Chapter Four

I was still fast asleep when someone began knocking persistently on my door. The black-out curtains made it impossible to judge the time of day, and it took me several moments to fight through layers of sleep and look at my alarm clock. The hands were poised at four o'clock, two hours before I normally woke up. "Miss Jones, there's a telephone call for you from a Colonel Grey's office." I recognised the landlady's voice, and stumbled out of bed to open the door. "Thank you," I managed. "I'll come straight away." She disappeared down the corridor, most probably in a hurry to get back to bed. Pulling on a dressing gown, I padded downstairs to the telephone booth and picked up the receiver. "This is Christine Jones."

"Christine, this is Margaret. I'm sorry to call so early, but you'll come to the office straight away. Colonel Rochard is going to Derbyshire and he wants you to go with him." I yawned, trying to register the details. "When is he leaving?"

"He's already waiting."

"Alright, I won't be long." Despite my best endeavours, I knew I was late as I approached the entrance to the office. It had begun to rain as I crossed the compound, at first just a light drizzle and then an increasingly heavy downpour. Rochard's car was already humming as I approached, and a chauffeur in a corporal's uniform stepped out of the car to open the door and take my baggage. Rochard was already inside, apparently reading a report. I stepped in and shut the door, sitting as far away as possible from him.

"Try to be punctual, Miss Jones," he said without lifting his eyes from the page. I remembered my earlier resolve and reminded myself not to apologise. "I'll remember for next time. Is there anything you'd like me to do?"

"Get some sleep if you can. It's a long journey and we'll be busy once we get there. I'll need you to do some translation."

"What language?"

"Polish." I remembered what Jill had said about Treblinka, but instinctively resolved not to mention it. It was almost certainly classified, and Rochard would without a doubt be able to smell the blood in the water. I shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Clearly Rochard had had enough sleep; I watched as he lit a cigarette and reached for another report, occasionally making notes in the margin. I'd lost count of how much he had read yesterday, and the stack of files next to him was equally big. He was never unoccupied, or so it seemed; I felt uncomfortable not having any work in front of me, so I could at least feel useful.

I must have dozed eventually, as the sun had already risen the next time I looked through the window. Rochard had brought a flask of coffee with him and offered one to me wordlessly. It was real coffee as opposed to the chicory I had been used to since rationing began, and it was delicious. "Thank you." I attempted a smile, and he acknowledged me with a nod.

"Drink quickly. We're almost there." The military base in the Derbyshire countryside was secluded, a long way from the nearest town. It was newer than Cliveden, built in response to the increased demand for more training facilities for infantry soldiers. Rochard's credentials gained us quick entry, and we were shown without delay to a small room with a desk and four chairs. Two men were already present; an officer and a man in civilian clothes. The latter watched wearily as Rochard shook hands with the officer and sat in the chair directly opposite. Motioning for me to sit next to him, he began to speak to the officer. "Let's dispense with the formalities. My secretary, Miss Jones, will translate. Are you Pavel Bartosz?" At the mention of his name, the civilian nodded. "My name is Colonel Rochard. Do you understand what I do?" I translated as quickly as I could, struggling to keep up with Rochard's brisk tone.

Bartosz nodded. "I understand."

"You were in the army?"

"Yes. I was in the artillery. But I only had four days of fighting before the Germans caught up with me." His voice was hoarse.

"Where did they take you?"

"Krasniki, the Majdanek in June '42." Rochard made a note. "What did you do?"

"I worked in the munitions factory at first. There were mostly Russians from the siege at Kiev. Then they sent me to one of the warehouses."

"More munitions?"

"No, valuables. Jewellery, suitcases. Clothes. We had to sort them when they came in."

"Do you know where it came from?"

Bartosz shrugged. "No. The soldiers would bring it, and we'd sort it. Anything of good quality we kept to one side. The rest got incinerated."

"Did you ever see any civilians being sent to the camp?"

"Yes." Bartosz hesitated. "More and more towards the end. Not all of them Poles. Some French, some Italians. I probably sorted through some of their belongings."

"Did you ever see any of the work that was going on?"

"You mean, did I know about the executions?" I stumbled on the last words, but Rochard didn't seem to have heard. "It was an open question."

Bartosz didn't raise his voice, but his tone was clear. "I worked in factories for four fucking years. And when I wasn't working, I was trying to feed myself, and get some sleep so I didn't get sick. I didn't see any killing, but I'm sure it happened. Someone told me they shot a lot of Soviets."

Rochard nodded. "How did you escape?"

"They started to put up barbed wire fences, triple layers. We were digging holes for them to pour the concrete foundations into. There were ditches nearby where they were building new accomodation for prisoners. I waited until the guard for our group wasn't looking and made a run for it. I hid in the ditch until it was dark and then ran as far as I could get. I was lucky - once the fences were up it would have been impossible.". In his right hand Bartosz held a cigarette, and it trembled slightly as he spoke. Rochard gave him a pencil and paper, and asked him to try and draw a map of the camp. He did it in silence, bending so low over the table that his nose almost touched the paper. The Officer next to him fidgeted, leaving the room after a few minutes and returning with coffee. I was grateful, as my throat was dry. As soon as Bartosz finished, he pushed the map across the table to Rochard, who regarded it wordlessly for a few minutes before asking a few questions. There was little more to add; the Majdanek camp was large and Bartosz appeared to have seen only a portion of it. The interview concluded at midday, and we were escorted to the refectory for lunch with the. I was ravenous, and said little; I wanted time to put my thoughts into order. Next to me Rochard made smalltalk with the Officers. I thought of Bartosz, and if it were possible that he would be sent out to fight again. I wished I could have asked him more.

To my surprise, Rochard slept on the return journey. Even in his sleep, he didn't seem fully relaxed. There was a crease between his eyes, as if he were still contemplating a problem, and a tightness around his jaw. He didn't seem to take much pleasure in his work, although I could understand why. The rain had long since cleared, and the afternoon had turned out to be bright and humid. He didn't wake up, even when I rolled down the window and fresh air rolled in. As we approached Clivedon, I turned from the window to wake him, only to find that he had already done so, and was gathering his notes. He nodded at me. "You may as well as well go home. It's almost six. Don't tell anyone where you've been."

I was glad for the walk home in the warm evening air, and the opportunity to stretch my legs. At the apartment block I called on Jill's door, eager for the company, but there was no answer. I felt uneasy spending the evening alone in my room, but there was little else to do; Clivedon was twenty miles from the nearest town, and once night fell people were discouraged from making journeys during the blackout. Resigning myself to an evening on my own, I made an omelette on the hotplate in my room and put on one of my Father's old recordings. It was one of Bach's violin concertos, his favourite and mine; we never used to tire of listening to it.