Nocturne

by Diane Armstrong

  Tamping his cigarette out with two jabbing movements, Adam stepped forward and stood in front of the speaker, fists clenched, his face taut and white. ‘You are not fit to clean boots of Polish soldiers.’ He spat the words out through clenched teeth. ‘And Polish airmen helped you win Battle of Britain, no?’

  ‘Steady on old chap,’ the speaker protested. ‘Do calm down. In this country we’re entitled to voice our opinions. But if I happen to think that another nation is backward, then I have the right to —’

  Before he could say another word, Adam had swung his arm back, his fist clenched. There was a sharp intake of shocked breath and sounds of consternation. Suddenly Adam’s arm was stopped in mid-air by a man behind him, who gripped it to restrain him.

  ‘No doubt about you hot-headed Poles; always spoiling for a fight!’

  Adam shook himself free and turned to see Stewart McAllister giving the group around them the disarming smile of a parent come to collect a naughty child from a party. Judith stared at this unlikely duo and realised that her brother must have befriended the Pole at the RAF base. Adam had stepped back but he was still glaring at the man whose comment had offended him.

  Speaking in a low hoarse voice, he said, ‘Poles are primitive and backward people on horses, yes? For three years Poland has been fighting Hitler. We don’t have Vichy, we don’t have Quisling, we don’t collaborate. We fight Germans. And where is brave ally England? Our people are tortured and killed, our children are starved and shot and we still wait for help from your Prime Minister.’ He shot an angry glance towards Churchill and the VIP group on the other side of the room. ‘And you laugh at us!’

  By now he had the attention of the entire hall. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on him, appalled yet fascinated, as his voice rose and his face contorted with fury.

  ‘Backward people are your politicians who don’t do anything. And when we are dead and war is finished, your politicians will say they saved Europe!’

  Two guards appeared on either side of him. ‘You must leave at once, sir,’ one of them said in a polite but forceful tone. They yanked Adam’s arms behind his back and began to hustle him out of the room when Winston Churchill blocked their way.

  ‘Please release Mr Czartoryski,’ he growled. ‘I’m sure he will find his own way out.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Judith said quickly. She had taken Stewart and Adam by the arm and was propelling them towards the door. She shook her head at Adam. ‘And I thought I had a temper! You certainly know how to turn a posh gathering into a political bunfight!’

  Stewart grinned. ‘Now you know what I have to put up with. This temperamental Pole’s my flying mate, worse luck! I just hope no one upsets him when we’re up in the air!’ He gave Judith’s arm a playful punch. ‘I’m not going yet, Sis. That glamourpuss in the slinky red dress is giving me the once-over. Sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?’

  She shuddered. ‘Couldn’t bear it. I’ll meet you at Lyons Corner House for tea later.’

  Judith and Adam walked down Pall Mall. She had listened to several broadcasts on the BBC about Poland and had been distressed by the reports. It sounded as though terrible things were going on there and her blood boiled to think that the Germans were getting away with such savagery. One of the reports had been by a man called Sikorski, who was apparently the Commander-in-Chief of their government-in-exile, a concept she had never been able to understand.

  Judith stole a glance at Adam’s stormy expression. She wanted to tell him how angry she was that his country was suffering so much while the rest of the world was doing nothing to help, but decided against it. They continued their stroll in awkward silence.

  Turning into Hyde Park, they walked along the banks of the Serpentine. It was peaceful there and the war seemed far away. The long winter was over. Swans glided in the lake and beds of daffodils brightened the park. Nature always boosted her spirits but from Adam’s preoccupied expression she sensed he was in no mood to exult in the beauty of spring.

  Her mind filled the silence with questions. Who was he? What had he been through that had etched such bitterness onto his face? The papers were always full of stories of the fearless Polish airmen who were pursued by women and fêted by the press. She knew that thousands of them had joined the RAF but the things Adam had said hinted that he’d had some other mission in England. His brooding expression didn’t encourage conversation but there was one question she had to ask.

  ‘How come Mr Churchill knew who you were?’

