He nodded, and started to dress quickly. They returned to their carriage. When the train started to lurch forward, Wladek was glad to feel the wheels clattering underneath him once again.
The train took another twelve and a half days to reach Moscow. Whenever a new ticket collector appeared, Wladek and the woman went through the same routine: he unconvincingly trying to look innocent and young, she a convincing mother. The ticket collectors always bowed respectfully to her, making Wladek think that stationmasters must be very important people in Russia.
By the time they had completed the nine-hundred-mile journey, Wladek had put his trust completely in the woman. It was early afternoon when the train came to its final halt. Despite everything Wladek had been through, he was once again fearful of the unknown. He had never visited a big city, let alone the capital of all the Russias. Wladek had never seen so many people rushing in every direction. The woman sensed his apprehension.
‘Follow me, do not speak and do not take off your cap.’
Wladek took her bags down from the rack, pulled his cap over his head - now covered in black stubble - and followed her out onto the platform. A throng of people were waiting to pass through the tiny barrier, creating a hold-up because everyone had to show their identification papers to the guard. As they approached the barrier, Wladek could hear his heart beating like a drum, but the guard only glanced at the woman’s documents.
‘Comrade,’ he said, and saluted. He looked at Wladek.
‘My son,’ she explained.
‘Of course, comrade.’ He saluted again.
Wladek had arrived in Moscow.
Despite the trust he had placed in his newfound companion, Wladek’s first instinct was to run, but he knew that 150 roubles were not enough to survive on, so he decided to bide his time - he could run any time. A horse and cart were waiting for them on the station forecourt, and they took the woman and her adopted son to his new home. The stationmaster was not there when they arrived, so the woman set about making up the spare bed for Wladek. Then she heated some water on a stove, poured it into a large tin tub and told him to get in. It was the first bath he had had in years. She heated some more water and reintroduced him to soap, scrubbing his back. Before long, the water began to change colour and after twenty minutes it was black. But Wladek knew it would take several more baths before he could remove the years of ingrained dirt. Once he was dry, the woman put some ointment on his arms and legs and bandaged those parts of his body that looked particularly sore. She stared at his one nipple. He dressed quickly, then joined her in the kitchen. She had already prepared a bowl of hot soup and added some beans. Wladek ate hungrily. Neither of them spoke. When he had finished the meal, she suggested that it might be wise for him to go to bed and rest.
‘I don’t want my husband to see you before I’ve told him how you ended up here,’ she explained. ‘Would you like to stay with us, Wladek, if my husband agrees?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said simply.
‘Then off you go to bed,’ she said.
Wladek climbed the stairs, praying that the woman’s husband would allow him to live with them. He undressed slowly and got into bed. He was too clean, the sheets were too crisp, the mattress too soft. He threw the pillow onto the floor, but he was so tired that he slept despite the comfort of the bed. It was already dark outside when he was awakened by the sound of raised voices. He couldn’t tell how long he had been asleep. He crept to the door, eased it open and listened to the conversation taking place in the kitchen below.
‘You stupid woman,’ Wladek heard a shrill voice say. ‘Don’t you understand what would have happened if you’d been caught? You would have been sent to the camps, and I would have lost my job.’
‘But if you had seen him, Piotr. He was like a hunted animal.’
‘So you decided to turn us into hunted animals,’ he replied. ‘Has anyone else seen him?’
‘No,’ said the woman, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Thank God for that. He must leave immediately, before anyone discovers he’s been here - it’s our only hope.’
‘But where can he go, Piotr? He has no one. And I have always wanted a son.’
‘I don’t care what you want, or where he goes. He is not our responsibility. We must be rid of him, and quickly.’
‘But Piotr, I think he is royal. I think his father was a baron. He wears a silver band around his wrist, and on it are the words—’
‘That only makes it worse. You know what our new leaders have decreed. No nobility, no privileges. We would not even be sent to the camp - the authorities would just shoot us.’
‘We have always wanted a son, Piotr. Can we not take this one risk in our lives?’
‘In your life, perhaps, but not in mine. I say he must go, and go now.’
