air.’
‘It’s too early for skiing.’ Lydia wrinkled her nose. ‘It’ll be so boring. Lucky you, staying here, Gregor.’
‘Little town mouse.’ Her father ruffled her curls.
When the train had left, Gregor made his way back to the house. On the streets people walked with eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, ignoring the soldiers. There were still plenty of
well-dressed middle-class women. Women who looked as though they hadn’t noticed that they lived in a defeated city; who held themselves as though they were inhabitants of Paris or Rome or New
York. But perhaps it was more important now than ever to step out with lipstick perfectly applied and clothes pressed.
When he reached the house he found Reuben and Jacob pulling up the drawing-room floorboards. They removed a lumpy object wrapped in canvas. Reuben glanced at Gregor before cutting the string
with a pocketknife.
Gregor blinked at the sight of the guns.
‘We can find a third one if you want to join us.’ Reuben pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and polished the barrel of one of the guns. ‘We can’t hang around here
any longer. Haven’t got the fucking work cards. Even Vargá can’t get them for us. The Nazis will send us to Germany as slave labour.’
‘What are you going to do, Reuben?’
‘Help the Union of Armed Combat – that’s the Home Army’s proper name.’ Reuben sounded proud.
‘You’re going to fight?’ Reuben wasn’t yet sixteen, Jacob barely fifteen, hardly older than Gregor.
Reuben scratched his nose. ‘They won’t actually let us fight yet, some nonsense about being too young.’ He scowled. ‘But we can make ourselves useful carrying messages
and supplies.’
‘I need to find my mother.’
‘Your mother left you here because she thought you were better off without her. Now you’re doing just what she didn’t want you to do – following her.’
‘I have to find her. She can say what she wants, but it’s not right for her to be alone in times like these.’
‘Frankly, you’d be a spineless little bastard if you didn’t think like that.’ Reuben tucked the handkerchief back in his sleeve.
‘Pack your rucksack, Fischer. Travel light. No need to take the entire contents of the Brothers Jablkowski department store.’
Gregor managed a smile as pale as the autumn sunshine, remembering the trips they’d made to admire the stock when they’d first come to Warsaw.
‘And find that old touring map of Papa’s and learn the geography of Poland. Rivers, roads, forests, railway lines.’ Reuben stood, his face serious. ‘Your life may well
depend on knowing the country better than you know your own arse.’
The three of them left Warsaw together. À la Fourchette, Gregor’s favourite café, was still serving its famous open sandwiches and Reuben agreed to one last
visit on the way to the station.
‘Who knows?’ Jacob crammed bread filled with cold beef and cucumber into his mouth. ‘We may all be back here soon.’
‘Shame to let the German pigs eat everything.’ Reuben licked mayonnaise off his fingers. ‘Whoops, sorry Herr Fischer. Keep forgetting you’re one of the Master
Race.’
‘Easily done when he’s dribbling sour cream down his chin like that,’ said Jacob.
Reuben’s grin turned to a frown. ‘You’re such a kid, Fischer. How on earth are you going to manage?’
Gregor shrugged, scared to speak in case the cowardly thoughts in his head burst out and he begged them to take him with them.
They travelled with him as far east as they could, almost into Brest itself, sitting in a railway carriage populated by people with grey faces who clutched suitcases and
children to themselves, hardly talking and visibly stiffening when the Polish police boarded to check papers. The forged documents Vargá had supplied to Reuben and Jacob were examined
without comment. Gregor’s German passport caused raised eyebrows and muttered consultations. Finally they handed it
‘It’s too early for skiing.’ Lydia wrinkled her nose. ‘It’ll be so boring. Lucky you, staying here, Gregor.’
‘Little town mouse.’ Her father ruffled her curls.
When the train had left, Gregor made his way back to the house. On the streets people walked with eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, ignoring the soldiers. There were still plenty of
well-dressed middle-class women. Women who looked as though they hadn’t noticed that they lived in a defeated city; who held themselves as though they were inhabitants of Paris or Rome or New
York. But perhaps it was more important now than ever to step out with lipstick perfectly applied and clothes pressed.
When he reached the house he found Reuben and Jacob pulling up the drawing-room floorboards. They removed a lumpy object wrapped in canvas. Reuben glanced at Gregor before cutting the string
with a pocketknife.
Gregor blinked at the sight of the guns.
‘We can find a third one if you want to join us.’ Reuben pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and polished the barrel of one of the guns. ‘We can’t hang around here
any longer. Haven’t got the fucking work cards. Even Vargá can’t get them for us. The Nazis will send us to Germany as slave labour.’
‘What are you going to do, Reuben?’
‘Help the Union of Armed Combat – that’s the Home Army’s proper name.’ Reuben sounded proud.
‘You’re going to fight?’ Reuben wasn’t yet sixteen, Jacob barely fifteen, hardly older than Gregor.
Reuben scratched his nose. ‘They won’t actually let us fight yet, some nonsense about being too young.’ He scowled. ‘But we can make ourselves useful carrying messages
and supplies.’
‘I need to find my mother.’
‘Your mother left you here because she thought you were better off without her. Now you’re doing just what she didn’t want you to do – following her.’
‘I have to find her. She can say what she wants, but it’s not right for her to be alone in times like these.’
‘Frankly, you’d be a spineless little bastard if you didn’t think like that.’ Reuben tucked the handkerchief back in his sleeve.
‘Pack your rucksack, Fischer. Travel light. No need to take the entire contents of the Brothers Jablkowski department store.’
Gregor managed a smile as pale as the autumn sunshine, remembering the trips they’d made to admire the stock when they’d first come to Warsaw.
‘And find that old touring map of Papa’s and learn the geography of Poland. Rivers, roads, forests, railway lines.’ Reuben stood, his face serious. ‘Your life may well
depend on knowing the country better than you know your own arse.’
The three of them left Warsaw together. À la Fourchette, Gregor’s favourite café, was still serving its famous open sandwiches and Reuben agreed to one last
visit on the way to the station.
‘Who knows?’ Jacob crammed bread filled with cold beef and cucumber into his mouth. ‘We may all be back here soon.’
‘Shame to let the German pigs eat everything.’ Reuben licked mayonnaise off his fingers. ‘Whoops, sorry Herr Fischer. Keep forgetting you’re one of the Master
Race.’
‘Easily done when he’s dribbling sour cream down his chin like that,’ said Jacob.
Reuben’s grin turned to a frown. ‘You’re such a kid, Fischer. How on earth are you going to manage?’
Gregor shrugged, scared to speak in case the cowardly thoughts in his head burst out and he begged them to take him with them.
They travelled with him as far east as they could, almost into Brest itself, sitting in a railway carriage populated by people with grey faces who clutched suitcases and
children to themselves, hardly talking and visibly stiffening when the Polish police boarded to check papers. The forged documents Vargá had supplied to Reuben and Jacob were examined
without comment. Gregor’s German passport caused raised eyebrows and muttered consultations. Finally they handed it
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