by Leon Silver
The judge went to his desk, scribbled down an address and handed it to Tolek. ‘The Polish officers’ club. I will telephone them. Check in and wait for shipping orders.’
The two men hugged each other like true lost compatriots.
On Tolek’s way to his new lodgings, he battled with the realisation that he was about to travel to the other side of the world, so far from Poland. A long way to come back from there. Sure, Klara had stated in her letter that they were managing and Chidofski seemed to have confirmed that just now. And the bottom line was that he was desperate to rejoin the Polish Army and fight for his country and he just couldn’t miss this opportunity.
At the officers’ club, an impressive three-storey building, a pistol-carrying Polish sergeant admitted Tolek as soon as he gave his name. He was shown to a room with three beds and told that dinner was at six pm. Just before six, Tolek descended the carpeted, elaborate staircase to the dining room. A formal waiter sat him down at the table with a crowd of officers, some of whom were generals. Tolek gave his name only; he was in civilian clothes so no one asked him for his rank. Neither did they seem to care about his Semitic profile. He figured that the judge’s introduction had paved the way for acceptance. The officers were very friendly, calling him colleague, asking him how he got to Zagreb. It occurred to Tolek that they could well have thought he was a secret-service Jew working for Poland.
After the first two whiskies, Tolek told them about his escape from the Hungarian internment camp. He embellished the adventure with dangerous twists, though he stopped short of introducing hungry crocodiles into the sewers. The officers laughed and applauded, banging on the table. For the first time in months, Tolek was relaxed – the whiskies had gone straight to his head. He loved being totally accepted, the type of Poland he would have liked to live in.
That night he slept on a bunk between a general and a colonel.
After dinner each night the officers toasted each other with whisky until everyone was drunk.
‘Twoje zdrowie, Polska.’ Your health, Poland.
L’chaim, Mamme and Tatte – To life, Mamma and Papa, echoed through Tolek’s mind.
‘Twoje zdrowie zwycięstwo.’ Your health is a victory.
L’chaim, beautiful Klara and Juliusz.
‘Twoje zdrowie, General Władysław Sikorski.’ Your health, General Władysław Sikorski – Poland’s political and military leader.
L’chaim, Ijio and poor Lonek.
‘Twoje zdrowie, ojczyzna.’ Your health, fatherland.
L’chaim, Bóbrki, and all who dwell there.
And so on and so on. By the time Tolek rolled into bed, he truly believed all that wishful toasting would do some good.
There was another advantage to dining with these officers: they were well informed. The scuttlebutt was that the Yugoslav Government was trying its best to remain neutral. The government’s sympathy lay with Poland and France, but it couldn’t openly support the formation of a new Polish Army to fight the Germans and Italians. Recruiting operations had to be kept low key, so as not to abuse the Polish soldiers’ refugee status. Nothing must be done to give the Germans an excuse to invade.
Tolek Klings stayed in the luxury of the officers’ club for three days and then he was called to the Polish Embassy. From there, together with another twenty-five ex-soldiers, he was shipped by train and truck to the seaside town of Split on the Adriatic coast, across the sea from Italy. They were accommodated in a luxurious hotel, which was empty of guests because of the encroaching war. Split was built on the ruins of an old Roman town. The palace at its centre – built by Diocletian around 305 AD – was massive, more of a rectangular fortress with high walls. Except for a couple of caretakers it was also empty, and the Polish recruits took themselves on a tour. While the others were clowning around, Tolek wandered the structure deep in gloom. Why couldn’t Klara and Juliusz be with him, exploring this piece of history? Why couldn’t they stay in one of the luxurious hotels then hop on a ship to take them to Palestine and freedom? He felt tears in his eyes – if only!
The motley group of soldiers was given some quick French Army training. When one of them questioned the Polish officers about this, he was told: ‘Lebanon is a French colony, idiot!’
