I've brought a big steak for you, here, in my
bag!"

"I tell you, I'm a Swede! Look at my blonde pig-tails! Haven't you
heard?"

Then Elsie remembered. She certainly had heard. The town had been full
of it for some weeks. Some of the people she had heard talking about it
had been livid with fury, but more had welcomed the news. The news was
that three neutral embassies, the Swedish, the Swiss, and the Vatican,
had made arrangements with the Hungarian authorities to issue protective
passes, or _Schutzpsse_, to Jews, the holders of which were recognized
as being under the protection of the issuing government. That meant that
those Jews, at least, for the time being, would not be press-ganged into
"Operation Ausschwitz," for which rolling-stock kept rumbling ominously
into the stations.

"Oh, Mila!" she cried. "How wonderful! So that means you're safe now,
does it?" Then she stopped. She knew how foolish it was to suggest that
any Jew could be safe, in this time. "You're not wearing a yellow star,"
she said, a little awkwardly. "Do these passes mean you don't need to?"

"Oh no." But she was not interested in these matters of wearing yellow
stars. "You know," she pointed out, "the world's really beginning to
believe those things happened, after all, in Treblinka and Maidenek."

"It looks like it, Mila. Yes, it does. The Government here's scared
stiff, I think. They know the Germans are going to lose."

"Of course. That's why they've made these arrangements with the
neutrals. But I don't believe in it, somehow. It's all too good to be
true." She shook her head doubtfully.

"What do you mean? It'll be worse before it's better? Well, then...."
She examined Mila anxiously out of the corner of her eye. "Are you still
quite determined to stay on here? Do answer me, Mila dear! Are you? It's
not too late, you know."

"It's hard work knocking sense into them."

"Who?"

"The Jews in this town. They're dazed. They're going about like people
who've been beaten up with truncheons every day for a week. I can't go.
If anything would happen they'd be like a flock of sheep."

"Mila. Do you know how old you are? You're sixteen. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, Channah. Well?"

"You can't take all the cares of the world on you."

"I'm not. I just _can't_ go, that's all."

"I don't like the way you look. You're as pale as a sheet."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. I wish I could take you out in my little car some time.
Now that you're tied up, she's my best friend. But we can't. And that's
that. Well, one way or the other, it's bound to be over before long."

Suddenly the girl was a-quiver with excitement.

"Why not, Channah? Why not? I'd love a breath of air! Why shouldn't we?"

"But it was silly of me to suggest it, Mila dear. I wasn't thinking. You
mustn't be out without a star, and I mustn't be seen with anyone wearing
a star. It can't be done."

"I often don't," she said, just a shade surlily. "They're not so
watchful as all that."

"But, Mila----"

"Very well, Channah." Mila lowered her eyes. "If you think we oughtn't
to, we won't!"

"Don't look so miserable, Mila dear. If you're really sure it would be
all right, perhaps we _could_ have a spin round the park a few times.
You ought to know."

The girl looked up again.

"I won't go unless Leon says it's all right. He knows how to get in and
out of places like a mouse in the floorboards."

"Is Leon back?"

"Yes, he's back for a time. He's been telling me about these
_schlichim_--you know--the messengers from Palestine. They're like
poems, these people. They're so brave and beautiful. One of them's in
prison now, a girl, here in Budapest. They say she's a young saint."
Mila had gone off into a dream. It was necessary to bring her to earth
again.

"Listen, Mila, I'll tell you." She had been thinking of the risks
involved in taking Mila out for a spin, and decided Leon was the one to
estimate them. "You'll ask Leon to bring you to the park to meet me,"
said Elsie. "If he thinks it's all right--I say again--if he thinks it's
all right. Now, let me think where. Yes, the bridge between the two
artificial lakes, the further end. You know where that is? Good. Suppose
we make it next Thursday morning, at eleven o'clock. That's six days
from now. Will you remember? Thursday, at eleven o'clock, unless there's
a raid on, of course. If you're there, you're there. If not, I'll
understand. We'll fix something up later. Is that all right, Mila?"

"It's wonderful, Channah, wonderful! I'll be there!"

She was there. And it was a mistake.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was a day in mid-September, some three or four days later. There was
anxiety on the faces of the German troops. The Russians had cut clean
through a wide swathe of country and had reached the Polish-Czechoslovak
frontier. In Budapest as in Warsaw, in Cracow as in Bratislava, there
was a vigorous flurry of troop movements in the streets, but doubt was
beginning to settle like a fog on the faces of the Germans and their
friends. They were as men might look who carry palisades to stop the
incoming tide.

On that day, over in Budapest, Elsie Silver returned to her apartment
about a quarter to three, having lunched late, for the air-raid had
lasted longer than usual. She went to her room straight away, to have
one of those afternoon naps, which, she was convinced, kept her looking
a decade younger than her years. At four-thirty she was to go to the
Caf Poprd for a cup of coffee, and any message that Leon might have
for her. For Leon was back from his recent indisposition. He had found
work at the Caf Poprd, where they were more sympathetic for some
reason, with the occasional absences caused by his asthma. At six
o'clock Elsie was due at the Count's apartment.

Not long after she got in to her place, soon after three, in fact, the
telephone rang, and she answered it. It was a call of no consequence.
She lay down, had her nap, and proceeded to put herself to rights. Then
suddenly she remembered she had a call to make to M. Fleurot, her
modiste. She rang him up, said she was sorry she could not go for her
fitting, and put down the receiver. It was now about a quarter to four.
At that moment the door-bell rang. She was expecting no one, but she saw
no reason why she should not open it. If anyone who had a right to knock
knocked and there was no answer, he did not merely go away. He either
forced the door open, or went away and came back.

There was a young man at the door, with a small leather bag in his hand,
and a coil of telephone-flex over one arm.

"I've come to see to your telephone, madame," he said. He talked
Hungarian, but the word _telefon_ was clear. So were the bag and the
coil of flex. She let the young man in and closed the door behind him.
He waited about for a moment, as if to ask her where the instrument was.
Then he spotted the socket in the wainscoting, and the flex leading into
her room.

"May I go in, madame?" he asked. She understood. She was getting the
hang of the language.

"Yes, in there," she said. Then suddenly her heart leapt. She remembered
that only two or three minutes ago she had rung M. Fleurot and the
telephone had been perfectly all right. Less than an hour ago, she had
received a call herself. The telephone worked perfectly both for
incoming and outgoing calls. "Young man!" she called out. But the young
man was already in her room. She followed him. She was not a coward and
her instinct was to defend by attack. If the young man was up to no
good, at least she could scream her head off; she was useful, too, with
an electric lamp in her hand. Perhaps he was no criminal. Perhaps he was
a police agent. Maybe it was only a routine telephone check-up. The
young man faced her as she entered. She allowed words to pour from her
in an incoherent mixture of Hungarian and German, with a word or two of
Polish or Slovak thrusting in when the Hungarian failed.

"Who are you? The telephone's perfectly all right. I've only just rung
up somebody. What's it all about?" She had by this time stationed
herself by the bedside table, where a reading lamp with a soapstone base
was within reach.

As she spoke, a grin widened slowly across the young man's face, and it
was all she could do to prevent herself from reaching out for the lamp,
and hurling it against his mouth. She was furious. She was furious
because she was an idiot, and he was an idiot. That's all he was. An
idiot. No crook could have a grin like that, and eyes like those. He
was, of course, as much a telephone engineer as her foot was. He was
laughing at her fright, he was also laughing at her compte of
languages. And if anybody deserved to be laughed at, it was he, thinking
himself a secret agent, and trying on the ancient tired dodge of being a
telephone engineer. He wanted to have his face soundly slapped. He was
talking Yiddish to her now. _Yiddish!_ Suppose Lotte had been in the
next room!

"Don't take on so, _yiddene!_" he was saying. He put his bag down on the
ground, and slipped the coil of flex from his arm, like a wooden hoop at
a fairground stall.

"How are you? Are you well? So you're Channah, eh? I'm Baruch. You do
talk Yiddish, eh?"

"More or less," she said severely. She was going to find it hard not to
grin back into his face. It was pleasant, open, grey-eyed, anything in
the world but conspiratorial. It had a good chin. They all had good
chins, these agents.

"I'll talk Hebrew," he said, "if you like." That's what she judged it to
be.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't talk Hebrew. Yiddish, please. And just
drop your voice."

He was from Palestine, then, he must be; another of these _schlichim_,
these messengers, was he? What happened to the sallow faces of the
ghettos when they got to Palestine, the dark wistful eyes?

"How did you get my address?" she had at him. "You had no right to come
here!"

"Oh, _yiddene_," he pleaded. "Have a heart! Where _should_ I get your
address? Don't _you_ always have the next link, in case something
happens to the one before, the one you've got?"

"Has anything happened to Leon?" she asked quickly.

"I don't know! I don't know! He's as clever as a barrel-load of monkeys,
that one! But it's _you_ I've come about. Don't you see? I'll tell you
what happened. You've got a date with Leon at the Caf Poprd to-day at
four-thirty, haven't you?"

"I have."

"Well, so had I, at three. The idea was that I'd read the papers and
write my letters till you came, and then we'd meet each other. I don't
mean meet. We'd each get to know what the other looked like. See?"

"I see."

"But I got to the caf at two. I always think it's a good idea to turn
up early in a public place, if you can. You get the lie of the land.
Leon wasn't there yet. I thought he was having his lunch, or maybe his
shift didn't begin till later. Well, this is what happened. There were
three men sitting two or three tables away. They were quite
ordinary-looking, clerks or insurance agents or something. But I had a
feeling about them. You know how it is? Please, Channah, sit down. Make
yourself comfortable. I'll sit down, too." She thanked him. "It's not
anything you can lay hands on. I just didn't like them. Well, about half
an hour later, two of the men got up and went over to another table,
where a young man had been sitting since before I came in. He wasn't
anything to look at, either. He was writing away busily, a journalist, I
suppose. Once or twice the waiter brought him some fresh 'dogs'
tongues,' the long slips of paper they have. So the two men sat down
beside him and talked to the journalist for a little time, some three or
four minutes, not more than that. There was no excitement of any sort. I
could only see the way all the colour left the young man's cheeks, and
his hand trembled just a little as he smoothed out the 'dog's tongues'
in front of him. Then, still very quietly, they got up, all three of
them. They made no sign to the waiter or anybody. They just walked out,
the young man in the middle.

"I tell you, I didn't like it at all. I didn't like the thought that the
third man was waiting behind, as if he expected something else to happen
that might interest him. Somehow, I'd have to warn Leon. I wasn't sure I
could intercept him in the street outside, because he may have been in
the back all the time, or, if he was out, he might come into the
building by another entrance. So I waited. I expected him at three
o'clock, as I said, but he didn't come. I waited till halfpast three,
and then I thought I'd better get moving. There may be nothing in it,
but I felt it important to contact you and prevent you from going over
to the caf. We'll have to fix up some other meeting place. So I went
off, and got my telephone-kit and--here I am, Channah. And don't blow my
head off, auntie, will you? I did the right thing."

"Yes, yes," she muttered. "I'm sure you did the right thing. I hope
nothing's happened to Leon?" she asked anxiously. There were several
reasons why she hoped nothing had happened to Leon, of which Mila was
one. He was her link with Mila.

"Do you know Mila, Baruch?" she asked.

"No. I only got here last night. Who is she? One of our girls?" She told
him who Mila was. "A good girl!" his comment was. "It's a good thing she
hadn't reached Eretz yet. She'd have been shouting to get back here."

"I've arranged to take her out for a drive the day after to-morrow. She
was going to arrange it through Leon. I wish I hadn't suggested it."

"Does she wear the yellow star?" He was suddenly grave. "You couldn't go
riding about with a girl wearing the yellow star."

"Of course not," she reproved him. "Don't be ridiculous? She won't be
wearing it if she turns up. I'm sorry Leon isn't around. She's going to
fix it up with him."

"He'll turn up. He's probably been out on some sort of a job--everybody
likes to do a bit of sabotage on the side--and he couldn't get back in
time. I'll look them both up for you."

"Suppose it isn't all right. How am I to know?"

"That's simple," he said, and smiled. "She just won't be there. Look. I
ought to be going. We must fix up a place where we can get in touch with
each other. You see... there's always a chance that Leon may be
detained somewhere."

"Yes," she murmured. "There's always a chance. Have they told you of
Feri, the shoemaker?"

"No." She gave him the address. He memorized it, then stooped and picked
up his equipment.

"Won't you stay," she asked him uncertainly, "and have a cup of coffee,
or a glass of wine, or something?"

"That's all right," he smiled at her reassuringly. "I'll make off. Don't
look so worried, auntie, nothing's happened to any of us. We're all
right. Listen. Wasn't that one of the Russian guns? The whole
window-frame shook! Oh boy! They've got it coming to them. Good-bye,
auntie!" He put his arms round her shoulders and kissed her, like a
schoolboy going back to school after a half-term holiday. Then he went
off.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was a few minutes to eleven, on the morning Elsie was going to take
Mila out for a drive. There were folk around in the streets, wearing the
yellow star. In a way, wearing the yellow star was a protection. There
you were, you were branded a pariah, nothing more need be done about
you, for the time being, at least. The trouble was when you were not
wearing it, and you looked like the sort of person who should be. It was
for you the _razzias_ were designed. It was you who went off, the sweat
of death glistening on your forehead. You might never be heard of again.

She hoped devoutly Mila would not come, even though it was a fine day,
and Mila had been so pathetically keen on the outing. If she did come,
it would be only because Leon had said it was all right. She wouldn't be
wearing her yellow star, but she ran less danger than most people. It
was only alongside other Jews you saw the child looked Jewish, too. She
reached the end of the Andrassy Utca and drove through the grandiose
Millenium Monument. Beyond the tall pillar the park began, with the two
artificial lakes at its threshold, the broad bridge between the lakes,
the banks of trees beyond, transmuted by the first alchemies of autumn.
Sure enough, there the girl was on the further side of the bridge,
leaning on the parapet, looking down on the black ducks with red beaks,
and the skimming moor-hens, and the gliding skiffs. She touched the horn
lightly. Mila turned and smiled. She slowed down and flung the car door
open.

"Jump in!" she cried. The girl jumped in with a chuckle of delight.

"Oh, Frau Radbruch," she said, grinning in complicity. "How awfully
sweet of you to take me for a drive! What a darling mummy you are! I'm
sorry, no," she babbled on, as they swept into the green spaces of the
park. "I'm not your daughter any more. I'm the daughter of the King of
Sweden. You must call me Ingeborg."

"Listen, child! How long have you been here?" She put her left arm round
Mila's shoulder for a moment, and squeezed her affectionately.

"I've only just got here, only two minutes ago."

"Did Leon bring you here?"

She did not answer the question. "I must tell you about the brain wave,"
she said. "It was all Leon's idea." Whatever Leon's idea was, she was
bubbling over with it.

"But first, tell me. Did Leon bring you here?"

"No." She was like a small girl found tip-toeing away from the pantry.

"You _did_ promise to talk it over with Leon," Elsie insisted.

"But, Channah, I've been moving about for weeks without that horrible
star. I've got it here, in my little bag, in case. It's got sticky stuff
on. I could clap it on in a second."

"But it's dangerous, Mila. You shouldn't do it. I once saw a policeman
pass his pen behind a young fellow's star, to see if it was sewn on
properly, or just pinned on. You said, if Leon----"

"Leon hasn't come back yet."

"Ah well," Elsie muttered. She had better resign herself to it. "Did you
see that other young fellow, Baruch? He said he'd try and get hold of
you."

"Well, I haven't," she said miserably, "and he didn't." She snuggled up
to her. "Oh, Channah, if you knew what a break it is, to get away from
it all! And how lovely it is to be with you again! Do you know, it's the
first time we've been together, without hiding like rats in a drain?
Let's enjoy it, Channah! I'll be all right! I _know_ how to move around.
I've had practice."

"Forgive me, Mila dear," Elsie sighed. "It's only because one get's
worried. I'm _out_ of practice, you know. I'm on eiderdown. All right,
darling, we'll forget about everything. We'll just have a good look at
the sky and the trees and the grass and the water. Then we'll go round
again. Then we'll have a _Kapuziner_, with lots of cream and cakes."

"Could I have an ice-cream, please? Do you think there is any?" But
before Elsie had time to tell her whether or not there was ice-cream,
Mila was off again. "I was telling you about the brain wave. You know,
don't you, what's been going on at the Swiss Consulate?" she broke out.

Elsie's mind was not quite so supple as Mila's. She jerked herself back
again with an effort.

"The Swiss Consulate? Oh, the Swiss _Consulate!_ Yes, I know. You mean
those _Schutzpsse_ they've been issuing. Of course I know. I've heard
about it from several sources. You told me so yourself. I've seen the
crowds."

"Oh, you've seen the crowds, have you?" Mila's eyes were full of
mischief. But everyone in Budapest had seen the crowds. For days and
weeks now, the scene outside the Swiss Consulate had been unbelievable.
It was known among the Jews of Budapest that the Hungarians had agreed
to let the Swiss cover no less than five thousand Jews with their
protection passes. The Swiss Consulate was not open till eleven o'clock
in the morning. The queue started the night before, with non-Jews, paid
for their services, squatting on the pavement, as if to ensure a seat in
a theatre for the appearance of a world-famous tenor. A few minutes
after eleven o'clock, that is, the time the Jews were allowed to issue
from their houses, a madly running crowd started charging down the
street in all directions, knowing full well that their lives might
depend on whether they got to the Swiss Consulate in time for the
coveted paper. Soon the street was packed tight with thousands of Jews
fighting for the gates, and Hungarian police lashing out left and right
with their truncheons. It was not a pretty sight, but that was how they
felt about the incinerators, too.

"It was Leon's idea," Mila was saying, a little smugly.

"Leon?" asked Elsie, with astonishment. It seemed rather a high-level
diplomatic achievement for a young waiter in an obscure caf.

"Silly!" Mila reproached her. "I mean Leon had the idea of getting us
boys and girls to manufacture the passes on a big scale. Nobody knows
where they are, neither the Swiss, nor the Hungarians. But what can they
do about it? We're making a first-rate job of it. The Swiss don't mind,
of course."

"No, of course not."

"Don't you think we're clever, Channah? I do! You _did_ say ice-cream,
didn't you?"

"I _did_ say ice-cream," admitted Elsie, a little helplessly. "I _did_.
You'll have an ice-cream as big as your head. Hallo, here's the lakes
again!" She hoped the conversation might flow in less exciting channels.
"Look at those swans! How silly they look out of water! There's a caf
just up the road there, I think. Come, young woman, you'll have your
ice-cream. We'll _both_ have an ice-cream! Then we'll have our cakes."

It was a jolly outing, all in all. It had to come to an end far too
soon.

"Good-bye, Frau Radbruch. Thanks for the nice time given me!"

"A pleasure, to be sure. See you soon again, Ingeborg."

She put the girl down some distance along the Adrassy Utca, and went on
her way home with a heavy heart. It was a mistake, she said to herself.




CHAPTER VIII


[I]

It was a mistake, Elsie said to herself again, as the noise identified
itself as a knocking. It was not bombs dropping, or machine-guns
rattling. The Americans had done their night's raid. It was a knocking
on the door of her apartment. It was the secret police.

She switched on her bedside lamp, got up from her bed, and put on her
slippers and dressing-gown. There was a taste of bitter aloes in her
mouth. What has put them on to me, she asked herself, as she moved out
of the room towards her front door. Where did I go wrong? Was it the
young man, Baruch, who came to mend the telephone? I could do nothing
about that. Was it because I took Mila for the drive? Is it some slip-up
somewhere I know nothing about? Have they found Mila, too? Have they
found Mila, too? The question kept on repeating itself the whole time
till she got to the front door. It was only when she slipped the bolt,
and her hand was turning the door handle that a further question
presented itself: Have they got a line on Count Apor? She opened the
door, and it was, of course, the police, a man in plain clothes and two
men in uniform.

"Are you Frau Radbruch?" the plain-clothes man asked. He spoke in
Hungarian.

"I speak no Hungarian," she said, in German. "What is the meaning of all
this?" She had not had the experience of being arrested before, and she
did not know if this method of handling it would be followed by a brisk
slap in the teeth. But she believed it was always worth while to stand
with your head up.

The man was quite polite.

"We have been requested to take you to police headquarters," he said.
"Will you please put your clothes on. You are permitted to pack a small
bag."

"Please come in," she said. The man nodded his head towards one of his
attendants. The attendant and he crossed the threshold. The third stayed
outside.

"We are very sorry, to be sure," said the man. They entered the
living-room, and sat down. "Don't take too long about it. Hand over your
papers, please."

Is this the moment to invoke the name of Count Apor? she asked herself.
She could not see how it could do harm, and it might do good. His
association with her was well known, and the invocation of him as her
protector could not compromise him. She would know sooner or later
whether their more secret associations had been discovered.

"My friend, Count Apor, will be interested in this impertinence," she
said. "I insist on telephoning him at once."

"I'm sorry, madame. Any telephoning will have to be done from police
headquarters. That's my orders." Then he unbent somewhat. "Besides, the
telephones aren't working yet. To-night's raid was a bad one.

"Very well." She handed over her papers. One does not try to throw any
weight around with people on that level. She went in and dressed, and
packed a small bag as she had been told. It did not take her many
minutes. Have they found Mila, too? Have they found Mila, too? The
question still kept on rotating like some process in a machine. Then, as
she came back into the sitting-room, the words changed. I won't see Mila
again. How can I? I won't see Mila again. How can I? The men rose from
their chairs.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," the man in plain clothes said. It was not
a nice face, she told herself. In the nature of things, a man engaged in
work like this would not have a nice face. (I won't see Mila again. How
can I?) She was convinced that he was behaving especially well, and that
he had been given instructions to that effect. She was, after all, the
woman of a redoubtable nobleman. She smiled on the two men.

"Orders are orders," she said. "Perhaps one of you will take my bag?"
(How can I? How can I?)

They opened the door and walked along the passage. The house-porter's
face was like a large pale cabbage growing from the darkness at the end
of the basement stairway. A closed black car was waiting by the
kerbside. (I won't see Mila again. I won't see Mila again.) Police
headquarters were not far off, she seemed to remember. But it took some
time to get there, for several streets were impassable with bomb
craters. They got there at last, and were bundled in through a side
doorway. She was taken at once along a complex of blue-lit passages, to
a room with a narrow bed, and a chair and table. It was not prison-cell
furniture, but the barred window was high up in a blank wall.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Have they taken Mila, too? I won't see Mila again. Have they taken Mila,
too? I won't see Mila again. The phrases wove in and out of her
thoughts, like themes in a piece of music. As for myself, I really am a
bit tired. It's been hard work breaking through to safety, and I won't
make it now. The end can't be far off, and in one way I won't mind that.
I've felt rather like this just once before, remember? That time when
the bomb trapped me, and I was quite happy about it, going out to sea on
a warm current. The end won't be anything like so pleasant now. I don't
see how they can fail to shoot me, whether or not they beat me up first,
to try and get what they can out of me. If they do, I hope I'll last
out. There's only a certain amount of pain you can stand. And after
that, it's darkness.

But there _is_ a difference, Elsie. Those moments in the cellar hadn't
any Mila yet; there _is_ a Mila now. That's why I'd rather come through,
somehow, if it can be managed. Why do I love that girl so much, outside
all sense or meaning? I love her more than I ever loved poor Oskar, and
infinitely more than this unhappy split-into-two Apor, though I now see
I've become quite fond of him. Could I have loved her more if she really
had been my own child? I don't see how. Well, I've had this thing,
before I've died, and that's something. See Mila again? See Mila again?
How can I? She in one whirlpool, I in another? The chances against us
are like the blank millions in the drum of a lottery.

Who dares hope, who doesn't hope, that the winning number will have his
name on?

Then suddenly her blood was cold with terror. She saw a black-gloved
hand slide into the drum's aperture, and bring out a slip with a name
on, and the name was her own. Elsie von Brockenburg, Elsie von
Brockenburg. No, no! she cried aloud. No! They would take me to Germany.
That is the death I cannot die.

One way or another, that will not happen.


[II]

They did not go out of their way to treat her unpleasantly, as two days,
three days, passed. The food was adequate, they gave her exercise in the
courtyard, and when the air-raids came, they took her down into a
shelter. There could only be one explanation for this temperate
treatment. Suspicion did not extend to Count Apor, at least not yet.
Their complicated and protracted masquerade had been as successful as
they dared hope. His position and reputation still extended over her
like a cloak.

There was another fact from which she deduced that they were treating
her as a special prisoner, for she was all on her own when they marched
her round and round the courtyard for her half-hour's exercise in the
morning. On the first two mornings she saw nobody but her own warder,
but something apparently went wrong with the timing on the third
morning, for she was only taken out when the other prisoners were being
marched in. There was a subdued cat-calling as she went by, a ghost of
the sort of noise that is least inhibited when marching soldiers
register the passing by of a female, almost any female. She kept her
head averted, for she was a bit uncomfortable about it one way and
another, and then, when she had proceeded some ten or fifteen yards, she
heard a quick vigorous "Tsst! Tsst!" She turned her head and saw a young
man smiling and winking at her. The smile was, in fact, a smile, though
the three or four teeth missing from the upper jaw made it a rather
distressing one. Then, almost at once, she perceived that the wink was
not a wink at all, but a black eye. There was something vaguely familiar
about the face, and the young man was certainly convinced he knew her.
Then, a minute or two after the cortge had re-entered the prison, she
remembered who it was. It was Baruch, the _shliach_, the messenger from
Palestine. Her first emotion was fury because he had compromised both
himself and her by letting everybody there see they knew each other;
then suddenly she realized it was probably the poor stupid young man,
and no one else, who was responsible for her arrest and imprisonment.
Her instinct had been sound. It had been unfortunate that he had sought
her out, though his intention had been of the best. He should have been
cleverer about it. One does not pretend in the mid-nineteen-forties one
is a telephone engineer if one is a secret agent. He had presumably been
a marked man from the beginning.

Well, it was unfortunate. Here she was, and there he was, somewhere
beyond the bars of one of those cells. They had not let _him_ down
lightly. They had "rubbed him up" good and proper.

Then suddenly a thought tore at her like the thorns of a briar. Baruch
was in this prison. She herself was in this prison. It was evidently a
prison for political prisoners, as well as the usual sort. If they had
captured Mila, weren't the chances that she was here, too? Wasn't it
likely that they had passed within a foot or two of each other a minute
ago? She must find out somehow, at the first possible moment. What
chance was there of contacting Baruch? Was he as likely as anyone to
know? Or was he? He might not even have met Mila before they arrested
him.

Then it came to her. She must have a word with one of the warders. They
had already shown themselves friendly. Yes, the day-warder, at the very
next meal time.

Mid-day was three hours away, but it came at last. There was a rattle of
tin plates and mugs as the trolley was wheeled along the corridor. First
one cell door was unlocked, then the next cell door, the food delivered
at this cell, then the next cell. Then her own turn came.

"Listen, you, quick," she whispered. "You talk German?"

The warder put his head out into the corridor and looked left and right.

"A little. What then?"

Somehow she would get him to understand.

"_Gelt_," she said. "For you, later. _Gelt_, money. Count Apor."

"Yes? You want?"

"Is there a girl, a young girl, so high, here also in prison?"

"Yes, girl, Jewish girl."

Her heart flared and flickered. They _had_ got hold of her. She was
here. Not many yards away. Alas, alas, they were together again.

"How long here?" it suddenly occurred to her to ask.

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"Three months. Four months." He was at the door again. The heart jumped
inside her like a bounding puppy. For it could not be Mila. Whoever the
poor Jewish girl was, here in the prison with her, it could _not_ be
Mila. Mila was clever! Mila was still free! "She wears British uniform,"
the warder added. Then there was not a vestige of doubt. "British
uniform?" The words suddenly hit back at Elsie's face like a released
bough. "Who can that be? An English girl? No!" she said to herself. "No!
One of the paratroopers, the _schlichim_ from Palestine. Poor kid! I
hope they don't knock her about! But she's in uniform! They can't touch
her!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

That all happened on the third day. Her first interview with the
authorities took place on the fourth. There were two officers in plain
clothes at a table, one with spectacles and no hair, one with protruding
grey eyes and hair sparse and sandy. The man with spectacles sat at the
centre of the table and seemed to be the senior. At a smaller table on
one side sat a policeman in uniform, with a paper and pad before him.
Beside her stood the warder who had brought her in. On the wall behind
the officers hung portraits of Admiral Horthy and Herr Hitler.

"Your name is Lydia Radbruch?" asked the officer with the spectacles. He
removed them to examine the document on the table before him.

"No," she said.

"No?" asked the officer with the spectacles.

"No?" repeated his colleague. The sandy hair stuck close to the scalp
ran in parallel lines like the strings of a fiddle. "Then these are
false papers?"

"Yes."

"What is your name, then?"

"Marie Louise Ostier." (This is the moment, is it? The moment they raise
Brockenburg from the grave?) There was a pause, while the name was
spelled out and written down. "You are French, then?" (Do they know? Are
they playing with me like a mouse?)

"I am French."

"How is it you speak German so well?" (Are they on to it?)

"I have known many Germans during my career."

"Where were you born?"

"Bordeaux."

"In what year?"

"Nineteen hundred and five."

"And you repeat your name is Marie Louise Ostier?" (They don't know. I'm
sure they don't know.)

"Yes."

"I suggest you are lying?" said the officer with the spectacles. (What?
It _is_ the cat-and-mouse game, after all?)

"I am Jewish."

"You admit that, eh?" The question called for no reply. The man with
sandy hair licked his lips over the admission. Then suddenly a gust of
fury seized him. He turned on the policeman by her side. "Then why isn't
she wearing the Jew-star, eh? Why isn't she?"

The policeman reddened and stuttered, but there was really nothing he
could say, for the woman's liability to the Jew-star had only that very
moment been established.

The moment was resolved by the man with the spectacles, who was less
choleric.

"You'll see to it, Mr. Policeman, that the woman puts on the star?" he
demanded.

"Yes, Mr. Captain!"

"Very well," He turned to Elsie. "You talked of your career. What was
it?"

"I had lovers."

"You were a prostitute?" He made no bones about it.

She did not answer. The two officers put their heads together and
pursued certain facts on the paper before them with the point of a
pencil.

"You entered this country on the sixteenth of January?" asked the
Captain.

"Yes."

"What is your real name?"

(Was it possible they knew? Could inquiries have gone through to Germany
by this time? Could there have been time for an exchange of photographs
across the frontiers?)

"My name is Marie Louise Ostier."

"Pah!" exclaimed the man with sandy hair. That was not the exclamation
nor the demeanour of a man who knew much. "But you are Jewish?" he said.

"Yes."

"You came alone?"

"No."

"In whose company?"

"Count Apor."

"How did you come to meet Count Apor?"

"In the lounge of the Savoy-Carlton Hotel in Bratislava."

"How did you come to meet him?"

"He suggested I should take a drink with him."

"You picked him up? Then you spent the night together?"

"That is so."

"Who instructed you to try and make his acquaintance?"

"No one. I hadn't any idea who he was."

"How did you get to Bratislava?"

"I crossed the Polish frontier."

"At what point?"

"I have no idea. We went over the mountains. It was wild country. There
were no villages."

"We? Who is we?"

"The two men with whom I escaped."

"Where from?"

"The Warsaw ghetto."

"Ah, you were in the Warsaw ghetto? How did you come to be there?"

"I had been in Paris for some time, and there was a round-up."

"So. These two men with whom you escaped--what are their names?"

"I only knew them as Shmul and Jan."

"Where are they now?"

"They disappeared when we crossed the Slovakian frontier."

"Have you been engaged in espionage or sabotage since you came to this
country?" This was again the man with the sandy hair.

"No."

He banged his fist on the table.

"I say again you're a dirty Jewish whore, and you're lying."

She said nothing. There was an air of tension in the small room. She did
not see it, but she was quite certain there was a going-on under the
table, a shin kicked, or a thigh pommelled with a fist. The man with the
sandy hair had exceeded the role that had been assigned to him.

The man with the spectacles brought his hand palm downward on the papers
before him.

"That will do," he said, addressing the policeman at her side. "Take her
away." Then he turned to Elsie. "We'll see you again soon, madame."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Two days later she had her second interview. Count Apor was also present
this time. He rose to his feet as the warder brought her in, clicked his
heels, bowed, and remained standing. After a slight hesitation, the man
with the spectacles followed suit. Then some seconds later the man with
the sandy hair rose too. It obviously was very much against the grain
with him. The warder pushed a chair towards her, and she sat down. The
others followed.

Then suddenly Count Apor broke loose, as if it had been all he could
manage to preserve his self-control till now.

"I take the utmost exception to this behaviour, Captain," he exclaimed.
"You must have known this lady was under my protection!"

"We regret any discomfort that has been caused you, Count Apor!" said
the man with the spectacles. "We will prove to you we had no
alternative!" They spoke Hungarian, but she knew enough to get the gist
of the matter.

"The least you could have done was to get into touch with me
immediately. This lady is a close friend of mine. I haven't known what
to think with all this bombing. I've been haunting the hospitals; the
morgue, too. I've been wild with anxiety. I'll have to report the matter
to higher authority."

"They already are well acquainted with the situation," the man said
drily. "The woman is an enemy agent." He turned to her and repeated the
assertion in German. "Is it not true that you are an enemy agent?"

"If you have already made up your mind, Captain, there is no point in my
denying it."

"You have already admitted the name on your documents is false. You say
you are not Lydia Radbruch, a German. You assert you are a Frenchwoman.
What name did you give yourself?" He consulted his notes. "Marie Louise
Ostier. Is that right?"

"There you are, Count Apor! See?" This was the man with the sandy hair
talking. "The woman's a whore and a spy."

"You will remember who you're talking to!" demanded the Count icily.
"The matter will be conducted by your superior officer." The man
spluttered and said no more for the time being.

"You were, of course, unaware, Count," said the Captain, "that the lady
gave false information when you asked Security for a duplicate set?"

"I saw Frau Radbruch's papers in Bratislava," replied Apor frigidly. "I
had no reason to doubt their bona fides. Otherwise I would not have
approved the application for an emergency set." He turned towards Elsie.
"I regret the necessity that compelled you to lie, madame. But in the
circumstances I can well understand it. Can't you, Captain?" He turned
to the spectacles. "If madame is really a Frenchwoman, is it likely she
would put that on record?"

The Captain again made a pretence of consulting his notes. Then, with a
flourish, he brought out the further, and more serious, accusation.

"The woman also admits she is a Jew. Before her encounter with yourself
in Bratislava she was a refugee from the Warsaw ghetto."

"You said nothing of this to me, Frau Radbruch," Apor said bleakly.

"You did not ask, Count. And it did not seem relevant."

"I suggest to you, Count Apor," the Captain continued, "that everything
the woman said to you was a tissue of lies."

"There were no discussions on abstract matters," Apor said. "It is
odious to think the woman may have been Jewish. But she did what was
expected of her satisfactorily."

"It is necessary for me to inform you categorically the woman is an
enemy agent."

"No!" said Count Apor, "No!" His lips became a thin line. "I refuse to
believe it. You are suggesting that Frau Radbruch, or whatever the name
is, deliberately set out to make my acquaintance in Bratislava in order
to use me as a cover for her underground activities? I would ask you to
be extremely careful, Captain. You are accusing me of the utmost
negligence and stupidity. I refuse to be insulted in this way. If I find
that you are proceeding on a series of assumptions, irrespective of the
odium in which you must necessarily involve me, I will spare no efforts
to have you dealt with in a proper fashion. And I assure you, it will be
extremely uncomfortable for you."

"I can't stand this any more!" yelled the man with the sandy hair
suddenly. "I don't care who he is! We have our evidence, and nobody's
going to treat us this way! Nobody!"

The Captain loosened his collar from his neck. Runnels of sweat were
running down on each side of his Adam's apple.

"Lieutenant!" he barked. "You will speak when I ask you to! Or I will
continue this interview alone! Do you understand?" He turned to Count
Apor. It was becoming increasingly evident that he was finding it almost
insuperably difficult to retain his calmness. "Count Apor," he said.
"With the utmost respect, I submit to you that it is not the first time
that a clever woman has led--you must forgive me--has led an able and
distinguished man by the nose. Yes, Count, I say again! By the nose!"

"Are you going to tell me that you have actual evidence that this woman
was conducting espionage activities while I was maintaining her in the
lap of luxury?"

The Captain took a deep breath, then breathed out again slowly. "I think
it will not be difficult to convince you, Count."

"This is extremely distasteful to me. As a Hungarian and an officer,
you will understand when I say that I have become extremely attached to
Frau... permit me to go on calling her Frau Radbruch. If I have been
stupid, I will do my best to make amends, though, of course, that would
be difficult." He turned suddenly to Elsie, as if his grief had suddenly
sent his heart shuddering like a drumstick on a drum. "I beg you, Lydia,
tell me all this is a pack of lies. Tell me that, for some reason,
somebody's trying to compromise you." He clenched his fists. "I'll seek
the man out if he's ringed round with machine-guns. I... I....
Tell me, Lydia, is all this true... or not?"

"There is no reason to believe these people will listen to any denials
of mine, Count Apor," she said. "They have told you they have their
evidence. It is up to you to believe them, or not, as you choose."

"But for God's sake, Lydia, if you'd only deny it.... Is it true, or
isn't it?"

"You will excuse me if I interrupt," said the Captain. "You have your
duties, Count Apor, and I have mine, and this farce has gone on long
enough." He removed his spectacles and proceeded to shuffle through his
notes again. "There is the record here of an individual who paid a visit
to the woman's apartment on the afternoon of September the fifteenth,
pretending to be a telephone engineer. The individual is now undergoing
examination in this place. He asserts he is a British officer. He does
not deny having been dropped by parachute in Jugoslavia. One of the
smugglers who helped him cross the Hungarian frontier was one of our own
agents. The alleged British officer was kept under observation and led
us, on his arrival at Budapest, straight to this woman's apartment.
Another spy crossed the frontier with him, a young woman. She also is in
custody here. She has been very communicative."

Count Apor put his hand to his forehead. He spoke so low it was hardly
possible to hear him.

"Is this true, Lydia?"

She did not answer.

"I will continue," resumed the Captain. "You will realize this so-called
Ostier woman was, in her turn, kept under observation. Three days later,
on the eighteenth she met in the park, obviously by pre-arrangement,
another member of the spy-ring, also a young woman." (Ah, here it was.
Here was Mila. Her heart leapt forward like a hound from its kennel.)
"Radbruch, or Ostier, took the young woman for a drive round the park,
then dropped her in the Andrassy Ut. The young woman was followed to a
house in the Jozsef Utca. What has happened to the young woman and her
associates does not concern us at this moment." (He's bluffing. She's
escaped them. If he knew more, he'd say more. He's bluffing.) "I can,
however, state that a cache of small-arms and home-made hand grenades
were found under the floorboards in one of the rooms in the Jozsef
Utca." He opened a drawer, took out a pistol, and laid it on the table.
"This is one of the objects found. It is of British manufacture. Would
you care to examine it, Count Apor?"

Count Apor uttered no words for two minutes, or more. The hand was still
before his forehead. Then he spoke.

"Have you anything to say to me, Frau Radbruch? I beg you, speak!"

It was almost as if a handkerchief had been dropped, or the conductor
had raised his baton, as a signal to the soloist. She rose from her
chair, turned full on her employer, and let loose, as it had always been
understood she would, when the moment came, and the event needed it.

"Have I anything to say?" she yelled. "You're a damn fool, Count Apor!
Of course I've been making use of you, and you've been easy meat!
Hungarians, are you! You're just a bunch of German lackeys!" From word
to word, as she uttered them, she stood outside herself, listening to
herself, watching the four men in the room, wondering which syllable it
was going to be which would be pushed back into her mouth, like a gob of
spittle among teeth and blood. She was aware of Apor sitting with his
head bowed, the man with the sandy hair reduced to a pulp of incredulity
because the woman still went on, without any signal given to the
policeman by her side to bring his poised fist down on her skull. She
was aware of the Captain sitting at the table, his eyes holding the fist
suspended like the weight in a window-cord. "I hate you! You'll come to
a bad end, the whole lot of you! You wait----"

But she had been allowed to go on far enough.

"Take her out!" the Captain shouted. "To the cells!" Then, even louder,
his voice totally beyond control: "You fool! Don't touch her!"

The fist hurtled downward beside her with the clatter of a big owl's
wings. A moment later hands got hold of her and swivelled her round.

"I hope they court-martial you and shoot you, you lump!" she screamed
over her shoulder, as they pitch-forked her out of the room.

Count Apor sat sombre in his chair, like a stone image.


