by Mary Nichols
When they all gathered up their belongings and left the train at Liverpool Street, the Polish airman, his kitbag slung over his shoulder, walked alongside Louise towards the barrier. ‘Are you in a hurry, Miss?’ he asked. ‘I would like to buy you a cup of coffee. To say thank you, you understand.’
She turned to look at him. He was tall and good-looking and his blue eyes appealed. ‘You do not have to thank me, but yes, I’d love to have a cup of coffee.’
They went to the station canteen. ‘I am Jan Grabowski,’ he told her, when he came back to the table after queuing for two cups of coffee. Neither had wanted anything to eat. ‘In my own country I am a captain, here I am just a flying officer.’
She was aware that he was trying to make a joke of what must have seemed a humiliation, and smiled. ‘I am pleased to meet you Captain Grabowski. My name is Louise Fairhurst.’ She held out her right hand but instead of shaking it, he took it in his and kissed the back of it.
‘I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Fairhurst.’
She suppressed the impulse to giggle at this extravagance of chivalry and sipped her drink. It was hot but didn’t taste a bit like coffee.
‘Do you live in London?’ he asked, sitting down opposite her.
‘No, my parents do. I lived with them until war broke out and then I took my class of children to Norfolk to be safe.’
‘You are a teacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then that is why you keep yourself better informed than some of your compatriots.’
His English, she noted, although heavily accented, was very good. ‘I don’t think of myself as well informed, but I do read the newspapers. We all know what Poland had to go through, or we ought to. It must have been terrible. Were you in the Polish Air Force at the time?’
‘Yes. And you are right, it was terrible. We were heavily outnumbered and our aircraft were no match for the Messerschmitt. The worst was when we realised we could not win and that to have any chance of continuing the fight we had to leave the country. When I came away Warsaw was in ruins but still fighting, still hoping the Allies would come. The people believed the promise made to them by your Mr Chamberlain, but it was not to be.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t think people should make promises they can’t keep, but perhaps he didn’t know he wouldn’t be able to honour it.’
‘Perhaps.’ It was said with a resigned sigh. ‘We had to leave our loved ones behind to live under the German occupation.’
‘You are married?’
‘Yes, we had been married a year. Rulka is a nurse. She could not leave with me. I have written to her many, many times, but I have heard nothing from her.’
It was evident he wanted to talk to someone and she was prepared to listen. ‘I imagine it must be almost impossible to get news in or out.’
‘Yes, that’s what I tell myself all the time. I say, “Jan Grabowski, be sensible. The Germans are beasts, but not even they would harm doctors and nurses needed to tend the wounded.”’
‘There you are, then. You must not give up hope.’
‘No, it is hope that keeps me going, that keeps all my countrymen going. In spite of everything …’
‘Everything?’ She sensed there was more to come.
‘The loss of our country. That comes hard and is bad enough, but unlike France we did not ask for an armistice. Poland will never surrender.’
‘That’s what Churchill said about this country; we will never surrender.’
‘Yes, I like his spirit. He welcomed us, not like that woman on the train and the air marshals who think we Poles cannot be trusted in one of their precious aeroplanes without an Englishman to hold our hands. We have been in combat, we know what it’s like, the British pilots are – how do you say it? – still wet behind the ears.’
Said in his strange accent, the phrase sounded excruciatingly funny, and she laughed. ‘Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?’
‘I was fortunate that my father was able to send me to a good school where English was on the curriculum and I read English at the university in Warsaw. Since I have been in England I have been employed teaching my compatriots the language and learning more myself. The Air Ministry will not let us fly in fighter squadrons until we have all learnt it. We have been put in the Volunteer Reserve of the Royal Air Force and are subject to King’s regulations. They wanted us to swear allegiance to the King but we refused. I have nothing against your king, you understand, but we are Poles, our allegiance is to Poland. It has made some of my countrymen very frustrated and angry. They cannot fight the Germans so they quarrel with each other.’ He sighed. ‘It is not good.’
‘No, but understandable. Is that all you have been doing, teaching English?’
‘No, I have been learning to fly in a Blenheim bomber with a British crew. Bombers are necessary but that is not the flying I know. I am a fighter pilot and my aim is to shoot down as many German aircraft as I can. Then when there are no more, then I can go back to Poland and Rulka.’
‘Rulka is a pretty name. Is she pretty?’
‘She is beautiful. Here, I will show you.’ He felt in his breast pocket and produced a snapshot. ‘It is the only thing I brought out of Poland, except my wings.’
Louise studied the image. Rulka, standing beside Jan, was petite; the top of her head hardly came up to his shoulder. It was a black and white photograph but she could see that the girl’s hair was dark and she was indeed pretty. ‘She looks very young.’
‘She is small. I call her my myszka.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Mouse. She is my little mouse, but she has the heart of a lion. She will be twenty-four next week and I cannot even wish her a happy birthday.’
‘I am sure she knows you would if you could. Have you any other relatives in Poland?’
