A Different World

by Mary Nichols

  ‘We’ve got to make it to the sewer before the next one,’ he said when the dust settled. ‘Are you ready?’

  As he spoke the manhole cover rose again and the boy’s head reappeared. ‘Run!’ he yelled.

  Rulka went first and, gagging on the stench, was helped down onto the rungs of a slippery ladder by the boy. Colin was following when he was caught by the next rocket. His body was flung into the air and came down on the road with a sickening thud. ‘Colin!’ Rulka screamed and tried to scramble back to him, but was held back by the boy. ‘I must go to him.’ She squirmed from his grasp and scrambled back onto the road.

  She had seen enough dead and dying to know that there was nothing she could do to help him. She crouched over him, tears streaming down her face.

  He gave her a crooked smile. ‘I love you, Mouse,’ he murmured. ‘Live. Live for my sake and for all the people of Poland. Go on. Leave me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes you can. Don’t keep the boy waiting.’

  The boy was shouting to her to come back, that he could not stay there much longer.

  She looked down at the man who had given his life for her and kissed him for the last time. He died with a smile on his lips. She closed his eyes, muttered a prayer and left him.

  The journey through the sewers was worse than any nightmare as the boy, with a torch, led her through thick noxious sludge, sometimes ankle deep, sometimes as deep as her chest. She knew if she fell she would not be able to get up again and she had to concentrate on each tiny step. They passed underneath German-held positions; she could hear the rumble of tanks which reverberated along the slimy tunnel. If the boy spoke to her, she did not hear him, all she could hear were Colin’s last words which went round and round in her head. ‘I love you. Live for my sake and for all the people of Poland.’ She had lived through so much misery already, she would live through this, she had to.

  Three hours later, they climbed out of the sewer onto the street, the last to do so, and were greeted by cheers. Those fighting the rearguard would fight on while their ammunition lasted, then they would be taken prisoner or meet their end as Colin had done. Rulka found the cheers wholly inappropriate and angrily burst into tears.

  Chapter Ten

  October 1944

  Jan had always loved going to Cottlesham and thought of it as his second home, a place to relax away from the stress of combat and enjoy some time with Louise and his little daughter. Angela, trotting about on her sturdy little legs and chatting away ten to the dozen to people she knew, always ran to him to be hoisted on his shoulder. But the news of the uprising in Warsaw had sent his thoughts careering back to Rulka and he had not been to Cottlesham for over six weeks – the whole time the Rising was in progress – for fear of upsetting Louise, who had an uncanny knack of reading his mind.

  The latest public announcement from the Polish government that the insurgents had been forced to surrender only served to deepen his gloom. ‘The cessation of military operations took place after all supplies had been exhausted,’ it said. ‘The garrison and the people were completely starved. Fighting ceased after vain attempts to fight their way out … and finally after all hopes of relief from outside had vanished.’ It was small consolation that the Germans, recognising their courage, had agreed to treat the Home Army as prisoners of war and not rebels and that included the valiant General Bór. Nothing at all was said about the Russian part in the affair, or rather lack of it. According to information circulating among the exiled Poles, Stalin encouraged them to take up arms and then sat on the other side of the river and refused to help, publicly condemning the ‘adventure’ as foolhardy. Honest reliable information was hard to find and Jan had no way of gauging the truth of that, but the reported casualties had been horrendous. Was Rulka in the thick of it? Had she survived? Had she even lived beyond 1939?

  His repeated requests to the Polish government in London had finally produced a kind of answer. ‘No one by the name of Rulka Grabowska has been found in Warsaw,’ he had been told. ‘She may have perished or been taken prisoner or she may have escaped to the countryside. The situation in Warsaw is confused to say the least and it is difficult to trace people. Perhaps after the war …’ After the war. It seemed to be the answer to every query nowadays. Would it also show him the way to go?

  He missed Louise and his daughter more than he thought possible and keeping away from them was not helping as he had thought it might. He had a forty-eight-hour pass due to him and telephoned to say he was on his way.

