We Shall Remember

by Emma Fraser

  The fraught journey to Zakopane by train, never knowing if her new papers would pass muster, had been followed by a trek across the Tatra mountains, taking sheep-trodden paths, sleeping in safe houses at night and scavenging for food wherever they could find it. They’d slipped across the border into Hungary where new papers were waiting for her before continuing south through Yugoslavia. From there she’d taken a boat, landing in England ten days after she’d left Rozwadow.

  The journey had been miserable and had taken its toll, but abandoning Poland – because that was how it felt – had been the hardest part. For what seemed like the hundredth time, she wondered if she had done the right thing. She could have taken the new papers Henryk had organised for her and found somewhere else to live in Poland where she still might have been of use to her country. But, as Henryk had pointed out, if Oberführer Bilsen returned to find her simply gone, he might have her father rearrested. And there was always the possibility she’d be picked up in a round-up in one of the other towns or villages and that the major would have found her that way. Then she would have been questioned and might still have led the Gestapo to Henryk and Stanislaw. It was, she’d had to agree, an unacceptable risk.

  She felt disorientated by London: the street signs in English, the red London buses, the large balloon-type objects hanging over the city.

  Yet, in other ways, the British capital wasn’t so very different to Warsaw in the days before the occupation: many roads were cordoned off and impassable because of craters in the road or unexploded bombs; almost every building showed signs of damage, some reduced to rubble, others still smouldering, those still in use protected by sandbags, their windows criss-crossed with black tape. Families picked through the ruins of what had once been their homes, while others sat dazed, boiling kettles on small stoves under makeshift shelters. And still most people went about their business, stepping around craters in the road as if they were part of the normal landscape. Despite the devastation, Irena felt safe.

  Ignoring the dull ache behind her ribs she knocked on the door.

  After a few moments the door was opened by a man in a dark suit.

  Irena held out her hand. ‘I’m Irena Kraszewska. I have come to see Lord Glendale.’

  The man ignored her outstretched hand and looked her up and down before peering behind her. He didn’t seem too pleased to find her on his doorstep.

  ‘This is ninety-five Gros-venor Street?’

  ‘If you mean ninety-five Grosvenor Street,’ he said haughtily, pronouncing the street name without an ‘s’, ‘then yes, this is it. Is Lord Glendale expecting you, miss?’

  Irena was relieved that whoever this disapproving man was, he wasn’t the man she needed help from.

  ‘Who is it, Smith?’ A woman’s voice came from within the hall.

  ‘Since when have I needed help answering the door?’ Smith grumbled, but he stood aside. ‘It is some young lady requesting to see his lordship.’ He sniffed. ‘His lordship never mentioned he was expecting a visitor.’

  A stout woman with grey hair shoved him out of the way. She was wearing an apron over a dress sprigged with flowers.

  ‘Don’t leave her standing. Can’t you see she’s almost at the end of her tether?’ She took Irena by the arm. ‘Come into the warmth, dear. My goodness, you look half starved.’

  Even in her state of exhaustion Irena was aware of the splendour of the house with its high ceilings, marble floor and grand staircase.

  ‘You look worn out, dear. Have you come far? This war is terrible, just terrible, the way it flings us all about, isn’t it? But don’t you worry, we’ll get you sorted. I’m Mrs Smith, by the way – his lordship’s housekeeper – and cook come to that.’

  Irena was relieved when Mrs Smith didn’t appear to expect a response to her chatter. The housekeeper led her through the hall, down a flight of steps and into a large kitchen. ‘You take a seat there, pet, while I get the kettle on.’

  Mrs Smith’s accent was different to her husband’s; softer with a lilt to it almost as if she were singing. She placed a kettle on the cooker. ‘Irena, did you say your name was? And where have you washed up from?’

  ‘Washed up?’

  ‘Come from, pet, come from.’

  Irena wondered how to reply. Months of being secretive had become a habit.

  Happily, once again, Mrs Smith didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I don’t know what my husband – that’s Smith who opened the door to you – was thinking leaving you on the step like that. Now, is his lordship expecting you? The thing is, dear, I don’t think he could be else he would have told Smith.’

  ‘No, he’s not expecting me. But I need to speak to him. I was given this address by a friend of his.’ She stumbled over the unfamiliar words. Although her father had insisted she learn English as well as German it was a long time since she’d spoken it. ‘He told my father Lord Glendale might be able to help me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll help you if he can, pet. He’s awfully kind that way. Was it work you were looking for because I can always use a hand? The girls have all left to do war work.’ She sniffed. ‘Not that I can blame them but they’ve left me in a pickle. This house is too big for me and Smith to manage on our own even if his lordship does spend most of his time down the club and with her ladyship up in Scotland doing her doctoring thing. Lord Richard, their son, isn’t here very often either, although he’s here on leave at the moment. He’s with the RAF, you know.’