  Adam gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I came to England to give information that could change the course of this war, maybe even history. But it was useless. They didn’t think the fate of their ally was important.’ He paused and the muscles in his jaw twitched. ‘Now it is too late. Germans have crushed the Ghetto and Warsaw will be next.’

  Bewildered, she waited for an explanation but, without saying another word, he abruptly raised her hand to his lips and bowed without taking his eyes off her face. As Judith watched him stride away, she felt the blood rushing to her cheeks, and she wondered what it would take to bring a smile to that haunted face. It was too early to meet Stewart, so she sank onto a park bench facing the lake. In its dark waters she saw only the image of Adam Czartoryski as his strange prediction resounded in her head.

  Thirty-Two

  Outside the dispersal hut, Adam was sitting in a sagging armchair with broken springs, eyes closed, face turned up to the sky, trying to focus on the weak sunshine instead of dwelling on his grievances. For several days now he’d watched enviously as his colleagues donned their yellow mae wests, grabbed their goggles and kitbags, and rushed off to the airfield. Half an hour later, the engines of the Lancasters would rev up, and the planes would roar down the runway and lift off. At the end of the day the airmen would stagger back to the base and discuss the dogfights and their narrow escapes.

  During his training on the twin-engine Beech 16s, Adam had found it difficult to contain his impatience. He couldn’t see the point of doing exercises in planes so different from the powerful four-engine Lancasters he’d be flying, and he was fed up with the condescending manner of some of the British officers. Now that the training period was over, he couldn’t wait to get started. He hadn’t met the Group Captain who had been on leave when he arrived, and he chafed at the incompetence of the RAF commanders who were so short of pilots yet left him there to stew.

  Shifting around in the chair to relieve the pressure of the springs, Adam had just closed his eyes again when he was summoned to see the Group Captain, who had recently returned to the base.

  He sprang up, smoothed down his hair and, as he sprinted towards the office, he went over in his mind how he would let his superior know he was keen to start flying without making it sound like a criticism. When he entered, the Group Captain was standing with his back to the door, pinning markers on a large map of Germany. Adam was about to make his prepared speech when his superior turned around and the words died in his throat.

  ‘Mr Czartoryski, isn’t it? I believe we’ve already met.’

  Adam swallowed and nodded. It was Charles Watson-Smythe, whom he’d met at the Europejski Hotel the night the Englishman’s fiancée had thrown a glass of champagne in his face. The recollection of that night, and the humiliating conversation that followed, was still vivid in his mind.

  As on the previous occasion, Sir Charles had the upper hand. He took advantage of it by prolonging the uncomfortable silence, giving Adam ample time to reflect on his misfortune in having the man he’d cuckolded as his commanding officer. There was nothing Adam could say so he waited, looked down at his shoes, and wished he’d never set eyes on his superior’s vindictive fiancée.

  ‘I seem to recall that when we met in Warsaw, Mr Czartoryski, you had joined the Polish Air Force, whose career was unfortunately cut short by the Luftwaffe. So now we’ve come full circle. You’ve joined the RAF in England and I’ve been appointed to this squadron because of the Polish flyers.

 
‘Perhaps you recall that I speak a little Polish. Life is quite wonderful with its twists and turns, don’t you agree?’ His voice was mellow but his eyes threw darts.

  Adam nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Absolutely wonderful.’ The words almost choked him.

  Watson-Smythe stroked his chin. ‘Everyone says that Polish airmen are daredevils. Do you think recklessness is a national trait, Mr Czartoryski?’

  The conversation was about to become a minefield. Adam replied carefully, ‘We think that the sooner Hitler is defeated, the sooner Poland will be free, sir.’

  ‘They say you Poles know how to die but you don’t always know how to live.’

  Adam bit the inside of his lip to suppress a retort. In the circumstances, it wouldn’t be wise to react to the provocation.

  Watson-Smythe was flicking through a log book. ‘The Polish chaps certainly seem to chalk up a lot of successes. More than the British crews. I find that very strange, given their, ah, less than distinguished performance in 1939. How do you account for it?’