‘My parents live in Białystok – that’s occupied by the Soviets now. I have no idea what has happened to them. And I have an older brother, Jozef. He is in the cavalry and I haven’t heard from him since the war started. He might be dead. They all might be dead.’ His voice caught as he said this and she was afraid he was going to cry, but he pulled himself together suddenly. ‘What about you? Are you married?’
‘No, but I am engaged. Tony is in the air force, like you. He is doing his flying training.’ Afraid that he was going to ask where Tony was, and remembering all the posters that told everyone careless talk costs lives, she added, ‘He gets moved around a lot. I don’t always know where he is, but at least he’s in the same country as me and we can write to each other.’
‘Do you like writing letters?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I haven’t really thought about it. It’s just something I do.’
‘Would you write to me? Just now and again, just so I have …’ He paused, searching for a word. ‘An anchor.’
She felt truly sorry for him; he was in a strange country, not always welcome, his wife was thousands of miles away under Nazi tyranny, how could she refuse him? ‘Yes, if you like.’
He beamed with pleasure, tore the corner off a discarded newspaper, wrote his address on it and handed it to her. ‘Now, you give me yours. If I am moved, I shall write and tell you.’
She complied and they left the canteen together and made for the Underground, where they parted, she to go to Edgware, he to cross London and take another train to Tangmere.
Louise sat in the crowded underground train, musing on the encounter. There were people all over Europe suffering a great deal more than those in Britain. She could not imagine what it would be like to be occupied by a foreign army, nor the emotional upheaval of being parted from loved ones as Jan Grabowski had been from his Rulka. Not to know if she was alive or dead must be a terrible thing to live with. She hoped he would hear from her soon and in the meantime she would write to him, try to cheer him up, let him know he was not forgotten.
Leaving the Underground and walking to the vicarage, she braced herself for
her encounter with her father. It was always like that; it tied her insides up in knots. Once back in the vicarage she became a little girl again, subject to his punishment for her wickedness. The beatings had stopped when she went to college but she was still more than half afraid of him. He sapped her self-confidence until it was easier to agree with him than to fight, which was how her mother coped. But deep inside her was an ember of rebellion she hardly knew she had. It had showed itself when she had insisted on accompanying her class to Norfolk and again when she had become engaged to Tony. Dear Tony. He gave her strength, encouraged her to stick up for herself. ‘Do it quietly,’ he had said. ‘Just be firm. He can’t hurt you.’ But even Tony did not know the whole truth.
She found her mother lying on the sofa, with a cold compress on her forehead. She scrambled to sit up when she saw Louise. ‘Darling, how lovely to see you. Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?’
Louise hugged her. ‘I wasn’t sure I could get away. What’s the matter, aren’t you well?’
‘Just a headache, that’s all. I’ll be fine now you’re here.’
‘Where’s Father?’
‘Visiting his parishioners. I didn’t feel up to going with him.’
Louise knew what it was like accompanying her father on his rounds. He had little sympathy for some of his flock, calling them idle and feckless and preaching hell and damnation when what they really needed was a little understanding and a helping hand. Others were sycophants and reminded her of the false humility of Uriah Heap. Going with her father had always embarrassed her and she knew her mother felt the same. Headaches, genuine enough, were her excuse not to go.
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please, then you can tell me all your news.’
It was lovely to have a couple of hours alone with her mother and she was soon recounting the doings at Cottlesham. She told her about the battle between the rival gangs which had culminated in bruises and bloody noses on the both sides. ‘John Langford called all the children, his and mine, into the classroom and gave them a long lecture about how wars start with little quarrels and they ought to learn tolerance and cooperation and helping each other,’ she said. ‘I think it worked. Anyway Harry Summers, who was the ringleader of the Edgware lot, went home and that eased the situation somewhat.’
‘A lot of them came home, didn’t they?’
‘Some did, but that was before the war got going. I’m wondering if their parents made the right decision, after all.’ She paused. ‘Mum, I worry about you, what with the bombing and everything. Couldn’t you and Father move somewhere safer?’
‘He would never leave his parish, Louise, you should know that.’
‘Then you leave. Come to Cottlesham and stay with me.’
‘Without him? Oh, no, child, I could never leave him.’
Louise knew it was useless to argue, though she did mention what was in her mind when her father came home at lunchtime. He reacted predictably. Duty came before his own comfort and he would continue to do his duty and it went without saying that his wife would support him in that. The Lord would take care of them and keep them safe.
After they had had their meal, Louise and her mother did the washing-up while her father went to his study to compose the next day’s sermon. Louise had a feeling it would be centred on duty.
‘How is Tony?’ Faith asked.
‘He was well last time I heard from him. Sent you his regards.’
‘What’s he doing?’ She put a washed plate on the drainer. Louise picked it up to dry it.
‘Training to be a pilot.’
‘Do you worry about him?’
‘Of course, all the time, but I don’t let him know that. He’s hoping to get some leave when he finishes his training. Then he’ll be posted.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘No idea.’
‘I hope it’s not to one of those airfields being bombed.’
‘So do I, but I don’t expect he’ll be given a choice.’
‘How long can you stay?’
