第 15 页

Wladek watched the scene in disbelief. When the first prisoner reached the middle of the square, he was knocked to his knees by the guard and then his right hand was strapped to a wooden block by a giant of a man who raised a large sword above his head and brought it down with terrible force, aiming at the prisoner's wrist. He only managed to catch the tips of the fingers. The prisoner serramed with pain as the sword was raised again. This time the sword hit the wrist but still did not finish the job properly and the wrist dangled from the prisoner's ann, blood pouring out on to the sand. The sword was raised for a third time, and for the third time it came down. The prisoner's hand at last fell to the ground. The crowd roared its approval. The prisoner was at last released, and he slumped in a heap, unconscious. He was dragged off by a disinterested 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 struck. The giant executioner was not interested in death so he continued his task; he was paid to remove hands.

Wladek looked around in terror and would have vomited if there had been anything left in his stomach to bring up. He searched in every direction for help or some means of escape; no one had told 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 until he saw a man in the crowd dressed like a European, wearing a dark suit. The man was standing about twenty yards away from Wladek and was watching the spectacle with obvious disgust. But he did not once look in Wladek's direction, nor could he hear his shouts for help in the uproar arising from the crowd every time the sword was brought down. Was he French, German, English or even Polish?

Wladek could not tell, but for some reason he was there to witness this macabre spectacle. Wladek stared at him, willing him to look his way. But he did not. Wladek waved his free arm but still could not gain the European's attention. They untied the man two in front of Wladek and dragged him along the ground towards the block. When the sword went up again the crowd cheered, the man in the dark suit turned his eyes away in disgust and Wladek waved frantically at him again.

The man stared at Wladek and 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 placed the prisoner's hand under the strap; the sword went up and removed the hand in one blow. The crowd seemed disappointed. Wladek stared again at the Europeans. They were now both looking at him. He willed them to move, but they only continued to stare.

The guard came over, threw Wladek's fifty-ruble overcoat to the ground, undid his shirt and rolled up his sleeve. Wladek struggled futilely as he was dragged across the square. He was no match for the guard. When he reached the block, he was kicked in the back of his knees and collapsed to the ground. The strap was fastened over his right wrist, and there was nothing left for him to do but close his eyes as the sword was raised above the executioner's head. He waited in agony for the terrible blow, and then there was a sudden hush in the crowd as the Baron's silver band fell from Wladek's elbow down to his wrist and on to the block. An eerie silence came over the crowd as the heirloom shone brightly in the sunlight. The executioner stopped and put down his sword and studied the silver band. Wladek opened his eyes. He tried to pull it over Wladek's wrist, but he couldn't get it past the leather strap. A man in uniform ran quickly forward and joined the executioner. He too, studied the band and the inscription and then ran to another man, who must have been of higher authority, because he walked more slowly towards Wladek. The sword was resting an the ground and the crowd were now beginning to jear and hoot. The second officer also tried to pull the silver band off, but could not get it over the block either and he seemed unwilling to undo the strap. He shouted words 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.' That must be the same as 'Holy God' thought Wladek.

The officer walked slowly towards the two men in the crowd wearing western suits, arms going in every direction like a disorganised windmill. Wladek prayed to God; in such situations any man prays to any god, be it Allah or the Ave Maria. The Europeans were still staring at Wladek, and Wladek nodded his head up and down frantically. One of the men in the dark suits joined the Turkish officer as he walked back towards the block. The former knelt down by Wladek's side, studied the silver band and then looked carefully at him. Wladek waited. He could converse in five languages and prayed that the gentleman would speak one of them. His heart sank when the European turned to the officer and addressed him in his own tongue. The crowd was now hissing and throwing rotten fruit at the block. The officer was nodding his agreement, while the gentleman stared intently at Wladek.

'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 prison by the Germans in Poland, and I captured and sent to a prison camp in Russia. I escape and come here by ship. I have no cat for days. When stallkeeper no accept my rubles for orange, I take one because I much, much hungry.'

The Englishman rose slowly froin his knees, 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. This time Wladek did vomit.

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

Still in a daze, Wladek grabbed his coat and followed him. The crowd booed and jeered, throwing things at him as he departed, and the swordsman quickly put the next prisoner's hand on the block and with his first blow only managed te remove a thumb.

This seemed to pacify the mob.

The Englishman moved swifty through the hustling crowd out of the square where he was joined by his companion.

'What's happening, Edward?'

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

Wladek ran between the two men as they hurried on through the bazaar and into the Street of Seven Kings. He could still faintly hear the mob behind him screaming their approval every time the executioner brought down his sword.

