19

WHEN WLADEK came to, he found himself on a bed in a small room with three men in long white coats studying him carefully, speaking a tongue he had never heard before. How many languages were there in the world?

He tried to sit up, but the oldest of the three men, with a thin, lined face and a goatee beard, pushed him firmly back down. He addressed Wladek in the strange tongue. Wladek shook his head. The man then tried Russian. Wladek shook his head again – that would be the quickest way back to where he had come from. The next language the doctor tried was German, and Wladek realized that his command of the language was greater than his inquisitor’s.

‘Ah, so you’re not Russian then?’ said the inquisitor.

‘No.’

‘What were you doing in Russia?’

‘Trying to escape.’

‘Ah.’ The man turned to his companions and seemed to report the conversation in their own tongue. The three left the room.

A nurse came in and scrubbed Wladek clean, taking little interest in his cries of pain. She didn’t like dirty objects in her hospital. She finally covered his legs in a thick brown ointment and left him to sleep again. When he awoke for the second time, he was alone. He stared up at the white ceiling, thinking about his next move.

He climbed out of the bed and crossed the room to the window. It looked out onto a marketplace, not unlike the one in Odessa, except that the men wore long white robes and had darker skins. They also wore colourful objects on their heads that looked like small, upside-down red flowerpots, and had open sandals on their feet. The women were all in black; even their faces were covered. All he could see were their black eyes. Wladek watched the bustle in the marketplace as the women bargained for their daily food; that seemed to be one thing that was international.

It was several minutes before he noticed that running down the side of the building was an iron fire escape that reached the ground. He walked cautiously to the door, opened it and peered into the corridor. People were walking up and down, but none of them showed any interest in him. He closed the door gently, searched for his belongings, which he found in a closet in the corner of the room, and dressed quickly. His clothes were still black with coal dust, and felt gritty on his clean skin. He returned to the window, eased it open, clambered out onto the fire escape and started to climb down towards freedom. The first thing that hit him was the heat. He wished he wasn’t wearing the heavy overcoat.

Once his feet touched the ground he tried to run, but his legs were so weak that he could only walk slowly. How he prayed he would wake up one day and his limp would somehow have miraculously disappeared. He did not look back at the hospital until he was lost in the throng of the marketplace.

The stalls were piled high with tempting food, and he decided to buy an orange and some nuts. He reached into the lining in his suit, but his money was no longer there. Far worse, he realized that the silver band had also gone. The men in the white coats must have stolen his possessions. He thought about going back to the hospital to retrieve them, but decided against it until he’d had something to eat. Perhaps there were still come coins in the large overcoat pockets. He searched around, and immediately found the three 50-rouble notes and some coins. They were wrapped together with the doctor’s map and the silver band. Wladek was overjoyed. He slipped on the silver band, and pushed it above his elbow.

He chose the largest orange he could see, and a handful of nuts. The stall keeper said something to him that he could not understand. Wladek felt the easiest way around the language barrier was to hand over some money. The stall keeper looked at the 50-rouble note, laughed and threw his arms in the air. ‘Allah!’ he cried. He snatched the nuts and the orange from Wladek and waved him away.

Wladek walked off in despair: a different language meant a different currency. In Russia he had been poor; here he was penniless. He would have to steal some food; if he was likely to be caught, he would throw it back at the stall keeper. He walked to the other end of the marketplace in the same confident way as Stefan, but he couldn’t imitate the swagger, and he certainly didn’t feel the same confidence. He chose the end stall, and when he was sure no one was watching, he picked up an orange and started to run. Suddenly there was uproar; it seemed as if half the city was chasing him.

A large, athletic man jumped on the limping Wladek and threw him to the ground. Six or seven others seized hold of different parts of his body, and a larger group followed as he was dragged back to the stall, where a policeman awaited them. There was a shouted exchange and much movement of arms between the stall owner and the policeman. The policeman finally turned to Wladek and shouted at him too, but Wladek couldn’t understand a word he was saying. The officer shrugged his shoulders and grabbed Wladek by the ear. People continued to bawl at him as he was marched off, while others spat on him.

When Wladek arrived at the police station he was thrown into a tiny cell, already occupied by twenty or thirty criminals – thugs, thieves, he knew not what. He did not speak, and they showed no desire to talk to him. He remained with his back to a wall for a day and a night, frightened to move. The smell of excrement made him vomit until there was nothing left in him. He had never thought the day would come when the dungeons in the Baron’s castle would seem uncrowded and peaceful.

