The Demi-Monde: 55th Day of Winter, 1004
‘UnderMentionable’ is the ForthRight term for an individual who has – because of supposed racial deficiency or religious, political or sexual deviancy – been illegally stripped of all rights and protection he or she formerly enjoyed as a citizen of the ForthRight. However, the deprivations suffered by the ForthRight during the Troubles – it is estimated that over 200,000 fighters died during this vicious and senseless civil war – has resulted in the relaxing of certain of the criteria normally used in determining whether an individual is or isn’t an UnderMentionable. The major concession made was with regard to the GoldenFolk – a high-born sector of the Polish race – who have been retrospectively reclassified as Aryan.
– An Exercise in Futility: A PeaceNix’s Assessment of the Human, Economic and Social Costs of the Troubles: William Penn, Warsaw Underground Press
It took a few moments for Trixie to pull herself together.
The realisation that with every passing second the steam-limo was trundling her ever further from the life she had enjoyed in Dashwood Manor and towards an uncertain and dangerous future was an unsettling one. And that, coupled with the chilling thought that she might never see her beloved father again, meant that she sat silent and pensive in a corner of the steam-limo’s cabin.
She took a surreptitious look at her companions. They were a strange bunch. In the driver’s seat was the huge and intimidating Sergeant Wysochi and sitting next to him, cradling a rifle on his lap, was a very nervous Captain Dabrowski. The Daemon was huddled in the opposite corner of the steamer’s cabin, looking very unhappy and very piqued by everything that had happened. Beside the Daemon sat the two people Trixie hadn’t yet been introduced to: the rather dashing young man with the long brown hair, and the Shade dressed in a most inappropriate and very revealing costume. These two, she guessed, were the psychic and his assistant, the PsyChick, who had been performing for the Leader. What they were doing involved in this little escapade, Trixie had no idea. It was an ill-met group and, as she was to discover, a particularly fractious one.
The problem, she decided later, was that there had been just too many would-be leaders in the steam-limo, just too many people who were determined to get their own way. The arguing began even before they had put a mile between themselves and Dashwood Manor.
‘We have perhaps ten minutes before the Checkya realise what’s happened and semaphore an alert to all the CheckyaPoints in the ForthRight,’ advised Dabrowski as the steamer puffed and panted its way onto one of the Sector’s new autobahns. ‘We’ll abandon this steamer maybe a mile from the Rhine, walk from there to the river and then bribe our way across the Oberbaum Bridge. That’s the quickest way to the Ghetto.’
Although she was too lost in her worries about her father to take much of an interest in what was being said, even a distracted Trixie bridled a little at Captain Dabrowski’s rather arrogant assumption that he was in command of their group. It appeared that she wasn’t the only one.
‘That’s the quickest way to the Lubyanka if you choose the wrong Militia officer to try to dash,’ grumbled the long-haired man. ‘I’ll handle the bribing. It needs to be done with finesse: the Militia are sensitive about people leaving the ForthRight and entering Warsaw.’
‘We’re going to the Warsaw Sector?’ asked the Daemon.
‘Of course,’ replied Dabrowski curtly. ‘Every Checkya officer in the ForthRight will be out looking for us. Warsaw is the only safe haven within striking distance.’
Safe? wondered Trixie. In her book the Ghetto didn’t qualify as a place where you went to be ‘safe’.
‘Is the nearest Portal in Warsaw?’ the Daemon asked the Shade.
How does the Daemon know the Shade?
It was the first time Trixie had been in close proximity to a Shade and she didn’t like it. Everything she had been taught informed her that they were not to be trusted. Shades were the spawn of Lilith.
The black girl, who was struggling to get into the coat she had been offered by the tall psychic, shrugged a reply. ‘There isn’t a Portal in Warsaw, Norma…’
Norma? How did the Shade know the Daemon’s human alias? And what was this thing they called a ‘Portal’?
‘Then why are we going there?’ the Daemon snapped. ‘Are you stupid or something?’
The Shade glowered at the Daemon. ‘Okay, Norma, we’re all a little uptight, so I’m gonna cut you a little slack and ignore that “stupid” jibe. And for your information the only working Portal in the whole of the Demi-Monde is in NoirVille, but right now…’
‘NoirVille? Well, that’s where we’ve got to go,’ the Daemon announced and then leant forward and tapped Dabrowski on the shoulder. ‘I’d be obliged, Captain, if you would order your driver to head for NoirVille.’
‘No,’ he replied firmly. ‘We’ve got to get to the Ghetto. I’ve got to warn my people about the impending attack by the SS.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped the Daemon. ‘The only thing of any importance is getting me to NoirVille.’
‘We’re going to the Ghetto,’ answered Dabrowski, introducing a distinct note of finality into his reply. ‘The lives of three million people are at stake.’