[III]

They took her back to her barred room, flung her in, and locked the
door. It had been an exhausting experience, and she lay flat on her back
for several hours, unmoving. She only got up when the evening meal was
brought in, for she found she was extremely hungry. She knew it might be
a matter of some importance whether the food remained the same as it had
been these last evenings, namely a chunk of bread and a bowl of soup. If
it was a chunk of bread and mug of water, it would quite likely mean
they would shoot her next day.

It was soup, not water. She was pleased, partly because she was hungry,
and partly because she was certain that the hand of Count Apor was still
extended in protection over her. She could not guess what sort of
pressure the Count was bringing to bear. Was it political? Was it sheer
bribery? Had they, between them, managed to capture the romantic
Hungarian heart by their touching enactment of a _grand amour_? Whatever
it was, it seemed probable that so long as the Hungarians remained in
control of the prison, she was reasonably safe.

And so long as the secret of her identity remained undisclosed. For it
was certain that if it somehow came out she was Brockenburg's widow, she
would be handed over forthwith to the Gestapo. It might still be found
out, but it did not seem likely, for the prison authorities had so many
things to think about now. From the way they had handled her case from
the beginning it was clear they were scared stiff, like all the
Hungarians on all levels. They could read the writing on the sky, writ
in league-long letters of fire. It was better to take things easy, while
in every direction you could hear the creaking and cracking in the
fabric of the Nazi machine.

Her sleep was deep and dreamless that night, for, above all, she had now
reason to believe that Mila had not been arrested. First, she was not in
this prison, and this seemed to be the prison for political offenders.
Further, if they had caught her, she was certain that one way or the
other her examiners would have betrayed the fact. They might even have
confronted them with each other. Next day they took her from her room on
an upper floor to a cell on the ground floor, but even that had its
advantages in a time of intensive bombing. The food and bed were
definitely inferior now, but discomforts of that sort were not
frightening to a graduate of the Warsaw ghetto who had done a brief
course in Marta's laundry and Zosha's stable. She saw at once the warder
was inclined to be friendly. For instance, within an hour he had let her
have a cigarette, a lit cigarette, which he must have drawn at his own
lips. At other times, she would doubtless have been a bit squeamish,
because he did not seem a nice, or even a clean, man, but she was
thankful now. She was certain that the apple she found on her plate one
night was a special mark of favour. Once there was a piece of cake, too.
In fact, no one in the prison knew where they were with her. It was
known that she was the mistress of the powerful Count Apor. How long
Count Apor was going to remain powerful was open to question, but it had
obviously been concluded it was a good thing, for the time being, to
show favour to the woman he adored, even though she had tricked him so
outrageously. On the other hand, she was an enemy agent. That was what
she was there for. Nobody quite knew who she was. She said she was
French, but she might turn out to be anybody or anything. She had the
looks and the breeding of a high lady. Perhaps she might turn out to be
an English lord's daughter. Some English lords had had daughters
affectionately disposed towards the German Fhrer. Others might have
daughters just as hostile to him. If she _was_ an English high-born one,
it might be not at all a bad thing to be remembered in her good books,
now that the German armies were beginning to crumble at the edges, like
an ice-floe in spring.

One day she saw not only Baruch taking exercise in the courtyard, but
Leon, too, his face almost hidden behind a mask of bruises and swollen
lips. She was aware that Leon had spotted her, from a faint lift of
eyebrow and tilt of head. But it was elementary common sense to them
both that they should not publicly acknowledge there had been any
contact between them, so long as they were unaware whether or not the
authorities connected them with each other. There were also several
prisoners in British and American officers' uniform, of whom one was a
girl. Clearly this was the girl to whom reference had been made both by
the warder and the official who had examined her. She was a slight
creature, about Mila's build, but probably a year or two older. This was
the sort of girl, that Mila already was, pledged to the sort of service
for which Mila, too, would have volunteered if by this time she had been
translated to the land she dreamed of. It was no light service,
voluntarily to abandon a land in which one still lived in safety, to
undergo the training of a paratrooper, as arduous as any in the whole
book of war, so that one might be dropped in a land occupied by
malignant hosts, where a false step might mean death by firing squad, or
in the gas chamber.

This girl was a slight creature, but she had an air of breeding and
authority, which were not mitigated by the signs of recent manhandlings,
the eye which was one large bruise, the gap where a tooth had been
knocked out. During the course of Elsie's second examination, the
Captain had said of this girl that she had been communicative. That's an
obvious lie, said Elsie to herself, seeing the Palestinian girl for the
first time that morning at exercise in the courtyard. The imbecile
wanted to shake me. The girl could no more blab than a lump of stone...
or my own Mila....

She hastily switched her mind off at an angle. She did not want to dwell
on the thought of Mila being cross-examined and having teeth knocked
out.

I wonder where this girl comes from, she asked herself, and what her
name is. I must try and find out.

They could not, there in the prison, answer the first question. But they
could answer the second. The girl's name was Hanna Senesch. In days to
come, long after she was dead, her name was to blossom like a flower,
out of the gravel of the prison yard. As already was the case with Gisi
Fleishmann, called also Miriam, of Bratislava. The odour of their names
was to be carried far and wide, over land and sea.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On the day following Elsie's first glimpse of Baruch, Leon, and Hanna
Senesch, the irrepressible Baruch somehow got himself the job of
scrubbing the floor outside Elsie's cell. It was not difficult, for
discipline in the prison was getting easier from day to day. He also got
the warder to leave the door of her cell open for a few minutes, so that
they might have a few words with each other over the scrubbing-bucket.

"_Ni, yiddene_," he muttered, "so they've got you, too. I think it was
my fault. I'm sorry."

"Who knows? May be not. Tell me. Did they get hold of... my girl...
you remember, I asked you?"

"No. I was told they got away over the roof tops. Are they treating you
all right?"

"Yes. And you?"

"Could be worse."

"Give greetings!"

"Come on, now!" the warder shouted, judging the conversation at an end.
"Keep moving! Get on with your job, you!"

"O.K.!" said Baruch. There was a tinny clatter as he pushed his bucket
away. "_Shalom!_" he whispered, winking with his good eye. "I'll meet
you for coffee at the Herzlia!" He had time to see the puzzled look on
her face. "Tel Aviv!" he explained. Then the door was shut on her.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Yes, there was no doubt the prison discipline was getting easier all the
time, as the Russians were getting closer and closer. Two or three weeks
ago they had crossed the Czechoslovak frontier. Day by day, and from
several directions, they were approaching the Hungarian frontiers. At
last, on October the ninth, they crossed them. Day by day they captured
more towns and cut through fresh swathes of territory. The rumour was
brought into the prison that the Regent was going to try to come to
terms with the Russians. In the town itself the regulations in restraint
of the Jews began to be lifted. When the High Festivals came round, the
Jews were allowed out on the streets all day so that they could go and
pray at the synagogue services. Many hundreds threw their yellow stars
away; many displayed them with pride and defiance, convinced that the
badge of shame would shortly be converted into a talisman of safety. On
the tenth the Russians swept over the Carpathians on a wide front. All
Hungary lay flat and easy before them, like a bowling green. In the
hotels, the offices, the shops, people not hitherto notorious for their
left-wing sympathies hailed each other with the sign of the raised fist.
The next day the towns of Clij and Szeged were way behind the Russian
front. The march on Budapest was beginning. A shudder of terror and
delight ran across the whole land like the wind across the tops of a
field of corn. In the prisons the warders called each other Tovarish,
and entered the cells of prisoners with one fist saluting Moscow and the
other fist crammed with matches and sweets and cigarettes.

"Your tea, _gndige Frau!_" announced Elsie Silver's warder, as he
entered her cell with a tray. He had got quite a nice tea-pot and
teacups from somewhere, probably from one of the high officials. "Some
toast, also, please!" he pointed out.

"Thank you!" she fluted. "_Mit Vergngen._" As she raised her teacup to
her lips, she crooked her little finger, like a vicar's wife at a
rectory tea-party.

And then, a couple of hours later, the warder again entered her cell,
bearing another sort of gift.

"Hi, madame," he said. "Pack up your things you've got here, will you?
The warden, he wants to see you in his room." Then he winked at her
broadly.

"What's it all about?" she wanted to ask. But she held back. It was not
likely he actually knew anything, but the wink indicated what he
thought. She passed a comb through her hair, collected what she had,
hardly more than would go into a sponge-bag, and went off after the
warder.

"Listen," the warder said, as they moved towards the stone staircase.
"I've treated you all right, haven't I?"

"Indeed."

"You'll put in a good word for me, won't you, if anything happens?"

She pounced on the moment.

"I have one or two friends here. If you can lend them a hand...."

"Which ones?" They were up the staircase now, round on the next
corridor.

"The one who was cleaning the passage, remember? And we talked a few
words. It's him and _his_ friend, really. And that girl in British
uniform."

"That girl in British uniform? Oh yes. Hanna Senesch, they call her. Her
proper name's got out. Her mother's in here too. They're keeping a sharp
eye on that Senesch girl, I can tell you. She's big stuff. The same goes
for her pal, the one you're talking about. As for _his_ pal--he don't
need helping."

"Why? What have they done to him?" Elsie asked anxiously.

The warder winked again. "Jumped through the window," he said. "Cost a
pretty penny, too. That's why they've shoved the two others out of
harm's way. It's what all the row's about."

"Thank you," she murmured. They were at the office door now.

It was not the Governor who awaited her. She had not seen the Governor,
who seemed to prefer to act through an assistant, so that if anything
was found to have been ill-done, it was the assistant who would get the
blame.

"Good morning, Madame Ostier." It was the spectacled Captain who had
conducted her examination.

Ostier? Yes, of course. Ostier.

"Good morning, Captain."

"It's been decided to transfer you to another establishment. Your bag's
there, by the wall."

"If I may ask, where is this other institution? Is it far off?"

He hesitated a moment, then decided not much harm could be done by a
civil answer.

"It's at Buda," he said. "Under the Fortress."

"It sounds a little grim," she said. "If I may ask one more question,
what is the necessity for this move?"

He looked at her through the sides of his spectacles.

"We're not in the habit of answering questions. Nor of allowing them to
be asked." Then he softened again. "It's a bit old-fashioned, but you'll
be all right."

"But why----"

"Listen, madame. You can stay if you like. It's not a regular order." An
odd phrase. What could that mean? Nothing meant anything any more.
Everything was topsy-turvy.

She looked him straight in the eyes, trying to get some clarification
out of him. He stared back, then, after a few seconds, dropped his eyes.

"Well?" she asked him at length.

"Everything's a chance," he said. "I'd take it."

"Thank you," she said. "If I come through, who knows----"

"Who knows?" he repeated. "Your bag's there. The bridges are still
passable. They dropped two good ones last night."

"Captain!"

"Yes?"

"There are one or two other people here. If this move is really a good
thing----"

His mouth shut like a clamp.

"You'd better push off, now."

"Good-bye, Captain." She knew she was lucky. It could have been a lot
worse than that.

"Good-bye." He turned to the papers on his desk.

They bundled her off into a Black Maria, and she settled herself on the
hard slatted bench against the hard side. It was quite cold. It's a bit
like being a chop inside a refrigerator, she told herself. Or being a
corpse in a hearse. It was rather a gruesome thought. She smiled to the
attendant beside her, to get the chill out of the air.

"A bit like a corpse in a hearse," she said gaily, in German. "No?"

The man answered in Hungarian.

"Hold your snout!" he barked. The orders from higher up hadn't gone down
to his level.

That's _that_, she said to herself. He just doesn't _know_, poor dear.
He doesn't know I'm Beatrice and Isolde and everything. He's probably
quite a nice husband to his little wife. A Black Maria! Me! Elsie of the
Rolls-Royces and the Isotta Fraschinis. I wonder what they'd say, all my
little Silver sisters, if they saw me trundling along in a Black Maria?
That's exactly where I thought she'd end up, they'd say, most of them.
But apparently I'm not quite finished yet. What's it all about? Why did
he want to shift me? I mean, Apor. Nothing will ever convince me Count
Apor isn't at the bottom of this. What's he up to? He smells something
in the wind. What can it be, then? I've got a bit of an idea. (There was
a resonance beneath them. They were crossing one of the bridges. They
were going over to Buda, as the Captain had said.) Apor's got wind,
somehow, the Germans are going to take over the place I've just come
from. The Germans are much more efficient at this sort of thing. Is that
it? It won't be quite such a picnic in a German-run prison.

We'll know all about it quite soon, she promised herself.

The Fortress prison was certainly more old-fashioned as the Captain had
said. The gates were very forbidding, indeed. The bell reverberated
frighteningly. The gates closed to behind the Black Maria with a
horrible clangour. The unpleasantness didn't stop short there in the
cobbled entrance. It was a military prison, with military personnel. A
couple of soldiers in a dingy office took a few particulars. One wiped
his nose on his sleeve. The other explored his ear with the point of a
pencil. Then they took her off to a cell, and forgot about her for a
good many hours. The plumbing was inferior; so was the food, when it
came at last, and it had not been very hearty in the Pest prison.

Oh dear, oh dear, she said to herself. I'm quite homesick for the other
place. A home from home, that's what it was. And one had friends up and
around.

She didn't realize till next morning that there was one really
attractive feature about her new residence, which was worth any amount
of chintz curtains and brass warming-pans. Her cell door wasn't locked.
She was free to go in and out when she liked, and talk to people, and
play hop-scotch in the prison courtyard, if she felt like it. There was
even a sort of running buffet in the prison kitchen. When one was hungry
one could at least get a chunk of bread and something out of a big
basin, a sort of thin gruel like paper-hanger's paste.

"Yes, yes, Count Apor" (she said to herself). "I'm beginning to get the
point."

In this new prison the company was rather morose. There was quite a fair
proportion of Jews, who, for the most part, had committed various
offences against the anti-Jewish laws. They had been seen out with a
Gentile girl, or been out-of-doors in the forbidden hours, or tried to
get away with not wearing the yellow star. Now and again, some miserable
Jew would be pounced on for no particular reason and taken out to the
little blind yard behind the laundry. A shot would ring out, and that
was the last of him. That was unnerving, because it was quite
capricious, it didn't make sense at all. But this was a prison, after
all, not a Holiday Hotel, even though the Russians were getting so close
you could almost feel their hot breath on your face.

A number of people in Budapest, outside the walls as well as inside,
were feeling rather like that during the tense days that now piled
themselves on each other like sacks of hot ash. Not so much the
working-classes and the soldiers, of whom some had political ideas of
their own. It was on the more prosperous levels that they remembered
glumly the communist revolution of Bela Kun that followed the First
World War. Of course, they too, wanted to be liberated from the Germans
and the Gestapo and the bombing by night and day; but they would have
preferred the liberating to come from another quarter.

Up in his suite of rooms in the Fortress that overhung the prison,
Admiral Horthy was going through exactly this mental ordeal. There was
nobody down there in the prison courtyard more morose than he. The
soldiers on guard duty brought bulletins down to the prisoners from hour
to hour. He's going to surrender. He's not going to surrender. This
afternoon. No, not this afternoon, to-morrow. The Germans are bringing
up twenty fresh divisions. Where from? Stalingrad? It's on the wireless.
It's not on the wireless. He'd rather shoot himself first.

Admiral Horthy did not shoot himself. On the morning of October the
fifteenth he made a broadcast to the nation, announcing that he was
asking the Russians for an armistice. Everybody was to remain quietly in
their homes, or go on quietly with their jobs. Nothing would happen to
anybody so long as everybody behaved themselves. Long live the Hungarian
Monarchy!

There was about as much sparkle in the Regent's voice as there was in
the voice of the British Prime Minister on the morning when this other
statesman announced the formal beginning, as opposed to the formal
ending, of a war. But it was a fine day, the sun shone, a warm wind
blew. Late flowers bloomed brightly on the lips of bomb craters. It was
Sunday, and the church-bells rang out noisily. If anything went wrong,
the bell-ringers could always maintain the bells had an ecclesiastical,
rather than a political, significance. A great number of people were in
a similar state of mind that day. The Hungarians did not like the
Germans, and though the town was thick with them, it was expected the
Germans would withdraw overnight. It was inconceivable that they would
want to fight for the city which, apart from the heights of Buda, was
quite indefensible. Besides, it was such a beautiful city, with such
splendid buildings and bridges and lovely hotels and jolly cafs and gay
gypsy bands and delightful dark-eyed women. One does not let the hot
pumice of war shower on such a city. So the Germans would go and the
Russians would come. To some that also was unpleasant. But it was all a
matter of the geopolitics of war. This happened to be the Russian area
of war-making. Soon the Jugoslavs would come rolling up from the South,
along with the British detachments there had been so much tittle-tattle
about over the coffee-cups. And after the British, the Americans....
One had so many relatives in the U.S.A.

So the sensible thing to do was to put a good face on it, that day of
the surrender. The Germans would go, the Gestapo would go, the bombing
would stop. And, as a matter of fact, the bombing _did_ stop. There was
no daylight raid, no night raid. So let's tie posies of flowers on to
the headlamps of tramcars, and the handle-bars of bicycles. Let's go
strolling out along the embankments of the Corso, and ask for a bottle
of Tokay, and see if we can get Magyary Czermak to strike up the glad
strains of "Ho, Czinka! Hi, Czinka!"

And the whole thing was done with so little trouble and excitement. The
German troops were hardly to be seen on the streets all day long. The
same was true of the Arrow Cross boys. It was obvious that the Regent
had anticipated that there might be a little fracas here and there, for
he had his patrols out in the streets. But the odd thing was that the
patrols consisted exclusively of officers. You would see a colonel
commanding a captain and two or three lieutenants, all with
sub-machine-guns held at the ready. Perhaps he was afraid to send the
ordinary soldiers out, for fear they set up a little Soviet of their
own, to welcome the advancing Russians. All in all, these Horthy patrols
only added to the gaiety of the occasion.

The intellectuals and working-men of Budapest, who preferred the
doctrines of the Kremlin to the doctrines of the Var, were in especially
good temper. So, of course, were the Jews. There was a light in the
Jews' eyes, and a song on their lips. There was also a curious air of
I-told-you-so in their demeanour. They had known that something was
going to save them at the last moment. "Treblinka and Ausschwitz can't
possibly happen here," they had said from the very beginning. The sombre
death-trains were, of course, still piled up in the sidings, but they
would rust there. So yellow cloth stars were ripped off clothing, and
yellow stars on paper placards torn down from over the main entrances of
the Jewish houses. Old folk stuck out their chests like youngsters and
paraded the streets with an incredulous joy in their eyes. The Jewish
lads working in the town's labour-battalions simply dropped their picks
and shovels and went back crowing to their families. Here and there, in
certain house-blocks, one or two sour faces uttered a word of warning.
The Germans aren't finished yet, they said. The Arrow Cross is stronger
than it's ever been before. There's going to be trouble. There'll be
attacks on Jewish houses. Let's get arms together, while the going's
good--buy them, borrow them, steal them. Let's keep a day and a night
guard. There's going to be trouble. But nobody took the least notice of
them. It was surrender. It was armistice. It was peace. Now and again,
from some front far-off, the wind brought the muffled boom of
shell-fire. But the fighting would not concern them any more, Jews or
Gentiles. The river of war would roll on towards Prague, Vienna, Berlin,
leaving Budapest high and dry like the Margaret Island, with tables out
on the pavements, and gypsy bands plunking away under the vine
trellises. And you'd soon be leaving these hideously cramped Jewish
homes, where you were herded twenty in a room with Polish Jews and
Roumanian Jews and all sorts of foreign riff-raff; and you'd have your
own nice, airy apartment given back to you, with compensation. And you'd
go back where you started, the baker to his oven, the accountant to his
ledgers. The Lord does not desert his own. Probably those Treblinka and
Ausschwitz figures were just a _little_ bit exaggerated. You know what
people are like when they get excited.

But it did not turn out that way.

                 *        *        *        *        *

There were great goings-on that day in the Fortress prison, too, not so
much among the regular criminals, who hardly expected these new
developments to affect their situation, as among the political and
racial prisoners. The Communist prisoners were very cock-a-hoop. They
immediately got together and appointed a sort of Soviet, which sent a
deputation to the Governor demanding instant liberation. The Governor
was polite, but pointed out that the offer to surrender had not yet been
accepted by the Russians, and it would only lead to confusion if action
was taken too precipitately.

The Jews were hardly less jubilant. The warders behaved as if butter
wouldn't melt in their mouths. All gave the Moscow salute, because there
was no equivalent, in manual gesture, of the five-pointed Star of David.
Suddenly a radio appeared in the cell of one, Sandor Otthon, a rich
Jewish grain-merchant, who had been arrested for contumaciously refusing
to give up his little Gentile sweetheart, a blonde little "bundle" from
Szolnok. It is possible he had had his radio hidden in his blankets for
some time, for he was still in a position to have useful little presents
circulated this way and that. At all events, it was only a few minutes
after Admiral Horthy's announcement on the radio that Otthon was out in
the courtyard announcing the news of the surrender to all and sundry. As
a Jew, of course, he was immensely relieved. As a business-man he was
rather apprehensive. "The Russians won't touch my flour mills, will
they? They couldn't do that, could they? I built them up myself. I came
to Budapest from Jasry with four _fillrs_ in my pocket. Just four." He
held up four fingers to emphasize the point. "What do you think?" No one
having any clear views on the matter, he went to discuss it with the
Governor, and to suggest that he be allowed to leave the prison
forthwith to give the matter of his flour mills his immediate attention.
The Governor was not helpful. The Russians had armies, the Jews had not.

In the meantime, the radio was carried out into the courtyard for the
general enlightenment and entertainment of the prisoners. The political
and racial prisoners gathered round it with beaming faces, not so much
because of the news they heard--there was singularly little comment on
the Regent's proclamation--as because it was so wonderful to be
listening to a radio at all, as if they were ordinary citizens in their
own homes. Which they would be quite soon, of course. The criminals had
rather more freedom that day than they were used to. But they were
rather snobbish, and preferred to keep themselves to themselves.
Messages kept on coming in all day, brought in by warders off duty, or
motor-drivers, or laundresses. There was nothing actually confirmed on
the wireless, but the most sensational news was flying around. The
Regent had committed suicide. Ferenc Szlasy, the Fhrer of the Arrow
Cross, had taken over, and been shot. Hitler had ordered a great
convergence of his armies to push the Russians back from Budapest. There
had been still another conspiracy against Hitler, and this time they had
got him. At the same time, a couple of bottles of _slivovitz_ had turned
up from somewhere. It did not go a long way, because the first people to
get their hands on the bottles had hogged a cupful each, and lay in a
stupor in a corner. But a couple of baskets of white rolls, and a yard
or two of sausage, had been brought in. Those who were on hand were
lucky. The others thought of the white rolls and the sausages they would
eat next day, or the day after.

Everybody went to bed as happy as sand-boys. And there was no air-raid,
either.

I don't suppose Apor will turn up personally to get me out, Elsie Silver
said to herself, as she lay back musing happily on her bed, watching the
smoke-rings curl up into the air. That's not the Count's way. I wonder
whom he'll send for me? That little pansy friend of his in the Army, who
showed me round the city when I first came? No, I don't think so. It's
the Russians, after all, to whom the old Admiral has surrendered. Little
Vilmost will be lying on his bed-spread, biting pillows, kicking and
screaming. Wouldn't it be wonderful if my Mila were waiting on the other
side of those horrible gates? Wouldn't it be wonderful? Oh no. It would
be too good to be true.

Too good to be true....


[IV]

But it was not easy to get to sleep that night. There was some sort of
military action going on in the immediate neighbourhood, up there in the
Var. It sounded as if big guns and tanks were involved, but that was
probably because it was so close. It was impossible to tell what was
going on, but it was very likely some castle intrigue, one of the
factions trying to get in first with the new set-up. The action died
down, and some of the prisoners fell asleep at last. But most remained
awake. They were restless. It was as if there were electric needles in
the harsh blankets they lay on.

So at length they rose, and, finding that the cell doors remained
unlocked, they went out into the corridors, and walked up and down,
talking to each other. Then they got down and squatted on their
haunches. Mr. Sandor Otthon had his radio out, and it was quite cheerful
with all those American dance records blaring away. You could not help
keeping time with your foot on the stone pavement, or your finger
wagging in the air. Mr. Otthon himself was looking doubtful, as if he
felt there ought to be some little fee paid over to him on the side.
Elsie Silver sat alone, her eyes shut, her face lifted in the wan
electric glare, trying to convince herself, perhaps, that that was
sunlight. She felt herself a bit of a new girl, and didn't feel like
speaking unless she was spoken to. It was pleasant listening to that
music. She thought it was something out of one of the pre-war Irving
Berlin musicals, which she had had in Berlin on a record. It was "Jew"
music, of course, and for that reason it had not officially existed. But
the best people always had the "Jew" records, just as they had coffee,
or bananas.

Then, suddenly, in the middle of a bar, the dance music stopped. It
might have been a failure of the set, or a technical breakdown at the
radio station. Yet it was too abrupt for that. The silence which
followed now, and lasted for about one minute, was not really a silence.
If you were close to the set, you could make out a hurried whisper,
someone clearing his throat, the reverberation of a stamped heel. But
even if you were some distance away, you knew that something had
happened. That silence, that suspension rather, was as frightening as
any words that might follow. There had been several such radio
suspensions in recent years in the history of European countries, and
most of them had been ominous in the extreme. The groups and couples
strolling in the corridor stopped and looked towards the little box. The
warders that had been lounging around, propping up the walls, stiffened
suddenly. Elsie Silver remained inert. Only her head moved a fraction of
an inch towards the instrument.

Then there was a loud click. A voice took command of the ether, sharp,
decisive.

"_Attention! Attention all Hungarians! The Regent, Admiral Horthy, has
requested Mr. Ferenc Szlasy to take over his duties. The offer of an
armistice has been withdrawn. We fight on till victory crowns our arms
over the Red Murderers! Long Live the Hungarian Monarchy! Heil Hitler!_"

The address ceased. Again there was silence for some moments, the uneasy
silence of the live, unfed microphone, then there was the unmistakable
hiss of a needle set in the grooves of a gramophone record. Then
suddenly, the volume at its maximum, the _Horstwessellied_ battered the
air. The Jewish prisoners shivered though no wind entered from any open
window. Those who had been walking about in small groups turned their
backs on each other, and desultorily walked away. Each felt he could not
bear his companion's eyes. They were aware of a curious shame, as if
they had been found out in some contemptible foolishness, the
foolishness of feeling that things, after all, could go well for them,
being Jews. It was not so with the Communists. They remained together,
for the most part, discussing this latest development in undertones.
They did not take things personally, as the Jews did. It was a game, a
conspiracy, on a vast planetary scale. They had thought they were one
move ahead. They realized they were not. They were several moves behind.
They would very likely be shot now by the Fascist hyenas. There were
others, in the secret cells of fields and factories who would sit down
to the chessboard and plan the later moves that would lead to the
Socialist triumph. Then the Communists, too, separated, and went off, a
little more purposefully, for the habit of keeping apart so that they
did not compromise each other, quickly re-established itself. Elsie
Silver rose from where she squatted against the wall. They all went back
to their cells.

"Get along there! Move on!" roared the warders, thrusting with their
shoulders and pommelling with their fists. They were pretending to
themselves and the prisoners and the Governor and Szlasy, the new head
of the government, that this was the end of a normal recreation period,
and that at most a minute late the prisoners were being shoved back
where they belonged. "At the double, Jew-swine!" they roared. With heavy
feet, the Jews dragged themselves back to their cells again. Those who
remembered the sound of heavy fighting close by now realized that it
must have been the Regent himself in his castle that Szlasy had been
attacking. Perhaps at this moment the Regent, like Dolfuss on an earlier
occasion, lay weltering in his own blood. Perhaps he was high in ether
at this moment, being flown to some residence designated by the German
Fhrer, an involuntary guest. It was all one to them.

As for the rich Jewish miller, Mr. Sandor Otthon, he saw the chutes and
stacks of his flour mills fade against a shimmer of blood, like the palm
trees of an oasis against the desert haze.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was an hour or so later. Elsie sat on her bed, and pondered. She had
heard the warder with his clanging bunch of keys come heavy-footed up
the corridor to her cell and lock her in. That was some minutes ago.

What was to happen now? That depended, so far as she could see, on two
things. One was the present situation of Count Apor. Had they got wise
to him yet? There was no particular reason why anybody should get wise
to him now, any more than at any time during the last few years. On
general grounds, if there had been no dreadful accident, he should be
riding high with Szlasy and the rest of the gang. He might even have
the audacity to demand the immediate release of the woman who had stolen
his heart away.

But it would be really crazy, wouldn't it, to ask the Szlasy gang to
release an enemy agent, who was also a Jew-sow? Wouldn't that be the
same thing as making a noose and asking them to hang him up in it?
Besides, would the Szlasy boys be their own masters to any degree at
all? From now on, the Germans pulled the strings, and they were no
romantics.

There was another element in the situation. She was sure that the
invisible arm of Apor had been operating to save her all this time, from
the moment of her arrest. It had operated to make things easier for her
in both prisons, and to have her transferred, for some reason known to
himself, from one prison to the other. But the situation was developing
now, from hour to hour, in unforeseeable directions. How far could the
warrant of Apor be expected to extend now? Anything could happen now, at
any moment, anything at all.

Well, she would not moan and bang her head against the wall. If anything
ugly was to happen, it would be soon over. She had a confidence, outside
all common sense, that Mila was alive somewhere, and Mila would weather
the storm. Bless the girl! Did she want to go to Palestine? She would
go, sooner or later, to Palestine. She was clever and she was lucky.

Then the key turned in the door. It was the warder again. He had come up
much more silently than last time. She had not heard him. He opened the
door and locked it.

That answers one or two questions, Elsie Silver said to herself.


[V]

The warder--Peterdy, his name was--brought her a good deal of news
during the next day or two, and there was a good deal to bring;
excepting for the renewed air-raids, which announced themselves. What he
told her chiefly related to the Jews. He did not treat her as a Jew
herself. First, she was French, perhaps even American, which made things
easier. Then she was the girl-friend of the famous Jew-baiter, Pali
Apor, so it was probably all a joke that she was Jewish.

As far as she could gather there was hardly a faint spurt of the Warsaw
spirit, here among the Budapest Jews. The rot had eaten in too far;
things had been too easy for too long. On the morning of the Szlasy
proclamation, the S.S. took things in hand, for they knew how to handle
Jews. The Arrow Cross boys insisted on tagging on to them, but many of
them were teenagers carrying museum-piece rifles. They did not get
properly organized for several days. So the S.S. men in the foreground
and the Arrow Cross boys in the rear went roaring round the town,
putting the Jews where they belonged. A number of Jews were shot out of
hand for appearing in the streets without their yellow stars. They
happened to include a few impeccable Gentiles of a slightly swarthy
appearance, such as are not uncommon in those regions, but that was bad
luck. Back went the yellow star on clothing and over the entrances into
the Jewish houses. Back went the firemen and the mechanics to the death
trains in the sidings. They would be getting up steam soon enough. In
the meantime, permanent imprisonment in the Jewish houses was decreed.
It was decided to get on with the job of building a wall round the
central Jewish area on the Polish pattern. There was not enough material
or labour for a brick wall, so it would have to be a wooden one. But a
wooden wall was better than none at all.


[VI]

The atmosphere in the Fortress prison during the next three days, as in
every similar institution in Budapest, military and civil, was gloomy in
the extreme. It was as if the personnel were violently trying to make up
for whatever grace they had lost during the brief spell of amiability
that followed the Regent's proclamation. The food, where it was dished
out at all, was shocking. The behaviour of the warders was odious. With
a terrifying frequency, the shots rang out in the blind yard beyond the
laundry. There was a sort of inverted kindness in that black programme.
If the misery was to last for long, it was far more attractive to die
quickly than to live.

It was on the morning of the fourth day that the climax came, at about
ten o'clock. The prisoners should have been out taking exercise in the
prison-yard, but that indulgence had been remitted during these last
three days. So Elsie Silver was in her cell when the hubbub spread like
the smell of a fire. First there was shouting and the thump of feet,
then the noise of cell doors being unlocked and thrown open. Then there
were orders given, and voices raised, in protest, and shock, and fear.

Then the key turned in the lock of her own door. It was Peterdy, the
warder who until so lately had treated her with some kindness. There
were two other warders with him, and a sergeant, as well as three
prisoners who had been picked up along the corridor.

"Come on! Out you get!" yelled the sergeant. He had a list in his hand.
"Yes, you! Ostier, as you call yourself!"

"Out, you sow!" screamed Peterdy. He was a transformed man.

"Can I----" Elsie asked, looking round the cell towards the two or three
small personal things she had with her.

"No, Jew-bitch!" yelled another warder. "Just as you are!"

"You won't need nothing where you're going to!" added Peterdy. It was
odd how totally transformed he was. The sally was followed by a roar of
laughter.

"Very well!" her lips went. She looked pale, and very beautiful, as she
walked out through the doorway. Peterdy's hand was lifted to clout her
across the face as she passed by, as a sort of expiation for the
contemptible weakening he had lately been guilty of. But the hand
wavered and fell. It was as if such beauty carried around it a
protective zone of air, from which wickedness fell away like a shot
crow.

The group continued round the corner, while several more cells were
unlocked and the prisoners ordered out. Out in the front court, a parade
of prisoners was assembled, some forty or fifty, mainly men. They were
mainly Jews, too, as if the people who had been charged with selecting
them had decided that to choose Jews for such a party as this seemed
likely to be would be most satisfactory all round.

"Get along there, you lot!" Elsie and her group were told. They were
pushed towards the end of the line near the huge entrance-gates. A few
yards away from them, a group of two civilians and four men in uniform
were conferring, though it was hardly correct to call it a conference.
The men in uniform were quite clearly dictating the course of events, if
only by force of the pistols that each man had at his belt, and the Sten
guns with which two jackbooted youths in the arch of the prison-entrance
were covering the whole proceedings. The two civilians were the prison
Governor, hatless, extremely ill at ease, and his Secretary, a small man
with a small pointed beard and extremely frightened eyes. The Secretary
had a ledger in one hand, and a pencil in the other, to mark down the
names of the chosen prisoners as they were brought into the courtyard.
The four men in uniform were one German officer in the S.S., typically
crop-headed and bull-necked, very matter-of-fact, for there was nothing
new to him in all this, and three officers of Arrow Cross formations,
much younger than the Germans, full of fun and swagger, enjoying it all
like a picnic, having the time of their lives. The S.S. man had a roll
of names in his hand.

"Yes?" shouted the S.S. man, as the group with Elsie took up its place.
"Names!" The names were called out and were checked, both on the list
and on the ledger. Another small group was brought in from a further
block, and their names checked. Then:

"Halt!" cried the S.S. officer. He turned to the Governor. "That will
do!" he said. "That's as many as we've room for!"

"I insist on one thing," demanded the Governor. In the sharp clear air
the voices were audible to everyone. "I insist on all your signatures!
Most irregular!" he complained. "All most irregular!"

"Very well!" growled the German, feeling for a pen. "Come on, you! Give
me that ledger!"

"Yes, yes," piped the Secretary. "Here sir. Here it is!"

The German wrote his name on the page, then handed ledger and pen over
to his colleagues.

"Put yours down, too!" he exclaimed. "Seeing he wants it!" The three
Arrow Cross names were duly inscribed, and the ledger handed back to the
Secretary.

"Thank you," the Secretary murmured. There was real pleasure in his
voice and eyes. Everything was regular now, almost regular. There were
signatures.

There was a pause for a brief moment, as if everyone there needed to
fill his lungs with breath, everyone but the S.S. man, who seemed to
function upon other than normal principles. There was a shuffle of
scuffling feet some yards away, as an old man, his cheeks grey as
cobwebs, sagged towards his boots. Everyone turned.

"Hold up that Jew!" yelled the S.S. man. The prisoners on both sides of
him raised him, and held him more or less erect between them.

Everyone turned, excepting Elsie. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of
one of the three Arrow Cross young men, a broad-shouldered youngster,
with a chin firmer than his fellows had. But it was a small white scar
above his left cheek-bone which riveted her attention, a scar of nicked
flesh. It looked startlingly white set in those ruddy cheeks; and, as if
the young man had become subconsciously aware that it was serving to
identify him, he raised his fingers with an almost hypnotic action to
his cheek to bring the blood into the white skin.

"Dear, dear Leon!" she said to herself. "And all the rest of you! And
that means Count Apor, too!" She realized now why he had been at such
pains, for it must have been he, to get her moved from the Pest prison
to the Fortress prison at Buda. The Pest prison must have been taken
over by the Germans straight away, and it would have been infinitely
more difficult to hoodwink the Germans there with a ruse like this,
straight out of melodrama. As for the Fortress prison, Apor must have
calculated that it might be days, even weeks, before the Germans
ventured to eject the Hungarians from the stronghold of their
traditions.

Then she became aware that the little woman beside her was in dire
straits. How pale she was under that jet-black hair! Her nose was as
white as chalk. Elsie reached her hand for the younger woman's hand, and
squeezed it. Perhaps she would get a little comfort out of that. "Hold
on, you poor dear!" she whispered under her breath.

The S.S. man was at them. He was screaming like a ship's siren.

"Now listen, Bolshevik Jew-scum!" he yelled. "You're going for a drive,
all of you! We've asked for special permission to give you a picnic!
There's a couple of lorries out there, in front! Left turn! Quick march!
If I get so much as a single squeak out of any of you, I'll shoot you
down like a row of rats!"

"Is this the Count's last will and testament?" Elsie was asking herself.
"Will I ever find out? Was I ever frightened, from the moment they
turned the key in the lock? Didn't I feel there was just a touch of
_ham_ in the performance? Is this imitation S.S. man overdoing it a
bit?"

"Like a row of rats!" repeated the S.S. man, making sure the point had
been taken. "Shot while trying to escape! Did you hear what I said, you
lumps of filth? Left turn, I said! Quick march!" His voice rose to a
shrill scream. The hand flickered towards the pistol. He stood there, as
the file turned and shuffled off towards the gates, his eyes protruding
like balls of grey glass. The Arrow Cross lads looked on, and tittered,
and giggled. The dreadful gates pulled back. Two large German lorries,
marked with neat swastikas, stood waiting there on the cobbled roadway,
their engines running.

"Pile in there! Pile in!" yelled the Hungarians, prodding the prisoners
with the butts of their weapons.

"Clout them!" roared the German. "Smash their brain-pans!"

The loading operation was performed with immense dispatch, as if it were
urgently important to slaughter this particular cargo of Bolshevik
Jew-scum five minutes earlier, rather than five minutes later. By
Elsie's side a woman slumped to the ground between the wheels. The hair
was jet-black, and the little bitten-off nose was as white as chalk. It
was the little woman whose hand she had comforted in the yard.

She bent down, and lifted her. It would be sad beyond words if the
little woman were left behind, to be picked up and thrown on the
dust-heap like prison garbage.

"Here you! Give me a hand!" she said to the man beside her. Between them
the woman was lifted safe into the lorry.

"It's all right," the woman was saying. "I can manage." She was game
right enough, but she was trembling, like a freezing kitten. "Don't
worry!" Elsie murmured. "Perhaps it will be all right!"

Everybody had now been shoved into the lorries. The gears moved from
neutral, the lorries leapt forward like released bulls. The engines
roared, the brakes squealed, as they tore along the narrow streets, down
steep hills, round sharp corners, till they came out on the broad
esplanade of the Margit Rakpart, and so across the great Lancziid bridge
into the broad streets of Pest. It was not till then that the Fascists
suddenly gave tongue, where they sat nursing their guns among their
passengers, some of whom were trembling like leaves and whimpering, some
stone-still and staring-eyed. It was a song of the _chalutzim_ that came
crashing from their lips, a song of the Hebrew pioneers of Palestine.

    _Im ain ani li mi li..._
    _If I am not for myself,_
    _Who will be for me, and being for my own self,_
    _What am I, and if not now, when?_

The passengers behaved in oddly different ways. Some took no notice at
all, as if it obviously was not happening; and if it _was_ happening,
then they were all dead; it was happening in the next world in fact, and
they hadn't shaken down to it yet. Others, realizing, with an inner
noise like a thunder-clap, that everybody had been fooled, switched over
from dreadful fear to violent anger, and started beating the
pseudo-Fascists with their fists; then, coming to themselves, burst into
tears and hurled themselves ecstatically upon the cheeks of their
captors, and at length joined in the chorus, if they were familiar with
it.

As for Elsie Silver, she sat there quiet, one thought only in her mind.
Leon was sitting almost opposite her, letting go with all his lungs. She
was certain, quite certain, he had recognized her, as she had recognized
him, but for some reason he refrained from showing the least awareness
of her existence, not even with the flicker of an eyelid.

