by Mary Nichols
‘I don’t think there’s any “if” about it, do you?’
‘No, not really.’
She returned to the pub to eat a midday meal with Mr and Mrs Gosport and Tommy and Beattie. Tommy was full of what they had seen in the village and their encounter with two village children. ‘I couldn’t understand them,’ he said. ‘I don’ think they were talkin’ English.’
‘Course they were,’ Stan said. ‘It’s just a bit different, that’s all. You’ll soon get used to it.’
Louise felt a particular responsibility for these two, but Jenny had been designated their foster mother and she was perfectly capable. Louise felt able to spend the afternoon in her room writing letters. There were a great many, one to every child’s parents which she piled up with the postcards she had collected on her rounds that morning; and one to the headmaster at Stag Lane. He had elected to stay behind and teach those children who had not been evacuated. And, of course, there was one to her own parents in which she was careful to upgrade the pub into a very nice hotel. By the time she had finished, her fingers ached and she was glad to walk to the post office and explore the village on foot.
Everyone she met gave her a nod and a ‘Good day, Miss’, which told her the village grapevine had already been to work.
It was not until the children had been put to bed and she sat down to an evening meal in the dining room of the pub that she met the other residents, two young men helping to build an extension to the airfield at nearby Watton. At about thirty-five, Alfred Lynch was the older of the two and was, she learnt, a foreman. He was of stocky build with massive shoulders and a thick neck. Tony Walsh, on the other hand, was only a year or two older than she was, slender but wiry. He had dark hair and amber eyes. He was a quantity surveyor. The two men had been working on airfields for a year, ever since it became obvious that war could not be put off forever and the government had begun a frenzied building programme. They obviously enjoyed each other’s company and were full of jokes and laughter. Louise found their good humour refreshing.
‘A Hawker biplane tried to land on the airfield this morning,’ Alfred said. ‘I think the pilot was lost and didn’t know it wasn’t operational. Got stuck in the mud. We had a fine old time digging it out. But it was the mud that saved the pilot, I reckon. Gave him a nice soft landing.’
‘Was it able to take off again?’ Louise asked.
‘Yes, after we’d mustered all hands and a tractor with a tow rope and dragged it onto a bit of concrete runway we’d finished.’
‘The pilot looked a bit sick,’ Tony put in. ‘I don’t think he’d been flying long.’
‘If that’s what the RAF is turning out, God help us,’ Alfred said. ‘We’ll be needing good pilots before long.’
‘You reckon?’ Stan queried.
‘No doubt of it. Why d’you think we’re building all these airfields?’
‘Airfields or no, I’ve got to open up,’ Stan said, getting to his feet. ‘If you fancy a drink in the bar later, Miss Fairhurst, just come through.’
‘Yes, do come,’ Tony said. ‘Talking to someone intelligent will be a change from listening to Alfred’s nonsense.’
‘Talking of nonsense,’ Alfred said, grinning. ‘Who was it said a couple of Jerry spies had come down by parachute dressed as nuns?’
‘I was only repeating something I heard,’ Tony said. ‘Doesn’t mean I believed it. I only said it to illustrate how gullible some people are.’
The men went into the lounge bar and Louise helped Jenny wash up before joining them. It was then she tasted her first glass of beer. She was enjoying the banter, the noise and laughter so much she didn’t even notice her glass had been refilled. As she went up to bed that night, she was smiling.
It seemed her head had only just hit the pillow when she was woken by a loud rumbling which turned out to be thunder. She went to the window and drew back the curtains. Outside, lightning lit the sky, followed almost immediately by rolls of thunder. And the rain was lashing down, drenching the garden and the empty car park.
‘A fitting end to my first day in the country,’ she murmured before going back to bed.
The next morning the rain had gone and the sun was shining. She took Tommy and Beattie to church and it was there that she learnt Mr Chamberlain’s efforts to avert war had come to nothing. The Reverend Mr Capstick told his congregation the news after he had finished his sermon. ‘It is war,’ he said, then offered a prayer for all those involved before giving the final blessing. Afterwards, as he stood in the porch shaking hands with everyone and discussing the situation, Louise introduced herself, knowing her father would expect her to do so. He would be bound to quiz her on what manner of man the incumbent was and his style of delivery. It was very different from her father’s, being gentler, more tolerant; there was nothing of the fire and brimstone that characterised her father’s sermons. He was younger, of course, not much older than she was, fresh-faced and smiling.
‘I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Fairhurst,’ he said. ‘The village school is a Church of England school and I go there once a week to teach the Gospel to the whole school. I hope your children will join us.’
Louise explained about the arrangements for sharing which meant the London children would not be at the school as the same time as the village children. ‘Some of them are Catholic,’ she said. ‘And I have one or two who are Jews.’
‘No matter, my lessons are meant for all. I do not differentiate, but I leave it to you if you feel some should be excused. When you’re settled, I’ll make arrangements to come to your class separately. That is, if you agree.’
‘Yes, of course, always supposing we are not moved again.’
‘I do not think that is likely to happen in the near future, do you?’
‘No. It is all very worrying. I feel so responsible. I don’t want to let the children and the school down. I’ve only been teaching a year or two and am still groping my way.’