The following morning Wladek was dragged from the basement by two guards and marched into a room where he was lined up with several other prisoners. They were then all roped to each other round the waist and led out into the street. A large crowd had gathered, and their loud cheer of welcome made Wladek feel they had been waiting some time for the prisoners to appear. The crowd followed them all the way to the marketplace, screaming, clapping and chanting – but Wladek had no idea why they seemed so excited. The prisoners came to a halt when they reached the market. The first man was untied and taken to the centre of the square, which was crammed with hundreds of people, all baying for blood.

Wladek watched the scene in disbelief. Once a prisoner reached the middle of the square, he was knocked to his knees by the guard. His right hand was strapped to a wooden block by a giant of a man, who then raised a large sword above his head and brought it down with terrible force, aiming at the prisoner’s wrist. On his first attempt he managed to catch only the tips of the fingers. The prisoner screamed with pain as the sword was raised again. This time the sword hit the wrist but did not finish the job properly, and the hand dangled from the prisoner’s arm, blood pouring out onto the dust. The sword was raised a third time, and when it came swinging down, the prisoner’s hand finally fell to the ground. The crowd roared its approval. The prisoner was at last released and slumped in a heap, unconscious. He was dragged off by a bored guard and left on the edge of the crowd. A weeping woman – his wife, Wladek presumed – hurriedly tied a tourniquet of dirty cloth around the bloody stump. The second prisoner died of shock before the fourth blow was administered. The giant swordsman was not interested in death, so he continued his commission; he was only paid to remove hands.

Wladek looked around in terror and retched; he would have vomited if there had been anything left in his stomach. He searched in every direction for help or some means of escape; no one had warned him that under Islamic law the punishment for trying to escape would be the loss of a foot. His eyes darted around the mass of faces, stopping only when he saw a man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie, standing some twenty yards from Wladek and watching the spectacle with obvious disgust. He did not once look in Wladek’s direction, nor did he hear his shouts for help in the uproar that followed every time the sword was brought down. Was he French, German, English, or perhaps even Polish? Wladek could not tell, but for some reason he was there to witness the macabre spectacle.

Wladek stared at him, willing him to look his way. He waved his free arm, but still could not gain the foreigner’s attention. The guards untied the man two in front of Wladek and dragged him towards the block. The sword was raised again, the crowd cheered, and the man in the dark suit turned his eyes away in horror. Wladek continued to wave frantically at him.

The man stared at Wladek, then turned to talk to a companion whom Wladek had not noticed. The guard was now struggling with the prisoner immediately in front of Wladek. He strapped the man’s hand on the block; the sword went up and removed it in one blow. The crowd seemed disappointed, hardly raising a cheer. Wladek stared again at the two foreigners, both of whom were now studying him more closely. He willed them to do something, but they only continued to stare.

The guard came over, ripped off Wladek’s 50-rouble overcoat and threw it on the ground. He then undid his cuff and rolled up his sleeve. Wladek struggled helplessly as he was dragged across the square. He was no match for the burly guard. When he reached the block, he was kicked in the back of the knees and collapsed to the ground. The strap was fastened over his right wrist. There was nothing left for him to do but close his eyes as the sword was raised high in the air. He waited in agony for the terrible blow, but there was a sudden hush as the Baron’s silver band slid from his elbow down to his wrist and onto the block. An eerie silence fell over the crowd as it shone brightly in the sunlight.

The executioner hesitated, then slowly lowered his sword as he studied the silver band. Wladek opened his eyes as the guard tried to pull the band off his wrist, but he couldn’t get it past the leather strap. A man in uniform ran quickly up to the block. He too studied the band and its inscription, before running across to another man, who must have been of higher authority, because he took his time as he strolled over. The sword was still resting on the ground and the crowd was beginning to jeer and hoot. The second officer also tried to pull the silver band off, but could not get it over the block and he didn’t have the authority to undo the strap. He shouted at Wladek, who did not understand what he was saying, and replied in Polish, ‘I do not speak your language.’

