Homeland (23 page)

Jozef said shyly, ‘Hello.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Lieutenant Barut. With a sharp glance at the man in the doorway, he strode away in the direction of the Polish Quarter.

‘How are you?’ asked Wladyslaw delightedly.

‘Oh . . . all right.’ Lost for anything else to say, Jozef’s gaze darted rapidly from Wladyslaw to the ground and back again. He was grasping a bundle under one arm, something
solid and possibly heavy swaddled in a strip of fabric with a faded pattern.

In the open door of the hut, the unkempt man leant lazily against the door frame and lit a cigarette.

‘I’m in Camp B,’ Wladyslaw offered. ‘I arrived three days ago.’

‘Yes?’

‘Out of the frying pan into the fire!’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. It was just a joke.’

‘A joke?’ Jozef shot him a puzzled glance. ‘Ah. I see. Yes . . .’ He was as gaunt as ever, the bones too sharp for the flesh, the sinews, veins and cartilages of his face
revealed in extraordinary detail like an anatomical drawing. Yet his skin seemed to have shed its grey tinge in favour of, if not a bloom, then a touch of colour.

Wladyslaw said, ‘You’ve signed up to the Resettlement Corps then?’

‘They promised I could change my mind if I wanted to. They said I could go back to Poland any time I chose.’

‘There you are then. The best of both worlds.’ Wladyslaw grasped his shoulder affectionately. ‘So, Jozef, you managed to escape the doctors?’

‘I told them to let me go. I think they were glad to be rid of me. I only wish I’d done it sooner. This place is heaven by comparison.’ His face lit up briefly.

‘You’re finding plenty to keep you busy then?’

‘Oh yes!’ Jozef cried. ‘We have music, singing. We go to the village, the pubs, all sorts of places—’ His quick downward gaze did not entirely conceal the spark of
excitement there.

‘You’ve found some friends then?’

‘Oh yes.’

Wladyslaw glanced back at the man in the open doorway, who was now looking at them with something like disdain. ‘That’s wonderful, Jozef.’

‘I’ve been adopted.’

‘You’ve been
what
?’

‘Two ladies.’ Jozef added diffidently, ‘Perhaps you’d like to meet them?
Yes
,’ he insisted with a sudden burst of confidence, ‘you must come and meet
them!’

Jozef led the way down a path towards the Polish Quarter. Reaching a hut near the administration block, he called a greeting as he pushed the door open. A rich throaty laugh sounded in reply.
‘Jozef! That was quick! Or did you forget the money?’ A woman stepped into the light and peered myopically at Wladyslaw before raising her hands to one side and clapping them like a
Spanish dancer. ‘And you’ve brought a friend! A new friend!’ She was a square woman, stocky and big-boned, with a large head and broad features. She wore a faded apron and loose
slippers that slapped against the soles of her feet as she came forward to greet him. ‘Welcome to our humble palace!’

Her name was Alina. Soon after they had been introduced, her sister Danuta appeared from the depths of the hut. Another sturdy woman of indeterminate age, with heavy, almost masculine features,
Danuta’s looks were redeemed by a sweet, girlish smile.

Wladyslaw found himself shepherded towards a non-regulation armchair and pressed to take some refreshment. ‘Tea? Or’ – Alina laid a square hand conspiratorially on his arm
– ‘something more bracing?’ She turned to Danuta. ‘Don’t you think—?’

‘Oh yes! A friend of Jozef’s!’

‘Yes, this definitely calls for a toast!’

Both women shot Jozef fond glances, which he met with embarrassment, but not, it seemed to Wladyslaw, displeasure.

Alina unwrapped the bundle that Jozef had brought in and deposited on the table. Inside were two unmarked bottles containing a clear liquid the colour of amber. Plucking a cluster of glasses
from a makeshift shelf, Aline unscrewed a bottle and poured four large measures. ‘Can’t find vodka for love nor money. But this stirs the blood quite nicely.’

They toasted friendship, and Wladyslaw suppressed a violent splutter as the firewater seared his throat and flavours redolent of mouldering fruit and dog’s piss exploded at the back of his
nose.

‘It takes some getting used to,’ Alina said. ‘They tell us it’s apple brandy – but who knows? Will you survive?’ she enquired solicitously. ‘The best
thing is another toast – that’ll set you right.’