His smile was engaging. ‘I am sure you will manage admirably, Miss Fairhurst.’
She hoped and prayed she would. Her life up to then, protected and dominated as she had been, was not the best grounding for the task ahead of her. But she was not the only one to be asked to step outside the comfort of the familiar. Every single person, man, woman or child, young or old, was going to have to adapt if this war was to be won.
Chapter Two
Rulka was filthy and exhausted. The daughter of a doctor and a nurse, she had never considered doing anything else but nursing, but never in her worst nightmare had she envisioned this horror of death and destruction. There had been so many casualties brought to hospital where she worked – torn and broken limbs, appalling burns, smashed faces – it was impossible to keep up with them. She had stayed on duty well over her allotted time but Lech Andersz, the doctor under whom she worked, had seen her exhaustion and sent her home. ‘Stay away at least twenty-four hours,’ he had said. ‘And get some sleep.’
Realising he was right and she could not go on without rest, she left the hospital and picked her way over the rubble, making for the Śląsko-Dąbrowski Bridge over the Vistula and her apartment in Zabowski Street. Warsaw had been known as the Paris of the East, with its wide boulevards, its beautiful parks where people went to enjoy the tranquillity, its shops, ancient churches and magnificent mansions whose window boxes in summer had been vibrant with geraniums. She stopped on the bridge to look back at the city that had been her home all her life. From here she had a good view of the river winding its way northwards and the old town which extended down to the river. By turning a little she could see the Royal Castle, standing proud on its hill despite the bombing.
How much of it would be left by the time the Germans had finished with it? Already half its buildings were in ruins, its parks dug up to make air raid shelters, furniture and even trolley buses were piled up in the streets to make barricades. Every able-bodied person had been called upon to help dig defence ditches on the western outskirts of th
e city and they had answered the call in their thousands, digging in the mud and diving for cover whenever a German Stuka flew over and dropped its bombs. Many had died there. What good were trenches against bombers? They bombed indiscriminately: churches, schools, hospitals, people in the countryside tending their fields, nothing and no one was safe. And there was little the Polish air force could do about it; their out-of-date aircraft were no match for the German Messerschmitts and Stukas. Jan was flying with the Polish Air Force and she prayed for his safety.
She had met Jan Grabowski in 1938 when he came to the hospital with a broken arm after crash-landing his fighter during a foolhardy manoeuvre. He had been disciplined for it, but as he was one of the famous Kościuszko Squadron’s best pilots, he had been let off with a caution. He was so handsome, so full of energy, so courteous and cheerful, she had fallen for him instantly. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, which was typical of the way Jan went about his life. With the full approval of both sets of parents they had married the year before and made their home in the Praga district on the right bank of the river. They rented a small apartment on the ground floor of a fairly new block which had a comfortable living room, an adequate kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom, which she had taken great pride in furnishing and equipping.
But they had had little time to enjoy married life because of the cloud of war which would not go away, in spite of the British prime minister’s assurance that he had come to an agreement with Hitler that there would be no more German encroachment of territory. Few in Poland had believed it, but they had believed England and France would instantly come to their aid if they were attacked. The Allies had dithered and then declared war two days after the Germans invaded, but that was all they had done. ‘Did they think that simply declaring war would frighten the Nazis into going home?’ Jan had said. He had been preparing to leave at the time. Their airfield had been so badly bombed and so many aircraft destroyed on the ground, the remnants had been ordered to scatter to temporary airfields all over Poland. She had not heard from him for some time and was not sure where he was.
German tanks and big guns were coming ever closer to the capital, though according to the news bulletins they listened to every day, a counteroffensive had been launched and was holding them back. But for how long? Already people were fleeing in droves, using whatever transport they could find, cars, vans, handcarts, bicycles and prams, most making for Romania. Some had taken to the river in pleasure boats and were hoping to reach Gdansk and ships to take them to safety. She wanted her parents to go but they had flatly refused and were practically living in the cellar of their home on Jasna Street. She worried about them. Perhaps she ought to stay with them. If the bridges were destroyed, she would have trouble getting to the hospital; it would be better to stay on the same side of the river.
She let herself into the apartment, hurried to have a bath and scramble back into her uniform, donning a clean apron and cap. Then she packed a small bag, tied her cloak about her shoulders and was about to leave when her husband arrived.
‘Jan!’ She dropped her bag and flung herself into his arms, making him rock back on his heels.
He kissed her hungrily and then held her at arm’s length to look at her face. ‘You look worn out, sweetheart.’
‘Aren’t we all? You aren’t looking so good yourself. When did you last have a night’s sleep?’ She had never seen Jan looking so down. His face was pale and his blue eyes had lost their customary sparkle. Even his fair hair looked dull.
‘I forget.’
‘How long have you got now?’
‘Just as long as it takes to say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ she echoed in dismay. ‘Jan, what’s happened?’
‘We have been ordered to fly to Romania and continue the fight from there.’
‘You can’t mean you are abandoning Poland?’
