Wladek began to believe that the only way to escape from the dungeons was death. He wondered if he was equipping himself with knowledge that would be useless as he would never again know freedom.
Florentyna - Wladek’s sister, mother and closest friend - engaged herself in an unending struggle to keep the Baron’s cell clean. Occasionally the guards would provide her with a bucket of sand or straw with which to cover the soiled floor, and the stench would be a little less oppressive for a few days. Vermin scuttled around in the darkness for any dropped scraps of bread or potato, bringing with them disease and a reason not to sleep. The sour smell of stale human and animal urine and excrement assaulted their nostrils, regularly causing Wladek to be sick. He longed to be clean again, and would spend hours gazing out of the little slit in the wall, recalling the steaming tubs of hot water and the rough, perfumed soap with which the niania had, so short a distance away but so long ago, removed the dirt of a day’s fun, with many a tut-tut for his and Leon’s muddy knees or dirty fingernails.
By the spring of 1918, only fifteen of the twenty-seven captives were still alive. The Baron was still treated by everyone as the master, while Wladek was acknowledged as his steward. Wladek felt saddest for his beloved Florentyna, now twenty. She had long since despaired of life. Wladek never admitted in her presence to giving up hope, but although he was only twelve, he too was beginning to wonder if there was any future outside the dungeons.
One evening, in early autumn, Florentyna came to Wladek’s side in the larger upper dungeon.
‘The Baron is calling for you.’
Wladek rose quickly, leaving the allocation of the food to a trusted servant, and went to join the old man. The Baron was in severe pain, and Wladek saw with terrible clarity how illness had eroded whole areas of his flesh, leaving the green-mottled skin covering a now skeletal face. The Baron requested water, and Florentyna rescued some from the half-full mug of rain water that hung from a stick outside the grille in the wall. When the Baron had finished drinking, he spoke slowly and with considerable difficulty.
‘You have seen so many people die, Wladek, that one more should make little difference to you. I confess that I no longer fear escaping this world.’
‘No, no, it can’t be!’ cried Wladek, clinging to the old man for the first time in his life. ‘Don’t give up, Baron. I overheard the guards saying that the war is coming to an end. We will soon be released.’
‘They have been saying that for months, Wladek. In any case, I have no desire to live in the new world they are creating.’ He paused as the boy began sobbing for the first time in their three years of imprisonment, then said, ‘Call for my steward and first footman.’
Wladek obeyed immediately, not knowing why they were required.
The two servants, awakened from sleep, came and stood silently in front of the Baron, waiting for him to speak. They still wore their embroidered uniforms, but there was no longer any sign that they had once boasted the proud Rosnovski colours of green and gold.
‘Are they there, Wladek?’ asked the Baron.
‘Yes, sir. Can you not see them?’ Wladek realized for the first time that the Baron was blind.
‘Bring them forward so that I might touch them.’
Wladek brought the two men to him, and the Baron touched their faces.
‘Sit down, both of you. Can you hear me, Ludwik, Alfons?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they replied.
‘My name is Baron Rosnovski.’
‘We know, sir,’ the steward responded innocently.
‘Do not interrupt me,’ said the Baron. ‘I am about to die.’
Death had become so commonplace in the dungeon that the two men made no protest.
‘I am unable to make a new will, as I have no paper, quill or ink. Therefore I make my testament in your presence, and you can act as my two witnesses, as recognized by the ancient law of Poland. Do you understand what I am telling you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the two men replied in unison.
‘My firstborn son, Leon, is dead’ - the Baron paused - ‘and so I leave my entire estate and possessions to the boy known as Wladek Koskiewicz.’
Wladek had not heard his surname for many years, and did not immediately comprehend the significance of the Baron’s words.
‘As proof of my resolve,’ the Baron continued, ‘I give him the family band.’
The old man slowly raised his right arm, removed the silver band from his wrist and held it out to a speechless Wladek. He clasped the boy firmly to him. ‘My son and heir,’ he declared as he placed the silver band over his wrist.
Wladek lay in the arms of the Baron all night until he could no longer hear his heart beating and his arms grew cold and stiffened around him. In the morning the Baron’s body was removed by the guards, who allowed Wladek to leave the dungeon and bury him by the side of his son, Leon, in the family churchyard. As the body was lowered into its shallow grave, dug by Wladek’s bare hands, the Baron’s tattered silk shirt fell open. Wladek stared at the dead man’s chest. He had only one nipple.