The Daemon studied Dabrowski for a moment as though trying to establish whether he was being serious. ‘This is ludicrous. I’m not going to argue the toss with a Dupe. Stop this steamer right now, Captain. My… colleague’ – the Daemon shot a sneering look at the Shade – ‘and I will get out and make our own way to NoirVille from here.’
Colleague? How could the Daemon be a ‘colleague’ of the Shade?
White people didn’t have Shades as colleagues, they had them as slaves, and even then only if they couldn’t afford Chink slaves.
The tall man was persuaded to rejoin the conversation. ‘We haven’t had a chance to be formally introduced, young lady. My name is Colonel Vanka Maykov, Licensed Psychic, and I’m the man who just helped rescue you from Crowley.’ He offered his hand, but the Daemon petulantly shrugged it aside. ‘Well, young lady, if you won’t take my hand, maybe you’ll take some advice. The Captain’s right: with the Checkya on our heels the only place to hide is the Ghetto. And as for NoirVille… well, I’ve a feeling that as you’ve got no papers and no money that makes getting there by yourself virtually impossible. And while I don’t give a damn about you or your welfare, I do care a great deal about my friend, Miss Thomas, here.’
Has everyone gone mad? How could an Aryan announce that he has a Shade as his ‘friend’? It wasn’t natural.
‘Right now,’ Vanka went on, as he pulled out his cigarette case, ‘there’ll be semaphore messages batting back and forth across the ForthRight warning every CheckyaPoint to be on the lookout for a girl who looks a lot like Aaliz Heydrich…’
Trixie gawped: the Daemon did look like Aaliz Heydrich. She was amazed she hadn’t noticed the resemblance before. If the Daemon had blonde hair instead of black and fewer of those terrible facial mutilations it would be the girl’s twin! It must have been the bruise on the side of her face that had foxed her.
‘… a girl who may or may not be travelling in the company of a Shade.’ The man stopped abruptly. ‘I’m sorry, Ella… a girl of colour.’
The man actually apologised to the Shade!
‘Don’t worry about it, Vanka,’ said the Shade, twitching her head in the direction of the Daemon, ‘I’ve got bigger problems than a little low-rent racism.’
‘The upshot is, young lady…’
‘For your information, my name is Norma Williams,’ the Daemon said with a haughty shake of her head.
‘Very well. The upshot is, Miss Williams, if you get out of this steamer, you get out alone. I’m not letting Ella here sacrifice herself because of your pig-headedness. We’ve saved you once but I wouldn’t bank on us being around to save you again.’
‘But I’ve got to get to NoirVille,’ the Daemon persisted. She glared at Vanka as he lit a cigarette. ‘And I’d appreciate it, Colonel, if you didn’t smoke.’
Vanka ignored the Daemon and blew smoke up towards the roof of the steamer. ‘And I’d prefer it if you did a little more thinking and a little less demanding.’
‘I think we should take Vanka’s advice, Norma,’ the Shade said in a conciliatory tone.
‘I don’t need you to do my thinking for me, thanks very much,’ snapped Norma.
The Shade bridled. ‘Don’t come the high-handed, high-and-mighty President’s daughter with me, honey. And I’ll do whatever thinking is necessary to get us out of here. It wasn’t me who got my ass caught in a sling.’
‘Don’t call me “honey”,’ Norma snarled. ‘
I’ll call you anything I damned well want.’
Trixie couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Please, please, can we stop this squabbling? Whether we like it or not, we’re all in this together. Perhaps we should start by introducing ourselves?’ There were no protests, so Trixie decided to start the ball rolling. She pulled the cap off her head and shook out her mane of blonde hair. ‘I am Lady Trixiebell Dashwood…’
‘I think you can forget the “Lady” bit,’ sneered Norma. ‘After tonight’s little set-to I don’t think your father’s going to be doing much lording about in the future. In fact, I don’t think he’s gonna have much of a future.’
A stunned silence descended on the group, everyone shocked by the Daemon’s crass indifference to Trixie’s feelings. Trixie felt her cheeks going red with anger. ‘That, Daemon, was unnecessary. My father treated you with respect and I would be obliged if you would do the same.’ One day, Trixie resolved, she’d make the Daemon pay for that insult.
‘That was an incredibly cruel thing to say,’ the Shade said quietly.
Norma was totally unabashed. ‘Oh, come on, baby, get with the program… the computer program. These are Dupes, they haven’t got real emotions.’
‘For your information, Miss Williams,’ Dabrowski snapped, obviously as outraged as all of them by the Daemon’s vulgar behaviour, ‘Comrade Commissar Dashwood helped to organise your escape this evening, help which has probably cost that brave man his life. So I would be obliged if, despite your obvious antipathy towards us “Dupes”, you show some respect for Miss Dashwood’s feelings.’
There was another unpleasant silence.
‘What’s a Dupe?’ asked Vanka.
