August was drawing to a close, but, apart from the stifling heat, there was nothing to remind them of the last luscious month of summer.
‘Will we ever see a golden August again?’ Elzunia sighed. She cast a dispirited glance at the ward, which was a jumble of beds, stretchers and mattresses on which some patients were mumbling in feverish voices while others screamed for something to take away the pain.
‘Instead of corn stalks, sunflowers and the scent of new-mown hay, we’ve got war, hunger and the stink of death,’ she said to Dr Zawadzki, who was amputating a fighter’s shattered arm.
Ever since her birthday, when she had rebuffed his advances, she’d found it awkward to work so close to him. Whenever she brushed against his white coat or touched his arm, she shrank back in case he thought it was intentional. At the same time, she felt put out that he gave no indication that anything of a personal nature had ever passed between them. Although she had rejected him, she would have liked to see desire and disappointment in his eyes, but his glances never lingered on her, and his voice, whenever he asked her to pass a scalpel, syringe or bandage, was politely impersonal.
It irritated her that Krystyna, one of the first-aid workers, a pretty girl who reminded her of a porcelain doll, had been finding too many excuses lately to come and talk to Dr Zawadzki. Even more annoying was the admiring expression that appeared on his face whenever his eyes rested on Krystyna.
I didn’t want him, so why should I care? she reasoned with herself, but it riled her that he’d switched his affections so quickly to someone else.
Now that Stefan’s shoulder had almost healed, he was keen to return to his unit. ‘They thought the Uprising would only last a few days, but we’ve already held out for almost a month,’ he told her proudly.
‘Almost as long as the Ghetto,’ she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Krystyna sidling in to see Dr Zawadzki again.
‘If only the Allies would drop more supplies,’ Stefan said. ‘We spend most of the day looking up at the sky, hoping to see them. With more weapons, we’d stand a chance.’
He paused and frowned. ‘That story you told me about Father. I still can’t make any sense of it.’
Ever since Elzunia had told him about their father’s betrayal and his affair with Marta, he had been mulling over it. He had never been close to their father who, he felt, had always been too hard on him, while, in his eyes, Elzunia could do no wrong. But he found it difficult to believe her version of events.
‘How do you know they were having an affair?’ he asked for the third time. ‘You said they were both in the AK. Maybe it was quite innocent. Maybe they met to talk about their work. You were always his golden girl, so I’m amazed you could jump to that conclusion.’
While Stefan was speaking, Elzunia realised that he had probably envied her closeness with their father just as she had envied the fact that he was their mother’s favourite.
‘People in the AK don’t meet in their lodgings to discuss their work, especially when one of them is quite junior. Anyway, he always came at night. I used to hear them murmuring.’ She blushed. ‘It sounded very intimate.’
Stefan wasn’t convinced.
‘That doesn’t prove anything. The man who came at night might have been someone else. And, even if it was him, they could have pretended to be having an affair to put people off the scent.’
Elzunia tried to stay calm. ‘I told you what the caretaker’s wife said. It all adds up. We have to face facts. He met this attractive girl, got involved with her, and abandoned us. That’s why he didn’t get in touch or try to get us out of the Ghetto — just left us there to rot.’
‘I still think there must be some other explanation,’ Stefan persisted. ‘I can’t imagine Father doing that.’
She shrugged, irritated. ‘War changes people. You don’t know what anyone’s capable of until they’re tested.’ Her eyes rested on him for an accusing instant, then looked away.
As the fighting in the narrow streets of the Old Town intensified, more and more patients flooded into the hospital, which had spread from the underground shelter to the basement apartments and to the landings as well. Armed with lanterns, Dr Zawadzki and Elzunia, together with three of the first-aid workers, including Krystyna, made their way to an adjoining cellar to see if it could be used to accommodate patients.
Dr Zawadzki swept his flashlight around and shook his head. The cellar was used for storing coal and wasn’t suitable. They bent over to squeeze through the low entrance when Elzunia felt the floor shift under her feet. There was the deafening crash of a bomb exploding nearby, and the walls shook. The bombardment had raised so much coal dust, that, as they breathed it in, they were seized by violent paroxysms of coughing. Elzunia felt as though the next cough would rip her lungs out.
‘Quick, pee into your handkerchiefs,’ Dr Zawadzki said.
Doubled up with coughing fits, the girls stared at him, then at each other.
‘For heaven’s sake, this is no time to be coy,’ he said. ‘I won’t look.’
But whether from anxiety or embarrassment, none of them could do it. As they continued to gasp and cough, he grabbed their handkerchiefs and turned away. Several moments later, he handed them wet handkerchiefs to place over their noses and mouths.
‘That was disgusting,’ one of the girls said when they’d returned to the hospital, their faces and hands streaked with black. She shuddered. ‘I feel sick. I’ll never be able to stop spitting and rinsing my mouth out.’
‘He saved us from choking to death,’ Krystyna said, loudly enough for Dr Zawadzki to hear. ‘I think he’s wonderful.’
Elzunia glared at her.
