Homeland (22 page)

‘There’ll be quite a few winter evenings.’

‘But no mental stimulation to speak of.’

‘Perhaps not.’

Rafalski was working his way steadily towards some point and Wladyslaw suddenly had an inkling of what it might be.

‘You haven’t considered a job here on the administrative staff?’ Rafalski asked. ‘We’re recruiting for a number of posts.’

‘I’m not your man, I’m afraid. I’m hopeless with paperwork.’

‘Ah, but there’s a post on the recreational side which might suit you very well. Organising a theatre group, a choir, lectures on British life – that kind of thing.’ He
added in a despondent tone, ‘We need someone who can whip up enthusiasm.’

‘Thank you, but I’d prefer to work away from the camp.’

‘And on a farm. May I ask why?’

‘Well, for one thing I’m determined to master the language. English has to be the most infernal, illogical language on the planet – but so long as the English will insist on
speaking it I feel I have no option but to battle on.’

‘But what will you learn on a farm? The conversation will be rudimentary, the people uneducated.’

‘One’s got to start somewhere.’

The major gazed at Wladyslaw in puzzlement. ‘You’ve decided to stay in England then?’

‘I’m considering it, yes.’

‘But – if I may put it to you – don’t you find it demeaning – insulting – to stay in a country where you’re treated like an unwelcome intruder? Where
you’re forbidden to run your own business or practise your profession? Where all work but farming and mining is closed to you? Where doctor, professor, peasant alike are treated as the lowest
of the low. Don’t you find this –
impossible
? At least here in the Corps you would have a position that commands respect.’

‘I’m a born optimist, I suppose. I feel sure that things will change for the better.’

‘But the British – you don’t find their behaviour objectionable?’

‘Not as a rule, no. They have their oddities, of course. But probably no worse than ours appear to them.’

‘I meant their behaviour regarding our army,’ Rafalski corrected him. ‘Aren’t you concerned that these people have betrayed us?’

‘I prefer not to think of it as a betrayal. More like a misjudgement.’

Rafalski gave the idea a moment of intense consideration before shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe that anything so calculated can be termed a misjudgement.’ He moved some
papers a short distance across his desk and straightened his fountain pen. ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends,’ he murmured. ‘This is
what the British carve on their war memorials, you know. Yet these are the same people who excluded us from the Victory Parade.’

This was one accusation that Wladyslaw didn’t try to refute.

‘They were only too glad to have us fight some of the bloodiest battles of the war,’ the major went on reflectively. ‘They made no objection to thousands of Poles laying down
their lives at Tobruk and Arnhem and Monte Cassino . . . Yet in victory they ban us from marching at their sides. They turn their backs on us. They betray the memory of the dead.’ The
major’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper, yet beneath the impassive features it seemed to Wladyslaw that his anger burned and burned.

There was a long pause. Finally, the major sat forward in his chair and said crisply, ‘I certainly won’t be staying.’

‘Where will you go?’ Wladyslaw asked. ‘Have you decided?’

Rafalski had become lost in thought. Emerging slowly from his trance, he murmured, ‘I think . . . Paris. I have relatives there. And the way of life, you know . . . the civilisation . .
.’

‘You speak French?’

‘Yes. I learnt it from an early age, along with German and Italian, and a touch of Russian.’ Wladyslaw could just imagine the aristocratic household with its private tutors and
regimented routine. ‘The language no one considered of any use, of course, was English. Consequently I speak not a word.’ From his tone, the major didn’t regard this as a great
loss. ‘German is probably my best language,’ he went on. ‘In fact I offered myself for interrogation work during the war, but the British always preferred to use their own
people.’ Saying this, he brought the papers back across the desk and realigned them with small nudging motions of both hands. ‘And your languages?’

‘French. And a bit of Russian.’

‘And English?’

‘I can make myself understood on a practical level.’

The major gave a slow nod. ‘In that case could I ask you to undertake a small task for me?’

Wladyslaw hesitated. ‘If I can.’

‘There’s a problem in Camp C. Perhaps you’ve heard about it? Ten of the accommodation huts have been taken over by some local people. The British authorities seem reluctant to
move them on, we don’t know why. Lieutenant Barut is in charge up there, but his English is poor and he can’t seem to find out whether these people are intending to stay. Could you help
him out?’