  Louise realised as soon as he arrived that he was not his usual self and not even Angela could coax him out of his brown study. She had recently been given a room of her own and a proper bed of which she was very proud and nothing would do but he must go with her to admire it as soon as he came through the door. Having done so, he sat on it with the child on his knee, absent-mindedly nuzzling her soft curls with his chin.

  ‘What’s wrong, Jan?’ Louise asked. She had been folding Angela’s newly laundered clothes and putting them away in a chest of drawers, but left the task to come and sit beside him. ‘Are you thinking about what’s happened in Warsaw?’

  ‘Yes, not that there is anything I can do about it. When we first heard about the Rising and were told everything was going according to plan, we had a party to celebrate. But we were premature. As soon as the true state of affairs filtered out from our government, the whole squadron wanted to do something to help. Jan Zumbach lobbied for us to be allowed to go to Warsaw but he was turned down. There were logistical problems, he was told, and in any case we were needed to combat the flying bombs.’ The latest menace to hit London and the south-east arrived without warning and caused untold damage and loss of life. People were calling it a second Blitz.

  It was so unlike Jan to be miserable, but when he was down, he was really down and Louise guessed he was thinking of his wife. She felt selfish that she had him and Rulka did not, but there was nothing she could do but sympathise. ‘I’m sorry, Jan,’ she said. ‘But do you think your going would have made any difference?’

  ‘Why didn’t the Allies do something to help?’ he went on without answering her question. ‘We Poles fought alongside the Allies from the very first. We were there at the Battle of Britain, North Africa, Italy and Monte Cassino, D-Day and Arnhem. We had all the difficult jobs and we did them and never counted the cost. And for what? To be deserted in our hour of need …’

  ‘I’m sure there must be more to it than that.’

  ‘Of course there is. Churchill and Roosevelt are afraid of upsetting the Russians. Roosevelt has no idea what it is like in Europe and is more concerned about the presidential elections. Churchill is an old man and can’t stand up to him or to Stalin. Now Stalin can walk into Warsaw whenever he likes and take over with his puppet government. They can’t or won’t do anything to stop him.’

  ‘The Russians are our allies.’

  ‘Only because it suits Stalin to say so. He has no love for Poland, never has had.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jan,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I wish there was something I could do to cheer you up.’

  ‘Just be you,’ he said, turning to kiss her. ‘My anchor.’

  ‘You can rely on that,’ she said. ‘Always.’

  And then his mood suddenly lightened and he grabbed her and rolled her over onto her back and began tickling her until she cried for mercy. Angela climbed over both of them, wanting to be a part of whatever game they were playing. Jan turned and took his daughter into his arms. ‘Give Tata a cuddle,’ he said.

  She was used to him now. He was the man who came with presents and flowers, who made Mummy laugh. She put her little arms about his neck and hugged him tight. Louise, watching them, felt her heart would burst, especially when she saw how affected he was. His blue eyes were bright with unshed tears. She did not doubt his love for his daughter, nor for that matter, his love for her, but it was a love she had to share. Was it too much to hope that he would
choose to remain in England when it was all over? Had she any right to ask it of him? He had never said what he would do, it was something they did not discuss, nor had he spoken of Rulka by name by the time he left to go back on duty. She was left wondering …

  The end of the war was not as near as they had hoped. The Germans were fighting every inch of the way and the Normandy invasion, begun so optimistically, had turned into a long grind of hard-won objectives. An Allied scheme to shorten the war by dropping parachutists, including Poles, far behind enemy lines at Arnhem, had been a dreadful failure. It looked very much as if they were in for a sixth Christmas of war. Everyone was feeling tired and drab and longed for peace.

  The flying bombs, which everyone called doodlebugs or buzz bombs, were driving the evacuees out to the safety of the countryside again and Louise found her class swollen by a new intake. Some of them, like Harold Summers who had been in her infant class in 1939, had moved up to secondary level, but unless they passed the scholarship to Swaffham Grammar School, they would remain at Cottlesham, taught by John until the war ended and they went home for good.

