Homeland (8 page)

My dearest sister,

I must tell you that we had a celebration last night in your honour. Five of us went to a traditional English ‘pub’ and toasted your health and happiness in cider (the local brew
of fermented apple juice – to be treated with great caution). Yet even as your name was being spoken, dear Helenka, I had to pinch myself to be sure that Tadzio’s letter
wasn’t just a figment of my imagination, that you were indeed alive and well. What a miracle.

And married, Helenka! I rejoice with all my heart that you have found someone to share your life. I have no doubt he is a thoroughly good fellow with thoroughly modern attitudes, for you
were determined to accept nothing less. I remember the time you turned down that Wiktor Solecka character, who thought himself the greatest gift to all Bialystok, declaring that you would
prefer to remain single than take on the role of a traditional wife. Forgive me, but a brother is allowed to remind his sister of her youthful ideals. The fact that you have overcome your
doubts speaks for itself. Tadzio reports in his letter that your husband’s name is Stefan Malczewski. Please send my sincere greetings to my new brother, and assure him of my devoted
friendship.

The moment I read of your marriage I realised why it had taken so long to find you. I started pestering the Red Cross for news of you as soon as I reached Persia in August ’42. They
told me they would pass on any information the moment they received it, but once the war was over the uncertainty became unbearable. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that some
scatter-brained clerk had simply missed your name off a list. I beat a path to the door of the Red Cross, I drove the liaison staff demented, I wrote letters to everyone I could think of, and
then of course I began to wonder if there might be – what are we to say? – special obstacles. But what does all this matter now? The miracle has happened. You have survived.

This prompts an anxious thought – that you might not have received my first hasty note. In this I relayed the simple desolate fact that you and I, with Janina, are all that is left of
our beloved family. Father and Mother, Aleks and Krysia, little Enzio – all are gone. I wish I could tell you that their deaths were unavoidable, I wish I could pretend that each met a
peaceful untroubled end, but that would be to deny the truth, and in this devious new world where everything is distorted and obscured, truth is all we have left. We must never forget, Helenka.
And we must do everything in our power to make sure no one else forgets either.

In recounting what happened, I should say at the outset that I cannot hope to do justice to the love, selflessness and nobility of spirit shown by each and every one of our family in the
most desperate of circumstances. They endured so much, Helenka, and with such bravery and forbearance, only for their lives to be destroyed at the whim of madmen not worthy of bowing down at
their feet. If God has His reasons, I’m no longer interested in what they might be.

Did you ever get any of our letters during the winter of ’39/’40? I have often wondered. Mother wrote regularly during the early autumn, and then I wrote, first to tell you of
Father’s death, and again in December with the news that Aleks was a prisoner of war. I sent my letters to the medical school, thinking there was a better chance of finding you there, but
perhaps they never got through. The last letter we received from you was on, I think, November 14th, and you made no mention of having received anything from us. In a way this was a good thing,
because then I could persuade Mother that your subsequent silence was due to nothing more sinister than the breakdown of the postal service.

We heard from Aleks in December. Before then, we had no idea if he was dead or alive. He sent a card: just three lines in Russian to say he was alive and well and ‘based in
Starobielsk’ in the Ukraine. Mother cried with joy at the news. Although he was clearly a prisoner of war, she thought that as a soldier he would be well treated. This – with the
belief that you had survived – was a great comfort to her in the terrible months to come. It is a blessing she never knew the truth.

We will probably never know when Aleks was murdered – the late spring or early summer of 1940 seems most likely – but sadly his fate cannot be in doubt, nor the monstrous nature
of it. I wish I could tell you otherwise.

I hold a particular memory close to my heart. It is of Aleks’s farewell dinner, not only because it was the last time we saw him, but because it was the last time we were gathered
together as a family. The end, effectively, of our life at Podjaworka. I remember everything so clearly – everyone’s expressions, what they were wearing, what they said –
because there was a moment when I thought, will we ever be together again? When I realised I must retain every detail and cherish it. And I did. I sat quietly and watched everyone in turn,
hoarding the memories against the dangerous times ahead. The strange thing – though not strange at all – was that I saw Aleks doing the same, looking slowly round the table,
absorbing each face, marking it on his memory. He too was taking his last farewell. I feel sure that when he came to stare death in the face it was this picture he carried in his mind, of our
family sitting round the table at Podjaworka, in that last sweet summer of peace.

If there is one crumb of consolation, it is that Aleks achieved his ambition to serve his country and his beloved brigade. Did you ever read his letters from his first posting at Lidzbark? I
read them when I got home that July, and he was never happier, Helenka, absolutely bursting with zeal and determination to do his best in the event of war. And by all accounts he succeeded in
acquitting himself brilliantly. During my time in the Middle East and Italy I always made a point of seeking out men from the Novogrodek Brigade in case they had known Aleks. In southern Italy
I had the luck to come across a fellow named Cabut who had not only served with Aleks but been in close company with him during the final retreat. He told me that Aleks had been in the thick of
two major actions, the first at Minsk Mazowiecki (were you still in Warsaw then? Perhaps without realising the significance you heard the brigade’s guns?), the second during the retreat
south, when to save a section of our army from being surrounded the Novogrodek launched a valiant attack on the German line and held it open long enough for large numbers of our men to pour
through. Not only was Aleks at the forefront of this attack, Helenka, but in an act of conspicuous bravery he was seen by Cabut to run out under heavy enemy fire and rescue a wounded comrade.
But in holding the breach the brigade had forfeited their own chances of escape. They were thoroughly exhausted, without supplies or functioning transport, and forced to rely on horses. Cabut
told me that he and Aleks rode up and down the lines trying to keep the men awake, because once they fell off their horses they couldn’t be woken again. The column suffered frequent
strafing and bombing. They had no food or fodder. And then, incredibly, they engaged and routed a whole German battalion. One can only wonder at the determination and spirit that took them from
the depths of exhaustion to fight like tigers. But it was all for nothing because within sight of the Carpathians they were confronted by the Bolshevik army. According to Cabut, every forest,
hill and valley was swarming with Soviet forces (by previous arrangement with the Germans of course). Cabut managed to escape by the skin of his teeth, but he was one of the few. Aleks, with
what was left of the brigade, was captured.