The officer looked surprised and threw his hands in the air shouting ‘Allah!’ then walked slowly towards the two men wearing western suits. Wladek prayed to God – in such situations any man prays to any god, be he a Muslim or a Christian. One of the two men joined the Turkish officer and they walked towards the block. The foreigner knelt on one knee by Wladek’s side, studied the silver band, then looked carefully at him. Wladek waited. He could speak five languages, and prayed that the man knew one of them. His heart sank when the man turned to the officer and addressed him in his own tongue. The crowd was now booing and throwing rotten fruit at the block. The officer was nodding his agreement. The foreigner turned round and knelt by Wladek’s side. ‘Do you speak English?’

Wladek heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, sir, not bad. I am Polish citizen.’

‘How did you come into possession of that silver band?’

‘It belong my father, sir. He die in dungeon by the Germans in Poland, and I captured and sent to prison camp in Russia. I escape and come here by ship. I have no food for days. When stall keeper no accept my roubles for orange, I take one because I very, very hungry.’

The Englishman rose, turned to the officer and spoke to him very firmly. The latter, in turn, addressed the executioner, who looked doubtful, but when the officer repeated the order a little louder, he bent down and reluctantly undid the leather strap. Wladek retched again. The Englishman handed each man a silver coin, as the crowd continued to protest. They had been robbed of a hand.

‘Come with me,’ said the Englishman. ‘And quickly, before they change their minds.’

Still in a daze, Wladek grabbed his coat and followed. The crowd booed and jeered, continuing to throw rotten vegetables and fruit at him as he departed. The swordsman strapped the next prisoner’s hand to the block and with his first blow only managed to remove a thumb. This seemed to pacify the mob.

The Englishman moved swiftly through the bustling crowd and out of the square, where he was joined by his companion.

‘What’s happening, Edward?’

‘The boy says he’s a Pole and has escaped from Russia. I told the official in charge he was English, so now he’s our responsibility. Let’s get him to the consulate and find out if his story bears any resemblance to the truth.’

Wladek struggled to keep up with the two men as they hurried down the Street of Seven Kings. He could still faintly hear the mob behind them, screaming their approval every time the sword came down.

The two Englishmen led Wladek through an archway and across a pebbled courtyard towards a large grey building. On the door were the welcoming words, British Consulate. Once he was inside the building, Wladek began to feel safe for the first time. He followed the two men down a long hall with walls covered in paintings of men in strange uniforms. At the far end was a magnificent portrait of an old man in a blue uniform adorned with medals. His fine beard reminded Wladek of the Baron. A soldier appeared from nowhere and saluted.

‘Take this boy, Corporal Smithers, and see that he gets a bath. Then find him some clothes and feed him in the kitchen. When he’s eaten and smells a little less like a walking pigsty, bring him to my office.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the corporal said, and saluted again. ‘Come with me, laddie.’

Wladek followed the soldier obediently, almost having to run to keep up with him. He was taken to a little bedroom in the basement. It only had one tiny window: no chance of escape. The corporal told him to get undressed, then left him on his own. He returned a few minutes later, only to find Wladek still sitting on the edge of the bed fully dressed, dazedly twisting the silver band around and around his wrist.

‘Hurry up, lad. You’re not on a rest cure.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Wladek said.

‘Don’t call me sir, lad. I’m Corporal Smithers. You call me Corporal.’

‘I am Wladek Koskiewicz. You call me Wladek.’

‘Don’t try to be funny with me, lad. We’ve got enough funny people in the British army without you wishing to join the ranks.’

Wladek did not understand what the soldier meant. He undressed quickly.

‘Follow me at the double.’

Another soothing bath with hot water and soap brought back memories of his Russian protectress, and of the son he might have become, but for her husband. The soldier was back at the door with a set of clothes, strange, but clean and fresh-smelling. Whose son had they belonged to?

Corporal Smithers escorted Wladek to the kitchen and left him with a plump, pink-faced cook, with the friendliest face Wladek had seen since leaving Poland. She reminded him of his niania. Wladek could not help wondering what would happen to her waistline after a few weeks in Camp 201.

‘Hello,’ she said with a beaming smile. ‘What’s your name, then?’

Wladek told her.

‘Well, Wladek, it looks as though you could do with a good British meal inside of you – none of that Turkish rubbish. We’ll start with some hot soup and beef. You’ll need something substantial if you’re to face Mr Prendergast.’ She laughed. ‘Just remember, his bite’s not as bad as his bark. Although he’s English, his heart’s in the right place.’