"Why is this?" she asked herself. "What is he afraid of? Doesn't he
_want_ to recognize me?" The pang of fear that was eternally present,
and from time to time came back to plague her, sprang in her heart.
"He's found out! He knows I was a woman of one of the big Nazis! He
won't even soil his eyes by looking at me!" But on second thoughts, she
was convinced that that was idiocy. How could he possibly have come upon
a secret buried in Warsaw, under such masses of burned flesh and bombed
concrete? What could it be, then? Another explanation occurred to her.
It was tied up with her work for Count Apor. The Count was still on the
Hungarian scene. They had not got wise to him even yet. There might be a
part for Count Apor to play, under the Szlasy dispensation, more
grandiose, and more terrifying, than any he had played yet. And if he
was still on the scene, it was essential that he should not be
compromised, even among people like her fellow-passengers, by any sign
of recognition passing between his ex-mistress and a lusty young leader
in the Jewish Underground.

Yes, perhaps that was it. Then, suddenly, she became aware that she was
looking full into his eyes, and that she held them fast in the sockets,
as if she had glued them there. Then she was aware of her own lips
moving, forming two syllables. They omitted no sound, and it would have
been impossible to hear it, if they had.

"Mi-la?" her lips went.

There was a delay for a fraction of a moment. Then he raised his hands
in the gesture of one saying: "I don't know." The hands were confirmed
by a shrug of the shoulders. He did not know. She inclined her head
minutely to acknowledge his kindness. He did not know. The search must
begin. The _chalutz_ song was still blaring from Leon's lips.

Then: "Silence!" yelled the man at the wheel. The song had gone on long
enough. Perhaps some pedestrian had recognized the melody, and shown his
astonishment on hearing a Hebrew ballad pour from the bowels of a Nazi
lorry? But the astonishment would not have lasted, surely, if the same
pedestrian had perceived that the Nazi lorry was crammed with Jews. What
were they there for if it was not intended to shoot them out of hand in
some schoolyard or cemetery within the next half-hour? (For there had
been several such beanfeasts in the city during the last two or three
days.) And if they were on their way to the slaughter was it not likely
they would sing just such a song?

But the driver had something else on his mind.

"The passes!" he called out. "We're nearly there!"

"_Tov, chaver!_" responded Leon, in Hebrew. "O.K. comrade!" There was a
brief-case under his feet, and he lifted it on to his lap. "Pass these
along!" he said. "They're Swiss passes, most of them. Some are genuine,"
he added with a grin. "Take one, everybody! They'll do to be going on
with!" They had reached the Stahly Utca, a street with a number of
houses marked with a Jewish star, and drew up at one in the centre. The
second truck drew up behind them. "Get out, all of you! Scatter! They're
expecting you! _Shalom!_"

"_Shalom!_" repeated the reprieved Jews, as they tumbled out of the two
lorries, the younger ones helping the older. "_Shalom!_"

"Let me!" said Elsie to the little woman with jet-black hair and the
odd, little, blunted nose. The woman smiled, showing good teeth. The
colour was back in her cheeks again, and even on the tip of her nose, so
that her hair did not look so shining black as before.

"I'm all right now," she explained, as she jumped down. "Come!" It was
she who had Elsie's hand in hers. They ran, hand-in-hand, up the stairs
into the courtyard beyond. Within two minutes they had all disappeared
into the houses, and the cellars beneath, and the network of passages
beyond the cellars. They were safe--if it could be called safety to be
Jews, and to live at that time in that city. From the hooters scattered
among the districts the air-raid sirens gave tongue. High on the Var two
flags fluttered side by side, the red, white, and green of the Hungarian
monarchy, with the crown cresting the royal arms upon the middle band,
and another red, white and green flag, this one with the middle band
marked by the arrowed cross. It was satisfactory to know that everything
was for the most legal in the most legal of all possible worlds.




CHAPTER IX


[I]

A hole had been knocked into the thick wall between one cellar and the
next, and been filled up with a thin wall one brick in depth. This, too,
had been laid flat recently, to allow free passage between the cellars.

"We'll go on, yes?" panted the little woman.

"We'll go on," said Elsie. There did not seem much point in staying or
going on. "Let me just catch my breath."

"Phew!" the little woman said. "Are you quite sure?"

"Sure what?"

"Whether we're dead or alive?"

Elsie smiled. If somebody else could take all this with a smile, so
could she.

"Alive, I suppose. For a time, anyhow."

They had their breath again. They moved towards the next cellar.

"Close this time, wasn't it?" said the little woman. She talked as if
hair-breadth escapes were a regular routine with her. "The _devils!_
They quite took me in!"

"Yes," agreed Elsie.

The woman suddenly changed the subject.

"This _is_ the Stahly Utca," she said. "Did you see?"

"I'm a stranger in Budapest," observed Elsie.

"Polish?"

"For a time."

"Excuse me!" This was to a couple of men who were pushing in from the
cellar beyond. "That's my foot." There was a good deal of pushing both
ways, though it did not seem likely that one cellar was much safer than
the other. "Anybody would think they'd never been in an air-raid
before."

They were in the passage beyond now. Candles glowed in the cellar it led
to.

"There's always something new in every air-raid," murmured Elsie.

The little woman suddenly stopped.

"You must think I was an awful baby," she said.

"Why?"

"Making an exhibition of myself like that." She obviously meant when she
slumped outside the prison gates. They were in the further cellar now.
The place was crowded with people and bedding and cooking utensils and
anything at all. "Many of them don't go upstairs at all now," she
explained.

"I didn't think you a baby," Elsie said. "It _was_ a bit upsetting."

The woman shrugged her shoulders.

"We prefer not to carry on like that," she said primly. Who is "we"?
Elsie asked herself. It was perhaps better not to ask. "I'm feeling all
right now," the woman went on. She banged her chest with her fist.
"See?" She was a bantam of a little woman. "What's your name?" she
asked. "Unless you'd rather not tell me."

"Why not?" said Elsie. "I'm Channah."

"Do you know many people in Budapest? Maybe I can help you? I'm
Kevehazi, Margit. Better say Margit."

"Thank you, Margit. The only person I know's just a young girl from
Warsaw. A great friend. I must find her.

"You never know these days. She may be in this cellar. Oh, Sandor!" She
had spotted a young man trying to get a flame out of the choked jets of
a primus stove.

"Katya!" said the young man. (People had different names according to
the world they were for the moment inhabiting.) "So they let you go?"

She turned, smiling, to Elsie.

"I'm Katya, too," she explained. "Yes, they let me out. There came an
order from Winston Churchill. Auntie! Auntie!" This time it was an old
woman she had spotted, just beyond Sandor. She had had her back turned
away while untying the cord on a rolled mattress. "Still young and
beautiful, auntie!" She threw her arms round the old woman and kissed
her warmly.

"So they didn't finish you off this time?" said the old woman. "They
will next time. Who's this?" (She meant Elsie.) "Another of your lot?"

"Maybe," said Margit shortly. "Ah, that's better!" The primus was going
now. "A cup of tea, yes, Channah?"

Suddenly Elsie was aware her throat was so unspeakably in need of a cup
of tea, she couldn't even say: yes, thank you.

Thank you, her head nodded.

"Next week with Pravchenko!" muttered the young man. The primus was
threatening to go out again, and he was thrusting away fiercely with the
plunger.

"Pravchenko?" Elsie said to herself. "Pravchenko?" She had heard the
name somewhere.

"Maybe?" said Margit. She looked quickly at Elsie, and looked quickly
away again. "You won't tell them what a fool I made of myself up there,
will you?"

"No," promised Elsie. "I won't."

"There'd be a scandal. They'd tell all the friends and relatives. They'd
say I was going to have a baby. You know what people are like in
Budapest, don't you?"

"I can guess," Elsie murmured. _Pravchenko._ Where had she heard the
name?

"Sit down everybody already," said the old woman. "You make me tired,
talk, talk, talk!"

They sat down. The cup of tea was ready after a time. It was one of the
best cups of tea there had ever been. It was good to have friends, when
you didn't even have a toothbrush in all the world. _Pravchenko?_ Who on
earth could Pravchenko be?

Then it came to her.

It was an evening in the First Aid Post in the cellars of the Warsaw
ghetto, and a badly wounded Russian agent had been brought in. While she
was tending his wounds, he demanded that Raven be brought in, the young
Russian girl who played so gallant a part in the ghetto uprising. He had
proceeded to give the girl news of events in Russia, and news of her own
folk, speaking in Russian, a language Elsie did not understand. It was
during this account that Elsie had first heard the name, _Pravchenko_,
closely coupled with the name, Boris Polednik. At the moment, the name,
Pravchenko, meant nothing to her, but the name, Boris Polednik, meant a
great deal, for it was the name of a man who, many years ago, had
married her own sister, Susan. Then, comparing the image of Susan in her
mind, with the image before her of Raven in the flesh, the hair, the
nose, the eyes, the lanky frame, she perceived the girl was her own
niece, the daughter of Polednik and Susan. During the next day or two,
Elsie had learned more. She learned that the name Boris Polednik had
been closely coupled with the name of Pravchenko, for they were one and
the same person. He was a soldier of extraordinary strategic
intelligence, and if there was one man to whom the arrest of the enemy's
onslaught on the Caucasus had been due, it was this same Pravchenko, her
brother-in-law, Polednik.

It was over a year and a half ago that, down in the Warsaw cellars,
Elsie had heard the name, Pravchenko, so far as she knew, for the first
and only time. And now, down in the cellars of Budapest, she heard the
name again. The cellars of Warsaw, the cellars of Budapest--those had
been the two poles between which her life had swung.

"_Next week with Pravchenko_," the young man had muttered, over the
hissing jets of his primus stove. It was clear that Pravchenko-Polednik
was the General in charge of the armies now sweeping towards Budapest.
_Bang-Crash!_ That was one of Polednik's bombs that had fallen, maybe a
hundred yards away, and the whole block had trembled to its foundations.

She smiled. They were a notable lot, these Silver girls. They married
the most entertaining men.

"Why do you smile, Channah?" Margit was very much herself again. She had
eyes like a hawk.

"Because the world's a small place," said Elsie, "and because this tea
is so good."


[II]

It was not next week, nor even next month that General Pravchenko had a
dish of tea in Budapest. The Germans turned and bit fiercely. On the
whole, the Russians were beyond their reach. So they fastened their
teeth on the Jews, and chewed their flesh and ground their bones into
powder.

Pravchenko had moved fast, and cut off the railroad to Germany. But he
could not for some time swing his armies round to the south-west, while
the Germans retained the railway stations in Pest, and the heights of
Buda; so the Budapest-Vienna road remained open for many tragic weeks.
There were other things to do, for the time being, with the rolling
stock accumulated in the yards, and the order was given that the
pedestrian march to the crematorium, which had already emptied most of
the Hungarian countryside of its Jews, should now drain off the
capital's Jews from the houses in which they were herded.

The Arrow Cross, under the general supervision of the S.S., put their
shoulders to the wheel. For a week or more, they worked themselves to
the bone, emptying one Jewish house after another, and driving their
inhabitants to the assembly points from which the great trek began. They
took no notice whatsoever of the _Schutzpasse_, the passes which gave
their holders the protection of the Vatican, and of the governments of
Sweden and Switzerland. A Jew? Off you go.

The purge was on the highest, as well as the lowest, levels, political
as well as racial. The immediate stimulus to the top-level purge
occurred only a day after the Szlasy putsch, when General Miklos, the
Hungarian Commander-in-Chief, deserted to the Russian forces. All troops
were at once confined to barracks. All officers and political leaders
who were in any way suspect, whether because they had at any time been
heard to utter liberal sentiments or because the taint of Jewish blood
was traceable in their veins, were arrested, however distinguished their
families and valuable their services. A number of the most eminent were
at once dispatched to Sopronkhida, a village on the Austro-Hungarian
frontier, court-martialled, and shot. This was the fate even of the
envenomed anti-Semite, Count Pali Apor, who (it was suddenly remembered)
had had a Jewish mother.

"That's no loss, anyhow," said Margit to Elsie Silver, as the news was
announced on the radio furtively stuffed under a heap of sacks.

"What's no loss?" asked Elsie. There had been an enumeration of names,
and they had had no meaning for her, so she had gone on again with the
effort to wash her hair in half-an-inch of water at the bottom of a
rusty basin.

"They've shot Count Apor," Margit explained. "You wouldn't know about
him. He was about the most virulent of the lot. A mad dog. They say he
had a Jewish mother. Those are the worst sometimes."

"No," said Elsie, "I wouldn't know about him," and went on washing her
hair.

It was a queer business, waiting in a "Jewish House," as they called it,
with a yellow star over its front door and a yellow star on your own
breast--waiting for your brother-in-law to come and get you out of it.
Your brother-in-law was, at least, a Russian. He always had been a
Russian (so far as you could remember) in the incredibly long ago days
before the First World War. And you? What were you? You had been born
English. Then you had married a German, and you had become a German. And
then you had gone down into the Warsaw ghetto, nameless, less than
nothing. And you had gone out again with false German papers, and got so
far as Budapest. And then they asked you: Who are you? And you said,
French. And now you were under the protection of the Swiss Government,
with a paper that as likely as not had been forged by a gay young band
of nondescript Zionists yearning for Israel.

So what are you?

There was one thing you were beyond the shadow of argument. You had a
yellow star on your breast to prove it for all the world, and you were
waiting for your brother-in-law to come and tear it off for you. You
were a Jew at last. There were quite a number of people up and down the
world who would be interested in the attestation--that is, if they were
alive. There were your father and mother, bless them. "Jewish parents?"
they would say. "A Jewish daughter. Well, what do you expect? She has
been naughty. Well, she has been naughty. She is good now." And there
was Esther, her eldest sister, stout bastion of the Jewish virtues. "A
Jewish woman? Spit on her! Break her up with stones! Nothing is too bad
for her." And there were certain girls who had been colleagues of hers
in the Berlin cabarets, and had sung and danced with her. They were in
the Party now. "Jewish? Of course she's Jewish. A Jewish whore. She had
as much talent as my backside." And there was old Mr. Emmanuel, of
Magnolia Street, who had come blundering into Germany, and if she hadn't
nagged poor old Willy, perhaps literally, into his grave, Mr. Emmanuel
might have been there still, under a little quicklime. "She has a Jewish
heart, that girl, I don't care what you say. That's what counts. The
heart. The body is _shmay-dray_. She had a heart innocent like a
new-born lamb."

And there was Mila.

Was there? Was there a Mila any more? She refused to subject herself to
a computation of mathematical probabilities. According to mathematics
there could hardly be a Mila now. But according to mathematics there
could hardly be an Elsie Silver, either, and here she was, with a star
on her breast. She believed Mila was alive still, with the numb
obstinacy that a tooth believes itself alive still. She was herself
alive. They would meet somewhere, sooner or later. And whether she wore
a yellow star or did not wear a yellow star, whether Mila wore one, or
did not wear one, would not matter then.

But the brother-in-law would have to hurry, on his advance to Budapest.
It looked like being a race between Pravchenko-Polednik and Ferenc
Szlasy, with the odds heavily against the incarcerated Jews, whoever
won. For really there were a great many deaths to die at your disposal.
You could die very easily of malnutrition, for there was very little to
eat, and what there was tasted of sawdust. There was a house-committee
that gave out daily a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, but that did not
go far. Elsie was luckier than other waifs and strays, for through
Margit and Sandor she had a ready-made group of friends, and now and
again one or the other pulled out an astonishing tit-bit from the
rucksack that went about with them as inseparably as the hump with its
camel. There might be a tin of sardines or a chunk of garlic sausage.
Once even, on a famous day, there was a whole cold roast chicken. But,
on the whole, when one was not frightened, one was hungry.

And one was frightened a good deal of the time, one had to face it, and
became increasingly frightened as the weeks went by. Budapest was being
defended by the Germans. It had, therefore, to be attacked by the
Russians. The enemy had to be rooted out, however painful the process
might be for beleaguered citizens. The bombing and shelling became
continuous and intensive. To these was added the machine-gunning from
the low-flying Russian Ratas, which raked the streets mercilessly night
and day, for if you killed one German at the price of five civilians,
whether well or ill disposed, it was still a good bargain.

And Operation Ausschwitz continued in good earnest. Special attention
was paid to the men, but it was the women's turn soon enough, and Elsie
Silver had her own special agony one fine Sabbath morning. At about ten
o'clock a group of bright-eyed bill-posters went round the Jewish houses
in the Stahly Utca, posting bills that requested all the women between
the ages of seventeen and forty-five to collect forthwith in the
courtyard of number six, whence they would proceed on foot, at
_nine-thirty_, to the race-course. Backed by a posse of youths, who went
clanking along the passages and into every room, and by others stationed
at all the exits and entrances, the back-timing was a deliberate
manoeuvre, designed to produce an hysterical panic in which the victims
would be immediately and irretrievably captured, like fish in a net. The
proceedings were in the hands of the Arrow Cross, who burned to show
their S.S. masters how well they had learned their lessons.

Elsie was curled up asleep in a corner of a small room she had been
sharing with three families, when the dreadful clamour filled the place.
She was still not quite awake when she found herself waiting in the
street outside with a vast cortge of women, unkempt, unwashed, without
food, without even the simplest objects tied up in a kerchief. It was
cold. The bitter dust of bomb-damage was riding the air. The multitude
of women set out along the tottering streets, attracting no attention
whatsoever from the passers-by, neither triumph nor pity. If there was
any expression at all in their eyes, as they pulled their fur-collared
coats tighter, it was: Things might have been even worse with us. We
might have been Jews.

The journey was to Tattersall's, in the western suburbs, and there on
the bleak grey-green turf the women were requested to stand and wait for
orders. Nothing happened. Nothing was said. Everyone was still numb with
the shock of the morning and the terror of what lay ahead. After an hour
or two the older women could no longer stand on their feet, so they fell
down, or ventured to sit down. With beatings and buffetings the guards
sought to get them to their feet again, but they fell as soon as they
raised themselves, and others drooped and sank all round them in such
numbers that the guards at last left them where they lay. So at last the
women all sat down, back to back, to get what chill warmth and comfort
they could from their huddled bodies, as numb with apprehension as a
caravanserai of captured desert women awaiting, in a shadeless oasis
square, the biddings of their new lords.

Then at last in the middle afternoon the proceedings started in earnest.
A group of about fifty to a hundred women was scooped out from one side
of the crowd and marched away, everyone knew whither only too well. Then
half an hour later another group from another part of the crowd was
ordered to its feet and marched off. So it continued till the freezing
twilight came and went, no one knowing in each raid how many women would
be chosen, and from which part of the assembly. Then it was night at
last, and the surviving women were ordered to get to their feet and form
into cortge to return to the Stahly Utca. And so they staggered off
with quick oblique lunges of their frozen limbs, like puppets in the
hands of an inept puppeteer.

For Elsie Silver, as it may have been for many others there, it was the
nadir of all her sufferings. She was conscious of an abysmal
humiliation, totally impersonal, disrelated from any recollection of
what poor success she might at any time have scored as artist or as
woman. She had lived, she was alive, and now her life was at the mercy
of lurching yokels, like a soused fly trickling along a table, that a
small child might, or might not, crush with a spoon.

She was humiliated, and, of course, she was afraid. She did not know if
her fears would be lightened if she found in herself the capacity to
pray for deliverance. She thought that was likely, for certain of the
orthodox women around her were muttering Hebrew prayers to themselves,
more especially at the set praying-time, and there was no doubt they, at
least, were comforted, or, at least, the prayers took the sharp edge of
frenzy from the long anguish of waiting.

But she could not suddenly build up a God to pray to in the grey
Hungarian air, because she so sorely needed Him. If He was there, in the
way believing folk said of Him, she hoped He would give her some
awareness He was there. But if He _was_ there, He gave her no such sign,
and the endless hours passed, and certain folk went to their doom, most
of whom were women more deserving of salvation than she was, and certain
other folk did not go. For the organization broke down. It was in the
hands of the Hungarians, she told herself, with a smile stiff as a grin
on a corpse. Had it been in the hands of Germans, the organization would
have been more efficient.

                 *        *        *        *        *

As if to make up for the Arrow Cross's contemptible performance in the
female operation at Tattersall's, the S.S., a few days later, in one
single coup, emptied Budapest of tens of thousands of its adult Jews,
and launched them with clock-like precision on the trek to Vienna. The
neutral legations who had issued the _Schutzpasse_ immediately protested
at the tops of their voices over this latest monstrous violation of the
protecting rights that had been accorded them. In a fit of nerves
Szlasy for a moment recanted. Convoys of legation cars raced up the
high-road along the endless columns of refugees hobbling towards the
Austro-Hungarian border, and everybody who could show a _Schutzpass_ was
picked out and carried back to Budapest. Szlasy now realized that a
good many more Jews possessed these passes than the few thousands to
whom they had been issued, and the order was given to stop the
deportations for a time while the situation was straightened out. All
Jews with neutral passes were therefore moved into a few selected
house-blocks along the Ujpesti Rakpart, the northern section of the Pest
Embankment, according to the nationality of the passes they held; but
the numbers were still so fantastically much larger than anyone had an
idea of, chiefly in the Swiss houses, that people were crowded into
rooms like passengers in underground trains at rush hours. There
followed a swift series of raids on one house or another by the police
and the Arrow Cross, in the attempt to root out those Jews with forged
passes. The attempt to distinguish between forged and genuine was not
very serious, but the issuing legations were helpless. After a time the
Swedish and Vatican houses were left alone, and the raids were
concentrated on the Swiss houses. It was to a Swiss house that Elsie had
been taken, for it had been a Swiss pass that had been handed out to her
in Leon's lorry. During the next few weeks, therefore, she was to be
spared no ordeal of anxiety and terror. There were times when she said
to herself that the Powers that were, _if_ They were, had determined
that for her transgressions there was no possible expiation, unless the
heart were totally and irrevocably broken. And not yet, at least, did
They castigate her with the one calamity which would so have broken it.
Mila was alive somewhere, and was well. Until she knew this was not so,
she could continue alive somehow, still sentient.

Moreover, the Powers did not seem to discriminate between the
outrageously, and the normally, sinful, the normally, and the
abnormally, virtuous. All alike were bathed in lakes of howling fire.
Whether and how they survived seemed to have no relation with their sin
or their virtue.

On the morning of the third day of her immurement occurred the first
_razzia_. A detachment of policemen under an Arrow Cross officer was
seen through the outer windows, marching along the Embankment to the
house. They marched into the courtyard, and there, through the inner
windows, they were seen to disperse. In a minute or two one of the
policemen knocked at the door of the apartment where in three small
rooms Elsie was lodged with seventy others. "Get them to collect in the
passage!" the order came. "He'll be along soon!" "He" was evidently the
officer. The officer seemed to like his job, because it was three hours
before he turned up, rosy-cheeked, and hiccuping softly. "Passes
please!" he demanded, in the friendliest manner. The man nearest the
officer showed his pass. The officer was so drunk he could not focus his
eyes on the document. "Humph!" said the officer. He had given the matter
his consideration. "To the kitchen!" he said. The man was somehow pushed
off into the kitchen. "Next!" the officer demanded. It was a woman. Once
more the eyes slid hopelessly above and below the object presented to
them. "To the salon!" he said. The woman was somehow pushed off into the
salon. So it went on, with a horrifying capaciousness. To the salon. To
the kitchen. To the salon. It was clear that one group was to be assumed
as having legitimate passes, and would therefore be spared, while the
other group, having forged passes, would be led off upon the Vienna
march. It was not known till the operation was all over, which fate was
to befall which group. It was a particularly delicious refinement of
torture, and an interesting time was had by all.

That day it was the kitchen which was the Fortunate Island. Elsie Silver
was in the kitchen, and lived to endure, and to survive, two similar
_razzias_. On the conclusion of the third _razzia_ she could not help
saying to herself somewhat dizzily that perhaps there was a special
Providence which had her in its care. But she preferred not to be too
sanguine about it, for the event might turn out differently on the
occasion of the fourth _razzia_. She was, however, not present at the
fourth _razzia_.

A fresh element entered the situation on December the ninth, when the
Russians finally encircled the city and cut off the Vienna road. At once
the order was given that a wooden wall was to be built, and a compact
ghetto consisting of some ten street-blocks was to be set up in the
heart of the principal Jewish region in Pest. Here the inmates of all
the Jewish houses were to be concentrated, including those holders of
valid passes till now confined in the houses along the northern
embankment. Those declared, in the manner just described, as having
invalid passes were, for the most part, taken outside, shot out of hand,
and dumped into the river.

Elsie Silver was once more among the fortunate ones, though it is easy
to concede that it is no sort of good fortune that spares a human
creature for such horrors as Budapest was to witness in these final
weeks of the agony. For now the siege really began. The shelling,
bombing, machine-gunning attained an unprecedented intensity. The whole
population now betook itself to the cellars, excepting the Jews in the
shrunken ghetto, where the cellars were so crowded it was almost
impossible to sit down or stand up, so that many preferred the upper
floors, where death might come a little more easily, but life was a
shade less obstreperous. On New Year's Eve, the Arrow Cross gave itself
a real holiday. The junketings were loud and long in the central ghetto,
but they attained a pitch of historic frenzy in the houses on the
northern embankment which had not yet been emptied. There a detachment
set to work with gun and knife so lustily that, before dawn broke, two
thousand bodies had been dragged down on to the embankment and chucked
over the parapet into the frozen river. The corpses lay about for weeks
till slowly the ice broke up and the eyeless, mouthless things slid into
the dark water and were carried away and seen no more. Within a few days
the last twitching hollow-eyed survivors from the houses on the
embankment were led down, house by house, to the ghetto, through the
stricken streets of the city, where not a soul was to be seen, excepting
soldiers building barricades, and rescue troops digging in the ruins. As
they moved feebly under a hail of shells and in the shadow of bombed
buildings threatening momently to fall and entomb them, it was only the
guards who were afraid, for by this time their charges did not feel that
life held anything worth retaining. At the wooden wall of the ghetto,
once more there was a nightmarish time of waiting, till houses were
allocated where there was still a cubic foot or two of air to breathe.

So the ghosts from the river houses added themselves to the ghosts from
the city houses, and waited till one death or another released them, so
that they might take their passage across a mistier river to the river
bank where they now felt they rightfully belonged. The house-committees
still functioned with a chess-like accuracy, so many spectral mouths to
feed, so many gallons of soup, so many pounds of corn-cake, the
insubstantial banquets of the Cimmerian fields. There were funeral
games, also. For though the rations were there, correctly portioned out
in the communal kitchens, and though water was not lacking for the
lustration of corpses, the element of sport was introduced by the
hazards of going out into the open to fetch those things (hazards
rewarded by the gift of an extra bowl of soup with which you might
sustain your loved one for an extra day). Out in the streets and
courtyards, behind safe cairns of masonry, the Arrow Cross boys got a
kick out of taking pot-shots at the volunteers, and each time they hit a
target: "Ha! Ha! Ha!" they laughed robustly, and "Ha! Ha! Ha!" a thin
echo came back, from the Jews watching and waiting.

Not much to watch and wait for. It was mid-January, and intensely cold.
There was a single square in the constricted ghetto, and it was decreed
that this place should be the cemetery. But the ground beneath the
paving-setts was far too hard for digging, so the corpses were stripped
and piled row upon row in the empty shops. When the shops were choked
with dead, the corpses were stacked in the streets under sheets of
newspaper kept down by broken bricks.

"He takes his time!" muttered Elsie Silver in her cellar, with cracked
lips. "My brother-in-law takes his time!" She did not know whether the
words left her mouth, or revolved in her mind like motes in a beam. But,
in fact, her brother-in-law's advance was steady and firm. Pravchenko
was now at last at certain points half a mile away from the centre of
the city. Then once more, and for the last time, the Germans turned at
bay and held him back for one more week, and shot several more housefuls
of Jews, absent-mindedly, through force of habit.

But it was not Pravchenko, not Polednik, who held the forefront of her
mind, now as ever. Polednik was a giant fantasy, a big-scale joke, in
the familiar Silver pattern and on the Silver scale. He would come to
Budapest and go further on his way, like a god wrapped in flame and
thunder. So far as she was concerned, in her capacity as his wife's
sister, and a German general's widow, there would be as much contact
between them as between a twig in the roadway, and the track of a tank
which might go over it, or might not.

It was Mila, of course, who held the forefront of her mind. First she
questioned everyone in the house where they had placed her, in each
room, in each cellar. Then, whenever it was possible to move, she combed
the whole ghetto. She kept a sharp eye open for Leon, too, for if anyone
knew of Mila's whereabouts, it would be Leon. But he, like Mila, was
nowhere to be seen.

"I'm looking for my daughter," she would say. "Her name's Mila. Mila
Cossor. She's sixteen, nearly seventeen. She's Polish. She's slim, and
has beautiful eyes. She worked for a _kibbutz_ here. She was a keen
Zionist."

"What name did you say?" they would ask indifferently, for there were
other things to think of.

"Mila," she muttered. "Family name, Cossor." But she remembered it was
unlikely Mila would give her real name to anyone, even her
fellow-workers. The same was true of Leon, too, of course. She herself
did not know Leon's real name. So long as you live an underground
existence, you try to keep your real name dark. You do not have a real
name any more.

"No, I don't remember the name," they said. There were, after all, many
strange girls in Budapest, who might have come from Poland or Austria or
Bohemia or anywhere. And there were far fewer than there had been. As
for the _kibbutzniks_, they were not in evidence any more. For the most
part, they had been living in Gentile houses, with Gentile papers, and
it was said that most of them had been caught by the police and wiped
out. In the first days after the Szlasy coup they had been wonderful.
With the help of certain young people from a secret organization called
"Kusta" they had gone round in Arrow Cross uniforms, and rescued large
groups of Jews who were being marched off to be shot, pretending they
wanted to have the fun themselves. They had even penetrated the prisons
once or twice with forged lists and pulled out shoals of prisoners from
under the very noses of the prison staffs. But that couldn't last very
long. Most of them were caught after a day or two of high jinks, and put
against a wall. There were few survivors, and these still refused to lie
down and die in cellars. There had been a certain amount of organized
resistance in one or two of the Jewish houses, after the ghetto wall had
been set up, and undoubtedly these last forlorn _kibbutzniks_ were at
the bottom of it. But the resistance petered out, for most of their
concealed arms had been discovered, and the Budapest Jews at large did
not have the guts of the Jews in Warsaw, and could not see themselves
fighting tanks with ink bottles. So the _kibbutzniks_ were doubtless all
dead, and everyone would be dead soon, so why go on making a nuisance of
yourself?

So she went on from house to house, and cellar to cellar, asking for
Mila Cossor, sometimes talking of her as her daughter, sometimes her
niece, sometimes her friend, for it was hard to keep a grip on things.
And then it became almost impossible to move about, and she lay there
hungry and thirsty, thinking of the girl, never allowing herself to
believe she would not see her again. As for Leon, he was probably dead
by now. How could you carry on for long like that young man, and live?

Then the early morning of January the eighteenth came to the ghetto. It
seemed no different from any other day or any other time. There was
shelling. There was the dull thud of bombs. There was the stuttering of
machine-gun fire out in the street. There was a sudden thrust of Germans
into the cellar, with sub-machine-guns held before them.

"This time! Oh, surely this time!" Elsie Silver thought, and raised her
forehead, thinking that way death might come soonest. But the Germans
did not shoot. They went plunging on, treading on outstretched hands and
supine faces, towards the knocked-down one-brick wall which led from one
cellar to the next. They were not out to kill this time. Someone was out
to kill _them_. They were running away, running away.

There was an intense hush in the cellar. No one, if he had the strength
to raise his head at all, dared look into his neighbour's eyes.

Then a few moments later, the first Russians came, also with
machine-guns at the ready. One or two had lamps with which they
illumined both the hollow faces in the cellar, and their own tough,
stubbly, wind-chopped faces, Ukranian faces, Kalmouk faces.

"Which way?" one cried in Russian.

"There!" another answered, pointing to the gap in the wall.

"_Shalom!_" a third said. Doubtless, that one was a Jew. A moment later,
they were gone.

"_Shalom!_" called out two or three who had the strength to speak.
"_Shalom! Shalom!_" Others took up soon, a sound like the pattering of
rain on leaves. A minute later there was a sound like the breaking of a
window, muted, it might have been any distance away. Then another crack.
Then silence. It might have been anything at all, two Russians shooting
two Germans, or two windows being smashed in. It might have been just
nothing. Perhaps the spectacle of Germans fleeing and Russians pursuing
was mere hallucination. Someone struck a match and lit the stub of a
candle, as if to determine the issue by that flickering beam. But no one
dared turn his head to seek the eyes of his neighbour. No one dared
believe that liberation had come. Any moment now, flesh-and-blood
Germans might hurl themselves into the cellar to prove that those others
were mere phantoms pursued by phantoms.

Then a murmur was heard, out in the courtyard. The murmur grew. A shot
rang out near at hand and further away. Single voices established
themselves above the thickening clamour, but you could not hear what
words they said. Then quick feet came hurling down the basement stairs
and along the passage. A young man thrust his head round the lintel of
the cellar-opening, his hair tousled, his eyes shining in their pale
sockets, like ceremonial wine in silver wine-beakers.

"_Es iss emmes!_ It's true, you fools," he cried out in Yiddish. It was
as if, with those dilated nostrils, he somehow smelled the doubts that
narcotized the people there. "Get out! We're saved!" Then he turned and
fled towards the open again. Everyone there blinked their eyes and shook
their heads and grinned foolishly. Then tongues started clacking.

"They've come! We're saved! There'll be something to eat!"

"Come, get up! Let's go out!"

"Mother! Mother! Why are you crying?"

"Malkeh, my little Malkeh!" the woman was moaning, wringing her hands.
"Why shouldn't she have lived to see this day?"

"_Yiddene!_" said an old man who had been sitting by Elsie's side. He
had a small academic beard, and wore pince-nez. "Come! Dance!" He rose,
and put his arms round Elsie's waist, then, with a force which in that
scarecrow frame seemed ludicrous, pulled her to her feet and started
turning her round and round, till her stomach heaved, and she had to cry
out to him, pommelling his chest: "Stop! Stop! I faint!"

Some feet away there was a scuffle over a ruck-sack whose contents had
been emptied on to a mattress. Two women had their hands on a lump of
sausage, and were tugging at it this way and that.

"Give it me back! It's mine!"

"It's not! You sold it to me! I gave you that pair of shoes!"

"They were too big! I told you they were! It's mine!"

Then one woman got the better of it, and shoved the lump of sausage in
her mouth. Her eyes shone with triumph as she worked her back teeth on
it. "Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!" wept the other woman like a small child.

"Come!" someone said. "There'll be sausage for all! There'll be food
kitchens!"

"And the Joint will be here soon!"

"Maybe the Red Cross, with parcels! Maybe to-day!"

Everybody was moving out now. The place was emptying. Only the woman
stayed behind who bewailed Malkeh. She was not interested in the light
of day, and the breath of safety, because Malkeh was dead, and would not
share it with her.

"Malkeh! Malkeh!" she moaned, swaying from side to side.

Elsie Silver paused on the threshold and looked back. Then she retraced
her steps.

"Are you coming, _yiddene?_" she said. "It is another day. It will be
different out in the air. And you will see smiling faces." She would
have liked to say also that there might be good news of Malkeh out
there, as sooner or later there would be good news of her own Mila. But
that would be a rash thing to say. The woman might have seen Malkeh dead
at her feet. That was more likely than not. With Mila it was different,
of course.

"I'm coming! Wait! Don't leave me alone here!" the woman called out
after her, for Elsie was already hurrying away, as if she might miss
Mila if she lost more time.

"Come!" said Elsie. "Come!" Out they went into the courtyard, then
through the main entrance into the street. From every direction out of
cellars and holes in the ground people were emerging and running this
way and that, like animals that suddenly find themselves in the glare of
day when an ill-built haystack which has been sheltering them falls
apart. At both ends of the street the flimsy wooden ghetto-wall blocked
the way. Beyond the wall there was the sound of rifle-fire and
machine-guns stuttering, and the deep boom of big guns further off. Then
a more continuous sound was heard, the roaring of invisible tanks coming
closer and closer towards the wooden barrier. Then suddenly there was
the crack of rending timbers as the blunt noses of tanks split the wall
apart and the machines came waddling through into the ghetto that was a
ghetto no more. In the turrets soldiers stood and waved. On the
pavements men and women stood weeping silently.

"I'm hungry!" cried a small boy suddenly at the top of his voice.

"Take!" cried a soldier, removing a haversack from his shoulder, and
flinging it towards him. The boy had talked Hungarian, a language which
the soldier probably did not understand. But there was no mistaking the
meaning of that shrill cry.


[III]

It was not possible to go more than a few blocks northward and westward
from the breached ghetto, for the fighting was still raging, and was for
some days to go on raging, in those parts of the city. The parts
eastward and southward were more or less free, though there were pockets
of resistance there, too; so the people who had had homes there went
back, hoping to install themselves in their own places again, but found
either that their homes were mounds of rubble, or, if they were still
inhabitable, that Gentile families had moved there, having no homes of
their own.

So towards evening there was a dispirited trek back towards the cellars
again. It was a glum world, with no gas, no electricity, no transport,
no water-pressure, no food. There had been a certain lifting of the
spirits earlier that day, but that was mostly dispersed now. People
remembered too clearly the hideous Szlasy anticlimax that followed so
swiftly on the heels of the Horthy surrender. It was not doubted that
final victory lay with the Russians, and that meant at least physical
salvation for the ultimate survivors of ghettos. But what guarantee was
there, here in Budapest, that the Germans might not strike back and
reoccupy the city for a time, all the more as the fortified heights of
Buda were entirely in their hands? And what would happen then? Everyone
knew well enough what would happen then. These were early days for
chanting songs of jubilee.

One of the last to return to the cellars that evening, her face and
hands blue with cold, was Elsie Silver. The area of her operations was
enlarged now, and block by block she had gone among the unjubilant hosts
searching for Mila, to the very limit of the fighting. She had been sure
all along (she told herself) that probably Mila was not living in a
Jewish house at all, she was in a Gentile house, with Gentile papers,
for she was clever at getting herself the right sort of documents as she
needed them.

But she did not find Mila that day. Nor the day after. Nor the day after
that. She was hungry most of the time, for she was putting out a great
deal of effort, and the rations in the communal kitchen were still very
exiguous. But she found she managed to carry on extraordinarily well on
next to nothing, for solid eating is, after all, a habit. Things did not
improve very quickly, though the Russians set up a Provisional
Government after only three days. You could only eke out your miserable
ration if you still had a ring, say, or a wristlet watch. Sometimes,
too, you had a body which someone took a fancy to... Sometimes, on
the other hand, they took the ring or wristlet watch or the body,
whether you wanted to barter it or not. A fair amount of looting took
place on both sides, but the liberators were in better shape, and did it
more vigorously. Once, on the fifth day, a wild rumour went round that
great stocks of food had suddenly been unearthed in the dock-side
warehouses, and people of all ages ran out of the ruins for all they
were worth, hobbling, pushing, grunting, sweating. But the
treasure-trove was just a hoard of dried peas, the sort used for
planting. None the less, dried peas were better than no peas at all.
They helped to keep you going till the Red Cross, and the Friends'
Ambulance Unit, and the Joint Distribution Committee, set up their
emergency stations.

It was at a field kitchen run by the Friends that Elsie Silver heard the
English language spoken again, having not heard it for a long time. She
was standing in a line holding a bowl, and was only two away from the
small man and tall woman who were dishing out stew, when the small man
spilled some on his hand. It was hot.

"Christ!" said the small man, and blushed deeply.

The tall woman turned her head and glared.

"Really, Mr. Carruthers!" she reproved him. That was all they said
between them. But it was English, it was even Cheltenham, and it was
music.

A moment later Elsie was holding out her bowl and mug. She, too,
addressed the small man. She could at that moment no more have held her
tongue than do a double cartwheel.

"Really, Mr. Carruthers!" she said, in exactly the same voice as the
tall woman.

The man and woman both looked at her, startled. That was not the way any
Hungarian or Pole could pronounce that name.

"English?" they both said.

She had not mimicked the woman in order to provoke the question, or with
the idea that any reaction might be provoked at all. It was no more than
a stirring of the woman she had once been, the not quite dead pulse of a
heart. But something had happened. A question about herself had
happened. Who was she? The true answer might help, might injure. She was
on guard.

"_Also weiter!_" came from behind her. "Get a move on!" The grey-eyed,
sunken-chapped ones wanted their stew.

"Please!" she replied. "May I see you later?"

"By all means," the man and woman both said. "Next, _bitte!_"

She ate her stew, and in due course, when the queue had been attended
to, came back. The man and woman were waiting for her. They were
pleasant.

