22 Britannia Road - Amanda Hodgkinson [37]
The lamplight twinkled in the dark. Janusz dropped the logs and ran towards him. ‘Put the light out.’
‘Get your boots, Franek,’ said Bruno, coming up behind him. ‘We’re leaving. Hurry.’
Janusz stepped inside the cottage behind Franek, and Bruno shut the door. Just before he cut the oil lamp, he caught a glimpse of Bruno and Franek pulling on their boots and coats: an overweight man who was surely too old to fight and a scared jackrabbit of a boy. Bruno touched his shoulder.
‘So? Are you coming with us? Will you come to France?’
Janusz nodded. He saw the reality of the situation. If he was captured as a deserter he might be killed. If he managed to get to Warsaw, he’d be taken prisoner.
‘Well?’ said Bruno.
‘I’m coming.’
He would go with these men and fight for his country. He pulled on his coat and stepped out into the night.
Ipswich
Janusz goes into the kitchen, opens the pantry door and takes out a wooden box filled with shoe polishes, boot brushes and soft cloths. He glances out of the window. Silvana is in the garden, Aurek prancing behind her like a shadow.
Pushing a hand through the brushes and cloths, he pulls out a bundle of letters. He picks through them carefully. The first letter Hélène wrote him. That’s the one he wants to read again, although he knows every word by heart. Written on thin blue paper, her handwriting is spidery, as if she rushed to get the words on the page. Accented and punctuated with a leaking ink pen, her letters have the look of handwritten bars of music.
The words are hopeful and plain, simple as only love letters can be. She has covered the page on both sides with her inky thoughts, and Janusz reads, his fingers tracing her words. He is on a farm in the hills behind Marseilles. The stone buildings around him are solid and glow honey-coloured in the sunlight. Hélène stands in the distance waving to him and begins to walk towards him. He wills her to come closer, but he can’t do it. His imagination always keeps her at a distance.
Janusz looks up to see Silvana coming across the garden. A piece of hair has escaped from under her headscarf and Janusz stares at it, watching it coil over her forehead like a small grey question mark. He hurries to put the letters back and replaces the box in the pantry, his movements quick and furtive.
‘The washing will never dry in this weather,’ says Silvana, opening the back door. ‘Does it always rain like this in summer?’
She dumps the basket of clothes on the kitchen table. Aurek trails in behind her, and she closes the door after him.
‘Here,’ says Janusz. ‘Give them to me. I’ll light the fire and we can dry the clothes that way.’
He reaches out and as she picks up the basket to hand it to him, he feels the brush of her hand against his. The thought of the letters hidden in the pantry burns him like a flame, and the worst of it is that he knows he cannot be without them. As long as he has the letters, he still has Hélène. The sound of her voice, the pattern of her thoughts, the touch of her fingers in the folds creased into the blue papers.
‘Are you all right?’ Silvana looks at him, her face full of concern.
He drops the washing basket and pulls her to him, folding her thin shoulders into his hands. The weight of her head against him feels heavy, obedient, as she bends to his insistent embrace.
‘Sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘So am I,’ she says, wrapping her arms around him so he feels her gather him in.
He wants to love this troubled wife of his. She stands in a heap of wet clothes, holding him up, when it is he who should be strong for her. It is all he can do to stop himself from telling her he still loves Hélène, as if confiding in Silvana would release him from the pain he feels. The only person he could imagine telling is the one person who must never know.
He lets her go and picks up the washing.
‘Do you want tea?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘A cup of tea. That’s what we need.’
He looks up and