by Sue Gee
Jerzy was leaning against her. She lightly touched the glass. ‘Your other Dziadek, and your uncle. Your namesakes – Jerzy Tomasz.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, you’ve told me lots of times.’
‘Have I?’ She got up again and put the picture back on the shelf. ‘Perhaps we’ve had enough stories now. Would you like to do some drawing? Or tidy your room?’
Ewa shook her head.
For a brief, uncomfortable moment, she thought of Lizzie Blunden’s sharp little face. ‘If you was born here, you’re English. Ain’t you glad?’ She looked at Mama, and imagined her begging and pleading with a hard-faced man in uniform to be allowed to keep a handful of photographs. She saw her standing in a long long line of prisoners, being marched through ruins, and she remembered, suddenly, Dziadek telling them at school something about Yalta – the Yalta Agreement, at the end of the war, when Winston Churchill and President Roosevelt had handed Poland to Stalin on a plate. Dziadek, who was usually so kind, had looked stern, even angry when he talked about it.
How could she explain to Lizzie that she would never be anything but Polish? And how could Mama ever understand how much she sometimes wished she had never heard of Poland?
Jerzy was rubbing his forehead. ‘Go on, Mama.’
‘Well …’ Anna rummaged in the pile of mending, and withdrew a pair of his socks, with holes in heel and toe. ‘You’re growing very fast all of a sudden, we shall have to go shopping. Perhaps these will last just for the rest of term. Anyway – where was I?’
‘In the prison camp.’
‘In the prison camp … Yes. We spent the whole winter there, my God it was cold – bitter. So many of us were ill, I had pleurisy, even …’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind. In the spring of 1945 we were moved, to an all-women camp in a place called Oberlangen, near the Belgian border. And there, in May, when the war was almost over, we were liberated by Polish soldiers. Can you imagine – we went mad! They had been fighting in Europe with the British, serving under General Maczek. And when they came up in their lorries, we were waving and shouting from behind the wire fences – to see free Polish soldiers! I can’t tell you how wonderful that was.’
She looked at her watch. ‘Goodness, it’s almost five – the grandparents will be here in a minute. Go and put the kettle on, Ewa, there’s a good girl.’
Ewa got up slowly, stretching. ‘It’s freezing in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, go on.’
‘And then the soldiers came …’ said Jerzy, ‘And then …’
‘And then, eventually, there were transports arranged, and I made my way to Italy, to join the Polish forces there – the Polish Second Corps, serving under the famous General Anders. You remember him?’
‘Monte Cassino,’ said Ewa from the door. ‘Dziadek’s told us all about it in Saturday school. And that’s where you met Tata, isn’t it, in Italy?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And was it love at first sight?’
‘Ewa!’ Anna tucked Jerzy’s darned sock neatly into its pair. ‘Run along at once.’
‘Is Tata coming back for tea?’ Jerzy asked, as Ewa disappeared, giggling.
‘Oh, I don’t know!’ said Anna irritably, and bit her lip. ‘Sorry, maleńki – I didn’t mean to snap. He might come – it depends how much more he has to do.’
Jerzy sighed. Then Ewa was back again.
‘Mama?’
‘Now what?’
‘You and Tata met in Italy …’
‘Yes …’
‘And he and Dziadek and Babcia were all reunited then …’ She frowned, concentrating. ‘And then you all came to England …’
‘Yes.’
‘And where did you stay?’
‘In camps. Have you put the kettle on?’
‘Yes. More camps?’
‘Resettlement camps. I was in Herefordshire, and Tata in Hampshire, I think. The grandparents came a little later – I can’t remember now where they were sent.’
‘But not prison camps,’ Jerzy said.
‘No, darling, of course not. They were just old British Army camps, turned over to the Poles. Nissen huts, very basic. When we came, it was the winter of 1945–46 – freezing, the worst winter here for decades, I think. It wasn’t quite so bad for us, because we were young, and single, but in the family camps they were all crowded together, sometimes they had to walk right out in the snow to the cookhouse. Imagine, with young children. Later on, things were a little better, but at first …
‘And of course there were Poles from all over the place in those camps, not just from Italy. The ones who’d been taken prisoner by the Russians right at the beginning of the war, like my father, but who had survived, and been released in 1941. They’d served under British command in Africa, the Middle East. And there were those who had been in this country since 1940, who’d served in the RAF and knew their way around. And the ones who’d spent the war as prisoners in Germany. It was a real … mish-mash, I think the English would say.
