Kane & Abel (1979) Page 8

  The prisoners were ordered to sit on the platform, and were given goat’s milk, cabbage soup and black bread. Of the original twenty-five servants who had been imprisoned in the dungeons, twelve survived: ten men and two women. Wladek took charge, dividing the portions carefully among them. He assumed that they must be waiting for a train, but night fell and they slept below the stars. Paradise compared to the dungeons. Wladek thanked God that the weather was mild.

  They spent the next day waiting for a train that never came, followed by another sleepless night, colder than the previous one. Morning came, and still they waited. Finally an engine puffed into the station. Soldiers disembarked, speaking their hateful tongue, but it departed without Wladek’s pitiful army. They spent yet another night on the platform.

  Wladek lay awake considering how he might escape, but during the night one of his twelve charges made a run for it across the track and was shot down by a guard even before he had reached the far platform. It was the Baron’s steward, Ludwik - one of the witnesses to the Baron’s will, and Wladek’s heritage. His body was left on the track as a warning to anyone else who might try something similar.

  On the evening of the third day another train chugged into the station, a great steam locomotive hauling passenger cars and open freight carriages with the word Cattle painted on the sides, their floors covered with straw. Several of the carriages were already full of prisoners, but from where, Wladek didn’t know. He and his small group were thrown into one of them to begin their journey - but to where? After a wait of several more hours the train started to move out of the station, in a direction that Wladek judged from the setting sun to be eastward.

  Armed guards were sitting cross-legged on the roofs of the passenger cars. Throughout the interminable journey an occasional flurry of shots from above resulted in another body being thrown onto the track, making clear the futility of any thought of escape.

  When the train stopped at Minsk, they were given their first proper meal - black bread, water, nuts and millet - but then the journey continued. Sometimes they went for three days without seeing another station. Many of the reluctant travellers died of thirst or starvation and were hurled overboard from the moving train, allowing a little more space for those who remained. When the train did come to a halt, they would often wait for a couple of days to allow another train going west the use of the track. These trains that delayed their progress were invariably full of soldiers and Wladek quickly worked out that troop trains had priority over all other transport.

  Escape was always uppermost in Wladek’s mind, but two things prevented him from taking the risk. First, there was nothing but miles of wilderness on either side of the track; and second, those who had survived the dungeons depended on him. He may have been the youngest, but it was he who organized their food and drink, and tried to sustain their will to live. He was the only one who still believed in the future.

  As each day passed and they were taken further east, the temperature grew colder, often falling to 30 degrees below zero. They would lie up against one another in a line on the carriage floor, each body keeping the next one warm. Wladek would recite The Aeneid to himself while he tried to snatch some sleep. It was impossible even to turn over unless everyone agreed, so periodically Wladek would slap the side of the carriage, and they would all roll over and face the other way. One night one of the women did not move. Wladek informed the guard, and four of them picked up the body and threw it out of the moving train. The guards then pumped bullets into her to make sure she was not feigning death in an attempt to escape.

  Two hundred miles beyond Minsk, they arrived in the town of Smolensk, where they were given warm cabbage soup and black bread. A bunch of new prisoners, who appeared to speak the same tongue as the guards, were thrown into their carriage. Their leader was considerably older than Wladek. Wladek and his eleven remaining companions, ten men and one woman, were immediately suspicious of the new arrivals, so they divided the carriage in half, with the two groups keeping to themselves.

  One night, while Wladek lay awake staring at the stars, trying to keep warm, he saw the leader of the Smolenskis crawling towards the last man in his own line. The Smolenski had a short length of rope in his hand, which he slipped round the neck of Alfons, the Baron’s first footman, who was sleeping. Wladek knew that if he moved too quickly, the young lad would hear him and escape back to the protection of his comrades. He inched along on his belly down the line of Polish bodies. Eyes stared at him as he passed, but nobody spoke. When he reached the end of the line, he leapt on the aggressor, waking everyone in the carriage. Each faction shrank back, with the exception of Alfons, who lay motionless in front of them.

  The Smolenski leader was taller and more agile than Wladek, but that made little difference while the two were scrapping on the floor. The struggle lasted for several minutes, which attracted the attention of the guards, who laughed and made bets on the outcome. One guard, bored by the lack of blood, threw a bayonet into the middle of the carriage. Both boys scrambled for the shining blade, with the Smolenski grabbing it first. His band cheered as he thrust it into the side of Wladek’s leg, pulled the blood-covered blade back out and lunged again. This time the bayonet lodged firmly in the wooden floor of the jolting carriage, next to Wladek’s ear. As the Smolenski boy tried to wrench it free, Wladek kicked him in the crotch with every ounce of energy he could muster, and his adversary fell back, letting go of the bayonet. Wladek grabbed it, jumped on top of the Smolenski, and thrust the blade into his mouth. The boy gave out a shriek of agony that awoke the entire train. Wladek pulled the blade out, twisting it as he did so, and thrust again and again, long after the Smolenski had ceased to move. Finally Wladek knelt over him, breathing heavily, picked up the body and threw it out of the carriage. He heard the thud as it hit the bank, followed by the shots the guards pointlessly pumped into it.

