Mila 18 - Leon Uris [270]
“Don’t suppose anyone could.”
“Who else is down there?”
“Christopher de Monti. We must get him out.”
She nodded and her eyes widened. “Who else?”
“Rachael ... Wolf ... Ana ...”
He stopped, and the pained expression she bore both asked the wordless question and answered it. She stood up and walked to the kitchen chair and sagged into it. She bit her lip. The last tears she had left in her trickled down her cheeks. Andrei was still out there in the ghetto ... leading cavalry charges ... Andrei would never come out. She knelt beside Tolek once more and helped him to his feet.
“Come,” Gaby said, “let’s steam you out so you look presentable.”
Gabriela filled the last of four shopping bags with bread, cheese, and bottles of water. Each bag had a rope tied to the handles so it could be lowered quickly into the Kanal.
Kamek was a picture of his usual calm. “Today is Sunday,” he recited for his own benefit. “Sunday is trouble. We cannot ride through the streets with a load of hay on Sunday. I must get a covered truck and try for the best.”
Tolek came in from the bathroom. He had been soaking and scrubbing for two full hours. It brought him back to the semblance of a man. He tucked a short crowbar into his belt for lifting the manhole cover quickly and took two of the shopping bags from Gabriela.
“I hope they made it,” Tolek mumbled. “They were in a bad way when I left them.”
Kamek stood up. “After you get that food and water down to them, wait in the café down the street. Watch for my truck.”
“Hurry with that truck,” Gabriela said. “They’ve been down there almost thirty hours.”
“Leave it to Kamek,” Kamek said.
“It’s day,” Wolf said, looking up to the manhole cover atop him. “It’s day and we’re at Prosta Street Today we’ll be saved.”
Weeping ...
“Our Father which art in heaven.”
“O Merciful God ... save us ... save us ...”
Christopher de Monti leaned against the bricks. He held Ana with one arm and Rachael with the other. Both of them were semi-conscious.
Death closed in with each passing second. There were only twelve left.
“O help us, merciful God ...”
“Today we’ll be saved,” Wolf cried. “Today we’ll be saved.”
Christopher skidded to his knees and struggled to his feet, pulling the girls up. Feverish fire tore through his body.
Shadows over them!
“Shh ... someone’s up there ... silence ...”
“Merciful ... merciful ...”
“Sshhh!”
Their eyes looked up in terror. The cover slipped off. It’s me, Tolek! It’s me, Tolek! Are you down there? Are you down there?”
“Help ... help ...”
“Tolek ... help ... us ...”
“Thank God! They’re alive. Listen, down there. We are lowering bread and water. We will remain close by until the truck arrives. Do you hear me?”
“Water ... water ...”
“Water!”
“Water!”
“Water!”
“Quiet,” Tolek commanded. The bags were lowered. “There is smelling salts in one of the bags.”
Mass weeping broke out as the bottles were opened and they gurgled and wetted their dehydrated bellies. They tore at the bread and the cheese with the savagery of starved animals and grunted and wept and prayed.
Even the calm Kamek was worrying. He was running out of chances. Two covered-truck owners had their vehicles in repair. Three others were out of the city in the countryside to bring in food from villages.
It was almost eleven o’clock.
Church bells pealed. The pious were coming and going to Mass.
Kamek walked into the Solec to the house of Zamoyski, the teamster of thieves. He did not like to do business with Zamoyski. He was a slimy crook. Kamek had no choice. From time to time on desperate occasions the People’s Guard used Zamoyski’s truck ... for a price.
When Kamek came to his house Zamoyski was in his usual Sunday pose—coming out of a bombastic Saturday-night hangover.
“Sunday?”
“Special load.”
Must be important, Zamoyski thought. I'll take him for plenty. He grunted disdainfully. “It’s heathen to drive on Sunday. Besides ...”
A roll of green American dollars from Kamek’s pocket to the center of the table cut short the oration and bargaining.
“Wait till I get my shirt on.”
“Bring a ladder.