  For the first time since she’d left Poland, Irena felt her spirits lift. The son might know where she could find Aleksy. She wouldn’t feel so alone then.

  Her stomach clenched at the aroma of baking: she couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Steam rose from the kettle and Mrs Smith heaped tea leaves into a pot.

  ‘Are you all right, pet?’ Mrs Smith said, peering at her. ‘You don’t look too well to me.’

  ‘I’ll be fine after a cup of tea. And perhaps a slice of bread if you have some to spare?’

  ‘A slice of bread? Of course. I have a couple of loaves in the oven as we speak and a couple that are just done. Now if you’d asked me for an egg or a chop that would be a little more difficult – what with the rationing, and all, but we can certainly manage some bread and soup.’

  As the warmth of the kitchen seeped into Irena, the tension of the last weeks left her and she began to feel sleepy. What she would do if Lord Glendale wouldn’t help her, she wasn’t entirely sure, but if necessary she would take the offer of work here in the house – at least until she’d recovered her strength and could start searching for Aleksy.

  Mrs Smith put a bowl of soup in front of her and Irena made herself take small sips. A few minutes later, a warm slice of bread was placed next to her bowl and she ate that too, breaking off tiny bits at a time to prevent herself from stuffing the whole thing into her mouth in one go.

  When she’d finished the soup and the tea – which was milky, not at all how she was used to taking it, but welcome nevertheless – Irena suppressed a yawn behind her hand. If only she could curl up in the armchair next to the stove and go to sleep.

  ‘You look as if you need your bed,’ the older woman said. ‘I don’t know when his lordship will be back but what about you take Doris’s bed? She was a maid here before she left to work in the munitions – more money, you see? More freedom too, I suspect. She always was a flighty thing. This war has turned everything upside down. Anyway, what was I saying? Yes, why don’t you take her bed and have a bit of a sleep?’ She paused suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘You’re not a German spy by any chance, lass? You don’t look like one but you can never tell.’

  Irena almost laughed. It clearly hadn’t occurred to Mrs Smith that if she were a German spy she’d be unlikely to admit it. She shook her head. ‘I promise you, I’m as far away from a German spy as you can imagine.’

  ‘You do sound foreign though, lass.’

  ‘I’m Polish.’

  ‘Polish! Well I never.
I’ve heard there’s a few of you about since the war started, but I would have never taken you for one.’

  Irena was pretty sure Mrs Smith had never met a Pole before and was therefore hardly in a position to judge, but she kept her thoughts to herself. The woman was being kind.

  ‘Now then, dear, why don’t you leave your bag down here and I’ll take you to Doris’s old room? It’s on the top floor so there are a few steps, I’m afraid. Smith will bring your suitcase up to you later.’

  Irena was so tired she could barely speak but she wasn’t about to be separated from the few belongings she had left in the world, least of all her coat with her mother’s necklace sewn into its lining.

  She picked it up, along with her small bag, ignoring the look of disapproval on Mrs Smith’s face. ‘I’d rather…’ Her voice cracked.

  Mrs Smith’s expression softened. ‘Of course you would. Now come with me. You’ll see. Everything will seem a lot better once you’ve had a good rest.’

  Irena woke to a gentle tap on the door. At first she didn’t know where she was but then she remembered. She was in England in Lord Glendale’s house and in the absent Doris’s bed.

  She threw the blankets aside and opened the door to find Mrs Smith holding a large jug. ‘His lordship is home and asking to see you. I brought you some water to wash with. The bathroom is down the hall but the water in the tap is cold at the moment so you’ll be better with a basin.’ She placed the jug on a small washstand and handed Irena a towel. ‘I don’t want to rush you, pet, but let’s not keep his lordship waiting longer than necessary.’

  ‘He didn’t mind my taking a sleep, did he?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s a good man, is his lordship. You’ll see for yourself. Now when you’re ready, come downstairs to the hall. Can you find your way back there all right?’

  Irena nodded. ‘Down the back stairs, two flights and turn left.’

  ‘Right. Smith will be waiting for you there anyway. He’ll take you in to his lordship.’

  When Mrs Smith left, Irena hurriedly washed her face and hands and brushed her hair, before twisting it into a chignon. She slipped on her only spare dress, which, although more threadbare than she would have liked, was at least clean. She pinched her cheeks to add some colour, wishing she had some powder left to disguise the shadows under her eyes.

  When she had made herself as presentable as possible she went downstairs. Smith looked her up and down, no less disapproving than he’d been before. She returned his gaze steadily. She might be a refugee but she was still a Kraszewska.

  ‘Lord Glendale is waiting for you in the library, miss.’

  She followed him up the main staircase and into a wood-panelled room lined with books. Unlike the chilly hall and bedroom, this room was warm and cosy, a fire burning brightly in the grate, despite the sun streaming in the window. There were two men present, an older man with greying reddish-blond hair, his left sleeve pinned up at the elbow, and a younger man wearing a red silk scarf that seemed out of place against his blue serge uniform.