  Wladek limped towards Alfons and fell onto his knees, suddenly aware of a cold, aching pain in his leg. He shook the lifeless body: his second witness was dead. Who would now believe that he was the chosen heir to the Baron’s estate? Was there any reason left to live? He picked up the bayonet with both hands and pressed the blade against his stomach. Immediately a guard jumped down into the carriage and wrested the weapon from him.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he grunted. ‘We need the lively ones like you for the camps. You can’t expect us to do all the work.’

  Wladek buried his head in his hands. He had lost his inheritance, in exchange for a dozen penniless Smolenskis.

  The whole carriage was Wladek’s domain, and he now had twenty prisoners to care for. He split them up so that a Pole would always sleep next to a Smolenski, which he hoped would reduce the likelihood of any further warfare between the rival gangs.

  He spent a considerable part of each day learning the Smolenskis’ strange tongue. He did not realize for several days that it was Russian, so greatly did it differ from the classical language taught to him by the Baron. But then the real significance of this discovery dawned on him when he worked out where the train was heading.

  During the day, Wladek took on two Smolenskis at a time to tutor him, and as soon as they grew tired, he would select another two, and so on until they were all exhausted. It was not long before he was able to converse fluently with his new dependants. Some of them he discovered were Russian soldiers, taken prisoner after repatriation for the crime of having been captured by the Germans. The rest consisted of White Russians - farmers, miners, labourers - all bitterly hostile to the Revolution.

  The train jolted on past terrain more barren than Wladek had ever seen before, and through towns of which he had never heard - Omsk, Novosibirsk, Krasnoyarsk: the names rang ominously in his ears. Finally, after two months and more than three thousand miles, they reached Irkutsk, where the track came to an end.

  All the prisoners were hustled off the train, fed and issued with grey uniforms with numbers on the back, felt boots, jackets and heavy coats. Although fig
hts broke out for the warmest garments, even the most sought-after provided little protection from the wind and snow.

  Horseless wagons like the one that had borne Wladek away from his castle appeared and long chains were thrown out by the guards. The prisoners were then cuffed by one hand, fifty to each chain. They marched behind the trucks, while the guards rode on the back. After twelve hours they were allowed a two-hour rest so the dead and dying could be unchained before the living set off again.

  After three days, Wladek thought he would die of cold and exhaustion, but once they were clear of populated areas they travelled only during the day and rested by night. A mobile field kitchen run by prisoners from the camp supplied turnip soup that became colder, and bread that became staler, as each day passed. Wladek learned from these prisoners that conditions at the camp were even worse, hence their volunteering for the field kitchen.

  For the first week they were never unshackled from their chains, but later, when there could be no thought of escape, they were released at night to sleep, digging holes in the snow to keep warm. Sometimes on good days they found a forest in which to bed down: luxury began to take strange forms. On and on they marched, past vast lakes and across frozen rivers, ever northward, in the face of viciously cold winds and ever deeper drifts of snow. Wladek’s wounded leg gave him a constant dull pain, soon surpassed by the agony of his frostbitten toes, fingers and ears. The old and the sick were dying. The lucky ones, quietly as they slept. The unlucky ones, unable to keep up the pace, were uncuffed from the chains and cast off to die alone. Wladek lost all sense of time, and was conscious only of the tug of the chain, not knowing when he dug his hole in the snow at night whether he would wake the next morning. Those who didn’t had dug their own graves.

  After a trek of nine hundred miles, the survivors were met by Ostyaks, nomads of the steppes, in reindeer-drawn sleds. The prisoners were chained to the sleds and marched on. When a blizzard forced them to halt for the best part of two days, Wladek seized the opportunity to try to communicate with the young Ostyak to whose sled he was chained. He discovered that the Ostyaks hated the Russians of the south and west, who treated them almost as badly as they treated their captives. The Ostyaks were not unsympathetic to the sad prisoners with no future, the ‘unfortunate ones’, as they called them.

  12

  THE FUTURE was also worrying Anne. The first few months of her marriage had been happy, marred only by her anxiety over William’s increasing dislike of her husband, and Henry’s seeming inability to find a job. Henry was a little touchy on the subject, explaining that he was still disoriented by the war, and wasn’t willing to rush into something he might later regret. She found this hard to understand, and finally the matter caused their first row.

  ‘I can’t understand, Henry, why you haven’t set up that real estate business you seemed so keen on before we were married.’

  ‘The time isn’t quite right, my darling. The realty market isn’t looking promising at the moment.’

  ‘You’ve been saying that for nearly a year. I wonder if it will ever be promising enough.’

  ‘Sure it will. Truth is, I need a little more capital. Now, if you’d allow me to borrow some of your money, I could get myself started.’

  ‘That’s not possible, Henry. You know the terms of Richard’s will. My allowance was stopped the day we married, and I only have the capital left.’

  ‘A little of that would be more than enough. And don’t forget that precious boy of yours has over twenty million in his family trust.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about William’s trust,’ Anne said.

