The Demi-Monde: 79th Day of Winter, 1004
It was that canny nuJu Abraham Eleazar who secured a homeland for his people in NoirVille, a homeland that became known as the nuJu Autonomous District (the JAD). Eleazar developed a chemical additive – Aqua Benedicta – which prevents blood congealing and enabled the Blood Brothers to store and preserve the blood they traded. It was Aqua Benedicta that made the Blood Brothers the Demi-Monde’s pre-eminent blood brokers. The establishing of the JAD was a deal which both parties were pleased to conclude: Shaka and his Blood Brothers secured a supply of Aqua Benedicta and in exchange they respected the independence of the JAD and the right of the JADniks to follow the WhoDoo religion. The only element of friction in this relationship is that the JAD has become a sanctuary for NoirVillian woeMen fleeing husbands and fathers.
– Include Us Out: A Short History of the JAD: Schmuel
Gelbfisz, JAD Hipster Books and Comics
‘I’ve got lice!’ squealed Norma Williams. She leapt to her feet and began to rake her fingers frantically through her hair.
Vanka laughed. ‘Everybody’s got lice. Why should you be different?’
It was true: in the cramped, crowded and decidedly unhygienic confines of a war-ravaged Ghetto, lice – and rats and mice and fleas – had overrun the place. Everyone had lice, just as everyone was filthy and foul and permanently scared shitless that one of the never-ending procession of SS artillery shells smashing into the city had their name on it.
But seeing the look of real horror on Norma’s face, Ella took pity on her. Making a real effort – her moaning was incessant – she tried to be reassuring. ‘If it bothers you that much the best thing to do, when you turn in tonight, is to hang your clothes outside. The frost will kill the lice.’
‘I don’t mean in my clothes.’ Norma lowered her voice and looked suspiciously around at the other people huddled in the cellar. ‘I mean in my hair,’ she whispered. ‘I’m infested.’
Vanka decided to rejoin the conversation. ‘Well, you could take off your head and leave that outside at night…’
He was silenced by a glare from Ella. The antagonism between those two was becoming a real pain: what had started out as dislike had rapidly degenerated into loathing.
She tried again. ‘Most of the women have taken to cropping their hair, Norma; wearing it short makes it easier to delouse.’
Norma looked at Ella as though she was mad. ‘Crop my hair? After I took all these years to grow it? Don’t be ridiculous. What I want is some hot water, a clean towel, some anti-nit shampoo and a change of clothes.’ She paused for a moment. ‘And to get out of this shithole.’
Ella had to admit that Norma was quite right: their home was a shithole. The really quite pleasant hotel they had checked into when they had first arrived in the Ghetto was long gone, pummelled flat by the incessant artillery bombardment. Now the three of them had been reduced to scratching out a life in the hotel’s forty-foot-square cellar, which they shared with the other refugees. It was a dank, dark, dismal existence and Ella hated it.
Just as the twenty or so people she was sharing her cellar home with hated it. Not that they complained much: they were so dispirited that they’d long ago given up complaining. Now they simply sat in the darkness, mute and blank-eyed. Twenty-odd days into the siege it seemed that her fellow cellarniks had become indifferent to what happened to them: the horror and the terror they had experienced had made them numb to their own suffering and to that of their fellow man. The Poles were near to breaking.
Ella sighed: she wished that Norma had been rendered numb and dumb, she wished the girl would stop her continual carping. She didn’t know what was worse, Norma constantly twittering in her ear about how horrible things were or the SS artillery trying to smash her to a pulp. For three weeks she hadn’t been able to get away from either of them. She’d hardly been out of the cellar since she’d arrived in the Ghetto, had hardly seen daylight in all that time. Snipers made wandering around during the day a dangerous occupation and she only risked it when hunger forced her to scavenge for food. Ella wasn’t sure if she could take much more. And neither, she thought, could the Poles.
Desperately, courageously and tirelessly as the Poles had fought, the SS had made steady and relentless advances into the Ghetto. It seemed that every night the WFA was obliged to abandon one stronghold or another as it was overrun. And, as Ella understood it, there were more of the SS now and they had refined their tactics. No longer were they as arrogant and as careless as they had been in the opening days of the fighting, now there was a deadly, callous professionalism about them.
Archie Clement had learnt. He’d learnt that the best way to beat the WFA was to grind them down, to exhaust them physically and emotionally, to pound them – day and night – with artillery fire. He had made Warsaw into one vast killing zone. The Warsaw Ghetto had become the apotheosis of Asymmetric Warfare.
