by Mary Nichols
The hospital had been badly shelled but seemed to have escaped the ministrations of the German fire squads with their flame-throwers, and parts of it had been repaired in order to make it operational. Jan went in to be assailed by the smell of putrid flesh, urine and carbolic. Nurses and doctors and bewildered patients, some missing limbs, came and went along the corridors and ignored him.
He approached a nurse. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Rulka Grabowska. She was a nurse here before the war …’
‘I don’t know anyone of that name, but I’ve only been here a year myself. Ask the director.’
‘Where can I find him?’
She pointed. ‘His office is down that corridor on the right.’
He thanked her and went off in the direction she had indicated, knowing she was watching him. He felt as though the word ‘illegal’ was emblazoned on his back. He was glad when he turned the corner and found himself facing a door with the label ‘Director’ on it. He knocked and was answered by a low voice saying, ‘Enter.’
Opening the door, he found himself face to face with Lech Andersz, who was seated at a desk, a pile of documents in front of him. It was a gaunt and white-haired Lech, but still recognisable.
‘Good God! Jan Grabowski,’ he said, getting up to offer his hand. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for Rulka.’
‘Rulka died in ’42.’
‘I know, but I believe she was reborn as Krystyna Nowak.’
‘Who told you that?’ He motioned Jan to a chair and returned to his own seat.
‘A gentleman by the name of Boris Martel.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘In England last year.’
‘I see. What else did he tell you?’
‘As much as he felt he could. I have no doubt there was a lot he didn’t say, but he told me Rulka had escaped from POW detention and returned to Warsaw and was waiting for me. I’ve been to our old apartment. There’s someone else living there now.’
‘I do not doubt it. People squat wherever a building is halfway habitable.’
‘Do you know where I can find her?’
Lech turned to look out of the window at a lifeless poplar tree, its whitened trunk stark against the pale blue of a wintry sky. He seemed to be hesitating. ‘The last time I heard anything of Krystyna Nowak,’ he said carefully, ‘she was in prison.’
‘Prison? Which prison?’
‘I hope, my dear fellow, you are not planning to try and have her released. I fear it would have no consequence except to deprive you of your own freedom.’
‘I can’t just leave her there.’
The doctor laughed. ‘She was left over seven years ago and managed to survive.’ It sounded like an accusation.
‘I could not help that.’
‘I am aware of that. She never held it against you and she would not now, if you were to go back where you came from.’
‘I can’t do that. What is she being accused of?’
‘Being a member of the Home Army.’
‘But that’s not a crime.’
‘It is now.’ He paused, evidently uncomfortable. ‘If you want to know more, I suggest you speak to Father Karlowicz at the Church of the Holy Cross. You’ll find him busy about the rebuilding of the church. It may look to you as if nothing is being done, but the church is being given precedence when it comes to restoration. The rest of the city has to make do with ugly concrete blocks for new buildings, as you must have noticed.’
Jan, aware of Lech’s caginess, did not press him further, but thanked him and left.
The church, opposite Warsaw University in the city centre, had been in the thick of the war right from the start. It had been seriously damaged in 1939 when its crypt had been used as a hospital and the German police had plundered it of its treasures during the occupation. It had been under constant attack during the Rising and, towards the end, when the Germans had reoccupied the area, they had detonated two Goliath remote-controlled mines inside it which destroyed much of the interior and brought down the facade.
As Jan approached it, he noticed people going through the rubble picking up pieces of stone and statuary and fragments of coloured glass from the broken windows and carefully placing them in separate heaps. He asked one of them where he could find Father Karlowicz and was directed to a grimy figure bending over a broken statue.
‘Have you come to help?’ he asked Jan. ‘We need to salvage as much building material as we can to guide us in reconstructing the church. It has to be restored as good as it was.’
‘Perhaps I will later.’ He paused, wondering how to begin. ‘Father, will you hear my confession? Doctor Lech Andersz sent me.’
‘Come,’ the priest said, and led the way into a corner of the building still standing where a hasty confessional had been erected. ‘Sit,’ he said, indicating a bench.
When they were seated side by side, Jan went through the ritual and received his penance, but it was not so much absolution he wanted as information. ‘Dr Andersz said you might be able to help me trace someone. Rulka Grabowska.’
‘Rulka Grabowska died. I conducted her funeral service myself.’
‘I’m sorry, I meant Krystyna Nowak.’
‘Aah.’ The word was drawn out. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jan Grabowski, Rulka’s husband. I have not seen her since 1939.’
The priest looked Jan up and down. ‘Where have you been?’
‘In England with the Royal Air Force.’
‘I guessed as much. There is too much meat on you to have been in Poland. No doubt you will learn to starve like the rest of us.’
‘Perhaps I will, but what about Rulka?’
‘Rulka is dead and Krystyna Nowak is in Pawiak prison.’
‘So I have been told. Has she been tried and sentenced?’
‘Not yet. The new Polish justice works very slowly, when it works at all.’
‘Can she be defended?’
‘A defence lawyer will be allocated.’
‘Will I be allowed to see her?’
‘On what grounds? Officially Krystyna Nowak is a single woman and has no near kin.’