"You seem to have had a bad time," the woman said. "I'm sorry. You are
English, are you?"

"No," she said. One must go on lying, one could not tell the truth, lest
one thing led to another, and suddenly you were an enemy, a German, with
an extremely interesting name. "I'm French, but I lived a long time in
London."

"How did you get here, madame?" asked the tall woman. (It was clear she
was saying to herself the creature had possibly been a lady once.) "What
a time you must have had!"

Elsie shrugged her shoulders.

"Like some millions of others, I was deported to the East. I got to
Warsaw. Then I escaped, with my niece. It's about her I want to ask you.
Her name's Mila Cossor. She's been missing since October. Please," she
begged, "is there any chance that you can help me to find her?"

They took as many particulars as she could supply them with. They told
her that the Red Cross always set up a special office to deal with
inquiries of this sort. They promised they would do all they could to
help her. But it turned out they could do nothing for her, though she
came back to them day after day, sometimes morning and evening. She also
haunted the offices of the Red Cross and the Joint Distribution
Committee, without success.

Then, one day, at last, there was news. She was dragging herself wearily
along to the Joint Committee's premises, where they were issuing shoes
that day, when suddenly she saw a young man she knew, running down the
steps of the building towards a jeep drawn up beyond the pavement. He
was evidently in a hurry, for he had left his engine running. But before
he had time to swing himself into his driving-seat, she saw white and
clear the nicked flesh above the left cheek-bone by which she had often
identified him, most recently on the day he had put on the Arrow Cross
uniform and helped rescue her from the Fortress Prison. It was Leon!
Leon was still alive!

The young man was sitting at his wheel. His foot was on the
clutch-pedal, when suddenly he felt a hand clawing at his coat.

"Leon! Leon!" a woman's voice called out. "It's me! Don't drive off!"

He looked down. He saw a woman with dark and piercing eyes, a skin
smooth and pale as alabaster, with tracts of greying hair above her
ears. Her clothes were torn and old, but the effort had been made to
keep them decent. She could not be a stranger, for there were few living
who could call out to him by that name. He screwed up his eyes, trying
to remember who she was.

Then she told him.

"Channah," she whispered. "Don't you remember?" It came back to him. The
lovely woman he had seen and served so often in the Caf Flora, the
soigne woman whose duty it was to play the mistress of Count Apor, the
woman who had so dearly loved the girl from Poland, the poor girl from
Poland. He knew what she wanted from him. The question and, alas, the
answer, would not be long delayed.

"Remember? Of course I remember." He reached and took her hand. How
stiff and creased it had become, like a discarded glove. He well
remembered how dainty it had been, how elegantly shaped the lacquered
fingernails. "So you're going strong, eh? That's fine! Can I give you a
lift? Which way are you going?"

The words sounded inconceivably banal in his own ears. He knew he was
trying to stave off the question which at this very moment came
trembling from her lips.

"Please, have you seen Mila anywhere? You remember my girl, Mila? Have
you any news of her?"

The question was already posed in his mind: Shall I give her the news I
have? Shall I withhold it? But I can't lie to this woman. Those eyes
would see through me. I'll tell her the truth. I'm busy. I must get
away.

"Oh, Mila?" he said. "Oh yes. The nice little _kibbutznik_. I saw her
three days ago. Over on the other side, in Buda."

"You _saw_ her?" the woman's breath came short in her throat. The blood
came pumping into her sallow cheeks. "My Mila? She's well? How is she?"

"Well, after a time like this"--Leon hesitated--"nobody looks well, you
know that."

"But she's all right? Nothing's happened to her? What are you hiding?" A
hideous thought came to her. "She's not been wounded, or anything? She's
not maimed?"

"No, it's not that. She looked very miserable."

"Of course she'd look miserable," she censured him. "After a time like
this what do you expect?" She was repeating his own words. He breathed
more easily. She had taken the bulk of the weight off his shoulders.
"Where did you see her? Buda, you say? Where?"

"I was driving down the Gellertrakpart, down near the Polytechnikum,
what's left of it. I saw her quite clearly, though she looked so pale
and ill. I'm sure it was her. I called out to her, and she looked at me.
But she gave no sign of recognition, and looked away at once. I was in a
stream of traffic, so I had to move on. I looked back when the traffic
loosened, but she'd gone."

"The Gellertrakpart?" the woman repeated. "Near the Polytechnikum?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. I hope I'll see you again soon. I hope we'll both see you.
Good day." She turned and shuffled off in the direction of the river. He
saw how worn down her heels were.

"Channah!" he called out after her. She turned her head and smiled
fleetingly, and went on. He got out of the jeep and strode after her.
"Look!" he said. "Those shoes will be gone if you don't apply for a pair
now."

"I'll manage," she assured him. "She'll need a pair, too."

"If you'll just wait, I'll just go and do what I have to do, then I'll
come back for you."

"Thank you, Leon," she said. "I've waited long enough. You're a good
boy," and moved off again.

"It's a big place," he told her, walking beside her. "There's a lot of
people there."

"I'm _sure_ I'll find her," she said, walking on.

"You'll get me through the Joint offices when you want me," he said, and
got back into his jeep, and drove away. It was an important appointment,
and he must get off to it. It was not until he was several blocks away
that he remembered that she would not be allowed to cross the river. The
Germans had blown up all the bridges when they pulled out into Buda, and
the Russians so far had only had time to put up a single wooden bridge.
Civilians were not allowed to cross from either side without a permit.

"Damn!" he said to himself. He had no time to turn back, and he would
probably have trouble finding her if he did. If he _did_ find her, he
could only tell her she had to get a permit from the Russian
authorities, and they'd tell her that in any case at the bridge.

That was just what happened. She reached the embankment and made her way
to the Pest end of the temporary bridge.

"Pass!" the Russian sentry said.

"No pass!" she told him. "Want to see daughter, there, in Buda." She
struggled desperately to get him to understand her. Her Polish was no
use to either of them.

"Pass!" said the sentry again, and kept on shaking his head. A
pedestrian saw she was in difficulties, and helped her out.

"It will not be difficult to get a pass," he assured her. "Ask at the
Russian Army Headquarters in the Park, just beyond the Millenium
Monument."

She thanked him, and shuffled off in the direction of the Andrassy Ut.
The trams had just begun running again. She might get one if she was
lucky.


[IV]

She crossed the bridge that separates the two artificial lakes in the
Park, the Varos Liget, and stood for a moment against the parapet on the
right-hand side. It was here she had met Mila on that ill-omened day
when they had gone driving round the Park together. Here. She placed her
hand on the cold stone. It was here the girl was leaning, looking down
on the marsh-fowl feathering their way in and out busily through these
tangles of reeds. The water was grey and dirty now, scummy with rubbish
blown by air-raid blast. But it was not frozen any more. Her own heart,
too, was unfreezing, for springtime news had come to her. Mila was alive
still, on the other side of the broad river.

The Russian Army Headquarters were based at the Museum of Agriculture,
which was of so solid a construction that it had remained more or less
intact. There were subsidiary makeshift offices distributed here and
there on the lawns and under the trees. More offices were being put up
all the time, and there were a great many people around, both civilian
and military. There were not only Russian soldiers, there were Jugoslavs
and Roumanians, and one or two formations she could not identify. It was
confusing. Which was the office you should apply to? What language ought
you to speak? She had no Russian. Her Polish did not seem helpful.
Yiddish was the _lingua franca_ in all these territories, but which were
Jews among all these folk, the snub-nosed, the long-nosed, the
black-haired, the red-haired? She tried out both her Yiddish and her
Polish, then, in desperation, her limping Hungarian, but she did not
seem to get anywhere. She paused and looked round unhappily.

"If only Polednik, my dear brother-in-law, were around," she said to
herself. "I'd have no difficulty at all. Two such masters of the Yiddish
language!" she smiled wryly. "You'd lead me straight there, Boris dear!
Straight to the firing squad!"

Then, at a distance of some fifty yards or more, she saw an American
officer turn from a narrower alley into an avenue of beeches and move
towards a hut at the end of the vista. An American officer! Her
difficulty was at an end. She hastened after him, and had gone some
twenty yards or more when suddenly a Russian soldier had thrust up
before her, an officer. A large heavy man he was, blotting out the
American soldier and the avenue of beeches and the hut at the end of it.
A moment before, he had not been there. Now he was. There was nothing
else but the Russian officer, the smile on his lips. He must have been
observing her for some time, from the shelter of the trees whence he had
emerged.

"Good day, Channah," the man said. "I thought it was you. It _is_ you,
isn't it?"

She stared, not into the man's face, but into the vacancy immediately
above his forehead. It was not by his grey nondescript eyes, the full
cheeks, the somewhat formless mouth, she recognized him. The voice,
familiar as it was, would have slid off into the grey air, and dispersed
like blown foam. It was the outline of something not there that fixed
him in time and place, the outline of the black bowler hat he had worn
day in, day out, in the Warsaw ghetto. He had seemed to sleep in it.
When he led her forth from the labyrinths, it had seemed to float before
him, more palpable, more substantial, than he.

He wore no black bowler hat now. He was a Russian army captain, properly
accoutred.

"Herr Wolff!" she whispered. "You!"

"Not any more!" He smiled at her. "Captain"--he stopped--"an old friend.
So you got through?"

"As you see."

"It's been tough going. You've been here, all through the siege?"

"All through the siege. People survive. _You_ know, Captain, don't you?"

"And now?" he asked.

"And now?" she asked herself. There was a good deal interposed between
then and now. Now he was a Russian officer, here in Budapest. Surely,
then, in Warsaw, he had been a Soviet agent? There could be no doubt of
that, no doubt at all. He was saying something. It was Mila, yes, it was
Mila he was talking of.

"That girl you went away with?" he asked. "She was in bad shape. Did she
die soon after?"

"No! She became well. She was plucky. You should have seen her. Her own
parents wouldn't have recognized her."

"So?" He was not very interested. "Is she here with you?"

"That's what I'm here for," she exclaimed urgently. "You must forgive
me, Herr... Captain..."

"Captain Smolenski," he informed her, and saluted, with not too
soldierly a gesture. There was, after all, no reason why she should not
know the name he had now.

"Captain Smolenski," she said. "She's in Buda, on the other side of the
river. I can't get across to her. One needs a permit for the bridge.
She's ill. She needs me. I'm told one has to go to the Town Major's
Office. Please, will you tell me where it is? Perhaps you could help me
get the permit?"

He looked at her, and smiled. It was a curious smile, spread all across
his face, like an ointment. Several seconds passed. Her heart slowed
down and quickened. She saw the phantasm of a black bowler hat float in
the air between the level of her eyes and his.

"Not so fast," he said softly. "Not so fast."

She felt the tongue suddenly large and dry in her mouth, like the tongue
of a shoe. There was a smell in the air, of mischief, of danger. She
said nothing. Whatever she had to say to him was said. Why did he wait?
Why was he smiling at her so?

"I know." His voice was almost inaudible. "I know just who you are, Frau
General."

The air was full of darkness, with a dazzle of running sparks that did
not illumine. There was the noise of a wind whistling. In the nostrils
the smell of danger, of defeat, coming up like a black puma out of the
jungle. She knew now why the thought of Boris Polednik had edged from
nowhere into her mind. It was the same nowhere that had disgorged this
Smolenski, this Smolenski that was not Wolff any more. For there was no
more Wolff. Wolff had been an aspect, a mask.

"It would be interesting to my people," resumed Captain Smolenski. "The
wife of one of the major war-criminals."

She must force words through the shelf of dust at the base of her
throat, or she would die, here beside the ash-grey willow drooping over
her.

"My husband is dead," she brought out, with a voice lightless as soot.
"I have suffered a great deal."

"We found out," the Captain said. He seemed not to have heard her. "Your
lover talked. They were too much for him."

It was Oskar he was speaking of. The Gestapo had broken his bones; but
one of their own men, the men of the Russians, must have been placed
among them, and he had brought back tales to those who had placed him
there.

She knew that she was poised on a razor's edge. She knew that silence or
speech, either of them, might provide the touch which would send her
hurtling into the abyss. What could she say? she asked herself. She
remembered it was because of some indebtedness to Oskar that Wolff had
found himself impelled to show her the way out of the ghetto. But did he
not consider that the obligation had been fulfilled there in Warsaw? She
must find out. She could lose nothing.

"I was in the Warsaw ghetto," she said. "There's no harm in me. Let me
go on."

Suddenly, brusquely, he turned his back. He walked away from her, his
hands folded behind him. It was an unsoldierly figure. He walked for
twenty or thirty yards, then came back, his head low on his chest, his
hands still folded behind him. Then he turned again, and still again,
three or four times more. Then at last he came back to her. He kept his
eyes averted, as if he were ashamed. Then he spoke.

"You have a relative over there in Buda, yes? You want a permit to cross
the bridge? Come. I'll take you to the Town Major's Office. Walk behind
me."

She walked behind him, as if she were a total stranger, a beggar woman
from the ghetto for whom this Russian officer was doing a routine
service. There was no difficulty at all about getting the permit. When
they had given it her, he moved off. Not another word passed between
them.




CHAPTER X


[I]

It was more difficult to move around in Buda, because that part of the
town had been besieged longer and the damage was more serious. Also the
whole place is up hill and down dale. But it was in Buda that Leon had
glimpsed Mila, on the Gellertrakpart, near the Polytechnikum, and it was
to that point that Elsie came back again and again, though she knew the
information was not much to go by, for Mila, in fact, might just have
been wandering along on her way from nowhere in particular to nowhere in
particular. But that was where she had been seen. That was enough.

For two days she crossed over to Buda in the morning and returned to
Pest in the evening. Then it occurred to her she might just as well stay
over in Buda, for it was most unlikely that Mila had sought a permit to
cross over to the Pest side. So she packed up her carton box--she
travelled light these days--and went across the river, to a corner of a
room found for her by the Joint. It was just as easy to pick up the
rations assigned to you on one side of the river as on the other.

Ten days passed by in this fashion. She knew that the family with whom
she lodged thought her crazy. She knew that everyone, both official and
unofficial, whose assistance she solicited now thought her crazy. She
was quite aware what a woe-begone figure she presented when she came
home of an evening, and then, an hour later, found herself once again
impelled to beat the bitter streets. But it would be time enough to
spruce herself up later on, when she had found Mila. Let them for the
time being think her an old woman with bats in the belfry.

It was on a day in mid-March that Elsie found her. The place could
hardly be more than fifty yards this way or that from the place where
Leon had seen her for a brief moment, and she had disappeared. She tried
to do the same trick on Elsie. Elsie was on the Embankment, where they
were building up the parapet again, just near the exploded bastions of
the Ferencz Joszef bridge. Then suddenly Elsie saw her. She was on the
other side of the road, where the tramway used to run into the ttlos
Ut. Her shoulders were stooped, her cheeks fallen in, her hair was all
over the place. But it was Mila. It was no one else but Mila in all the
world. There was a good deal of noise in the clear air. Already they
were hard at work, rebuilding, carting stuff in, carting it away. There
was the clang of hammers, the hoot of traffic. There were workmen
calling to each other, there were already the shrill shouts of children
at their play. But when Elsie filled her lungs and shouted "Mila! Mila!
Mila!" the girl heard the cry above all these noises. She turned her
head sharply on her neck like a frightened animal, she saw that there
was a woman who called her name. It was impossible to say whether or not
she knew who it was. All that Elsie saw was Mila turn away, her head
slanted as if to dodge a hand that sought to slap her cheek. She saw the
girl run off in a sort of teetering shuffle, her arms floating
helplessly around her, and her dark hair swinging to and fro.

"But no, Mila darling, no!" Elsie was saying to herself, her heart wild
with joy and fear, as she ran desperately across the road, amid a sharp
tooting of horns and screeching of brakes and cursing of drivers. She
was now on the other side of the Embankment. She was now running up the
ttlos Ut, under the lee of the great hill. There was no sight of Mila.
"Mila! Mila!" she cried. The child could not be far. She was too weak to
have gone any distance at all. She must be hiding in some shattered
doorway, or behind some lump of wall. She would find her if she had to
tear every ruin apart till she had bared her fingers to the stumps. She
found her soon, no distance away, lying behind a cairn of tumbled
bricks, her back turned away like a small animal who thinks in that way
to elude its pursuer. She had her hands to her ears as if to shut out
the cry that went searching for her: "Mila! Mila! Where are you?" Her
eyes were closed as if to keep out of her mind every memory of what had
been, the days of her childhood, the mother and father she had loved so
dearly, the woman she had hardly loved less.

Elsie was on her knees beside her, and had the girl in her bosom. With
gentle fingertips she slid the dank hair from her forehead and stroked
the shut eyelids. She felt the girl's heart fluttering like a puppy's.

"Mila, darling! It's me! It's Channah! I've been looking for you so
long! And you're here, my sweet girl! You're here in my arms! You've
been ill! I'm going to make you better! I'm going to take you away!"

The girl said not a word. The body was inert, like a bundle of clothes.
There was hardly any weight to her. It seemed, if a wind blew up, it
could lift her and blow her away over dust and rubble, to fall when the
wind fell into the grey river or the depths of a cellar.

"You know who I am, don't you, Mila dear? It's me, it's Channah. I love
you so much. I'm going to make you better. Say you know who I am. Just
move your head, Mila."

She did not raise her head, but she spoke. The voice was faint, the
syllables came out at intervals, one by one.

"It's... you. It's... Chan... nah."

"See, Mila, dear? We're together again.... After all that's been. You
tired yourself out just now. You'll rest a few minutes, and then you'll
come with me, and we'll have a lovely cup of hot coffee. I know where
they make the most wonderful coffee. Real beans. It's American. And
then... you wait, Mila, I'll tell you over the coffee. Just rest now,
rest, rest."

The girl still did not speak. The minutes passed. Elsie did not speak
either. Her fingertips moved gently from eyelids to mouth, back to the
eyelids again. The fluttering breath calmed down.

"You're rested now, Mila dear?" The eyes still were not open. "If you
are, just nod your head." The girl nodded. Elsie half rose, then put an
arm round her shoulder. "Come now, Mila dear, yes?"

Then suddenly the girl gave tongue. Again it was like a puppy, the yelp
of a puppy when somebody suddenly kicks it out of the void.

"No!" she cried. "No! No!"

Elsie was down on her knees beside her again.

"Mila, dear! You know I can't leave you here. You know what I'm saying,
I know you do. I can't leave you here. I'll stay all day, if necessary,
and all night, and all to-morrow, and then you'll have to come away. So
come now, darling, and I'll look after you. Come now, Mila."

"No!" The protest was less sharp.

"I'm doing what your mummy would do. She'd _want_ me to. You don't need
to tell me, darling, I know something terrible's happened. I _know_."
(She was watching the girl's face like a doctor watching a patient's
reactions on a couch. She perceived the pucker of pain at the corner of
the girl's mouth, gone almost as soon as seen, like breath on a mirror.)
"Terrible things happened to everyone. We'll never talk of it, whatever
it is. We'll never think of it. It's over and gone. It's never happened.
Never, never, never. I don't know where you've been living lately.
Perhaps in a cellar. I don't know. Perhaps with people. I don't know if
you've got anything there. We'll forget it. You've got nothing here.
You're with me from now on. I'll get clothes for you. Your face will be
shining again. Open your eyes, Mila. Dear little Mila, open your eyes.
There now. Your eyes will be happy again. Come, Mila. Will you come? Say
yes, Mila." She brought her ear near to the girl's mouth. There was no
response.

Suddenly an inspiration seized her. She realized with a startling and
overwhelming certainty that there was only one hope of blowing life into
the almost-dead embers. The mainspring of the girl's existence had been
her passion for Zion. If that could be set working within her again, she
might live; if not, she would survive as a phantom, and for a time only.
Sooner or later she would fall apart, like a dead flower into dust.

"Mila, dear! I want to tell you something. I've already been making
inquiries about going to Palestine. Yes, Mila, Palestine. Eretz Israel.
The way's wide open now, by way of Roumania and the Black Sea. Are you
listening, darling? We'll go to a port, and take a boat, and go to
Palestine. All those lovely orange-groves... and... and the
beautiful blue sea... and the hills... and the lovely
orange-groves." (She was singularly ill-informed on the subject, and
those were all the elements in the situation she could for the time
being evoke.) "You'll have to get better first. You'll have to get fit
for the journey. Won't that be lovely, Mila? The sea, and the sea-birds,
and the wind blowing from the fruit-trees... Yes, Mila, yes?"

The girl's lips quivered. It seemed that she was trying to say
something, but the word in her mouth died.

Then Elsie put her arms round her shoulders. There was no more
resistance than if she were a coat. Then she raised her and had her
standing on her feet. "Steady, darling! There now!" she murmured. Then
she led her away, her arm supporting her.

No one paid any particular attention to them. A spectacle of that sort
was not uncommon those days in Budapest.


[II]

Buda and Pest are parts of the same city, and the Danube is only a
river, if a broad river. But there was a vast sea spread out between the
Mila that had been in Pest, and the Mila that was now in Buda. It was of
the first importance to get Mila away from Buda to Pest with the least
possible delay, and then, as soon as the broken girl was as much mended
as might be, the journey must begin again. It would be easier now.

Another thing was as urgent. She must not permit herself to speculate on
what had happened, any more than Mila must be allowed to remember it.
What hideous nightmares must torment the child's night slumbers, and her
own, would remain beyond control. But by day, for her own sanity as well
as Mila's, their minds must be deflected from the thought of the massed
onslaught of sexual brutality, the refined rapier of sadistic
degradation, whatever it was that had caused this mortal hurt.

That night she had Mila with her in the corner of the crowded room where
lodging had been found for them. The next day she demanded a permit for
the transference of Mila to the other side of the river, where, as she
truthfully said, Mila had friends. It was granted without trouble. The
second night they were in Pest together. She applied for house-room with
one of the families whose acquaintance she had made in the cellars. The
woman was kind to her. A box-room was assigned to them which let in the
rain and wind both through walls and ceiling, but it was habitable. The
trouble with the girl was exactly that she was no trouble at all, she
was less than no trouble. There was no resistance in her, no initiative
of any sort. What little chores Elsie would permit her to do in the
effort to occupy her mind she did with a listless orderliness which
suggested that she had been spending some time of late as a drudge in
someone's house. From time to time, whether she sat doing nothing, or
whether she had some small task on hand, her fingers would start opening
and shutting helplessly. She would stand or sit staring straight before
her. Tears would form in her eyes and drop down her cheeks,
characterless, griefless, like the condensation down a wall.

From the Joint (as many beneficiaries called the American Joint
Distribution Committee in many a smitten country) Elsie received extra
supplies, so that the girl might be put on her feet again. There she
contacted Leon once more and gave him a more complete account of the
episode than she had felt called upon to give hitherto. She had rarely
seen a human being more furious. His cheeks flared red as coals. The
nicked flesh above the left cheek-bone was white as salt.

"Who did it?" he brought out through his teeth. "What sort of bastards
were they?" He felt for his hidden revolver, then remembered it was
better not to make it plain he went around armed. "I'll bash their
skulls against the wall!"

"Please, Leon!" she begged him. "I don't know anything. I don't want to
know anything. All I know is we mustn't poke about in the girl's mind to
try and find things out. Maybe, later, years later; not now. It would
destroy her completely."

"I suppose you're right," he said, chastened. There was a quiet
authority about this woman that made discussion impertinent. "The best
of the bunch, that girl was! She, and Hanna Senesch!"

Even in the welter of her wretchedness, the name twanged like a plucked
string.

"Hanna Senesch? Yes? And what happened to _her_?"

His chin thrust out like a lump of rock.

"They shot her!" he said. "The brave boys! The same day as they shot
Baruch. Gisi Fleishmann, too! You heard what happened to Gisi
Fleishmann?"

"I was told," she said. He looked up. He wondered who could have told
her. Then he remembered. It must have been Count Apor, her employer.

"Yes, he told me. I know they've shot him since."

"He was a brave man. It was hard for him." That was all they said of
him, then, or at any other time.

She put the dead out of her mind. They were dead. Nothing could be done
for _them_.

"We've got to get the girl away!" she exclaimed fiercely. "There's only
one place that can put her right again. You know where that is?"

"Eretz," he said. "Of course. But it's not easy," he went on
despondently. He stretched out his hands as if to indicate the myriads
that were waiting throughout the city, and beyond the city, in all the
liberated regions, and the regions that were now being liberated as the
tides of war rolled west and north. He changed the subject. "Two or
three of the _habonim_ have turned up, the builders, the boys and girls
she used to know. Do you think it would be a good idea if they came to
see her? I might come with them."

"Please. Not now," she said. "When's she's more herself again. Isn't
that right, Leon?"

"Yes, Channah. It's right."

"I've been away too long, Leon. I must hurry back to Mila. But there's
one more thing. I must have some sort of a job, to help me get the extra
things Mila needs, food and clothes. I'm quite good with languages."

He fixed a part-time job for her as an interpreter. It was very helpful.


[III]

The days went by, and became weeks. It was April and high spring in
Hungary. The flowers came out in the gardens, the trees blossomed, there
was light on the river and in the sky. But there was no light in the
eyes of Mila. She was like the brittle wick of a lamp from which all the
oil has gone. It did not really seem a matter of importance to anyone
anywhere whether she was alive or dead.

Excepting to Elsie Silver. The love that had shone in her for the
daughter she had never borne, now glowed with so pure and bright a flame
that people coming into the office where she worked were warmed by her
though they came in chilled to the bone. In earlier years men had said
of her she was beautiful. It would not occur to them to say it now, if
their eyes happened to fall on her when hers were closed, for her skin
was sallow and her cheeks pinched. But if her eyes were open, they would
ask themselves: Who is this lovely woman? Who was she in her hey-day? It
was better that they did not know.

The first part of the task that lay before Elsie was to restore the
physical basis of Mila's well-being. During the first week or two, that
had seemed, in these conditions, almost impossibly difficult; but it
turned out less hopeless than it had seemed. It is likely that the
fabric she was made of was tougher than one would suspect, as she had
proved by the way she had recovered from the unparalleled rigours of the
Warsaw time. It is possible, also, that, whatever her occupation had
been in Buda, she had been better fed than others. On the physical
plane, then, she had not given cause for the acutest anxiety. Moreover,
Elsie nursed her with real skill, the skill she had surprisingly
achieved while nursing in Bratislava the two tragic children who had
been confided to her care. But it was on the moral and spiritual plane,
where the girl's love for Zion had blazed like a torch, that the damage
had been done, and it was there that Elsie realized she must work with a
mother's devotion, a doctor's skill, and the assiduity of a slave in a
swamp. She must rekindle the flame.

It was an ironical spectacle, though she alone was aware of the irony of
it. Like many other Jews who have not been involved in the Jewish dream,
she could see the value of Palestine as a refuge for the persecuted; it
might equally be Uganda or a desert tract in Queensland. Indeed, she had
had certain experiences during the last two years which had impressed
that value on her with especial vigour. But she had no views on the
political or transcendental aspects of the Jewish aspiration for Zion,
she was no Zionist, because such ideas as those were totally beyond her
scope. She had known of Mila's passion from the earliest days of her
association with her. She had also known that if they escaped from
Europe at all, which so often had seemed extremely unlikely, it was
almost inevitable that they should end up on the shores of Palestine.
The whole mechanism of the escape from Europe was geared up to the
"illegal" immigration to Eretz Israel, the Land of Israel.

What would happen after that was beyond speculation. For Elsie Silver,
Palestine would be extremely dangerous. There were tens of thousands of
German refugees in Palestine, who had fled from the Hitler persecutions.
Amongst them might well be large numbers who had seen her disport
herself behind the Berlin footlights, and all these knew that Elsie
Silver had become Elsie von Brockenburg. Yes, Palestine would be
dangerous, but where, for her, was danger absent this side of the New
World? The Jews, the Western Allies, the Russians, the Germans, for one
reason or another they would all be happy to see her head on a charger.

But she was used to danger now. If she could get by in Budapest, she
could get by in Jerusalem. It was not the danger that mortified her, it
was the embarrassment. She did not belong to Palestine, whether they
spotted her or not. She could not wave blue-and-white flags and sing
_chalutz_ songs, the songs of the pioneers. She had not earned those
things, and she had not craved for them, and she did not crave for them
now. She had not earned her place among the Jews, even if she wanted it,
by doing a spell of amateur nursing in the cellars of the Warsaw ghetto.
There had been moments in Warsaw when she had thrilled with pride to
know that their blood flowed in her veins. But even then her heart was
an embarrassed stranger. How would she feel among the zealots on the
concrete boulevards of Tel Aviv?

She had hoped that by the time Mila had been led into a larger world,
and the new horizons unrolled before her; when, further, it had been
possible to talk to her of these dangers and embarrassments--she had
hoped that Mila would treat Palestine merely as a stage on a journey.
Or, at the worst, Mila might insist on spending half a year, a year, in
Palestine, while she herself might mark time in Cairo, for example.
Then, the fever having worked itself out of Mila's system, and the war
being safely over, they could get down to guide-books and steamship
offices, Mexico City or Rio de Janeiro. Or why not one of the islands in
the West Indies, the East Indies? The world was wide.

That was the way that Elsie Silver had felt about the dream of Zion; but
it was not the way that Mila had felt. Unless the dream was restored to
her, the girl would fade and die.

                 *        *        *        *        *

So Elsie set to work upon her, pretending a conversion that had not
taken place, a vision she had not seen, cajoling, rhapsodizing, day in,
day out. Leon, as ever, was of great use to her; so were some of the
young people who were actively engaged on the reanimation of the Zionist
groups, in the teeth of considerable opposition, (for the new
authorities that had been set up regarded the Zionist idea with anything
but a friendly eye). A cache of Zionist literature that had been found
in the ruins of the Zionist offices was handed over to her and she got
her teeth into it like a youth sitting for a scholarship, who digests
and transmutes a few key books on the subject with such skill that the
dazzled examiners are convinced that here is a top-rank expert.

Day and night, like a tree-top full of doves, she murmured tales of
Zion: the waters of the falls of Yarmuk turning the humming dynamos, the
golden lamps of the orange-groves along the Mediterranean shore, the
tractors turning the revivified earth under the lees of the Carmel, the
rosy-cheeked children asleep under the netting in the crches of
Deganieh, the wind-swept grasses of Galilee, the young men and women
with linked arms dancing the Hora during the Feast of Tabernacles. She
remembered how Mila had once gloried in the tales of the Zionist heroes,
that went back as far as the Maccabees and forward to the man Trumpeldor
beleaguered on his northern hill, and the nameless guardians of the
outposts, the watchers of the wells. She talked of these, and she talked
also of the young _shlichim_, the messengers, who had been dropped from
the sky into the Hitler Fortress. She reminded her of her own words:
"They are so brave and beautiful. Like poems"; and told her how she had
seen the lovely youngster, Hanna Senesch, with her own eyes, (for within
the half year that had elapsed since her execution Hanna Senesch had
already become a legend, a Joan of Arc given no armies to fight with,
her sole equipment a map and a radio-set against half an embattled
world).

It was uphill work and so exhausting that sometimes after several hours
the sweat was pouring down Elsie's cheeks. On every dimension she was
living in a world of make-believe. She was pretending to be anybody in
the world but herself, Elsie von Brockenburg. She was pretending a
burning ardour for Zion that she did not feel. Even the currency notes
in her purse were pretending, for an inflation more fabulous than the
one which had so entranced her in the Berlin of the twenties now filled
the air with clouds of paper like white rose-petals in a Riviera
carnival.

But it was all worth while if even for a few minutes at a time she
engaged Mila's attention, which she did sometimes, or seemed to do.
Until suddenly, dropping her descant, she would become aware that Mila
was once more staring straight before her into a void out of a void.
There was nothing to do then, but remain utterly silent, at most chafing
the girl's hands or stroking her forehead with fingertips gentle as
snow-flakes. Then sometimes awareness would come again into the girl's
eyes, with a tear that never quite formed, and a most piteous twist on
the lips.

"No, Channah," she would whisper then. "It's no good. It's all over. You
must go on without me."

"I would rather die, Mila. But I won't. And you won't. We've been
through too much, Mila. We're not going to give up just now. Not just
_now_, Mila. Not when we might get news any day that a party is being
made up to go to the Black Sea, because a ship will be waiting there. Do
you hear, Mila? A ship waiting to take us to Eretz, the Land!"

It was when Elsie talked for the first time of a ship actually waiting,
and a ship actually setting out, that a faint flush came into the girl's
cheeks, and a light flickered in her eyes; or so Elsie told herself.

"I must talk to Leon," she vowed. "The idea of a ship is the one thing
that seems to get through to her. Leon will know when a ship leaves. I
must see we get on to the next ship!" She sought out Leon, and demanded
his help. He was silent for a considerable time after she had finished
speaking, which was unlike him.

"What's the matter?" she asked fiercely. "Don't you think the girl's
done enough to deserve it? Me, too, for that matter? Haven't we been on
our way long enough?"

"Do you know what those refugee boats are like?" he asked awkwardly.
"Have you ever heard what happened to some of those ships? The _Patria_,
for instance, and the _Struma_? There's not only the danger of
submarines----"

"Danger!" she cried. "How dare you talk to _us_ of danger! Well, what is
it? What are you hiding?"

"There's something I'm going to tell you. I won't insult you by
insisting that it is in confidence!"

"I should think not!" she thrust at him.

"A boat is due to leave from a certain port six days from now.
Instructions came through a few days ago that a party of ten was to be
made up here in Budapest. They're to be taken on as members of the crew,
and dropped somewhere off the Palestine coast. The choice of personnel
is not in my hands, but I told the organizer about the work you did,
both of you, and suggested your names. He refused to take you on. He
said his instructions were that only people valuable to the cause were
to be chosen, not merely people who'd played some part in the Resistance
movement. He said a middle-aged woman and a sick girl----"

She was now simmering with anger. Her face was deathly white.

"What is this man's name?" she demanded. "I have the right to know. What
is this man's name?"

"He's that American, at the Joint. You may have met him. His name's
Greenberg, Milt Greenberg. Part of the time he's a relief-worker, like
anyone else. The rest of the time he... he's one of us boys."

"Kusta?" she asked.

He hesitated a fraction of a moment. Then he nodded. "Yes, Kusta. You
must forgive me."

"What for?"

"I was forgetting."

"Greenberg," she repeated. "Kusta. What were you forgetting?"

"The sort of work you were doing a short time ago."

"Tell me more about this Greenberg," she insisted.

"He's been in Istambul. He has the overall picture as regards movement
of ships and the _aliyah_, the 'illegal' immigration, as they call it.
Illegal! Those English!" There was bitterness and anger in his voice.

"Is he in the office now, your Greenberg?"

"I can find him."

"Good. Now, please."

He smiled. "I have an idea you'll be with us."

"Is it you taking the party?"

"I believe so----"

"_We_'ll be with you, Mila and I. Thank you, Leon." She smiled one of
her most enchanting smiles at him, as radiant as it was rare. He knew
Milt Greenberg would blow him sky-high. But it was worth it, he told
himself.

                 *        *        *        *        *

She knocked at the door that Leon had pointed out to her.

"In there!" he said. "I'll go!"

"_Herein!_" a voice called from within. She entered. The young man at
the desk did not look at all a formidable creature. He had red cheeks, a
small nose, broad shoulders, and elks running across a hand-knitted
sweater. His black hair lay wet and flat as if he had just emerged from
a dip in the baths of the Brooklyn Y.M.H.A.

"I'm sorry." He talked a sort of German-Yiddish. "All that arrived
to-day is a few score boxes of red pencils. Any use? Who sent you?"

She replied in English.

"No, Mr. Greenberg. They'd be no use at all. I want you to see that
there's places for me and my daughter on that next boat."

He jumped as if someone had put a firework under his seat.

"For crying out loud! Who are you? A limey?"

"You mean am I English? No, I'm not. I'm French. My name's Ostier."
(Keep to the one name. It's easy to remember.) "I've lived in England a
lot, and in Germany, too. My daughter's Mila Cossor. She's really my
adopted daughter. I found her in the Warsaw ghetto."

"But... but... I mean..." It was taking the young man quite a
time to get his breath back. "Who told you?" He burst out suddenly. "It
must have been Leon! He had no right to! How the hell can I do my
job----"

"I know that your orders are to organize a party of ten people who are
going to be useful in Eretz. That's so, isn't it?"

"That's so," he glared. "You must be the woman with the sick daughter
Leon told me about. I'm sorry. You know the orders already. I don't need
to tell you."

"They must also be Resistance personnel," she continued grimly, "because
Monsieur Tito has more respect for fighters than sufferers. Well,
listen, I'll tell you a thing or two about my own work first. Does the
name 'Miriam' mean anything to you?"

He looked up guardedly.

"Miriam? What Miriam?"

"We won't play around," she said shortly. "I mean Gisi Fleishmann, of
Bratislava."

"You worked for Gisi?" he said. "Did you?" He stopped. "What a woman! My
god, what a woman!"

"If she'd been alive still, you could have asked her about Channah."

"She's not alive. They got wise to her. Listen!" he said. "How do I know
you've not just heard of her? The names of these people are beginning to
get around." He began to get tough with himself. "How do I know you're
not pulling a fast one on me, huh?"

"Young man," she said. "You must be intelligent. How would I know Gisi
Fleishmann was Miriam, if I didn't work for her? Anyhow, you can always
ask Leon, can't you?"

He considered the matter. "I suppose you're right," he admitted. "Well,
what about it?"

"As I said, I'm going to tell you a thing or two about my own work," she
informed him grimly. "It'll help you to make up your mind how useful I
might be. Then I'll go on to Mila."

"Mila?"

"That's the girl from Warsaw. I'll tell you first about my own work with
Count Apor." She told him. His eyes got round with excitement. "Gee!" he
interposed from time to time. He was beginning to look smaller, his face
less self-confident, from minute to minute.

"Didn't Leon give you some idea of all this?" she wanted to know.
"There's somebody else besides Leon in this town who could confirm it,
too. There's a bookseller called Kollar in the Esk Ut. He's opened up
the shop again. I saw him only yesterday. Yes? What do you want to say?

"Leon tried to give me some idea," Milt said peevishly, "in a roundabout
sort of way. I told him it was no good. The party's been made up."

"It will have to be unmade," she said. "I don't care which two you turn
out."

"But honestly, Mrs. Ostier, they all know they're going. I've told them.
I couldn't do such a thing."

"I'll tell you why you must, and will. I'll tell you first the sort of
girl Mila is. Listen now. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening, Mrs. Ostier."

She first told him a few things about the fit Mila. Then she told him as
much as she thought necessary about the unfit Mila.

"If I can assure her she'll get away at the first possible moment," she
concluded, "there's some hope for her. If not, she's done for. The tale
would make very unpleasant reading in New York. Please. You won't
imagine I'm threatening you, will you?" She paused. "Though I would if
it were necessary," she assured him. "However, it isn't necessary, is
it, Mr. Greenberg?"

"I don't know. I don't know." He was, after all, a nave young man from
Brooklyn. Or at least he was nave compared with her. He looked as if he
might burst into tears at any moment. "It would have to be all right
with the Russians," he said, a shade sulkily.

"I shouldn't worry about that," she said, and smiled brightly at him. "I
have quite distinguished acquaintances among high-ranking Russian
officers. I would rather not put the thing on a political level, but
there it is." Her heart was cold with terror as she spoke. What made her
yield to this stupid impulse of boasting? Wasn't her victory palpable
enough already? Supposing he took up with her the business of her
high-ranking Russian officer friends?

She saw him raise his eyes and examine her a little more closely. She
saw with his eyes the creature she was, half-starved, haggard, dressed
in clothes that had come out of the bottom of a bale.

In these cases there is only one thing to do. You go on bluffing. The
way she had done in Bratislava, for instance, on the German side of the
Danube bridge. You go on bluffing, using the truth as the substance of
your bluff.

"Yes," she continued easily. "You might like to refer to Captain
Smolenski. I met him first in the Warsaw ghetto. He could tell you quite
a lot about me. He was one of their agents. You could locate him at the
Town Major's office."

"Not at all, not at all," said Milt hastily. It had the smell of a pie
he did not want to stick his fingers into.

"As you please," she said. "As for myself, I have only one interest.
Mila and I want to get to Palestine. We love Palestine with all our
heart and soul. One last thing. They need us there. Well, Mr.
Greenberg?" She did not say any thing for some time. Then: "It'll be all
right, of course, won't it, Mr. Greenberg?"

"Of course it will," he said, with tears in his voice. "On one
condition." He raised both his head and his voice.

"Yes?"

"That you'll take a few boxes of these goddam red pencils off my hands!
Will you?"

