Homeland (31 page)
‘No one was hurt?’
‘Fortunately not.’
‘I think I saw them,’ Wladyslaw said.
‘Who, the Germans?’
‘No, the patrol.’
‘You were lucky, then,’ the major said wearily, ‘that they didn’t take you for an enemy.’
The chapel was filled to capacity, the overflow clustered around the open door. As soon as the priest’s voice began to incant the first prayer, Wladyslaw excused himself and made his way
to the canteen. There was a long queue for breakfast, but the wait was worth it. He emerged with a full plate of fried eggs, bacon, sausage and fried bread, with toast and jam to follow. At first
glance it seemed that every seat in the canteen was taken but then Wladyslaw spotted a place at a table near the door, opposite a man bent low over some papers. Only after Wladyslaw had put his
plate down and pulled the chair out did he take a proper look at the man, and then it was too late to find another place.
‘Oh, hello, Grobel.’
Grobel stared at him. Then, in the manner of someone who likes to nail his facts, he stated, ‘Malinowski.’
‘How are you?’
‘You’re a civilian then?’ said Grobel, ignoring the question.
‘I’m working on a farm a couple of villages away.’
‘How is it?’
‘Not so bad.’ Brandishing his knife and fork, indicating with a cheery gesture that he intended to concentrate on eating, Wladyslaw attacked his food.
‘Will you be coming to the meeting at eleven?’ Grobel asked in his toneless voice.
Wladyslaw finished his mouthful before answering. ‘I hadn’t heard about a meeting.’
‘We’re voting on a motion requiring the authorities to segregate traitors and collaborators from the rest of us. To put them in a separate camp.’
‘Ah. But now I’m living elsewhere I don’t imagine I’m qualified to vote on such an issue.’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Grobel extracted a slip of paper from the stack in front of him and slid it across the table. ‘Come and vote anyway.’
The slip was headed: ‘Important Meeting!’ Wladyslaw glanced over it while he ate.
‘So long as everyone comes along and casts their votes then the authorities will have to take notice,’ Grobel declared. ‘Anyone who doesn’t – well, they’ll
have to look to their consciences! They’ll have to live with the responsibility of leaving the rest of us in an intolerable situation!’
Wladyslaw nodded sagely, and continued to nod as Grobel rumbled on through his old grievances, adding a few new ones for good measure, which seemed to revolve around the injustices of the
American and Canadian immigration policies and their bias towards single men and other undeserving types.
Finally, as Wladyslaw mopped up the last of his egg, Grobel fell silent.
‘Have you had news of your family?’ Wladyslaw asked dutifully.
‘Yes.’
‘Are they all right?’
‘Yes. But there’s no hope of a transport before April.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
After a pause, Grobel said, ‘Uganda’s a thousand metres above sea level, you know. It makes the climate bearable, even in summer.’
‘That’s something.’
‘It’s summer there now.’
‘Ah.’
‘They’re living in mud huts with thatched roofs.’
‘But adequate for the climate, I would imagine.’
‘The authorities have built a school for them. There are two qualified teachers among the women, so the children are getting proper tuition.’
‘That’s good. They’ll have made up for lost time.’
‘It’s made of mud, the school, like the huts. They’re short of books.’
Wladyslaw prepared to stand up. ‘Well . . . April’s not so very far away.’
Grobel glared at him. ‘But they won’t stick to it, will they? You don’t imagine the British will keep their word, do you? You don’t imagine Polish women and children will
be given anything but the lowest priority? No, the British will let us down, like they always do. No, April . . . September. What do they care?’
With the angry frown of a man who finds he has been unwittingly distracted from more pressing matters, Grobel made a dismissive gesture and, bending over his sheaf of handwritten notes once
more, began to scribble.
Wladyslaw escaped with relief and made his way back to the post room to find it was still firmly shut. A clerk in the administration block told him it was most likely to open after second Mass,
at ten o’clock. Wandering in the direction of his old quarters, Wladyslaw was hailed by two acquaintances from the Italian campaign and spent a pleasant half-hour talking about old times over
lemon tea and English biscuits named after Garibaldi.
He got back to the chapel a few minutes before Mass finished and caught Jozef as he came down the steps.
‘How are you, Jozef?’ he asked. ‘I heard you were ill.’
‘It was nothing,’ Jozef replied airily.