‘Are you allowed to see her?’
‘Yes. I visit the prison, as does Dr Andersz.’
‘Then you can tell her I am here in Warsaw and will do my utmost to have her released. Tell her not to give up hope.’
The old man laughed. ‘She has had seven years of fighting and not giving up hope. I do not think she will start now.’
‘Yes, that was silly of me. But tell her I am here, will you?’
‘Very well, on my next visit. In the meantime, what are you going to do?’
‘I must find work and a place to live. In England I took a short course in stone masonry and bricklaying.’
‘Then we can use you. Warsaw has to be rebuilt. Do you have identity and ration cards?
‘Yes, but they are probably forged. I obtained them in Budapest.’
‘Then no doubt they are,’ the priest told him. ‘Go and see Stanisław Roman, the undertaker. He was allowed to live because there was no one more needed and he has connections everywhere. But take my advice. Whatever thoughts you have about the Soviet Union or the Rising, keep them to yourself.’
Jan knelt to be blessed and then left to go in search of the undertaker. The joyful reunion with Rulka he had dreamt of was not to be. But he was here now and he had to make the best of it.
Rulka counted each step she took round the courtyard of the prison. Counting and reciting poetry kept her sane, considering the prisoners were forbidden to speak when on this daily fifteen-minute exercise. She was weak from hunger and the steps she took were small shuffles. It was ironic to think that she had escaped the German POW camp and made her way back to Warsaw, only to be caught because of the young Boy Scout who had guided her through the sewers when the Rising collapsed. She didn’t blame him; he had no doubt been threatened, perhaps tortured, to get the information out of him.
She hoped that by giving it, he had saved his life and that of his family.
It was over a year since she had asked Boris to find Jan. Whether he had she did not know, perhaps never would. Rumour had reached her that Polish pilots returning from Britain were immediately arrested as fascists. Perhaps that had happened to Jan and she began to wish she had not told Boris to find him and tell him she was waiting for him. Jan could do nothing for her. Her future would be decided by a judge in a mockery of a trial and she did not hold out much hope that she would be released.
When the war ended, Polish prisoners of war in Germany were released to find their own way home or become displaced persons, but those ‘liberated’ by the Russians had no such luck. As far as the NKVD, the Russian Secret Service, was concerned anyone who had been in German hands had been contaminated and was a collaborator. The same was said of the members of the Home Army. They had obeyed the orders of the government in London and were therefore fascists and capitalists, enemies of Communism. They were accused of using the Home Army as a cover for clandestine activities against the Soviet Union, and in partnership with the German Reich, which was laughable considering the Rising had been all about driving the shkopy out of Warsaw. It did not stop many of those still at liberty from forming a new resistance movement, the Freedom and Independence Organisation, dedicated to preserving democracy and restoring Poland’s independence; as far as they were concerned, the war was far from over. Rulka, once back in Warsaw, lost no time in joining it.
The new Communist government of Poland had formed an internal security corps, the KBW, an equivalent of the Soviet NKVD. It was mobile and heavily armed and a law unto itself. It was this body that had arrested Rulka and thrown her into Pawiak prison. She had been here six months, enduring daily brutal interrogation aimed at forcing a confession out of her, until she had begun to wonder how she was going to hold out. Her cell was a cold stone room with a straw palliasse to sleep on and food that was just enough to keep her alive, no more. Her clothes were in rags and certainly inadequate in winter and what sleep she managed was frequently interrupted by being hauled out for more interrogation from which she returned battered and bruised.
But the years of privation in occupied Warsaw and her years with the resistance had made her tough. There was no room in her life for sentimentality, for mercy, for weakness of any kind. She had learnt to kill without compunction when the necessity arose. It was almost as if she were devoid of feeling. And yet she could still remember what her life had been like before the war, when she had been happy making a home with her husband. She had loved him and looked to him for protection. Her faith had been misplaced because he had left her. The Home Army had become her family, people like Lech, Arkady, Boris and Colin, the Bulldog, who had died saving her. Jan had become a distant memory, part of another world, that could never come again. She had been foolish to hold onto it and even more foolish to want or expect him to come back.
‘Inside!’ the guard shouted and the line of women dutifully turned and made their way back to their cells to be locked in again. Rulka supposed they were all awaiting trial as she was but as she had had no contact with them, she had no idea what they were being accused of. The list of crimes against the state was endless.
She had hardly sat down on the end of the bench that served as a bed, when the door was unlocked again and she was ordered out. Without a word she rose and followed the guard to the office of the prison governor for more interrogation. She knew the drill. She would be kept standing and a strong light shone into her face. There would be a guard on either side of her armed with truncheons and pistols, while her interrogator would either be sitting at a desk on the other side of the light or pacing back and forth, throwing out questions, always the same questions. When had she joined the Home Army? Which unit had she served in? Who had been her commanding officer? When had the unit been in contact with the German forces? How had they communicated with London? Who had been her co-conspirators plotting against the Soviet Union? Why did she not answer their questions and save everyone a lot of trouble? If she confessed, she would be dealt with leniently.