‘No, of course not, but we can’t risk losing the aircraft. The Allies were supposed to send us more, but it was considered too risky to land them on Polish soil and there’s been some problem about them landing in Romania. It’s probably only a mix-up, but we can’t count on them.’
‘What you mean is the war is lost.’ She was fighting back tears of disappointment and anger: disappointment that no practical help had arrived from Britain and France in spite of their promises, and anger that no one seemed able to do anything against the onslaught. And worst of all, Jan was leaving the country. It wasn’t his fault, he had to obey orders, but she railed against those who had issued the orders.
‘We have to concede that the battle is lost for the moment, but it is not the end. Poland will fight on.’ He spoke with enough fervour to convince her he meant it. ‘All the same, I want you to leave, get out while you can.’
‘I can’t do that, Jan, I’m needed here. There’s my work at the hospital. They can’t spare me. And Mama and Tata refuse to go and I can’t leave them.’ Unlike Jan who came from Białystok, she was a true Varsovian and no one had given her any orders to leave.
‘But I can’t bear to think of you here in the middle of all this bombing. And when the shkopy come …’
‘If they come. Perhaps they will be stopped before they get this far.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, but he didn’t sound very convincing. ‘But if they get close, promise me you’ll leave. Make for Romania. If you can get to France, so much the better.’
‘I’ll think about it if I have to. You never know, the situation might improve.’
‘If it doesn’t?’
‘Then I’ll leave.’
He pulled her into his arms again. ‘I wish I didn’t have to go. I should be here, protecting you, not running away …’
‘You aren’t running away, Jan. You’d never run away from anything. I never knew anyone so fearless.’
‘You’re pretty fearless yourself, my love.’
‘I’m doing my job, just as you are doing yours. When do you think we’ll be together again?’
‘God knows. I’ll try and get word to you where I am. Perhaps later you’ll be able to join me.’
‘Or the war will end and you will come back.’
‘Or the war will end and I will come back,’ he said.
He stopped only long enough to share a last meal with her and then he hugged and kissed her one last time and was gone. She managed to remain dry-eyed until the door closed on him, then she sank onto a chair at the table, still scattered with the remains of their meal, put her arms on the table and her head on her arms and sobbed her heart out.
But wars were not won with tears. She mopped them up, rinsed her face in cold water and went back to work. Nursing the sick and injured would stop her dwelling on her own misery. There were plenty of people far worse off than she was.
Riding a motorcycle borrowed from a colleague Jan made his way over the bridge and turned south, avoiding the debris of bombed buildings which spilt out onto the streets and the hoses of the men fighting the fires. He hoped and prayed Rulka would see sense and leave. As soon as he arrived in Romania and knew where the squadron was billeted, he would insist she join him. She was a brave one, his wife, and a good nurse too, efficient and compassionate without being sentimental, at least where her patients were concerned. As the woman he loved with his whole heart, she was as loving and passionate as it was possible for any woman to be. He was a lucky devil. If it hadn’t been for that foolish episode trying to fly under a bridge and coming to grief, he might never have met her. They came from different worlds.
He was the younger son of wealthy Count Tadeusz Grabowski and his wife Zofia who had an extensive estate near Białystok, in north-east Poland, not far from the Russian border. Intended for the cavalry along with his elder brother, Jozef, he had insisted from his early teens that he wanted to fly. His parents had opposed the idea: his father because the Grabowski men had always gone into the cavalry, his mother because she saw it as foolhardy and dangerous. But he was nothing if not persistent and, after he had finished at t
he university, they had let him apply for a place at the Polish Air Force Academy at Dęblin, hoping, he thought, though they did not say so, that he would fail in view of the strong competition. But he would not countenance failure. In 1936, he had been one of the ninety young men accepted out of six thousand applicants.
Seventy miles south of Warsaw, the Academy’s headquarters was a magnificent eighteenth-century manor house and here he had learnt not only to fly, but to fight. In the classroom they learnt aerodynamics, navigation and maintenance. In practical sessions they learnt to fly several different aircraft, to use the aircraft’s guns and to keep their wits and eyes about them at all times. Discipline had been strict but that didn’t stop their off-duty escapades and that was how Jan had come to accept the challenge to fly under the bridge, realised too late that it could not be done and crash-landed in a field beside the river. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but learn it he had. On graduation he had, to his great delight, been posted to the Kościuszko Squadron based just outside Warsaw, enabling him to see more of Rulka.
The war had put paid to fun and games. On the first day of September, Hitler had invaded on some trumped-up excuse that Polish troops had raided German territory. Now, so Jan had been told, there were over fifty German divisions on Polish soil, well-equipped with guns and tanks, not to mention hundreds of aircraft waging a war of terror on Polish troops and civilians alike. The fighters of the Polish Air Force were outnumbered and outgunned. Jan, along with his fellow flyers, had adopted a strategy of climbing above the bombers and diving down on them, or if that were not possible, they would fly at them head-on waiting until the last minute before firing their guns and peeling away. It was a question of whose nerve broke first and Jan and his comrades were determined it would not be theirs. They had fought ferociously until, almost out of fuel and spare parts, it became obvious that if they did not withdraw they would lose the little they had left. Hence his unpalatable orders.