The General, Ella decided, back in the comfort and safety of the Real World, must be so proud of his creation.
‘Is there a Vanka Maykov in ‘ere?’
Ella turned towards the door. There, silhouetted by the uncertain light cast by an oil lamp, stood a scrawny boy dressed in a tattered and torn SS jacket with a mud-splattered chapka set lopsidedly on his head.
‘I’m Maykov,’ called out Vanka. ‘And who might you be?’
The boy saluted. ‘I am Karol Michalski, Senior Sergeant in Trixie’s Terriers. I’ve got an order to escort you’ – he checked a scruffy piece of paper he had in his hand – ‘an’ a Miss Ella Thomas an’ a Miss Norma Williams to headquarters to meet wiv the WFA Emergency Executive.’
Ella felt a tug on her sleeve. ‘Why are we being taken to headquarters?’ Norma whispered, genuine terror in her voice. She had never come to terms with the fact that Heydrich had put a reward on her head. The lice hadn’t helped her peace of mind either.
‘It’s all right. Vanka and I have an idea that might get us out of this muddle. Get your jacket. Soon, with a bit of luck, we’ll be able to say goodbye to Warsaw.’
That is if Dabrowski buys into Vanka’s idea.
It was an idea he’d had while creeping around the ruins of Warsaw trying to hunt down a new source of cigarettes and had seen a poster flapping on the wall of what had once been a theatrical agency. The poster announced that as part of Beria’s policy of improving bilateral relations between the ForthRight and NoirVille, the Revue Negre was to be performing in Berlin.
Ella hadn’t needed Vanka to explain to her what the Revue Negre was: she regarded herself as the world’s biggest fan of Josephine Baker, the Revue’s principal dancer. What had surprised her was that ABBA had duplicated her in the DemiMonde. The Professor hadn’t said anything about ABBA duplicating nice PreLived personalities in the Demi-Monde, only psychopaths and murderers. But that she supposed was a consequence of heuristic programming. ABBA was doing its own thing.
Ella had, however, needed Vanka to explain how the Revue Negre could help in solving their problems. And when he did, she had to admit it was a clever plan, a plan that would allow them to kill three birds with one perfectly aimed stone: it would get urgently needed blood into Warsaw, it would persuade Dabrowski to help them escape from the Ghetto and it would provide an excellent way of smuggling her and Norma out of the ForthRight and into NoirVille. It was this plan that Vanka had pitched to Trixie Dashwood, who had, in turn, pitched it to Dabrowski.
Following the Sergeant, Ella, Vanka and Norma crept slowly and cautiously out of the sanctuary of the cellar, to emerge, blinking like moles, in the morning light. Ella was aghast at the change war had wrought to the beautiful city of Warsaw. It looked as though some malevolent giant had trampled through the city stomping every building to rubble and leaving a trail of dead in his wake. Bodies littered the roads like obscene confetti, rats and crows picking at them. The stench of rotting corpses filled the air.
For ten heart-stopping minutes the four of them ducked and dived, scurried and scuttled through the shattered city. Finally, at the corner of what had once been a grand, opulent boulevard, Sergeant Michalski stopped.
‘That’s it over there,’ he said, pointing to a burnt-out building. ‘That’s WFA headquarters. From ‘ere on you’ve got to keep low. There are a lot of SS snipers around this district just waitin’ for a chance to blow yer head off.’
Trixie took a sip of her black coffee and scowled. She hadn’t yet got used to the taste of chicory they had started using to bulk out the fast-depleting reserves of coffee. But then, she mused, it wasn’t just coffee that was in short supply. Looking at Colonel Dabrowski, she had a feeling that hope was being rationed too. He looked a beaten man.
The report she had given him was bad news – that was why she’d insisted that only Delegate Trotsky be present when she made it – but she never imagined that Dabrowski would disintegrate as he had. The man was a nervous wreck.
Trixie took another sip of her coffee and another drag of her cigarette.
It was odd, she mused, how war altered people. Some, like Dabrowski, buckled under the pressure, while others, like herself, revelled in the slaughter and the chaos. In the twenty-one days they had been fighting she had changed. It had been twenty-one days during which she had ordered – demanded – that people die. Lots of people – young people, old people, brave people, frightened people… men, women and children. And all the time she had to stand firm and resolute: not for a moment could she seem weak or vulnerable. She had to be the rock to which all of her regiment’s hopes were anchored. That was her greatest victory: not the Battle of Oberbaum Bridge, not the Battle of Barricade Number 1. No, her greatest victory had been the conquering of her emotions. Emotions were for the weak.