‘You are not English, Mrs Cook?’ asked Wladek, surprised.

‘Good Lord no, laddie, I’m Scottish. There’s a world of difference. We hate the English more than the Germans do,’ she said, laughing. She set a dish of steaming soup, thick with meat and vegetables, in front of Wladek. He had entirely forgotten that food could smell and taste so good. He ate slowly, fearing that this might be his last good meal for a very long time.

The corporal reappeared. ‘Have you had enough to eat, my lad?’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Corporal.’

The corporal gave Wladek a suspicious look, but saw no trace of cheek in the boy’s expression. ‘Good. Then let’s be moving. Can’t be late on parade for Mr Prendergast.’

The corporal disappeared through the kitchen door. Wladek glanced at the cook. He always hated saying goodbye to someone he had just met, especially when the person had been so kind.

‘Off you go, laddie, if you know what’s good for you.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Cook,’ said Wladek. ‘Your food is best I can ever remember.’

She smiled at him. He again had to trot to keep up with the corporal, who came to a brisk halt outside a door and Wladek nearly ran into him.

‘Look where you’re going, lad.’ The corporal gave a short rap-rap on the door.

‘Come,’ said a voice.

The corporal opened the door and saluted. ‘The Polish boy, sir, as you requested, scrubbed, dressed and fed.’

‘Thank you, Corporal. Perhaps you would be kind enough to ask Mr Grant to join us.’

Edward Prendergast looked up from his desk. He waved Wladek to a seat and continued to work on some papers. Wladek sat looking at him, and then at the paintings on the wall. More men in uniform, but that old bearded gentleman still had the biggest portrait, this time wearing khaki. A few minutes later the other Englishman he’d seen in the market square walked in to join them.

‘Thank you for joining us, Harry. Have a seat, old chap.’ Mr Prendergast turned to Wladek. ‘Now, my boy, let’s hear your story from the beginning, with no exaggerations, only the truth. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Wladek began with his days at the trapper’s cottage in Poland. It took him some time to find the right English words. The two Englishmen occasionally stopped him and asked a question, nodding to each other once he’d given his answer. After an hour of talking, Wladek’s life history had reached the point where he was in the office of Mr Edward Prendergast, His Britannic Majesty’s Second Consul to Turkey.

‘I think, Harry,’ said Prendergast, ‘it’s our duty to inform the Polish delegation immediately, and then hand young Koskiewicz over to them. Given the circumstances he must be their responsibility.’

‘I agree,’ said the man called Harry. ‘You know, my boy, you had a narrow escape today. The Sharia – that is, the old Islamic law which provides for cutting off a hand for theft – was in theory officially abandoned years ago. In fact, it’s a crime under the Ottoman Penal Code to inflict such a punishment. Nevertheless, in practice the barbarians still continue administering it.’ He shrugged.

‘Why not my hand?’ asked Wladek, holding onto his wrist.

‘I told them they could cut off all the Muslim hands they wanted, but not an Englishman’s,’ the Second Consul interjected.

‘Thank God,’ Wladek said faintly.

‘Edward Prendergast, actually,’ the Second Consul said, smiling for the first time. ‘You can spend the night here, and then we’ll take you to your own delegation tomorrow. The Polish Consul is a good fellow, considering he’s a foreigner.’ He pressed a button, and the corporal reappeared immediately.

‘Sir.’

‘Corporal, take young Koskiewicz to his room, and in the morning see he’s given breakfast and returned to me at nine sharp.’

‘Sir. This way, lad, at the double.’

Wladek was led away by the corporal. He had not even had time to thank the two Englishmen who had saved his hand – and perhaps his life. Back in the clean little room, with its small bed neatly turned down as if he were an honoured guest, he undressed, threw the pillow on the floor and slept soundly until the morning light shone through the tiny window.

‘Rise and shine, lad, sharpish.’

It was the corporal once again, his uniform immaculately smart and knife-edge pressed, looking as though he had never been to bed. For an instant Wladek, surfacing from sleep, thought himself back in Camp 201, as the corporal’s banging on the end of the metal bed frame with his cane resembled the noise of the prison triangle that Wladek had grown to hate. He slid out of bed and reached for his clothes.

‘Wash first, my lad, wash first. We don’t want your horrible smells worrying Mr Prendergast so early in the morning, do we?’

