The Ice Saints Read online

  In his room he switched on the bedside lamp. They undressed in the shadows. He lowered himself beside her, aching for the warmth of their complete embrace. Smiling he ran his hand over the blunt, cropped head. It was jerked away. Wanda burst into tears.

  ‘What is it?’

  He really wished to know, though he hoped the reason was flattering to himself.

  He held her in his arms and her whole body was tense and shaking. She went on crying and he felt himself beginning to get quite wet. Then she began to whisper to him – all those repeated ‘cz’s’ and ‘sz’s’ reverberating in his ear, like the inside of a sea-shell. When she stopped he had understood nothing much, except that she had said he would not understand.

  Derek was in despair. He wanted above all to comfort her, but the only obvious way seemed uncouth and insensitive. Sometimes he wished it had all begun like that, coarsely, paying her off each time with a pair of nylon stockings. With Wanda, he was afraid this might have worked.

  He shifted the lampshade so that the light fell across her body. She was staring past him with empty eyes; for her, he was not there. The building was silent around them. There was no sound from outside except for the lonely howl of an east-bound train being driven towards the steppes.

  ‘Why did you weep?’

  She did not reply. He began to touch her again but she held his hands away.

  ‘It wouldn’t be any good now,’ he said, looking down his stomach. He lit a cigarette and offered it to her, but she refused it. She leaned over and pulled up the sheet.

  ‘I will have to stay here till morning,’ she said, bleakly. ‘Because of the concierge.’

  ‘The Tulewiczes are coming back in the morning.’

  She fell asleep. He embraced her and held her, managing to salvage something out of this defeat, and she did not wake.

  Later he watched the dawn whitening the opposite wall. He was calmer now, but the bed was too narrow for them both to sleep. His thoughts wandered off. On the wall there hung pictures, nineteenth-century landscapes the Tulewiczes had brought from Wilno with the rest of their furniture, after the German invasion of Russia. How had they managed it? You thought of the war here as being all massacre and chaos, yet there had been areas of normality, more then than afterwards, and to hear of them could still surprise you. All the same Derek, watching for the onset of morning, felt a muddled antagonism at the fact that the Tulewiczes had moved their furniture. His was a reaction fairly usual among foreigners; if anything at all went right here, you accused the inhabitants of being far better off than they said they were.

  Derek’s thoughts went back again and again to the girls he had danced with the previous evening, and how they spoke about him among themselves. Wherever he went, he walked into sudden silences, phrases were bitten back or breathed off in whispers he could not possibly understand. Sometimes he was almost proud of this, the free man in the Communist world, like a Sheriff striding the empty street at high noon with everyone watching him, but after such fantasies he quailed because he knew, compared with Mirek even, he was not free at all. He lived only on the information provided him, and if something was inexplicable like Wanda’s tears he was utterly lost.

  He fell asleep and when he awoke it was bright sunshine and after eight o’clock. Wanda was still beside him, awake and affectionate. But he was unmanned with apprehension, for the Tulewiczes would be returning at any minute. He got her out of bed but she took a particularly long time to dress, while he sat on the bed and bit his nails. After that she disappeared to the bathroom for about half an hour. Derek heard every banged door and scamper of feet announce the return of the Tulewicz children.

  Finally she was gone. He stretched out, exhausted, and slept till noon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Janet made a startled movement as if to protect some papers which were lying on the table in front of her.

  ‘What are those?’

  ‘The forms.’

  ‘What forms?’

  ‘For Tadeusz. For his passport.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Rose sat down opposite Janet and took one of her Bulgarian cigarettes. The sight of the papers, a step taken, disturbed her. Of course, Witek’s promise had been given. Perhaps it was a mistake to have wheedled it out of him, to have bitched him into giving it, as she had done, for since then the poor man had gone round with a countenance of fixed glumness and an unkempt look. Still, a promise was a promise.

  In Janet’s elation there was something even more wrong. She kept on singing those wartime dance-tunes and reminiscing about her experiences at military hospitals with staff nurses, army doctors and even a ‘very nice Canadian major who wanted to marry me, only he was killed at Dieppe.’ Rose had never heard of this character before; he was a ghost summoned up to dance at the defeat of Witold Rudowski.

  In one way Rose understood her sister better now than she had previously done. Since talking to Mirek Sypniewski, she was prey to the same sense of anguish about Tadeusz. His fate was in the air in a quite especial way; they all seemed to carry it around here, their past and their future, like an aureole or a spotlight following them, but Tadeusz alone might be given the right to choose.

  ‘There’s tea in the kitchen.’

  When Rose came back with a glass of tea, she said: ‘We oughtn’t to push this too much, ought we? Not if it’s going to mean a fuss.’

  ‘If it’s going to mean a fuss, that can’t be helped. He has to sign.’

  ‘He’ll have to have photographs too, won’t he? I mean, I don’t see all this business about not telling him. It’s treating him like a child and after all he is fifteen. I know we were treated like that but nowadays in England—

  ‘I mean Witek has to sign.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, he promised.’

  ‘I bet you he tries to wriggle out of it.’