She looked across to Dabrowski. He was weak: so weak he was coming unravelled before her eyes.
Her fingers itched against the holster of her Webley. The temptation to shoot the bastard was almost overwhelming.
Not now.
Not when she still had a chance to offer them hope. Not when she was still here to inject some steel into Dabrowski’s spine. Not now she was Captain Dashwood. By the Spirits, Dabrowski had hated doing that: promoting a woman to command a regiment. But after the Battle of Barricade Number 1 it had been impossible for Dabrowski to refuse her; if he had, there would have been a real possibility of mutiny.
Dabrowski must have felt her examining him: he looked up, his blank, unfocused eyes searching her out in the gloom of the cellar. ‘Are you certain, Captain Dashwood?’
‘Yes. The SS will take control of the Warsaw Blood Bank within the next four days.’
‘But you’ve held them for so long.’
That was the problem. Dabrowski and the rest of them had got so used to Trixie’s regiment being able to repulse the SS that they’d taken it for granted that the Blood Bank was safe. Now they had to face reality. ‘We haven’t the heavy guns or the explosives to keep the SS at bay. We can hurl bodies at them but it won’t make any difference. Our fighters are exhausted and outgunned and we’re in danger of being encircled. If I don’t pull back I’ll lose the regiment.’
Dabrowski turned to Delegate Trotsky. ‘What are our supplies of blood like?’
Although it seemed barely possible, the old nuJu was even skinnier than he had been three weeks ago. Skinnier but still with the same resolute set to his long jaw.
By Trixie’s estimation, Trotsky had done a fine job in helping the WFA to fight for as long as it had. Famed for his incorruptibility, he had been unanimously elected as the man to administer Warsaw’s blood supply and this he had done fairly, making sure that the demands for a bigger ration made by the rich and the powerful were rebuffed. The other delegates hated him for his parsimony, but by carefully rationing each and every drop of blood Trotsky had kept Warsaw going longer than Trixie had ever thought possible. In a different life the man would have made a perfect RaTionalist.
Trotsky stroked his long beard before answering. ‘Not good. The warehouse where we held most of our blood reserves was hit by SS artillery a couple of days ago. We salvaged what we could.’ He gave a disconsolate shrug. ‘By my calculations we have possibly a week’s supply… not more. With what we can withdraw from the Blood Bank before the SS take control, Warsaw has perhaps two weeks before its blood supplies are exhausted.’
Dabrowski dropped his head into his hands. For a moment Trixie thought he was crying. It was, she decided, a disgusting spectacle: leaders didn’t cry.
Finally Dabrowski raised his head and smiled resignedly. ‘So, Captain Dashwood, two weeks after the SS take the Warsaw Blood Bank we will all be dying of Blood Starvation. Not a terribly noble end to our little rebellion.’
‘I must demur,’ said Trotsky quietly. ‘At least by fighting, we have shown that the ForthRight army and the SS aren’t unbeatable. At least the rest of the Demi-Monde knows that it’s possible to defeat these monsters. If a few thousand ill-trained and badly equipped partisans can fight the SS to a standstill then there must be hope for everybody-’
‘A poor reward for the sacrifices made by the people of Warsaw,’ interrupted Dabrowski. ‘And unfortunately without blood the conclusion is inescapable: we must surrender. We must end this carnage now. We have lost over twenty thousand of our best and our bravest to this war, our people have been pushed back to the Industrial Zone where they cower in holes barely able to find enough food to survive, and now we all face death by Blood Starvation.’ Dabrowski gave a dejected shake of his head. ‘All our glorious revolution has resulted in is death and misery. We should surrender while at least some of our people are still alive, and throw ourselves at the mercy of the Leader.’
Trixie and Trotsky exchanged glances: the Colonel’s defeatism seemed total. Didn’t he realise that Heydrich had no mercy?
‘Eventually the other Sectors will come to our aid,’ said the old nuJu. ‘We must give them time.’
Dabrowski smashed a fist onto his table. ‘We have no time! We cannot wait for help. And we cannot retreat, the Boundary Layer sees to that.’ With a shaking hand he poured himself a glass of Solution. ‘No… we must surrender.’
‘I think we might be able to organise a delivery of blood to Warsaw,’ Trixie announced in a loud voice.
Dabrowski slowly turned his shadowed eyes towards her. ‘And how will you be able to conjure this miracle, Captain?’
‘Not me: Vanka Maykov… the psychic.’ She nodded to Sergeant Michalski, who had been guarding the entrance. He opened the door and Vanka ducked inside, accompanied by the two Daemons.
