Spring Will Be Ours

by Sue Gee

  It was late afternoon, the sun sinking fast behind the trees, lighting the patches of snow on the grass. At the far end of the park stood a few old swings, a see-saw. Olek toddled off along the path towards them, a small square teddy bear in his boots and snowsuit, chatting away to himself.

  ‘He knows seven words,’ said Krystyna. ‘And he understands almost everything I say.’

  ‘Does he? I hope he knows the right ones, that’s all; one day he’s going to need them. Do you want to know what’s happened or not? You’re supposed to be the fighter.’

  ‘Just tell me, all right?’

  ‘Okay.’ Stefan began to walk fast. ‘There’s a meeting yesterday in the Provincial People’s Council in Bydgoszcz. Local Rural Solidarity reps invited to attend, including the leader, that Rulewski guy. They want to press for full registration, and so on. They wait. Meeting suddenly adjourned in the early afternoon before they’ve had a chance to speak. They stay, anyway. They’re asked to leave. They refuse. At eight o’clock – presto! The riot police. Get out or we’ll get you. They stay firm, and start singing the national anthem, and then the militia move in with truncheons and just grab them, one by one, and drag them out of the building, shouting: “Get Rulewski!” Twenty-seven people beaten up, three very badly, including Rulewski and one old guy they suspect of being brain-damaged.’

  Krystyna whistled. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Yes, you teach Olek that.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I think Wałęsa’s calling a strike. And so he bloody well should.’

  They had reached the swings; Olek was pulling one of them back, and calling: ‘Mama!’ He let it go and it swung forward: as it came back, it would hit him straight in the eyes. They both ran towards him. ‘Olek!’ Stefan grabbed him, and Krystyna the swing.

  ‘Phew.’

  ‘Naughty Olek. You mustn’t touch the swings till Mama gets here, all right?’

  She brushed melted snow off the seat and lifted him on, pushing him gently towards Stefan, back and forth. The chains were very cold, and needed oiling at the top: with every swing they creaked and squeaked. Olek clung on, smiling.

  When it got too cold to stay out any longer, they went back to the apartment, and made tea. The news on TV played down the incident at Bydgoszcz.

  Next day, the whole family went into Szpitalna Street. The walls of the three rooms at the top of the stairs were plastered with photographs of Rulewski and the two others, bruised and bleeding: in red and white across the top was lettered Prówokacja! – Provocation! Warsaw radio and the television could no longer play anything down, but their coverage was exclusively biased against Solidarity.

  ‘Wałęsa’s called a four-hour strike for the 27th,’ said one of the printers. ‘And a general strike for the 31st if the authorities don’t meet our demands.’ As they left, they caught a glimpse of Bujak, arriving, waving his arms.

  Solidarity’s demands included the immediate sacking and punishment of those responsible for the beatings; recognition of Rural Solidarity; guarantees of freedom from harassment of all Solidarity members and closure of all cases pending against people arrested for opposition in 1976 – when KOR was founded – and 1980. On the 25th, Wałęsa and the new Deputy Prime Minister, Rakowski, met for talks which became almost a shouting match. On the 26th, Cardinal Wyszyński, on his deathbed, summoned Wałęsa for a last meeting.

  Everyone, now, was talking about the possibility of an invasion; As the day of the four-hour strike approached, the whole of Warsaw was covered in flags: on buildings, fluttering from windows, painted across posters. There were instructions being telexed from Gdańsk to all the regional offices of Solidarity: No. 1 – in case of a General Strike; No. 2 – in case of a State of Emergency; No. 3 – in case of a Foreign Intervention … In case of No. 3, street names were to be painted out, signposts turned round. That was what they’d done in Czechoslovakia, in 1968. The mood was united, defiant. Everyone seemed to be wearing an armband, a badge. ‘It’s like this all over the country,’ said Stefan, the night before the strike. ‘Did you see that poster on Marszałkowska about the building site?’

  ‘Yes.’ Krystyna was stitching up her armband. The poster proclaimed: No Entry! Building in progress. Beneath it was an outline map of Poland. ‘I suppose,’ she said slowly, slipping the armband on, ‘that it must have been a bit like this getting ready for the Uprising. In 1944.’