Wladek was unsure which part of himself to wash, as he’d never been so clean in his life. He noticed that the corporal was staring at him.

‘What’s wrong with your leg, lad?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Wladek, turning away from the staring eyes.

‘Right. I’ll be back in three minutes. Three minutes, do you hear, my lad? Be sure you’re ready.’

Wladek washed his hands and face and then dressed quickly. He was sitting on the end of the bed, holding his long sheepskin coat, when the corporal returned to take him to the Second Consul. Mr Prendergast welcomed him, and seemed to have softened considerably since their meeting the previous day.

‘Good morning, Koskiewicz,’ he said.

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Did you enjoy your breakfast?’

‘I no had breakfast, sir.’

‘Why not?’ asked the Second Consul, looking towards the corporal.

‘Overslept, I’m afraid, sir. He would have been late for you.’

‘Well, we must see what we can do about that. Corporal, will you ask Mrs Henderson to rustle up an apple or something?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Wladek and the Second Consul walked slowly along the corridor towards the front door of the consulate and across the pebbled courtyard to a waiting car, one of the few in Turkey. It was Wladek’s first journey in such a vehicle. He was sorry to be leaving the British Consulate. It was the only place in which he’d felt safe for years. He wondered if he was ever going to sleep more than one night in the same bed for the rest of his life. The corporal ran down the steps and took the driver’s seat. He passed Wladek an apple and some warm fresh bread.

‘See there are no crumbs left in the car, lad. The cook sends her compliments.’

The drive through the hot, busy streets was conducted at walking pace as the Turks made no attempt to clear a path for the English camel on wheels. Even with all the windows open Wladek was sweating from the oppressive heat. Mr Prendergast, seated in the back, remained quite cool and unperturbed. Wladek lowered his head for fear that someone who had witnessed the previous day’s events might recognize him and stir the mob to anger again. When the little black Austin came to a halt outside a small, decaying building marked KONSULAT POLSKI, Wladek felt a twinge of excitement mingled with disappointment.

The three of them climbed out.

‘Where’s the apple core, boy?’ demanded the corporal.

‘I eat him.’

The corporal laughed, and knocked on the door. A friendly-looking little man with dark hair and a firm jaw answered it. He was in shirt sleeves, and deeply tanned by the Turkish sun. He addressed them in Polish, the first words Wladek had heard in his native tongue since leaving the labour camp. Wladek answered quickly, explaining his presence. His fellow countryman turned to the British Second Consul.

‘This way, Mr Prendergast,’ he said in perfect English. ‘It was good of you to bring the boy over personally.’

A few diplomatic niceties were exchanged before Prendergast and the corporal took their leave. Wladek gazed at them, fumbling for an English expression more adequate than ‘Thank you’.

Prendergast patted him on the head as he might a cocker spaniel. And as the corporal closed the door, he turned and winked at Wladek. ‘Good luck, my lad. God knows you deserve it.’

The Polish Consul introduced himself as Pawel Zaleski. Once again Wladek was required to recount the story of his life, finding it easier in Polish than he had in English. Zaleski listened in silence, shaking his head sorrowfully.

‘My poor child,’ he said. ‘You have borne more than your share of our country’s suffering for one so young. And now what are we to do with you?’

‘I must return to Poland and reclaim my castle,’ said Wladek.

‘Poland,’ said the Consul. ‘Where’s that? The region where you lived remains in dispute, and there is still heavy fighting going on between the Poles and the Russians as they attempt to agree on a border. General Pilsudski is doing all he can to protect the territorial integrity of our fatherland. But it would be foolish for any of us to be optimistic. There is little left for you now in Poland. No, your best plan would be to start a new life in England or America.’

‘But I don’t want to go to England or America. I am Polish.’

‘You will always be Polish, Wladek – no one can take that away from you, wherever you decide to settle. But you must be realistic about your future while you’re still so young.’

Wladek lowered his head in despair. Had he gone through all this only to be told he could never return to his homeland, never see his castle again? He fought back the tears.

The Consul put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘Never forget that you are one of the lucky ones who escaped and came out alive. You only have to remember your loyal friend Dr Dubien to be aware of what your life might have been like.’

Wladek didn’t speak.

‘Now you must put all thoughts of the past behind you and think only of the future, Wladek. Perhaps in your lifetime you will see Poland rise again, which is more than I dare to hope for.’