Trixie darted a look towards Vanka and almost despaired. That Warsaw’s hopes should rest in the hands of such a dishonest and disreputable man was truly astonishing. When he had first come to her with his proposition her immediate reaction had been to dismiss it out of hand. It sounded ridiculous. It sounded too much like a cheap trick designed to save his worthless Shade-loving skin.
Shades…
Trixie might have come to realise that UnFunDaMentalism’s classification of some races as UnderMentionables was evil nonsense but with regard to Shades she didn’t think she would ever be able to bring herself to trust them. They weren’t human and the RaTionalist inside her told her they were just wrong… Lilithian perversions of Nature. And that this Ella Thomas wasn’t only a Shade but a Daemon to boot made her – it – all the more threatening. Trixie had a sneaking suspicion that as soon as she escaped back to her own world she would seek to destroy the Demi-Monde. What did the Daemons call it? Pulling the plug? No, Shades couldn’t be trusted… Daemons couldn’t be trusted.
Vanka tipped his battered tile, and gave Trixie a jaunty wave. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said in a merry voice, ‘Vanka Maykov, procurer of blood, at your service.’
Ella was proud of him. She was as proud of Vanka as she was nervous of Trixie Dashwood. While Ella had been shocked by Dabrowski’s appearance – he seemed to have aged alarmingly in the days since she had seen him last – this was as nothing to the transformation that Trixie had undergone during her time in the Ghetto. It wasn’t just the obvious changes – her magnificent long blonde hair had been hacked crudely back into a boyish bob – that had unnerved Ella but the more subtle ones. The look of spoilt petulance that she remembered had gone: the Trixie who stood in the shadows at the side of the cellar was a distinctly harder and more dangerous woman. It was as though something had died inside the girl.
Now the eyes that Trixie Dashwood fixed on Ella were empty, emotionless… just as Heydrich’s had been. She wasn’t particularly enamoured of the way Trixie kept fondling the butt of her revolver, either.
‘And how do you propose to perform this miracle?’ asked Dabrowski.
Vanka took a long draw on his morning cigarette. Cigarettes were now in such short supply that he was rationing himself to three a day – one in the morning, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. As far as Ella was concerned it was one of the few good things to have come out of the Uprising. ‘With the help of Miss Thomas here, I am intent on buying blood on the black market. I have some experience in trading illicit blood and I believe, given the correct financial inducements, it will be possible to buy sixty thousand litres of blood from the Blood Brothers and have it shipped to Warsaw. As I understand it there are three million people trapped here in Warsaw so sixty thousand litres is two weeks’ supply.’
‘Two weeks…’ sneered Dabrowski.
‘Much can happen in two weeks,’ interrupted Trixie. ‘The other Sectors might have a change of heart… anything. We should listen to this man.’
Dabrowski scowled. ‘And how much will this miracle cost?’
‘Blood is currently trading for one hundred guineas a litre on the black market,’ explained Vanka.
‘Six million guineas!’ gasped Dabrowski. He turned to Ella. ‘You know, Miss Thomas, I am disappointed in you. I expected something a little more imaginative from a Daemon. Isn’t the buying of blood on the black market a little prosaic – a little unDaemonic – for someone like you? I would have thought that you would have come to me to tell me you were planning something utterly fantastical like rolling back the Boundary Layer to let all us poor beleaguered Varsovians escape into the Great Beyond.’ He started to laugh. He sounded almost hysterical. ‘But then again, I suppose your purchase of blood is equally farfetched. We don’t have six million guineas. Warsaw is almost bloodrupt.’
Vanka gave a careless wave of his hand as though six million guineas was a mere bagatelle. ‘Miss Thomas here has access to certain funds which will comfortably accommodate such an outlay. She will act as your blood donor.’ No one laughed at the quip, the subject was far too serious for that.
Ella saw every face in the room turn in her direction. ‘Yes, I can secure the six million guineas.’
‘You? But you’re just a girl,’ said Dabrowski contemptuously.
Ella refused to be insulted. ‘Girl or not, Colonel, you better believe me when I say I can raise the money. If the WFA can seize back control of the docks for long enough to unload the blood from the barges, then Vanka and I can organise its delivery.’
‘How long would you need at the docks?’ Trixie asked.
‘Five hours,’ answered Vanka.
‘Impossible,’ retorted Dabrowski.
‘Not impossible,’ corrected Trixie quietly. ‘It’ll be costly in lives but my regiment can do it. We’ll give you your five hours.’
