‘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 Rich
ard’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.
She was delighted, though not entirely surprised, when he telephoned her the following morning.
‘Boston Symphony Orchestra, Mozart, conducted by their flamboyant new maestro, next Monday - can I persuade you?’
Anne was a little taken aback when she realized how much she was looking forward to the concert. It seemed so long since an attractive man had courted her.
Henry arrived at the Red House a few minutes after the appointed hour. They shook hands rather formally, before she offered him a scotch highball. Had he noticed that she remembered what he drank?
‘It must be pleasant to live on Louisburg Square. You’re a lucky girl.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am - I’ve never really given it much thought. I was born and raised on Commonwealth Avenue. If anything, I find this rather cramped.’
‘I might buy a house on the Hill myself if I do decide to settle in Boston.’
‘They don’t come on the market that often,’ said Anne, ‘but you may be lucky. Hadn’t we better be going? I hate being late for a concert and having to tread on other people’s toes in the dark.’
Henry glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, I agree - wouldn’t do to miss the conductor’s entrance. But you don’t have to worry about anyone’s feet except mine. We’re on the aisle.’
After the concert, it felt quite natural for Henry to take her arm as they left the theatre and walked to the Grand. The only other person who had done that since Richard’s death had been William, and that took considerable persuasion, because he considered it sissy. Once again the hours slipped by for Anne: was it the beautiful music, the excellent food, or simply Henry’s company? This time he made her laugh with his stories of Harvard, and cry with his recollections of the war. Although she was well aware that he looked younger than his years, he had done so much with his life that she felt deliciously youthful and inexperienced in his company. She told him about her husband’s death, and shed a few tears. He took her hand when she spoke of her son with glowing pride and affection. He said he had always wanted a son. Although he scarcely mentioned Chicago or his own home life, Anne felt sure he must miss his family. When he took her back to Louisburg Square that night, he stayed for a quick drink and kissed her gently on the cheek before he left. Anne went over the evening minute by minute, hoping he had enjoyed himself as much as she had.
They went to the theatre on Tuesday, visited Anne’s summer mansion on the North Shore on Wednesday, drove deep into the snow-covered Massachusetts countryside on Thursday, shopped for antiques on Friday and made love on Saturday. After Sunday, they were rarely apart. Millie Preston was ‘absolutely delighted’ that her matchmaking had finally proved so successful, and went around Boston telling everyone she had been responsible for bringing the two of them together.
The announcement of her engagement that summer came as no surprise to anyone, except William. He had disliked Henry Osborne intensely from the moment that Anne, with a well-founded sense of misgiving, introduced them to each other. Their first conversation took the form of questions, with Henry trying to prove he wanted to be a friend, and monosyllabic replies from William, showing he didn’t. And he didn’t change his mind. Anne ascribed her son’s resentment to an understandable feeling of jealousy: William had been the centre of her life since Richard’s death. Moreover, it was perfectly proper that, in William’s estimation, no one could possibly take the place of his father. Anne tried to convince Henry that, given time, William would come round to accepting him.
Anne Kane became Mrs Henry Osborne in October of that year. She took her vows at St Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral, just as the golden and red leaves were beginning to fall, a little over nine months after she and Henry had first met. William feigned illness in order to avoid the ceremony, and remained at school. The grandmothers did attend, but were unable to hide their disapproval of Anne remarrying, particularly someone who appeared to be so much younger than her.
‘It can only end in tears,’ predicted Grandmother Kane.
The newlyweds sailed for Greece the following day, and did not return to the Red House on the Hill until the second week of December, just in time to welcome William home for the Christmas holidays. William was horrified to discover that the house had been redecorated, leaving almost no trace of his father. Over Christmas, his attitude to his new stepfather showed no sign of softening, despite the present - or as William saw it, the bribe - of a new bicycle. Henry accepted this rebuff with surly resignation. It saddened Anne that her wonderful new husband made so little effort to win her son’s affection.
William no longer felt at ease in his own home, and as Henry didn’t seem to have a job to go to, the boy would often disappear for long periods during the day. Whenever Anne asked where he was going, she received no satisfactory explanation: it certainly wasn’t to either grandmother, as both of them were also complaining of not seeing him. When the holidays came to an end, William was only too happy to return to St Paul’s, and Henry was not sad to see him leave.
Anne, however, was beginning to feel anxious about both of the men in her life.
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11
‘UP, BOY! Up, boy!’
One of the soldiers was digging his rifle butt into Wladek’s ribs. He sat up with a start, glanced at the freshly dug graves of his sister and the Baron, before he turned to face the soldier.
‘I will live to kill you,’ he said in Polish. ‘This is my home, and you have trespassed on my land.’
The soldier spat on Wladek and pushed him towards the front of the castle, where the surviving servants were waiting in line. Wladek was shocked by the sight of them, painfully unaware of what was about to happen to him. He was made to kneel on the ground and bow his head. He felt a blunt razor scrape across his head as his thick black hair fell to the grass. With ten bloody strokes, like the shearing of a sheep, the job was completed. Head shaven, he was ordered to put on his new uniform, a grey rubashka shirt and trousers. Wladek managed to keep the silver band hidden in his clenched fist as he was roughly pushed back into the ranks of the prisoners.
As they stood there - numbers, now, not names - waiting apprehensively for what would happen next, Wladek became conscious of a strange noise in the distance. The great iron gates opened, and through them came a machine like nothing Wladek had ever seen before. It was a large vehicle, but it was not drawn by horses or oxen. All the prisoners stared in disbelief at the moving object. It came to a halt, and the soldiers dragged the reluctant prisoners to it and made them climb aboard. Then the horseless wagon turned a circle, moved back down the path and out through the iron gates. Nobody dared to speak. Wladek sat at the rear of the truck and stared back at the castle, until he could no longer see his inheritance.
The horseless wagon somehow drove itself through the village of Slonim. Wladek would have thought more about how the vehicle worked if he had not been even more worried about where it was taking them. He recognized the road from his school days, but his memory had been dulled by the years in the dungeons, and he could no longer recall where it led. After a few miles the truck came to a halt and they were all pushed out at the local railway station. Wladek had seen it only once before in his life, when he and Leon had gone there to welcome the Baron home from his trip to Warsaw. The guard had saluted them when they walked into the ticket office. This time no one was saluting.