Spring Will Be Ours

by Sue Gee

  ‘I thank all soldiers for their magnificent bearing, which did not succumb even when conditions were at their worst. I pay due tribute to the fallen for their agony. I express the admiration and gratitude of the fighting ranks of the army to the population, and declare the army’s attachment to them. I ask the people to pardon the soldiers any transgressions committed against the population during the long and protracted struggle …

  ‘You soldiers, my dearest comrades in these two months of fighting, one and all of whom have been to the very last moment constant in the will to fight on, I ask now to fulfil obediently such orders as arise from the decision to cease fighting. I call to the population to comply with the evacuation instructions issued by me, the city’s Commander, and the civil authorities.’

  Henryk broke off. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we shall all assemble at the exit barricade. If any of you want to go home, and collect anything before the final evacuation, you’d better go tonight. I think we can all sleep here, though, if necessary.’ He looked at them all, and then back at the thin sheet of paper from which he had been reading. ‘I suppose we must try to take courage from General Bór’s last words: “With faith in ultimate victory of our just cause, with faith in a beloved, great and happy country, we shall all remain soldiers and citizens of an independent Poland, faithful to the standard of the Polish Republic.”’

  He put down the paper, and they sat in silence, staring at the pattern on the floor made by the sunlight still streaming through the open window, as if it were any autumn afternoon.

  She climbed the stairs to the apartment door and knocked.

  ‘Wiktoria? It’s Anna.’

  There was no answer, and she knocked again, but louder. ‘Wiktoria! Wiktoria!’

  How could she have hoped that she would still be here? She put her shoulder to the door, and pushed. It gave way quite easily: weeks of vibration from the shelling must have loosened every hinge and lock in the city. Inside, she stood in the corridor and called again, but then she began to be frightened by the image of herself standing alone in an abandoned apartment, and moved quickly from room to empty room.

  Dust lay thickly on every chair and bed and table; the windows were shattered. It was like returning to the apartment house in Praga, after the siege, but now she no longer had the hope that her father would be coming home, and now she did not have Jerzy, either.

  On the bookshelf in Wiktoria’s room was a photograph of Tata and Mama: he stood behind her, his head on her shoulder; two-year-old Jerzy leaned against her lap; Anna, a baby, sat there staring very gravely at the camera. There was another photograph, of Tata with Teresa laughing.

  Where was Teresa now?

  Anna went out into the corridor, along to her own small room.

  From the chest of drawers there she took out a postcard, carefully wrapped, and all her own photographs, some in an album, some still loose in envelopes. Mama. Mama and Tata. Teresa – a print of the photograph she’d had taken for her identity card. Tata and Jerzy on their last holiday together, rowing down the river past the silver birch trees. Wiktoria, holding both their hands when they were tiny, walking in a snowy garden somewhere: that must have been the winter Mama died.

  She put all of them into a small, flat, pre-war sweet tin she found in a drawer in the kitchen, and tied it with a piece of string. Then she searched until she found a pencil, and wrote a note to Wiktoria on the back of an envelope:

  Leaving Warsaw tomorrow, like everybody else. To a transit camp, and then God knows. Jerzy was killed 8.8 on Jerozolimskie: he is buried in·Zórawia.

  Thank you for everything. Will be near Three Crosses Square tonight – same place we’ve been at through the Uprising. Come if you can.

  Anna

  3 October 1944

  She put the note on the kitchen table, the corner under a cup: it lifted a little in the breeze from the shattered window. Then she picked up the box of photographs, went out of the apartment and closed the door.

  Paris was liberated, Warsaw fell. Anna stood in a long, long line of people, each with an AK armband, moving slowly over the torn-up pavements under the eye of the German guards. They went past the skeletons of houses; past the silhouettes of burned-out churches where only a few stone frames of stained-glass windows hung; past courtyards filled with burial mounds and crosses, and courtyards where piles of bodies lay still unburied. All the way through the city the only sounds were the crunch of bricks and rubble under thousands of moving feet, and the voices of the Germans, talking quietly to each other as they watched.