They had daily lectures in the hotel dining room, practised marching in deserted fields on the outside of town, learned basic words and commands in French, marched to French battle tunes and learned to sing and salute the French national anthem, ‘La Marseillaise’. Getting their Slavic tongues to embrace the delicate French sounds was a challenge.
Just when they had put on weight and were getting a decent suntan, the recruits were woken in the middle of the night and told that the boat was waiting. Tolek was excited, nervous and scared as, under dimmed lights, they packed up and marched in formation to the port. Three hundred Polish soldiers waited at the harbour. Guards were posted along the roads to stop any unwelcome inquisitive eyes. Commands were barked in hushed Polish voices. The men were silent – this was the real thing. Tolek examined the faces around him. Was there anyone he knew?
The soldiers tied their boots to their packs, rolled up their pants and waded to half-a-dozen small boats ready to row them out to the old Polish ship, the SS Warszawa. The faded name on the ship’s prow bobbed up and down high above the men’s heads as they waited their turn to climb the rope ladders. There was nervous laughter all around.
Tolek didn’t join the merriment. He felt sick. Not only from his fear of deep water and the fact that he had to climb the moving rope ladder in the dark, but because he felt he was leaving Klara and Juliusz behind when he left European soil. Since the last time he had spoken to his wife and son on the phone from Lwów, he had never been more than a telegram or phone call away, a quick train journey through familiar territory. Tolek had not heard from Klara since the miraculous letter in the internment camp. His telegrams had gone unanswered. But he dreamt many nights that Klara was running with him, little Juliusz clasping their hands, his feet not touching the ground. Up until now he could have turned at any time, gone back to get them.
Climbing the heaving rope ladder in the dark, his heavy army pack pulling him down, that fog of desperation descended again. Tolek hooked one arm around a rope rung and hung on for dear life while his other hand pulled Klara and Juliusz’s picture from his breast pocket. He had to see their faces – they were beginning to fade from his memory.
The man below Tolek cursed, butting him with his head. Tolek tried to make out his wife and son’s faces in the moonlight. Then he was grabbed from above and pulled up over the ship’s rail, still holding the photo. The men swore at him, thinking he had frozen on the ropes in fright. Tolek yelled at them to let him go. Then they yelled at him to calm down, as he had gone quite mad. It was not unknown, they said, panic on rope ladders did that to some men.
Tolek lay on his backpack on the ship’s deck without bothering to explain. How could he tell them that he’d had a sudden terrifying premonition that he’d never keep his promise to return to his beloved wife and child? That Klara’s ghostly hand had slipped out of his, their son still hanging onto her arm? That their faces had slid into the night, sucked back into a dark void?
Tolek ached for Klara’s touch. To hold Juliusz in his arms once more.
6 Goodbye, Europe; hello, Palestine
On a crisp spring morning filled with the fragrances of cedar and flowers, the Polish sea-tramp the SS Warszawa unloaded the Polish soldiers on a wharf in Beirut to join the French Army. The harbour of this busy town was crowded with boats big and small. An impressive ocean liner with three huge chimneys sounded its loud horn, about to depart. The men crowded on the deck as French warships were pointed out by ex-sailors: armed escort ships, corvettes used for anti-submarine warfare, and two ships with large cannons for shooting down aircraft. A constant stream of civil and army cargo was being unloaded, Lebanese workmen trailing up and down gangplanks. Tolek spied batteries of anti-aircraft guns on both sides of the ha
rbour, soldiers scanning the skies through binoculars. On the surrounding hills, clusters of white and yellow houses were stacked on top of each other. They had left war-blackened Europe behind.
As Tolek looked around at the men on the wharf, he noticed their faces relax, as though the Middle Eastern soil had drained their worries. As much as the French non-commissioned officers tried to yell them into formation on the wharf, Tolek and the men around him felt no urgency to comply. They had human eyes again, entertained no suspicions, weren’t looking over their shoulders for the encroaching Germans. Here, in Beirut, they were surrounded by Poland’s ally, the strong French Army and Navy.