  ‘Oh, come on, Anne, give me a chance to be your husband. Don’t make me feel like a guest in my own home.’

  ‘What’s happened to your money, Henry? You always led me to believe you had enough to start your own business.’

  ‘You’ve always known I wasn’t in Richard’s league financially, and there was a time, Anne, when you said it didn’t matter: “I’d marry you, Henry, if you were penniless,”’ he mocked.

  Anne burst into tears, and Henry tried to console her. She spent the rest of the evening in his arms, neither of them referring to the subject again. She managed to convince herself she was being unfair, and lacking understanding. She had more money than she could ever possibly need. Shouldn’t she entrust a little of it to the man to whom she was so willing to entrust the rest of her life?

  The next morning, she agreed to let Henry have $100,000 to set up his own real estate business in Boston. Within a month he had rented a smart new office in a fashionable part of town, appointed a staff of six and started work. Soon he was mixing with influential city politicians and established real estate men of Boston. They drank with him in their clubs and talked of the boom in farmland. They told him of investments that couldn’t lose, and joined him at the race-track. They put him up for expensive country clubs where he would meet future clients. It wasn’t long before Anne’s $100,000 had disappeared.

  When William celebrated his fifteenth birthday, he was in his third year at St Paul’s, sixth in his class overall, and top in mathematics. He had also become a rising figure in the Debating Society, if not on the sports field.

  He wrote to his mother once a week, reporting his progress, always addressing his letters to Mrs Richard Kane, refusing to acknowledge that Henry Osborne even existed. Anne wasn’t sure whether she should talk to him about it, and she was careful to hide the envelopes from Henry. She continued to hope that in time William would come around to liking her husband, but as the months passed it became clear that such a hope was unrealistic. William hated Henry Osborne, and nursed his hatred passionately, although he wasn’t sure what he could actually do about it. He was grateful that Osborne never accompanied her when his mother visited him at school; he could not have tolerated having the other boys see his mother with that man. It was bad enough that he had to live with him in Boston.

  In one letter William asked if he could spend the summer holidays with his friend Matthew Lester, first at a summer camp in Vermont, then with the Lester family in New York. The request came as a painful blow to Anne, but she took the easy way out and gave her permission. Henry seemed quite happy to go along with her decision.

  For the first time since his mother’s marriage, William was looking forward to the holidays.

  The Lesters’ Packard chauffeured William and Matthew noiselessly to the summer camp in Vermont. On the journey, Matthew casually asked William what he intended to do when the time came for him to leave St Paul’s.

  ‘When I leave, I will be the top student of our year, class president, and will have won the Hamilton Memorial Mathematics Scholarship to Harvard,’ replied William without hesitation.

  ‘Why is all that so important?’ Matthew asked innocently.

  ‘My father achieved all three.’

  ‘When you’ve finished battling with your father, I’ll introduce you to mine.’

  William smiled.

  The two boys had a lively and enjoyable six weeks in Vermont, playing every game, from chess to football. When camp finally broke up, they packed and boarded a train for New York to spend the last month of the holiday with the Lester family.

  They were greeted at the door by a butler, who addressed Matthew as ‘Sir’, and by a twelve-year-old girl covered in freckles who called him ‘Fatty’. It made William laugh, because his friend was so slim, while it was she who was overweight. The girl smiled, revealing teeth almost totally hidden behind braces.

  You’d never believe Susan was my sister, would you?’ said Matthew disdainfully.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said William, smiling at Susan. ‘She’s so much better looking than you.’

  Susan adored William from that moment on.

  William adored Matthew’s father the moment they met; he reminded him in so many ways of his own father, and he begged Mr Lester to let him visit the great bank of which he was chairman. Charles Lester thought carefully about the request. No ch
ild had ever entered the orderly precincts of 17 Broad Street before, not even his own son. He compromised, as bankers often do, and showed the boy around the Wall Street building on a Sunday afternoon.

  William was fascinated by the large offices on so many floors, the vaults, the foreign exchange dealing room, the boardroom, but most of all the chairman’s office. The Lester bank’s activities were considerably more wide-ranging than Kane and Cabot’s, and William knew from his own small personal investment account, which provided him with a copy of the annual general report, that Lester’s had a far larger capital base than Kane and Cabot. He remained silent as they were driven back to the Lesters’ home.

  ‘Well, William, did you enjoy looking around?’ Charles Lester asked eventually.

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ replied William. ‘I certainly did.’ He paused for a moment before adding, ‘But I feel I should warn you, sir, that it’s my intention to be chairman of your bank one day.’

  Charles Lester smiled. He told his dinner guests that night about young William Kane’s visit to Lester and Company, and the fact that he was after his job. His guests laughed. But William had not meant the remark as a joke.

  Anne was shocked when Henry asked her for another loan.

  ‘It’s as safe as houses,’ he assured her. ‘Ask Alan Lloyd. As chairman of the bank, he can only have your best interests at heart.’

  ‘But two hundred and fifty thousand?’ Anne queried.