  A towering barricade loomed ahead, with a gap cleared away in the middle. They reached it, and Anna looked up. Far above, from a gaping window, a white flag hung limply, like a broken arm. Then the order to march was given, and she followed the people in front, stumbling through the gap in the barricade, and out to the other side.

  When all the inhabitants of Warsaw had left, the Germans, on Hitler’s orders, razed every last building to the ground. They destroyed it all methodically, street by street, house by house. On 17 January 1945, the Russians crossed the Vistula at last, and liberated a dead city. The following day, down the snow-covered ruins of Jerozolimskie Avenue, they held a Victory Parade.

  The Polish Constitution, the most liberal in its day of any in Europe, was decreed in 1791. Russian intervention prevented it from being enforced, and in 1795 Poland disappeared from the map of Europe. May 3rd is one of the most important dates in the Polish calendar.

  Back to Text

  PART TWO

  My Country

  6. London, 1960

  The classroom smelt of powder paint and chalk dust. There were two posters on the long corridor wall opposite the window: one of British Birds, perched in stiff profile on twigs – blackbird, thrush, chaffinch and blue tit, starling and robin, each with its own black silhouette behind, in flight. The finches rose and dipped – there was a curving line of dashes, to make it clear. Next to it was Road Safety, where two small children, a boy and a girl, tightly held their mother’s hand on the edge of a zebra crossing. The mother wore a hat; across the road a policeman beckoned, smiling. Pinned up by the blackboard was a map of the world, where all the countries in pink belonged to Great Britain. A lot of Africa was pink. From where he sat, near the back of the class and by the window, Poland was almost invisible, a little splash of purple before the great expanse of green that was Russia.

  The clock above the glass-panelled door showed half-past eleven. Mrs Thompson, bulging where brown pleated skirt and wine-coloured cardigan met, was straining up to the blackboard with the felt-covered wooden wiper, cleaning off the sums from before break.

  ‘No talking, please. And I have eyes in the back of my head, Joanna Wightman, so please take that gum from under your desk and put it in the wastepaper basket.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  The chalk squeaked as Mrs Thompson wrote in careful print, and turned back to the class. ‘You can all see from the back? Michael, what does that say?’

  ‘The Romans, Miss.’ Michael, the stocky little boy who shared a double desk with Jerzy, moved his gum into his cheek.

  ‘Good boy. Now – this half-term we shall be learning all about the Romans, how they sailed here, nearly two thousand years ago, all the way from Italy, to conquer this country. Who can tell me what “to conquer” means? Anyone? No? It means to win every battle, until you can rule completely. The Romans conquered us, and they gave us new towns, new roads and money and houses – all sorts of things, even central heating! They were a very civilized people. Now – here is a picture …’ She picked up a sheet of paper from her desk and taped it to the board. A small cloud of chalk dust drifted to the back of the classroom, and Jerzy coughed. ‘No fidgeting, please. There – look at him!’

  The children gazed at the profile of a man with a long nose, wearing a helmet. ‘A Roman soldier,’ said Mrs Thompson triumphantly. ‘And here’ – she taped up another picture – ‘here is what he found.’ Wild-looking men with
long hair and beards, in ragged clothes, crouched round a fire. The picture was in only two colours, black and inky blue, so that the flames were the same colour as the grass. In the background were blue and black huts, then a forest.

  ‘You can just see from these two pictures how different we were from the Romans, can’t you? Now – have any of you ever heard of a Roman soldier called Julius Caesar? No? He was a great leader, and when he came here he said: “I came, I saw, I conquered.”’ She wrote his name on the board, and turned back to the class. ‘Yes, Jerzy?’

  He lowered his hand. ‘Poland was conquered, Miss.’

  ‘Well … yes. After the war, I suppose.’

  ‘But … I mean before that. A long time ago. I don’t know if it was when the Romans came here, but it made me think of it. We were … partitioned.’

  ‘That’s right, dear. Now, shall we concentrate on the Romans? We are all going to make a great big frieze – who can help me pin up all this green paper on the wall?’