"Who's doing the threatening now?" she said jovially. "You're a nice
young man," she said. "Where are you from? Chicago? Brooklyn?"

"Brooklyn!" he said firmly. "Now give me all the instructions you can
about your adopted daughter and yourself." He held a pencil poised above
a pad. "We'll have to put things right with both the Russians and the
Yugoslavs. We'll have to see the Hungarian people, too, but that's a
matter of form. I'll have to rush about like crazy. As for the other
end----"

"Yes?"

"Kusta arranges all that for you."

"Blessings on Kusta!" she breathed.

"You've said it," he agreed. "Shoot!" She gave him the details he asked
for, then, in his turn, he gave her certain instructions. "Be back
to-morrow for your papers. Yes, I said to-morrow. The party leaves three
days from now, the morning of the twenty-fourth. You'll have three days
and nights to make the boat. That should get you there in good time."

As she made her way home to Mila, it was as if the broken roadway
beneath her were paved with pneumatic cushions.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Her thoughts had begun to clarify by the time she reached home. She
realized she could do one of two things regarding the journey. She could
either tell Mila straight away, in the hope that the news might
immediately shake her out of her torpor, and the ameliorative process
begin at once. Or she could postpone it till the morning of the
departure; in fact, not say a word till half an hour, or at most an
hour, before they set off for the bridge. There were no preparations to
make, absolutely none. They might have a rather more thorough wash than
usual, and tie the hair back. They would be travelling very light
indeed. Whatever clothes they had could easily go into a bundle. The
same went for the small stock of provisions they had accumulated. There
would be a further haversack of food for each of them in the lorry.

It would require a lot of self-restraint to keep total silence for three
whole days, for the news was bound to give a lift to the girl's spirits,
if only for a short time. If not, she was sadly out in her calculations.
But three days are only three days. Mila's condition could not seriously
deteriorate during that time. If Elsie managed to remain silent, the
effect of dramatically springing the news on Mila within a few minutes
of the actual departure might be the equivalent of one of those
new-fangled shock treatments which had been strongly recommended to her.
It was a gamble, and she decided to take it.

Actually the time of the departure had to be pushed back by a day, for
the papers were not all quite such easy sailing as Milt Greenberg had
hoped. That left only two days and nights for the journey, but the lorry
was said to be in good shape, and there were three or four people who
could share the driving.

On the morning of the twenty-fifth, then, Elsie left the apartment for
her job, as usual. That was at nine o'clock. Half an hour later she was
back. Her hair was all over the place. Her breath was labouring as if
she had been running hard. And, in fact, she had been running hard, for
it is an unnecessary strain on the technique of any sort of actress to
pretend to be out of breath when she is not.

"Mila!" she cried, tearing up the stairs for all she was worth. "Mila!"
The name reverberated in the passages. She flung the door open. "Good
news!" she cried. "Quick! Get your things together! There's not a moment
to lose!" She collapsed on to the floor-mattress with an exhaustion both
feigned and real.

"What is it, Channah?" the girl cried. "What is it?" She was over by
Elsie's side, soothing her, calming her down.

"Good news!" Elsie panted. "A lorry's waiting at the Margit Bridge!
There's a party going to a port in Yugoslavia! We've got our papers! The
lorry leaves in half an hour! We're in it! There'll be a ship there to
take us to Eretz Israel! Oh Mila! Mila! At last! Isn't it marvellous!"

A faint flush came into the girl's cheeks. The breath fluttered in her
throat.

"Eretz Israel!" she breathed. "We're to go, too? Oh no! Oh no! It can't
be true! It's a joke!" She had not spoken so many words at one time for
weeks and weeks.

Elsie got up from the mattress.

"At once!" she said. "There's less than half an hour! Have a quick wash,
darling! Comb your hair! I'll get our things together! I don't know
whether I'm on my head or my heels!"

"Quiet!" Mila counselled, as she went for her towel and her piece of
soap. "You must not get so excited! You'll make yourself ill!" There was
an enamel ewer and basin in the room. She poured out some water. "Eretz
Israel has been there for two thousand years," she said gravely.

"Yes, yes," stormed Elsie, bundling up their blankets. "But the lorry's
leaving prompt at ten. Hurry, darling, hurry!"

As she turned away to pick up the odd things they had, she had the sort
of smile on her face with which mothers look down on their new-born
infants.

"It was just like this in Warsaw, I remember," she said to herself. "No
midwife. No anaesthetics."

                 *        *        *        *        *

"Don't hurry like that!" panted Mila, as they went racing along the Esk
Ut to the Embankment. "You've got a long journey ahead of you! They'll
wait for us!"

"I don't know!" gasped Elsie. "I don't know! They didn't particularly
want to take us at all! They said: 'Just a couple of women! They're
bound to keep us waiting!' Are you all right, Mila? Are you sure you can
manage it? Give me your bundle, will you?"

"Of course I can. And I won't give you my bundle. You've got as much as
you can manage. Take it easy, Channah! Take it easy!"

Elsie smiled. Her heart was filled with joy. She was conscious of
considerable self-satisfaction too. She had been clever. There was no
doubt of that. There was, however, still one hurdle to get over. In not
many minutes Mila would see that Leon was a member of the party. What
effect would that have on her? Would she suddenly turn tail, as she had
done on an earlier occasion; as she had done a second time, in fact,
when she had glimpsed Elsie herself? She determined it would be better
to convey the information now, while they were so strenuously occupied
with the job of getting to the bridge. They were just turning on to the
Embankment, when she said, as it were casually:

"By the way, Mila. You know who's taking the party? An old friend of
yours. Leon. You remember him?"

Mila stopped. Her jaw fell. For one instant it looked as if she would
drop her bundle and run. But Elsie was too quick for her. "Look!" she
cried. "There's the lorry! Do you see it? Just this side of the bridge."
They had skirted the danger. The danger was now behind them. They
approached the bridge. There were four people sitting near the lorry,
their backs against the parapet. A young man and woman were gazing at
the bridge, which had just been put into commission, and in quick time,
for it was only the arch on this side of the Margit Island that had been
sprung by the Germans. They had handled the other bridges more
efficiently. One or two other passengers could be glimpsed under the
tarpaulin in the half-light inside the lorry. At that moment a man put
his leg over the tail board, preparing to descend, a man with broad
shoulders, tousled chestnut-brown hair, a snub-nose, the familiar white
scar over the cheek-bone. It was Leon. He glimpsed the two women in the
same moment as they glimpsed him, and he leapt down into the roadway
like an antelope.

"Channah! Mila! _Shalom!_ How wonderful to see you!" He took their hands
and shook them energetically. "I heard you'd made it! That's grand!" He
turned to Mila. "Channah tells me you've not been too well lately. The
motor trip will do you all the good in the world. Then the sea-air after
that. Just what the doctor ordered!"

Elsie smiled at him gratefully. That's the way to do it, she thought. No
secrets. Take the bull by the horns.

"_Shalom_, Leon! I wish they hadn't rushed us like this," complained
Elsie, pressing her hand to her heart. "We nearly passed out getting
ready in five minutes. Just like you men! And here you are sitting
about, waiting!"

"We won't be more than a few minutes now. There's just one or two other
people to come. That one with the map there, that's Itzik, the driver!
Hi, Itzik! Put that map down! Here's Channah! Here's Mila! You must meet
the others. Hallo! Willi! Hinda!" He was calling out to the group
sitting on the pavement. "Here's Channah and Mila!" Willi and Hinda got
up. They were quite young people. Hinda had dark flashing eyes, a broad
brow, full lips. She was easy to look at. They were followed by an older
man in spectacles, and a middle-aged man. "This is Mischa Fasan! Yes,
himself! We managed to hide him away!" He was obviously a person of
importance. "And this is Julius Vastagh, the food-chemist! Have you any
straw? He'll knock you up a couple of beef-steaks!" Julius Vastagh got
up smiling from the newspaper he had spread out under himself. His teeth
were dazzling. He obviously knew exactly what to eat and what not to eat
in order to keep them so.

"_Shalom! Shalom!_" There was a brisk interchange of _Shaloms_ on every
hand. Two people who had been busy inside the lorry came out. One was
introduced as Karl Berger. He was an "Agronome," whatever that was. His
pockets were stuffed with papers. He was about forty. The other was some
years younger, his name Chaim, and he was an engineer. He wore one of
those Russian caps in which political leaders are photographed on the
top of Lenin's tomb during ceremonial occasions. "_Shalom! Shalom!_"
Then more hand-shakes and greetings and inquiries about this and that.
Had they been in Budapest long? Had they any relatives in Palestine? Had
they been on a sea-voyage before? Everybody talked in Yiddish or German.
Elsie observed with relief that most of the questions were addressed to
her. She was certain that the others had been advised, obviously by
Leon, that the girl was not in good shape. She thought they were
handling the situation with tact and kindness. She could have kissed
them all, one after the other. They all seemed to be people of
intelligence, even of distinction, though it was evident that all of
them or nearly all of them, had been through the mill lately. But they
were sensitive people, too. It was going to make the journey ahead
easier than it might have been, whatever experiences were in store for
them.

Leon started counting heads. "Five-six-seven-eight-nine. With Itzik,
ten. That's one missing. Who's missing? Oh yes, Ludwig Neumann. What do
you expect? A lawyer. He'd better hurry."

"That's him, isn't it?" somebody asked. A tall man with spindly legs,
dressed in a black coat and grey trousers and, fantastically, in a
starched butterfly collar and formal grey tie, was loping along the
embankment. His clothes did not accord well with the black
American-cloth shopping-bag he held. There was a string hanging down at
his shoulder, from which a small cushion was suspended, wrapped round in
a couple of rugs.

"Ludwig Neumann," muttered Willi to Elsie. "You know. The Austrian. The
international lawyer."

"Yes, of course," muttered Elsie in return. "It's like the staff of a
University," she thought to herself. "You can see they're going to be
pretty valuable people one way or another when they get to Palestine.
But you wouldn't guess they've all been leading lights in the Resistance
movement. Well, I don't suppose I look as if I could say Boo to a goose.
Anyhow, the conversation's going to be on a high level." She looked at
Ludwig Neumann again. He looked rather a forlorn spectacle really, this
Austrian international lawyer. Out of all his deed boxes and ledgers and
calf-bound law volumes this was all he had salvaged, a pillow, two
blankets, and a small shopping-bag. The sole of his left boot was loose
and flapped on the roadway as he ran, which made the snow-white starched
collar look all the more fabulous. Where had he kept that collar during
the discomforts to which, in the nature of things, he had been subjected
for a long time? Or had he at the last moment got some kind woman to
wash it, as a symbol of jubilation, like a building flying a flag?

"Please, excuse me!" he gasped as he spotted Leon. There was no
make-believe in _that_ gasping, thought Elsie. "I went to the wrong
bridge," he explained.

Leon smiled, and not Leon only. Ludwig Neumann was exactly the sort of
man who would be incredibly meticulous about a syllable in a document,
and confuse a bridge which was standing with a bridge that was a welter
of broken blocks and twisted steel rods.

"Well, we're all here now," said Leon. "We'll get going. Your documents,
all of you." He handed them round.

"What about the American?" asked someone.

"Yes, what about the American?" asked several others.

They obviously meant Milt Greenberg. They seemed to like the pleasant
young man from Brooklyn.

"He's heard of a store of grain in Szolnok," said Leon. "He's had to go
after it. He told me to wish you all a good journey. _Mirzashem_, he'll
meet us all in Eretz."

The party turned to Itzik, the driver, who was climbing into his seat.

"You'll give him a greeting when you get back, yes, Itzik?"

"Yes, yes, sure, sure." He talked to them as to a party of
schoolchildren, though some looked tough, and most looked wise. "To your
places, boys and girls! Mind the step! Be careful of the carpet!" Itzik
was evidently a funny man. "Who's coming up beside me? Room for one!" he
called out. Leon looked tentatively at Elsie and Mila, but obviously
they could not be separated. Then Mischa Fasan, the oldest person in the
party, was the right man. "Up, Dr. Fasan!" The old man grinned like a
schoolboy as he climbed in beside Itzik. He was quite spry for his sixty
years. Leon let the tail board down, and Willi handed up the bits of
luggage the travellers had brought with them. Inside there were rugs and
sacks and other oddments to sit on. In one corner were some parcels that
evidently contained food. Over in another corner were some petrol and a
spare tyre. The passengers being all aboard, Willi vaulted into the
lorry, and lifted the tail board again. Itzik started up the engine and
got into gear. They charged off, with the noise of a low-flying Rata
machine-gunning a barracks.

Suddenly everyone started singing--at least, all those who knew the
song. It was one of the songs of the Palestinian pioneers:

    _Al atzevet bachurim, bachurim,_
    _harabi tsiva bismoach kol chayenu...._
    _Don't be sad, lads, don't be sad,_
    _The Rebbe says we must have fun._
    _All our lives are full of darkness_
    _For God's sake let in the sun!_
    _Let's have rhythm, let's get moving._
    _There's lots of beer and wine to hand._
    _Let old man and young lad dance_
    _The Hora in a foreign land._

Elsie Silver did not know the song. But if it was not on her lips, it
was in her heart, pealing like a bell. For Mila was singing away like a
schoolchild on a treat. So were the others. They were all like
youngsters. The years had fallen from them. Their chests were flung out
as they sang, their heads moved from side to side:

    _Don't be sad, lads, don't be sad,_
    _The Rebbe says we must have fun._

They were roaring along over the bridge, and under them the springtime
waters bore down swirling and chuckling round the piers, and joined
again and went rushing on towards the sea. Ahead of them loomed the
massive bastions of the Var. They had crossed the river now. The long
journey to the river and across the river was over.

"I'm going to cry!" said Elsie. "This is dreadful! My handkerchief's
like a bit of old table-cloth!" But she _was_ crying. The lorry had
turned left. It was thrusting along the ttlos Ut now, under the green
slopes of the _Gellert_ hill. The river was at their backs now, the
river they had been so close to, for so long, since the evening they had
both glimpsed it together from a window in Bratislava.

She turned impulsively to Mila. "Do you remember----" she was going to
say. But she did not say it. The girl must forget the past. Gellert hill
was on their right hand. Soon it would be behind them. Buda would be
behind them. Budapest, Bratislava, Cracow, Warsaw, cities of danger and
grief, they would all be behind them. Away southward and westward were
the great plains, and one more frontier, that of Yugoslavia, a frontier
where they would not have to steal at dead of night under the imminent
danger of a jangling of alarm wires and a crack of rifles. And beyond
the hills of Yugoslavia was the sea, and beyond the sea was Eretz, the
Land. Listen to the girl now! Listen to her, saluting the land, with a
song on her lips and a light in her eyes:

    _All our lives are full of darkness._
    _For God's sake let in the sun._




CHAPTER XI


[I]

The singing ceased. The passion was too intense to last. The travellers
proceeded to make themselves as comfortable as they could with the rugs
and sacks and the mattress or two that someone had thrown in. There was
a long day ahead of them, and it would probably be made longer by the
state of the roads. They might make the frontier by nightfall, or they
might not.

Mila was lying stretched out, her back against Elsie's knees. The
animation had suddenly fallen from her, like a load of snow from a steep
roof.

"You must rest now," murmured Elsie, stroking the girl's forehead. "We
must both rest." The girl was sound asleep, before the hills of Buda had
faded from view. Soon the hills on the north and the river on the east
were invisible. The broken suburbs dwindled and disappeared. They were
rattling and roaring across the verge of the Great Plain.

It was the sweet time of the year. Though from time to time a wrecked
bridge, a burned station, a rusty train lying under an embankment with
its back broken, an irrelevant farmhouse gutted to its cellars, told the
sharp tale of the bombing planes that had recently flown under these
skies, and the masses of troops that had manoeuvred over these
fields--yet the young maize and wheat and clover, the shrill green early
vines in the red vineyards, the far-scattered acacia, the thrusting
buds, did all they knew to annul the indecency. All the fruit trees were
gay with blossom, the late white blossom of apple trees, pink-tipped,
ranged in vast orchards, milk-white of plum, ivory white of pear, the
famous apricots. Now and again one of the travellers would rise to his
feet, and, holding by the tail board, gaze out over the broad expanse,
as if he needed to assure himself that he was truly no longer crouched
in a cellar or incarcerated in a prison. The millstones of war had not
wholly ground into powder the droves of pigs on the edge of the
villages, the flocks of sheep, the troops of horses and oxen, and as the
lorry rattled by, pursued sometimes, where the road had not been tended
for several years, by clouds of dust like cattle pursued by clouds of
gnats, a horseman or a shepherd would stand gazing impassively after
them as they disappeared into the south-west, his hand to his eyes, as
his ancestors stood gazing a thousand years ago, and his progeny would
stand gazing a thousand years hence.

An hour passed, two hours. Elsie dropped off to sleep. Her eyes were
open again. Someone was touching her on the shoulder.

"Yes?" It was the small man, the food-chemist. What was his name? Yes,
Julius Vastagh. He had a felt-covered military water-bottle in his hand.

"Take some!" he said. "It's a sort of orangeade. I made it myself." One
got the impression he had been mixing powders and distilling waters
somewhere in a corner of the lorry. She was thirsty. She took the flask
from him and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls. At that moment Mila opened
her eyes, and reached her hand out into the air. It was as if the smell
had struck her nostrils. Elsie looked inquiringly at Julius. "Of
course!" he murmured. She put the bottle to Mila's lips. The girl drank.
The hand settled again. The eyes closed. It was exactly the way a baby
briefly opens its eyes, smelling the milk in the breast, and the breast
is brought to its lips, and the child sucks a moment or two, and then
the lips relax, the baby is asleep again.

"_Mishkosheh!_" breathed the dapper little chemist. One saw he had kind
eyes. "She is going to be well soon."

Then young Willi spoke.

"I'm getting hungry," he said.

"Me, too," said the girl Hinda.

They sat there holding hands, like schoolchildren.

"You wouldn't think"--Leon leaned over to Elsie--"they'd been partisans,
both of them. She was specially good with a knife. Used to creep up on
them at dead of night, like the Ghurkas." No, one wouldn't think so.

"When do we eat, Leon?" Hinda called out. "He bites when he's hungry."
It was obvious that the two young folk were on the best of terms with
each other. From the way each caught the other gazing on him when he
thought himself unobserved, and smiled, and looked away--it seemed
likely a pair of lovers would be added soon to the joy of the journey.

"You can eat when you like," returned Leon. "You've each got your own
little parcel. We hoped to get as far as Kaposvar and knock back a litre
of wine."

"The wine's on me," said Willi. "Look!" He brought out his wallet and
removed a crumpled dollar note. "I got it from a dead _Piefke_ in a wood
near Tarnow."

"Fine!" said Leon. "But you could get a whole barrel for that, and a
sack of corn. Or how would you like a nice fat hog?"

"How far's this place?" asked Willi.

"Another hundred kilometres. More, I think."

"Ooh!" groaned Willi and Hinda.

"What's the hurry, Leon?" asked Chaim. That was the man in the cloth
cap. He was an engineer, one learned, who had worked in the Soviet Union
on dam projects.

"Because the ship won't hang around in Zara more than a couple of days,
at most."

"Zara?" There was a general chorus. "Oh, _Zara!_" "So that's where we're
going! Zara!" "Where on earth's Zara?"

"On the Dalmatian coast," said Leon, for the benefit of those who seemed
hazy about it. He was grinning with pleasure. There was now no
particular reason to keep routes and destinations secret, but he was
evidently a born mystifier. He must have been like that long before he
became an underground worker. "Itzik will show you where it is on his
map. The British are building a new airfield near Zara. That's why
there's a cargo ship or two about. Don't get excited! It's still a long
way off."

The flat leagues followed each other, the few far villages, that turned
on the street their windowless unwelcoming walls. The onion-bulb towers
of the churches, surmounted by a cross when they were Catholic, by a
cock when they were Calvinist, summoned no worshippers to prayer. There
was very little traffic about, beyond the immemorial traffic of that
countryside, a low-slung country-cart carrying fodder, a huge barrel on
a four-wheeled plank stretcher, an occasional bicycle in a village. Once
or twice a lorry-load of Jugoslav soldiers drove by, once or twice a
motor car with Russian personnel. The war had swung over far to the
north and west.

They were well north of Kaposvar when at length they alighted, but not
because there was wine to drink. The engine was boiling, and from far
off Itzik had noticed one of those weighted T-square contraptions that
work the ancient cattle-wells. So everyone got out, and dug into his
rations, and had to be content with the slightly brackish water with
which they filled their bottles and dixie-cans from the wooden troughs.
While they were there a herd of large horned cattle came plodding
forward to be watered. Not a word passed between the men of the lorry
and the men of the herd. The peasants stood by motionless, their long
whips in their hands, their cherry-wood pipes dark in their mouths. Two
small boys squatted on their haunches and proceeded to spit with
extraordinary precision into a small rusty tin six feet away. But one
person there was quick with excitement, the man from Dresden, Karl
Berger. "_Ich bin Agronom_," he said half a dozen times, as if to
explain it, peering down into the well, tugging at the weight on the
cross-beam, turning the water over in the hollow of his tongue. "_Hoch
interessant, nicht?_"

Then once more the party started off, and the long flat leagues unrolled
again under the wheels. It was late afternoon. The country was greener
now, and the declining sun blew a red flare upon the tops of trees. Now
and again pheasants ran squawking out from between the half-grown stalks
of maize, or a flock of wild geese went honking over to their
breeding-places. There were rivulets now and swampy places starred with
forget-me-nots. They were approaching the river that marked the frontier
country.

"Csurg!" Leon proclaimed suddenly. He was staring out over the country
ahead between the shoulders of the driver and old Fasan. It sounded like
some mysterious password.

"What's that? Where?" asked several voices.

"The frontier village!" he explained. As he spoke, the outlying farms
showed up behind the advancing vehicle. The village thickened. Itzik
reduced his speed. There was a building that looked like a schoolhouse
on the left, a derelict petrol station on the right. They were in a
street now. That was the church. That was the village store. Itzik
turned his head and gestured. "Get ready, everyone!" Leon ordered. "Take
everything with you!" A minute later Itzik braked. Everybody got down
carrying their belongings and came round to the front of the lorry. They
were at the western end of the village. A customs barrier was slung
across the road. On one side were a couple of small huts and sheds. A
handful of customs men and soldiers, in both Hungarian and Russian
uniforms, were awaiting the next step. A mile or so away a double line
of trees meandered over the plain, along the two banks of a river.
Beyond the river was a new country. A line of hills quivered and glowed
there, made so diaphanous by the large red ball of the sun, it was hard
to say whether they were hills or cloud. The air was full of a shrill
twitter of swallows, as busy as grasshoppers.

"Come along, all of you! Bring your papers!" Leon ordered. His most
fetching grin on his face, he went ahead to the group by the barrier,
with the special quittances he had been given. He was holding his fist
up in the Russian way. Political gestures came easy to him. He had once,
at least, given a creditable imitation of a Szlasy guard out on a
firing-squad spree. The Russians and Hungarians raised their fists too,
and grinned back. It was not going to be a difficult passage.

The consultations with the Hungarian officials in the Hungarian shed
were over quickly. One had the feeling that they were there merely as a
matter of form. The examination by the Russians was not quite so
cursory. In each case the scrutiny was close, but after several minutes
the documents were returned to all the holders, with one exception,
Ludwig Neumann, the Austrian expert on international law. For some
reason the Russians were more diffident about Herr Neumann than they
were about the others. They made him turn out all the scraps of paper
with which his pockets were stuffed, and a good deal of discussion went
on about him in the small inner office at the back of the shed. Then at
last a telephone-call was put through, presumably to Budapest.

"That might take some time," said Leon glumly. "Let's see what we can
get at that inn." The party went over, and ate well, against the payment
of a dollar note. No one made the slightest attempt to find out from
anyone else, least of all from Ludwig Neumann himself, what bee was
buzzing in the Russian bonnet. He seemed to be about as politically
minded as the scrubbed table on which the wine and sausage and bread
were set before them.

"Sleepy again, Mila?" asked Elsie softly.

The girl nodded.

"This wine," she murmured.

It was not the wine only. Night after night, week after week, if she had
slept at all it had been anything but healing sleep that had filled the
dark long hours. She had a good deal of leeway to make up.

The party lounged around for a long time without being called and then
went back to the lorry. Some disposed themselves inside. Others waited
around. Still no word had come through from Budapest. Still Ludwig
Neumann remained suspended in a limbo.

It was getting dark now. Itzik, the driver, was walking about like a
caged animal. He had hoped to be well on his way to Zaghreb by the end
of the day's journey. Now it seemed likely they would be held up all
night in this God-forsaken village.

Then Ludwig Neumann took a hand in the matter. He asked Leon to step
aside.

"You must go," he said. "If there is difficulty now, there will be
difficulty later. I refuse to hold you up. It would be terrible if you
missed the ship because of me."

"_Tovarich!_" the Russian in charge called out. Leon turned and went
back to the office. By the light of an oil-lamp you could see them
tidying up their papers. They were shutting up for the night. Leon
returned a minute later.

"We stay the night, or we go now," he said.

"You go now," said Ludwig Neumann. He went up to the heap of bundles in
the lorry and took out his black shopping-bag and his little cushion
tied up in two rugs.

"_Shalom!_" said Leon.

"_Shalom!_" "_Shalom!_" "_Shalom!_" everyone called out.

Leon took out a wad of notes from his pocket, peeled off one or two and
handed them over to Ludwig Neumann.

"No," said the lawyer. "I thank you. You have further than I to go. I'll
find a way."

"Well, Itzik, well," Leon was genuinely distressed.

"The decision's up to you," said Itzik. "It's a long way."

"Supposing they don't allow him to go on?"

Itzik shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent.

"You're coming back with the lorry, aren't you?" asked Ludwig Neumann.

"Yes."

"You may come back this way?"

"If it's possible."

"If not, not," said Ludwig Neumann. "Perhaps I will even find a way to
join the others. If not now, later." When someone speaks in such a tone
one knows argument is vain. Leon got up into the driver's seat for the
night spell of driving, and started up the lorry. Old Fasan lay down in
the lorry, and Chaim, the engineer, got up beside Leon. Both slewed
their heads round the sides of the cab.

"_Shalom_, Ludwig Neumann!" they cried out.

"_Shalom!_" went the lips of the famous international lawyer. You could
not hear the word in the noise the engine made. The lorry jerked off.
From the back of the lorry you could make out Ludwig Neumann's stiff
white butterfly-collar, neither stiff nor white any more, hovering pale
and forlorn five and a half feet above the roadway, like a large hurt
moth.

"A pity!" said Itzik. "I believe they wanted him at the Hebrew
University. Well, there it is!" He was not one for shedding tears when
things went wrong, and there was nothing to be done about it. "They'd
better not settle down yet! We'll be out once or twice again!"

First it was the river itself, the Drave. There was a Russian sentry on
both ends of the bridge. Everyone got out and there was a quick
scrutiny.

"Pass!" the sentry said. The lorry rumbled across. The travellers went
over on foot. The lights probed into the night inquisitively. "Climb up
again!" Itzik called. They climbed up.

"We're in another country," breathed Elsie in Mila's ear. "The last
country. And then we reach the sea." She placed her mouth softly against
Mila's cheek. "It's been a long time, Mila."

"If not for you..." Mila brought out. "If not for you..."

"If not for both of us," Elsie corrected her. Nothing was said for ten
minutes, twenty minutes. It was a strange land, a blind world, there,
under the dark vault of the lorry. Slowly a dimness suffused the air.
There was a farm, a house or two. They were approaching the frontier
village on the Jugoslav side of the river. The lorry ground to a stop.

"Out!" called Itzik. "It should be quick this time." He was right. The
Russian imprimatur had already been given at Csurg. The travellers got
back into the lorry and started forward. They were on their way to
Zaghreb, to Zaghreb and the sea.


[II]

But whoever else was aware of Zaghreb, Elsie Silver was not. At Zaghreb,
and for many miles beyond, she, at least, was fast asleep. It may have
been the keenness of the air in her nostrils that awakened her, or it
may have been the shrillness of Mila's voice in her eardrums.

"Stop!" she heard Mila shout. "Tell him to stop!" On the instant she was
awake.

"What is it, Mila? What?" she cried. But there was no panic in the sound
of Mila's voice. It was bright daylight.

"Look, Channah!" Mila cried. She was standing up on the left-hand side
of the lorry against the tail board, grasping the tarpaulin rope to
balance herself. "Look! Here's more!"

Elsie scrambled to her feet. She was aching in all her limbs. It had
been a long night, and a hard bed. She stumbled and young Willi caught
hold of her with his free hand. The other hand was round Hinda's
shoulder. They also were standing and looking out.

"Those flowers! Look!" Mila was nearly distraught with excitement.
"Those red ones! What are they?"

They were up in the hills, hard white hills outlined against a pale
blue-green sky. There were dark trees thrusting up against the skyline,
trees Elsie had not seen for years, cypress, ilex, holm-oak. In the
hollows among rocks, great drifts of scarlet anemones flickered like an
underfoot fire.

"Anemones!" said Elsie.

"Yes, yes!" cried Mila. "Anemones! Those trees! What are they?" She did
not wait for an answer. "Oh, Channah! I saw an eagle! I saw the sun come
out! There was a waterfall! You were sleeping! I didn't waken you!
Anemones! Anemones!"

The girl was enraptured. She clapped her hands. The rapture extended to
everyone in the lorry. It was as if a small fragment of the sun had been
broken off and been suspended from the roof of the lorry, the way that
apples and oranges are suspended by devout Jews from the crossed laths
that cover their makeshift booths on the Feast of Tabernacles. Everyone
smiled. One after another they got on to their feet to join Mila in her
delight. You could hear their joints creaking as they rose.

But the wonder was not over. At the top of a steep climb Leon suddenly
braked the lorry, and got out. The goggles were thrust up on his
forehead. He had the familiar grin on his face. Although he had been
driving all night, and must have been driving through mountainous
country for some time, he looked quite fresh.

"Get out, all of you!" he ordered. "There's something over there you
must see!" He pointed westward.

Everybody got out, and came round to the front of the lorry to look
where he pointed. All were deeply moved, but they were even more
conscious of Mila's exaltation than of the sight they saw. The girl was
transfigured. She stood there for one minute, two minutes, as if she
were afraid that if she did not hold tight with her eyes, the thing
would disappear like smoke or a promise. At last she turned round. Her
cheeks were blazing like the scarlet anemones. It was to Elsie she
spoke, and to no one else, as if no one else were with her, there on the
mountain tops.

"Channah!" she brought out. "Channah! Look!" You could not hear her
words. You could only deduce them from the shape of her lips as they
moved. "Look! _The sea!_"

                 *        *        *        *        *

"Up here!" proclaimed Leon. "In front! There's room for both of you."

"But..." started Elsie.

"Chaim would like to stretch his legs inside. Isn't that so, Chaim?"

The engineer smiled, handed his maps over, and went round to the back of
the lorry. Mila got in between Leon and Elsie. Rugs were lifted up to
them for their knees and shoulders. Someone handed up half a bottle of
wine, someone else some bread and a hunk of cheese. There was no doubt
everyone was spoiling Mila. The heavenly day went ahead like a band of
musicians under flying flags. The sea did not last long. It let itself
be seen for only a moment or two across one range of hills, through
another range of hills. Then it folded itself around, like a bride, or a
secret, to offer itself when the due moment was come. But there was
everything else in a day that, even as it proceeded, seemed to put its
ends before its beginnings, and its middle anywhere at all. Now it was
orange trees and aloes. But how _could_ it be, at the top of the sharp
white hills? Now it was vultures and waterfalls. But how _could_ it be
in the green meadow? Olives in the middle distances, striped orange
awning in a caf under an ilex-grove, a moving haystack propelled by the
four dainty invisible legs of a donkey, trailing roots of fig trees,
tiny walled cities stuck like posters on grey rock slopes, pink blossom
of oleander, white blossom of oleander, round red jaunty peasant-caps
moving by themselves like red moons and red planets, swallows making the
sky a music-sheet, scarlet blossom of pomegranate, rock-rose and myrtle,
cold freshet smothered by forget-me-nots, blue forget-me-nots blue as
the sea... and at last the sea itself, firm-fixed as a slab of lapis
lazuli between the base of the mountains and the long islands beyond.


[III]

It was about five o'clock that evening that the lorry climbed to the
crest of a hill, and, turning sharp on a hair-pin bend, they saw the
panorama of Zara and the adjacent region lying stretched below them:
nearest, a long and narrow indentation of the sea; beyond, a small
plain; then, stretching north and west from the plain, a lump of land
like the blunt snout of a lizard. There was a sea-town there. The town
was Zara. Beyond, a line of islands was strung out against the west,
disappearing north and south in the blue Illyrian haze.

It was Itzik who was driving again now. He had taken over from Chaim
some hours earlier. It had been tough going. He removed his right hand
from the wheel.

"Do you see it, Mila?" he asked. "Up against the quayside?"

"See what?" she asked. "It's too far."

"You're younger than me," he said. "I thought you might see it. The
ship. _Your_ ship!"

"You're teasing me," she said. "Oh yes. Of course I can see it." She put
her hand to her eyes and gazed intently. "_Q-U-E-E-N M-A-R-Y._" She
spelled out the English letters awkwardly.

"Who's being funny now?" growled Itzik, twinkling. ("Mila's being
funny!" sang Elsie's heart. "Mila's being funny!") "Then they must have
changed its name," Itzik went on. "They told us in Budapest the ship's
name's the _Estrella_."

"The _Estrella!_" Mila cried. "The _Estrella!_ What a lovely, lovely
name! What language is that?"

"Spanish, I think," ventured Elsie.

"Spanish! Is it a Spanish ship?"

"Or South American, perhaps?"

"It'll fly the Panamanian flag," said Itzik. "They mostly do. Blue and
white quarterings, with blue stars on the white ground." He sounded
quite an authority on flags.

"The _Estrella!_ The _Estrella!_ Like a nightingale!" carolled Mila. She
had probably never heard a nightingale in all her life. Certainly not,
thought Elsie, in the groves and woods of Warsaw.

The vision of Zara was soon hidden from sight by the turn of the
roadway, to reappear fitfully in the twists and turns of the descending
landscape till they almost reached sea-level. Then there was a narrow
river to cross that came helter-skelter down from the hills; then they
turned westward, and there was less than an hour to go before they were
at journey's end. They had advanced some eight or nine miles when
suddenly a loud roar drowned the roar of their own engine as an
aeroplane became air-borne and thundered straight towards them.

"Channah!" cried Mila in terror, and ducked her head.

"It's all _right_, darling," Elsie assured her. "It's all _right_!"
There had been very few aeroplanes in Mila's experience that had been
all right. The plane climbed steeply, showing its markings. "It's
British!" she said. "Look! They don't drop bombs any more!"

"Oh, British!" repeated Mila, as she raised her head, and followed the
machine's flight.

"That's why we're here," said Itzik. "They're building an airfield here.
The _Estrella_ has brought cement, or something."

British, thought Elsie. It was a queer world. The only British planes
she had ever known anything about had always been engaged in dropping
bombs on her--or so it had usually seemed. British planes sent out
specially by the Air Ministry to drop bombs on Elsie Silver, who had
once been a Lancashire lass, and had become a high-up Nazi lady. Perhaps
the British boy piloting that plane was from Lancashire, too. She put
her arm round Mila's shoulder.

"All right now, darling?"

"Yes, Channah. Look at the donkey!" A donkey was trotting ahead of them
with four wooden sugar-boxes suspended for panniers, two on each side.
It touched the ground with extraordinary delicacy, like a cat. "And
those _trousers_!" The trouser-seat of the peasant with the donkey was
an enormous bag swinging heavily left and right. "What's he carrying
there? It looks like loaves of bread. What a funny place for the
groceries!" There was little the girl missed. The eyes, the voice, the
mind, were becoming clear and keen again, like a rusted knife ground on
a whetstone. A little distance further along the spectacle was less
archaic. Two or three aeroplanes were lying around. Workmen were turning
up the soil and putting in stakes. There was a handful of men sitting
about on barrels in their shirt-sleeves. They had khaki trousers and red
faces. They were aware that a couple of females were approaching in the
driving-seat of a lorry, and the hot drink steamed up unregarded from
their soot-encrusted cans.

"Hi-di-ho!" they shouted with one voice.

"A cup of char?" demanded one.

Elsie did not know the word, but she knew what drink it was they must be
drinking, being English. Tea! Black as syrup with buckets of milk and
boulders of sugar! English tea! Tea in theatrical lodging-houses,
road-menders' tea by English road-sides, Blackpool tea, Clacton tea!
Have a nice cup of tea, miss?

'Oh dear, oh dear!' her heart wailed. 'What's there been in all these
years that's made up for the nice cups of tea I haven't drunk?'

"Channah!" cried Mila. "Look! Zara! Where the ship is!" There was the
small town, its towers and chimneys and roofs lifted against the evening
light. Zara! Where the ship was! The ship was for Palestine, where there
would be another sort of tea--tea-with-lemon in tumblers, sucked through
cubes of sugar wedged between the teeth. Tea for Mila! It was Mila's
day.

                 *        *        *        *        *

They were in Zara. The little roadstead might have been as enchanting as
Paris or as disenchanting as Wolverhampton. To those Jews in Itzik's
lorry, who had undergone many tribulations and might very easily have
died a hundred times before at last they reached the inconceivably
unreachable sea, Zara was a thing against which the small ship,
_Estrella_, was anchored, and in the hold of the _Estrella_ all their
dreams were tied up in bales.

A main street. A public garden on one hand, a marine basin on the other,
with small fishing-boats riding at anchor, bobbing and dipping. Italian
names, Italian doorways, Italian wares in shops. The sea gleaming like
blue steel at the end of the vista, both left and right.

"The port?" demanded Itzik of a pedestrian. It might be this way or the
other. A curious frightening haste was upon them all. It communicated
itself like an electric impulse through the dividing partition of the
lorry. To the port. To the ship. Everybody was dog-tired, dirty, hungry,
thirsty. A sluice of cold water, a gulp of cold beer, how wonderful they
would be! Not yet! To the port! To the ship! The ship might melt like a
snow-flake. It might be a dream, a lie. There have been so many dreams
and lies before.

The pedestrian gestured with head and thumb to the left, and Itzik
slewed round to the left on the next corner. The way was clear. They
reached the sea-front, and for one moment Itzik braked while he looked
left and right. There was no ship to be seen, beyond a few fishing-boats
and skiffs, the routine small craft of a small harbour. Somewhat to the
south, and half-way between Zara here and the long low island opposite,
a wrecked boat thrust its bow up at an acute angle from the water. The
heart failed a moment. That's not the _Estrella_, is it? It can't be.
There was a mole some way up on the right. Perhaps the _Estrella_ was
somewhere beyond there. You should see its smoke-stack, of course.

Itzik swung his wheel over to the right and drove along the promenade.
There were youths and pretty girls sauntering in the cool of the
evening, citified men in dark suits, peasant men and women in garments
like baskets of cottage flowers; but Itzik had no more awareness of them
than if they were match-stalks in the gutter. He reached the mole now,
and then drove beyond it. There was no sign of a tramp-steamer. A
dreadful anxiety now took hold of everybody staring through the
partition window, screwing their heads round the tarpaulin frame. Is the
_Estrella_ a myth? Has it always been a myth? Or were they too late? Has
the _Estrella_ come and gone?

But why panic? There was sea on the other side of the town, only a short
distance away. There was undoubtedly harbourage on that side, too.
Itzik, at least, did not go into a dither for more than a few seconds.
Reversing the lorry, he drove back till he could make a left-hand turn.
In a few minutes they had driven across the width of the town to the
sea-front. Hallelujah! There it was, some four hundred metres away, a
tramp-steamer, stern on, red with rust, grimy with soot! The boat that
would take them out of the House of Bondage to the Promised Land! For
good measure, there was another tramp steamer alongside, a little
further on; but this could not be _their_ ship. She was much too large
for that. Neither boat had steam up. No smoke was rising from either
smoke-stack. They were in good time, thank God! They need not have
broken their backs to get here.

A minute or two later they could make out the flag flying from the stern
of the _Estrella_. Yes, it was as it should be. The blue-and-white
quartered flag, white-starred, of the Panama Republic. But a few moments
later those with the sharpest eyes could see that all was _not_ as it
should be. The name of the tramp was not _Estrella_. It was _Cleanthis_.

"No! That's not it!" cried Leon at the rear. "Can it be the other one,
after all?"

But even as he spoke he realized that it could not be. They did not need
to drive up alongside to establish that. This second ship was not only
too large; it flew the Red Ensign. It was a British ship, in fair trim,
not at all the grubby tramp they had been booked for. The British ship
was something between two and three thousand tons. Its name was _Peggy
Rawlings_, and hailed from Liverpool. It would not be hospitable to
Jewish refugees assaying the illegal passage to Palestine.