For over three months we at home heard nothing. Then came the card I told you about, with a box number. Mother wrote back immediately, but we never heard from him again.

You will have some knowledge, I am sure, of what exactly befell Aleks. I am advised that I must forgo detail at this point (how restraint goes against the grain!). Suffice it to say that
Aleks will have been with his fellow officers when he was murdered, that he will have died bravely, cherishing God, Poland, and us to the last. I only pray that he rests in peace. For I
certainly cannot while this terrible crime is publicly disowned, ignored, made to vanish as if it had never happened. Justice and atonement – these, I realise, are too much to hope for
– but some acknowledgement, some recognition that a terrible wrong has been done to us – this, surely, we have a right to expect? Or do I ask too much? Is the world so stupefied by
horror that it has become indifferent to it? I think not. I think it is more to do with the fact that Poland and all matters Polish are an irritation to the world in general and to our allies
in particular. We have been shamefully sinned against, and for this we are not to be forgiven. Our very existence has become a reproach. After the desperate sacrifices of our people, after
losing family, liberty, homeland – everything we hold dear – we find ourselves openly vilified by our allies. Yes, for having dared to point out the injustice of our situation we
are now painted as the villains!

For the most part, the British people are not openly hostile (though they have their moments), but they are woefully ill-informed. They believe everything they are told by their government,
who in turn believe everything they are told by their great ‘socialist’ friend to the east. They believe that we, who fought so valiantly against Hitler, are ourselves
‘fascist imperialists’ who are refusing to go home because we fear and despise socialist democracy! (Sorry for the ink-blots – my pen is shaking with anger.) You can imagine
with what disbelief and dismay we hear such things, and how vehemently we dispute such untruths. But our voices fall on deaf ears. The British believe that their mighty ‘friend’ is
noble and brave, and has sacrificed everything for the cause of – yes, you have it – freedom. They cannot understand why we are reluctant to go home. They grow impatient with us.
They tell us there is no future for us here, and reinforce the message by forbidding us all but the very lowliest jobs. But where are we to go, Helenka? We are like fish cast upon the shore,
stranded and helpless and pining for home.

Of course when we started fighting our way up Italy we thought we were fighting for freedom. We didn’t realise we had long since been betrayed. Even as late as this spring the Corps
still believed they would be sent to Germany on garrison duty before returning to Poland as a victorious army. Instead, not only is the Second Corps being ordered to Britain, but it, like the
rest of our armed services, faces the bitter and humiliating prospect of being demobilised. Once here, the British urge us to ‘go back home’ or, if we refuse, to join what they have
termed the Polish Resettlement Corps (a good name for a disarmed, disowned and deracinated army, don’t you think?), thus taking our first cold step towards permanent exile.

It goes without saying that the final decision is causing me great heart-searching. I want nothing more than to come home, I dream of it constantly, but am I sensible to do so? If I were to
start a new life in Poland would it be a life worth having? I’ve heard that Poles turfed out of the Eastern Borderlands are being resettled in Silesia. But would I have any hope of
qualifying? Does one have to be a member of the Communist Party, perhaps? Dear Helenka, I need you to give me your thoughts, to tell me how the land lies (as you see it), to give me your honest
opinion on my chances. One hears so many different stories that it’s hard to know what to believe. I need the cool judgement of my elder sister.

I have been gone six and a half years now, but the homesickness remains like an open wound. Oh, how it pains me, Helenka! More often than not it is the small things that create an agony of
longing. A song we used to sing, a few lines of poetry, a taste of vodka (which is rarer than gold here), some delicious
sledzie
, which a compassionate friend smuggled in for me
yesterday. Compassionate, I should explain, because you cannot imagine the food here. I will be generous and suggest it is due to the food shortages, which are still severe, but I rather
suspect the English have a liking for this stuff. Example – tripe served plain, not pickled in any way (it’s inedible). Having spent the best part of three years with my belly
pressed hard against my spine, dreaming only of food, I realise it is the height of ingratitude to criticise such fare, but, Helenka, I only have to think of Masha’s
bigos
for my
mouth to water and my eyes to grow misty with yearning.

The language is another trial. It is simple enough to reach a level from where one can conduct the basic commerce of life – intentions, actions, deeds – but to master the subtle
heights of ideas and abstract thought: this is a very different matter. English has absolutely nothing in common with Polish, and not half as much as it’s purported to have with German.
The grammar and pronunciation have more exceptions and inconsistencies than a sieve full of water, while the common usage is riddled with idioms and impenetrable slang which varies from region
to region, and person to person. Occasionally my smattering of French comes in handy, but for the most part I might as well be studying Sanskrit.

I didn’t mean to go on in this way. I meant to tell you more about our family – but, forgive me, I have no stomach for more sadness today. I will write again as soon as I can. If
there is a delay it is only because I am on the move, for at long last I am to be discharged from the sanatorium.

Dear Helenka, I can’t wait to hear all your news! Please tell me everything about your new life. And of course your opinion on the prospects for a half-qualified ex-student of
literature, who sings passably well, rides rather better, and is good for very little that is strictly useful. (The above box number will always find me.)

In the meantime, hardly an hour goes by that I don’t thank fate for having spared you.

With loving greetings from your devoted brother,

Wladek