‘Well . . . I’ll do my best.’

‘Would now be convenient?’

‘By all means.’

‘Oh, and this is not to reach the ears of the British liaison officer. The British get peeved if things aren’t done by the book – their book, of course.’

At the door Wladyslaw asked, ‘When you say local people, do you mean they come from the immediate area?’

‘I’ve no idea where they’re from. By local, I simply meant English.’

Wladyslaw walked up to the road and a short way along found the path to Camp C running up a slight hill between a patchwork of vegetable plots and a broad field. The field had been ploughed for
the winter and a number of small brown birds with long beaks and delicate legs were picking their way across the furrows. A breeze had sprung up and masked the early morning sun with a veil of torn
cloud, but he could still make out the boundary of an airfield far away to his right and etched against the skyline a lone fighter without a propeller, mothballed or abandoned he couldn’t
tell.

The third Polish camp was the usual mix of Nissen huts and communal blocks of prefabricated concrete. Unlike the other two camps, however, Camp C had accumulated the detritus and clutter of
permanent habitation. Near the first row of huts metal drums lay abandoned alongside odd lengths of timber, and washing hung suspended in long lines, while near a boundary fence rubbish was burning
in a smouldering pile. Some civilians were working on strips of land dug up for cultivation, and children were playing football on an open space. It wasn’t until Wladyslaw went deeper into
the camp that he spotted the first Polish uniform.

He found Lieutenant Barut in the administration block. He was a short jolly man with a quick smile, who raised his hands to heaven and declared undying gratitude for being sent an English
speaker at last.

‘I’m not the most fluent,’ Wladyslaw warned him.

‘Believe me – your presence can only be a vast improvement. I’ve tried French but no one in this country speaks a word!’

Lieutenant Barut led the way along the grid of concrete paths to what he termed the English Quarter. He halted in front of a hut with a yellow door and bright curtains and, propped against one
side, a battered motorbike awaiting a wheel.

‘His name is
Bank
,’ the lieutenant primed Wladyslaw before knocking. ‘
Len Bank.
’

‘Is he their leader?’

‘I don’t think they have a leader. Not that I’m aware of, anyway.’

The door was opened by a plump round-faced woman of about forty wearing a flowered pinafore. She appeared flushed, as if from the stove, and was wiping her hands on a cloth. At the sight of
Lieutenant Barut she offered a tentative smile.

Barut bowed formally. ‘Good morning, Mrs Bank,’ he said in atrociously accented English.

‘Good morning.’ She dipped her head in return.

‘Friend,’ Barut said, indicating Wladyslaw.

‘Friend,’ the woman repeated, as if they were both attending language class.

Barut waved Wladyslaw forward.

‘Mrs Bank? How do you do?’ Preserving the formality, Wladyslaw also gave a bow.

She inclined her head again, rather awkwardly. ‘It’s Banks with an s.’

‘Mrs
Banks
, sorry. May I speak with your husband, please?’

She looked from one man to the other. ‘Why? What’s it about?’

‘I wish to ask question. It will take only short time.’ Wladyslaw added a warm smile to underline the friendliness of the occasion.

‘My husband’s not here. What is it you want to know?’

‘Ah . . .’ Wladyslaw turned to Barut for advice. ‘The husband’s out,’ he explained in Polish.

Barut urged rapidly, ‘Well, ask her instead! Go on!’

‘Mrs Banks . . . Yes, if you could tell us, please . . . will you stay long?’

Her smile had faded. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Excuse me – my English is not very good. Will you be remaining for long time in this camp?’

‘We’ll be staying as long as needs be, that’s how long,’ she said firmly.

Wladyslaw made a show of absorbing this while he struggled with the concept of
needs be
. ‘Excuse me, but . . . you are waiting to go somewhere else?’

‘We’re waiting to get proper decent housing, that’s what we’re waiting for. No more, no less.’

‘Ah.’ Wladyslaw lift a hand in a gesture of understanding before indicating the rest of the English Quarter. ‘And your friends? Is it same for everyone?’

‘Oh yes. That’s why everyone’s come. We’re all in the same boat.’ Then, with a dart of suspicion: ‘Why? What’s up? They’re not going to try and
get us out, are they?’