  As usual the children were looking forward to Christmas. Not for them to worry how the grown-ups had managed to hoard enough ingredients to make Christmas dinner and tea special. Nor were they concerned with what was happening in Europe and the Far East where the Japanese were no more inclined to give up than Hitler. They had spent most of their formative years in a world at war. They didn’t know what it was like to be at peace, not to have air raids or rationing, to eat oranges and bananas, to wear new clothes, not hand-me-downs or make-do-and-mend, not to suffer the news that fathers had been killed, as Tommy and Beattie had done. But there were already some changes: the blackout had been partially lifted and was now called the dim-out. Even given the menace of flying bombs and the latest V2 rockets, the adults could look forward to Christmas in the confident expectation that this really would be the last one of the war.

  The children had been rehearsing carols and a nativity play, something they did every year. This year Beattie had been chosen by Mr Langford to play the Virgin Mary and wrote a letter to her mother, begging her to come and see her in the play. ‘Please, please, Mummy, please come,’ she wrote. ‘I want you to see the blue dress Miss is making for me. And the halo. It is made of silver paper wrapped round wire.’ Louise, who had vetted it for spelling mistakes, could not break the children’s habit of calling her Miss without a name attached.

  Agnes arrived the afternoon before the big day to Beattie’s intense delight. ‘You’re going to stay for Christmas, aren’t you?’ she begged her.

  ‘If Aunty Jenny can find a room for me.’

  ‘I think we can manage that,’ Jenny said. ‘We’ll be pleased to have you. We’re going to have a party in the pub on Boxing Day. Everyone’s welcome. The boys from the RAF base will be coming, English and American. It should be fun.’

  ‘Thank you. I should be thinking of having the children home but what with the buzz bombs and all, and me still working in the factory, I don’t think it would be a good idea. Can you keep them a little longer?’

  ‘Of course. They are no trouble.’

  Louise, engrossed in making the nativity play a success, had little time to speculate on when Tommy and Beattie might leave. Harold Summers, one of the wise men, forgot his lines and kicked Freddie Jones when he said them for him, resulting in retaliation, which was stopped by a withering look from the headmaster. And Beattie, so proud of her part, sat regally upright, beaming at everyone, quite unable to utter a word of the lines she had so carefully rehearsed. The audience were not inclined to be critical and the end was received with warm applause. This was followed by carol singing and then a tea party, with sandwiches, cake and lemonade provided by the mothers and foster mothers. All in all, a successful and happy end of term.

  ‘I must go and see my mother,’ Louise said to Jenny on Christmas Eve. Stan was in the cellar, checking his stocks and hoping there would be enough to last the holiday, and Jenny was plucking a turkey that had been on order from a local farmer since the autumn.

  ‘Oh, Lou, you don’t mean to desert us?’

  ‘I ought to. Mum will be alone with my father but, to be honest, I can’t face it. My father’s idea of Christmas is to attend church three times, listen to his extra long sermons and have a glass of sherry with our dinner, but only if we have been good. Not that he can attend church now, but I bet my mother will. I’ll go on Boxing Day.’

  ‘You’ll miss the party.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry about that but it can’t be helped.’

  ‘Do you want to leave Angela with us?’

  Louise did not usually take Angela to Edgware for fear of enflaming her father. ‘Thanks, but I’ll take her with me. Mother has been complaining that she never sees her. I’ve arranged to stay at a hotel. Jan is hoping to get some time off to be with us. He won’t go anywhere near the flat.’

  ‘Has he met your parents?’

  ‘No.’

  It was not only the war and what Jan would do when it ended, that worried her, it was the situation at home. Her mother waited on her father hand and foot and never grumbled. It was as if she was trying to atone for some guilt on her part. But what guilt? Louise could only guess.