  If he does, Rose thought, it is your fault. She said: ‘We’ll have to persuade him again.’

  ‘You persuade him. Your idea in the first place.’

  ‘All right. But we could put it off, couldn’t we?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t. He promised, you told me he promised. I won’t have Tadeusz disappointed.’

  ‘But Tadeusz doesn’t even know about this.’

  ‘He must go. I’ve set my heart on it. Don’t you want him to go?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Rose said. ‘For three weeks or so, anyway. Poor little beast, he deserves a good time.’

  ‘I want him to learn what it is like to be English. Then he can choose. That’s what the solicitors suggested, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is. I don’t think they’d any idea how silly it sounds.’

  Janet sulked at this and no further discussion took place until Witek returned from the University. He looked strained and haggard. There was a piece of his hair that would not stick down. He saw the papers lying on the table and at once guessed what they were.

  He sat down and said: ‘Rose.’

  She was torn with pity to look at him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think perhaps this is not possible. So sorry.’

  ‘I do not understand, Witek.’

  He was trembling and on the other side of the table Janet was trembling too. Rose loved them both, and was sorry for them, and she dared not speak.

  ‘Better not, this year,’ Witek said.

  ‘Rose has invited him. She has been kind enough—’

  But he could not look at Janet. ‘Rose?’

  ‘I told you I wanted to and I thought you said “yes” but if—’

  He stood up and put his arm round her shoulders, leaning on her; breathing close, touching her more heavily than he had ever done before. One of his hands was tight on her upper arm, the thumb pressing in where the muscle slipped on the bone.

  ‘Rose.’

  ‘Yes?’ She was frightened, feeling crushed against him.

  ‘May I speak with you alone, please?’

  Rose looked despairingly at Janet, who turned away.

&
nbsp; When they had gone, Janet unfolded the papers again, put on her spectacles and began to fill in the blank spaces.

  Rudowski, Tadeusz, born Glasgow, Scotland, 19 January 1944. Father: Rudowski, Witold Wlodzimierz, born Katowice, 2 May 1916. Mother: Nicholson, Janet Elizabeth, born Barnham, Surrey, England, 3 August 1922. Social Class: Working intelligentsia.

  She completed the whole questionnaire three times and then sat back and lit a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. Twenty minutes had gone past.

  She heard somebody stumbling over the bicycles in the corridor. It was Rose, returning alone.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Damn that bicycle. Yes, all right.’

  Janet was silent and Rose saw that she had been crying.

  Rose put her arm round her sister. ‘Cheer up, it’s all right, I tell you.’ But by now she herself felt badly in need of convincing and so, as she usually did, she went on talking. ‘Poor Witek, can you believe what he thought I was up to? He thought I was going to kidnap Tadeusz and take him to England and never let him come back. Honestly. I mean, I suppose everyone suspects everyone here, but really that does seem a bit much.’

  Rose was talking against a gulf of anxiety. Things were far worse than she had imagined and she was deeply sorry for him.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Oh, I gave him absolutely every guarantee under the sun. Return ticket, to begin with. I said we’d only ask for a six weeks’ visa and I swore I’d see he got back when it was finished. There was a bit of trouble because we couldn’t find anything I thought sacred enough to swear by. To Witek I’m really a terrible pagan, aren’t I? I mean, he’s always believed in something, hasn’t he? But in the end we made it. I told him I’m sure Tadeusz will be longing to get back. After all, he’s a tremendous patriot, isn’t he?’

  Janet did not speak.

  ‘Actually I’m scared Tadeusz will be disappointed with England.’

  ‘He’s too young to be disappointed, except in people. He’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘I wonder. Well, there we are.’

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ At last Janet smiled.

  ‘Anything to oblige. Now I’ve got to break the dreadful news to Tadeusz. Witek said I could.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The tram crossed a bridge over the polluted river and ran far out along the edge of the pine forest. At the last stop Tadeusz helped Rose to get down. They watched the tram grind round in a large circle and set off back to Biala Gora. Beside them a sandy track led away into the forest.

  ‘Don’t go out of sight. If you disappear I’ll never find the way back.’

  The boy did not react; he thought she was trying to make him feel important. Although this walk was one which they had promised each other since Rose’s first day at Biala Gora, he did not appear to be particularly cheerful about it. There was a mulish look about him. He picked up a stick and began slashing away at things.

  The forest was composed of pine trees. Paths and firebreaks ran through it, and occasionally there were black bubbling pools, round which the new sedge sprouted a brilliant green. From one of these came a riotous sound, honking and cackling.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’

  ‘Frogs.’ He threw his stick and the cackling stopped.

  ‘You’ve frightened them. It was a lovely noise. They don’t do that in England.’ She walked towards the pool but the ground was marshy and she soon returned.

  ‘In autumn we are coming here for mushrooms.’

  ‘It’s lovely. Thank you for bringing me. Look, there’s a lizard. If you don’t move they can’t see you.’

  Tadeusz immediately moved and the lizard ran away.

  Rose watched him for a moment, surprised and a little put out by this lack of sympathy. He did not look at her. He picked up another stick and went on slashing the green plants.