  Both men stood. ‘Now then,’ the older one said sternly, ‘suppose you enlighten me as to why I have a woman whom I have never met sleeping in my house.’ He looked over at the man by the fireplace. ‘Lord Maxwell – my son – assures me he doesn’t know you either.’

  Irena twisted her hands together so they couldn’t see they were shaking. ‘My name is Irena Kraszewska and I have come from Poland. My father, Professor Julien Kraszewski, was given your name by an old friend and colleague – Dr Hoffman – who said that you might be able to help me.’

  ‘Now why would Maximilian give you my name?’ Lord Glendale didn’t ask her to sit down so she remained standing. His son, however, glanced at his father with a frown. ‘Please, Miss Kraszewska, take a seat. I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this.’

  Irena shot him a grateful smile before sinking into the armchair opposite Lord Glendale. ‘My father has known Dr Hoffman for as long as I can remember,’ she said. ‘Dr Hoffman is my godfather.’ She smiled. ‘We weren’t always at war with the Germans, you know. After Czechoslovakia was invaded Dr Hoffman tried to persuade my father to leave Poland with my brother and me. He told my father if we ever found ourselves in London and needed help, we should come to this address.’

  ‘He did, did he?’ Father and son exchanged glances. Irena knew how it must sound. Why would a German try to help a Polish family when they seemed bent on destroying the Polish nation?

  ‘Where’s your father now?’

  ‘Still in Poland. I tried to persuade him to leave but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘And how did you get here?’

  ‘I was given false papers —’ Just in time she bit back the words she was going to say about being helped by the underground army. ‘I came through Hungary.’

  Lord Glendale studied her through narrowed eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I will have to ask you to be more specific. I’m sure you will understand why we have to be careful. At a time like this, there are those who come to this country in order to help the German cause.’

  ‘I’m a medical student!’ Irena cried. ‘You can’t think I’m a spy! No one could hate the Germans more than I do. They’ve murdered so many people in my country and those they haven’t murdered they have taken to their factories where they’re working them to death.’

  The son poured a glass of water from a jug on the tray and passed it to her. ‘We just need to be sure you are who you say you are.’

  Irena stumbled to her feet. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. I’ll go.’

  ‘Sit down, Miss Kraszewska. Please,’ Lord Glendale said. ‘I will need to check your story thoroughly but if you are telling the truth, of course we will help you.’ He rose to his feet as a gong sounded from somewhere in the house. ‘That is Smith letting us know dinner is ready. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me as I’ve a previous arrangement to dine at my club, but Richard will keep you company.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I should be back later. Perhaps you would stay up until then and we will talk some more?’

  Lord Maxwell – or Richard, as he insisted she call him – ushered her into the dining room. She was still burning with indignation at the way Lord Glendale had questioned her, but she waited until they had soup in front of them before speaking.

  ‘You’re in the RAF. Perhaps you can tell me why the British didn’t come to help Poland when they promised.’

  Richard started. He raised an eyebrow. ‘You wish me to defend my country’s policies? And over dinner?’

  ‘Poland could have been saved if Britain and France had attacked Germany right in the beginning.’

  ‘Possibly. We’ll never know now.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Our boys have taken quite a beating in defence of your country.’

  ‘In defence of my country or yours? You must be worried Hitler will invade you.’

  ‘You make it sound very simple, Miss Kraszewska.’

  ‘Please don’t patronise me.’

  He placed his spoon down and leaned back in his chair. ‘Very well. This is how I see it. If we’d thrown everything at Hitler right from the start, perhaps we could have stopped him. Unfortunately we didn’t have the resources, or the men. Not then – hence the shambles at Dunkirk.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘You ask why we didn’t come to Poland’s aid right at the beginning.The RAF boys were keen as mustard to go into action, but our planes didn’t – still don’t for that matter – have the fuel capacity to fly to Poland to engage the enemy. It was that simple. I can assure you, Miss Kraszewska, pilots want nothing more than to take a shot at the Boche.’

  The fight went out of her. ‘Irena,’ she muttered. ‘My name is Irena.’

  Smith cleared their plates and replaced them with others. Irena didn’t even glance at hers.

  Richard smiled tightly. ‘Have I answered some of your questions?’

  She sighed and pushed away her plate. ‘At least the British are still fighting. As lo
ng as they hold out, there is still hope for us.’

  ‘Oh, we shall hold out, Irena. Have no doubt about that.’

  ‘My brother is a pilot too,’ she said. ‘I heard he made it to France and, when it fell, to Britain.’

  ‘He’s a Polish pilot?’ He lowered his knife and fork, his gaze sharpening. ‘In that case he could well be nearby. We have a number of Polish pilots within our squadrons as well as one or two squadrons made up entirely of Poles. They have quite a reputation.’