‘It’s what Daemons call people who live in the Demi-Monde,’ answered Dabrowski. ‘That’s what Miss Williams called us this afternoon when Miss Dashwood and I overheard a conversation between her and Reinhard Heydrich.’
‘What else did you hear, Captain?’ asked Vanka.
‘That the SS are planning to attack Warsaw in the next few days.’
‘And that’s where we’re escaping to?’ sneered Norma. ‘Oh, well done, Captain, but don’t you find the words “frying pan” and “fire” springing to mind?’ With a disparaging laugh the girl turned to look out of the window at the scenery streaming past the steamer.
‘Is that why you were hanging around outside the Manor?’ asked Vanka.
Dabrowski nodded. ‘Miss Dashwood and I were waiting for a signal to make our own escape. Your somewhat unconventional arrival was simply a coincidence – a happy coincidence. Without the presence of mind of the Daemon…’
A searing look from Norma Williams.
‘… of Miss Williams, and, of course, her uncanny resemblance to Aaliz Heydrich, we would not have been able to commandeer this steamer.’ Dabrowski held out his hand. ‘I am Jan Dabrowski, until ten minutes ago Captain of the GoldenFolk Regiment attached to the First Division of the ForthRight Army. I have also the honour to be a major in the Warsaw Free Army.’
Vanka took Dabrowski’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Major. I am Colonel Vanka Maykov, late of the Fifth Revolutionary Regiment of Foot. And this is my friend and PsyChick, Miss Ella Thomas.’ The Shade, this Ella Thomas, offered her hand and Trixie was quite amazed to see Dabrowski take it without even the slightest hesitation. Presumably being brought up in the Ghetto deadened a gentleman’s sensibilities to matters of racial etiquette, that is if a Pole like Dabrowski could ever be truly regarded as a ‘gentleman’.
Indeed, such was her amazement that before she quite knew what she was doing she had also shaken the Shade’s hand. She masked a shudder.
Dabrowski looked at the Shade cautiously. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Thomas, just what part of the Demi-Monde are you from? I don’t seem to recognise your accent. It doesn’t sound NoirVillian.’
Without turning away from her study of the nightscape flashing by outside the steamer’s windows, Norma gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Yeah, Miss Ella Thomas, why don’t you tell them where you’re really from? That should raise a laugh.’
With a despairing sigh the Shade answered. ‘Like Norma, I’m from the Real World, from what you call the Spirit World.’
‘You’re a Daemon!’ gasped an astonished Vanka. ‘So that’s why you’re such a good medium. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m sorry, Vanka, but it’s hardly something I could drop lightly into the conversation, now is it? If you’d known I was a Daemon, you’d never have hired me.’
Trixie was astonished. A few days ago she had been firmly of the RaTionalist belief that there were no such things as Daemons and now she seemed to be surrounded by the bloody things.
‘So let me get this straight,’ said an equally bemused-looking Dabrowski, as his eyes danced back and forth between the Shade and Norma Williams, ‘you two are both Daemons.’
‘Correct,’ said Norma, ‘although I’m not big on being called a “Daemon”.’
‘Then what are you doing here in the Demi-Monde?’
The Daemons looked at one another, and reluctantly Norma gave an answer. ‘Ella’s here to help me get back home, to get back to the Real World. I was lured here by Aleister Crowley and Aaliz Heydrich.’
‘Why?’ asked Vanka, who still seemed to be reeling from the revelation of his PsyChick’s Daemonhood.
Norma sighed. ‘It’s a long and difficult story. Let’s just say that I’m the daughter of someone very important in the Real World and Heydrich believed that by having me brought here to the Demi-Monde, he could exert some control over my father. It’s a simple blackmail scam.’
‘It would appear from what I heard this afternoon,’ added Dabrowski, ‘that there was some danger of the Daemons “pulling the plug”, as Miss Williams called it, on the DemiMonde, of destroying our world. Heydrich had Miss Williams brought here as a hostage to prevent this happening.’
Norma shook her head vigorously and looked imploringly around the little group. ‘Look… guys… there’s no chance of that. I can guarantee that no one is pulling the plug on this little holiday haven of yours. No one in the Real World wants to harm the Demi-Monde… no one wants to shut it down…’
Dabrowski wasn’t so easily convinced. ‘I think it might be better to keep you close, Miss Williams, until we establish the truth of that last statement.’
‘Guys… it’s imperative I get out of the Demi-Monde. Heydrich wants my place in the Real World to be taken by his daughter.’
Now it was the Shade’s turn to be shocked. ‘Heydrich’s going to substitute his daughter for you in the Real World? But why?’
Norma gave a rueful smile. ‘Heydrich’s sentient. He knows all about his previous existence in the Real World. He wants to get back there, to finish what the Nazis started eighty or so years ago.’
‘Jesus, I thought that bastard looked at me sideways when he saw me dancing tonight. He must have recognised me.’