  ‘Me, Miss, me!’

  ‘Me, me!’

  ‘Quietly, quietly. Tracy and Steven – here you are, you hold the drawing pins and this roll, the rest of you get out your pencils and crayons. Next week we shall be doing some painting. Each one of you can do a picture to stick up on the background: soldiers, Roman ladies, ships, houses, coins …’ She had her back to them now, and was stretching out rolls of green sugar paper across the blank wall running from the door to the end of the classroom. Desk lids were banged open, pencil cases unzipped. Jerzy yawned, then coughed again. Beside him, Michael had the lid of his desk propped against his forehead, and with his right hand was turning the first page of Beano, while his left fumbled noisily with his pencil case. Jerzy peered sideways at Lord Snooty and His Pals, then nudged him as Mrs Thompson moved heavily from the far wall and down towards the blackboard. Michael’s lid closed quietly; books from the school library were passed from the front.

  ‘Turn to the first page, and there you will see the magnificent ships, rowed by slaves, in which the Romans sailed across the Mediterranean Sea …’

  Jerzy and Michael looked at bright brown and orange and yellow wood, and clothes, and faces. From the prow of the ship a Roman soldier gazed out across sparkling waves at a distant shore, behind him, muscular half-naked slaves strained at the oars, under a cracking whip.

  ‘Cor,’ said Michael, and then, as an afterthought: ‘My Dad’s taking me to see Gun Fight at Dodge City tomorrow.’

  ‘So’s mine,’ said Jerzy automatically. He tried to remember if Tata had been at home at all last weekend, and couldn’t. Probably not – he had extra work all the time, now. Anyway, sometimes it wasn’t very comfortable when he was at home. He flicked through the pages, glimpsed a map, and turned back until he found it, an outline of Scotland, England and Wales. It was filled in with a creamy wash, dotted with scarlet circles for towns: Londinium, Camulodunum, Calcaria, Longovicium. Sprinkled among the scarlet towns and thin blue rivers were tiny line drawings: castles, villas, vases, necklaces and coins, more ships. A long grey line like a battlement marched across the north of England. Something Wall. Hadrian’s Wall – who was Hadrian? Jerzy could imagine that Dziadek would like this map.

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I make a map? Like this one?’ He held it up and she moved down the aisle towards him, and picked up the book. ‘Well. You can try. It’s a little ambitious, a little difficult for now. I thought perhaps one thing each, but you can see how you get on. It’ll take quite a few lessons, I should think. What about you, Michael, what are you going to do?’

  ‘One of them wild men, Miss.’

  Giggles from across the aisle.

  ‘That’s enough, thank you, Sandra. Now – are you all ready with something?’

  Jerzy bent over the map once more, then opened the felt pencil case Babcia had made at the beginning of the term. It was fluffing slightly along the zip. He found the sharpest pencil, and began to draw. The dinner bell rang as he reached the tip of Cornwall.

  The assembly hall, which served also as the dining room and gym, had a high ceiling and long narrow windows set far above the level of the children’s heads. There were double doors, leading out to the playground, but their glass panels were covered with protective mesh, so that you could really see only the outlines of the caretaker’s hut, the wall and railings and the council flats beyond. Inside, the scraping of chairs, the clatter of cutlery on Formica-topped tables, the dinner ladies banging stainless steel lids on serving dishes, the children’s voices, all rose to and echoed from the vaulted ceiling. There was a permanent smell of chips and beans, with an undernote of cleaning fluid, particularly noticeable now, in the autumn term, when the radiators were on.

  Ewa collected her plate of fish, chips and peas, and her bowl of tinned pears and custard, and followed Lizzie Blunden, new this term, across to their class table. They pulled back their chairs and sat down. Lizzie pulled up her sleeves and tucked a mass of curly red hair behind her ears.

  ‘You’ve got earrings!’ said Ewa. ‘Let’s see.’ She leaned over, gently touched a small gold stud. ‘When did you have it done?’