On a mild, dry day, late in the autumn of 1918, the prisoners heard several volleys of shots and the sound of a brief struggle. Wladek was sure that the Polish army had come to rescue them, and that he would be able to lay claim to his inheritance. When the German guards deserted their post at the entrance of the dungeons, the rest of the inmates remained huddled in terrified silence in the lower rooms. Wladek stood alone in the doorway, twisting the silver band around his wrist, waiting for their liberators to release him so he could claim what was rightfully his.
Eventually the men who had defeated the enemy appeared, and spoke to Wladek in the coarse Slavic tongue which he had learned from his school days to detest even more than German. The new conquerors seemed to be unaware that this twelve-year-old boy was the master of the land they were trespassing on. They did not speak his tongue. Their orders were clear and not to be questioned: kill anyone who does not accept the Brest-Litovsk agreement, which seceded this region of Poland to the Russians, and send the rest to Camp 201 in Siberia. The Germans had retreated, with only token resistance, behind their new border, while Wladek and his followers waited, ignorant of their impending fate.
After two more nights, Wladek resigned himself to believing that they would be left in the dungeons for the rest of their lives. The new guards did not speak to him, and he began to think that German purgatory had simply been replaced by Russian hell.
On the third day, Russian soldiers stormed the dungeons and dragged fourteen emaciated, filthy bodies out onto the grass in front of the castle. Two of the servants collapsed in the bright light of the midday sun. Wladek had to shield his eyes as they stood in silence and waited for the soldiers’ next move. Would it be a bullet, or freedom?
The guards made them strip, and ordered them down to the river to wash. Wladek hid the silver band in his clothes before walking down to the water’s edge, his legs feeling weak long before he reached the river. He jumped in, gasping for breath at the sudden coldness of the water, although it felt glorious on his caked, leathery skin. The rest of the prisoners joined him, trying to remove three years of dirt and squalor.
While Wladek was washing, he noticed that the soldiers were laughing and pointing at Florentyna. None of the other women seemed to arouse the same degree of interest. One of the Russians, a large, misshapen oaf, grabbed Florentyna by the arm as she passed him on her way back up the riverbank. He threw her to the ground and quickly pulled down his trousers. Wladek stared in disbelief at the man’s swollen, erect penis. He jumped out of the water and ran towards the soldier, who now had Florentyna pinned to the ground. Wladek charged into the soldier’s stomach with his head and pummelled him with his fists. The startled man let go of Florentyna, but a second soldier grabbed Wladek, threw him to the ground and jabbed a knee firmly in the middle of his back. The commotion attracted the attention of the other soldiers and they strolled across to watch. Wladek’s captor was now laughing, a loud belly laugh with no humour in it.
‘Enter the great protector,’ said one.
‘Come to defend his nation’s honour,’ said another.
‘Let’s at least allow him a ringside view,’ added the one who was holding him on the ground.
More laughter punctuated the remarks that Wladek couldn’t always understand. He watched the naked soldier advance slowly towards Florentyna, who was speechless with fear. Wladek tried desperately to free himself, but he was helpless. The naked man fell clumsily on top of Florentyna and started mauling her. When he slapped her, she tried to fight and turn away; finally he lunged into her. She let out a scream such as Wladek had never heard before. The other soldiers continued talking and laughing among themselves, some not even watching.
‘Goddamn virgin,’ said the soldier as he withdrew his blood-covered penis.
They all laughed.
‘Then you’ve made it a little easier for me,’ said another man.
More laughter. As Florentyna stared into Wladek’s eyes, he began to retch. The soldier holding onto him showed little interest, other than to be sure that none of the boy’s vomit ended up on his uniform or his shiny boots. The first soldier, his penis still covered in blood, ran down to the river, yelling in triumph as he hit the water. The second man began unbuckling his belt, while another held Florentyna down. The second guard took a little longer over his pleasure, and seemed to gain considerable satisfaction from hitting Florentyna before he finally entered her. She screamed again, but not quite so loud as before.
‘Come on, Vladi, you’ve had long enough.’
The man came out of her and joined his companion at arms in the river. Wladek forced himself to look at Florentyna. She was bruised, and bleeding between the legs. The soldier holding him spoke again.
‘Come and take care of the little bastard, Boris. It’s my turn.’