For a minute or two everyone in the steamer’s cabin fell quiet, each of them lost in their own thoughts. It was Vanka who broke the silence. ‘Okay,’ he said wearily, ‘I’m getting a little confused here, but I have a suspicion that we might be missing the point. Surely the important thing, right now, is for us to avoid being captured by the Checkya. Call me a man of limited ambition but all I’m currently interested in is making sure Beria doesn’t have the opportunity to play Billy the Butcher on my body. So can we forget about all this nonsense about “portals” and “Dupes” and suchlike, and just concentrate on getting safely to the Ghetto?’
‘But I’ve got to get to NoirVille,’ persisted Norma.
‘You should listen to Vanka, Norma,’ the Shade said. ‘As of now we haven’t a prayer of getting to NoirVille on our own. I reckon our only hope of surviving will be to haul ass to the Warsaw Ghetto and then make a move to NoirVille when the heat has died down.’
Norma appeared less than happy with what her fellow Daemon was saying, but any further protests were silenced when Wysochi turned around and addressed Dabrowski. ‘Looks like the Checkya have barricaded the road ‘bout a half-mile ahead, Sir. It might be a good time to start walking.’
The journey to the Warsaw Ghetto was one that Ella would rather forget. It was snowing heavily and without Vanka’s coat she would have frozen to death long before they got to the Rhine. As it was, the series of heart-stopping dodges and scuttles out of London and through the backstreets of Berlin that Vanka deemed necessary to throw off the Checkya was enough to leave her tired, cold and very, very frightened.
All the euphoria of actually pulling off the rescue had long since dissipated, now all she wanted was to get somewhere warm and preferably away from the ungrateful bitch limping and whining along behind her. Norma Williams had turned out to be a world-class complainer.
As Dabrowski had suspected, semaphore messages had already alerted the Checkya to be on the lookout for the escapees so when they finally got to the Oberbaum Bridge – the bridge that spanned the Rhine and linked Warsaw and Berlin – they found that it had been sealed off by the SS. No one was leaving the Berlin Sector for Warsaw without their papers being very carefully scrutinised. And Vanka pronounced the SS-Ordo Templi Aryanis to be ‘unbribable’.
They made it across the river in a boat rowed by a man who valued money more than his life. It was a scary, nerve-racking twenty minutes spent edging across the Rhine shrouded in the shadows cast by the bridge, sneaking in and out of the lumps of ice drifting along the near-frozen river and thanking the Spirits that the snowstorm that was blanketing the Demi-Monde had become even heavier. It was an unpleasant boat ride but, thankfully, they made it.
Once on the Warsaw side of the river, Dabrowski led his small band through the narrow, crowded streets to an inn standing close to the docks. Dabrowski seemed to be well known there and his appearance, with his bedraggled companions in tow, warranted not even a raised eyebrow from the landlord. Without a word of enquiry he led the six of them to a table by the fire, then bustled around organising the serving of a very palatable soup whilst simultaneously sending his maids scurrying off to make rooms ready.
Supper over, Ella sat warming herself by the fire and trying to make sense of what was happening. Considering that only a few days before all she had had to worry about had been paying the rent and scratching up enough money to put herself through college, the change was startling. Startling… but surprisingly stimulating.
Oh, it might be uncomfortable and dangerous in the DemiMonde but for the first time her life could be described as exciting. Loath as Ella was to admit it, she was actually enjoying the adventure of it all. Okay, so Norma Williams was a pain in the ass, but other than that…
She caught sight of Vanka as he strode across the bar, three large tankards of Solution in his hands. Yes, there were things that more than compensated for Norma Williams’s incessant moaning, Vanka Maykov being the best of them. The odd thing about Vanka was that though she knew he was a rogue and a rascal, she liked him. He made her laugh and there hadn’t been many men in Ella’s drab little life who had done that.
But he was just a Dupe. And a Dupe who since he had found out that she was a Daemon had become just a little distant, though he had at least muttered to her that Daemon or no, she was still the best-looking girl in all of the ForthRight.
She gave a rueful smile. Wasn’t life a bitch: Vanka wasn’t nervous about her because of her colour but because she was real. She laughed to herself: maybe that made him not so much a racist as a realist.
Her ruminations on Vanka were interrupted by Norma. The girl slid herself down into the empty chair next to Ella and began trying to massage some of the fire’s warmth into her right knee. To judge by the amount of moaning the girl had done en route to Warsaw, the knee was giving her a great deal of trouble, but if she had come looking for sympathy she would be disappointed. Norma Williams was, in Ella’s opinion, a spoilt, arrogant snob.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Look… Ella,’ Norma began. ‘Truth is we got off to a bad start. Maybe I was a little hyper, a bit uptight after the session with Heydrich. Maybe this whole escape thing freaked me out. Anyway, I was hoping that we might start over.’ The girl thrust out her hand. ‘I’m Norma Williams, but you can call me Norma.’
Ella took the hand. ‘Okay. Forget it, Norma.’