The two Englishmen walked over a pebbled courtyard towards a lar,ge grey building and beckoned Wladek to follow them. On the door were the welcoming words, British Embassy. Once inside the building Wladek began to feel safe for the first time. He walked a pace behind the two men down a long hall with walls filled with paintings of strangely clad soldiers and sailors. At the far end was a magnificent portrait of an old man in a blue naval uniform liberally adoined 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 feed him in the kitchens. When he has eaten and smells a little less like a walking pigsty, bring him to my office.'

'Yes, sir," said the corporal and saluted.

'Come with me, my lad.' The soldier marched away. Wladek followed him obediently, having to run to keep up with his walking pace. He was taken to the basement of the embassy and left in a little room; this time it had a window. The corporal told him to get undressed and then left him on his own. He returned a few minutes later 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 am Corporal Smithers. You call me corporal.'

'I am Wladek Koskiewicz. You call me Wladek.'

'Don't be funny with me, lad. We've govenough funny people in the British army without you wishing to join their ranks.'

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

'Follow me at the double!'

Another marvellous bath with hot water and soap. Wladek thought of his Russian protectress, and of the son he might have become to her but for her husband. A new set of clothes, strange but clean and fresh-smelling.

Whose son had they belonged to? The soldier was back at the door.

Corporal Smithers took Wladek to the kitchen and left him with a fat, pink-faced cook, with the warmest face he had seen since leaving Poland.

She reminded him of niania. Whidek 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, laddie, it looks as though you could do with a good British meal inside of you - none of this Turkish muck will suffice. 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 is an Englishman, his heart's in the right place.'

'You are not an English, Mrs. Cook?' asked Wladek, surprised.

'Good Lord no, laddie, I'm Scottish. There's a world of difference. We hate the English mor ' e 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 appetising. He ate the meal slowly for fear it might not happen again 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 he 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, and Wadek stared at the cook. He hated always having to say goodbye to someone he'd just met, especially when they had been so kind.

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

'Thank you, Mrs. Cook,' said Wladek. 'four food is best I can ever remember.'

The cook smiled at him. He again had to limp hard to catch up with the corporal, whose marching pace still kept Wladek trotting. The soldier came to a brisk halt outside a door that Whidek nearly ran into.

'Look where you're going, my lad, look where you're going!'

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 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 without speaking and continued to work at some papers. Wladek sat looking at him and then at the portraits on the wall. More generals and admirals and that old, bearded gentleman again, this time in khaki army uniform.

A few minutes later the other Englishman he remembered from the market square came in.

'Thank you for joining us, Harry. Do have a seat, old boy.

Mr. Prendergast turned to Wladek. 'Now, my lad, let's hear your story from the beginning, with no exaggerations, only the truth. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

Wladek started his story with his days in Poland. It took him some time to find the right English words. It was apparent from the looks on the faces of the two Englishmen that they were at first incredulous. They occasionally stopped him and asked questions, nodding to each other at his answers. After an hour of talking Wladek's life history had reached the office of His Britannic Majesty's second consul to Turkey.

'I think, Harry,' said the second consul, 'it is our duty to inform the Polish Delegation immediately and then hand young Koskiewicz over to them as I feel in the circumstances he is undoubtedly their responsibility.'

'Agreed,' said the man called Harry. 'You know, my boy, you had a narrow escape in the market today. The Sher -that is the old Islamic religious law - which provides for cutting off a hand for the theft was officially abandoned in theory year- ago. In fact it is a crime under the Ottoman Penal Code to inflict such a punishment. Nevertheless, in practice the barbarians still continue to carry it out.' He shrugged.

'Why not my hand?' asked Wladek, holding on to his wrist.

'I told them they could cut off all the Moslem hands they wanted, but not an Englishman's,' Edward Prendergast interjected.

'Thank God,' said Wladek faintly.

'Edward Prendergast, actually,' he said, smiling for the first time. The second consul continued. 'You can spend the night here, and we will take you to your own delegation tomorrow. The Poles do not actually have an embassy in Constantinople,' he said, slightly disdainfully, 'but my opposite number is a good fellow considering he's a foreigner! He pressed a button and the corporal reappeared immediately.

'Corporal, take young Koskiewicz to his room, and in the morning see he is given breakfast and is brought to me at nine sharp.'

'Sir. This way, boy, at the double!'

Wladek was led away by the corporal. He was not even given enough time to thank the two Englishmen who had saved his hand - and perhaps his life.

Back in the clean little room, with its clean little bed neatly turned down as if he were an honoured guest, he undressed, threw his 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, 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 bed frame with his cane resembled the noise he had grown so accustomed to. He fell out of bed and reached for his clothes.