‘Just tonight, Mum. I’ll have to go back tomorrow afternoon.’
‘But it’s the school holidays.’
‘I know, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I am responsible for the children, even in the holidays. And I have to prepare for next term and liaise with Mr Langford over the arrangements.’
‘Of course, I understand. You’ll come to Communion in the morning?’
‘Yes, I’ll leave after lunch.’
Her father was so engrossed in preparing his sermon that he hardly noticed Louise was there. Perhaps he was softening towards her or perhaps he had given her up as a lost cause. Whichever it was, she was careful to say nothing that might cause dissension. She certainly said nothing of her meeting with Jan Grabowski. That would have been asking for a lecture on the perils of picking up strange men in railway carriages. But she had not forgotten him or her promise to write to him.
After persistent lobbying and in the face of a great shortage of pilots, Jan had been transferred from Blackpool, where they had been training, to an English fighter squadron in Tangmere, and though it wasn’t exactly what he had hoped for, it was a step in the right direction. He would teach those stiff-necked Britishers how to fly.
He arrived to find Witold already there, ensconced in the officers’ mess, a favourite of the WAAF waitresses who served him. It hadn’t taken his friend long to convince the RAF he could fly as well as any of them, and the next day Jan did the same. He found himself in combat for the first time with those he had called ‘wet behind the ears’ and discovered they had plenty of courage, if little experience. But they learnt quickly, at least those who survived did. The casualty rate was horrifying. Jan’s first ‘kill’, a Messerschmitt 109 shot down into the Channel, brought great rejoicing. At last he was having a crack at the enemy and his first taste of revenge.
A week later Witold came to him with momentous news. Short of hearing from Rulka, it was the best news in the world. ‘They’re giving us our own squadrons,’ Witold told him gleefully. ‘The Polish Air Force flies again. Get your things together, we’re off to join them.’
It wasn’t quite what they expected, they discovered when they arrived at Northolt and joined their compatriots, many of whom they had not seen since leaving Poland. According to the agreement thrashed out between the Air Ministry and the Polish government in exile, every senior Polish Officer would have an equivalent British one and they would still be under British command. Officially designated 303 Squadron, it did not take the Polish flyers long to rename it the Kościuszko Squadron and to paint the squadron’s emblem on the Hurricanes they were to fly.
But they were still not operational. The station commander was adamant they had to learn English and understand what was meant by angels and bandits, scramble and tally-ho and how to count at least to twelve because the clock face was used to convey bearings. And they needed to measure their speed in miles not kilometres, and fuel in gallons not litres. Every day they went to classes while every day the Luftwaffe came and bombed airfields, coastal towns, shipping and important installations. It frustrated Jan and his companions until they were ready to explode. What they wanted was to get at the enemy, to defeat him and get their country back so they could go home.
While they were learning English and going on training flights, the Luftwaffe continued trying to bring the country to its knees and losses were frightening. Aircraft were coming off the production lines in vast quantities but there weren’t enough trained pilots to fly them. When one of Jan’s compatriots broke formation during training to chase after and bring down a Dornier bomber, the Air Ministry at last agreed the Polish flyers were ready for action. On the last day of August, the eve of the first anniversary of the invasion of Poland, 303 was made operational. It was the day on which the German High Command decided to send everything it had to finish the job they had started and sent wave after wave of bombers, escorted by fighters, to put an en
d to the stubborn resistance of the Royal Air Force. In that it failed. But only just. It was the most momentous time of Jan’s life.
It was one of excitement and danger, of jubilation mixed with sadness when friends were lost. There were times he was so overcome with exhaustion, he fell asleep as soon as climbed out of the cockpit and found a convenient armchair. At other times when given a few hours’ respite he and some of his fellow pilots would go to The Orchard in nearby Ruislip, where they were always made welcome and where they whiled away the time in false jollity. In between there were times of intense melancholy, when Jan thought about Rulka and their parting in the ruins of Warsaw. Was that the last time they would be together? Ever? Was she alive? How was she coping? And his parents, what had happened to them?
The tales coming out of Poland of imprisonment and executions and hardship were horrific. If his countrymen and women were not being ill-treated by the Germans, they were being rounded up by the Soviets as ‘enemies of the people’ and sent to Siberia in cattle trucks to work as slave labour. Among them were the elite of Polish society: army officers, professors, lawyers, doctors, anyone who might be a threat to the indoctrination of the people into the Soviet way of life, and that would certainly include aristocrats, his parents among them. He tried telling himself that no one really knew the truth and it was probably nothing but exaggerated gossip. He wrote to Rulka, telling her what he was doing, reminding her of the good times they had had and how he was looking forward to being with her again and how happy they would be when the war was won and they could live again in a free Poland. He couldn’t send the letter – he did not know how to – and simply folded it and put it away in a drawer with his clothes.
He wrote to Louise too. She had kept her promise to write to him and she seemed his only contact with the outside world, a world that was not one of scrambling into kit, of flying with nerve ends tingling, of falling asleep and getting drunk. She represented tranquillity in a world gone mad. She had indeed become his anchor.