‘I was told that you’d collapsed in the pub. That there was a fight.’
Jozef, sensitive to the slightest criticism, assumed his dark, depressed look. ‘I was just ill. But if you don’t want to believe me . . . well, don’t!’
The rebuke Wladyslaw had prepared died on his lips. It was impossible to look at the gaunt features, the unnaturally tight skin, the angular cheekbones and darkly shadowed eyes, without feeling
an illogical responsibility.
‘Well, are you all right now?’
‘Never better.’
‘Dr Bennett was worried that you might not have had the necessary medical attention.’
‘I was in the care of my mother hens.’ Jozef tipped his head towards Alina and Danuta, who were chattering to some women nearby. ‘They kept me in bed for two days and fed me
broth and stewed apple.’
‘And we sang to him too,’ called Alina, who had overheard. ‘Like two old witches.’
‘There promises to be some rather better singing at Camp C this afternoon,’ said Danuta. ‘Songs from the Tatra Mountains by some lads from the Tank Brigade. Will you come,
Wladyslaw? It’s at four.’
‘Sadly, no. I have to get back before dark.’
‘There’s another event at the same time,’ said a young woman on a tentative note. ‘A visit to an English home for tea.’
There was a short but decisive silence.
Alina said apologetically, ‘Until I can speak English better I would feel embarrassed to attempt conversation.’
But it seemed to Wladyslaw that she and the rest of the inmates were held back by more than language. While they would undoubtedly find a great deal to interest them at an English tea party, in
their hearts they could see little point in making any attempt to assimilate. They had long ago acquired the mentality of wanderers. They saw no value in putting down roots which would only be torn
up again. Each new country, each new camp was simply another staging post on the long and arduous journey home, or if home were temporarily barred to them, then to some Little Poland in another
land. England had been a diversion more unexpected than some, but, after the twists and turns of the last six years, experience told them it was unlikely to be the last.
‘Will you at least take some refreshment with us, Wladyslaw?’ said Janina, adding in a heavy whisper, ‘We’ve managed to acquire some decent vodka.’
‘I’d love to. In an hour or so, if that’s all right.’
‘Where are you heading?’ Jozef asked as Wladyslaw began to move away.
‘To the post room.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Jozef glanced over his shoulder a couple of times as they walked away. Finally he said in a low tight voice, ‘Listen, Wladek, I’ve decided to get out of this place. I’m going
away.’
Slowing, Wladyslaw shot him a questioning look. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s all set,’ Jozef said, striding on doggedly. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow. First thing. I just wanted you to know.’
Struggling to catch up with him, Wladyslaw demanded, ‘But where are you going, Jozef? And why? What’s brought all this about?’
Jozef shook his head as if to ward off further questions, before offering reluctantly, ‘I’m going to London.’
‘But what will you do in London?’
‘Who knows? It can’t be any worse than hanging around here waiting for nothing to happen.’
‘But I thought you liked it here. You said you’d never been happier.’
Jozef hunched his shoulders. ‘It was the relief of getting out of that stinking sanatorium, that’s all.’
‘Have you got permission to leave?’
‘What do you think?’
Wladyslaw sighed. ‘For God’s sake, Jozef, can’t you at least wait for a proper discharge?’
‘What’s the point?’
‘It would avoid being posted absent without leave, for a start.’
‘And what are they going to do if they catch me? There’s no glasshouse here, in case you hadn’t noticed. We’re only playing at soldiers now.’
Reaching the post room, they paused at the door. Jozef’s gaze shifted restlessly, studiously avoiding Wladyslaw’s eye.
‘So, what will you do when you get to London?’ Wladyslaw demanded. ‘How will you live?’
Jozef thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘I’ll get work, of course.’
‘But Jozef, you don’t speak English. Your health is shit. You have no . . . well . . .’
‘Skills? Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Look, I’m only trying to knock some sense into your thick skull. I’m only trying to stop you from stabbing yourself in the back,’ said Wladyslaw, grabbing the nearest
metaphor. ‘There are no jobs for us in London, Jozef. Not for Poles. The most you can hope for is scrubbing floors. Is that what you really want?’
‘A friend’s going to get me started.’