‘And there we all were, many of us still trying to find out what had happened to friends, and family, trying to get news from Poland, through the Red Cross, almost everyone bewildered, and unsettled, or grieving for the family they’d lost in the war … What a time …’
‘And did you know you were going to stay here?’ Ewa asked.
‘Oh, no. I was quite certain when we landed in Liverpool that we’d be going back to Poland in the spring. I think most of us thought that – hoped it, anyway.’
‘But then there was Yalta,’ said Ewa, frowning again, trying to remember what Dziadek had said. ‘Something about the Yalta Agreement?’
‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘That happened while we were still in Italy, but I didn’t hear about it until after our arrival here. Yalta is the place on the Black Sea coast where Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin all met in February 1945, where Stalin persuaded them to move the Russian/Polish border hundreds of miles to the west, along what was once called the Curzon line, so that a great deal of Poland and two very famous old Polish cities, Wilno and Lwów, were now in Russia.’
‘Lwów is where Dziadek was born,’ said Ewa. ‘“A great walled city.” I remember.’
‘Yes. Clever girl. And Wilno is where we caught the train back to Warsaw, after our summer’s holiday, when we heard we were at war. Anyway – Poland’s western border, with Germany, was to be moved, too, further west, so that we had Silesia, for example, within our frontiers, some little compensation for what Germany had done to us. But Stalin got just what he’d been waiting for – Roosevelt and Churchill agreeing to a Soviet government, a puppet … administration. There were supposed to be free elections, as soon as possible, but …’ She shrugged.
Ewa had her chin cupped in her hands. ‘And when did you hear about all that?’
‘The following spring, 1946. We heard through the Polish press – they were furious, outraged. The Government in Exile, which had been here all through the war, was told that it was no longer recognized by the British government. Prime Minister Mikołajczyk went back to Warsaw, to have a seat in the new administration – I expect he hoped he could influence things, but it was impossible. The free elections had been a farce – he had no hope of influencing anything. After a couple of years he went to live in America – I think there’s a story about how he fled from Poland in the boot of a diplomat’s car. Anyway …’
From the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle. She got up and went to make the tea. Burek got up, and padded after her, claws clicking on the linoleum in the corridor. The children stretched and yawned, listening to Anna opening his tin, rattling biscuits into his dish. Then she was back.
‘Yalta is another reason why many of us did not want to take British nationality,’ she said. ‘We did feel we had been betrayed. And when we were still in Italy, many people in the Polish Second Corps had a letter, from the British Foreign Secretary, Ernest Bevin – Churchill had fallen from power, there was a Labour government here by then. Never mind. Just
that the letter told us we could come here, and start a new life, in recognition of everything the Poles had done to help the Allies. Of course, we were glad that we could come here, but the letter was written in such a way as to make it sound as if really we should all be going back to Poland, to help rebuild our country. That was what we all wanted, naturally – but under Russia? Never!
‘Some people did go back in the end – those who had family still living there. If my father or Jerzy had been alive, perhaps I should have done so myself. But as it was – I knew we were simply being occupied all over again. And this time it was worse, in a way. With the Germans, at least we knew we were dealing with the enemy. The Russians have always pretended to be our friends.’
There was a knock at the front door.
‘Enough! That’s enough. Go and let them in, Jerzy.’
He went to the door, and Dziadek and Babcia came in, smiling.
‘What a day! Are we too early?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Anna. ‘I didn’t realize how late it was.’
‘Mama has been telling us stories,’ said Jerzy. ‘About the war, and … everything.’
‘I expect I’ve worn them out,’ Anna said. ‘But they want to know.’
‘Of course,’ said Dziadek. Babcia took a seat in Jan’s chair, then held out her hand to Ewa.