She was perfectly aware that they already knew the answers and all they were after was confirmation and a confession. Confessions saved them the trouble and expense of a proper trial. But she would not give them the satisfaction. The result was always a beating with the truncheons until she lost consciousness and was dragged back to her cell to await the next time.
But today was a little different. For a start, the two guards were not standing quite so close to her and her interrogator was smiling. ‘I have good news for you, Krystyna Nowak,’ he said. ‘Your trial has been fixed for tomorrow.’
If he had hoped for a reaction from her, he was disappointed, her expression remained wooden.
‘Are you going to confess, throw yourself on the mercy of the court and save us all a lot of time and trouble?’
‘I am not interested in saving time and trouble. I want a proper trial.’
‘Then you shall have one. You will be assigned a defence lawyer.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Take her back and make sure she is prettied up, get her a better dress and some decent shoes and stockings. And have her hair washed. We can’t have the press thinking we do not treat our prisoners well.’ He waved a hand to dismiss them and she was wheeled about to return to her cell. From this she deduced she was going to be the subject of a show trial meant to tell the world that there was justice to be had in the new Poland.
A nurse arrived the next day and treated her sores, sponged her bruises and set about ridding her of the vermin who had made their home in every crevice of her emaciated body. Later she was taken for a shower. It was only lukewarm but it left her feeling a little more alive. After she had dried herself she was handed a pile of clothes. They were far from the latest fashion and second-hand but much better than the rags she had discarded. There was underwear, a cotton dress, a knitted cardigan and shoes and socks; stockings were impossible to come by. The next arrival was a hairdresser who trimmed her hair and combed out the lice.
‘It won’t make a jot of difference,’ she said, looking at the rough blanket and the straw mattress on the bench. ‘They’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Won’t matter, will it?’ the woman said. She was a huge Polish woman. Rulka could not be sure where her sympathies lay and did not risk trying to find out. ‘It will all be over by then.’
When the hairdresser had left, Rulka sat on, waiting. Her head was full of what might be about to happen and the answers she might give to the questions asked of her. Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of her defence lawyer, a small wiry man with dark hair and a pale face, who introduced himself as Tomasz Gorski. It soon became evident he was one of the establishment and as far as she could see there was little to distinguish him from the prosecution, except for telling her to plead guilty and beg for mercy. She’d be damned if she would do that. She hadn’t fought for all those years to buckle under now.
He sighed at her intransigence, as if her refusal had personally hurt his feelings. Calling to the guards who stood outside the door, he gathered up the papers he had spread over the bed and which he said contained damning evidence against her. ‘Then let us go and get this over with,’ he said.
She followed him from the cell to a waiting room, where she was told to sit, while he paced the floor. Five minutes later, Father Karlowicz arrived. He had evidently come in great haste because his frock was dust-laden and his shoes scuffed.
The lawyer looked at him with contempt. ‘You will not be needed until after the verdict,’ he said.
‘On the contrary,’ the priest answered calmly. ‘Pani Nowak needs the support of the church for the ordeal ahead of her. I come to offer that support.’
‘Oh, very well, you may have a few words with her, but make haste, the van will be here soon to convey her to the court.’
Rulka was puzzled, but decided to go along with this little charade; there must be a reason for it.
She stepped forward and knelt before the priest. He laid a hand upon her head and murmured a prayer and then took her hand to help her up. She felt something being pressed into her palm and closed her fingers over it. Father Karlowicz turned to the lawyer. ‘I shall see you in court, my friend, for there are others who need me.’ And with that he took his leave, just as the prison van came to convey her to the courtroom.
Not until she was sitting in the waiting room and the lawyer had gone off to speak to colleagues, dare she look at the piece of paper in her hand. It was only a scrap and the handwriting was tiny, but its message was clear. ‘Your husband is in Warsaw and working towards your release.’ Could it be true? Was Jan really here? Her state of lethargy, the feeling that nothing mattered any more, was suddenly transformed into hope. She put the paper into her mouth and swallowed it and then resettled her expression into one of lethargy and hopelessness. But inside she was seething. It made her change her mind about her intransigence.
‘I want you to plead mitigating circumstances,’ she told Gorski when he came back. ‘I was, and am, a nurse, committed to saving lives, no matter who they are. I was coerced into helping during the Rising, but only as a nurse. It was made very plain to me what would happen if I refused. I was never a fighter. I have nothing against the present regime. All I want is get on with the job I am trained to do. Nurses are needed.’ The last statement was true, even if the previous ones were not. The hospitals were working flat out in appalling conditions. She knew typhoid, tuberculosis and rheumatoid arthritis were rife.
‘You have left it late to say this,’ he said.
‘I’m saying it now.’
‘Have you any witnesses to attest that you were forced to help?’
‘Most of them are dead.’
‘What about Father Karlowicz?’
‘Ask him. He said he would be in court.’
He went off again and she sat there for several minutes, which seemed like an eternity. Would the good Father swallow his scruples to help her? There was no necessity to swear on the bible, so he might. Perhaps she ought to have suggested Lech. He was a doctor and had either not been suspected or had used the same argument as she had to keep his freedom. But was it fair to draw attention to him?
