Book One Warsaw, Poland, 1939
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BOOK ONE WARSAW, POLAND, 1939 1 A telling change was in the air, a welcome lull at the end of a day made strenuous by extensive heat. The longed-for break in unseasonably dry weather was greeted by smiling faces. And a thrill was had at the sight of dark clouds ushered in by a late summer swelter. To cheers a sheet of rainfall swept through the thirsty streets and wilted boulevards of Warsaw. The flash point of August was for the moment lessened beneath a cloudburst. Grey skies flickered overhead, captured through the lens of a black and white motion-picture camera. From throughout, the bustle of a busy street was heard, beset by the heightened clatter of pedestrians delving for shelter from the oncoming storm. In congruence with the unmistakable screech of an automobile's brakes came the klaxon of a horn superseded by a contentious shout almost immediately lost in the rev of a motor engine. On a wetted city street, a young American man stood unwittingly at the curb. He filmed in the midst of pelting rain with a picture camera he held directly to the sky. The camera was strung around the man's neck, fastened securely to a thin leather strap. Atop of the boxy device an aperture served as a viewfinder through which he distractedly peered. Caught unaware, he was doused by a wave of rainwater fast brought up onto the sidewalk. "Watch where you're stepping," came fast with a holler. A canvassed lorry thumped heavily through a puddle forcing the American man to leap back from the curb. The lorry swayed, teetered, and jolted in passing. An irate fist waved from an open window, the only consolation had for heeding the untimely warning. "Get out from the road," was added without sympathy. The American's pants were soaked. He was a tall, well-groomed young man, dressed handsomely in a pair of beige slacks and a fine waist-length overcoat. Soiled by the filthy puddle, chastened for his heedless curiosity-his dark hair lay matted against his forehead and his pale complexion reddened, flushed from the shock-he had drawn unwanted attention to himself. That he was a foreigner was shamefully obvious to the common passersby. Rooted in place, he checked down at himself, at first taken aback, then shrugged good-heartedly and shook himself out. A safe distance behind him, a sizable group of detrained passengers stood huddled together sheltered underneath the broad awning of Dworzec Centralny-Warsaw's newly built Central Railway Terminal. On the sidewalk in front of them sat a heaping pile of suitcases and steamer trunks. The wayfarers, assembled against the rain, consisted mostly of young, smartly dressed American women. The prettiest in particular, Lynn Ann Daily, waved tentatively and motioned to step from under the awning. She called to the American man by name. "Oh-careful, James!-Here, James,..." shouting sweetly out of concern. Her voice conveyed an extraordinary amount of emotion; he clearly was uninjured-for such a simple matter she appeared overly concerned. Her attempt to elicit a response from the American man had failed. Her words miscarried, thwarted by the gales and carouses of the storm. "James." Sheltered from the pouring rain, Lynn once more endeavored to call out, "Here, James." The man she addressed remained as of yet unaware, his notice drawn away from the group of American women. She cupped her hands around her mouth to amplify her voice and shouted, poised in the half-light at the edge of the terminal building's extensive awning. "Come here, James. Do be reasonable and get out from the rain!" The American man was unresponsive. Near enough to be heard, she called once more. "James, do get out from the rain. Why be so stubborn? You're getting yourself soaked!" Being particular about the camera he wore, James tucked it safely under his jacket, promptly withdrew from the rain and ducked beneath the awning beside Lynn. He deftly held his cold, wet pants out away from his legs. Once white, they were now splattered with grease and mud. "Look what you've done," Lynn quipped, sympathetically pointing out his ruined trousers. "Honestly though, James, you ought to be a bit more careful," she scolded with an up-turned smile. "You're fortunate not to have gotten yourself killed!" Mute up until this point, James leaned down to gather a couple of well-packed travel bags which had been placed amongst the group's luggage. He slung a canvas duffle bag and a simple leather tote each over a shoulder. James did not respond to Lynn's chiding with any specific comment, only