‘Come and sit on my lap, kochana.’
Ewa smiled, kindly. ‘I’m much too heavy now, Babcia.’
‘Just for a few minutes. I’ve hardly seen you all week.’
‘What about mass, this morning?’ She sat with her arm round her grandmother’s shoulders, foot swinging.
‘But you have burnt yourself!’
‘She sits too close to the fire,’ said Anna, going out to the kitchen.
‘Tch, tch.’
Jerzy and Dziadek were leaning comfortably against each other on the moquette sofa.
‘Dziadek?’
‘Yes?’
‘What happened to you in the war? Why were you in prison?’
‘In prison camp, maleńki. You make me sound like a burglar. We were prisoners of war.’
‘Oh. And how did the Germans catch you?’
‘Now it sounds like the playground,’ said Ewa.
Jerzy flushed. ‘Shut up.’
Dziadek patted his knee. ‘How can you know all these things? My unit was captured very early on in the war, in the siege of Warsaw, in 1939. Mama has told you both about that time?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Yes,’ said Ewa.
‘Very well. We were captured, and taken out of Poland, to a place high in the Alps, called Murnau. A very beautiful place, although of course we were not able to enjoy it. It was a prison camp for Polish officers. I spent the whole war there – I was very angry, to be able to do nothing for Poland. I wrote to Babcia, and to your father when it was possible. And then, when the war was almost over, in the spring of 1945, when the Allies were advancing through Europe, we were liberated by American troops. And eventually transports were arranged, and many of us made our way to Italy, to join the Polish Second Corps, where they had been serving under General Anders, under the command of the British Eighth Army.’
Ewa gave an enormous yawn, and quickly put her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, Dziadek.’ She yawned again, surreptitiously. ‘And when you got to Italy …’
‘Then we served in the Second Corps, until the end of the war, and that is where Babcia and I and your father were finally reunited, in a transit camp. Your father had been in prison camp, of course …’
‘But he escaped,’ said Babcia. ‘He escaped from two different camps, you know, before liberation.’
‘Did he?’ said Jerzy. ‘Tata escaped from the Germans? He must have been very daring, mustn’t he?’
‘He was,’ said Babcia. ‘He was a hero in the Uprising – now you are older, we can begin to talk about it all more.’
‘But he doesn’t talk about it, only Mama.’
‘Well,’ said Babcia, shifting under Ewa’s weight, ‘perhaps he thinks you are still too young.’
‘Or perhaps it upsets him,’ said Ewa, moving. ‘I told you I was too heavy, Babcia.’
‘It’s all right, stay where you are.’
‘And what about you?’ Ewa asked her. ‘Mama said something about you taking off your armband …’
Babcia shrugged. ‘I had to,’ she said. ‘I was separated from Jan – from your father – on the day the Uprising began. I was delayed, I remember I had to deliver a parcel of shirts to a unit several streets away, and there was a scare, we thought the house was being watched, that the Germans somehow had wind of it all … Anyway, it was hours before we were given the all-clear, and of course by the time I got home, Jan had gone. I didn’t know if I would ever see him or Dziadek again. And the friends with whom I had joined the AK – we were a very small unit, and quickly … depeleted. I was afraid for my life, and all I wanted was to see my family again. So – I became a civilian, and I was sent to a labour camp.’
Ewa patted her cheek. ‘Was it horrible?’
‘It wasn’t pleasant. We needn’t talk about it now – I survived, which was my intention. And as Dziadek says, we all met up again in Italy, thank God.’
‘And that’s where Mama and Tata met, isn’t it?’ Ewa tried once again to imagine it.
‘Yes, that’s right. They were stationed in the same town, on the Adriatic coast. A very lovely place.’
Anna was coming back with a tray; she put it down on the table.
‘Now – who would like buttered toast?’
‘Me!’ said Jerzy.
‘Me!’ Ewa scrambled off Babcia’s lap.
‘Careful, kochana …’ Babcia rubbed her knees.
‘Sorry.’
Anna handed her a pile of plates. ‘Pass them round, please, Jerzy – you can hand round the toast.’