Wladek did not need to hear any more. The only way he could help his benefactress was to disappear without trace into the night. He dressed quickly, and stared at the bed, hoping it would not be another four years before he slept so soundly again. He was unlatching the window when the door was flung open and the stationmaster marched into the room. He was a tiny man, no taller than Wladek, with a large stomach and a bald head except for a few grey strands of hair vainly combed across his scalp. He wore rimless spectacles, which had produced little red semicircles under each eye. He stared at Wladek. Wladek stared back.
‘Come downstairs,’ the man commanded.
Wladek followed him reluctantly to the kitchen. The woman was sitting at the table, sobbing.
‘Now listen, boy,’ the man said.
‘His name is Wladek,’ the woman interjected.
‘Now listen, boy,’ the man repeated. ‘You are trouble, and I want you out of here and as far away as possible. I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do to help you.’
Wladek gazed at him, aware that he would only be willing to help himself.
‘I am going to supply you with a train ticket. Where do you want to go?’
‘Odessa,’ said Wladek, ignorant of where it was or how much it would cost, knowing only that it was the next city on the doctor’s map to freedom.
‘Odessa, the mother of crime - an appropriate destination,’ sneered the stationmaster. ‘You’ll be among your own kind there.’
‘Let him stay with us, Piotr. I will take care of him, I will—’
‘No, never. I would rather pay the bastard to go.’
‘But how can he hope to get past the authorities?’ the woman pleaded.
‘I will issue him with a ticket and a working pass for Odessa.’ The man turned to Wladek. ‘Once you are on that train, boy, if I ever see or hear of you again in Moscow, I’ll have you arrested on sight and thrown into the nearest jail. You’ll be back in that prison camp as fast as the train can get you there - if they don’t shoot you first.’
The man glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: five past eleven. He turned to his wife. ‘There’s a train that leaves for Odessa at midnight. I’ll take him to the station and put him on it myself. Have you any baggage, boy?’
Wladek was about to say no, when the woman said, ‘Yes, I’ll go and fetch it.’
She was gone for some time. Wladek and the stationmaster glared at each other with mutual contempt. The clock struck once in her absence, but still neither spoke. The stationmaster’s eyes never left Wladek. When she returned, she was carrying a large brown paper parcel tied with string. Wladek stared at it and was about to protest, but as their eyes met, he saw such fear in hers that he only just managed the words, ‘Thank you.’
‘Eat this before you leave,’ she said, thrusting her bowl of cold soup towards him.
He obeyed, and although his shrunken stomach was now full, he gulped down the soup as quickly as possible, not wanting to cause her any more trouble.
‘Animal,’ the man muttered.
Wladek looked at him, hatred in his eyes. He felt pity for the woman, bound to such a man for life. A prison of her own.
‘Come, boy, it’s time for you to leave,’ the stationmaster said. ‘We don’t want you to miss your train, do we?’
Wladek followed him out of the kitchen. He hesitated as he passed the woman, briefly touching her hand.
The stationmaster and the refugee crept through the streets of Moscow, keeping to the shadows, until they reached the station. The stationmaster obtained a one-way ticket to Odessa and gave the little red slip of paper to Wladek.
‘My pass?’ Wladek said defiantly.
From his inside pocket the man drew out an official-looking form, signed it hurriedly and reluctantly handed it over. His eyes kept looking all around him for any possible danger. Wladek had seen eyes like that many times during the past four years: the eyes of a coward.
‘Never let me see, or hear, of you again,’ the stationmaster said: the voice of a bully.
Wladek was about to say something, but the stationmaster had already disappeared into the shadows of the night, where he belonged.
Wladek looked at the eyes of the people who hurried past him. The same eyes, the same fear; was anyone in the world free? He gathered the brown paper parcel under his arm, adjusted his cap and walked towards the barrier. The guard glanced at his ticket and ushered him through without comment. He climbed on board the train. Although he would never see her again in his life, he would always remember the kindness of the woman, the stationmaster’s wife, Comrade … he didn’t even know her name.
16
PREPARING FOR the baby kept Anne fully occupied; she found herself tiring easily, and had to rest a great deal. Whenever she asked Henry how business was going, he always had some plausible answer to reassure her that all was well, without supplying any actual details.
Then the anonymous letters started to appear again. This time they gave more details - the names of the women involved, and the places they had been seen with Henry. Anne burned them before she could commit the names or the places to memory. She didn’t believe her husband could be unfaithful while she was carrying his child. Someone was jealous, or holding a grudge against Henry. They had to be lying.