‘So you’re the rescue party, right?’ she asked in a low conspiratorial voice. ‘You’re the cavalry sent by my father to get me out of this hellhole?’
Ella shook her head. ‘I wasn’t sent by your father. I’m here at the request of the US Military.’
This evoked a frown. ‘I thought they’d have sent an army unit to pull me out.’ Norma laughed wryly. ‘Don’t think I’m not appreciative of your efforts but…’
‘They couldn’t: they only managed to infiltrate me into the Demi-Monde by using a dormant Dupe jig. All but one of the Portals have been closed and even the last functioning Portal – the one in NoirVille – only works going from the Demi-Monde and not vice versa. I’m to get you to NoirVille and to escape using that.’
Norma gave a nod of understanding. ‘Then we’d better get moving as soon as we can. If I don’t get out pronto that bastard Heydrich is going to steal my body in the Real World and I’ll be stuck here.’
‘Steal?’
‘Aleister Crowley has perfected some piece of black magic called the Rite of Transference. Using that he’ll have Aaliz Heydrich take over my body and then… well, it’s curtains for yours truly.’
‘Jesus.’ All Ella could do was shake her head. ‘That’s terrible. You know, this place gets freakier with every passing minute.’ She took another comforting sip of coffee.
Norma Williams glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. ‘Yeah, the quicker we’re out of the DemiMonde and this place is shut down the better. When my father gets to hear just what a fucked-up hellhole the US military has been spending tax dollars constructing, he’s gonna go ape.’
The words ‘shut down’ gave Ella pause. She looked around the room at Captain Dabrowski and that dangerous sergeant of his sitting in a corner chatting over their flagons of Solution; at the rather subdued girl, Lady Trixie Dashwood, who was slumped in a fitful slumber against the chimney breast; and at Vanka as he paced impatiently up and down the floor of the inn; and she thought it would be a shame if these wonderfully real personalities were to be destroyed. Especially Vanka…
Norma seemed to read her mind. ‘Don’t worry about them, Ella. They’re just Dupes. They’re not real. It doesn’t matter what happens to them, all that’s important is what happens to us. We’re the only real people in this screwed-up shit-heap of a world. We’ve got to keep our eye on the ball. The only thing we should be worrying about is getting to NoirVille and clearing out of Dodge.’
Ella nodded. The girl might be a little cold-blooded but there was no denying her logic. The Demi-Monde was, after all said and done, just a computer game and the characters in it just figments of ABBA’s overfertile cyber-imagination. And there was five million dollars waiting for her at home.
Norma edged closer. ‘Somehow we’ve got to persuade one of these Dupes to help us. Maybe that Vanka person: he seems to be keen on you, Ella.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, he’s just a Dupe.’
‘Well, Dupe or not, he’s got the hots for you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you and the way he tries to look after you. You’ve gotten yourself a cyber-beau, Ella.’
Ella chuckled derisively to mask her disquiet. She gave Vanka a quick glance: he really was a good-looking man… Dupe. That was the problem: Vanka wasn’t real flesh and blood. If he had been…
Trixie was brought out of her sleep by a loud knocking on the inn’s door followed by a draught of cold wind whipping around her legs. She batted open her eyes in time to witness the arrival of six large and formidably well-dressed men surrounded by a company of green-jacketed soldiers. From the expression on their faces the new arrivals weren’t happy to be out so late on such a dismal night.
Unhappy or not, Trixie judged them to be important, that is if the way Captain Dabrowski leapt to his feet and went across to greet them was any indication.
‘Why have you called us here, Dabrowski?’ demanded a large, rotund man of about fifty wearing a huge, all-enveloping fur coat and an aura of pompous authority. ‘Who are these people?’
As the man drew nearer to the fire Trixie recognised him. She had seen his picture in The Stormer: he was Chief Delegate Olbracht, the man the newspaper called ‘Warsaw’s Saviour’ but whom everybody else called ‘Heydrich’s Puppet Polak’. He was the man who, as head of the Warsaw Administration, was charged by the Party with ensuring that law and order prevailed in the Ghetto and that any dissidents or protesters were summarily dealt with. Trixie shivered: he was revolting and looked just as slimy and duplicitous as she had always imagined one of the GoldenFolk – one of the ersatz Aryans – would look.
Dabrowski crossed the floor to shake Olbracht’s hand. His usual poise and confidence seemed to have deserted him. As he stood nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his cheeks red and his voice high and uncertain, he gave the impression of an overexcited schoolboy. His demeanour did not inspire confidence and neither, it seemed, did his reply to the plump man’s question.
‘We have just escaped from the Rookeries, Chief Delegate, and I bring urgent and shocking intelligence. I have heard from Heydrich’s own lips that the elimination of all those living in the Ghetto – what Heydrich calls his “Final Solution” – is to begin within the next three days. The SS-Ordo Templi Aryanis under the command of Archie Clement have been given the task of razing Warsaw – and everyone in it – to the ground.’
