A Different World (23 page)

His brother was battle-scarred and seemed to have aged prematurely, but he was robust and cheerful. ‘You are a fool to go back,’ he had told him as they sat in the hotel room Jan had taken in the suburbs. They had exhausted the tales they had to tell of their exploits during the war. Jozef told Jan about fighting in the desert, where the heat was almost unbearable and sandstorms blew grit into their food and into every crevice of clothing and body. He spoke of Italy and the hell that was the Battle for Monte Cassino, which had been taken by the Poles after several failed attempts by the British and Americans. Jan had told him about the Battle of Britain and escorting bombers to Germany and what had happened to some of his comrades in the squadron whom Jozef had known. He said nothing of Louise and Angela. It didn’t seem relevant when he was on his way to be reunited with his wife. Both had agreed they had been lucky to come out of it in one piece. But Jozef was gloomy about Jan’s decision to return to Poland. ‘You won’t last five minutes.’

‘I promised Rulka I would go back. According to what I have been told, she survived and is waiting for me.’

‘How can you be sure of that? She is dreaming and so are you. Poland does not exist as we knew it. Those so-called free elections were a sham. The new government is under the thumb of the Soviets and as far as they are concerned anyone who fought with Britain is a fascist and therefore an enemy. Instead of being reunited with your wife, you will find yourself in Siberia, or at the very least, a Polish prison. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I have to try. I’ll invent a new identity and enter the country incognito. I’ve been given the name of a contact in Budapest who used to arrange for undercover agents to travel back and forth during the war. He is apparently still doing it.’

‘Who gave you his name?’

‘Boris Martel, the man who told me about Rulka being alive and working in the resistance.’

‘Can you trust him?’

‘Yes, I’m sure I can. He was a Polish-born English agent who worked with Rulka. He said she had been rounded up as a prisoner of war after the Rising, but escaped and returned to Warsaw. He saw her there, a year ago, alive and well.’

‘How are you going to get to Budapest?’

‘By train. I won’t be in any danger before I cross into Poland, will I?’

‘If you have made up your mind, then I won’t try and change it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I won’t.’

They had stayed in Milan that night and spent the next day sightseeing and visiting the cathedral, and the subject was not returned to until they were standing together at the railway station, about to part. ‘Good luck,’ Jozef said as they embraced.
‘Let me know how you get on. And if you can’t find Rulka or it doesn’t work out, get yourself out and join me. I’m not at all sure I shouldn’t try and persuade you to come with me now.’

‘You would not succeed.’

‘Then goodbye, brother. Maybe one day we’ll meet again.’

A last hug and Jan had boarded his train, leaving Jozef to find his way back to his regiment and from there to embark for Cape Town.

From Budapest Jan made his way northwards to a village on the Hungarian side of the Tatra mountains. The area was well known for its skiing. He hired skis and pretended to be enjoying a Christmas vacation while he tried to find a guide to take him over the mountains into Poland. He knew it would be hazardous, not only because of the depth of snow, but because the border was patrolled and anyone caught trying to cross was liable to be imprisoned and interrogated. The Communist rulers were paranoid about spies and he wasn’t sure whom to trust. He had eventually found an exiled Pole who was making a living as a ski instructor, who agreed to take him across. It had taken several days of floundering in blizzard conditions and he had begun to wonder if his guide really knew where he was going, but apparently he did because he suddenly announced, ‘We are in Poland. I will leave you here.’ And with that he had shaken Jan’s hand and turned back the way he had come.

Jan had found his own way to Zakopane, a ski resort he had often visited in his youth, and from there boarded a train for Warsaw. His papers had been examined but no comment had been made as they were returned to him.

Looking about him now at the devastation that had been Warsaw, he was beginning to realise his brother had probably been
right. The population of the once beautiful city was sadly depleted but even so, searching for someone among the thin, pinched people whose main occupation seemed to be finding enough to eat, was like looking for a needle in a haystack. He smiled wryly to himself; his use of English idiom had not left him, though England was now only a pleasant memory, and Louise and Angela a happy dream from which he had awakened to this awful reality.

He crossed the pontoon over the river which had been hastily erected after the Germans blew up the bridges. A way had been cleared for traffic through the rubble of Karowa Street, but scattered bricks, blocks of stone and broken glass were still piled either side and the smell of death still hung in the atmosphere in spite of the cold. He almost lost his way as he negotiated more rubble-strewn streets looking for the hospital where Rulka had worked. She might have taken up her old job again or, if not, there might be someone who could tell him what had happened to her.

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.