  Adam pulled at his tie, which suddenly felt very tight. He wanted to say that their training made them sharper and more alert. Their loose formations, spread wide at various altitudes, gave each member of the squadron a clear view of the sky, instead of being hemmed in by the close formations that the British air force favoured, which risked collisions with their own planes. And they were taught to fly right up close to the enemy. He could still remember his instructor reiterating, ‘Don’t fire till you can see the whites of their eyes.’

  Struggling to keep his voice even, he said, ‘We had weak planes, sir, not weak pilots. They were outmoded and didn’t have sophisticated equipment, so instead of relying on radar and radio, we had to use our eyes and concentrate on what was going on around us.’

  ‘So the Polish airmen are good at using their eyes, are they?’ Watson-Smythe said in an insinuating tone. ‘From what I hear around the village, that’s not all they’re good at. I hear they’re rowdy troublemakers, and no female is safe with them around. The local high school has warned its girls to keep away from gin and Polish airmen!’

  Adam looked down to conceal a malicious smile. If Englishmen knew how to court their women and make them feel desirable, they wouldn’t lose their sweethearts to the Poles. But, as he was well aware, after the incident at the Europejski Hotel, Watson-Smythe had a score to settle.

  Finally the interview was over and he was curtly dismissed with a sharp glance that warned him to watch out. As he walked away, he wondered whether he had any future in the RAF.

  He was mulling over his prospects over a glass of whiskey that evening when pandemonium broke out in the hut. The airmen were shouting and one of them grabbed the Daily Mirror from someone’s hands, tearing several pages.

  Romek leapt up on a table, his face brick-red with anger. ‘The sons of bitches! The fucking bastards! And they’re supposed to be our allies! I knew we couldn’t trust them!’ He spat in disgust.

  ‘You’re a bloody moron,’ Tomasz was shouting. ‘It’s just German propaganda and you fell for it!’

  Several others joined in the fracas, punches were thrown, and beer glasses shattered on the floor.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ Adam asked Romek. ‘Did someone run off with your girlfriend?’

  Romek had fallen in love with the dimpled village girl who served their meals. Betty had resisted the other airmen but she hadn’t been able to resist Romek. He boasted about his conquest at every opportunity, which irritated the others and often led to fights.

  Before Romek could reply, Tomasz thrust the tattered pages of the Mirror into Adam’s hands. ‘You must be the only one who hasn’t heard. Here, look for yourself.’

  As Adam read the news item, he raised the paper closer to his eyes, as though to ensure that not a single word escaped his attention. According to German Radio, the bodies of about four thousand Polish officers had been discovered in mass graves in Katyn Forest, near Smolensk, and they accused the Russians of their murder.

  ‘You can shout and break all the glasses you like, but you’ll never convince me it was the Bolsheviks.’ Tomasz was standing over Maciej, who looked as though he was about to hurl another glass into the fireplace. ‘Wake up, for fuck’s sake; why would they murder our soldiers? It’s obvious that the Germans would blame the Russians. Surely you don’t expect them to own up and say they did it?’

  Maciej’s face was contorted with emotion. ‘You’re the one that should wake up! Have you forgotten how they marched into eastern Poland like a bunch of hyenas in 1939? While they were spouting propaganda about brotherhood and equality, they were deporting hundreds of thousands of Poles to Siberia. Reckoned they were subversive elements or bourgeois intellectuals or such like. They’re devious bastards. Just ask anyone who ever lived under Russian occupation.’

  They were all shouting at Tomasz. Like Maciej, most of the men in the hut had become Russian prisoners when Russia invaded eastern Poland in 1939 and had been deported to remote parts of Siberia where they starved, froze and suffered at the hands of their Russian captors.

  Maciej banged the table with his fist and his voice rose above the others. ‘People died like flies in their stinking gulags. If Hitler hadn’t broken his pact with Stalin in 1941, we’d still be rotting in those camps. They only let us go because circumstances turned them into our allies. They hate our guts. Polish bourgeois pigs, pimples on the arse of humanity — that’s what they called us. First chance they get, they’ll grab Poland by the balls — just wait and see.’