‘This is ridiculous. This is also much too good to be true!’ objected Dabrowski. ‘What, may I ask, will you get out of this transaction, Colonel Maykov? As I understand it you are not a man famed for his charitable works.’
‘The WFA’s help in having myself, Miss Thomas and Miss Williams escape from the Ghetto. I have to get to the Berlin Sector to negotiate the delivery of the blood with one of Shaka’s lieutenants.’
‘And then?’
‘Then the three of us will travel to NoirVille.’
Dabrowski laughed. ‘So now I understand. We are being bribed: you promise us blood and we get you out of Warsaw.’
‘In a nutshell: yes,’ agreed Vanka as he took another irritatingly casual draw on his cigarette.
‘And once you’re out of the Ghetto what’s to stop you just high-tailing it to NoirVille and forgetting about us?’
‘Nothing. You’ll just have to trust me… us.’
‘Ridiculous!’ spluttered Dabrowski. ‘I cannot allow the Daemon – Miss Williams – to leave the Ghetto. It – she – is the last bargaining chip I have with Heydrich. If I surrender the Daemon I am sure that the Leader will be inclined to be more lenient.’
‘Loath as I am to contradict you, Colonel Dabrowski,’ came the calm voice of Trotsky, ‘but my own assessment is that the time for surrender is long gone. No matter what we do now, Heydrich will still destroy the people of Warsaw. We’ve resisted him and given his SS a hiding. He can’t allow us to live, because alive we’re a permanent reminder to the rest of the Demi-Monde that once people fought to keep their independence. This young man may be a little… raffish but his idea has merit. If we surrender, Heydrich will shoot us all. If we can hold out for just a few more weeks, then there is a chance.’
For over a minute Dabrowski sat in silence as he weighed his decision, then finally, reluctantly, he acquiesced. ‘Very well, Vanka Maykov, we will give you the opportunity to work your magic.’
‘Great,’ muttered Norma, ‘I’m out of this shithole at last.’
Ella wondered how Norma would react when she learnt how Vanka was proposing they get out of Warsaw. At least it would take her mind off the lice.
‘The sewers!’ exclaimed Norma. ‘You want me to escape from Warsaw by crawling through the sewers?’
Vanka nodded. ‘It is the only way. The SS are shooting anyone attempting to leave the Ghetto, and as there are twenty thousand of the bastards patrolling the walls, the chances of us slipping out that way are non-existent. The alternative, Miss Williams, is to stay here.’
‘Screw that. But what happens when we get to the end of the sewer? Where will we come out?’
‘On a scarp of the Rhine. One branch empties into the river just below the Reinhard Heydrich Bridge, the new railway bridge that Comrade Commissar Dashwood built. The SS won’t be expecting anyone from Warsaw to pop out in Odessa.’
‘What do you expect us to do then: swim across the river?’ sneered Norma.
‘Almost,’ said Vanka casually. ‘The WFA have a few sympathisers in Odessa, one of whom has a rowing boat. At night it should be possible to scull across between the river patrols. The Anglos are well organised but that is their weakness: they are predictable.’
‘But even if they can’t see us they’ll be able to smell us. After crawling through the sewers we’ll be covered from head to toe in…’
Vanka gave a snort of impatience. ‘The time for debate is over, Miss Williams. If you do not wish to take up my offer then so be it.’
For several seconds Norma chewed her bottom lip in indecision. ‘Okay, okay, but I hope you have someone leading us who knows where they’re going. I don’t want to end up being lost in a latrine.’
‘Don’t worry on that score,’ said Trixie, and beckoned to a young girl idly smoking a cigarette on the other side of the room. ‘This is Roza, the best of all the WFA’s sewer rats.’
The girl, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, tossed the cigarette to the ground and wandered across to stand beside Trixie. ‘How many?’ she asked. It seemed to Ella that Roza wasn’t a great respecter of rank.
‘The two girls,’ said Trixie, pointing to Ella and Norma, ‘and the man.’ She indicated Vanka. ‘I’ll send Corporal – make that Sergeant – Josef Zawadzski with you as escort. He’s a reliable man.’ Zawadzski preened delightedly at this sudden promotion.
‘I don’t need any escort.’
‘He’s escorting the Daemon, not you.’
The girl spat on the floor. ‘Very well. But before we go, let me spell out the rules. When we are underground I am in charge. Any arguing, especially from you’ – Roza gave Norma a hard look – ‘and I’ll leave you down there. And don’t think I’m kidding. I’ll get out alive no matter what happens; you’ll get out alive by doing precisely what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Understood?’
There were nods from everybody in the group, even Norma.