‘And where’s it going to lead?’ Wladyslaw went on insistently. ‘You’ll be completely on your own. No help from the army. No help from the welfare people. You can
say goodbye to a visa for America or Australia. You’ll be burning your boats – and for what?’
With a stubborn expression Jozef thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and looked away over his shoulder.
Wladyslaw muttered, ‘For heaven’s sake . . .’ Then, trying one last throw: ‘What do your godmothers say? Or haven’t you told them?’
Jozef’s frown gave him his answer.
Wladyslaw said dejectedly, ‘Well, if you’re not going to listen to reason, then at least promise me one thing. That you’ll let me know if you run into trouble. That
you’ll send me a telegram.’
Jozef’s mouth twitched. ‘OK.’
‘Here . . .’ Wladyslaw led the way into the post room and, cadging some paper off the postal clerk, printed out the address for Crick Farm. Folding the paper twice, he slid it into
the breast pocket of Jozef’s tunic. ‘Don’t lose it,’ he said sternly.
Jozef touched a hand to his pocket. ‘Sure.’ Then with a tilt of his head towards the post rack, he muttered, ‘I’ll just wait, eh?’ It was a gesture of solidarity.
During their months at the convalescent home they had both mastered the art of passing the letter rack without a glance, of resisting the urge to look for letters that never came.
This time, however, when Wladyslaw gave his name, the postal clerk reached unhesitatingly into the pigeonhole and handed him a letter.
Jozef let out a low exclamation of excitement.
Wladyslaw stared at the envelope before turning it over to read the name on the back. ‘It’s from my sister.’
‘Well, you’d better open it.’
Retreating to the window, Wladyslaw examined the envelope once again before opening it. The letter ran to four sheets. He skimmed the first few lines hungrily, then read them again slowly.
My dear Wladek,
I received your letter with the greatest relief and joy! It was in May that I heard you had survived the war – the news arrived via a cousin of Tadzio’s wife – but of
course I had no address for you, no idea even of which country you were in, so I could only wait and hope for confirmation. It is wonderful to have received it at last. I am so glad to know
that you have got through these terrible years unscathed.
Aware of Jozef’s intense gaze, Wladyslaw said happily, ‘Yes, it’s her! She didn’t know where I was. She didn’t know how to find me.’
Your other news brought me confirmation of an altogether sadder kind. Confirmation because I managed to learn the fate of our family some months ago. This was thanks to the unstinting
efforts of Stefan, my husband, who undertook to find out what had happened to them. Using every possible means, going to endless trouble, Stefan managed to establish what had happened to
Father, then (after some months) to Krysia, then, through the Polish community in Isfahan, to Mother. Enzio’s fate was more difficult to determine because of the lack of records, but
Stefan is not someone to give up easily. Through a contact in Teheran he found a record of Mother and Janina’s arrival in Persia, but no mention of Enzio. The conclusion was only too
sadly obvious. My only solace came from a piece of news Stefan unearthed shortly afterwards, that you too had arrived in Persia with the new Polish army, and could therefore – with
God’s blessing – be hoped to be alive.
‘She already knew about our family,’ Wladyslaw recounted with puzzlement as he turned to the next page. ‘Her husband seems to be a man of great resourcefulness.’
Before posting the above, I received your second and third letters. I have found it almost unbearable to read of everything our beloved family endured. Such suffering. Such anguish. I
thought I had no more tears to shed, but I was wrong. Don’t misunderstand me – I’m glad you told me. It is always best to know the worst, because however terrible it is there
is an element of relief. I feel closer to them in spirit, and can only pray, as you do, that they rest in peace at last.
Before going any further, however, I feel I must correct you on one important point regarding Aleks’s death. That he was murdered at Katyn seems beyond doubt, I agree, but I am
mystified as to why you should imply (no – state accusingly) that the Russians were responsible when it is a matter of historical record that the SS carried out this terrible crime.
‘God Almighty!’ Wladyslaw exploded in fury. ‘Historical record?’ He flung the words at Jozef with a fierce glare. ‘According to whose history? Whose
records?’
It is well documented that the Polish prisoners of war held in the Ukraine were alive and well until the German offensive of 1941. To suggest otherwise is, if I may say so, to fall victim to
reactionary propaganda. I can only think you have been relying on questionable sources for your information. Like the reactionaries of the old regime in exile, perhaps? The diehards who have an
exceptionally large axe to grind?