‘Babcia … Dziadek …’
Anna lifted the teapot, and began to pour.
‘And was it love at first sight?’ Ewa asked her again. ‘When you and Tata met?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Anna flushed, and tea spilt into a saucer.
‘You and Tata!‘ Ewa settled herself on the floor, her plate of toast on her lap. ‘Did you have a wonderful love affair?’
Babcia shook her head. ‘What do you know about such things?’
Anna poured cups of tea with care. ‘She has been reading too many comics.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘She listens to the radio,’ said Jerzy. ‘Pop songs, under the bedclothes. I can hear it.’
‘Prig,’ said Ewa.
‘You must never tell tales,’ said Dziadek, reaching to Anna for his cup.
‘It is time they had separate rooms,’ said Anna, passing it.
‘Yes!’ said Ewa, and her toast slid to the floor. ‘Yes, yes! Can I have the little room, the junk room? Please?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Anna, and sipped her tea.
‘Oh, thank you, Mama.’ She bent to pick up the toast, and took another mouthful. ‘Were you madly in love?’
Babcia sighed, and rolled her eyes. ‘What a child …’
‘I just want to think of them being happy, that’s all,’ Ewa mumbled. ‘After the war, and everything.’
‘Thank you,’ said Anna, exasperated. ‘We were very happy, yes.’
A walk beneath pine trees, on a carpet of needles and warm sandy soil. A dazzling sky. Insects buzzing, a honeyed sun slanting through the trees, nothing to be afraid of, no need even to think. The castle where we were stationed was on the hillside, old and crumbling, with scuttling rats, but even those didn’t bother us. We were all at school again, studying for our exams without fear of being discovered, well fed, staying up late to talk and talk and talk, spending the afternoons swimming, rambling over the hills, almost dizzy with the heat and the smell of herbs and wild flowers, or walking in the pine woods, high above the bay. Lots of us fell in love, then.
&nbs
p; ‘Anna?’
‘Yes?’
‘When we go back to Poland … if we are separated … will we keep in touch?’
‘Oh, yes. I hope so. I do hope so, Jan.’
His arm round my shoulders, drawing me close; the heavenly smell of the pines. Our first kiss. My first kiss. Everything else forgotten.
We were happy once, Ewa. We did have a wonderful love affair. And it didn’t occur to us, then, that we would never go back to Poland.
A long strip of neon lit this half of the empty office, but beneath it, at his drawing board, Jan was enclosed by the circle of light from an anglepoise, shining on to the thick grey tracing paper and dark ink lines of the plan he was working on. His desk stood next to one of the white-painted metal-framed windows which ran all along the thirties building of the engineering works: in the day, he overlooked the car park, and the road beyond the high brick wall and tall open gates. Now, he could see nothing but the wintry wet blackness of the panes. At the side of the drawing board, among the clutter of pens, an ashtray overflowed; Jan drew deeply on the last of his cigarette and stubbed it out, coughing.
He leaned back in the swivel chair and looked at the board, seeing beyond the lines the shape of the completed machine, oiled, pounding into life, working precisely. At the next desk, some few feet along the wall the plan drawing for a baffle plate was smudged and uncompleted, even though the deadline was for Monday. No chance that Pete would work later than eight, even with overtime, nor come in at a weekend. He was like most of them, did what was adequate, just, and pushed off, never giving another thought to it all until the next day. Jan was the best draughtsman they’d had here in years, he knew he was, better even than the head of section, who’d left to join Ford for a fortune – Jan could have taken his job, no question, but he wouldn’t. It was his own work he was interested in, not the others’, not having to keep them up to the mark. They thought he was odd and aloof, he knew, but he didn’t care. Even Tomek, who’d joined round about the same time, called him an arrogant Pole, but jokingly. Tomek spent most of his spare time in the Balham Club, drinking; he’d been back to Poland, visiting a cousin in Poznań for holidays several times – something Jan would never do. After Yalta, taking British citizenship had been out of the question, and it was impossible to return there with just a travel document. In any case, to go back was to give currency to the communists.