The men were told to strip and give up all their private possessions for disinfecting. They were told they would get their clothes back later and given French uniforms to wear. The men clowned around like they were off to a fancy-dress party.
‘Listen up,’ a Polish officer announced. ‘HQ needs office clerks to process the new recruits into an army. They need typists.’
Only three men, including Tolek, stepped forward. He looked around, smiling to himself; the entire Polish Army intelligentsia. The three of them were taken to a modern French camp just outside the city. Clean wooden barracks, eight bunks to a room, plenty of bathrooms and toilets, electricity and running water, and a dining hall with an impressive kitchen staffed by locals. Parade grounds with French flags, a large motor pool and an admin building with rows of telephones, telegraphs, typewriters, overhead lights and filing cabinets. Tolek was seated at a gleaming typewriter and told to start typing. He asked the sergeant to tell him his favourite childhood ditty and when he did, Tolek smiled, looking at him while typing fast.
The sergeant watched with suspicion, then called out to the captain to come in from the next office. ‘Captain! Here is a man who makes miracles. He looks at me and types!’
The captain scanned the page in the machine, checking the sergeant’s claim. Then he pointed at Tolek, exclaiming, ‘The miracle typist!’ Tolek smiled, nodding agreement, and gently tapped the typewriter as though connected to it. Keeping his eyes on the captain, he typed out: I am the miracle typist. The sergeant pulled the page out, they both read it with awe, and Tolek understood he had a job. When Tolek had taught himself speed typing in his solicitor’s office, he’d never imagined that he was attaining a life-saving skill.
While the rest of the troops went for hard training with the French forces in Syria, the three office staff stayed at this beautiful vacation spot near Beirut, with weekend passes to the city. After a week, Tolek got back the civilian clothes he’d had to give up on the arrival wharf: the elegant new suit he’d had made in Zagreb, and some fine cotton shirts. They were so creased after being brutally washed and sterilised he could probably never wear them again. Tolek, in his new French corporal uniform, gave the garments to the Lebanese cleaning staff.
The new Polish Carpathian Brigade, named after the Polish mountains, was being formed under the supreme command of Lieutenant General Stanisław Kopański, whom Tolek had already worked for since he arrived in Beirut, typing up handwritten reports. Kopański was a very fair general and his office was always open to all enlisted men. Tolek joined the officers and admin staff at the parade ground to listen to the general, standing on the back of a truck, address them. He assumed Kopański had already addressed the 3000 soldiers training in Syria and now it was the turn of the troops who had remained in Beirut. General Kopański said all the words Tolek wanted to hear: ‘There can be no permanent peace as long as power is in hands unfit for its responsibility; there should be no compromise with such men; only when they have been overthrown, whether in war or some other means, will there be a settled and free Europe, and a new and better Poland. The struggle between good and evil continues as graves multiply. Justice and truth are hidden in clouds of falsehood and intrigue. Together with our allies, the French and British, we will crush the enemy and return to liberate Poland!’
A heartfelt announcement from this small man with a bantam moustache and piercing eyes. Listening to the general brought back to Tolek the dogged pain of believing that somehow, with a strong leader like Kopański, they would soon return to a free Poland. Tolek would rescue his wife and child.
After the meeting, the office staff gathered in the canteen for a drink.
‘About time the phony war was over and the French and British started serious fighting.’ The men clinked glasses and threw back whisky. Tolek knew they were talking about the French and British deployment of troops along the French Maginot Line, waiting for the German attack.
* * *
In June 1940, Tolek was in head office taking notes at a staff meeting when the telegraph operator came charging in so fast that some officers reached for their holstered pistols. White-faced, the operator handed Kopański a telegram. The general unfolded the paper and his lips moved as he read it twice.