The first soldier took hold of Wladek. Again he tried to hit out, but it only made the soldiers laugh even more.
‘Now we know the full might of the Polish army.’
The unbearable laughter continued as yet another guard took his turn with Florentyna, who now lay indifferent to his charms.
‘I think she’s beginning to enjoy it,’ he said once he’d finished. A fourth soldier advanced on Florentyna. When he reached her, he turned her over and forced her legs as wide apart as possible, his large hands moving rapidly over her frail body. The scream when he entered her turned into a groan. Wladek counted as sixteen soldiers raped his sister. When the last one was done, he swore and shouted, ‘I think I’ve made love to a dead woman.’ This caused them to laugh even louder.
When Wladek’s guard finally released him, he ran to Floren-tyna’s side while the soldiers lay on the grass drinking wine and vodka plundered from the Baron’s cellar, and devouring bread and meat from the kitchens.
With the help of two of the servants, Wladek carried Florentyna to the edge of the river, and wept as he tried to wash away the blood and dirt. He covered her with his jacket, held her in his arms and kissed her gently on the mouth, the first woman he had ever kissed. As the tears ran down his face onto her bruised body, he felt her go limp. He wept again as he carried her dead body back up the bank. The soldiers fell silent as they watched him walk towards the chapel. He laid her down on the grass beside the Baron’s grave and once again started digging with his bare hands. The sinking sun cast a long shadow over the grave by the time he had buried her. He made a little cross with two sticks, and placed it at the head of her grave. He then collapsed on the ground and immediately fell asleep, not caring if he ever woke again.
10
ANNE KANE had become lonely with William away at St Paul’s, and a family circle consisting only of the two grandmothers, now approaching old age.
Once she’d passed her thirtieth birthday, Anne began to notice that she no longer made men’s heads turn. She decided to pick up the threads severed by Richard’s death with some of her old friends. Millie Preston, William’s godmother, whom she had known all her life, began inviting her to dinner parties and the theatre, always including an extra man, in the hope of finding a new partner for Anne. Millie’s choices were almost always inappropriate, and Anne used to laugh openly at her attempts at matchmaking, until one day, in January 1919, just after William had returned to school for the winter term, she was invited to yet another dinner for four. Millie confessed she had never met her other guest, Henry Osborne, but she thought he had been at Harvard at the same time as her husband John.
‘Actually,’ confessed Millie over the phone, ‘John doesn’t know much about him, darling, except that he is rather good looking.’
Henry Osborne was sitting by the fire when Anne walked into the drawing room. He immediately rose to allow Millie to introduce them. A shade over six feet, with dark, almost black eyes, and wavy black hair, he was slim and athletic-looking. Anne felt a quick flash of pleasure that she was paired for the evening with this energetic and handsome man, while Millie had to content herself with a husband who was fading into paunchy middle-age by comparison with his dashing college contemporary. Henry Osborne’s arm was in a sling, which almost covered his Harvard tie.
‘A war wound?’ Anne asked sympathetically.
‘No, a skiing accident; trying to go a little too fast on the slopes of Vermont,’ he said, laughing.
It was one of those dinners, lately so rare for Anne, at which the time slipped by happily. Henry answered all her inquisitive questions. After leaving Harvard he had worked for a real estate management firm in Chicago, his hometown, but when war was declared he couldn’t resist joining up and having a go at the Germans. He had a fund of self-mocking stories about Europe and the life he had led as a young lieutenant, preserving the honour of America on the Marne. Millie and John had not seen Anne laugh so much since Richard’s death, and they smiled knowingly at each other when Henry asked if he might drive her home.
‘What are you going to do now that you’ve returned to a land fit for heroes?’ she asked as he eased his Stutz out onto Charles Street.
‘Haven’t really decided,’ he replied. ‘Luckily, I have a little money of my own, so I don’t need to rush into anything. I might even open my own real estate firm right here. I’ve always felt at home in Boston since my days at Harvard.’
‘You won’t be returning to Chicago, then?’
‘No, there’s nothing to lure me back. My parents are both dead, and I’m an only child, so I can start afresh anywhere I choose. Where do I turn?’
‘Oh, first on the right,’ said Anne. ‘It’s the red house on the corner.’
Henry parked the car and accompanied Anne to the front door. He said good night, and was gone almost before she had time to thank him for the lift home. She watched his car glide slowly back down Beacon Hill, knowing that she wanted to see him again.