The toast to their beloved homeland brought a moment of reverent silence. This time the firewater passed blamelessly down Wladyslaw’s throat. The two sisters were schoolmistresses from the
Lwow region, they told him. Having survived a camp in the Urals, they had gone south after the amnesty and spent the rest of the war teaching at a Polish school in Isfahan. Once the war was over,
they had persuaded the British authorities to bring them to Britain to teach Polish children. ‘Except there are no children yet!’ Alina laughed. Alina was widowed, her sister had a
husband in southern Poland with whom she hoped to be reunited. Their grown-up children were either dead or abroad.

‘Now, Jozef’ – turning to him, Alina made a gesture of regret that was surprisingly elegant, almost balletic, a slow unfurling of one ungainly hand – ‘with all this
business, would you believe it but I’ve actually run out of cigarettes? And it’s no good’ – this to Wladyslaw – ‘he knows his Aunt Alina can’t get along
without them for long.’ To Jozef again, tenderly, leaning forward to press some money into his hand: ‘Dear boy, if you would be so kind?’

Her lively eyes followed Jozef as he stood up and made for the door. Danuta, leaning sideways in her chair, craned her head to watch him to the bottom of the steps, her hand poised to wave.

‘Jozef told us all about you, Wladyslaw,’ said Alina. ‘Your kindness to him in the sanatorium. But why didn’t they take better care of him there? How could they leave him
so thin?’

‘It’s the food,’ offered Danuta. ‘No one can build their strength on English food.’

‘Of course we don’t ask too much about the sanatorium,’ Alina said. ‘Nor what happened to Jozef during the war.’

Danuta nodded. ‘We wait to be told such things.’

‘But with someone like Jozef it’s not enough to mend the body,’ Alina said firmly, ‘one must also tend to the mind and the spirit. What he needs is to be among young
people – healthy young people.’

‘What he needs,’ said Danuta, almost under her breath, ‘is a bit of fun.’

‘And he finds it here?’ suggested Wladyslaw.

‘What, with
us
?’ Alina declared, deliberately choosing to misunderstand him. She gave her throaty laugh. ‘Two women who’ve seen better days!’

‘And that’s putting it mildly,’ murmured Danuta with a slow smile at Wladyslaw. ‘But we’ve offered ourselves as honorary aunts, haven’t we?’

‘Godmothers.’

‘I prefer aunts.’

‘Aunts, then. We try to organise regular events for all the young – social and educational.’

‘Recreational too. Walking, dancing, singing.’

‘We try to get them out and about. Keep them busy and happy.’

‘The trouble, as you know, is the shortage of girls,’ Danuta said. ‘So we’ve persuaded the administrators to arrange a bus to take the boys to dances in the local
villages on Saturday nights.’

‘It’s been a great success.’

‘I’ll bet it has,’ said Wladyslaw.

‘And then we persuaded Jozef to go up to the local pub, didn’t we, Alina?’

‘Yes, we virtually walked him to the door and pushed him inside.’

‘Quite a few of our boys go there, so there were plenty of people for him to talk to.’

‘But then he amazed us by making some local friends.’

‘Or
girlfriend
,’ Danuta mouthed silently, catching Wladyslaw’s eye.

‘And now he goes quite regularly to meet them in the pub. And – twice, isn’t it, Danuta? – they’ve taken him out for the day.’

‘Yes, he’s quite changed. We’ve noticed the difference already. He’s beginning to come out of himself.’

Alina leant her large head towards Wladyslaw and said in a stern tone that sent him straight back to the classroom, ‘This talk of going back to Poland is all very well, but for the time
being he’s far better off here where he can be assured of three meals a day, a roof over his head, and no cares or responsibilities. It’s far too soon to talk of going back,’ she
insisted. ‘He’s simply not ready.’

‘He wouldn’t last a minute,’ Danuta echoed. ‘Not without someone to keep an eye on him.’

Just then they heard footsteps and the three of them turned as one to watch Jozef stride in with Alina’s cigarettes.

‘We were just talking about you,’ Alina said ingenuously. ‘We were saying how much better you were looking.’

Before Wladyslaw had the chance to refuse, his glass was refilled and they were drinking a toast to youth and happiness, which prompted the sisters to regale them with anecdotes of their own
youthful adventures. As the tales became more convoluted, the misdemeanours more fantastic, Jozef looked up from the floor and shook his head at them, as a child might disapprove of a
parent’s immoderate behaviour, but for the most part he sat quietly with an expression that if not content was certainly less troubled. Wladyslaw thought with relief: He’s going to be
all right after all.