‘In the sewers no one will speak except me and you will move as quietly as you can. Sound travels in the sewers and the smallest noise can be heard a long way off. Understand that we’re not gonna be by ourselves down there: the Anglos have twigged that we’re using the sewers to move around and have started to run patrols of their own. Believe me, you don’t wanna be in a firefight in the tubes.’
She accepted another cigarette from Vanka, who seemed to have taken a shine to the girl or maybe, Ella decided, they had their dislike of Norma Williams in common. ‘Okay, next thing: it’s dark down there and people have been known to panic. Anyone who panics and starts shouting or crying will be dealt with.’ Roza patted the large knife she had scabbarded at her waist. ‘Understood?’
Everybody nodded.
‘There will be no lights used in the sewers.’
‘How will you know where you’re going if you haven’t a light?’ asked Norma, a definite quaver in her voice.
‘I count: so many steps and then left, so many more steps and then right. Final point: it’s cold down there. Spring is coming and the snow and ice are thawing. The sewers are running fast and high with melt water so make sure you’re well wrapped up and that you’re wearing strong boots.’ She looked disdainfully at Norma’s shoes. ‘Not ballet slippers: wear those and you’ll not get a hundred yards. By the time you get out you’ll have lost all of your toes to frostbite.’
‘How far do we have to walk?’ asked Ella.
‘If we get lucky with the Anglos, just over a mile, if we get unlucky… who knows? It depends on how many diversions we have to make. The danger comes when we go under manholes in areas controlled by the Anglos. They have listening posts there and if they hear us they’ll toss down grenades.’
‘Wonderful,’ muttered Norma. ‘Are there any rats down there?’ she asked, shuddering at the thought.
‘No. The sewers are made of Mantle-ite and are perfectly smooth and perfectly round, so there’s nowhere for rats to nest.’ Roza studied Norma carefully. ‘You… Daemon, I hear you’ve got a smashed-up knee. Are you going to be able to walk a mile without it giving out? It’s tough down there and I ain’t carrying you.’
‘Don’t worry, Rambo, I’ll manage,’ answered Norma.
‘Okay. Once in the sewer we walk in a crocodile, the person behind hanging onto the belt of the person in front. That way no one gets lost and no one gets to fall. You’ve ten minutes to get ready. I’ve got some camphor here to spread under your nose: it won’t disguise the smell but it’ll give you a few moments to get used to it.’
Vanka leant forward until his mouth was next to Ella’s ear. ‘And I’ve got a big pot of lard…’
When they levered the manhole cover off there was a sigh as the noxious gas escaped from the sewer. It was so bad that Ella was forced to take a step back, which was difficult because of the three pairs of trousers Vanka had persuaded her to wear.
And then there was the lard that he had insisted she smear over her body.
She knew the lard made her smell like an oven-ready chicken but it was as nothing to the rancid stench that came out of the sewer. For a moment Ella thought she was going to hurl. It was a smell she remembered from chemistry class – hydrogen sulphide – but in this case the stench of rotten eggs was garnished by the odour of excrement.
She couldn’t believe she was going down there. She must be mad. The General hadn’t said anything about having to wade through a river of shit to earn her five million dollars.
Bastard.
Once the entrance to the sewer was open, Roza was all business. ‘I’ll go down first,’ she instructed as she made a quick final inspection of her charges, making sure that their boot-laces were double-knotted and that they were wearing gloves. It seemed faintly comical for a child to be checking on the preparedness of hulking men like Vanka and the Sergeant, but Ella was so frightened that she couldn’t bring herself to laugh. ‘At the bottom of the ladder I’ll be turning left, heading in the direction of the river.’ She pointed towards the Rhine to ensure that there was no misunderstanding. ‘You, Daemon, will come next and I want to feel your hand gripping my belt all the way. Then you will come down’ – she pointed to Sergeant Zawadzski – ‘then you’ – Ella got the nod – ‘and then you, Colonel Maykov, at the back. And remember: no talking. Our lives depend on it.’
Orders given, Roza wriggled down the hole.
Ella watched Norma and Sergeant Zawadzski disappear from sight, then it was her turn. She walked over to the manhole and taking a deep breath – which was a mistake: despite the camphor spread under her nose she nearly gagged on the foul smell – she started to climb down the ladder that had been moulded into the side of the tunnel. The sewer seemed to be covered in a layer of slimy, slippery ooze that soaked through the leather of her gauntlets and made it difficult to grip the rungs. She was just thankful that the darkness prevented her seeing what it was that was smearing itself over her hands.