‘Twaddle,’ sneered the Chief Delegate as he levered himself down into a chair by the fire and took a long gulp from the glass of Solution the landlord handed him. He gave an appreciative smack of his lips and raised the glass vaguely in Dabrowski’s direction in an ironic toast. ‘To Warsaw’s foremost Cassandra,’ he said, and drained his glass. ‘So tell me, Dabrowski, is this the poppycock I’ve been dragged out of my bed to listen to?’
‘I’m telling the truth.’
The Chief Delegate waved Dabrowski’s objections away and signalled the landlord to serve drinks to the other delegates. ‘You and the other hotheads in your so-called Warsaw Free Army have cried wolf before and yet here we are, still safe, sound and unmolested by Archie Clement’s thugs. It is the considered opinion of the Administration Committee’ – here he nodded to the men who had accompanied him to the inn – ‘that it would be ridiculous for the Anglos to attack the Ghetto. Why would they squander men and materiel on destroying Warsaw and the Poles when we pose no threat to the ForthRight?’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t do, Dabrowski: Heydrich might not like us Poles much, but he isn’t stupid.’
‘But I have heard…’
‘What have you heard? Admit it, Dabrowski, Heydrich might rant and rave, he might bluster and threaten but he knows as well as we do that to launch an attack on Warsaw would be a waste of time and energy. No, the ForthRight’s real enemy are those damned HerEtical witches. That’s where the next war will be fought: in the Coven.’
There were mutterings of agreement from the other members of the Administration Committee.
The Chief Delegate waved Dabrowski into a chair. ‘You look ill, Dabrowski, worn out. Maybe you’ve started to hear things. I’m told that soldiers who spend too long in the field start to ill-ucinate, start to become a little crazed. Maybe you should take a holiday?’
Dabrowski reacted badly. Perhaps if he had remained calm he might have had a chance of convincing the delegates, but instead he became angry. ‘Damn it all, Chief Delegate, I have a witness.’ He pointed to Trixie. ‘Lady Dashwood was with me, she heard Heydrich…’
‘Dashwood? The daughter of Comrade Commissar Algernon Dashwood?’ The Chief Delegate began to laugh. ‘You really wish us to take the word of the daughter of the man who’s working thousands of our young men to death building his railway? Are you seriously suggesting that this Committee should accept the corroborating statement of a Dashwood?’
Trixie bridled. ‘I will have you know, Sir…’ she began, but Olbracht shouted her down.
‘You will have me know nothing, young lady,’ he snapped. ‘You will remain silent as all women should when men are talking. I have not come here to be harangued by a hysterical child.’
For a moment Trixie’s temper flared but she knew it would be a waste of energy when faced by such idiocy. She kept quiet, sitting cross-armed in her chair, shuddering with suppressed fury. Her time would come.
Dabrowski took a long, calming breath. ‘What I am telling you is the truth, Chief Delegate. In three days the SS will seal the Ghetto and then begin a systematic annihilation of all the Poles and nuJus in Warsaw. It is time to begin our battle for survival. It is time to mount our uprising. It is time for Operation Storm.’
The Chief Delegate gave a scoffing laugh. ‘How melodramatic you young people are! Operation Storm indeed. And what will this “storm” of yours entail?’
‘You must issue the order for the mobilisation of the Warsaw Free Army. We must evacuate the civilian population to the centre of the city. We must barricade the streets around the entrances to the Ghetto and move to defend the Blood Bank. We must send out emissaries to the Coven and to the Quartier Chaud asking for support. We must prepare to fight for our freedom.’
‘Fight?’ said the Chief Delegate as he jumped to his feet and wagged a finger at Dabrowski. ‘What are we to fight with? Sticks and stones? According to you, we will be facing the SS, the most ferocious and battle-hardened troops in the whole of the DemiMonde. What you are suggesting is suicide.’
‘I have information that there are two barges packed with rifles and ammunition moored on the Berlin bank of the Rhine. Give me a hundred good men and I will lead a raiding party to seize these weapons and use them to arm our soldiers.’
‘Absolutely not!’ shouted the Chief Delegate. ‘Such an act of piracy will provoke just the sort of attack you are predicting. Stealing weapons from the Anglos would bring the most severe reprisals down on our heads. Is it your intention to goad them to attack us?’ Dramatically, he raised a hand and pointed a finger at Dabrowski. ‘Is that what you are, Dabrowski, an agent provocateur? Maybe you are a crypto in the pay of the Coven, sent to stir up trouble within the ForthRight? Is this a piece of malicious agitprop sponsored by that witch Jeanne Dark?’
Now it was Dabrowski’s turn to leap to his feet. ‘I am a loyal and patriotic Pole!’ he shouted angrily. ‘I beg you to listen to me. The SS will attack us in days.’