Now at last Itzik put his brake on, midway between the two ships. He got
down. Everybody else got down after him. He stood scratching his head.
Everybody stood and looked at everybody else. What on earth had
happened? Surely the _Estrella_ could not have come and gone? Then
suddenly a loud babble went up. Everybody in the same moment arrived at
the same explanation.

But of course! What a lot of idiots they were! The _Estrella_ had had to
change its name. There was a war on, at sea as on land. In war-time,
everybody, everything, sooner or later, changes its name. _They_ knew.

"So what now? You just go aboard?" asked Itzik. He addressed Leon. He
handed over to him now. Itzik had brought them safely to the ship, and
in time. He had done his job.

"But, of course, we just go aboard," said Leon. "That's why they've not
got steam up. They're waiting for us."

But there was no particular air of anybody waiting for anybody on board
the _Cleanthis_. A paunchy middle-aged man sat against the galley aft,
wearing old dungarees and a dirty vest. He had a bucket between his
knees, and was peeling potatoes as if the meal they were intended for
was a week next Wednesday. He was doubtless the cook. A younger man in a
torn sweater was hanging clothes on a line. The holes at his armpits
gaped as he lifted his arms to peg down a pair of mottled grey
underpants. On the aft deck, a few feet from the cook, a cabin-boy sat
with his knees drawn up to his chin, doing nothing at all. His eyes were
matt-black, without lustre.

"Hi!" shouted Leon. He was addressing the cook, who was the oldest man
of the three. He would probably know something. Then he stopped. What
language do you use when talking to the cook of a Panamanian ship in a
Dalmatian port recently taken over from the Italians by the Yugoslav
partisans? He remembered this was the sea, after all. He went on in
English. "Where's the Captain? Is he aboard?" The cook looked up from
his bucket. He seemed supremely uninterested in the question and the
questioner, in the breathless group below on the quayside, in the lorry
which clearly had recently come a long distance. The deck-hand turned
his head from his washing, then turned it back again. The cabin-boy sat
and stared and did not move.

"You understand?" Leon called again.

The cook shrugged his shoulders. Presumably he did not understand. What
language to use now? _Cleanthis._ A Greek name. But names meant nothing
and Leon knew no Greek. Then Italian, perhaps. He had enough Italian for
that.

"_Il Capitano? Sta a bordo?_ The Captain? Is he aboard?"

The cook raised his eyebrows, and let the potato he was peeling fall
into the bucket. He answered with his forefinger, not his tongue. He
had, at all events, understood. "Below decks!" the forefinger went. He
went back to his potato-peeling, though very little seemed to interest
him, not even his potatoes.

"Fine!" said Leon. He turned to the others. "I'll go below and tell him
we've come!" He was very quick in movement. A moment later he was
climbing the gang-plank that sloped between the quayside and the
well-deck. The galley was aft. Just forrard were the bridge and
superstructure, below these were two cabin doors. Leon hesitated a
moment. "_Quale?_" he asked. "Which?" The cook, again with a forefinger,
indicated the door on the port side. "Good!" He walked forrard along the
well-deck. As he moved, a roaring rattle from somewhere close by became
louder, then diminished. The sound came from the port-hole in the
bulkhead in front of him. The port-hole was open, with a curtain drawn
across behind it. The captain was obviously taking his ease, like the
rest of his ship. It sounded a thoroughly drunken snore.

Leon knocked at the door. There was no reply. He knocked again. There
was still no reply. He was about to try the door-handle and just walk
in, when a man appeared from the port passage-way leading forrard. He
was dirty and dishevelled, with slightly bloodshot eyes and a three-day
beard. But he was evidently a ship's officer, with that battered peaked
cap on his head, and the blue reefer jacket, bespattered with grease,
which he was just buttoning up. There was a faded gold ring round his
sleeve. Perhaps he was an engineer.

"_Chi siete?_" So Italian was the language here. "Who are you?"

"I want to see the Captain," said Leon. "He's expecting us." He turned
his head towards his companions on the quayside. The officer did not
turn his head. He had presumably seen them already.

"Oh, he's expecting you, is he?" asked the officer. "I see." It was
evident that _he_, at least, was not expecting them. He cleared his
throat, and straightened the tie he was not wearing. "Well, you'd better
wait, hadn't you? The Captain's... busy." There was the faintest
tremor of a wink. The Captain's snoring that moment reached one of its
more robust climaxes.

"I think not," said Leon. His brain was working hard. The crew of the
_Estrella_, that is to say, the _Cleanthis_, certainly seemed to have no
inkling of the fact that a number of Jews were going to be taken on as
extra hands, and shipped to Palestine. But this was not the sort of
merchandise that anybody was likely to know about, excepting the Captain
himself. The crew's job, from the First Mate downwards, was, he
presumed, to get the ship there. "It's urgent," Leon went on. "I want to
see him now." He turned his head again in the direction of his friends
below. "They're tired," he said. "They need a rest."

"He's a little difficult," the officer point out, "when he's disturbed."

"That's all right!" Leon knocked once more at the Captain's door, then
turned the handle, and entered. The officer faded into the passage-way
from which he had emerged. In the half-light that came through the drawn
curtain a displeasing sight was visible. The cabin was small, and a good
deal of it seemed to be occupied by the Captain, and a good deal of the
Captain was the Captain's head. He lay there, on an iron bed clamped to
the floor, obviously deep in a drunken slumber. He wore a grubby white
shirt and trousers rucked up like a concertina. A big toe thrust
massively from a hole in one of his socks. Against the port bulkhead was
a chest-of-drawers with a basin from which the dirty water had not been
thrown away. A table with a radio was in the right-hand corner. There
was a cupboard in the left corner, near the bed, with several empty
bottles on it, and three glasses. Above it were photographs of several
young ladies in extreme dcollet. One had no clothes on at all. There
were several indications around the place that the Captain had recently
been entertaining one, or more than one, of the ladies of Zara.

Leon stood and pondered. Was this the sort of ship, and the sort of
ship's Captain, to which Kusta, back at Istambul, would entrust a
handful of valuable emigrants to Palestine? They had made quite a point
of it that the members of the party should be carefully chosen. He beat
down his misgivings. All that Kusta, and anybody else, was interested in
was that the ship should be seaworthy and get them to their destination.
If the captain wanted to go on the booze in port, and have an orgy with
some girl friends, why shouldn't he? More distinguished captains of more
imposing vessels get drunk in port and have orgies.

The snoring filled the cabin like the growl of a puma. As the man
breathed, one corner of his mouth came curiously away from the teeth on
that side. His face was red as a raw steak.

"Hi, _Capitano_!" shouted Leon, shaking him vigorously by the shoulder.
"Hi, get up! Sorry to disturb you, but I must talk to you!" The shaking
went on for some time, without result. He brought his mouth closer to
the boskage that sprouted from the captain's ear. "Hi, _Capitano_! Get
up, will you?" Still no result. Leon looked round desperately. The
fellow had to be roused. Would you bang him on the head with that
clothes brush? There seemed no other use for it in this place. There was
a sponge on the dressing table. Would you soak the sponge and squeeze it
on the fellow's face? Would it be dangerous? Leon was not impressed by
the danger. He went up to the basin and had just plunged the sponge into
it, when a voice hurled itself at him like thunder. The import of the
words was clear. It was: "Who the bloody hell are you?" But the language
was not among those Leon spoke. It sounded like Greek.

Leon turned. The captain's eyes were wide open. He seemed to be one of
those rare mortals who can swing themselves up from drunkenness into
sobriety in one swift tremendous arc, like an ape swinging over from one
tree to another a considerable distance off. The pupils of the eyes were
pale-grey. They seemed to have scarlet rims, but that was doubtless an
illusion.

"_No capito_," said Leon. "I don't understand. Talk Italian."

The Captain seemed inclined to talk a more international language. He
was reaching under his pillow, and the thing he was reaching for was a
gun.

"_Venga! Venga!_" complained Leon, reaching his arms vertically into the
air, like a schoolboy doing exercises. "Come, come! I'm a friend!"

"Well, who the bloody hell are you?" This time the question was in
Italian.

"We're the passengers!" said Leon. "You're expecting us, aren't you?"

"Passengers? What passengers?" The Captain had risen, and had his
stockinged feet on the floor. His eyes seemed to have come a quarter of
an inch forward in their sockets. It was beginning to be fairly clear to
Leon that there was some frightful mistake.

"Kusta!" said Leon, as it were casually. If the word meant anything to
the Captain, he would react. If it meant nothing, no harm was done.

"Who?"

The word clearly meant not a thing. There was nothing to do but get down
to it.

"You've changed your ship's name, haven't you?"

"Who says I have? And what the hell has it to do with you?"

"We were told to contact the _Estrella_. Are you----"

But Leon was not allowed to get any further. The fellow started yelling
like a market full of fish porters. He yelled, ranted, roared, shaking
his fists in the air, grunting and sweating and drooling. The small
cabin was like a submarine cave into which a huge octopus squirts its
whole load of ink. He raved in Greek, Italian, Arabic, English, Turkish,
in all the languages he knew and those of which he had picked up
smatterings on his sea-farings. One language had not foulness enough for
him to express his sentiments about the _Estrella_, and more
particularly, its Captain, its Captain's mother, and all its Captain's
mother's maternal forbears. Out of the black plethora certain facts
emerged. The most important was that the _Cleanthis_ was, in fact, _not_
the _Estrella_, whatever other names it might have had in other phases
of its history. The _Estrella_ had weighed anchor and sailed only
yesterday. The bastard toad of a Captain, the syphilitic pariah-dog, the
reeking lump of ordure, had twisted him, _him_, the Captain of the
_Cleanthis_, out of a load of maraschino he had come to pick up here in
Zara. He would come up, he, Captain Aghnides, of the _Cleanthis_, would
come up sooner or later with the so-called Captain of the rat-infested
toilet-can of a ship allegedly called the _Estrella_, and get his hands
round that assassin's wind-pipe and squeeze it till his eye-balls
popped. He would kick the guts out of his tripes till they lay steaming
on the floor. He would...

For a moment even that brass-lunged Captain, with the breath-control of
a Wagnerian tenor, was compelled to stop for breath. Leon saw his
opportunity.

"So this is not the _Estrella_, Captain Aghnides?" he summed up.

The simplicity of the question, and the calm tone in which it was
uttered, were as deflating as a pin in a balloon.

"No, this is not the _Estrella_," Captain Aghnides meekly confirmed.

"Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"Do about what?" asked the Captain crossly. He had picked up a grubby
towel from the floor and was mopping the sweat that was running down his
neck in streams.

"How long are you staying here? Where are you sailing to?"

"What's that got to do with you? Who are you, anyhow?" The smell of
possible business rose in the Captain's nostrils at that moment like
incense in the nostrils of an almswoman. "Have a drink!" He reached a
huge hand forward to the bottles on the cupboard. "All empty!" he
registered. "Sorry! What can I get you? Who _are_ you, for Christ's
sake?" His voice rose shrilly.

"I'll tell you exactly," said Leon. "We've got nothing to hide. Listen.
We're a party of Jews from Central Europe who want to get to Palestine.
I'm in charge. Matyas is the name." He reached his hand out. The Captain
rose and reached his hand out, too.

"_Piacere!_" he said. "Captain Aghnides!" It was very formal. Then he
sat down.

"Our central office had made arrangements with the _Estrella_ that she
was to take us to Palestine from this port. We're a day late. That may
or may not be the reason she's gone without us."

"She's gone," Captain Aghnides said a little sanctimoniously, "because
that man is devil's spawn, and would cut his own mother's throat for
half a lepta."

"I don't wish to dispute it. _Estrella's_ gone. _Cleanthis_ is here. A
fine ship. An honourable Captain. What about it? Which way were you
going from here?" Leon made the immemorial gesture of rubbing the
fingertips together, which meant: "And, of course, there's good money in
it, too."

"That's as may be," said the Captain. It was extraordinary how
completely sober he had become. The eyes had gone back into their
sockets, and seemed to be lurking just inside there, like mice in their
holes. "Actually there was a job my owner had in mind way back in Rio."

"How much?" asked Leon again. "Half here, half on safe arrival in
Palestine."

"It's dangerous," Captain Aghnides pointed out. "You know what the
British Navy thinks about all this." It was clear he knew a thing or two
about landing illegal immigrants. "How many are you?"

"Nine."

"Any hot ones among you?"

"What do you mean by 'hot'? And if there were, do you think I'd tell
you? No, just plain Jews who want to get to Palestine."

The Captain considered the situation.

"It would be very inconvenient," he said.

"Cut it short," said Leon. It was fine, the way he stood up to the
formidable man, in his own territory.

"Two thousand dollars each," said the Captain.

"We'll swim," said Leon. "Five hundred."

"Seventeen hundred and fifty."

"Seven hundred and fifty."

"Seventeen hundred and fifty," the Captain insisted for quite a long
time. Then at last he came down to fifteen hundred.

"Quite impossible. One thousand. That's final. There's no good arguing
about it. The _Estrella_ was taking us for a lot less. Two hundred
pounds a head. You know quite well that covers it."

"Very well." The Captain reached around for his shoes. "You'd better
book passages on the _Estrella_. They could take you for five hundred,
too, on the _Estrella_. On the _Estrella_ they'd cut your throats and
chuck you overboard."

It did not seem to Leon there was any cast-iron guarantee that they
wouldn't do exactly the same thing on the _Cleanthis_. Such thoughts
were better out than in. It was nice to know these were the terms in
which the minds of these sea-captains worked.

"Can't you tell when a man's down to brass tacks?" said Leon quietly.
"I'm telling you a thousand dollars per head is the most it can be. Five
hundred dollars down and five hundred on a bank in Alexandria.
Forty-five hundred dollars, and you may have to go a few dollars short.
That includes every penny our driver's got with him to buy stocks of
food for starving Jews back in Hungary."

"What about increasing it the other end?" asked the Captain.

"Can't be done. The cheques are made out. Well, what about it? We don't
mind trying somewhere else down the coast, you know. Split or
Dubrovnik."

The Captain was tying his shoes.

"Five thousand," he said, and got up. There was an air of resolution in
the set of his jaw. "Anything might happen. I might lose my ship. Yes or
no?"

Leon got up. His face was very grim.

"I told you I was down to brass tacks. You probably wouldn't know the
difference between a man lying and a man telling the truth. Good-bye,
Captain Aghnides." He turned and made for the door, then, in the moment
that his hand was turning the handle, he remembered that one intended
member of the party was missing from among them, Ludwig Neumann, the
lawyer. They were exactly five hundred dollars to the good. "I'm sorry,"
he said, "I've just remembered. One of our party was held up at the
frontier. We can pay you your extra blood-money. I know the procedure. I
rely on you to make the party as comfortable as possible."

The Captain's face broadened like a balloon being blown up by a child.
The blood seemed to flow along the blood-vessels like the current in
neon lighting tubes.

"_Magnifico! Incantevole!_" He knew some long words in Italian. He
smacked Leon on the back, seized his hand and shook it vigorously. "I
shall treat them as if they were my own children." His eyes
unconsciously travelled to the dcollete lady on the wall beside him.

"Yes," said Leon. "There are females in the party. You'd better keep
your hands off them." He was in a furious temper. "I take it you'll sign
us on as members of your crew, in case----"

"In case anybody stops us, and there's any inquiries. _Perfettamente._
It is in my power to sign on new members of my crew in any port where
the necessity arises and the company has no office." He talked with the
grandeur of a prince, who has rich bishoprics in his giving.

"You'd better let me have some idea of the accommodation you've got for
us."

"Willingly." The Captain reached round for his cap and jacket. "You said
there were ladies. May I ask how many?"

"Three. There's a middle-aged woman and her niece. The niece has not
been well, and must have whatever comfort is going on this... on this
_ship_." He stressed the word contemptuously. "And there's another young
woman."

"Oh, _Madonna mia!_" said the Captain, and clasped his hands. "For two
there is accommodation in the cabin here, beside mine. It is similar to
this one"--he waved his hand as if he were displaying the excellencies
of a de luxe suite in a first-class liner--"but, of course, two bunks.
That is the spare cabin, you understand, if ever a director of our
company wishes to come on a little sea-cruise with us."

Leon was getting impatient. The others would be waiting on the quayside
below in a state of considerable anxiety.

"And then?" he asked shortly.

"There are two other cabins, here behind us, one for the mate, one for
the first and second engineers. It would be impossible to ask them to
give them up."

"We're used to roughing it. That goes for the other young woman. She can
come in with us wherever you put us."

"As you please." There was the faintest suggestion of a wink. It was
evident the Captain had concluded that there was a special reason for
the suggested arrangement, beyond that of convenience. "As for
yourselves--you are six, you say?"

"Yes, six."

"We can clear out one of the magazines for you on the deck below. We can
put up a spare mattress or two. It will be, as it were, a picnic. Good
food, sea air... you will be very comfortable... like birds in a
nest."

"When can we leave?"

The Captain contemplated the matter.

"Well, we've got to get the whole crew aboard first, haven't we? The
poor boys! They deserve a bit of fun when they can get it. By the time
we get up steam... and let me see... there's the tide to think
of." He closed his eyes for a few moments. "I should say about
eleven-thirty in the morning. That'll give us time to fix up a few
details with the port authorities, too. Yes. About eleven-thirty. How's
that?"

"I'll go down and tell them," said Leon.

"Will you give us an hour or so to get things ready for you?"

"We'll have a wash and a meal," added Leon. "We'll meet later. Thank
you."

"_Grazie a lei_," insisted Captain Aghnides. "Thanks to you." It seemed
almost more than he could do not to throw his arms round Leon's
shoulders and hug him to his bosom.

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the very moment that Leon walked out of the cabin on to the well-deck
he realized that he was filled with so profound a distrust of the
Captain's integrity, so strong a premonition of treachery, that he could
not on his own responsibility commit the fortunes of his party to the
_Cleanthis_. He realized, too, the reason for his extraordinary bad
temper. He felt profoundly humiliated for himself and for all Jews that
during these times, at all events, and more than most men, their fate
should lie in the hands of such trashy scoundrels as Captain Aghnides.

"Ho, there you are, Leon!" It was the voice of Itzik calling up from
below.

"What have you been up to? A little drink on the side?" That was young
Willi.

Leon paused a moment before descending. The sun had gone down, the first
stars were out in a peacock sky. A sizeable crowd had collected on the
quayside, attracted by the uncouth people with dust in their hair, and
the mud-plastered lorry: there were gaping children, wizened fishermen,
leggy youths, tittering girls arm in arm; there was a handful of
soldiers in shapeless khaki, doubtless members of one of Marshal Tito's
partisan groups; there was a young man in a motley uniform, including a
shako and a belted sword, presumably a gendarme. A handful of seamen in
blue sweaters and dungarees were lounging hard by, their deportment
marked by that subtle air of superiority which invests the most
unimpressive Briton the moment his soles touch foreign ground. They were
presumably members of the crew of the nearby _Peggy Rawlings_.

"Sorry I've been so long about it," said Leon, as he stepped down from
the gang-plank on to the quayside. "It was a bit sticky!"

"Something's wrong!" someone said. Leon's face was not reassuring.

"We're not going! What's happened?" asked someone else. "We'll have to
go back?"

This certainly was not the moment to give expression to any misgivings.
These people were almost hysterical with fatigue. They could panic at
the flick of a handkerchief like a pack of schoolgirls.

"It's all right!" said Leon. "We leave to-morrow!"

Everybody scattered in the opposite direction. They shouted with joy.

"To-morrow? Splendid! Wonderful! _To-morrow!_"

"So this ship _is_ the _Estrella_, after all," said Itzik. "What are you
looking so grim about?"

Leon parted his teeth in a smile.

"I'm on top of the world! Come on, everybody! We'll talk things over
later. We're going to find a good restaurant and have a wash and drink
wine and eat till we're sick! Yes, who are you?" The gendarme in the
shako had come over, notebook in hand.

"It's the gendarmerie," said Itzik. "I've explained everything. He just
wants to shake hands, I think."

"Fine, fine!" said Leon. He shook the gendarme's hand. Two small girls
solemnly put their hands out to have them shaken. "_Dove mangiare
bene?_" Leon wanted to know. "Where does one eat well?" The small town
looked Italian. It had, in fact, been Italian till a month or two ago,
when the partisans had taken it over. Italian, clearly, was the language
to take you round. They told him where one ate well and drank well. No
distance at all. Just along the Riva Vecchia here. At the Bristol.
_Magnifico!_ They moved off. Itzik got into the lorry to drive up close
to the restaurant. Then suddenly Leon stopped. His heart plunged like a
lead weight. "Itzik!" he called out. "Listen. We're broke! The old
skinflint has got every penny out of me. I've had to use up all we've
got, including your reserve. If we go to-morrow, we're broke."

"What do you mean _if_ we go to-morrow?" Julius Vastagh cried in alarm.
Elsie felt Mila's hand tighten on her own.

"Money?" Elsie said. "Money? There's always ways and means." She had a
hazy recollection that she was possibly a millionaire in one or two
neutral banks.

"That's all right," said Itzik. "Eretz comes first. We've got bread.
We'll buy wine. We can rake up enough for that. Why worry?"

"Excuse me," said Karl Berger, dropping his voice. He sounded nervous,
and a little ashamed.

"Yes?"

"I hope you don't mind. I kept a little something for an emergency. You
never know, do you? There's a small sapphire in my left suspender, under
a little brass cup."

"_Tov! Tov!_" Everybody was thrilled. "You're a _zaddik_, a holy man!"
They smacked Karl Berger's back till he coughed. There would be a
Passover festival after all, on the eve of the departure from the House
of Bondage.

The restaurant was only a couple of hundred yards away. They washed;
they combed their hair, they looked fine and spruce. Then they went to
the tables. The tables had tablecloths. There were napkins. Some of
those present had not eaten off linen for several years. _Antipasti_
were put before them, wine was poured out. There were some among them
who remembered exactly such tables, such waiters, such food, such wine
bottles, in small Italian restaurants behind the Riva degli Schiavoni,
in Venice, and along Old Compton Street, in Soho.

"_Lechayim!_" said Itzik, lifting his glass. "And _mazel tov!_ Good luck
on your journey!"

"_Lechayim!_"

"_Lechayim!_"

"_Leshonim tovim!_"

They drank. The wine was nectar.

"To you, Itzik, for bringing us this long journey!"

"To you, Mila!" Their thoughts always turned quickly to Mila. They
treated her with tenderness. The girl's eyes were sparkling. "She looks
like an ox!" said Chaim, "no evil befall her! To you, Channah!" he went
on. "When I'm not well, I'll send for you. I refuse to be ill without
you! Am I right, Mila?"

"She's been like... like a mother, and ten sisters!" vowed Mila, then
was suddenly overcome with shyness, and hid her face behind her
wineglass.

"Nonsense!" said Elsie. "Sometimes she looks after me, sometimes I look
after her!"

"_Lechayim! Lechayim! Lechayim!_" went round, from Karl Berger, the
Agronome, to Julius Vastagh, the food-chemist, from Mischa Fasan, the
Zionist leader, to Chaim, the Czech engineer. "_Lechayim_, Hinda!"
"_Lechayim_, Willi!" From the way those two younger folk looked at each
other, there would have been a wedding then and there, if there had been
a Rabbi on hand. Or perhaps they needed no Rabbi. They had been living
in a tough school.

"No! No!" cried Mischa Fasan. "Kosher is Kosher, but this I cannot eat!"
He referred to the tentacles of squid that squirmed in a _zuppa di
pesce_ that had been laid before them.

"Did not God make also these?" Julius Vastagh wanted to know. He turned
the fish stew over with his fork. "There are more complex organisms
here, if you prefer them."

There was a sudden loud clatter of fork and knife on plate. Everybody
jumped. It was Itzik.

"Now, Leon!" He thrust forward his stubbly chin. "Something's biting
you. What is it?"

"First another glass," Leon demanded. "Thank you, Channah!" He drained
it. "I'm beginning to feel better about it already."

"About what?"

"About that Captain. Maybe I'm doing him an injustice. Aghnides is his
name. He's a Greek."

"Perhaps he's not good-looking. Well? That cook did not look pretty
either. But they waited for us."

"The ship is not the _Estrella_. The _Estrella_ left yesterday. They
were both after a cargo of something or other, some liqueur I think, and
the _Estrella_ beat the _Cleanthis_ to it."

"But you managed to fix us up on the _Cleanthis_, you say? The captain's
lucky. He's got a cargo. We're lucky. We've got a ship. So it's costing
more money than we reckoned for. Well, we'll pay it back to somebody
some day. Drink _lechayim_ to Leon, everybody!"

"_Lechayim_, Leon!"

"_Lechayim!_"

"_Lechayim!_"

The toasting died down. It was roast lamb on the table, with fennel and
green salad.

"I want you to listen to me carefully, all of you!" Leon's face was
suddenly serious. "Please go easy on the wine--for the time being,
anyhow. I've got to tell you exactly what I think about this Captain,
and about his ship. I may be wrong. I believe I _am_ wrong. I don't see
what advantage the fellow can get out of doing dirt on us. But my
feeling is--he's a scoundrel. I can't accept the responsibility of
taking the party on that ship, not without talking it over with you
first. Perhaps you ought to see the man for yourselves."

There was a silence, except for the drumming of Karl Berger's fingers on
the table. Elsie imperceptibly turned her head to look at Mila. There
was apprehension in the girl's eyes. Her jaw had dropped. Elsie
perceived with more blinding clarity than ever before, of what paramount
importance to Mila's mental stability this voyage was. She, Elsie, would
have to be abundantly certain there was some substance in Leon's
apprehensions before she beat down within her the resolution to fight
tooth and nail against any tampering with the plans.

"Tell us," asked Julius Vastagh, "what precise _reason_ have you to
imagine this Captain of ours is a bad man? There must be a _reason_."

Leon shrugged his shoulders.

"You're a scientist, Julius. A scientist works on hunches, too, doesn't
he? That's all there is to it. I don't trust him."

"But, Leon," objected Itzik. "You've only given him half the money,
haven't you? All right, more than half. We've always guaranteed
ourselves against villains, ever since we went into business. Isn't that
true? He doesn't get the rest of his money till you're all landed safely
in _Eretz_, please God."

"You say he's a scoundrel," said Mischa Fasan softly. "But I've heard
accounts of other voyages arranged by Kusta. There were other captains.
They were also scoundrels--or some, at least. But the Jews got to
Eretz."

"Perhaps you're right," muttered Leon. "I just had to say what I said,
that's all. Perhaps, if you see the man for yourself----"

"But would it make any difference at all," asked Elsie, "however much we
disliked and mistrusted him? Wouldn't we be exactly where we were before
we saw him?"

"Yes, Leon, that's true, isn't it?" Mila broke in. "We are going to go,
aren't we? Do say we are, Leon!"

Leon spread out his hands to include the whole party.

"You see, Mila, don't you? Of course, we're going."

"That doesn't mean we won't be on our guard!" insisted Karl Berger.

"Well, I suppose, that's really what I wanted to get over," said Leon.
"We must be on our guard."

"But that's elementary common sense," said the chemist, a little
severely.

"Yes, I suppose it is," admitted Leon. "We must be on our guard." He
repeated the words slowly and firmly. To emphasize them he brought his
fist down on the table, and pushed a glass over on to the floor. "Damn!"
he cried.

"No," protested Hinda. "That's good luck!"

"Did you rely on good luck when you were ambushing the Nazis in the
hills?" he asked sharply.

"Well, no!" said Hinda, looking rather small.

"Let's get down to it, then!" He waited a second, and looked round. "Any
ideas?"

"Any ideas about _what?_" asked Willi seriously. "I think we could deal
with situations as they arise, _if_ they arise. Things don't turn out
the way you anticipate." Coming from Willi, the partisan, this seemed to
make sense.

"Tell me," said Elsie. "Have you any idea what the accommodation's
like?"

"That's all fixed. The Captain's at this moment cleaning out one of the
magazines. That'll take most of us. Seven of us, in fact. The six men,
and Hinda."

"And we two?"

"There's four cabins on board. The officers occupy three, and one's
empty, for occasional passengers. It has two bunks. I think you and Mila
ought to have that one."

"Oh, Leon!" cried Mila. "Can't I go with you others?" She blushed. "And
Channah, too, of course!"

"Yes, of course," said Elsie promptly. Where Mila went, she went.

"You'll obey orders, children," said Leon. "You two will be in the
cabin, and you'll damn well lock yourselves in. Later on in the voyage,
perhaps somebody else can have a spell."

"Don't look at me," requested Mischa Fasan. "I've lived for ten months
at a stretch in a hole dug out of the soft mould in a wood."

"It wouldn't be a bad thing if you squeezed another cabin or two out of
him," complained Itzik. "It's going to be a long voyage, and God knows,
you're paying enough."

"He's right," said Elsie. "It's not fair Mila and I should be the only
ones with a cabin. Hinda should have one, too."

"Or may be Hinda and Willi," said Itzik mischievously.

"And why not?" Willi wanted to know.

"I'll show you why not," exclaimed Hinda with real, or affected,
indignation.

"Tell me," said Elsie slowly, lifting her glass of wine and holding it
to the light. "What impression did you get of this Captain? I mean,
would you say he's interested in women?"

Leon nearly choked.

"Interested!" he spluttered. The wine had gone down the wrong way. "As
interested as a swine in rut!"

"Nice gentleman!" said Julius Vastagh.

"I see! I see!" murmured Elsie, her eyes closed. She opened them again.
"Did you get any feeling about his type? Sometimes it's the only thing
they talk about. Some like them young. Some like them not so young."

Everybody knew exactly what she was getting at. Their hearts warmed to
this woman who had said so little till now, being so totally taken up
with the girl whose aunt she was, or adopted mother, or something of
that sort.

"Young!" said Leon decisively. "Judging from the pretty pictures on his
wall, early twenties at the most!"

"Pity!" she said.

"Why?"

"Forgive me if I sound... a bit self-confident. I think I could have
got an extra cabin out of him, if... if..."

"Listen!" proclaimed Hinda suddenly. "It seems to be up to Mila or me!
Forgive me, Channah, will you?"

Elsie smiled.

"I forgive you."

"And Mila's not been too well, lately. A man like that might get rough."
She flexed her arms, to show the contours of her brachial muscles. "I'll
work it out," she said.

"It's not enough," said Leon.

"What isn't enough?" Hinda wanted to know.

"That!" He meant the brachial muscle.

"You know quite well I've got a... I've got a little friend with me,"
she pointed out. She meant the revolver in her bag.

"Good thing, too. We've got a few friends between us. We could give a
good account of ourselves."

"Fine," said Chaim. "After all, what more do we want? We'll keep an eye
open."

There was silence for some moments. It was fruit on the table now, and
white goat-cheese. The waiters were hanging round rather lugubriously.
It had looked as if this party was going to develop into a real
_fiesta_, with the wine-bottles piling up in stacks, and the _slivovitz_
and the maraschino flowing in streams. Ah well. Perhaps the party would
pick up again later.

"Whoop! Whoop!" It was an odd sound to break in on the party from so
close at hand. It sounded like a ship's hooter, but it came from Hinda.
She was waving her glass in the air. "My glass is empty!" she
proclaimed. "I'll need lots!" She had deliberately flung the masses of
her black hair down over her forehead. "How do I look?" she asked.

"You'll do!" said Elsie admiringly. "You clever girl! Perhaps one of the
women in the kitchen has some makeup? Let's find out! It might be
helpful!"

"What are you women up to?" asked Julius Vastagh.

"Up to no good," said Willi.

"Another bottle!" cried Leon. "Maybe I'm a bit of a fool! And maybe it
wouldn't do us any harm if that man thought us a bit more foolish than
we really are! Bring out the liqueurs, waiter! And perhaps, cigars! Do
you think the suspender would run to a cigar all round, Dr. Berger?"

The waiters were, after all, not disappointed. The wine bottles heaped
up in stacks. The lovely maraschino flowed like streams of lava. It was
a good party.

"_Lechayim!_"

"_Lechayim!_"

"_Lechayim!_"

For nearly two thousand years the ancestors of those Jews, till lately
herded in the Central European ghettos, had raised their beakers and
drunk the toast: "Next year in Jerusalem!" To-night the toast was: "Next
_week_ in Jerusalem! Next _week!_"

Or, maybe, it would be the week after.


[IV]

They were a merry party as they went singing back along the Riva
Vecchia, with Itzik on the lorry driving slowly ahead of them, tooting
his horn like mad. It was quite a reception committee that hastily
formed itself on the well-decks fore and aft, as they reached the
_Cleanthis_. The upper deck was ranged forrard, the cook, the cabin-boy,
and another, perhaps a deck-hand. The officers were aft, the Captain
himself, the mate, one of the engineers. A deck-hand stood in
attendance. The rest of the engine-room personnel were already below.
The ship was getting up steam.

"_Saluti!_" shouted the Captain enthusiastically. He stretched out his
arms, as if he would have liked to hug them all. There were
corroborative sounds of welcome from his associates, correctly aligned
one foot, and two feet, at his rear. Similar, but more uncouth, sounds
came from the upper deck personnel. The two deck-hands were evidently
dead-drunk. "Ra-ra-ra!" They cried raucously, exactly like cheer-leaders
on an American campus.

"You first, Channah!" muttered Leon. Honours were due to her as the
senior lady present. The Captain with his own hands threw her a
rope-end.

"Bravo! Bravo!" he encouraged her. She went up. He leaned towards her,
helped her up on to the deck, then, with immense gallantry, kissed her
hand. Leon and two of the men came next. Then came Hinda, and this held
up the proceedings delightfully. She squealed with fear as she placed
her foot on the gang-plank, which was broad and steady enough to take a
horse, she tittered as he kissed her hand, then she fell all of a heap
into his arms. She was, apparently, shockingly, deliriously, drunk. She
had made good use of the makeup materials she had acquired from the
hotel kitchen-maid. She stank like a little whore in a Marseilles
brothel. Her smell went up overpoweringly into the Captain's nostrils.
He let Mila and the others get up on the deck without the benefit of his
amiable assistance.

"Well, _Capitano!_" Leon exclaimed. "What have you done with us, eh? The
deal isn't fixed yet, you know."

"What? What's that you're saying?" It was clear the Captain had
something else on his mind, and that something else was Hinda. Hinda at
that moment was playing engagingly with Chaim's nose, pushing it now to
one side now to the other, with the tip of her finger, now hitting it,
now missing it. "Lovely nosey-pose!" she was saying between hiccups.
"Lovely nosey-pose!" Chaim was grinning with tipsy pleasure.

"I said we'd like to get our heads down, Captain," explained Leon.
"Where are you going to put us?"

"Yes, yes," said the Captain. "Of course. Where you sleep. Yes. At
once." He did not seem to have his mind on the matter at all. It was all
he could do to cope with one thing at a time, when that thing was Hinda,
with one delicious shoulder bare and shining. It was all he could do to
keep his hands off her. "Atlas!" He turned to the deck-hand close by.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take these people below!" The language was Greek. "You, George!"

There was a shout from forrard.

"Yes, sir!"

"Help with the kit!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Come on, everybody," said Leon. "Let's look where they're putting us.
Come on, Channah, Mila! You, Hinda!"

The Captain was desolated.

"But there is a cabin for ladies. It is arranged." He turned to Hinda,
and laid his hand on her forearm. "Come, it is here! I will show you!"

"Of course," said Leon. "You said you could spare a cabin for two of our
women. Two bunks you said, didn't you? Fine. This girl has not been
well." He pointed to Mila. "And her mother will be with her."

"Yes, certainly, two bunks." The Captain was very flustered. He turned
to the mate. "Show them, please, Mr. Volos." He did not have much time
to spare for the two other women at the moment. The mate took them in
hand and led them to the spare cabin.

"Come now, Hinda!" directed Leon. "You'll have to put up with it! We'll
try and get as comfortable as possible in our quarters."

Hinda tittered and swayed.

"Yes, Leon." She hiccuped. "Coming." The Captain followed her mournfully
with his eyes. Things were not working out as he would have liked them
to. Leon and Hinda descended a companionway and walked along the next
deck below, where the ship's magazines were disposed to port and
starboard. On the port side a large metal door was hooked back against a
bulkhead. A naked white light streamed out through the open doorway.

"You're doing fine!" whispered Leon. "You've got him! Now keep your eyes
open."

There was a heavy smell of paint, hemp, and paraffin in the magazine,
and there was exactly no furniture at all. But that was all right. No
one had expected a suite of Cunarder state-rooms. The sole permanent
fitting was a tap that ran into a zinc runnel. They would be able to
wash in their own quarters, anyway. Beyond that there were a number of
mats to keep them off the metal floor, a few mattresses and blankets,
some coils of rope and heaps of tarpaulin, and two pillows which looked
quite sybaritic in this carbolic welter.

"It'll do," said Leon.

"I could kiss every foot of rope," said Karl Berger. He had had a very
thin time during the last year or two. So had they all.

"Well, boys," said Itzik. "It looks as if you're all fixed up after
all."

"Please God, you should be on the next ship!" exclaimed Mischa Fasan.

"_Allevei!_" breathed Itzik.

"Get down here, Hinda!" said Willi. He was fixing up a mattress beside
the tarpaulin bed he had made for himself. "Look what I've found!" It
was a sort of canvas slip to take one of the pillows.

"I have a feeling," ventured Hinda, "I'll be sleeping in other quarters
to-night."

She was right. A minute or two later, the deck-hand, Atlas, came down
with a message from Mr. Volos, the Mate. Adas talked in a sort of
pudding Italian spotted with English and French phrases, like raisins
and currants. Mr. Volos would be very pleased if the third lady would
accept his cabin for the duration of the voyage. There had obviously
been some ardent representations on the part of Captain Aghnides,
presumably backed up by a dollar note or two on the side. And if the
gentleman who was in charge would be pleased to call on the Captain, the
Captain would be very pleased to receive him in his cabin. It was all a
little formal, like the invitations and receptions that go on at the
beginning of voyages in de luxe liners.

"Good," said Leon. "Tell the Captain I'll be along soon." Atlas went
off. Leon turned to Hinda.

"Well. What are you going to do, Hinda?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to keep your door well bolted, anyhow."

"I'll do that all right."

"I'll take a blanket," said Willi, "and camp outside her door."

"You haven't got the idea," said Hinda.

"No," Leon confirmed. "He hasn't. Leave her to it, Willi."

"All right." He was not very happy about it.

"I'll go then?" the girl asked. "I can always kick him in the teeth."

"Not through a bolted door, Hinda. Don't play any tricks. Go now,
Hinda."

"Don't be upset, Willi," she adjured him. "I don't really _like_ him.
It's just the call of duty!" She picked up her things and went.

"Well, everybody. Have you all got your kit?" asked Itzik. The kit was
assembled by now. "I'll let you have the rest of the rations to-morrow.
You never know what the food will be like on this rat-trap. I'll see you
off to-morrow. I want to be able to tell them you've gone off safely."

"Thank you, Itzik. Good night."

"Good night, Leon, Dr. Fasan, Willi, all of you."

"Thank you, good night."

"Thank you, good night."

Itzik went off.

"Well, everybody. You're all dog-tired," said Leon. "Get your heads down
to it, will you? I'll just have a word or two with the Captain. Don't
worry about the women. They can look after themselves. Good night,
boys."

"Good night, Leon. Turn that light out, if it goes out. Fine. Good
night."

"Good night."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Captain's cabin was much more palatable than it had been earlier
that day. It was as if the Captain hoped to be entertaining his
passengers, though there would hardly be room for more than one or two
at a time. As for the purport of the summons, Leon was right. There were
certain financial matters that the Captain wished to have settled. These
were attended to over a friendly glass of wine. Leon also desired to
thank the Captain and Mr. Volos for their courtesy in respect of
_Frulein_ Markus--that was Hinda. They appreciated it deeply, though
they regretted the inconvenience. Not at all, not at all, the Captain
assured him. Mr. Volos could do very nicely for himself on a nice soft
couch in the wheel-house. Leon then excused himself. He had had a long
day. By all means, by all means. The Captain understood completely.
Before turning in, Leon paid a visit to the two cabins occupied by the
three women, Hinda in the one alongside the Captain's, Elsie and Mila in
the one immediately behind Hinda's. He tried the doors and was happy to
find they were both safely bolted. Elsie and Mila gave him no reply when
he called out good night to them. They were sound asleep. Hinda was not.

"Are you all right, Hinda?"

"I'm fine. It's wonderful. I won't want to get up for five days and
nights."

"You've got your little friend with you?"

"Trust me. Let him try something. Straight through the guts. Such a year
upon him!"

Leon smiled.