  While the arguments raged back and forth, Adam was deep in thought. When he had given his report to the Polish government-in-exile, Sikorski, the Commander-in-Chief, had impressed on him that it was vital for the Allies to remain united in order to defeat Hitler. What would happen to that unity now, if it was discovered that Russia had murdered thousands of Polish officers in cold blood? From his insights into politics, he surmised that, in blaming the Russians, the Germans were putting the cat among the Allied pigeons to weaken the alliance. Would the British risk offending Stalin by giving credence to the German report?

  Like Maciej and most of the others, Adam had no illusions about Soviet methods either, and was familiar with their ruthless quest for domination, which masqueraded as benevolent ideology.

  He knew that hundreds of thousands of Polish academics, priests, businessmen, military and government personnel had been arrested and shot, or deported to Siberia during the Russian occupation of eastern Poland in 1939.

  Adam sat bolt upright. Perhaps that’s what had happened to his father. From the moment he’d heard that his father had disappeared, he had assumed that he’d either been killed in battle or captured by the Germans. But it was possible that his father was one of the Polish officers shot by the Bolsheviks in that birch forest near Katyn. If that was true, he knew that his father would have died with dignity and without regrets, content that he had done his duty for Poland. Although he and his father had never seen eye to eye on most issues, he had a grudging admiration for the old warrior’s uncompromising principles. Adam sighed. He had always longed to discuss things with his father as an equal, to have his ideas taken seriously and respected, instead of being dismissed as puerile. But that would probably never happen now.

  He felt a sense of loss rather than grief. His father would have died with his honour intact, knowing that he hadn’t disgraced his noble lineage. Adam wondered whether when his turn came he’d be able to say the same.

  Thirty-Three

  Elzunia didn’t know how long she’d been stumbling along unfamiliar streets, brushing against buildings for support. Only one thought spurred her on: to put as much distance as possible between herself and the smouldering Ghetto. As though in slow motion, her knees buckled and she leaned against a large plane tree, shivering in the cool May evening. Plastered to a lamp-post nearby, large black letters proclaimed that any Jews caught outside the Ghetto, and those who sheltered them, would be shot. She broke into a col
d sweat. So she had merely exchanged one set of dangers for another. She had thought that if she could dodge the bullets and the flames, avoid being buried alive in collapsing tunnels, and get to the other side of the wall, she’d be safe. But now she realised that this had been an illusion. No matter where she was, her life was still in peril.

  Her limbs were heavy and she wanted to crawl into a dark corner and sleep, but she knew she had to keep going. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to move on. Warsaw had become an alien, hostile city where dark buildings threw malevolent shadows and people cast suspicious glances as they hurried to reach home before the curfew hour.

  Home. Elzunia swallowed hard to hold back the tears. She had no home, no parents, not even a roof over her head. Her identity card! Where was her identity card? She plunged her hand into her skirt pocket. Thank God, it was still there. But a moment later she realised the card was useless on this side of the wall, worse than useless. She had to get rid of it and fabricate some plausible story to explain how she’d lost it in case a policeman or Gestapo agent stopped her. She had to get off the street. But where could she go?

  Think, quick, think, she urged herself, but the more panic-stricken she felt, and the faster her heart raced, the more paralysed her mind became. There must be someone she could trust. She recalled all the parties, dinners and happy occasions they’d celebrated with her parents’ friends, including her own name day. Surely someone would shelter her. She thought of couples she had particularly liked, and visualised the delight on their faces when they opened the door and saw that she’d survived. She could almost feel the warmth as she fell into their arms.

  Then she remembered that some of them had turned against her mother when they’d discovered she was Jewish, while others made sympathetic noises but had done nothing to help. Perhaps her father was out there somewhere, longing to tell her how desperately he’d tried to get the three of them out of the Ghetto, but she knew that was a fantasy.