It was almost twelve by the time Wladyslaw got away, promising to return the next day. Walking down the line of huts, he passed a group of airmen sitting on a circle of chairs on the grass,
laughing and smoking, then wedged in an open doorway a soldier reading a Polish-language newspaper, and on the path ahead two women strolling arm in arm, heads tilted companionably towards each
other; and he thought how easy it would be to surrender to this beguiling combination of routine and security, to exist in a cocoon of Polishness for months even years on end, to attend dances and
events, slavishly to follow the Polish news, perhaps even to fall in love and marry, all within the confines of the camp. Familiarity would become the mother of inertia. Without the spurs of hunger
or fear, there would be little incentive to risk an unknown fraught with language and employment difficulties.

All the more reason, it seemed to Wladyslaw, to make the leap straight away. It wasn’t that he felt especially courageous – nothing so noble – more that the dogs of weakness
were already snapping at the heels of his resolve. Too long in this place and he feared losing the willpower to break away.

Coming into Camp B, Wladyslaw made out the unmistakable figure of Dr Bennett standing by his car, his gaunt form clad in the familiar coat, long and oddly shapeless, and topped by the sort of
felt hat favoured by detectives in American films. At his side was a young woman looking away over her shoulder. She was slim, with curly hair the colour of bronze. When she turned towards
Wladyslaw, he was struck by a pretty open face with rose-tinted cheeks and bright blue eyes.

Spotting Wladyslaw, the doctor waved cheerfully and came forward to meet him. As they shook hands, Wladyslaw was aware of the girl gazing speculatively at his gammy leg.

‘Good news, Wladyslaw. The permit’s arrived from the Ministry of Labour. You’re free to start work!’

Wladyslaw felt the mixture of anticipation and alarm that comes from having your wishes come true. ‘Yes? This farmer – he wants me to come still?’

‘I should say so. In fact, he can’t wait.’ Remembering his companion, the doctor stepped back hastily and stretched one long arm towards her. ‘May I introduce Stella
Mead? Wladyslaw Malinowski.’

As Wladyslaw brought her hand up to his lips, he caught an impression of eyes that were both exceptionally blue and exceptionally clear, and broad cheekbones that carried the faintest dusting of
freckles.

‘Stella has kindly volunteered to give English classes to the women in Camp B until the regular teacher arrives.’

‘English classes. Ah, this will make everyone very happy,’ declared Wladyslaw with his best smile.

But Stella had stepped back and was clasping her right hand in her left, as if to protect it from further assault, and Wladyslaw remembered too late that not all English girls took kindly to
hand-kissing. The pub girls treated it as a great joke and, egged on by their friends, were always pleading to have the greeting repeated so they could strike a pose of exaggerated girlishness or
play the vamp and fall into paroxysms of laughter. But those were pub girls. This was another sort of girl altogether.

‘Stella teaches at the local school,’ the doctor remarked. ‘I was just saying that she’ll find her Polish pupils a lot more attentive.’

‘I think so too,’ said Wladyslaw. ‘And how old are pupils in your school, Miss Stella?’

‘Between five and eleven.’

‘You teach English to them?’

‘Along with everything else.’

‘Yes? And what is everything else?’

The bright blue eyes gave him a searching look, as if to gauge the sincerity of his interest. ‘Reading, writing, and arithmetic. And drawing and painting.’

He saw now that her hair was not bronze but a glorious, bold copper. It framed her face and shoulders in a sea of Botticelli curls. He said, ‘These children, they are very lucky, I
think.’

He received another appraising look, which seemed to find in his favour. ‘Oh, and movement,’ she added.

‘Movement? What is this?’

‘Moving to music.’

‘Dancing?’

‘Nothing quite so formal.’

‘Formal? Excuse me, please, my English is not so good.’

‘We don’t teach anything so –
structured
. So definite.’

‘I understand now. Thank you.’

‘It’s more a case of the children learning to express themselves through music. By pretending to be animals. Or plants. Or . . .’

‘Fishes?’ he suggested, with a sinuous movement of one hand.

Her laughter had a warmth that made him want to hear it again, but before he had the chance to ask her more the doctor was saying, ‘Wladyslaw, perhaps you can help us. Stella and I want to
find the education officer, one Captain . . .’ He dragged a piece of paper from his pocket and peered at it with a shake of his head. ‘No, it’s no good . . .’ He handed the
paper to Wladyslaw. ‘This one has me stumped.’