  ‘I’m sorry. Aren’t you enjoying this?’

  He did not answer for a moment. Then he said: ‘I think English persons like going for walks.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t you?’

  ‘Not just walks. We like to go to see something or to do something.’

  ‘We’ve seen a lizard.’

  He did not reply and they went on walking down one of the wide fire-breaks.

  Suddenly he said: ‘Mother says you have invited me to England.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose drooped a little with disappointment. ‘I did think she was going to let me break the dreadful news. Why didn’t you tell me you knew? Oh, Tadeusz, you are pleased, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said politely.

  After a while he said: ‘I want very much to go to England.’

  ‘Then what the hell’s wrong?’

  When he sulked, he looked like his mother. He had retreated into one of those difficult corners where one holds out, at all costs, against showing gratitude.

  Though they had been walking for only twenty minutes, they were now deep into the forest. There seemed no point in being where they were. Pinewoods are too dry and aseptic to be attractive in any way. They had nothing to do but talk to each other, but this was proving increasingly difficult. Rose was asking too much of him, trying to force out understanding and love. But there seemed to be nothing between them now, only this haze of polite English – it was Witek’s English really, not Janet’s at all – through which Tadeusz spoke to her.

  ‘I know I shall think of Poland all of the time. Comparing things and – and arguing with myself. But it is not to be helped.’

  ‘Try not to worry too much. You’re young.’

  ‘But I must learn about this.’

  ‘There’s nothing much you can do about it, is there?’

  For Tadeusz this remark was worse than nothing. Of course you had to tackle everything while you still believed you could. Rose knew this but she was still annoyed and offended with him. She had made what was really an offer of love and he was too young for it. He had no idea yet that his indifference had any power to hurt.

  ‘In any case,’ he said gloomily, ‘there is still the visa. Perhaps I cannot get it.’

  ‘I’m going to Warsaw the day after tomorrow. I’ll get the forms from the Embassy.’

  ‘Going to Warsaw – then you are leaving?’

  He was worried now, she noticed with a little stab of happiness. ‘No, I’m coming back. I’m going to Krakow for a few days to stay with Mrs Kazi – Kazi – thing’s sister.’

  Tadeusz thought about this. ‘Krakow is a beautiful place. I was there with an excursion.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’ She did not want to be put off now. ‘I’ll post the visa forms and you can have them ready before I come back.’

  ‘I must have people to sign.’

  ‘You can do that, too.’

  ‘Even then perhaps I will not get the visa.’

  ‘It oughtn’t to be difficult. You’re a student.’

  ‘There is one girl I know that was refused.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She was an orphan. They don’t want orphans.’

  ‘Well, you’re not an orphan.’

  He appeared not to be listening, but went on in a wondering voice: ‘It is strange about England, they take in niggers but not Poles.’

  She was appalled by this and wondered where he had learned it. ‘You mustn’t talk like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because – because people – my friends – won’t like you. They’ll think you are uneducated.’

  This sounded inadequate but she thought it would do for him. He accepted it without comment. The essential thing was not to blame him, to go on talking as though nothing had happened; for the first time, however, she realized something of Janet’s urgency to get him away from all this. He was damaged, but in a way that was unexpected; with his intelligence he could catch you off your guard.

  Rose went on talking. She chattered to him about London, describing her flat where, now that her girl-friend had moved out, Tadeusz would be able to have a
bedroom to himself for the first time in his life. She told him about the places they would visit together and the people she wanted him to meet.

  Tadeusz walked quietly and intently, his face inexpressive. Rose could not tell if he was listening or not. The forest began to get thinner around them and now they were following a sort of sandy ravine which led on to a main road.

  Tadeusz stopped.

  ‘Tired already?’

  He did not answer. His silence was heavy, meaningful.

  Beside the track stood a large block of concrete with a plaque made of bronze let into the front of it. On the plaque there was a date, some writing in Polish, then the hoops and gallows of a Hebrew inscription.

  ‘What’s that?’

  But she knew at once what it was. Two bunches of coltsfoot lay on top of the block; a bumble-bee tussled at one of the yellow flowers.

  All afternoon the boy had been leading Rose through the pinewoods towards this place. For this reason he had suggested the walk, had taken the tram, and to counteract her natural cheerfulness had slashed sullenly at the vegetation and listened unmoved to all her chatter about London. This, with an intensity of adolescence almost like malice, he had been planning for her. Now he watched her. He wanted to know whether he had succeeded or not.

  He translated the plaque. ‘There were fifty-eight shot here. The others in Biala Gora were taken to the Camps.’ He was out of breath and his cheeks were flushed. He had failed absolutely, for Rose was only trying to imagine what it was like being Tadeusz.

  Her second thought was that he could not possibly understand this himself or feel anything genuine about the skeletons in the sandy soil. It had happened in the year he was born, and he had been born in Scotland. ‘This is what the Germans did here.’ Yes, it was true but he had been told to say it. You shouldn’t have to make propaganda, even true propaganda, to near relatives. They had damaged him, all right, even when they made him tell the truth. He was corrupted by the truth and this was what in the future it would be almost impossible to explain to him.