But the letters kept coming, sometimes with new names. Anne continued to destroy them, but they were beginning to prey on her mind. She wanted to discuss them with someone, but couldn’t think of anybody in whom she could confide. The grandmothers would have been appalled, and were in any case already prejudiced against Henry. Alan Lloyd at the bank could not be expected to understand, as he had never married, and William was far too young. No one seemed suitable. Anne considered consulting a psychiatrist after listening to a lecture given by Sigmund Freud when he visited Boston, but she decided that she would never consider discussing a family problem with a complete stranger.
The matter finally came to a head in a way that Anne could not have anticipated. One Monday morning she received three letters: the usual one from William addressed to Mrs Richard Kane, asking if he could once again spend the summer vacation with his friend Matthew Lester; an anonymous letter alleging that Henry was having an affair with, with … Millie Preston; and one from Alan Lloyd, asking if she would be kind enough to telephone and make an appointment to see him at the bank.
Anne sat down heavily, feeling breathless and queasy, and forced herself to reread all three letters. William’s stung her by its detachment. She hated knowing that he preferred to spend his summer with his friend rather than at home. The anonymous letter claiming that Henry was having an affair with her closest friend was impossible to ignore. Anne couldn’t help remembering that it had been Millie who had introduced her to Henry in the first place, and that she was William’s godmother. The third, from Alan Lloyd, filled her with even more apprehension. The only other letter she had ever received from him was one of condolence on the death of Richard. What did he wish to offer his condolences about this time?
She called the bank. The operator put her straight through.
‘Alan, you wanted to see me?’
‘Yes, my dear. I’d like to have a chat if you can spare the time.’
‘Is it bad news?’ asked Anne.
‘Not exactly, but I’d rather not say anything over the phone.’ He tried to reassure her. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about. Are you free for lunch, by any chance?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Well, let’s meet at the Grand at one o’clock. I look forward to seeing you then, my dear.’
One o’clock, only three hours away. Her mind switched from Alan to William, and then to Henry, but finally settled on Millie Preston. Could it be true? She decided to take a long bath and to put on a new dress. It didn’t help. She felt, and was beginning to look, bloated. Her ankles and calves, which had always been so elegant and slim, were becoming shapeless. It was a little frightening to imagine how much worse things might become before the baby was born. Anne sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror, and did the best she could to appear attractive and confident.
‘You look very smart, Anne. If I weren’t an old bachelor, I’d flirt with you shamelessly,’ said the silver-haired banker, greeting her with a kiss on both cheeks as though he were a French general. He guided her to his usual table.
It was an unspoken tradition at the Grand Hotel in Boston that the table in the corner was always reserved for the chairman of Kane and Cabot if he was not lunching at the bank, but this was the first time Anne had sat there. Waiters fluttered around them like eager starlings, seeming to know exactly when to disappear and reappear without interrupting their conversation.
‘So when’s the baby due, Anne?’
‘Oh, not for another three months.’
‘No complications, I hope.’
‘Well,’ admitted Anne, ‘the doctor examines me once a week and pulls a long face about my blood pressure, but I’m not too worried.’
‘I’m so glad, my dear,’ he said, and touched her hand gently, as an uncle might. ‘You do look rather tired - I hope you’re not overdoing things.’
Anne didn’t respond.
Alan Lloyd barely raised his head, and a waiter materialized at his side.
‘My dear, I want to seek some advice from you,’ Alan said after they had ordered. Anne was well aware of Alan Lloyd’s gift for diplomacy. He hadn’t asked her to lunch in order to seek her advice. There was no doubt in her mind that he wanted to dispense it - kindly.
‘Do you have any idea how Henry’s real estate projects are going?’
‘No, I don’t,’ admitted Anne. ‘I never involve myself with his business activities. You’ll recall I didn’t with Richard’s either. Why? Is there any cause for concern?’
‘No, no, none of which we at the bank are aware. On the contrary, we know Henry is bidding for a large city contract to build the new hospital complex. I was only asking because he has applied to the bank for a loan of five hundred thousand dollars.’
Anne was speechless.
‘I see that comes as a surprise,’ he said. ‘Now, we know from your stock holding that you have a little under twenty thousand dollars in reserve, and are running a small overdraft of seventeen thousand dollars on your personal account.’