‘Excuse me –
they
?’

‘The police. The army. Is that what this is all about?’ she demanded on a rising note of agitation. ‘Because if they’re thinking of trying to get us out you can tell
’em we won’t be shifting, not for nobody. We’ll barricade ourselves in if we have to.’

Wladyslaw threw up both hands. ‘No, I swear – is nothing like this. I swear – we know nothing of army, police.’

Lieutenant Barut hissed in Wladyslaw’s ear, ‘What on earth have you said to upset her?’

‘I haven’t said anything,’ Wladyslaw protested. ‘She’s just jumped to the wrong conclusions.’

Mrs Banks turned her plump frame sideways, preparing to step back inside. ‘You can tell ’em – they won’t be getting through this door except over our dead
bodies.’

Wladyslaw spread his arms wide then dropped them heavily at his sides in the gesture of an honest man who asks only to be taken at his word. ‘I swear – I ask this question only for
reason of finding accommodation for Polish people, nothing more. Because if there is not accommodation here, then we must find another place for them.’

‘Well . . .’ she said uncertainly. ‘That’s hardly our problem, is it?’

Wladyslaw gave a small equivocal shrug.

‘It’s only right we should get first call on the housing,’ Mrs Banks continued as if he were arguing the point. ‘After everything we’ve been through –
it’s only right.’

‘I see this. Thank you.’

After some hesitation Mrs Banks stepped forward again and said in a voice that had regained its cordiality, ‘Look, don’t get me wrong. If we’d been looked after all right
– well, it would be different, wouldn’t it? We wouldn’t mind them turning this place over to you people. We wouldn’t mind them spending a mint of money fixing it all up. But
we’ve been waiting six years, ever since the bombing, and we’re not going to wait no more.’

‘I understand.’

‘It’s the children,’ she added, as if this explained everything.

‘Yes. Of course.’ Wladyslaw made to leave, only to ask lightly, ‘And the authorities, what do they say to you?’

‘Oh, they
say
they’re doing their best,’ she scoffed good-naturedly. ‘They
say
there’s going to be new houses for everyone. Brand new! Well,
we’ll believe
that
when we see it.’

Wladyslaw gave a small bow. ‘I thank you for your assistance.’

‘Well?’ demanded Barut as they walked away.

‘They’re dug in for the duration.’

‘What – all of them?’

‘Looks like it. They’re waiting for decent housing, and they’re not prepared to move till they get it.’

‘And what are the British authorities doing about it?’

‘Not much, so far as I can gather.’

The lieutenant gave a fatalistic shrug. ‘That’s what I thought. Well, we’ll just have to make the best of it. You never know, there might be some mutual benefits. They might be
able to help us with our English. Anything would be better than the teacher we’ve been allocated, a harridan with the face of a Gorgon who can’t teach to save her life. One can endure
any number of irregular verbs if they come with a pretty smile.’ Shooting Wladyslaw a mischievous glance, he added, ‘The other solution, of course, is to find your own private
teacher.’

‘Ah.’

‘I tell you, if you haven’t discovered the local girls yet, you’re in for a real treat.’

They were passing down the avenue of Nissen huts that made up the English Quarter. Scattered between the huts were a variety of makeshift shelters harbouring bicycles, prams, stacks of wood and
assorted junk. Beside one hut, a car was chocked up on bricks, a man bent under the open bonnet; in front of another, a woman was dabbing paint onto a wooden cabinet. Then, towards the end, they
came to a brightly coloured Romany caravan with red-painted shafts, and, busily cropping the grass behind, the horse to draw it. It was a fine caravan, tall, barrel-roofed, with ornate barge boards
and elaborate paintwork. As Wladyslaw gazed at it admiringly, the door of the next-door hut opened and a young man in uniform ran down the steps. It was an instant before Wladyslaw realised who it
was.

‘Jozef?’ he called out in astonishment.

Jozef ground to a halt, looking startled.

Wladyslaw laughed. ‘It
is
you.’

Jozef’s eyes went from Wladyslaw to Lieutenant Barut and back again. Finally, he muttered, ‘Wladek . . .’

In the open doorway of the hut, a man had appeared. He had long straggly hair to the shoulder and an unkempt appearance, and his dark eyes stared at them without expression.