It was that dark. Not the darkness of night, not the darkness of a bedroom, but the same total, absolute, unrelenting darkness that she imagined a blind person must experience. Except for the thin light coming from the lantern Trixie Dashwood was holding over the open manhole, the sewer was a Stygian black. Ella looked down and saw the lantern’s light flickering and dancing on the water streaming below her feet. It looked like a river of thick, black treacle. For an instant she didn’t know if she could do it, didn’t know if she had the courage to enter that dark world. Sure she had PINC to guide her if things went wrong, but even that reassurance wasn’t enough to quell the feeling of panic rising up inside her. And then her foot was in the swirling water.
Fuck, it’s cold! No, not cold: it was absolutely fucking freezing.
Only with a real effort of will was she able to force herself to step off the ladder and into the water, the fast-running stream of filth maybe three feet deep, swirling up around her waist. She stood for a moment in shocked paralysis, letting her body come to terms with the numbness that was invading her legs. It was difficult to stand: the current was unbelievably strong and the curved bottom of the sewer was slick with an inch-thick layer of something indescribably horrible and very, very slippery. To make matters worse there were stones and other flotsam and jetsam washed down from the streets above banging into her legs as the water streamed past. For an instant the buffeting threatened to send her tumbling.
It was the thought of falling into a river of diluted shit that brought Ella to her senses. She fastened her hand onto Sergeant Zawadzski’s belt and pressed her other arm against the sewer wall for support.
Splaying her legs against the current, she tried to stand up straight, managing to bash her head painfully against the top of the sewer as she did so. The sewer tube could only have been five foot or so in diameter, so she had to crouch to shuffle forward. How she was going to endure walking cramped and crooked in this hellish place was beyond her.
She heard a splash – and a whispered ‘fuck’ – as Vanka waded into the water. Above her the manhole cover was replaced and in that instant Ella was enveloped by a total and unrelenting darkness. It was like being buried alive. And to make things worse it seemed that the walls of the sewer glowed with a faint but very eerie green luminescence.
She felt PINC trying to tell her things, trying to explain about LunarAtion, trying to orientate her but she was so scared and so fucking cold that she ignored it. She felt dizzy, weak, helpless. Ella had never had any real sympathy for people who claimed they suffered from claustrophobia, but now…
A hand grabbed her belt from behind, steadying her. Vanka’s mouth was at her ear. ‘It’s okay, Ella. I’m here. Take deep breaths.’
Thank God for Vanka.
The crocodile began to edge forward, shuffling and sliding in the fetid blackness.
It was a nightmare. Twice Ella fell – each time stumbling over a brick or a stone lodged on the floor of the sewer – immersing herself in the shit-thick water, desperately struggling to keep her mouth closed, trying not to swallow the effluent that now so liberally coated her hair and face, spitting away the despicable taste on her lips. And both times it was Vanka who hauled her up by her belt and back onto her feet.
She had no idea how long they walked; time had no meaning in that terrible darkness. All she knew was that they had been walking long enough for her to be numb from the waist down and covered in shit and sweat from the waist up. She was tired to the point of exhaustion.
Suddenly she felt Sergeant Zawadzski slither to a halt in front of her and a moment later his voice whispered at her ear. ‘We’ve got to cross a junction. Keep very, very quiet. Roza will be lighting a lantern for a moment. Pass this message on to the Colonel.’
Ella did as she was told and then waited in the darkness. And as she stood she realised that the sound of rushing water that had been the only accompaniment to their progress had been augmented by a low rumbling noise coming from overhead. The SS, she guessed, must be moving steamers around on the surface. She could hear the pounding of the heavy wheels on the cobbles, could feel the thud of their huge pistons as they passed, could imagine the weight of the enormous, heavy vehicles pressing down on her.
A light flared.
Ella flinched, screwing her eyes tight shut before cautiously opening them. By the lantern’s flickering light she saw that they were at a crossroads of the sewer system, a junction where two sewers met, the two streams merging to form a heaving rapids, the waters swirling in a turbulent whirlpool. Ella shook her head: no one – well, no one as tired as she was – would be able to pass across that maelstrom without being washed away.
Obviously Roza had anticipated the problem: she delved down under the water and hauled up a long steel pole that had been pre-positioned there. She laid the pole across the mouth of the sewer set at right angles to their route. ‘Hold hard to the pole,’ she whispered. ‘Put your weight against it, it’ll stop you being taken by the current. And for the Spirits’ sake, be quiet: the Anglos are right above us and they’ll be listening.’ The girl beckoned Sergeant Zawadzski forward and with him holding tight to the end of the pole, Roza used it to shimmy across the whirlpool to stand at the opposite side of the crossroads. Once settled she waved to Norma to follow her.
