While Still We Live by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page A

bringing in supplies of food. Sheila listened, and dread and fear and pity and excitement kept her staring at the ceiling. She wondered how many millions were lying awake with these same emotions, millions who had the added sorrow of parting from those they loved. (She was indeed one of the lucky ones, as Mr. Stevens had said: she hadn’t a husband or a sweetheart or a son or a brother to worry over, like all those other women.) It seemed unfair of life, somehow, that other millions could sleep in peace, and need only worry about nothing more than breakfast when they awoke.
    Having decided that she belonged to those who worried and stayed awake, Sheila fell deeply asleep.
    When she awoke, it was early afternoon. The apartment was silent. Dressing didn’t take long when the choosing of clothes was eliminated. She was filled with sudden energy. First, the suitcases; clothes. Second, the Embassy, and a wire, with a letter to follow to Uncle Matthews: money. Third, a talk with Uncle Edward: something to do, to help while she stayed in Warsaw.How long would she be here? Looking at that question in the practical light of day and not in the emotional atmosphere of a blackout, she smiled ruefully. Uncle Matthews would have a lot to say, and Professor Korytowski, although he had been too polite last night to argue when she was so tired and unhappy, might very well find a piece of gentle advice to give her when she was rested. But they would find she was in earnest. The only thing that worried her now was that she might not be considered useful, or worse still, that she would be a positive worry and nuisance to them all.
    What could she do? Nursing? If she could somehow learn to control an overturning stomach the minute a patient started being sick. She could drive a car, but she would have to learn about its insides. She could speak French passably, Polish haltingly and blunderingly, German really well. She could understand them all; especially German. Why did she have to choose that language as her best one? She wasn’t a bad shot; even Uncle Matthews admitted that. But it wasn’t likely that much shooting would be done in Warsaw behind the trenches. And, she was forced to admit, her shooting had been with clay-pigeons. She had never killed as much as a mouse in her life. It seemed as if all her assets for war had a “but” attached. The trouble was, her instincts and training were geared for peace. Well, she would just have to learn. That was all. She wasn’t the only one.
    She moved over to the window to comb her hair in the sunlight. The green fingers of the chestnut leaves were outstretched below her, shielding the pavement from the heat. In the cool-looking shadows of the opposite side of the street a large notice was fixed to the pillar of a colonnade. It must be new, for everyone whopassed would stop to read it. They stood in a small, fluctuating, yet constant, group. Each one, as he gave place to a new arrival, would detach himself quietly from the others and go his own way. And yet he was linked to the others he had left. The heads bent in deliberation, the silence, the thoughtful steps, were the link that bound them. It couldn’t be war. Not yet. The skies were empty of planes. Not yet, with the skies still blue and broken only by a light wisp of cloud.
    The rest of the apartment was as empty as it had sounded. It was neat and clean, so the porter’s wife, who came up each day to “look after” Uncle Edward, must have finished her work. The living-room had lost its disorder of chairs and smoke-filled atmosphere. Last night, she had just had time to notice that, through the half-open door, before Uncle Edward had shown her into Barbara’s room. He had offered her food and something to drink, but she had refused. She hadn’t been invited into the living-room. She had been too tired anyway, but her glimpse of the crowd of middle-aged and oldish men gathered there had aroused her speculations. They had stopped