  Faith took the pillow from behind Henry’s head and stood looking down at him with it in her hands. It would be relatively easy to put it over his face and hold it there until his breathing stopped. Then she would be free of this terrible burden. But would she? Would she ever be free of guilt? Walter Barlow had returned to his wife, relieved when he discovered his victim could neither walk nor talk and no one was looking for him. He did not appear to be bowed down by his guilt. Hers was, of course, the wish that Henry had died and that was a wicked sin.

  Between the nurse’s visits, she had to wash and shave him, give him a bedpan, feed him, and answer the imperative knocking on the wall with his stick, which he preferred to ringing the brass bell he had been provided with. He had bought a new stick the day after Louise destroyed the old one and had somehow managed to persuade Nurse Thomson to give it to him. The nurse knew nothing of the story behind the attack on him and she was all sympathy, doing her best to make him comfortable and placate him when he raged. ‘It’s frustration,’ she told Faith. ‘You would be frustrated and angry if you were in his shoes.’

  Even knowing she could step out of range, Faith was still afraid of that stick. When he required personal attention she took it from him and put it out of his reach until she had finished what she was doing for him. If she forgot to give it back, she could hear his bellows of rage in the kitchen. But bellowing and grunting were all he could do. He could not speak, except with his dark eyes, which followed her as she moved about the room. One day she might give herself the pleasure of telling him that she had found Louise’s letters and was in touch with their daughter again in defiance of his wishes.

  She loved her daughter and little granddaughter but it was not enough to overcome her repugnance at what Louise had done. As for that Polish airman, she had made up her mind not to like him, even though she had not met him. It would have been much better if he had died when his plane crashed and not come back to continue the sin. Louise made no secret of the fact that they had been on holiday together, which made her as guilty as he was. But everyone said the Poles could be charming and left a trail of broken hearts and illegitimate children behind them and Louise had obviously been taken in by him.

  The trouble, as far as Faith was concerned, was that her sin was just as great, and she had no right to condemn anyone, not Louise, not the Polish airman whom she refused to think of by his name, not Walter Barlow. Instead she blamed the war and Hitler. It was easier that way, though if she were honest with herself Hitler had nothing to do with Henry’s cruelty. That had begun years before, when Louise had been a small, mischievous child. Her efforts to try and protect her daughter had led to Henry turning on her and to her eternal shame she had more often than no
t let him get away with it. That Louise had grown up as well balanced as she had was a miracle. At least she had been before she met the Pole.

  She sighed, pulled Henry up to put the pillow behind his back, then sat down on the side of the bed and started to spoon-feed him with his Christmas dinner.

  Louise arrived just before noon the next day, entering by the back door. She kissed her mother and then stood back to look at her. Faith was wearing an old tweed skirt and a beige-coloured twinset. Her hair had escaped from the pins that were supposed to hold it in a bun and wisps of it hung untidily round her face. Her eyes were dull and her skin sallow. ‘How are you, Mum?’ she asked, concerned to see how she had let herself go.

  ‘Plodding on as usual,’ Faith said with an attempt at cheerfulness. ‘You are looking well.’

  ‘It’s the country air and good living,’ Louise said. ‘Why don’t you try it?’

  ‘You know why. Don’t let’s go into all that again.’

  She bent down to Angela who was looking up at her as she would a stranger, and one she wasn’t at all sure of. ‘How’s my little Angela? Are you going to give your grandmother a kiss?’

  Angela’s answer was to hide behind her mother’s skirts. Louise turned and lifted her up. ‘Come on, sweetheart, give Granny a cuddle.’

  Angela cuddled her mother, she cuddled Auntie Jenny and she cuddled her Tata, but she’d be blowed if she’d cuddle this woman who smelt funny. She dug her face into Louise’s shoulder and refused to budge.

  ‘It’s because she doesn’t see you very often,’ Louise explained. ‘She’s not old enough to remember you from one visit to the next.’

  ‘And who’s fault is that?’

  ‘Mine, I suppose, but you know, Mum, I do have to work, and you could just as easily come to see me. Nurse Thomson would stay with Father for a day or two. I’m sure it would do you good to get away for a bit.’