A Song for Summer

Ellen's door slid open. The sergeant went on up the train; the private entered.

"Passports, please."

She handed him hers, then Chomsky's. The soldier motioned her aside. He wanted to see who was in the bed.

Ellen picked up her syringe. Instead of impeding him, she touched the soldier's arm, indicating that she needed more blood from her patient, soliciting his help.

For a moment it looked as though it would work. She had seen so many strong men keel over in a faint at first-aid classes, and the contents of the syringe, mixed in the art room at Hallendorf, were a good imitation of the real thing. But though the soldier made a gesture of distaste, he did not retreat.

"Turn him round," he ordered.

Ellen touched Isaac's shoulder and he groaned.

"Hurry," barked the Pole.

But before she could obey there was the sound of a dreadful and ear-splitting scream from the next compartment. A second scream followed, and the soldier elbowed Ellen aside and went out into the corridor. Seconds later the door was pushed open and a woman hurled herself into the soldier's arms.

Her blonde hair was matted with sweat, her scarlet lipstick was a smear across her trembling mouth--and she was totally and spectacularly naked.

"Help me! Help me!" she yelled. "Protect me! He tried to rape me, the brute!"

Her thin arms closed round the soldier's neck like a vice: the scent of her cheap perfume, her stale deodorant, pervaded the corridor.

The Pole was twenty-one years old and prepared for anything but this.

More doors opened; distressed passengers appeared; an old man and his wife ... the sleeping car attendant. Then the door of the compartment from which the woman had erupted opened once more--to reveal Marek in a loosely knotted bathrobe, his hair on end. The sight of him caused the woman to become even more frenzied. "You must take me with you!" she screamed at the soldier. "You must look after me!" She began to cry, rubbing her face into his, pressing her body against the rough uniform. "I'm afraid!"

Trying to free himself--he dropped the passports.

"She's lying," said Marek. "She said she'd do it for a hundred marks. She's a lying bitch."

More passengers appeared, and the guard ... then the sergeant who was in charge of the young Pole.

Speaking furiously to the soldier, he tried to loosen the woman's hold, but she only clung tighter, babbling and weeping.

The sergeant spat, then pulled her free with a vicious gesture. "Out," he gestured to his underling. "Out!"-

-and picked up the two passports and handed them to Ellen.

Five minutes later, the train was on its way.

Marek had chosen the town of Kalun for an overnight stop before the journey on foot to the River Rats.

Situated on a tributary of the Vistula some two hundred kilometres north of Warsaw, it was an austere and somewhat gloomy place which had survived the wars, sieges and other horrors of the past centuries with its buildings more or less intact.

In the guide books, Kalun advertised itself proudly as a spa, but it was some way from rivalling Baden-Baden with its clientele from the Almanac de Gotha and its Kurpark full of magnificent trees. No royal visitors had come to Kalun incognito and raced pretty girls through the woods in wheelbarrows; the Empress Sissi had not taken the small grape cure there as she had done in Merano--and Goethe, who had spent thirteen summers in Karlsbad, had almost certainly never heard of Kalun, let alone set foot in it.

But the Poles, ever a hopeful race, had dug out a series of springs in the rocks above the little town and sent their sulphurous and evil-smelling water through into the bath houses of the spa hotels. Doctors had been persuaded to come and offer treatments for an impressive list of ailments; wheelchairs plied to and from the pump rooms, and a whole posse of attendants pummelled and immersed and weighed the sick and elderly for a quarter of the fee required in the spas of France and Germany.

Marek had booked three rooms in the Kalun

Spa Hotel, an austere building with endless corridors and cavernous rooms permeated with the smell of hydrogen sulphide. The arrival of Isaac with his nurse in this sepulchral building passed without incident: the passport numbers were registered; the ambulance returned to the garage. Tomorrow a telegram would come necessitating Isaac's return for family reasons, but now he was requested to select the ailment for which he wished to be treated.

Consulting the impressive list on a kind of menu pinned to his door, Isaac unhesitatingly chose otorhinolaryngological disease, something which no one could prove he did not have, and was borne off in a sedan chair by two gleeful male nurses for a course of hydrotherapy and massive immersion in radioactive mud. The disease had been losing ground among clients and his choice had given great pleasure.