Vengeance 10

Wolcowitz served Memling a breakfast of rabbit stew, although Memling suspected the ingredients included other animals as well, to judge by the variety of gamey flavours. But he was hungry enough to eat anything that did not move, and Wolcowitz urged more food on him. Afterwards, to satisfy Memling’s edginess, the Pole took him on a sweep of the area.

A dirt track led into the forest from the general direction of Greifswald, an ancient town of forty thousand near the mouth of the River Ryck in the Greifswalder Boden, some twenty kilometres to the west and south. Memling studied the road carefully until he was certain it had seen no recent traffic. By noon he was satisfied that the area was as isolated as Wolcowitz claimed.

The two men stood in a sun-filled clearing. The heat-laden silence was broken only by the insistent drumming of cicadas. A bird flashed through the trees, and a squirrel chattered briefly. For the moment the constant fear was gone, and Memling turned his face to the sun and breathed deeply. It was almost possible to forget the war, but then the drone of an aircraft passing high above on its way east into Russia destroyed the mood, and the ever-present fear crept back.

Memling learned little from the Pole who, while talkative enough about non-essentials, was close-mouthed about the resistance and plans for Memling’s future. After a few hours’ acquaintance with the man he was convinced that Wolcowitz had once been an officer and was probably of good family as well. Even after years in the German forest as a woodcutter, he bathed and exercised regularly and his table manners were impeccable. His personal habits were in such contrast with his appearance that Memling remarked on them the first evening as Wolcowitz stood drying himself on the bank of the small stream that ran past his cabin.

‘Hah! Is what you call protective colours. Fool Huns if they come about. How it look to see woodcutter with neat clothes and shaved? But I do not like dirt on me.’

Memling spent a week with Wolcowitz. On the fourth day it rained, but they went out to cut trees anyway, the Pole explaining that he must deliver so many cords by the end of the summer if he wished to be allowed to return the following year. With Memling’s far from expert help, they made a large dent in the section of the forest in which Wolcowitz was expertly selecting and cutting trees. Memling began to suspect the Pole was in no hurry to pass him on.

On the sixth night a thin whistle sounded from the trees, and Wolcowitz motioned Memling to the front wall of the cabin. He went quickly, Fairbairn knife and pistol ready, noting with some surprise that the fear had receded abruptly. Wolcowitz took an automatic pistol from its hiding place and stepped outside. Memling heard quiet voices speaking in what he assumed was Polish, and then Wolcowitz called to him.

The moon was almost full, and the man standing beside ‘Wolcowitz was in German uniform. Memling froze, eyes searching wildly about the clearing for the shadowy figures of troops hidden in the trees. Wolcowitz laughed and urged the soldier towards the cabin.

‘So you would not kill my friend, Rodalski, you must see him with me. Good friend Rodalski is in guard unit in Anklam. Is Polish. Born in Danzig. Stupid Germans join him to army. They take anyones now, send them to Russia. Rodalski not his name, so don’t worry that account.’

Rodalski had come to guide Memling on the next stage of his journey. He had brought the proper clothes, and while Memling changed into the none too clean pants, shirt, and oversized shoes, the two men spoke together in Polish. As Memling was strapping the knife and sheath to his back, just below the collar of his ragged shirt, Wolcowitz broke off and came over to him.

‘Is better you not take weapons. Hun will know you are British and shoot you after while. But first will try and make you tell all you know. You not be able to hurt Wolcowitz if you speak, so do not worry then. Rodalski tells me must be gone from here tomorrow. Other job to do somewhere.’

Memling shook his head. ‘If the Gestapo arrests me, it won’t take them long to discover that ‘I’m not a Belgian foreign worker. My fingerprints are on file. I got away from them once, and they won’t let that happen again.’

Wolcowitz grasped his shoulder and squeezed. ‘You are brave man. Gestapo will kill you very slow. Better you not let them take you then.’

With bravado he did not feel, Memling grinned. ‘Not brave, my friend. Just frightened to death.’

Wolcowitz’s expression was serious. ‘Good. You will live long, then.’

Shortly after midnight the three men left the cabin. Wolcowitz accompanied them for a few kilometres before disappearing into the darkness. Memling was not aware that he had gone until he turned to say something.