Otto heard the same sounds. The arrest of Mr Lasky had a deep effect upon him. He was adrift for the second time in the space of two months — first from his parents and now the man who’d played a part in his rescue. Roza sensed him leaning upon her more heavily though he never deliberately touched her. It was in his eyes and the glance that followed a brush of shoulders.
‘Where’ve they taken him?’ he asked, sucking in the smoke.
‘Pawiak Prison,’ replied Roza, quoting the indiscreet nun.
‘He’s dead.’ Otto’s voice was angry and correcting.
‘But we aren’t.’
Roza’s reply didn’t so much show up the base instinct of survival as reveal the peculiar duty that settles upon survivors, upon those who have been saved: to live and make the living worthwhile. ‘We have to make it count,’ she said, pulling at Otto’s sleeve as if they might go somewhere. ‘For their sake.’
A year and a bit later, they did. Soviet Radio had called for an Uprising. The Red Army was approaching from the east. The Nazis were finished. All that was needed was a quick shove.
‘I’m going to the Old Town.’ He lit two cigarettes, wincing, and passed one to Roza. ‘Are you coming?’
‘To do what?’
‘Fight.’
His eyes were unable to rest for long upon her but, having strayed, they kept coming back, hungrily; and Roza saw once more the sudden flare of vulnerability, the not wanting to be left alone again to face another crisis without the support of those he… relied upon? Loved? It was a mortified admission of affection, made immense by where she stood in Otto’s life. Roza hadn’t dared believe that she might be so important. They left that night, scurrying like rats along walls until they linked up with a Home Army unit on Podwale Street.
The quick shove was soon ended by a deafening assault from tanks and planes and hammering rifle fire. The buildings seemed to spit out their broken teeth. Their bones were cracked and splintered. Roza had never seen so much death: on street corners, by heaps of rubble — the bodies sometimes splayed in the most awful shapes, so strange they seemed not to be human. She felt utterly abandoned. Where was the Red Army? Why had the Soviets urged them to rise up if they were not going to come?
In the scorching heat of this beating, Roza crouched by Otto in a makeshift hospital by the Old Town walls. There was no ammunition left to carry so they were ripping bandages from the clothes of the dead. Suddenly Roza gripped Otto’s hand. They were going to die and she didn’t want to go without giving the best of herself to someone. With shocking violence she pressed into his palm all the love she had left.
And he began to talk.
As if a door had been blown off its hinges, he began to speak about what he’d seen through the window in the attic, tears pouring down his face.
‘My father used to make me toys out of wood and bits of plumbing, pipes and joints, fantastic things, a musket, a revolver, a sword… they looked real, honestly people used to stop and stare. He’d take me fishing, bird watching, camping, hiking and when I lost a tooth he’d put a coin under my pillow in an envelope with a funny drawing of a mouse waving at me, my name written all over the page. For years I thought the mouse came for my tooth. My mother used to cook fish in lemonade, really I’m not joking, lemonade, and it made the trout all sweet, a special kind of sweet. She was always there, always-’
He stopped abruptly as if he’d run out of things to say The wall behind soaked up a bang and seemed to bend inwards.
‘Where are they?’
‘Don’t know… deported.’
‘Why were you hiding?’
‘My father was a communist.’ He spoke with a savage, loud pride. ‘He believed in a better world for everyone, for you, for me, for them-’ He ducked the crack of an explosion. Chunks of plaster bounced on the floor; an eerie white dust floated down.
‘Where are you from?’ The conversation was in pieces. They were getting it all in before the ceiling came down.
‘Polana.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Near the Ukraine.’
The ground made a judder as if the world had just been smashed off its axis. Then Roza thought of the sewers. They’d been used for gun running and messages. Pulling Otto she stumbled into the open, head low, making a scream to batter down her terror. Two hundred yards later they lifted a cover and scrambled into the hole. Thirty-four rungs down, Roza and Otto slid waist deep into the water and filth.
High, high above, the din continued. Otto struck a match. The cavern appeared.
Corpses floated silently by like sleeping watchmen. Roza and Otto began wading east, the black bricks shuddering overhead. The match died. Otto lit another. The smell of gas, spent grenades and dirt made them wretch. On they went, pushing aside the dead. The match slowly faded. Roza whispered to the darkness, not expecting a reply:
‘The Red Army Why didn’t they help us?’
The question echoed down the reeking corridor. When it died there was a silence and lapping and then Otto made a murmur.
‘I thought they’d come, but now I understand.’ Otto was near. She felt his breath on her neck. ‘Sometimes watching is waiting.’
Roza blanked from exhaustion. Then she gradually understood, unable to accept that he meant it, wanting to believe that she’d misheard the tone of approval.
‘You mean they’re watching while we die?’
There was no more murmuring.
‘You mean they’ll only come when we’ve been wiped out? When there’s no more resistance?’ She found some energy and it made her voice jagged and loud. ‘You mean they’ll come when they can take over?’
Otto struck a match. His face lit up, covered in grime, his cheeks muddied from his dried tears.
‘I mean the future lies with Moscow A new future, without chains. Sacrifices have to be made.’
‘A future without chains? Where did you get that from?’
This wasn’t Otto. Not the boy who had been hurt and hidden. It was the ghost of a man… his father; it had to be his father. Otto was repeating speeches heard while they’d hiked and camped. He sloshed forward, reaching for Roza’s hand, the hand he’d held up there where the bombs were falling. He raised the flame to illuminate her face.
‘We’re going to get out of here.’
Roza glared at his mask of disarranged dirt.
‘Choose the right side,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘There’s going to be another struggle.’ His cracked lips barked out the memory. ‘ Choose the right side.’
Roza yanked her hand free and swung around. She could just make out a T-junction ahead: the tunnel joined another route heading north-south.
‘I’ve made a choice already’ Even though she was worn out and could hardly think straight, she could grasp a basic truth. Mr Lasky used to say that what you believed was everything. It changed who you walked with and where you went. He was right. It had roused a visceral loyalty to those disfigured bodies among the rubble. ‘I’m going north, Otto,’ she gasped. ‘You go south.’
Roza pushed her way through the water, holding on to the mental image of the junction. A small flame burst behind her and Roza felt a flash of grief. Not so much for losing her friendship with Otto or for having given him her love. No, she was devastated because she’d told him about the red dress, the green jacket and the shoes. She’d given him her dreams.
Six years later those two tunnels came to another junction in the Mariensztat District when Otto and four men in long coats broke down her front door.
Roza lifted her face off the cell floor. The prisoner with the grey hair was sniggering into her hand, pointing at some fragment of her imagination. The others were like crouched gargoyles on a forsaken church. When Roza had first entered this hell she’d understood, on a primitive level, that to survive she would have to keep soft some part of her heart. Which was why she’d said nothing about her previous friendship with Otto. The revelation could put him in a cell of his own. Association was suspicion. So it was at this juncture of her fidelity to him and his abandonment of her that Roza chose to keep alive her humanity. Whatever power Major Strenk might have over her, she would remain above him, through Otto.