"Sleep well, Hinda. Good night."

"Give my love to Willi, if he's awake still. Good night, Leon."


[V]

It was an enchanted morning. There had been a brief shower, and the soft
wind that blew like a broom from the south along the narrow plain under
the mountains brought the gentle odours of young wheat and maize and
vines, the heavier odours of syringa and orange and tobacco-blossom.
Beyond the breakwater that stood south-westward from the opposite bank
at Barcagno, the sea was like cornflowers touched with a faint scud of
daisies. Within the breakwater it was merely cornflowers.

The three women had slept like logs. So had the six men. They were
ravenous for breakfast, and it was ample. Even the cook, a saturnine
fellow, smiled from within his lustrous ringlets, as he filled the
plates the passengers handed to him with a primrose mash of beaten-up
eggs sheltering chestnut lumps of fried sausage. The coffee was hot and
savoury. The seagulls squawked. The swallows dipped and tittered.

Half Zara was collected below them on the quayside, as they sat on the
after deck between the stern flag and the galley, viewing these
outlanders, who had come in from a country more tortuous than any South
African jungle, where creatures lurked beyond all imagination dangerous
and unaccountable. It had gone round that the strangers had all been
heroes one way and another, one or two even had been involved in their
own partisan activities. There were three gendarmes now, to control the
crowds. The travellers looked at each other with sadness, as well as
delight, in their eyes. The crowds they had been used to for long years
had had no gentle speech on their lips. The police were armed with
truncheons and guns, but not to protect them from children who reached
flowers up to them, and men who called out in half-a-dozen languages:
"What about a drink, friends, before you go?"

"Well, Leon, well?" His friends looked at him humorously, as he drained
his huge tin mug of hot coffee.

"Perhaps it will be all right," he muttered. But it was obvious in the
light of the lovely morning he felt his misgivings had been a little
silly. "We've got a bit of paper-work, yet, all of us. Come. We'll do
that, then we'll buy a few things. Yes?" He addressed Karl Berger, the
keeper of the suspender. Karl Berger approved.

They went down into the charming town. It did not seem possible. You
walked along a street, and there were nowhere any bomb craters. You went
round a corner, and there were still no bomb craters. No smell of
sickness and death came up from the gratings of cellars. The buildings
were solid, so to speak, all through. There were great heaps of flowers
on barrows under umbrellas striped orange and black. There were loads of
fish shimmering under arcades as gay and bright as flowers. There was a
little fuss and bother, not much, at one office and another. Leon had a
way with him. He also had a recent history which was approved. So had
his companions. Things were not sticky. Formalities over, they went
wandering. They passed through the sunny portals of churches and in dark
interiors were pictures gleaming golden behind tapers. There were
fountains in bright piazzas playing their diamond water-music. And
several times again children thrust flowers into their hands, and once a
barber requested them to sit in his chair and be his guests, and an old
goat-herd milked his goats for them and made them drink out of his two
battered tin mugs.

"Happy, Mila?" whispered Elsie in the girl's ear.

The girl tried to speak, but could not. Elsie looked away. Then, a
minute or two later, she felt Mila take her hand.

"Channah! Channah!" She could say no more than that.

Only one brief dark episode marred the fresh sweetness of that morning.
It was a very mixed crowd that wandered up and down the streets, and
went around the cafs, drinking coffee and beer and wine as it suited
them. In addition to the natives, there were Russian soldiers who were
attached to some mission, American and British personnel connected with
the airfield, and a handful of British seamen from the _Peggy Rawlings_.
It was one of these last who put a brief darkness over the blue morning.
The travellers had gone into a caf for a mid-morning drink, and there
were two British seamen lounging against the bar. One of these was much
more drunk than he seemed. He was evidently one of those drinkers who
begin early and never look drunk, however drunk they are. When Mila went
up to a show-plate on which a number of creamy pastries were displayed,
it brought her to within a couple of feet of the seaman. The man must
have seen her approaching, in a mirror. Turning, he put his huge arms
round her, and kissed her. "Sweetie-pie!" he said. "Wot abart a quick
'arf-'our?"

Elsie had time to observe the terror that started in Mila's eyes, like a
frightened antelope. It was the terror that had lurked there during the
desolate months in Budapest, the terror of the hideous Thing that had
befallen her. In a moment she was at Mila's side, and was thrusting the
man away with both fists, though he was a large man, with heavy
shoulders.

"How dare you! You filthy creature!" she cried out. "Get out! I'll have
the police on you!"

She talked English. It was that that deflated the man even more than the
severity of her words.

"I beg your pardon, mam!" he muttered. "I didn't know she were English!"
He shambled off. His friend settled up, and went off after him,
red-faced.

"Shall I show him what for?" asked Willi, clenching his fists. It would
not have gone well with the seaman, despite his size.

"No! No!" said Elsie. "It was just his idea of a joke! You're all right,
Mila darling, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes," said Mila. "I was just frightened a moment. That's all." The
colour was coming back into her cheeks. Her breath quietened in her
throat.

Everybody did everything in the half hour that was left to them to keep
the episode out of Mila's mind. Whenever there was an interesting
doorway, or a view down to the sea, or a bit of gay costume, a leather
girdle, a jacket embroidered with silver and filigree buttons, they
hastened to point it out to her. Elsie looked from one to the other
gratefully. They were kind people, and intelligent. The smile was back
on Mila's lips again, and the excitement in her eyes.

Then suddenly a ship's hooter sounded, from no distance away, four
streets, three churches, eight cafs.

The ship was calling them, the sea beyond the land, the Land beyond the
sea.

"The time's come, all of you!" said Itzik. He had been wandering round
with them this magical morning. Leon, too, had been with them this last
hour. "Come!" They were back on the Riva Vecchia in three or four
minutes. There was the good dear ship waiting for them, with the good
dear scoundrel of a Captain, and the good dear scoundrels he had for
crew. As they approached, someone on the bridge of the _Cleanthis_,
either Captain or Mate, expressed his pleasure at the sight of them by
sounding the hooter two or three times again.

"Good-bye!" said Itzik, as they reached the gang-plank. "Oh, you'd
better have the coast map to see which way you're going. I know my way
back. Good-bye, all of you!" The women kissed him. The men shook his
hands. "Give those messages," he reminded Leon, "to that girl in
Rehoboth. I've not forgotten, tell her!"

They climbed the gangway, which now, at high tide, was steeper than it
had been, and ranged themselves along the deck-railing aft.

"Good-bye, Itzik!" The men's eyes were wet, too. They had known him for
only three days, but he was a good lad. It was a happiness to know that
there were lads like him that lived on. There were hand-wavings and
valedictions in several languages from the crowd at the quayside. It was
a royal send-off. Two old men in blue sweaters loosed the hawsers from
the bollards on the quay, fore and aft. There was a chuffing from the
donkey-engine in the bows as it coiled in the forrard rope. A bell rang
sharply on the bridge. The propeller in the stern began to revolve,
threshing the water into an oily turbulence. Slowly the ship slid
forward, inclining on the starboard bow. The space between ship and
quayside widened. The voyage had begun.




CHAPTER XII


[I]

The travellers stood about on the aft well-deck, between bridge and
galley. "Good-bye, Zara!" they waved. "Good-bye, Zara!" It was a place
which would always be inexpressibly dear to them, the escape-hole from a
burning building which had a hundred times threatened to burn them
alive, or crush them as it caved in on them. The flames were still
blazing in the central parts of the building, in Northern Italy, in
Czechoslovakia, in Austria, Germany, but they were at last being
quenched. For these travellers the day of liberation was come. Behind
them the crowd stood cheering on the quayside. Even the seamen leaning
against the rail of the British ship, _Annabelle_, waved a friendly hand
as they steamed by. Soon both ship and harbour became small and unreal
behind them in the noonday haze. The Zara Canal stretched north-west
ahead.

Leon was sitting with his back against a stanchion, the map stretched
out on his lap. The travellers, some seated, some on their knees, were
gathered excitedly round him, comparing map with island, island with
map.

"Ugljan!" cried Hinda. "This island on our left! It's not true!"

"Ugljan! Ha! Ha! Ha!" A silvery peal of laughter from Mila. "I don't
believe it! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The men were stripped to the waist, the women wearing as little as they
might.

"You see? On that hill-top?" Chaim pointed out. "A castle!"

"No! A castle!" It sounded quite impossibly picturesque and romantic. A
castle! Northward ahead the great limestone mass of the Velebit
Mountains thrust against the dim blue day. The Canal was opening up. The
odours of salt sea from all about them, of savoury cooking from close at
hand, filled their nostrils.

"Oh! I'm hungry!" said Willi. "I could eat the cook!"

That didn't seem necessary. At that moment the cook came to the cabin
door, banging the back of a plate loudly with the back of a spoon.

"_Si mangia!_" he cried. "_Si mangia!_"

That was splendid. The men went forward and brought back for the women
huge bowls of macaroni _al sugo_, rich with tomato, hot with garlic.
There were also olives, and raw fennel, and green salad, and fresh
bread, and a couple of bottles of resinated wine, which tasted a little
odd at first, but you got used to it in no time. The cabin-boy, too,
less lackadaisical than yesterday, gave a hand. The women preened
themselves, with the sun on their faces, and the smell of macaroni in
their nostrils. It was a long time since they had enjoyed the little
courtesies that men extend to women.

"_Si sta bene?_" It was the Captain who had come out of the wheel-house,
and stood leaning over the railings of the bridge. "Everything all
right?" He addressed them all, but his eyes were fixed on Hinda, that
fine forehead of hers, those full lips, a towel over her bare shoulders.
The towel had slipped. She put it round her bare shoulders again.

"_Benissimo!_" returned Leon. He made the gesture of approbation with
hooked thumb and forefinger. "Couldn't be better!" That went for the
wine, the grapes and almonds, the seagulls, the porpoises rolling in
their wake, the islands, the mountains, the sun, the sea.

"_Mi piace!_" said the Captain, and went back into the wheel-house. The
navigation was doubtless tricky in these islanded waters. Both Captain
and Mate were on the job together.

One o'clock went by. Two o'clock came and went. The travellers had moved
over to the forrard well-deck, where they had a better view of things.
The engines were drumming steadily. The waters had opened up northward
but they were coming close to the islands again straight ahead.

"Do you remember----" Elsie turned to Mila. The memory had come up into
her mind like a fish flying up out of the depths of the sea. It was the
memory of a vision she and Mila had evoked at the outset of their
journeyings, long ago, far away, in Warsaw, among the sour odours of the
old woman's washing-cellar, under the lee of the ghetto wall.

_Some day, perhaps, on a ship, with the sky sharp and blue overhead, a
white road of water behind us._

_There will be seagulls, Channah. I have never seen seagulls._

_Yes, Mila, seagulls. And porpoises._

But Mila had not heard her. Her head was filled with the sounds and
sights of the ship and the sea. Let it go! It was better not to remember
words spoken in that Warsaw darkness--here in the bright blue Illyrian
light. It was better not to recall the brave men and women who had led
them from one stage to another of the long journey--Sem, Yanka, Pekarek,
Miriam, Apor. And there had been other helpers. The time and place would
come to talk of them. Some were dead now. Perhaps all were dead.

"Look! Do you see?" Leon was saying. He had the map. "Between those two
islands? That's where the exit from the Canal is." The steamer-route was
marked by a thin red dotted line. He raised his eyes from the map and
looked straight ahead, screwing up his eyes, for both sea and sky were
bright. "That's right!" he confirmed. "That must be the island of Isto
straight ahead, and the island of Selve north of that. When we've gone
between--yes, that's the point we turn south."

"I wonder..." started Julius Vastagh, the food-chemist. Then he
stopped. "Oh yes, I remember now."

"You remember what?"

"I was wondering why we didn't turn south after we'd rounded the Zara
point. Then I remembered. That bombed ship. You remember? We saw it when
we first got to the quayside, the wrong quayside."

"Yes, I remember."

"The ship must be blocking the channel."

"Of course," said Leon. "Quite right. Well, in half an hour we change
course."

They sailed quite close to the small island of Isto. They could hear the
sound of a dog barking beyond a thicket of cypresses. Out of a stony
field by the sea great clumps of grey-green aloes spread their broad
spears. "Coo-ee!" cried Mila, popping her head from behind a ventilator.
"Coo-ee!" replied Hinda, from behind another. They were running about
all over the place like a pair of schoolgirls. "Don't tire yourselves
out, you two girls!" said Elsie indulgently. Hinda looked as capable of
tiring herself out as a young buffalo. Beyond Isto another small island,
Premuda, lean as a rake, held the port bow. The island of Selve was two
or three knots away north-east. Both islands were now at last behind
them. The engines drummed steadily. Still the bow of the ship faced
north-west. The minutes passed, ten minutes, fifteen minutes. They were
heading, always north-west, always into the open sea.

"It's a funny way to turn south!" said Willi suddenly. "Isn't it?"

"That's what I've been thinking," said Leon. "But he must have some
reason for it."

"Of course he must," said Mischa Fasan. "_He's_ sailing the ship, not
us."

"There may be mines on the line due south," ventured Chaim.

"Or wrecks which are a danger to navigation," suggested Karl Berger.

"Yes, I suppose so," muttered Willi. "It must be something like that."

The minutes went by. It was getting on for three-thirty. Mila had closed
her eyes, and Elsie, too. One or two of the men were dropping off,
almost stupefied by the sea-air which most of them were breathing for
the first time for years. Some had never breathed it before. A faint
wisp of smoke smudged the horizon due north. A British destroyer,
someone hazarded. It might be, it might not.

"I don't get it!" Leon exclaimed suddenly. "Why north-west all the
time?"

"Yes," Willi said. "West, I can understand. But why north? Is he up to
anything?"

"Well," said Mischa Fasan. "It's easy to find out."

Leon was up on his feet already. He walked aft under the wheel-house and
climbed the companionway to the bridge. Then he hesitated a moment. He
was aware that ships' Captains look with a sour eye on passengers who
come up to the bridge without invitation. But this, after all, was not a
very formal ship. And they were paying a very large amount for the
passage. He climbed the companionway on to the bridge. At that moment
the Captain emerged from the wheel-house. Seeing Leon there, a wave of
purple, the shade of permanganate of potash, spread across his ruddy
cheeks. His lower lip quivered. It took several seconds before he could
get it in check enough to speak.

"What are you doing up here?" he shouted. It was a different Captain
from the one who had so amiably signed on nine new members of his crew
in Zara. Leon waited a moment in case the Captain wanted to ask any more
questions. Apparently that was not so.

"I find it rather strange, Captain, that's all. Shouldn't we be steaming
south now?"

"South?" roared the Captain. "South?" He turned and walked a step or two
towards the wheel-house and shouted out to his first officer within. "Do
you hear that, Mr. Volos? This passenger wants us to turn south?" There
was an answering yell from within. It was impossible to make out whether
the sound was to indicate mirth or contempt. The Captain turned to Leon
again. "Who's Captain of this ship, you or me? Do you want me to blow my
ship sky-high? I know what I'm doing! Get back down there, will you?
I've enough on my mind!" He thrust back into the wheel-house again.

Leon was deathly white as he descended the companionway and came forrard
again to join the others.

"Well?" they asked.

"What you said. There's mines or something, on the regular course."

"Well, what are you looking so black about?" asked Chaim.

"I don't like being talked to like that," he muttered, as he sat down
again. "I've had to take it a few times from them"--presumably he meant
people like the S.S. or the Gestapo--"but I'm not standing for it from a
greasy lying crook of a Greek sea-captain, or whatever he is."

"But he _is_ the Captain," Mischa Fasan pointed out mildly. "We're in
his hands!"

"Exactly!" snapped Leon. He got up again, and walked the length of the
ship aft, stood a moment with his hand on the flag-pole, walked forrard
again, and climbed up into the bows. He leaned his back against the
winch, and looked as if he might settle down, when once more he rose,
and came down the short companionway to the well-deck.

"Chaim!" he said. "Willi!"

"Yes?"

"I've said already. We've got to be prepared."

"We know that," said Chaim.

"You've got your pal with you?" He had lowered his voice. He meant his
gun, of course.

"Yes," Chaim answered.

Willi rose.

"I've left mine stowed away," he muttered. "It's uncomfortable on a hard
deck. I'll go and get it... if it's still there...."

Then Mischa Fasan spoke.

"I think, if those people see us muttering to each other, it won't be
very healthy. Smile, for Heaven's sake, smile, Julius. You also, Karl.
You're looking as if somebody's going to cut your throat."

"I shouldn't be surprised," observed Karl Berger, lugubriously.

"Well, don't ask for it," said Mischa Fasan sharply. "And you mustn't
frighten the women. Let them sleep. If you talk like that you'll waken
them." Mila certainly was asleep. Elsie may have been. Hinda was leaning
up against Willi, her head pillowed on his thigh, her eyes closed. She
was not asleep. She raised her head, opened her eyes, winked, then let
her head rest on Willi's thigh again.

"The point is," Mischa Fasan continued, "you can always talk Hebrew and
say what you like. But don't let them think we're hatching plots."

"Just the same," said Willi rising, "can't somebody go to the toilet?"

"You're crazy, you men," snorted Hinda. "What a fuss you're making!"

Willi went, and came back.

"Feel better now?" Hinda grinned.

"Yes," said Willi, settling down again. "I feel better when you're
_both_ with me. Where's yours, Hinda?"

"In my cabin," she replied.

"The door doesn't lock, does it?"

"No. I don't suppose so."

"Then it may have gone by now."

"No. I haven't hidden it, so it may still be there. It's with my
toothpaste in that little waterproof bag."

There was a deep sigh from Mila. She stretched out her arms as if she
might get up from her sleep in a moment.

"Please!" begged Elsie. She may have been asleep, but she was awake to
Mila's least movement. They knew what she meant. It was wrong to
frighten the girl, who had been so ill lately.

"Sorry!" said Hinda.

"Me, too!" said Willi.

"And me," said Karl Berger.

"Thank you." Elsie opened her eyes, smiled her thanks, and closed them
again.

The minutes passed, fifteen, twenty. Mila awoke now. They were all
awake. The course was always north-west. At a few minutes to four there
was the sound of voices on the bridge. Both Captain Aghnides and Mr.
Volos had come out of the wheel-house and were leaning over the
bridge-rail, each with a pair of binoculars at his eyes, scanning the
sea on the port bow.

"What is it?" asked Karl Berger. "A submarine?" Leon came down from the
bows and joined the others. They got up and stared out into the water.

"Do you think it could be a submarine?" Karl Berger wanted to know.

"Why not?" said Leon. "There must be dozens of British submarines in
these waters. I don't suppose we'd interest them much."

"I hope not," said Mischa Fasan shortly. "It could be very
inconvenient."

"Perhaps not," suggested Leon. "We're members of the crew. Legally
signed on by the Captain." He snorted faintly. "Do you see anything? It
might be a loose mine."

"Exactly," said Julius Vastagh. "There are probably huge mine-fields all
over the place."

"Maybe," conceded Leon. "They've gone back, those two. Perhaps it's a
false alarm."

"Maybe," said Julius Vastagh.

Five minutes later there was a sound from the bridge again. The Captain
appeared, then went down the companionway and disappeared towards his
cabin.

"I suppose the worst part is over," suggested Karl Berger.

"The worst part of what?" asked Leon.

"The mine-field," Karl Berger said vaguely.

"Yes, I suppose so," Leon admitted.

If the worst part was over, then the course would be changing before
long, necessarily. They would _have_ to slew round towards the south, or
they'd be fetching up against the coast of Italy. Well, not soon, but
sooner or later, if this damned course to the north-west was continued
indefinitely.

A minute or two later, the Second Engineer was seen to emerge from the
engineers' cabin. He made his way towards the engine-room aft. A few
minutes after that the First Engineer appeared, making his way forrard.
His duty was evidently over. Then he, too, passed out of view. He had
obviously gone to have a word with the Captain.

"They're together, those two," said Karl Berger. "What can they be
talking about?"

"Come, come!" said Julius Vastagh testily. "You mustn't let your nerves
run away with you."

"He might, for instance, have something to say about the engines,"
suggested Chaim, the engineer, a shade ironically.

"Or they might have a game of cards, and a drink," suggested Elsie.

"Some of you men make me sick!" observed Hinda, and shifted her position
from one haunch to the other.

"You might be a lot more sick without that friend of yours in the little
bag," said Willi. "I'm going to get it!"

"Like hell you will!" said Hinda, stretching her legs out, and wriggling
her toes. "It's happy where it is. Hallo! What's that?"

It was the sound of an aeroplane flying straight towards them from the
west.

"British, I think," said Leon. "Yes, British. A Blenheim, I think."

"From some airfield in Italy, I suppose," suggested Willi. "What's that
place they took? Foggia, isn't it?"

"Oh, that's ages ago. It must be miles north of that."

The plane came lower, banked, then climbed again, and flew off
northward. It was not interested. The ship went on. The waters swished
at the bows. The engines drummed in the stern. The seagulls mewed in
their wake. It was five o'clock. The course was not changed. If
anything, it was a point or two more northerly than it had been.

The silence was broken by a sudden loud fish-market yell from the after
quarters of the ship. The travellers jumped to their feet. It was
nothing serious. The cook was having a row with someone in the galley. A
moment later the cabin-boy dumped a large bucket on the deck. The
vituperation continued for a minute or two. The cabin-boy seemed to be
used to it. He made no reply, but got down on his haunches, took a knife
from the bucket, and got down to his job. It was potato-peeling time. A
deck-hand appeared out of the foc's'le, a mop in his hand, and
nonchalantly rubbed it along the deck. After a minute or two, feeling he
had earned his pay, he went back into the foc's'le. There was silence
once more, except for the hissing water, the thudding engines, the
calling gulls. There was no change in course. Leon looked at his watch.
It was six o'clock.

"Look!" said Chaim. Everybody looked up. "That way!" Everybody had been
looking to starboard, where a school of porpoises were disporting
themselves. He was pointing southward and westward. A small
tramp-steamer was ploughing the water _southward_. That ship, at least,
did not seem to anticipate navigational danger. Chaim looked at Leon.
Leon's face was grey and rigid as a rock. The nicked flesh above the
cheek-bone was like a small wedge of white marble inserted there. He
turned on his heel sharply.

"Be careful, for God's sake!" begged Mischa Fasan. Leon ignored him. He
strode straight aft, from the well-deck to the officers' quarters, and
turned from their sight. Then they heard a sharp rap on the Captain's
door. There was a brief silence; then, loud and clear, came the
Captain's summons: "_Avanti!_"

                 *        *        *        *        *

"_Avanti!_" cried the Captain.

Leon turned the handle and entered. The Captain was sitting on his bed
in his shirt-sleeves. Facing him sat the First Engineer in the green
wicker chair, a little more formally attired in the presence of his
superior officer, for he had his coat on. A game of cards was in
progress on the Captain's up-ended tin trunk. On the small table by the
bedhead was an almost empty bottle of whisky. Below it was a quite empty
bottle. The Captain and his officer were quick drinkers.

"Ha! It's you, _signore_!" cried the Captain. The drink was affecting
him very differently to-day from yesterday. But the foul trick that the
Captain of the _Estrella_ had played on him was a day older. Besides, he
had brought off a good stroke of business for himself. "Yes, what is it?
Any complaints? Any thing we can do for your comfort? Oh, by the way.
Have you met my First Engineer, Sr. Triggiani? You have? Not only a
competent officer, a good friend. You must get to know each other
better."

Leon stared at the Captain in astonishment. This did not seem at all the
same man who had blackguarded him up on the bridge, two or three hours
ago. Perhaps the astonishment showed too clearly in his face.

"I wanted to ask you----" he started. "The fact is, we can't begin to
understand----"

The Captain interrupted him:

"Of course, _caro signore_. How stupid I am!" He seized his head between
his hands and shook it comically from side to side. "You have come to
ask me why we have not changed course yet? Of course you have! _Per
favore_, let me explain! But, please, one thing I beg you----" He
paused.

"Yes?" asked Leon.

"You must forgive me. I was ill-educated. I was discourteous."

"Up there?" asked Leon. "Well, I must say----"

"_Signore_, you do not understand the responsibility of sailing a ship
through these perilous waters! If you had any idea of the danger that
surrounded us at the very moment you came up on my bridge... and you
will forgive me, without invitation...."

"I am sorry," muttered Leon.

"If you had understood, you and your ladies..." The Captain shrugged
his shoulders.

"But surely, Captain, by this time the danger must be over. Only just
now we saw a ship steaming harmlessly southward at no great distance. My
friends are getting very restless, and frankly so am I."

"I think the only thing we can do, _signore_, is to ask your
friends--not more than one or two at a time, if you please--into the
wheel-house. Mr. Volos and I will spread out the charts before you." He
raised his glass to his lips, then banged it down on the table again.
"_Mamma mia!_" he cried out. "And you, too, Sr. Triggiani! What are we
thinking of? Each of us sitting here, like peasants, a glass in our
hands! I beg you, _signore_. You must have a drink with us. You will
find a glass there, on the table behind you!"

"Really, I think I'd rather not!" Leon was distrustful of the Captain,
not less distrustful than before. It was important for him to keep a
clear head. Above all, not whisky. He was never good on whisky.

"No! No!" protested the Captain. "That would be insupportable! Not to
have a drink with us, not even a little one! I appeal to _you_, Sr.
Triggiani!"

It would be easier to take a thimbleful of whisky, Leon decided, than to
stand up against the torrent of protest which a refusal was certain to
unloose. He could drown the stuff with water, anyhow. He turned and
reached for the glass. His fingers closed round it.

Then the Captain spoke again. The voice was lower, and the tone very
different.

"If you utter one sound, Jew, you're a dead man!"

Leon's fingers relaxed from round the tumbler. He turned his head,
knowing that he would find himself gazing into the barrel of a gun.

"Please get up, Sr. Triggiani, will you? Sit down, Jew! It will be more
convenient for us all that way. Take that gun from him, Sr. Triggiani.
That's fine. Are we right? He has one there?" The Engineer removed the
Lger. "Yes, of course, he has."

"A beautiful thing!" murmured the Engineer. He balanced it on the palm
of his hand, he gazed along the barrel. "Beautiful!"

"You would like to know about the course we are taking, Jew?" asked the
Captain. It was extraordinary how so small and dulcet a voice could
emerge from so large a frame. "I will tell you." He paused for some
moments, as if he had a particularly pleasant chocolate in his mouth
with a soft centre, and he wanted to cherish the taste of the coating
before he punctured it and the juice squirted on his palate. Leon's eyes
were staring straight in front of him, avoiding the eyes of Captain
Aghnides. He was still young, and the direct sight of such iniquity was
more than he could bear.

"Are you listening, Jew?"

The dryness in Leon's mouth was like the dryness round a tooth upon
which the dentist blows his little blast of hot air. But it was
necessary to speak. It might even be, at some cost, necessary to shout.
He brought the words out.

"I'm listening, Captain Aghnides."

"Good. I'm not going to waste much time talking to you. Your friends
might get anxious and come along to find out what's going on."

Think quickly, Leon. Shall I shout out now, at once, though in the same
moment a bullet will be in my brain? I don't much mind dying. I've been
close to it often enough. But I must be sensible. What good will it do?
Will it save the others? The moment the shot is fired, men will swarm
over them like a load of apes. It's grim, very grim indeed. But we are
cleverer than he is, and his thugs. We've made fools of more deadly
creatures than this one. The only hope is in guile.

"You're very stupid, Captain Aghnides," he said. "You don't understand
the type of people who are with me, and the type of people who are
behind us."

"I've been around," said Captain Aghnides drily. "We are not bound for
Palestine," he added, as if casually.

"Where then?" asked Leon.

"I have no hesitation in telling you. I have a cargo to pick up in
Mestre."

For the moment the location of the place eluded Leon. "Mestre?" he
asked. "Mestre?"

The Captain smiled.

"The port of Venice," he said lightly.

"Venice? But that's... that's..."

"It's in Fascist Italy. At least it will still be in Fascist Italy
during the next few days. The Gestapo is still functioning there."

Leon licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, though his tongue felt
not less dry. It was again the _humiliation_ of it that so abysmally
desolated him. He had risked death a hundred times, but it had been his
lot to risk a gallant death, for the most part, a death of derring-do.
And though his antagonists had been men certainly not less wicked than
this Captain, there had been a certain diabolic distinction about them,
a dark splendour. But to be trapped in this sewer, to be handed over to
the exterminators exactly like a rat in a rat-trap. Oh how ignoble it
was!

"You know, of course, the rest of your money will not be handed over to
you," Leon said, with an affectation of ease which the white lips and
the drops of sweat on the forehead belied, "unless we give instructions
ourselves, after our safe arrival. You know that? _After_, not before."

Captain Aghnides puffed out his lips.

"Pooh! Chicken-feed! I told you I have a cargo to pick up in Mestre. Not
a cargo, exactly. A new crew, an honorary crew. Aristocrats, princes.
Not a load of stinking Jews!" The Captain said no more than that. He
made a gesture with his free hand. The butt-end of a gun, Leon's own
gun, came down smoothly on the back of Leon's skull like the shaft of an
engine.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A minute later the First Engineer came out of the Captain's cabin,
turned right, and right again, and made his way forrard. Ahead of him
the remaining passengers sat and lay around on the hatches of the
well-deck. They looked a poor lot, he thought. They would shortly be
looking more down in the mouth still. He sauntered along easily. He had
time.

"_Bon jour, messieurs, mesdames_," he said, as he came from under the
superstructure. He was proud of his French. "_Agrable, non?_" He made a
gesture towards the sea, which now had barely a ripple on it, and the
sky, which had not a cloud in it. Then his gaze stiffened. Alongside the
well-deck on the starboard side there was a line of spilled tomato-gravy
leading to the foc's'le door, where one of the deck-hands had carelessly
swung the brimming pail of the foc's'le dinner. It was not strictly the
First Engineer's duty to busy himself with the cleanliness of the deck,
but it was impossible to have such amiable passengers subjected to such
filth.

"_Sporceria!_" he yelled at the top of his voice. "_Voi, Angela, dove
siete?_" There was no reply for a moment. Then the First Engineer raised
his voice again. "_Porco Madonna! Non sentite?_" At that moment the
foc's'le door opened and the deck-hand, Angelo, appeared, yawning,
rubbing his fists into his eyes.

"_Che cosa?_" asked Angelo.

"Look there!" shouted the First Engineer. "Look! The _sporceria_! Go at
once! Get a bucket! Scrub it clean!"

"_Piano! Piano!_" objected Angelo, and turned grunting back into the
foc's'le.

"You will forgive, I hope!" begged Sr. Triggiani, returning to French,
the language of good manners. "These lazy do-nothings, they should be
whipped!"

"Excuse me," said Mischa Fasan, politely returning French with French.
"I take it that our friend, the young gentleman who just left us to see
the Captain----"

At that moment Angelo reappeared, his dungarees turned up about his
calves. He carried a pail with brushes and damp cloths, and looked
about, as if the spilled gravy had hidden itself in the scuppers
somewhere, like beads shed from a necklace.

"There, there, imbecile!" the First Engineer pointed out. The deck-hand
advanced a yard or two along the well-deck and laid the pail down with a
clatter. He got down on his knees and fumbled about in the pail as if to
find a favourite scrubbing-brush. But it was not a brush he lifted from
the pail. It was a gun. He turned and covered the group on the hatches.
Another gun covered them from the rear. This was in the hand of Sr.
Triggiani.

"Get up, all of you!" demanded Sr. Triggiani. "Hands up!" The passengers
rose. "Along the deck there!" They lined up along the port rail. At that
moment a burly and cheerful figure emerged from under the wheel-house.
It was the Captain. He, too, had a gun in his hand. The cook and the
cabin-boy aft were interested spectators. There was an air of ease about
the proceedings which seemed to indicate that the crew of the
_Cleanthis_ had had similar experience on previous occasions, or that
they had a fine talent for improvisation. Probably there had been
conversations beforehand.

"Take their guns from them, Angelo," said the Captain. He talked Greek,
but it was impossible not to guess the meaning of the brief instructions
he issued. "That's one. That's two. That's fine." The guns of Chaim and
Willi were handed over to him. "Take them down to the magazine!" he
ordered.

"Very good, Captain," said Sr. Triggiani.

"Wait!" the Captain said. He was in an amiable, even a courteous mood.
The party included three women. Two were young. One was a real eyeful.

"The women might as well keep their cabins," he grunted. "Take them
along, Angelo!" he ordered. "Lock them in!" He turned to the men. His
expression changed. The lips drew away from the teeth on the left side,
in the rather frightening way they had. "_Si marcia!_" he said. "Get
going!"

They moved off, their hands in the air. It was not the first time in
their lives that one or two of those men had gone marching forward,
their hands in the air, and guns at their backs. Two minutes later they
were back in the magazine where they had spent the night before. It
looked like being a less pleasant night than that had been. The heavy
metal doors clanged to. The great bolts were thrust into their sockets.


[II]

"Another little glass of whisky, Sr. Triggiani?" asked the Captain, as
they made their way up to their own quarters. "Or would you prefer some
nice Barbados rum?"

"A little more whisky, I think," said the First Mate, as they entered
the Captain's cabin. "But we had better get rid of this first, of
course?" He referred to Leon, who still lay slumped over the green
wicker chair.

"Of course," the Captain said. "I take it that Angelo's just below, is
he? They always expect a bit of their bonus straight away. I don't blame
them."

The First Mate went to the door, and looked out. Yes, there was Angelo,
hovering around just below, on the well-deck. One of the greasers had
somehow learned of the excitement. He had come up from the engine-room,
and was leaning over the rail by the galley. The cook and cabin-boy were
there, too. The potato-fatigue was suspended. Fewer potatoes than had
been expected would be needed to-night.

"Angelo," called the First Mate. "Get somebody to give you a hand.
There's another passenger to go down into the magazine. Be careful as
you open the door. Then come back a moment."

Angelo smiled.

"Yes, sir." He would be careful. He would come back. He was back some
five minutes later.

The Captain and the First Mate had a drink or two, both before he came,
and after he went. Then the Captain put the cork back into the bottle.
He was yawning.

"Well, that was nice work," he said. He made no other reference to
recent events. "I'll turn in for a couple of hours." He looked at his
watch. "Yes. It's six o'clock. Get someone to give me a shake at eight
o'clock, will you? I'll take over till midnight."

"Certainly, sir," said the First Mate.

The Captain slipped off his shoes, stretched his legs out along his
bunk, and laid his head on the pillow. He was asleep immediately. He was
one of those lucky adults who, like almost all babies, can do that.


[III]

It was pitch-dark inside the magazine. The light could only be switched
on from outside. The men felt their way to the beds they had made for
themselves, and stretched out.

"We are not very clever, after all," said Julius Vastagh.

"There was only one clever one among us," said Chaim sadly, "and we
laughed at him." He meant Leon.

"What's going to happen to Hinda?" asked Willi, furiously. He thumped
his fist on the metal bulkhead beside him. "And the two other women?" he
asked, ashamed that he had for a moment only thought of the girl he
loved.

"It will do you no good to bang the ship," Mischa Fasan reproved him. He
was a gentle creature, as well as intelligent. You could not resent his
habit of lecturing you, though he was at it quite a lot. "And it will do
the ship no harm, either," added Mischa. You could almost delude
yourself into thinking that you could see his spectacles twinkling in
the darkness.

"Yes," repeated Chaim, "only one clever one among us. And we laughed at
him because we thought him too clever. Listen. That's him. That's Leon.
He's coming to himself again." There was a groan and the sound of
someone stirring on the mattress close by, where they had laid him after
he had been flung in to them. Chaim reached over and fumbled with his
fingers and found Leon's face. "The handkerchief is warm," he said.
"Soak another one, will you, Willi?" Willi found his way to the tap and
soaked another handkerchief, then fumbled his way back to Leon.

"Here you are, _chaver_!" he said. "A little cold water."

"Water," asked Leon. "Any water to drink?"

"There's an orange, here. Suck it. That's fine."

"All right now, Leon?" asked someone.

"Don't talk of it. Hush," bade someone else. "There's time."

"Not very much," said Leon. "Wait." He felt the back of his head. "Oh,
you've bandaged it. How long have I been here?"

"Not long. Ten minutes. Can you tell us what happened?"

"Yes. I'll tell you. Oh!"

"What is it?"

"Where's Mila? Is she here?"

"No. He let the women go back to their cabins. They're probably locked
in from the outside."

"Then we must get them out."

He was clearly still light-headed.

"Yes, of course, of course," Chaim soothed him. "First tell us what
happened."

He told them. He gave them as clear as account an he was capable of for
the moment.

"A clever man," murmured Mischa Fasan bitterly.

"Yes," said Karl Berger. "You would not have thought him so clever to
look at him." Unless they admitted that the Captain was clever, they
would be forced to think themselves even more stupid than they did
already.

"You were right, Leon," said Chaim. "I am sorry. We are all sorry."

"What about?"

"You told us how you felt about that Captain, and we didn't listen to
you."

"Tcha!" said Leon. That ejaculation pricked the back of his brain like a
needle. "If you, or Mischa, or anyone had seen the swine first, you'd
have felt about him as I did. And I'd have told you not to be so
childish--just as you told me----"

"Maybe," they agreed. There was a silence for some time. Everyone was
thinking furiously. To Leon the effort of thinking furiously was
intolerably painful. The thinking didn't seem to get anything very far.
The only movement was in the progress of the _Cleanthis_, which was
steadily making for the cellars of the Gestapo in Venice at a round
eight knots per hour. And the cellars of the Gestapo were neither to be
thought about nor to be talked about. They had all thought and talked
enough about them already.

The voice that broke the silence was Willi's.

"The women! The women!" he moaned.

There was nothing useful that could be said by anyone on that subject.
If they could do anything to save themselves, the women would be saved.
But what could they do, locked up in a metal magazine, in a ship manned
by armed and iniquitous men? The silence continued. The throbbing became
slowly less intolerable in Leon's skull.

It was Mischa Fasan's voice that spoke now.

"We are _all_ wrong," he said.

"Wrong? What wrong?"

"There is only one clever one on board this ship. Perhaps two. No, not
that Captain. I don't mean that Captain."

"Who then? Puzzles he talks," said Karl Berger fretfully.

"The women are the clever ones. But, Channah, what can _she_ do? Her
hands are tied, like ours. I mean Hinda."

"Hinda?"

"Yes. She is clever, because she has a gun."

"A gun! She is in a locked cabin, and he says she has a gun. She has
also toothpaste."

"I do not think," said Mischa Fasan quietly, "that that cabin will
remain locked--to-night."

There was intense silence as the words sank in; then, from Willi's
throat, a growl. Then:

"Herr Doktor! No! Oh please God, no!" he pleaded.

"I have said already that Hinda is a clever girl," said Mischa Fasan.
"She is lucky, but she is also clever."

"Tell me," said Julius Vastagh. "You talk of these things as if there
were a plan laid down, and you knew all about it in advance."

"I know nothing," said Mischa Fasan. "I believe in God."

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was dark inside Elsie's cabin, too. They had left the bulb in the
socket, and for a short time Elsie had played with the idea of flashing
the light on and off with the switch in the hope of attracting attention
from some craft at sea. But she realized she was very much more likely
to attract the attention of some member of the crew, and that would mean
extreme unpleasantness for them both.

Mila was sitting on the lower bunk, with Elsie's arms around her.

"All right, Mila darling?"

"I'm all right, Channah dear."

"Not frightened?"

"No, I'm not frightened."

She knew Mila was not saying this merely to comfort her. Mila was simply
not frightened. Danger had never frightened her, and though she had been
so terribly ill till lately, she was not frightened now. She had been
far more frightened that morning--yes, it was the morning of that same
day--when the British seaman in the caf at Zara had put his arms round
her. It was impossible that it should not be so.

"You lie down on this bunk, won't you, Mila? I'll sit here, and we'll
just talk. We might get sleepy later on."

"No, Channah. You lie down. I'll sit here."

"Very well. We won't argue." She stretched her legs out, and felt with
her hand for Mila's. There was silence for some moments, and Elsie did
not want silence. But for the moment she could not think what was the
right direction to steer the conversation.

It was Mila who spoke.

"You know, _Liebling_----"

"Yes?" Elsie's heart turned over curiously. It was not often Mila called
her "_Liebling_." _Liebling! Darling!_ She rolled the sweet word over on
her tongue.

"You know where they're taking us?" asked Mila.

"I can guess." (The girl was wanting her to face up to it, so that there
could be no hideous surprises in store for her. The lovely, kindly,
intelligent child!) "To Italy, I suppose."

"There's still a part the Fascists have, isn't there?"

"Yes, I think so. In the North, though the Allies are chasing them out
fast."

"Not fast enough for us, I'm afraid," said Mila ruefully. "When do you
think we'll arrive?"