  ‘Last night – my Mum’s friend does it. I expect she’d do yours, if you wanted.’

  Ewa tried to imagine Mama’s face. ‘I don’t think my Mum would let me.’

  ‘Why?’ Lizzie took a forkful of chips.

  Ewa shrugged. ‘She’d say I was too young.’

  ‘Some of the babies on our estate have got them,’ said Lizzie. ‘And they’d suit you, show up nice with your plaits.’ She yawned. ‘Thank God it’s the weekend. What’re you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘School in the morning. I don’t know what we’ll do in the afternoon. We take our dog out on the common quite often.’

  ‘School?’ asked Lizzie. ‘What school?’

  ‘Saturday school – Polish school. My grandfather teaches there.’

  ‘I didn’t know you was Polish.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ said Ewa, feeling glamorous.

  ‘When did you come here, then?’

  ‘I was born here.’

  ‘Then you’re English.’

  ‘No. Not really …’

  ‘Course you are. If you was born here. Not like the wogs. My Mum’s fed up with the wogs – she says there’s too many moving in round here, and soon there’ll be too many in this place, too.’ She dug Ewa in the ribs and nodded towards the two West Indian girls at the next table. ‘If you was born here, you’re English,’ she said again. ‘Ain’t you glad?’

  Ewa didn’t know how to answer. She pushed the peas on her plate into a little pile, and took a mouthful.

  ‘What do you do at this school, then?’

  ‘Polish language, and stories. History …’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Lizzie, finishing her fish. ‘Don’t you get fed up?’

  ‘No,’ said Ewa, flushing. ‘We have dancing, too, it’s fun.’

  ‘What sort of dancing?’

  ‘Well – folk dancing, I suppose. Country dancing – sometimes we wear costumes.’ She suddenly saw herself in her embroidered blouse, and full embroidered skirt and waistcoat, with Lizzie watching, in her earrings, and she felt glamour and specialness evaporate. Across the hall she could see Jerzy’s class, stacking up their plates. ‘My brother goes,’ she said, and pointed. ‘That’s him, over there by the climbing bars.’

  ‘The skinny one?’

  ‘He’s not skinny!’

  ‘Course he is,’ said Lizzie. ‘Oh, go on, what’s the matter with you? Say something in Polish.’

  ‘No.’ Ewa pushed away her plate, felt a thick lump forming in her throat and furiously tried to swallow it.

  ‘You’re crying! I only said …’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘Charming.’ Lizzie turned exaggeratedly to the girl on the other side, and Ewa stared blindly at the table top. Why was she so upset? What did it matter what Lizzie Blunden thought?

  Out in the playgro
und it was cold but free. Ewa and Janet, duffle coat hoods up, friends since the first year, walked round the netball markings, arm in arm.

  ‘What did she say?’

  Ewa bit her lip. ‘Nothing, really. I just felt she was laughing at me.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I know. It’s just…’

  ‘D’you want to come and have tea after school? You’ll never guess.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got the Elvis! Mum brought it home last night. If you come, we can listen to it eight million times.’

  ‘It’s now or never …’

  They spun up and down past the caretaker’s hut.

  ‘Number One next week.’

  ‘Course it will be. Will you come?’

  ‘Oh, yes. If Mama says …’

  ‘She will, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she will.’

  ‘It’s now or never …’

  ‘Look at Jerzy,’ Janet said suddenly.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there, by the gate.’

  He was standing watching them – or possibly not watching, but daydreaming, holding them merely by chance in his line of vision. His face looked pinched with the cold. Ewa shook her head.

  ‘Mama keeps saying he’s got to keep warm, and run about.’

  They walked quickly towards him.

  ‘Jerzy?’ said Ewa.

  He nodded. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why not? Mama says you’ve got to run about, get strong.’

  ‘It makes me cough. I was thinking.’

  From the main entrance of the school the afternoon bell rang out. They began to walk back across the playground; Lizzie Blunden ran past them in a group of boys, giggling.

  ‘What do you mean, thinking?’ Ewa said irritably. ‘Mooning.’