  Stefan lit a cigarette. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it must have been.’

  ‘Except they were at war.’

  ‘We are, almost.’

  ‘But not quite,’ said Krystyna. She held out her arm. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Stefan. ‘My militant librarian.’

  They got up early next morning, and Krystyna took Olek with her to the library. ‘After all, if I’m not going to do any work …’

  ‘What about this afternoon?’

  ‘Oh, he can stay for once, for a treat. Why not?’

  They took the same bus, hoping to get into the centre before the strike began. At five to eight they got off; five minutes later, they stood listening to the factory sirens, hearing every bus, every tram, come to a halt and sound the horn. It was a bright, sharp morning: hard to know whether they were shivering from cold or from the sense of drama, listening to the strange music of horn and siren, blaring across the city as the morning wind lifted the flags.

  Afterwards, they kissed goodbye and hurried off, Krystyna to the library, pushing Olek, Stefan to the factory. Not until midday was the strike ended. ‘You realize,’ said one of Stefan’s workmates, ‘that there’s never been anything like this in the whole history of the communist bloc. Not even last August.’

  ‘I do,’ said Stefan. ‘I can’t wait for the 31st. A general strike!’ He punched the air. ‘Bloody hell.’ He suddenly remembered saying to Krysia the night in the candlelit bar, that perhaps, really, they didn’t stand a chance. How could he have said that? The whole country was speaking with one voice, nine and a half million members. Nine and a half million!

  On the 30th, negotiations between Wałęsa and Rakowski were still going on. That night Stefan and Krystyna sat waiting for the 7.30 news. ‘Pass me a cigarette.’

  ‘What? You don’t smoke. You’ve never smoked.’

  ‘I’m smoking now,’ said Krystyna. ‘Just for tonight. I can’t bear it any longer.’

  He passed her one, lit it; she began to cough. ‘Ugh.’ But she didn’t put it out; she sat with it between her fingers, then got up and began to pace up and down the room. Stefan watched her. In a corner, his packed bag was waiting – two changes of clothes, a torch, notebook and pen, flask waiting to be filled with tea tomorrow morning. He saw Krystyna look at it and look away. She hadn’t packed a bag – general strike or not, how could she stay night after night in the library with Olek? Should he be taking him in to the factory? What would it be like to be barricaded in there, perhaps only able to talk to Krysia and Olek through the gates, as the shipyard workers had done?

  ‘All right, Krysia?’

  ‘Very jumpy. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. A fantastic feeling, I’ve never felt like this before.’ There was a new poster on the wall in Szpitalna Street, a quotation from Brecht:

  When things remain as they are

  you are lost.

  Give up what you have and take

  what is denied you.

  ‘It’s starting,’ said Krystyna. ‘Look!’

  She grabbed his hand and they sat waiting for the grim-faced announcer to tell them in solemn, regretful tones that from tomorrow all Poland was on strike. Instead –

  ‘Wait a minute. What?’ Wałęsa was flashed on to the screen; he looked nervous. Beside him stood his deputy, Andrzej Gwiazda, holding a piece of paper.

  ‘It has been decided, after long talks with the authorities, in particular with Deputy Prime Minister Mr Rakowski, to suspend the call for a general strike from tomorrow. We have here an agreement …’

  ‘They can’t have! They
can’t have.’ Stefan was out of his chair, banging his fist on the wall beside the television. ‘Idiots! Cowards!’

  ‘Sssh! You’ll wake Olek.’ Krystyna was looking shaken.

  ‘I don’t care if I wake him! The whole bloody country ready, our real chance to show them …’ He glared at the television.

  ‘Shut up!’ said Krystyna. ‘Just listen for a minute, can’t you?’

  The agreement was being read out: punishment of those responsible for the beatings at Bydgoszcz; Rural Solidarity recognized, pending full registration …

  ‘Well, that’s not so bad, is it?’ she demanded. ‘We’ve won, without a strike.’

  Stefan looked at her. ‘One minute you tell me I’m running away when there’s everything to fight for – the next you can accept this! Remember what you said about it being like preparing for the Warsaw Uprising? How do you think our parents would have felt if it had suddenly been called off? Just as they thought they were about to get their revenge? Do you think we’ll ever be able to get to this point again? With everyone behind us, everyone ready to go?’