Suddenly they could hear a commotion near the entrance. Someone was running down the stairs and shouting for help in a panic. ‘There are people trapped down the road. Hurry!’
Elzunia and the other girls rushed out with their first-aid kits, but, as soon as they stepped outside, they saw the bombers still circling above.
‘Jesus Maria!’ Krystyna’s hand flew to the cross around her neck. Her voice was teetering on the edge of hysteria. ‘I’m going back! They’re going to bomb us! We’ll all get killed!’
Elzunia laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Imagine you’re with Dr Zawadzki,’ she whispered. ‘Would you want him to see you running for cover?’
Her words had an immediate effect. Elzunia took her hand and together they made a dash for the bombed house.
The rescue squad had already arrived and the men were carefully removing the rubble with their spades, but the front of the building had collapsed and the entrances were blocked, making access to the cellars impossible. A distraught woman was wringing her hands and sobbing as she spoke to the emergency workers. ‘Can’t you dig faster? Most of them were sheltering down there. They’ll suffocate before you get to them at the rate you’re going.’
One of the men flung down his spade and held up his blistered hands in her face. ‘You try it!’ he yelled at her. ‘See how fast you can go!’
Elzunia raced to the back of the building where people were wandering around in shock. As the nurses and first-aid workers feverishly cleaned wounds, applied compresses, gave injections and placed the seriously injured victims onto stretchers, more planes flew past.
Elzunia’s grip on the stretcher tightened and she and Krystyna exchanged grim looks but they kept working until they’d taken care of the people above ground. ‘We may as well go and have a rest until they break through to the cellar.’
It seemed that she had just lain down on her camp bed when Krystyna was shaking her arm.
‘Wake up, we’ve got to go,’ she was saying. Elzunia rubbed her eyes. It was still dark. She staggered to her feet, slung her knapsack over her shoulders and picked up her torch. They had knocked out an opening in the wall and rescue workers were digging people out by the faint light of a torch someone had suspended overhead.
Those at the back of the cellar were clamouring for help, demanding to be taken out before they were all buried alive. In a panic, some of them surged towards the opening, pushing others out of the way.
Suddenly Elzunia heard herself shouting above the melee. ‘Hold it! We’re doing our best to get you out but you’ll leave one by one, in an orderly way, not in a stampede. Stay where you are and I’ll tell you when it’s your turn.’
It was four o’clock in the morning when she crawled back to the hospital. Dr Zawadzki, who was already in the operating theatre, removing a crushed spleen, looked up as she came in.
‘I heard that you frightened the life out of those people in the cellar,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘You should have been a sergeant-major.’
Too exhausted to reply, she walked on. She had reached the end of the corridor when he called out, ‘Great news! I heard on Radio Blyskawica that Paris was liberated today!’
Elzunia couldn’t sleep. Although her body was exhausted, her mind leapt from one disturbing thought to another, as images of the day’s events raced through her brain. She ached with loneliness. She doubted whether she and her brother would ever become close, but, even if they did, fraternal affection was no substitute for intimate love. If only she mattered to someone, if only there was someone to share her life, so that if she died, somebody would care enough to grieve.
Without stopping to think, she jumped out of bed and ran along the passageway until she reached a door at the far end, tapped on it and entered. Sitting on his camp bed, reading, Dr Zawadzki looked up at her.
‘Andrzej,’ she whispered.
In two strides he was beside her, and, without speaking, he cradled her against him.
Like a sleepwalker who has woken with a jolt in a strange room, she fought an impulse to run back to bed, but the moment passed. She looked into his eyes and knew why she had come.
Shocked at her own audacity, she said, ‘I feel as though I’ve jumped off a cliff without a parachute.’
‘I’ll make sure you have a soft landing.’
She wrapped her arms around him, laid her head on his chest and let out a deep sigh. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her lips so gently that his touch felt like the brush of butterfly wings.
He was looking into her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’
She nodded.
They lay on his narrow camp bed, their arms around each other. He stroked her hair and kissed her eyelids.
‘You’re like a delicate porcelain figurine wrapped in brown paper,’ he said, kissing her collarbone as he unbuttoned the worn blouse. ‘I’d like to put you up on a mantelpiece and gaze at you.’
His breath grew hot and urgent and she stiffened with apprehension.
‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me if you want me to stop.’
She clung to him, excited, curious and nervous, but she didn’t tell him to stop.
Afterwards, they lay with their arms around each other. It hadn’t been the thrilling experience she had envisaged — there were no epiphanies, no fireworks and no bolts of lightning — but she felt warm, secure and connected.
He was nuzzling her earlobe. ‘I’ve wanted to make love to you from the first day I saw you,’ he said. ‘It must have been your stern, disapproving look.’
‘I thought you were too casual and flippant,’ she retorted. Then she pulled away and looked at him. ‘I thought you fancied Krystyna.’
He burst out laughing. ‘So do I have jealousy to thank for your change of heart?’
She reached up and playfully boxed his ear.
‘We’ll always remember the night Paris was liberated,’ he murmured.
‘Paris wasn’t the only one that was liberated,’ she said with a mischievous smile.