Of course: the Poles. The Captain was one of the Under -Mentionables: it was his people that Heydrich was talking about murdering in Warsaw. As she looked at the pale, trembling Dabrowski, for the first time in her young life Trixie understood the full horrific implications of the philosophy of racial purity that was UnFunDaMentalism. It was not a rather farcical and non-RaTional exercise in religious whimsy but something much more serious. Now she understood that UnFunDa Mentalism was simply an excuse for genocide.
Before she had simply accepted the undeniable need for the ForthRight to achieve the racial purity propounded by UnFunDaMentalism – it had, after all, been drummed into her throughout her life. She had unthinkingly accepted that it was a violation of Nature for an Anglo-Slav to interbreed with one of the UnderMentionables, just as it would be against Nature for a dog to breed with a cat. The Seventh nuCommandment was, after all, explicit in its condemnation of miscegenation. Every day she thanked ABBA – not that she believed ABBA existed – that she had been born an Anglo-Slav, that she was one of the Master Race. By being born an Aryan she had won first prize in the lottery of life. But never had she thought that to preserve and promote the racial purity of the Anglo-Slavic people the Party would destroy the UnderMentionables wholesale.
Segregation: of course. Condemnation of miscegenation: naturally. The abortion of mixlings: certainly. Control of race through the State Register of Racial Purity: without a doubt. But genocide…
The Party condoning the killing of three million or more men, women and children living in the Warsaw Ghetto was unbelievable. But now the unbelievable had been made believable: she had heard Heydrich himself talk with casual indifference about slaughtering these poor innocent people.
‘What will you do?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ admitted the ashen-faced Dabrowski. Usually so decisive and energetic, he sat becalmed in his chair, numbed by the words that had come drifting up from the study. ‘Oh, we knew that the situation wasn’t good. We knew that we Poles were classified with the nuJus as Second-Class citizens of the ForthRight, but none of us ever thought that Heydrich was so deformed of character as to contemplate mass murder. The man is obviously mad.’ He shook his head, trying to clear it. ‘I have to get to Warsaw. I have to warn my people.’
‘Will they listen?’
‘I don’t know. How can anybody believe such a monstrous thing? But I have to try. The first thing we have to do is get out of here. And that won’t be easy.’
‘We’ll speak to my father. He’ll know what to do.’
They found Trixie’s father sitting alone in the morning room going through his red boxes of Ministry papers and doing the best he could to forget the baleful presence of Heydrich stalking the house. That he was surprised to be interrupted by his daughter and the Polish Captain was an understatement: it was an unbreakable rule in the Dashwood household that the Comrade Commissar was not to be disturbed when he was working.
Dashwood’s surprise mutated into real concern when he saw Trixie lock the door and approach with a finger pressed to her lips. ‘The Captain and I have overheard something, father,’ she whispered, ‘something so terrible that we felt obliged to come to warn you. It is imperative, father, that no one eavesdrop on our conversation.’
Comrade Commissar Dashwood, a survivor of the Troubles and of the Royalist purges that followed, had lived for too long in the ForthRight to disregard such warnings. He gave a nod and waved his guests over to an alcove set in the corner of the room. As soon as they were settled, he pulled a heavy curtain across the alcove, effectively sealing the three of them from the rest of the house. ‘We are safe here from prying ears,’ he said quietly, ‘but speak softly. They say Beria hears every word uttered in the ForthRight, even the whispers of lovers. Very well, Trixie, what are these secrets that you are so determined to share with me?’
Trixie gave a breathless synopsis of what they had heard when Heydrich was meeting with the Daemon. Through the five minutes of Trixie’s monologue her father sat silent and impassive, occasionally glancing to Captain Dabrowski for his nodded confirmation of what Trixie was saying. At the end of Trixie’s speech her father lit a cigarette and spent a minute or so in rumi-native reflection. Eventually he turned to the Captain. ‘So, Captain Dabrowski, it would appear I have been nurturing a viper in my bosom. Am I right in assuming that you are a crypto… one of the Cichociemni perhaps?’
‘The Cichociemni?’ asked Trixie.