  From the bedroom, Olek was wailing.

  ‘I told you …’ Krystyna was crying. She made for the bedroom, and Stefan caught her wrist.

  ‘Okay, go and get him, but what does it matter, now? What does anything matter? I told you, didn’t I, that I sometimes thought we didn’t really stand a chance? You were the one who spurred me on. But I was right – I don’t think this precious agreement means a thing, I think it’ll all come tumbling back down on top of us, I think we should get out now, and if you won’t come, I’ll go by myself.’

  ‘Stop it, stop it!’ Krystyna wrenched her wrist away and ran to the bedroom. ‘Go on, then, go. You’re completely wrong-headed, but go.’

  Stefan grabbed his cigarettes and his jacket and banged out of the apartment. He ran down the stairs and stood at the bottom, panting. It was cold and dark and beginning to rain. He lit a cigarette, and walked round to the front of the block; he crossed the street and paced up and down for a few minutes, trying to get calm, looking up at the small lighted square, three floors up, which was their living room window. He waited for Krysia to come there, with Olek, to draw back the curtains and look out for him, but she didn’t. After a while, he began to walk, not caring where he was going. There was a man coming towards him, walking his dog. He nodded to Stefan as he drew near, and he recognized him, he lived in the next block.

  ‘You’ve heard they’ve called the strike off?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stefan bitterly. ‘I’ve heard.’

  11. London, 1981

  The sky above Heathrow Airport was full of small, racing clouds; as they crossed the tarmac from the plane Danuta felt a cold wind on her face, and would have stopped, and turned up the collar of her raincoat, but her shoulderbag was very heavy, and there were people behind her, all of them wanting to get on, and into the arrivals hall ahead. Warsaw this morning had been cold, with a stinging rain; had she thought that the spring sky over London would be filled with warmth and sunshine? She realised now that she had, always.

  An airport bus was passing them. Still hurrying after the passengers in front of her, Danuta registered Arab faces beneath white headdresses, all along the windows. Then they had reached the arrivals building, where huge glass doors slid back to admit them, and she felt her mouth go dry.

  I have a return ticket. I am staying with my aunt in Islington. How many times had she practised that? Inside the building, ahead, were two signs, one for British subjects, one for foreign visitors. Bored, confident English voices from different flights receded; Danuta stood in the foreign queue, among the Poles. They were mostly young people, like her, students who’d just finished their exams; she noticed a tall, pale guy in a thin grey sweater, he was turning to look out at the waiting planes. He’s left someone behind, she thought, a wife, or a girlfriend, and she thought of herself, just a few hours ago, kissing her parents goodbye at Warsaw airport, hurrying across the departure lounge so that it looked as if she hadn’t noticed her mother crying, and so that they couldn’t see that she wasn’t.

  It was very hot in here. At the end of the queue the men behind the counters stood expressionless, opening passports, asking questions. Danuta bit her lip, and took her passport out of her enormous shoulder bag. Some of the presents from the Cepelia shop for her aunt were in here: painted pottery bowls, a crystal vase. The kilim was in her suitcase. Her parents had helped her to buy it all – she couldn’t arrive empty handed. Particularly as Aunt Halina had no idea she was coming at all.

  I have a return ticket. Everyone knew they didn’t want to let you in, were suspicious that you were coming to work, trying to stay on. She flicked open her passport so that the ticket was ready to show, and saw that it wasn’t there. It must be. It wasn’t. She stood stock still, and felt a sudden chilling sweat, and then she wrenched open the buckles on her bag again. The ticket was there, tucked carefully between her make-up bag and the English phrase book with a penguin on the spine. She pulled it out, fastened the bag, and felt her knees trembling. She took a deep breath, shocked by the recognition of being an alien, someone whose identity and proof of existence depended solely on pieces of paper, who could be dispossessed by the loss of a single one of them. For a moment she felt really scared, as if she were about to face the worst interrogation, for the worst of crimes; then she pulled herself together, thinking: I have only to get through this one, little barrier. That is all.

  ‘Yes, please?’