‘They will not!’
For several long seconds the two men stood, scarlet with rage, glowering at each other in the middle of the sawdust-strewn floor of the inn. It was then a man moved out from the group of delegates to stand beside Dabrowski. Unlike his colleagues, this man wore a beard, a broad-brimmed black hat and a long black coat on whose sleeve was a white armband decorated with a five-pointed star, the sign of the nuJus.
For Trixie this was truly a night when she met all of the ForthRight’s bogeymen: first a Shade and now a nuJu. The peculiar thing was that this nuJu wasn’t the beak-nosed, crook-backed creature nuJus were characterised as in The Stormer. He looked like a diffident and dusty academic, but though he was a little old and careworn there was a distinct sparkle of intelligence twinkling in his eyes.
‘Perhaps I might be allowed to make an observation, Chief Delegate, on behalf of the nuJu citizens of Warsaw. My people do, after all, make up almost half of the population.’ Olbracht gave a nod of consent but Trixie could see that he wasn’t happy about the old nuJu’s interference. ‘Reluctant as I am,’ the nuJu began, ‘ever to demur when one as erudite as yourself has pronounced judgement, Chief Delegate Olbracht, I would counsel against dismissing Captain Dabrowski’s warnings out of hand. After all, our Cichociemni cryptos have been sending us warning messages of unusual activity in the Anglo Sectors for several weeks now. We know, for example, that all SS leave has been cancelled. This would support the Captain’s contention that they are mobilising for an attack.’
‘Irrelevant,’ Olbracht scoffed. ‘Tell me, Delegate Trotsky, has your spying told you anything that isn’t just gossip and innuendo?’
Trotsky gave a half-smile and delved into a pocket of his battered coat to retrieve a folded piece of paper. ‘We intercepted and deciphered the following semaphore message not more than an hour ago. It reads: “To Major T. Hartley, Officer Commanding Death’s Head Detachment of SS-Ordo Templi Aryanis: Warsaw District. Implement Case White with immediate effect. Demand to be made of Warsaw Administration for surrender of Daemon known as Norma Williams thought to be in the company of the renegade Captain Jan Dabrowski. Dawn-to-dusk curfew to be imposed. Civilians violating curfew to be shot. By Order Clement.”‘
Trotsky carefully refolded the piece of paper and returned it to his pocket. ‘I think, Chief Delegate, your optimism regarding the safety of Warsaw and the rationality of Reinhard Heydrich is somewhat misplaced.’
Olbracht gave a scornful laugh. ‘Not so, Trotsky! All Comrade Leader Heydrich is concerned about is capturing a Daemon. He has no arguments with the people of Warsaw per se.’ He turned to Captain Dabrowski. ‘Which one is it, Dabrowski, which one of these delinquents is the Daemon? We will give it up to the SS and the Leader will call off his dogs. Who among them is Norma Williams?’
‘I refuse to tell you,’ said Dabrowski.
‘Then we’ll hand the whole pack of you over to the SS. That’ll settle this nonsense.’
Trixie saw Vanka edge protectively nearer to the Shade, unbuttoning his jacket. It was a sensible manoeuvre, one she imitated by nestling a hand around the butt of her Mauser.
‘It will settle nothing,’ said Dabrowski firmly. ‘Case White is the code name for the ForthRight’s plan to destroy Warsaw and all its inhabitants.’
‘You are wrong, Dabrowski,’ said Olbracht scornfully. ‘If we give up this Daemon…’
Trotsky laughed. ‘Oh, then they’ll just find another excuse. This onslaught has been coming for quite a while, Chief Delegate. All Poles have now been classified as UnderMentionable and denied ForthRight citizenship. Polish nuJus, such as myself, are already confined to the Ghetto by the decree Clement issued a month ago, the so-called non tolerandis nu-jueis. Our young men are being shipped off to work camps in the Hub in ever greater numbers and we never hear of them again. The Blood Tax is so high and the food rations so low that our people hardly have the strength to live, let alone fight.’ He gave a rueful shrug. ‘All it seems to me is that Heydrich has tired of subjecting us to a lingering death and has decided to administer the coup de grace. Whether we give up the Daemon or refuse, the result will be the same.’
Olbracht ignored him. ‘This mess is your fault, Dabrowski: by associating with Daemons you have brought the Leader’s wrath down on Warsaw. You must give this creature up. We must show ourselves to be loyal and obedient members of the ForthRight. We must surrender the Daemon and apologise.’
He whirled around and addressed the officer who was commanding the company of soldiers that had accompanied the delegates. ‘Lieutenant Adamczyk, arrest Captain Dabrowski and all of his companions.’
The Lieutenant made a move towards Dabrowski then stopped in mid-stride as the sound of a rifle bolt being worked echoed through the room. All eyes turned towards Sergeant Wysochi, who was pointing his rifle rather casually towards Olbracht. ‘I don’t think the Captain has a mind to be arrested tonight, Chief Delegate,’ he growled.
