The night seemed endless, but on the third day the dawn wind stirred, and the unbroken gloom gave up a single solitary offering. Land.
I saw we were getting closer. I could see crane jibs thrusting into the sky, tiny at first, but growing larger. Like many others, I stood and started forwards towards the rails. Cracked voices rose in gratitude and celebration. The ship swayed. Perhaps Stefan was there waiting for me.
We neared the port and I could see ships at anchor, all bearing the Persian flag of the Lion and Sun. I drew a massive lungful of air when I realised I couldn’t see a Hammer and Sickle anywhere. Everyone was eager to disembark in case we sank before we got off, but we would have to wait. Another transport was already lying off the harbour waiting to land refugees.
We stood about a kilometre off the harbour mouth, but the port authorities sent out smaller ships for the evacuees on the neighbouring tanker to transfer over. To my surprise, they landed the entire contingent on two trips and returned immediately to get us off.
My legs wobbled when I stepped onto land and didn’t stop trembling until I reached the beach. Passengers cried, fell to their knees, kissed the sands and gave praise; others sat and wept for joy. It was Easter Sunday.
To my dismay, our ordeal wasn’t over. First, we had to pass through a medical tent erected on the pier. A copious amount of hot tea was available, and a flurry of activity kept the massive kettles topped up. Harassed staff dealt with both dockings and the subdued queues hacked and coughed as they shuffled forwards; small children cried.
‘Typhus,’ whispered Irena, turning away from the small boy wriggling in his mother’s arms in front of us. Poor soul.’
I stepped back, ‘How can you tell?’
‘The rash. And the fever – the poor mite’s burning up.’
We reached the checkpoint and the duty medical officer who, to our surprise, was Polish, removed the child from its mother and handed him straight to a gowned woman in a facemask who carried him away. ‘Please don’t worry; we’re putting him into quarantine – for everyone’s sake. It will only be for a few days, unless he deteriorates, in which case we’ll admit him to hospital.’
‘But I can take care of him,’ the mother wailed. ‘Please.’
‘It may not come to it. Don’t worry; the hospital is just over there. It’s for everyone’s safety.’
Irena and I, although we were just skin and bone, had somehow survived these life-threatening diseases, with little more than leg ulcers, lice, exhaustion and starvation. We could continue to the Reception point, where an Establishment Officer, again from the Polish military, registered newcomers and gave out instructions.
He recorded our names, looked up, smiled, but offered no platitudes. ‘This is what will happen next. After delousing and bathing, we will take you to Camp 3, to a shared tent. It is on the Kazian side of the harbour. There are four camps here. The military one is separate.’
It delighted me to hear this. If Stefan had already enlisted, this is where I would find him, and my excitement soared; I could barely contain myself. He was so close now. I could imagine his expression when he saw me; his joy. I was so happy my chin wobbled and my tears stung.
‘Each camp has its own field kitchens and canteens,’ he continued. ‘Don’t use other camps; we have clean camps, dirty camps and quarantine areas. The Soviets at Krasnovodsk were too lax in allowing sick people to travel.
‘Your stay in Pahlevi is temporary. We will evacuate you to camps in Tehran with all speed. The convoys leave daily from behind Camp 3 on the Rasht Road. We will notify you when it’s your turn. There are notice boards surrounding the Polish Headquarters tent, and you need to check daily. When you see your name, it means you will leave the following morning. If you don’t turn up, the convoy will leave without you. Be prompt, it leaves on time.’
‘Are there many refugees here?’ I asked. I needed to know, so I had some idea of the size of my task in finding my loved ones.
‘Tens of thousands, and more are on the way; they arrive unannounced day and night. We haven’t enough tents, and our sappers are building temporary shelters along the beach – unsatisfactory in this weather, I know, but what can we do?’
‘Is that why you’re in such a hurry to move us to Tehran?’ Irena asked.
‘No, it’s because the Germans are shelling Stalingrad, and we’re expecting them to cross the Caspian Sea any day soon.’ He gave us a brief smile which in no way deflected the sudden fear which consumed me.
‘Right now you need to get on that truck. It will take you to the sanitation area.’
We climbed on board and settled ourselves on the wooden bench.
The truck filled up, and immediately the last refugee climbed on board, an empty truck drew up behind it. It conveyed us to the Boulevard on the Pahlevi side of the harbour via the Ghazian Bridge, crossing the Sefid River at its narrowest point. The Tent Unit was a series of large-scale improvised bathing and disinfection tents that covered the cemented floor. Enormous barrels, in open brick fireplaces, provided constant hot water for bathers from the many wells along the Boulevard’s length.
I shed my rags, threw them on the heap for burning, and handed over Karol’s shearling and my mother’s pillow for delousing. Watching what remained of my hair falling to the floor, I hadn’t realised how much it mattered; it was my identity. Now I ran my hand over my bald scalp, and instead of feeling liberated, I felt invisible. Following the other women through the inter-connected tents to the mobile bath unit, I gasped with shock as the hot shower hit my flesh, before I luxuriated in its warmth, rubbing myself all over with sharp disinfectant soap.
A pale blue brocade dress, from clothes donated by the American Red Cross, caught my eye and I held it against me. It was a little large, but I loved blue. My shearling had been heat treated to kill the lice, and was still warm when I slipped it on. It was a bitter day and I was glad of it. Stretching out my arms, I couldn’t see my fingertips, and was dismayed I hadn’t grown a millimetre since leaving Poland; the coat still swamped me. All I needed now was food.
Camp 3 – known as the ‘Clean Camp’ – was back on the Kazian side of the harbour. Sheltered by dunes from the sea, it sprawled along the beach. A barbed wire fence divided it from Camp 4 – the quarantine area, which they called the ‘Dirty Camp’. Polish guards maintained that one.
‘Thank goodness for the British Army,’ Irena said, ‘this must have taken some organising. It’s good they’re allowing our boys to help, although I suppose it’s obvious – they speak our language.’
The camp was huge with tents in every direction. ‘How will we find our way back?’ I asked her.
‘Just remember, we’re in the second row from the dunes, with a side view of the sea.’
The smell of food cooking led us to the field kitchen, the aromas growing richer as we drew closer, our tummies rumbling at the thought of what awaited.
Irena and I squeezed onto a bench at the end of a trestle table beneath an enormous tarpaulin supported with metal poles. We sat facing each other before the person beside us told us we had to queue at the counter for our food.
A feast awaited: mutton stew and rice, corned beef hash and fatty soup; all British luxuries – we didn’t know what to choose. The aroma was unbelievable, and we salivated – but our stomachs were so shrunken; we couldn’t eat much of what we received.