"To-morrow, I suppose."

"You won't be frightened, Channah?"

"No, Mila. I don't think we'll ever get there, either."

"What do you mean? Do you mean Leon will save us?"

"Leon, or someone else." She did not say that she was not at all sure
that Leon was alive at that moment. It had not occurred to Mila,
apparently, that something might have happened to him.

"Who's someone else?" asked Mila.

"I'll tell you." But then a thought occurred to her. "You understand the
Morse code, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"So do I. It's a lucky thing I was so bored in Cracow with that poor
dear creature... do you remember? What was her name?"

"Yanka, wasn't it?"

"That's right. Yanka. She so bored me, the poor thing, that when she
offered to teach me the Morse code, I jumped at the chance. Remember? I
told you. Hallo, hallo!" She stopped and raised her head. "Do you hear
anything, Mila?"

"Yes, I do. I'm sure I do. There it is again. Dot--dot--dash."

"But this is too idiotic. Tap back again. Perhaps it's just a creaking
in the joints. Gently, now, gently, in case anybody hears."

"Dot--dot--dash," went Mila's knuckles, very gently indeed, but loud
enough to be heard on the other side, for there was an immediate
response, just as gentle, and quite decisive. Dot--dot--dash,
dot--dot--dash.

"Talk about telepathy, Mila!" whispered Elsie. "Never say you don't
believe in it from now on. There she is again. Help me spell it out.
Yes, what's that?"

"You both O.K.?" This from Hinda's side of the bulkhead.

"O.K." This from their side.

"Me, too. You locked in?"

"Yes."

"Me, too."

"Keep cheerful."

"You also."

"I have idea."

"What?"

"He may pay visit later. If yes, O.K."

"Take care."

"O.K."

There was silence for a time, then Elsie and Mila talked again. They had
various little snatches of conversation with each other from time to
time during the next two hours. It helped to pass the time away.


[IV]

At eight o'clock, as arranged, Captain Aghnides was given a shake. He
yawned, belched, and got up. First he gave himself a good shot of whisky
to start him off on his four-hour watch. Then he poured out a little
water in his basin, and dipped his head in it. Then he slipped his coat
on, and went up on the bridge, and relieved Mr. Volos. There was some
food on the table in the wheel-house, bread, olives, cheese, half a
bottle of wine. That would see him through. The second deck-hand came up
to relieve the first. The Captain and the hand got down to their work.

Time passed. The engines drummed away peacefully. They were making good
progress. At this rate they should arrive at Mestre well before dawn.
They would probably have to stand off for a couple of hours. Everything
was going nicely. It did not seem as if there were any Allied patrols
about. If anyone stopped him, he had every answer pat. The prisoners
were a lot of Jews who were trying to make the illegal journey to
Palestine. When told he was going to put them ashore, they had tried to
seize the ship. He would be all right. No one had got him down yet. He
was Captain Aghnides, Xenophon Aghnides. He walked up and down the
bridge, and stuck out his chest. He felt fine. There was only one thing
lacking. He felt like it now, but he knew of a little piece in Mestre.
He would have to wait for it till to-morrow.

God damn it, she was a good-looking little wench, well-stacked, the one
below. He liked them like that, with those firm thighs, and those
inviting eyes. She had winked at him more than once during the day, each
time she had caught his eye. She knew what was good for her. She knew he
had a nice well-lined wallet, too, the little Jew-bitch. Oh well, he'd
get it for a few liras to-morrow. Maybe, just for love. Women liked what
he had to give them.

The jaunty way she swung those little buttocks of hers! Something to get
hold of! The erotic images chased each other across the starry canvas of
the night. He tried to think of other things. His wife in Smyrna. The
miserable treacherous faggot! She was probably in the arms of some
lecherous circumcised Turk at that very moment, wallowing in it! He
swivelled his mind violently round to Corfu, and his mother there, his
poor dear mother, in the small farm among the olive-trees, by Lake
Calichipoulo. But his mind came round again and again to the little
Jew-bitch. She was never out of it for more than a minute or two at a
time. It got him like this sometimes. He was immensely relieved when at
long last Mr. Volos came up to take over at midnight.

He knew what he would do. He would go down and start drinking and go on
drinking till he passed out. There would be only time for an hour or
two's sleep, but that would be all right. He never needed more than
that. He would be as right as rain by the time they got to Mestre.

But it did not work out like that. He drank more than enough to stupefy
most men, but his itch merely became more and more intolerable. He knew,
he had known all along, why he had had the bitch put back into her
cabin. Because he wanted her to be there when he felt like having her.
And if he wanted the two others, by God, he would have them, too! Was he
not Captain Aghnides, the terror of the brothels of the whole Levant?

He threw back one more large shot of whisky, and rose to his feet,
swaying no more than an inch or two this way and that. He was
extraordinarily steady for one who had drunk so much. He put his coat
on, for he was, after all, a ship's Captain and a gentleman. One does
not go to pay one's respects to a woman in one's shirt-sleeves. This was
the S.S. _Cleanthis_, not a five-piastre-a-time brothel in Alexandria.
He tapped his pocket to assure himself his wallet was there. It was
there, and it bulged healthily.

"If she wants pay," he muttered, "she'll get pay. Why not? Nice girl.
Well-stacked. Good value." He opened his door and moved along the two or
three yards to the next cabin, where she was lying in her bunk, the
poppet, damn her eyes. He knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again.
There was a sudden startled cry from within. You could hear quite
plainly through the door-grille.

"Who's that?" She talked her own language, German.

"Speak _francese_, _franais_?" he whispered. "_Moi, Capitaine._"

"Ah, _le Capitaine_. _Allez-vous-en._" He could talk to her. They had a
language in common. "Bad man. Me frightened." The little bitch was
playing coy, hard to make.

"Let me come in. Beaucoup dollars. _Belle. Trs belle. Bellissima._" The
languages were getting mixed up a bit.

There was a faint titter on the other side of the door. God, how
provoking she was. He could smell her. Though the door was between, he
could _see_ her, stretched out naked, firm, ravishing. If she wasn't
careful, he'd break the door down. And then where would she be?

"_Apri. Ouvrez._ Please!" he begged piteously. It was always better when
they worked with you.

"Shush!" she bade him. "Now! I get up! Bad man!" She unbolted the door
from within, and turned the handle. But the door, of course, was bolted
outside, too. "Silly! Silly!" she reproved him. "Open from your side!"

"Yes, yes!" he whispered. He fumbled with the bolt and pulled it back.
Then she opened the door.

"Come in!" she whispered. "Hush! Not to waken anybody!" He entered.

"_Chrie! Ragazzina mia!_" he mouthed. As he reached his arms forward to
hug her to his chest, he felt the hard impact of a steel rod against his
belly. He heard a sharp click at the same moment, a sound he knew well.
He knew it well, however drunk he was. It was the click of a gun's
safety-catch being jerked out of place.

"Hands up! Get out!" Hinda said. It did not occur to him to argue. He
was not brave--as who is!--with an automatic thrust against his belly.
The door was open. He got out. "Turn round! Go left! To the other
cabin!" She was enjoying herself, but she had had good times like this
before. "Open that door!" He pulled the bolt from the outside, the two
women inside pulled it from theirs. The door opened. "Let him in!"
ordered Hinda. They led him in, then closed the door and switched on the
light. "Sit down in that chair," bade Hinda. He sat down. He was as
docile as a child. "Now tie him up and gag him. Use the sheets." Elsie
and Mila did as she told them. Mila's eyes were sparkling with
excitement. Elsie, too, was having a good time. For the first time for
several months her attention was focused on another creature than Mila.
A quick memory flickered across her mind--the last time she was tying
bandages round a body. A long way off. In another world. The tying and
gagging took some time, but it had to be done well, and it was done
well. The Captain himself offered no difficulty at all. His eyes rolled
in their sockets like golden brandy-balls. Every now and again a gurgle
emerged from him, like a crooning wood-pigeon. That was all.

"I'll stay here," said Hinda, "unless he wriggles free, with all those
rolls of fat." She looked dispassionately at the revolver, now off duty
for the moment in the palm of her hand. "I don't think I could knock him
out with this," she speculated. "Do you? This sort of man usually has a
thick skull." The eyes rolled terribly in the Captain's head. "We can't
shoot him now, either. It would wake people up. No, I'll stay here.
Channah, one of the Engineers is in the next cabin. I heard him go in.
He's dead asleep, or he'd have been in by now. Bolt his door, Channah.
Do it quietly. Then come back here. You, Mila----"

"Yes?" Mila was as tense as a child playing Cowboys and Indians.

"See if there's a guard on the magazine below, where the men are. I
shouldn't think there is. They were so sure of everything. If there is,
come back. We'll have to get a knife from the galley, and do him in. If
there's no guard, it should be easy. I suppose that door will be bolted,
too. It's not likely to be locked. If it is locked, the key would be in
this fellow's cabin. We'd soon find out where it is." She fondled the
revolver. "Off you go, girls." The tone was almost that of a girl-guide
mistress to her two best girl-guides. Channah went off and slid the bolt
on the outside of the engineer's cabin. He was snoring inside there like
the engine of a motor-boat. She came back at once to share Hinda's
vigil. She felt quite sorry for the miserable trussed creature with the
rolling eyes. It is not a nice thing for a Captain to be trussed like a
turkey by three females in his own ship. But she knew he had been a
naughty Captain one way and another.

Like a shadow, like the good little Underground girl she was, Mila crept
down the companionway to the deck below, and paused, waiting to make
quite sure there was no one on guard. There was not. She crept forward
and passed her fingertips over the outside of the store-room door. The
door was bolted, with large bolts above and below. There was a
padlock-hasp but no padlock. She grinned with delight, and it suddenly
occurred to her that it would be pleasant to give them a sign inside.
They were not likely to be sleeping.

Dot--dot--dot--dash, she went, with her knuckles, very softly. The V
sign. There was a silence for several charged seconds, then the sign
came back: dot--dot--dot--dash. Then she slid the bolts. Someone within
turned the handle. Someone drew the door inwards. Then there was a
babble of whispers: "Thank God!" "God be praised!" "Thank God!" "Thank
God!" Then:

"_Towda rabbah_, many thanks! Who are you?"

"It's me, Mila! Let me in!"

A hand drew her inside, then closed the door to behind her.

"No! No!" cried someone. She recognized Leon's voice. "Don't close it!
Anyone could bolt it again!"

"Of course! Fool that I am!" It was Willi. He opened the door and wedged
his shoulder there.

"Leon!" Mila cried. "Are you all right?"

"Fine! Look!" He lit a torch, and moved the beam round. "We're all all
right. What happened? How did you do it?" He addressed the others.
"Isn't she marvellous?"

"It was easy," Mila whispered. "The Captain came to Hinda's cabin, and
she held him up. Then she made him open our door, and they came in. Then
we tied him up." It sounded a pedestrian narration of facts.

"She's all right, is she?" This was from Willi, and it meant Hinda.

"We're all all right," Mila assured him.

"I told you so," said Mischa Fasan, a little unctuously.

"Told us what?" asked Karl Berger.

"You know very well what I told you."

They could not express the enormity of their relief by shouting and
dancing, so they were irritable with each other instead.

"For God's sake, let's get out of this hole," exclaimed Willi. "Let's
start doing things: I must get to Hinda!"

"Quiet!" ordered Leon. He was at once very much in command. "We've got
to work to plan, otherwise we're done for. Does anyone seem to be
around, Mila? Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"We never know when people may start moving to take over from each
other," Leon continued. "They may start moving now."

"What time is it?" asked Chaim.

"A quarter to three."

"It's not the sort of time people change watch," said Chaim.

"We know roughly where everyone is?" asked Leon.

"Not just roughly," observed Chaim. "There are four men in the foc's'le,
probably fast asleep. There's two men on the bridge, and two in the
engine-room. That leaves just the Captain, and one more, the engineer
off duty. He'll be asleep, too."

"Yes," said Mila. "Channah locked him in."

"There we are, then," Leon summed up. "Four forrard, four amidships, two
of whom are out of the way, and two aft, in the engine-room. We've got
to account for them all." He thought hard for some moments. "That means
three separate operations. The four men in the foc's'le are easy. All we
have to do with them is bolt them in. That's right, isn't it, Chaim?
There'd be outside bolts on that door?"

"I think so."

"But we can't deal with them till we've dealt with the two men on the
bridge. The foc's'le door's under observation from the wheel-house, I
think."

"It is."

"So we've got to work that out--the two men on the bridge. When those
two operations are over, we can deal with the two men in the
engine-room. We'll need rope. What's more--we don't want to kill
anybody, but if we have to, we have to. So we'll need guns. Our guns
can't be far away."

"How many do we need?"

"As many as we can lay hands on. We know we've got _one_, Hinda's. We
can knock the Captain on the head, if necessary, and take that one.
Mila!"

"Yes?"

"Did the Captain have his gun on him?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"We tied him round and round like a mummy."

"Then his own gun must be in his cabin. So's mine, I should think.
Perhaps Willi's, too. Go and see what you can find, Willi, and come back
at once. Here, take this torch."

Willi disappeared, a streak of darkness. He was back four minutes later,
bristling with guns. He had four.

"No trouble at all," he said. "This one was under his pillow."

"The one he used on me, I suppose."

"Your own gun, and mine, were locked in the drawer. So was this one, the
one the deck-hand used. The keys were under his pillow, too."

"Four, an arsenal. We could have managed with less. The first thing
we've got to do is overpower the two men on the bridge. There are two
doors into the wheel-house. You take this on with me, Willi. You go up
one side, I'll go up the other. We'll have a gun apiece."

"Fine," said Willi.

"We'll need some rope to tie them, and some stuff to gag them with.
There's any amount around here. Have you got your jack-knife, Chaim?
They took mine. Yes? Julius, Karl, find some rope of the right sort, and
cut it into even lengths to tie round the waist. Also, someone, cut up
this blanket."

"Yes, Leon, I will," said Mila.

"Another thing, Leon!" observed Chaim. "When we've tied up the mate and
the other man----"

"Please God!" interjected Mischa Fasan.

"Please God!" conceded Chaim, "we'd better lash the wheel. Otherwise the
ship might go dancing around a bit, and they'd start thinking things in
the engine-room."

"All right. You do that, Chaim. You, Karl----"

"Yes?"

"You'll come up to the wheel-house just behind us. The moment you see
we've got them safe, go down to the main deck. You'll be waiting for
him, Julius, under the bridge. You'd better have a gun, too, though I
don't think you'll need it. You go forrard, both of you, and bolt the
foc's'le door. If you do it quickly enough, it doesn't matter if you
wake them. They can yell their lungs out. The people amidships won't be
any use to them, and nobody'll be able to hear them back in the
engine-room. It's a long way off, and there's a lot of noise down there.
That's the last job, the engine-room. What'll be going on down there,
Chaim?"

"I suppose the engineer will be attending to the gauges. Or he might be
just having a smoke. The greaser will be moving around with a rag, I
suppose. Or he may be having a smoke, too."

"They sound easy meat. What do you suggest, Chaim?"

Chaim thought a moment or two, then: "I'll be on the galley deck," he
said, "outside the door leading down into the engine-room. As soon as
you and Willi are ready, you can come and join me."

"Good."

"I'll go down first. You know there's a cat-walk, half-way down?"

"Yes?"

"I can cover them from there. You two can go down and tie them up."

"Or tap them on the head, if they're funny," said Leon. "That disposes
of all of them, doesn't it, the whole lot?"

"That's right."

"No," said Leon. "No. It can't be as simple as all that."

"It's not so simple," suggested Karl Berger.

"Does anybody see any snags anywhere? I'll go through it again quickly."
He went through it. "Well? Anything to say, anybody?"

Nobody had anything to say. Everything was clear and straightforward, so
long as everybody moved quickly and silently, and there was no fumbling.

Then suddenly Karl Berger found his tongue.

"What happens afterwards?" he asked. "Do we sail the ship instead? I
suppose I could do the cooking."

"No," said Leon shortly. "We lower one of the boats and make off."

"Where to?"

"Oh shut him up somebody, for God's sake!" Leon broke out. "Let's get
cracking!" He adjusted a length of rope round his waist and tucked the
end in. "You and me first, Willi. To the bridge."

They went out. The others followed to the places assigned them. Mischa
Fasan was the last to go.

"God bless you," he murmured after them. No special job had been
assigned to him and he felt his sixty years at that moment keenly and
for the first time. This was a young man's business, he knew. But the
young men would be no worse off if God blessed them, he thought.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Karl Berger was right. The operation was not so simple as all that. It
was three separate operations, and something might have gone wrong with
each, though each mishap would have been progressively less serious than
the one before.

As it happened, something _did_ go wrong, and, at the very outset. It
happened up on the bridge, when Leon and Willi simultaneously crept up
into the wheel-house, one by the port entrance, the other the starboard.
It was Leon's job to deal with the man actually at the wheel. Willi was
to deal with the other man, whether he was standing by, or whatever he
was doing. Willi mistimed by the fraction of a second. His man let out a
yell, not a yell to warn his ship-mates, but a yell of utter fright. It
did not last long, for Willi immediately clouted him with his gun on the
side of the temple. Then he perceived it was Angelo, a fact which
increased his pleasure in the performance. The noise was probably loud
enough to awaken the men in the foc's'le, even though there was a metal
door in between. It accelerated everything, like the speeding-up of a
film in a movie projector.

"Quick, both of you!" shouted Leon, as he, too, cracked his gun down on
the helmsman's head. The helmsman was Mr. Volos. "I'm with you!" It was
safe to leave the two men up there with Willi. They were not likely to
come round for quite a little time. He tore down after Karl Berger and
Julius Vastagh, but by the time he reached the foc's'le door, they had
already bolted it. For two men of science, not in the first flush of
youth, they had put on an amazing burst of speed.

"They're all right!" Julius Vastagh said, his white food-chemist teeth
shining in the first dimness of the just-rising moon. "You don't hear
anything, do you?"

All three stood and listened. There was only the sound of the water
whispering at the bows and the engines throbbing aft.

"They probably had a drink or two to celebrate last night," said Leon.
"That's fine! Just one more job to do!"

He ran aft, along the well-deck, between the cabins, on to the aft
well-deck, and up the companionway.

There was Chaim, lurking behind the galley as arranged.

"Is that you, Leon?" Chaim whispered. "What happened? Who let out that
yell?"

"The deck-hand on the bridge. We had to knock him out. We had to knock
them both out. I suppose Willi's tying them up to make sure. You don't
think they can have heard down here?"

"Impossible. Anyhow, there's nothing they could do. They're like rats in
a stopped drain."

"Shall we wait for Willi?"

"Best to make sure. He'll be here in a moment. There he is." A few
moments later he was with them.

"O.K.?" asked Leon.

"Sound asleep," said Willi.

"Fine. Let's go."

They went off, Chaim leading.

This last operation was faultless. It was like something out of a
text-book. They did not need to knock out either the engineer or the
greaser. All they needed to do down there was to stop the engines. The
two men were, in fact, most co-operative. Their faces looked very
yellow, partly because they were very frightened, partly because there
was so much smoke and grease on the electric-light bulbs. It did not
seem necessary even to tie them up, because there was only one way out
of the engine-room, and the door there could be bolted, like the other
doors. But it was thought better to tie them up, after all. They had not
deserved any better than their ship-mates.

"That accounts for them all, doesn't it?" said Leon, as they made for
the ladder leading to the cat-walk.

"That's right," grinned Willi. "All ten. Dead easy."

"Excuse me," said Chaim. He was coming down to the deck below.

"Yes. What is it?"

Chaim looked round, found what he wanted, and picked it up. It was a
heavy wrench.

"I could cry," he said. "I am an engineer. But I like to be thorough."
He went round and smashed a few of the more delicate controls and
gauges. "That's all right," he said. "Now she'll stay put after we're
gone, for quite a long time. Hallo, we've got visitors!"

"Everything all right down there?" It was Hinda. Her face grinned down
at them like a blown poppy.

"Is that you, Hinda?" Willi called out. "I love you!"

"Leave that for another time!" she reproved him. "Come up, all of you!"
They came up. Channah and Mila were close behind Hinda.

"Where are the others?" asked Leon.

"They looked down and saw everything was under control, so Mischa Fasan
is sorting out our things in the magazine, and Julius and Karl are up on
the boat-deck. I suppose they're trying to launch a boat, or something."

"Listen, everybody!" Leon suddenly roared with all his lungs.
"Everybody, I mean! You also!" He lifted his head. He might have meant
the two men up there, he might have meant the stars, he might have meant
God. His friends wondered if he had gone mad.

"We've done it!" Leon roared. "We've done it! We've beat them to it! The
dirty old bag of tripe!" He took the three women in his arms, one after
the other, Channah, Mila, Hinda, and kissed them. Then solemnly he shook
hands with the men. "Now let's get on with it! Oh, my God!" He slapped
his forehead. "My dollars! We'll use them again some time!"

"That's all right," said Mila demurely. "I went over to the Captain's
cabin. They were in the tin trunk. I unlocked it. They're here, in your
brief-case."

"Well, I'll be----" Leon started. But he didn't know what he would be,
so he gave it up. "You've brought her up very nicely, Channah."

"Yes," Channah agreed. "I don't think I've done so badly. Wait a minute,
everybody. Stop talking."

"Why? Do you hear anything?"

"Has someone broken loose? Where?"

"No." She stood there, and raised her head to the night sky and closed
her eyes. The ascending moon seemed to swim up towards her forehead and
bathe it with a benediction. "Listen to the silence," she said softly.
"Smell it. It's like a field of flowers." Everyone was silent. One or
two, who had not uttered a prayer for many years, sought in their
memories for a prayer out of their childhood, and repeated it, whatever
irrelevant prayer it was, under their breath.

It was Julius Vastagh on the boat-deck who broke the silence.

"Hi, you, down there!" he cried. "We don't know where to start. How do
you lower these things?"

"Wait!" cried Leon. "We'll be up in a minute. No. Come down!" They came
down and, in the same moment Mischa appeared, laden with coats,
blankets, and various oddments. The moonlight caught his spectacles and
they twinkled like mackerel.

"I couldn't carry everything," he said.

"Have you got my cap?" asked Chaim. "I'm not going anywhere without my
cap."

"I don't remember picking up a cap."

"And there's my bag, with the toothpaste," remembered Hinda. "I might
need that bag again some time."

"Be quick, everybody. Have a last look round," ordered Leon. "You might
pick up a few odd things in the galley, girls. We don't know how long
we'll be in that boat. As for me--I just want to say good night to
somebody." He strode forward, and went down by the companionway to the
well-deck. They saw him disappear, and they knew exactly where he had
gone to. They waited tensely, wondering what horrid sound they might any
moment hear.

But they heard no sound. Captain Aghnides was gagged and could utter
none. Leon did no more than switch the light on, and stand glaring for
twenty seconds, thirty seconds, a full minute, into the Captain's eyes.
It was the longest minute by far that that man had ever endured, all his
life long. Then Leon turned and left the place.

Two minutes later everybody was assembled on the boat-deck.

"We're all here?" asked Leon. They were all there. "We'd all better know
what we're up to. I've not been able to tell you women yet what that old
fiend was doing with us. I suppose you guessed."

"It wasn't hard," said Hinda.

"Yes. His idea was to dump us in Fascist Italy, and get some blood-money
for us. I say, everybody. Aren't we letting him off lightly?" The tone
was quite anxious. "Well--I don't suppose you can do anything to a man
who's tied up like that, can you?"

"I suppose not," it was regretfully agreed.

"He was going to pick up a gang of Fascist big-shots in Mestre--that's
the port of Venice--and cart them off to South America, I suppose,
somewhere like that. He let me in on that. Well, they may have to find
some other transport. The fact is that he was heading for Venice as fast
as he could make it."

"Nice place, too," murmured Willi. He was thinking, perhaps of
honeymoons in gondolas.

"Well, another time," Leon agreed. "We were still going north and west
before we stopped the ship. In fact, that's the way the bows are facing
now, the direction they were facing when we tied up the wheel."

"By the way, Leon," said Chaim. "Have you seen that the boat on the port
side has an engine? Look at the propeller back here."

"That's fine. We'll get there earlier."

"Where?" asked Karl Berger.

Leon was beginning to get just a little irritated with Karl Berger, who
as an Agronome doubtless had great distinction. It was hard for him not
to reply Timbuctoo.

"Italy," he said. "However, the trouble is we don't know exactly where
we are. What's the name of that river that flows into the sea below
Venice? Does anyone remember?"

"There are two," said Mischa Fasan. "There's the Adige and the Po."

"As far as I can see that's about where we are. Over there somewhere."
He pointed east to the invisible land. "How long do you think it will
take us to get there, Chaim, supposing that boat's all right?"

"It ought to be all right," said Chaim, "they probably keep it in good
trim for smuggling. I don't know. Two hours. Three hours. About dawn, or
just after."

"The sooner we get started the better. If anyone sights a ship standing
dead-still on the sea, they'll come up and ask questions. There's one
thing we must face--two things."

"Yes?"

"We just don't know who'll be in possession at the point we land. The
Allies may have got there by this time. Or the Fascists might still be
there. If so----"

"Yes?"

"We'll have to go carefully, of course. We'll have to go underground.
That won't be anything new for any of us. It shouldn't be hard to find a
friendly priest, or some fishermen, or maybe, a farmer, who'll look
after us. We've got money, too."

"And if it's the Allies?" asked Mischa Fasan. "It won't be too good, I
think."

"That's what I was thinking," said Leon. "If it's the British, that is
to say. Those politicians they have there...." It was too sore a
subject, and he did not pursue it. "So again we go underground. Yes?"

"Yes."

"So now we've only got to get ashore. All right, Chaim. _You_ know what
to do with this?" He pointed to the boat slung up between the davits.

"Yes," said Chaim. He got to work. "One of you, help me cut these
ropes." He meant the ropes which lashed down the tarpaulin. "Good. We'll
keep the tarpaulin. Stow it in the boat. We might need it. Put all your
things in. Fine. Now, everybody, climb in. You, too, Leon. Take it easy
for a bit. Fuel O.K.? Fine. Stay with me, Willi."

The others scrambled in. "Leave the stern free for us. Put your coats
on, you might as well. Now, Willi, help me to wind these handles, see?"
They wound the handles attached to the davit, so that in a minute or so
the davits were straightened up and the boat hung over the water. "O.K.
everybody? Fine." He bent down to the small electric winch just below
the aft davit, started up the engine, and got into gear. Then he pulled
down the operating handle on the winch to the position marked "Lower"
and the boat went gently down into the water. "All well, down there?
Comfortable, Mila?"

She smiled up at him.

"Lovely," she said.

"O.K. now, Willi?" He switched off the winch motor. "Up we go now. Like
this." He got up on the deck-rails, balancing on the aft davit. Willi
did the same. "Down now." They slipped down the lifelines into the boat.

"Bravo!" cried everybody. "Bravo!"

"Here we are," said Chaim. "Unhook this tackle! Good! It's all ours!" He
meant the boat, the sea, the lives that so recently had again been
endangered, the dreams that might well still be realized. "All ours!"
That was an unusual outburst for Chaim. "Will you steer, Willi? Fine.
Here it is!" That was the starting handle. The motor spat and turned
over. Chaim got into gear. Willi leaned on the tiller. The boat slid off
like a sea-bird on the silk-smooth water.

There was dead silence among the travellers, dead silence on the ship
receding behind them. It seemed like a ship of the dead.

"More to port, Willi!" said Chaim. "That's right!" Those were the only
words said for many minutes. There was no sound in the universe but the
sharp chug-chug of the motor, and the splash of the water against the
sides. It was quite chilly. The women pulled the blankets up over their
knees.

At last Mischa Fasan spoke.

"It was as if He wanted us to live, after all," he said. They knew who
"He" was. To some the sentiment was congenial. To others it was not. The
thought was not uttered in order that it should be discussed.

"Happy, Mila?" murmured Elsie. "Fasten your coat at the neck, darling!"
Mila did as she was told.

"Did you think it could happen, Channah?" She paused. "I didn't."

"I didn't, either," Elsie conceded. "No."

They were both thinking back over these strange and dreadful years. But
they had been less dreadful than they might have been, assuming that
there could have been any years at all--for Mila had there been no
Channah, for Channah had there been no Mila. The woman who had been no
mother had found a daughter. The daughter who had lost a mother had
found one. As for the girl, in her backward scrutiny she was
contemplating even the culminating nightmare in Budapest--and she did
not flinch. It could be said, there in that small boat puttering forward
through the moonlit water to Italy, it could be said that the child was
healed of her sickness.

"Oh, God," Elsie Silver said to herself. "I'd like to know you're up
there, somewhere. There's somebody ought to be thanked--and if not You,
who else?"

Forward ahead of them the moon was rising higher into the night-sky. The
night-sky? In an hour or so a stronger light would be coming up behind
them over their shoulders. In the moonrise the stars shone with reduced
fire.

"Hallo!" Willi said. "Do you see?" He pointed. The others turned their
heads. A light flickered some distance off, ahead and on the port bow.
It was like a firefly, like someone walking through a garden unsteadily,
a lamp in his hand.

"A fishing boat," said Chaim. "We're not far from land."

"Squid, I suppose," said Julius Vastagh. "Good stuff. Of course, they
wouldn't stand for it in Eretz. A pity."

"A point to starboard, Willi," said Chaim. "We might as well keep clear
for the time being."

"There's more lights over there, round to north. Three or four," said
Leon. Yes, they were fast getting nearer land.

"Listen!" said Leon. He had ears like a night-bird. "Voices! Do you hear
anything?"

Everyone strained their ears.

"No!" they said. "No!" There was only the chug of the engine and the
splash of the water. Behind them the wake was like the cream of a
freshly drawn pail of milk.

"I suppose they were in my own head," said Leon. "Hush! There they are
again!"

"It happens like that at night, on the sea," said Mischa. "Sound travels
great distances over water. It's very capricious."

"Look!" cried Hinda, pointing to the east. "It's getting light over
there. It'll be dawn soon."

"A new day," murmured Mischa Fasan.

"I wonder what it will bring for us," ruminated Karl Berger. "You never
know." He remained acutely conscious that the day that had just gone, or
the day before, had brought Captain Aghnides.

"Italy!" said Mila. "Italy!" It was enough for Mila that it would bring
Italy. Channah looked at the girl curiously. Mila had never delivered
herself of any enthusiasm for Italy. But then Channah remembered that
ever since she had known Mila Italy had always been as remote from their
thoughts as Bolivia, or the Mountains of the Moon.

"That's not land, is it?" cried Willi suddenly. "Look, against the
skyline!" A seagull came over and turned on his wing-tip and cried and
flew off.

"Or is it mist?" asked Leon. "I think it's mist. There's a swell on the
water, isn't there? Do you feel it? We can't be far from land."

From minute to minute the moon was getting fainter and fainter as the
sun came nearer to the moment of his rising. Soon a horizontal lance of
fire thrust up from under the eastern edge of the sea. The lance became
a bow-string, the curved rim of the risen sun.

"Trees!" cried Willi suddenly. Everyone looked round. There was only
mist suffused with dawn. "There they are again!" Yes, there they were
again. Trees. The mist unfolded, and revealed them, and closed in on
them again. Three or four seagulls dipped and reappeared on the
ground-swell.

"Better stop the engine," said Chaim. He switched off, the boat glided
forward silent as a thought, under its own impetus. "You never know
who's around." He took one of the oars and fixed it in the rowlocks
amidships, Leon did the same. "Gently now, gently," Chaim said. "Keep
her head on, Willi." They rowed forward a hundred yards, two hundred
yards. The waves could be heard softly lapping on the beach. They could
see the sands quite clearly beneath the keel. Ahead, of them the sands,
the grey sands, scored with the prickly grey-green fauna of the
foreshore, rose imperceptibly to a belt of pine-woods. There was still
mist about.

Then suddenly Leon cried out:

"Mines! We mustn't forget! The beach may be mined!"

"Yes, of course," agreed Chaim. "But further up, if anywhere, in the
scrub. Here we are now." They were running forward, they were grounded.
The tide was coming in, and the waves gently lifted their stern. The
boat heeled slightly to starboard.

"_Mazel tov!_" cried Hinda. "Me first!"

"Wait!" ordered Leon. He was determined to be cautious. He got overboard
and lowered his legs gently--the water came half-way up his thighs. "It
seems all right!" he said. The other men got out and pulled the boat
further inshore. "Now, girls!" said Leon. "Now, Channah! Now, Mila!"

Hinda was already down. She preferred to do things for herself. In a
moment or two they were all ashore. They were in Italy.

Leon looked north, he looked south, he looked straight ahead. There was
no one in sight.

"I'll go forward," he said. He was not one for forgetting his
responsibilities even in such a moment of joy as this. Chaim winked.
Possibly he thought you either trod on a mine or you didn't, and if you
did it didn't really matter very much. The others followed in Leon's
wake. The seagulls mewed overhead. In the trees the crows uttered their
first cawings. From somewhere a long way off a cock crowed. Straight
ahead somewhere a dog barked. There were no more frightening noises than
these.

Leon turned. They had reached the scrub now.

"It seems to be all right, Chaim, doesn't it?" he observed.

"I think it's all right," agreed Chaim. "There's probably a road beyond
the pine-trees there." They thrust through the sand and scrub and
reached the wood. Chaim was right. A blue-grey road ran down from north
to south, straight and level as a canal. Beyond, parallel with the road,
the railway came down through broad fields of maize.

"And now?" Leon turned to his friends. "Which way?" He looked them over
affectionately, the eight companions of whom most had been unknown to
him only a few days ago. His eyes moved from the grey bearded man of
sixty to the girl of seventeen, the girl so recently half-way to a
corpse. The flush of young blood was in her cheeks now and her lips were
tremulous with excitement over the adventures that lay ahead. He looked
them over one by one, the food-chemist with the excellent teeth, the
learned Agronome who got on your nerves now and again, the engineer with
the cloth cap retrieved from Lenin's tomb, the two young partisans from
the Slovak woods standing there with their fingers intertwined, the
benign Channah with somewhat heavy-lidded eyes, a beautiful woman still,
a mysterious woman, concerning whom everything was in a sort of luminous
shadow, excepting her adoration for young Mila, which was stark and
fervent as noonday.

"Well?" they smiled back at him, well aware he was engaged in a sort of
stock-taking. "Well?"

"Have I been a bit of a nuisance sometimes?" asked Karl Berger.
"Sometimes my nerves run away with me a bit."

"We're here, aren't we?" Leon answered indulgently, "not in Mestre. What
does anything matter?"

"Ask Captain Aghnides," said Willi. "He knows."

"And now?" asked Mischa Fasan, "which way? Where are we?"

"We are in No Man's Land. Who knows where we are? Then which way,
everybody?" asked Leon, invincibly the democrat except in moments of
acute crisis.

Everybody's head quite unconsciously veered towards the left. Away from
the north, where the enemy still was. Towards the south, towards
friends.

"Come," said Leon. "Let's go out on the road. It'll be easier. It's so
early, nobody will be stirring yet. And if they are, they'll be country
people. We don't ever need to be afraid of _them_."

"And the road's so straight," said Chaim, "we could see traffic coming
from miles off. If we see anything, we can get back into the wood again,
and lie flat till it's gone by."

They went out on to the roadway from between the trunks of the
pine-trees reddening in the early sun, and turned left, southbound. A
bedraggled group they looked, if they could have seen themselves with
other eyes than their own. But their eyes sparkled. Whatever lay ahead,
they had endured much hardship together, and some danger, in the few
days since they had been together. They had been brave and intelligent.
They had come through.

"It's a pity for that poor lawyer," said Mischa Fasan to Leon who was
walking beside him.

"Oh yes, the lawyer," agreed Leon. "The one we left at the Hungarian
frontier. I am ashamed. I have already forgotten his name. Perhaps the
next time he is at the frontier they will let him go on."

"_Allevei!_" murmured Mischa. "_Allevei!_ Would that it were so! Hallo,
what's he doing?" He was asking about Julius Vastagh, the food-chemist,
who had crossed the road into the field on the other side. "Oh, I see!"
Julius Vastagh had broken off an unripe ear of maize and was coming back
with it to Karl Berger, grinding it between his firm teeth.

"Yes, Karl. A good species," said Julius Vastagh. "As good as they grow
it."

"Not any better than they grow in Eretz already, I should think," said
Karl Berger. "There's a lot of water around here. Look at the irrigation
ditches. This will be good rice country, too. Yes, look!"

Mila turned and smiled up into Elsie's face. But she was growing fast.
Mila would soon be looking straight into Elsie's face, eye to eye.

"_Italy_, Channah!" she said. "I never dreamt of it! Never! Even when I
was a little girl, and we had all those picture-books of famous towns...
you know, in Italy and Spain and England and France. We always went to
Prague for holidays. But _Italy_!"

"Who knows, Mila? Perhaps it will still be Italy and Spain and England
and France, after all. Here we are in Italy already."

"But I want to go to Eretz, first," said Mila. "You said so, didn't you,
Channah?"

"Yes, darling, of course. Eretz first. Look, look! A rabbit! Did you see
it dive into the field there?"

"Yes, yes. There's a bird! Do you hear it? Up in that tree somewhere!"

"Let's sing!" said Willi. "What shall we sing?"

"Please," begged Leon. "Are you in Haifa already? Listen! Listen,
everybody! Stop! Do you hear something?"

They stopped and stood rigid there, listening. Sure enough, there was a
confused noise down there, southward, some distance away. You could see
nobody yet, but you could hear voices. It was people singing. The sound
was swelling in volume. The people singing were coming towards them.

"Back!" said Leon. They thrust themselves off the roadway back into the
shelter of the pine-wood. It might be a posse of Fascist militia. It
might even be a regiment of German soldiers. If they were German--or
Fascists, for that matter--they were not likely to be feeling very gay,
but singing helps you out, anyway, however down in the dumps you feel.
Whether German or Fascists, they were not people the travellers wanted
to meet, that fair morning by the Italian sea.

The singing became louder. No, that was not the singing of marching men.
You could hear shriller voices, now, the voices of women and children,
as well as the voices of men. You could hear the banging of improvised
instruments. Kettles, buckets, saucepan lids.

Who could these people be? What was the occasion of this singing? Was it
the celebration of some saint's day? Had it something to do with the
war, maybe? A defeat? A victory? Whose defeat? Whose victory?

"There they are!" said Leon. "They're coming in from a side-road. There
must be some village down there! Wait! Don't come out yet! There's a
whole crowd! There may be informers among them!"

The people were out on the main road now, coming towards them closer and
closer. There seemed to be a few soldiers among them, perhaps a priest,
if it was not some tall woman swathed in black. But chiefly they were
peasants. They held two banners above their heads. Yes, it must be some
saint's day, after all! But that could be no hymn they were singing!
Never was singing less liturgical! It was hoarse, strident, a yell, a
jeer. Yet every now and again someone ran forward in front of the crowd,
and made a gesture of profound obeisance towards the banners.

Then, in the very moment that Leon, Leon with the sharp eyes,
identified the images on the banners, the song changed--if you
could call it a song. What was this new song? What? Was it not
the song of the British... 'Tipperary', they call it?

"Mussolini!" shouted Hinda, at the top of her voice. "Hitler!"

It was the images of those two men, hanging upside down, with ropes
about their throats, that had been daubed upon the white banners. Had
one of those men, had both, within the last hour or two, met their doom?
Had the enemy armies surrendered? Was the sullen interminable war over
at last?

And suddenly the church-bells crashed out from all the steeples for
leagues around--ding-dong-ding, ding-dong-ding, across the clear sweet
air. The steeples seemed everywhere, far off, near at hand, though there
was not a single church to be seen.

"Leon!" cried Mila. She stood there, her arms thrust forward, her eyes
wide and wild with joy.

"Mila!" cried Leon, and took her to his heart, and laid his mouth on
hers, and kissed her and held her close.

Then suddenly Mila broke away and turned, seeking for Elsie. Her face
was red with shame and grief. The others did not see, or they pretended
they did not see, pretended that the peasants and the saucepan lids and
the effigies held all their attention.

"Oh, Channah, Channah!" said Mila brokenly. "How _could_ I? Oh, how
_could_ I?"

"My dear girl," said Elsie jovially. "Don't you think I've got eyes in
my head? Go on, Leon dear! Give her another kiss! Then give _me_ one,
boy! I'm your mother-in-law, aren't I, in a way of speaking? Go to it!"

She put a brave face on it, but she was not so gay as she seemed. She
felt alone, and lost, all of a sudden.

The singing of the peasants was more strident in her ears than it had
been a moment ago. A bird chattered harshly in the boughs overhead.


THE END






[End of The Dangerous Places, by Louis Golding]