‘Are you mad, Sergeant?’ Olbracht gasped. ‘I could have you shot for this. Don’t you know that I’m the leader of the Warsaw Administration, that I’m…’
‘You’re a dead man unless you and all your pals turn around and get going.’ There was something in Wysochi’s tone that indicated he was in deadly earnest; Olbracht turned pale.
‘Captain Dabrowski, order this lunatic of yours to put down his rifle. This is mutiny!’
Dabrowski stood speechless, unable to choose between his sergeant and the man who was, at the very least, his titular commander. Trixie had seen the phenomenon before in young men in the ForthRight: they had been conditioned from birth to obey orders and this made it difficult for them to know how to disobey them.
Sergeant Wysochi took the decision out of his hands. ‘Don’t matter what the Captain says, Chief Delegate, after what’s happened tonight I’m a dead man anyway, so whether the Checkya arrest me for one murder or two don’t make no difference.’ He raised the rifle to his shoulder and took careful aim at Olbracht’s forehead. ‘Now, Sir, are you going alive or are you staying dead?’ He clicked off the rifle’s safety, the sound ominous in the silence.
Olbracht and the rest of the Administration retreated out of the inn muttering threats about ‘mutiny’ and ‘court martials’.
When the last had gone, Wysochi lowered the rifle. ‘I think if we’re going after those barges, Major Dabrowski,’ said the Sergeant, pointedly using Dabrowski’s Warsaw Free Army rank, ‘we’d better get a move on. I’ve got a feeling that that prick Adamczyk will be back with more men and then he won’t be taking no for an answer. If we move on the barges tonight…’
‘Tonight?’ muttered Dabrowski. ‘But we’re not ready.’
‘We’ve got to take them tonight, Major. Strike while the iron is hot. We’ve got to present the delegates with a fait accompli.’
Fait accompli? wondered Trixie. Now that wasn’t a phrase you often heard coming from the lips of a Polak sergeant. There was more to this Wysochi than met the eye.
‘Taking those barges will be an act of war that even those cowards and renegades in the Administration won’t be able to apologise for. Anyway, if we wait Olbracht will alert his SS pals about what we’ve got planned: by tomorrow those barges will be so heavily guarded we’ll need an army to take them.’
Dabrowski shook his head. ‘We don’t have enough men.’
Wysochi looked over to the young second lieutenant who had been left at the inn when the delegates had scurried off. ‘You the officer here?’ he demanded.
The tall, thin boy stepped forward. ‘I am, Sir… er… Sergeant.’ He saluted. ‘I’m Second Lieutenant Gorski.’ The Lieutenant was utterly unprepossessing. He looked about fifteen years old and was wearing an army greatcoat at least two sizes too big for him. The soldiers in his command were equally ragtag: they did not inspire confidence.
‘How many men in your company, Gorski?’ asked Wysochi.
‘Twelve… no, fifteen.’
‘Are they armed and ready to fight?’
Gorski swallowed, his overlarge Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. ‘Fight who… er, whom?’
‘The ForthRight, of course! We are going to seize a pair of barges moored in the Berlin docks, and confiscate the rifles they’re carrying on behalf of the Warsaw Free Army.’
The boy’s eyes popped. ‘But my orders are…’
‘Do as you’re fucking well told!’ barked Wysochi. ‘Major Dabrowski is the ranking officer here.’
Dabrowski sighed. ‘It’s no good, Sergeant, even with Gorski’s men there are only seventeen of us and that isn’t enough to take the barges. And we need a man who can operate a steam-barge. My idea was to sail the barges up the Rhine and unload them at the Gdansk docks but without a barge captain we’re stymied. Operating a steam-barge is a tricky business; it’s not a job for amateurs.’
‘I can manage your steam-barge for you.’ The words were out of Trixie’s mouth before she had even realised she was going to say them. Everyone in the room turned to look at her in stunned disbelief. ‘I worked for two months on a barge with my father last Summer,’ she hurriedly explained. ‘That was when he was remodelling the traffic-flow system for the Rhine. I spent those months standing alongside the best bargemen in the ForthRight. I can work your steam-barge.’
She felt Dabrowski’s eyes boring into hers. ‘Are you certain, Miss Dashwood? Men’s lives will turn on your skill. This is no place for schoolgirl bravado.’
Trixie bristled. ‘Major Dabrowski, believe me, I hold my life precious. I would not say this if I had any doubts in my ability.’
‘It’s an ebb tide,’ observed Sergeant Wysochi. He clearly knew that the ebb tide was the fiercest and the fastest – the one that challenged bargemen’s skills to the utmost.
Trixie nodded. ‘It is also the tide which will get us to Gdansk docks quickest.’ She looked from Major Dabrowski to Sergeant Wysochi and back again. ‘So… are we going to take these barges or just stand here all night discussing it?’