Kopański shared everything with his men, so he looked up and read it out. ‘The French have capitulated to the Germans. Urgent orders: you are to leave the French in Beirut and proceed to Palestine to put your brigade at the command of the British forces under General Wavell. Signed: Commander-in-Chief General Sikorski, London.’
The men exhaled. ‘No man’s army, again,’ someone murmured.
A French lieutenant with four soldiers carrying rifles entered the room and said through an interpreter, ‘We are very sorry, but we have been instructed to place General Kopański under house arrest.’
The Polish officers again reached for their pistols but Kopański held up a restraining hand. ‘There will be plenty of time for that,’ he said calmly before he was marched off between the French soldiers.
The next morning, Tolek was on his way out from the office with a pile of files under his arm when his way was blocked by an armed French soldier. Tolek didn’t understand what the soldier was shouting at him about, but he turned around and went back inside. One didn’t argue with an armed soldier.
The next day two French soldiers came calling. ‘Corporal Klings? General Kopański has requested your presence at the meeting.’
When he hesitated, they added, ‘Right now, and bring a notepad and pen.’
They took Tolek by jeep to the French Army headquarters. Kopański was sitting with several French officers in a large room on the ground floor. The atmosphere was chilly. Everywhere Tolek looked he saw confrontational eyes and French holsters.
‘I have asked for you, Tolek, as I would like this meeting fully recorded,’ Kopański said to Klings with a friendly smile.
Tolek nodded sheepishly a few times and sat down with pad and pen ready.
The French commander spoke to the interpreter, who addressed Kopański. ‘I will repeat what I’ve said before: we have orders from the French Government in Paris to intern the Polish Carpathian Brigade as prisoners of war.’
Kopański, calm and controlled, shook his head. ‘Because you have capitulated to the Germans, we have to stop fighting to liberate our country?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, but you are officially now our enemies and are ordered to surrender.’
‘We are not your enemies; we have no fight with the French. We are your allies. We are the enemies of your new masters, the Germans. And we are not surrendering to them.’
‘You have no choice. You are to order your men to disarm.’
‘Sir, I can never do that.’ Kopański stood up and saluted. ‘We are a fully armed Polish brigade that has not yet had a chance to fight. And an order to disarm will start a war right here. We will fight you right here in Beirut. The bite of the Nazis in France will be nothing compared to what will happen here.’
Silence.
‘Let us go to Palestine,’ Kopański said.
Tolek silently laughed down at his notepad, remembering the Biblical Moses struggling with the Egyptian Pharaoh to permit the Israelites to leave Egypt and go to the Holy Land. There had to be some giant hidden promise in that land of Palestine if nations throughout history were forbidd
en from going there under the threat of death. The irony – a Jewish corporal taking notes of a Polish officer persuading a Frenchman to let the Poles go to Palestine to join the British to fight the Germans and Italians in Egypt. This was indeed turning into a world conflict.
The French commander asked Kopański to dismiss his note-taking corporal. Apparently what was to follow should not be recorded. Kopański nodded at Tolek to leave, but his eyes stayed in contact well past the nod. Tolek nodded back, understanding. He was driven back to their camp and ran into the canteen full of Polish soldiers, admin officers and men. The soldiers were standing around, too nervous to sit – they knew of the meeting and where he had been.
Shaking, Tolek stood and reported the full conversation. He was handed a whisky, which he gulped down his dry throat. The officers sent off an urgent message to the almost 3000 troops training in Syria with the French forces, informing them of France’s capitulation and giving instructions that under no circumstances were they to give up their arms unless directly ordered by General Kopański. The men should get ready; soon they might very well be fighting the French.
General Kopański and all the officers were put under house arrest. When the remaining troops showed up from Syria, the reunion celebration was short-lived as the French commanded them to pack up and leave immediately. On a stinking hot day, the Polish Carpathian Brigade loaded their thousands of men, heavy armaments and mules onto the open boxcars of a train for a quick run to Palestine before the French changed their minds.