  She was at the top of the queue; the uniformed man at the desk was holding out his hand, and she gave him her small blue passport, with the uncrowned eagle stamped on the front. He flicked through the pages without speaking, looking from the photograph to her face, skimming her date of birth, address, profession. She had no profession yet.

  ‘Have you completed your studies?’

  ‘Proszę? Excuse me?’

  ‘Have you finished studying?’ he said slowly. ‘At university.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Yes.’

  ‘And what do you intend to do in this country?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He repeated, slowly.

  ‘I have return ticket,’ she said, and produced it.

  He looked at it impassively. ‘And what do you intend to do here? Where are you staying?’

  ‘With my aunt. She lives in London – in Islington.’ She spoke the syllables carefully.

  ‘Is she expecting you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The man repeated, impassively: ‘Is she expecting you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you anything to prove that? A letter?’

  Oh my God. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Have you got a letter from her? Inviting you to stay?’

  ‘I left it in Warsaw. I’m sorry.’

  He looked at her. ‘I see. And how much money do you have?’

  ‘I have one hundred dollars,’ said Danuta. ‘My aunt … helps me.’

  ‘What family do you have in Poland?’

  ‘My parents. They are living in Warsaw.’

  He picked up a stamp and thumped it on the first page of the passport. ‘Four weeks tourist visa. No working.’ He passed it across the desk, and looked at the man behind her in the queue as if she had never existed. Danuta put the passport and the ticket in her bag, and walked through the barrier into the baggage hall. She’d done it! Suddenly filled with excitement, she stood waiting with everyone else for the bags to be unloaded and reclaimed from the revolving daise; when hers came into view, brown and bulky, she carried it through to customs.

  ‘Excuse me, miss.’ One of the officers was beckoning to her. ‘Could I see your bags a moment, please?’

  She took them over to the counter, snapping open the light lock on the suitcase, undoing the buckles on the shoulderbag. He lifted the piles of cheap clean clothes, turned over the presents from Cepelia, shaking out the kilim. What did they expect people from Poland to be smuggling?


  ‘Thank you,’ he said at last, and carefully replaced it all. ‘I hope you enjoy your visit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Danuta, and smiled at him, feeling a rush of excitement. ‘I will.’ She snapped shut the suitcase and hurried out of the hall. She had to find the underground station; she had to change her money, find a map. Where was Islington? She followed a crowd of passengers from different flights out into the arrivals area, where a sea of faces waited, waving or holding up placards. Seeing them, she wished after all that she had told Halina she was coming, and had someone there to meet her. But if Halina had written no, she couldn’t come and stay, then what would she have done? She had to have somewhere to start, even if it was only for a few nights, just until she found a job.

  Bureau de Change. … Her precious dollars, saved and borrowed from Mama, changed for ten-pound notes and fives. She tucked them into her purse. ‘Please … underground?’

  The girl behind the counter nodded indifferently towards an overhead sign out in the concourse. Danuta looked at it, unable to understand a word. She moved into the crowd.

  ‘Please … underground?’

  ‘Over there, dear,’ said a woman. ‘Follow that sign, see?’

  A red circle with a line across. ‘Thank you.’ She followed the sign along corridors, down stairs, escalators, along a moving floor, her case bumping against her. She was beginning to feel hungry; on the plane this morning they’d had sausage and ham for breakfast, the best breakfast she’d eaten for months, but she could have done with a coffee and something now. Better not: even a coffee was bound to be very expensive here. Down in the station she looked on the wall for a street map, couldn’t find one, looked for a map of the stations and stood in front of it, bewildered. It was like a diagram for a radio circuit, incomprehensible. Warsaw’s underground was just a single line. She pulled out her notebook, looked again at Halina’s address. No station on the map seemed to match it – wait, Highbury & Islington. That must be it. She queued for a ticket, got on a silver train and sat in a side seat gazing out of windows that needed washing as it rattled past leafy roads and neat little houses. After a few stops, it went suddenly into a tunnel, and from then on grew more crowded with each station. She had to change at Piccadilly Circus – she had seen pictures of Piccadilly, dwarfed by a giant Coca-Cola sign, with young people squatting on the steps of a statue, wearing jeans and smoking.