Read Online While Still We Live by Helen MacInnes - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen MacInnes
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No reason seemed to link together such a varied collection of people. They certainly were not British, nor Americans, nor Frenchmen.
Sheila glanced at her watch nervously. It was almost half-past five. Ten minutes later, the man beside her rose and motioned her to enter the doorway which had just opened. The three men and one woman still sat and waited in the hall. They were getting restless now. The woman was trying hard not to cry.
The room which Sheila entered was unexpectedly simpleafter the impressive entrance hall. Simple and business-like. So was the uniformed man with a dark moustache who sat at the desk, with a window behind him. On one side of him was a man in civilian clothes, seated, waiting with a notebook and an open fountain pen. On the other side of the desk stood another uniformed man, as neat and slender as a French general. An empty chair faced the desk, the three men, and the window. A series of office cabinets covered the wall on her left; to her right, there was nothing but a door leading to an adjoining room.
Sheila determined to be equally business-like. She crossed the room quickly, sat down on the obvious chair, and looked at the man with the black moustache. He didn’t seem an unreasonable man: cold, perhaps, and impersonal; but not unreasonable. She waited while he adjusted his pince-nez and a black leather folder in front of him.
He looked up suddenly at the young man who had escorted Sheila here. “Better get the Special Commissioner, if he is available,” he said. “He has had much to do with the case of Margareta Koch.” He transferred his look, as he pronounced the name, to Sheila.
She took a deep breath of relief, as the young man placed the handbag on the desk and went to look for the Special Commissioner. This, she told herself, was nothing else than a complete mistake. Well, it would soon be cleared up.
She said with a smile, “May I speak in English? My Polish is very weak.”
“Any other language you can speak?” the man with the black moustache asked very gently.
“French, or German.”
“Oh... Well, we all understand German. Would you speak inthe language?” But it was more of a command than a question.
Sheila began eagerly. “Am I supposed to be this Margareta Koch?”
“What makes you think that?”
“By the way you looked at me when you said her name.”
The men exchanged quick glances. “And do you deny that you are Margareta Koch?”
“Of course. I am Sheila Matthews.”
The man behind the desk smiled. Sheila began to feel that this wasn’t going to be as easy as she had thought.
“An Englishwoman?”
“Born in England. My father was Scots.”
The man with the fountain pen began writing. The man with the moustache smiled again. “Just answer these questions, please. Your name is Sheila Matthews? Spell it.”
Sheila did so.
“Born where, and when?”
“In High Wycombe: a small place just outside of London. On August 7, 1916.”
There was another interval for more spelling.
“Your parents?”
Sheila suddenly lost her resolve to be patient. “Is this necessary?”
“Most necessary. Your parents?”
“Both dead. My mother died in September 1916. My father, Charles Matthews, was killed in December of the same year.”
“Killed? How?”
“In action.”
“In France?”
“No.” Sheila found that her uncle’s insistence on silence overher father’s death was even, at this moment making it difficult for her to talk about it. “In Poland,” she said reluctantly.
“Really?” All three men were watching her intently, now. “Just where in Poland in December 1916?”
“Here in Warsaw.”
“There were no Allied troops fighting in Warsaw by December 1916. By that time, the Germans were in possession of the city.”
“The Germans shot him. There’s a tablet erected to his memory in the Citadel.”
The man who looked like a French general said aside in Polish, “This is devilish clever.”
“That can be verified,” the
Sheila glanced at her watch nervously. It was almost half-past five. Ten minutes later, the man beside her rose and motioned her to enter the doorway which had just opened. The three men and one woman still sat and waited in the hall. They were getting restless now. The woman was trying hard not to cry.
The room which Sheila entered was unexpectedly simpleafter the impressive entrance hall. Simple and business-like. So was the uniformed man with a dark moustache who sat at the desk, with a window behind him. On one side of him was a man in civilian clothes, seated, waiting with a notebook and an open fountain pen. On the other side of the desk stood another uniformed man, as neat and slender as a French general. An empty chair faced the desk, the three men, and the window. A series of office cabinets covered the wall on her left; to her right, there was nothing but a door leading to an adjoining room.
Sheila determined to be equally business-like. She crossed the room quickly, sat down on the obvious chair, and looked at the man with the black moustache. He didn’t seem an unreasonable man: cold, perhaps, and impersonal; but not unreasonable. She waited while he adjusted his pince-nez and a black leather folder in front of him.
He looked up suddenly at the young man who had escorted Sheila here. “Better get the Special Commissioner, if he is available,” he said. “He has had much to do with the case of Margareta Koch.” He transferred his look, as he pronounced the name, to Sheila.
She took a deep breath of relief, as the young man placed the handbag on the desk and went to look for the Special Commissioner. This, she told herself, was nothing else than a complete mistake. Well, it would soon be cleared up.
She said with a smile, “May I speak in English? My Polish is very weak.”
“Any other language you can speak?” the man with the black moustache asked very gently.
“French, or German.”
“Oh... Well, we all understand German. Would you speak inthe language?” But it was more of a command than a question.
Sheila began eagerly. “Am I supposed to be this Margareta Koch?”
“What makes you think that?”
“By the way you looked at me when you said her name.”
The men exchanged quick glances. “And do you deny that you are Margareta Koch?”
“Of course. I am Sheila Matthews.”
The man behind the desk smiled. Sheila began to feel that this wasn’t going to be as easy as she had thought.
“An Englishwoman?”
“Born in England. My father was Scots.”
The man with the fountain pen began writing. The man with the moustache smiled again. “Just answer these questions, please. Your name is Sheila Matthews? Spell it.”
Sheila did so.
“Born where, and when?”
“In High Wycombe: a small place just outside of London. On August 7, 1916.”
There was another interval for more spelling.
“Your parents?”
Sheila suddenly lost her resolve to be patient. “Is this necessary?”
“Most necessary. Your parents?”
“Both dead. My mother died in September 1916. My father, Charles Matthews, was killed in December of the same year.”
“Killed? How?”
“In action.”
“In France?”
“No.” Sheila found that her uncle’s insistence on silence overher father’s death was even, at this moment making it difficult for her to talk about it. “In Poland,” she said reluctantly.
“Really?” All three men were watching her intently, now. “Just where in Poland in December 1916?”
“Here in Warsaw.”
“There were no Allied troops fighting in Warsaw by December 1916. By that time, the Germans were in possession of the city.”
“The Germans shot him. There’s a tablet erected to his memory in the Citadel.”
The man who looked like a French general said aside in Polish, “This is devilish clever.”
“That can be verified,” the
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