The girl did her best, but even in the lantern’s uncertain light Ella could see that she was scared witless. She was about halfway across when disaster struck. Thinking about it later, all Ella could suppose was that one of the bricks skittering about in the churning water had smashed into Norma’s damaged knee but whatever it was the girl screamed and her leg buckled. In that instant she lost her footing, was caught by the current and was gone, washed down the sewer to their right. Instinctively Ella made to lunge forward to grab her but Vanka yanked her back.
‘She’s lost…’ he shouted but any further debate was ended when the manhole cover directly above their heads was wrenched back and a lantern on a rope lowered down.
‘There!’ yelled a voice. ‘A Polish sewer rat.’
There was an ear-splitting explosion as Sergeant Zawadzski fired his revolver: the lantern exploded in a shower of glass and the sewer was plunged back into darkness.
‘Retreat,’ Sergeant Zawadzski snarled, and before Ella quite knew what was happening she was being hauled along the passage they’d just marched down. There were more thunderous blasts of gunfire, yellow and red light flared in the tunnels, the tang of cordite mingling with the stench of excrement. Suddenly there was a mighty explosion and a shock wave of sound bellowed through the sewer, shoving Ella over, throwing her into the fetid water. She was dragged to her feet by Vanka as Zawadzski loosed off shots, the flashes as the revolver fired blinding her. Ella could barely think as she staggered, gasping and spluttering, after Vanka and Sergeant Zawadzski.
Behind her she could hear shouts of men in pursuit and every now and again a bullet whined overhead, flicking from side to side as it caromed off the impervious Mantle-ite of the sewer wall.
Sergeant Zawadzski, lost in the pitch-black labyrinth, pulled a lantern from his bag and lit it. It was a suicidal thing to do. Without light they were running blind, but so too were the pursuing Anglos. Immediately the lantern was lit there was a fusillade of shots from the SS.
As she desperately tried to duck away from the bullets, Ella realised that thanks to PINC she was a natural sewer rat herself, a sewer rat who didn’t need light to know where she was going. ‘Douse the lantern,’ she ordered. ‘I know the way… follow me! Keep the current at your back! This branch of the sewer circles around under Odessa. Get there and we’ll be able to pick up another route that gives out on the Rhine near the new railway bridge.’
‘You go on,’ said Sergeant Zawadzski. ‘I’ll hold them here.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid, this is no time for heroics,’ shouted Vanka. ‘Make a stand and they’ll settle you with grenades. Our only hope is to run.’ He grabbed Ella by the arm and dragged her down the sewer shaft. The current was behind them now, pushing them forward, threatening to topple them over. The frigid water was deeper too; it raced past Ella at chest height, making her gasp with the pain as the cold invaded her body.
Another explosion.
The Anglos were throwing grenades in front of them as they advanced. The noise of the explosions was louder… nearer…
‘To the left, to the left,’ she shouted. ‘Move, for the love of the Spirits, move!’
Bullets snarled around them. Suddenly Sergeant Zawadzski pitched forward as though he had been kicked in the back.
Scrabbling around in the darkness, Vanka tried to pull Zawadzski to his feet but it was useless. ‘Dead…’ Vanka pronounced, then wrenched the Sergeant’s pistol from his hand and passed it to Ella. ‘Fire at them. Make them keep their distance. Don’t let them get near enough to lob a grenade.’
She grabbed the huge pistol by its barrel. It was so hot that it burnt through the leather of her gloves and scalded her hand. She ignored the pain. Just as she’d seen in cop movies she held the revolver two-handed and pointed it back along the sewers. She pulled back the trigger. The bang as the pistol fired was deafening but still Ella kept pulling the trigger until the gun was empty.
Now all there was left to do was run.
It was Ella’s PINC-inspired knowledge of the sewers that saved them. She led Vanka in a perplexing and confusing series of turns and backtracks until, finally, she managed to throw off the chasing Anglos. Then…
‘There!’ she heard Vanka shout as he lurched along. It took a moment for Ella to make out what he was talking about. Perhaps a hundred yards ahead was the end of the sewer, illuminated by the unmistakable lights of the city. Spirits lifted by how close to salvation they were, the two of them staggered as fast as they dared towards the sewer mouth.
Then, before she had a chance to realise what was happening, the slope of the sewer pitched forward and Ella found herself being hurled towards the river as though she was riding a water chute.
The only thought she had as she tumbled was ‘Why didn’t PINC warn me?’