‘It is the name we Poles give to the dark, silent ones,’ explained Dabrowski. ‘We are a group of Polish patriots who are dedicated to securing the freedom of the Polish people from the bondage of the ForthRight. As your father correctly surmises, I am one of the Cichociemni. I am a Polish crypto, my mission being to infiltrate the ForthRight hierarchy and learn their plans.’
Trixie looked at the Captain with surprise. The man was a counter-revolutionary. A Polish counter- revolutionary!
Dashwood gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘An accurate if somewhat disingenuous summary, if I might say so, Captain. I have an inkling that your intentions are somewhat more robust than simply the gleaning of information. Checkya intelligence reports indicate that in the event of the ForthRight moving against the Warsaw Ghetto the Cichociemni are sworn to eliminate specific targets within the Party’s senior personnel.’ He took a long draw of his cigarette. ‘Presumably, Captain, you intended to assassinate me.’
The Captain had the good grace to blush. ‘I make no apology for being a Polish patriot, Sir, nor for my ambition to defend my people from tyranny. You are, Sir, a legitimate military target: our information is that you are the foremost expert in the ForthRight regarding matters of logistics. You are, after all, the man who refashioned the ForthRight’s road network; your ministry supervises the traffic moving along the Thames, the Rhine and the Volga. You are the genius behind the ForthRight’s new railway network, you are the man responsible for the suffering of the ten thousand men of the Polish Slave Labour Division forced to work through the Winter building the new railway spurs connecting the ForthRight to the Hub.’
‘You were going to murder my father?’ interjected an incredulous Trixie.
‘There are nearly three million people confined to the Warsaw Ghetto, Miss Dashwood, their lives made a living Hel by the ForthRight. Is it any wonder that we have been provoked into the contemplation of such an ignoble action? But in my defence, Miss Trixie, understand that your father and only your father was targeted. We are not like the Party: we would not eradicate a man’s family in senseless retaliation. This was to be a military operation, not a purging.’
Dashwood gave a wry laugh. ‘It is a fine distinction, Captain Dabrowski.’
‘But an important one, Comrade Commissar!’ retorted Dabrowski. ‘I am a Polish officer and a gentleman and as such I would not deliberately endanger your daughter. Unfortunately, as your daughter and I have heard, Heydrich is not of the same mind. Once this evening’s seance has taken place he intends to have Beria place both you and your family under arrest. Your daughter, Sir, is to suffer for your supposed misdemeanours. That is the Party’s way, is it not: collective responsibility for all crimes? And we both know what will be the fate of your daughter once she is in the hands of that monster Beria.’
Dashwood glanced nervously at Trixie. ‘I would prefer it, Sir, if you would refrain from discussing such matters in front of my daughter.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘I suppose I have been lucky to survive as long as I have. No matter how careful I was, I knew that some day they would come for me. In Beria’s book, once a Royalist, always a Royalist. It’s just a shame they have come sooner than I had planned.’
‘Surely this is nonsense, father: they can’t arrest you!’ Trixie protested. ‘You have been a loyal member of the Party. They would be insane to eliminate you simply on suspicion of your being a Royalist reactionary, just on a whim. You must appeal to the Leader. You must convince him there has been some dreadful misunderstanding.’
‘Unfortunately, Trixie, there has been no misunderstanding. You must realise that Heydrich and his cronies are mad.’ It was a simple statement but so replete with treason that Trixie was shocked into silence. Her father had always been so careful not to criticise the Party or its leadership in front of others. ‘But their madness,’ he continued grimly, ‘should not blind us to the fact that they are accomplished people, that their intelligence apparatus is the most efficient in the Demi-Monde.’
There was something in the way her father said the words that made Trixie look at him afresh. It was as though he had sloughed off a mask to reveal something different and far more deadly beneath. Whereas before she had only seen the dutiful Party apparatchik – a little dull and stuffy, it had to be admitted – now there was a man of action, determined and strong. It might have been the spark in his eyes or the resolute set of his mouth but suddenly he was different. Very different…
‘You’re a Royalist!’ Even as the words tumbled out of her mouth, Trixie knew they were true. He was one of the people that Miss Appleton at the Academy had lectured them so fiercely to be on their guard against. He was
