‘There must be someone in this hospital who can tell us what’s become of him.’ My nerves were so coiled they were at snapping point. Faced with defeat, we left, not knowing if Stefan was dead or alive.
Back at Camp One, a friend of Lodzia’s tactfully suggested we try the cemetery. ‘Few with typhus survive,’ she said.
We lingered in the shade of the pine and plantain trees in Doulab Cemetery, grateful for a fleeting respite from the sun. Beneath them lay the slabs and monuments each marking a dwelling place in which no one was home.
There were no shrines for the Poles. A simple cross bearing a name and a date identified our freshly dug graves; so many of them children’s. Candles burned on some; flowers lay on others. How I wished I could have given my parents and Karol such a burial in a tranquil and beautiful place such as this. Everyone deserved an engraved marble slab or a stone angel to say they had passed this way, but a wooden cross would have sufficed. Instead, the Soviets would throw their bodies into some anonymous pit with thousands of others and no one would ever discover their barbaric secrets.
Lodzia and I visited each grave, walking up and down on opposite sides, while little Ella complained her legs ached, and she had had enough.
‘Well, Stefan’s not here,’ I said with a sigh of relief. ‘So that must mean they have already transferred him to Palestine for training, or even to the front line.
‘Or he might still be at the hospital. We’ll try again tomorrow.’ said Lodzia.
A second visit to the hospital proved futile. I convinced myself that like Gerhard, Stefan had been moved to the war zone somewhere. I refused to accept he was dead.
Without the men visiting their families, life at the camp went on as usual. Women washed the clothes, hung them against the barbed wire to dry and children played.
There was an airport close by, and I often sat alone, watching the military planes taking off and landing, fascinated how such enormous things could remain airborne.
The camp was large, taking up a full ten minutes to cross. The vast influx of refugees meant that a massive tented city had spilt out beyond the perimeter walls, protected by barbed wire fencing. Washrooms and showers were under open skies and the smelly latrines on the periphery of the camp were being treated non-stop with quicklime, but dysentery was rife.
‘I wonder where Gerhard is,’ Lodzia said. ‘It’s been eight weeks since the troops left for Iraq. I no longer feel safe here without the men to protect us.’
Rumours were rife again: German paratroopers were coming down in the north; some already captured in the Caucasus. Whether this was true, British and American troops began arriving in huge numbers to meet what everyone thought would be a grave situation. That was tangible proof that it wasn’t hearsay, wasn’t it? Some even claimed they’d heard the distant sound of guns echoing across the mountains from the north.
‘A new school’s opened,’ Lodzia said. ‘I was planning to enrol Ella if we would stay, but now there’s the talk of the British wanting to evacuate us to their colonies right away.’
‘Because of the danger?’
‘No. As I understand it, Persia was only ever going to be a temporary landing point for our army. The British never expected so many civilians – I don’t think they expected any civilians at all.’
‘So where are they sending us?’
‘Who knows: New Zealand, Canada, India… British Central Africa. I think if we’re given a choice, we should opt for Africa – it’s nearer Poland.’
‘It’s nowhere near Poland.’
With patience, ‘Well, it’s nearer than Canada or New Zealand.’
We agreed on Africa.
‘Let’s see if we can get another change of clothes and underwear.’ Lodzia discovered a new consignment had recently arrived from the Red Cross. She had some money left, but not enough to waste on frivolous garments – and not at Tehran’s prices.
I wasn’t interested in clothes; I had all I needed. Who cared about clothes?
She returned soon after, having done pretty badly out of what they left. ‘I brought you a hat.’ With a swift backhand, she propelled it across the tent, and I caught it by the rim.
‘Put it on then.’
Dragging off my headscarf, I drew my hand across the soft black down already sprouting from my scalp, and donned the hat.
‘Perfect,’ Lodzia held up a rather large nightdress. ‘With a little imagination, I’m sure I can make something out of this.’
Yesterday she dragged me into Tehran city centre, but I wasn’t interested in sightseeing; I wasn’t interested in anything. The finely clothed women and the beautifully dressed shop windows held no appeal. Even the wide streets, which cut through the urban fabric of the city, depressed me further; everything was so modern that I felt intimidated.
I yearned for the simple meadows of home, filled with clover, daisies and corn poppies. I wanted for Mama and Tatta to be going about their daily chores. I yearned for my cows, for my darling Bookiet rounding them up at milking time.
I knew Lodzia was becoming exasperated with me. She said she felt as if I had put up my walls and didn’t want anyone near me. She was right. I couldn’t bear to relive what had happened to me, but she wanted me to open up and talk; to share my emotions. She said it was the only way of letting go. I knew she meant well, but couldn’t she understand I was numb inside?
It was kind of her to help me, but she had worries of her own. She, like other wives at the camp anxious about their husbands, was waiting for word from Gerhard. Worrying about my well-being was the last thing she needed.
It had been five months since the death of my family, and at last, I felt less like an ethereal observer viewing these ghastly happenings, and more of a victim. This was far worse. Reality hurt so badly. All around me there were mothers and daughters, and children with grandparents, with siblings. I couldn’t bear to be near them; they were emphasising what I had lost. The only way I could cope with life was to blot the whole ghastly nightmare permanently from my mind and not discuss it. I wished I were dead. But Lodzia refused to give up on me.
‘And all this has happened because the Soviets wouldn’t give Tatta his travel documents,’ she droned on again, trying to break through my defences.
This time she had hit the one button that caused me the most pain. Oh God, why couldn’t she let the matter rest?
‘You could all have come with us, and they would still be alive now.’
‘Yes! Yes,’ I shouted, ‘they would be alive!’ This was the tragedy of it all. I couldn’t get my head around this one thing because, at the time of everyone else receiving their travel documents, we had sufficient funds to support ourselves to leave Vodopad without starving. Had the Soviets given us our papers, we could have left with Lodzia and Gerhard, and I would have been on the same transport as Stefan and his family. In my mind, I had been over and over this scenario countless times – and it was this feeling of impotence – of helplessness – it crucified me. ‘Yes, I believe they would have lived,’ I cried. ‘They should have lived, Lodziu. They were fifty four years old. Karol was twenty one; they had done nothing wrong. Why couldn’t I have died with them? I have nothing left to live for.’
She watched me force my fist into my mouth and sob. Huge rasping sobs wracked my body, and I felt ashamed. ‘I don’t know how to live, Lodziu; they were everything to me.’
She pulled me into her arms. ‘There, there – let it all go; that’s the way.’ After a while, she gave me a gentle shake to ensure I was listening. ‘We’ll speak no more of it. None of this is your fault. You have your path in life to follow now. You mustn’t give up. You’ve got to keep going.’