a garbled grunt followed by a playful, cursive wave. "What, with that thing 'round your neck," she persisted, "there'll be no end to your troubles!" Once he had balanced both his bags, James bundled himself up; he glanced to the sky, eyed the worsening weather, and shrugged. "Nope," was his only reply. With a stiff pull at his coat collar, James stuck his head out from under the awning. Readied, he motioned to leave. "Well, I'll see you, Lynn," he added superfluously in the midst of departing. "You're not waiting for a taxicab?!" she blurted. His soaked clothing spoke for itself. With a curt answer to her question from over his shoulder, James leapt out into the pouring rain. "Nope." Lynn watched as he was engulfed, disappearing into the solid swell of the rain. "Nice to meet you, James Corbin-Hale," she mumbled aloud to herself. The length of the street was completely obscured by a thick sheet of grey. Warsaw was lost in a torrential downpour. 2 "Nice to meet you, James Corbin-Hale," was spoken in a heavy, masculine voice. A dashing, sharply dressed Englishman greeted James from behind the counter in the small lobby of The English Lodging House for Men. With an astute nod, he took James' hand in a friendly, vigorous shake. Good-natured and with a charming smile, he settled the arrangements pertaining to the American man's lodgings. He placed down the fountain pen with which he had entered James' information onto an open page of the lodging house's thick register. The formalities of his position as concierge were concluded, and in way of a proper introduction he slid the book over and pulled up the hinged counter. "Name's Stokley." "Stokley," James repeated in cue with his greeting. Under a thick, wavy, parted head of jet-black hair Stokley had a way of offering the most intense sort of stare. James found his blue eyes to be inclusive and undemanding, and similar to everyone else who encountered Stokley, James was instantly taken in by all of his high-spirited genuineness. "You're soaked through!" Stokley observed and took a step forward. "A fine first day, huh?! We could use the rain, though. So, it is your first day in Warsaw, then?" "Yes." "It's been one of the harshest of summers." "I could use a change of clothes." "Right. Sure thing-" A step out from behind the counter and Stokley, in glancing down, took notice of James' trousers. A puddle gathered at the American's feet. James stood in discomfort; the legs of his pants were sullied to the knees. Taken aback, Stokley stopped himself short. "What happened there?! Your slacks-" "A truck," James informed him. "You can tell that you're an American." "Yeah?" Stokley nodded adding equivocally, "Yeah, you can always tell an American!" A man of bearing, Stokley, who stood graciously before James, was easily a head taller than him. Though quite imposing in stature, Stokley had that kind of characteristic charm, a wonderful comeliness that was generally capable of putting those around him completely at ease. Unprompted, he leaned down to grab a hold of James' bags, which had been laid at the foot of the counter. "Help with your bags?" he asked assertively. "No, I'm fine," James courteously declined, quick to edge toward them. "That's all right, I've got 'em." Regardless, Stokley scooped up both bags and effortlessly tucked one under each arm. "Really, it's not a problem." Without giving James a moment to protest, Stokley entered further into the lodging house. He informed him, "Up the street, all the American women stay in this boarding house." He checked back on James before he elaborated any further. "Popular with the English girls as well. If you like, I could introduce you to the old woman who runs the place. We get on pretty well, she and I, though at times she doesn't recognize me. She must be going on ninety, at least." "Yeah, sure, if it's not too much trouble." "Not at all. I'll be sure to introduce you, put a good word in. She's careful with her girls, very protective of them. For the time being though, let me show you to your room. Afterward maybe, if you're free for a moment I'll take you over there." The men crossed the modest lobby's unbarred threshold. Stokley led James through the portal and into a spacious common room crowded with a multitude of fancy chairs and a softly worn, plain-patterned divan. Set at the far end of the room was a small black wood stove on which a few steaming kettles rested. Several young men stood and chatted while they helped themselves to generous servings of the morning tea and coffee prearranged on a large stand in the middle of the room.