‘What? I don’t think so; she’s very bossy. Anyway, who wants to learn English? Swahili maybe. English – what use is that?’
‘Because it’s time you did something for yourself. Don’t let her intimidate you. You might enjoy it.’
I supposed it was something different, and I hadn’t anything better to do than to recline on my bed and sweat until the temperatures dropped, so I went along. Other girls of my age attended the class, and I made friends with a girl called Appolonia, whom everyone called Pola for short. She was here with her younger sister, also called Leokadia and their father. Their mother died when Pola was twelve, and the role fell to her to look after the family. There was also a lovely girl called Bronia, and the two of them seemed like good pals. Pola was a decent sort; I liked her. Now I had three new friends: Stefcha, Pola and Bronia. Already my life was more interesting.
Two black boys jogging from Kondoa passed us each morning on the way to work, an animal carcass skewered onto a pole across their shoulders, their footfalls stomping in unison to the rhythm of the chant that lingered on the breeze long after they had passed.
The food here was good, and as I recovered my health, my appetite improved. However, I found the ration of bread and runny butter we received in the afternoons was never enough to sustain me until morning, and I always felt hungry.
At the end of the week we received payment for our labours and Pola said, ‘Let’s go into town and buy some dress fabric. There are two seamstresses here.’
In the evening all four of us strolled to Kondoa. It was an insignificant place with dusty streets, occupied by low, flat-roofed buildings. Here they sold spiced coffee and there were sweetmeats available from the shop run by an Indian gentleman.
I felt liberated having money of my own. In another shop, we browsed through the dress fabrics and met the Arab owner. He had three wives, and he was very, very cheerful, very, very helpful and spoke very, very fast.
‘Ladies,’ he flung out his arms, ‘Do not worry if you cannot find anything you like. I shall be going to Arusha next week, and I shall bring more fabrics. Silks of every hue; it will spoil you for choice!’
We all laughed, and each one of us bought two lengths of fabric. I settled on red and a vibrant lilac and vowed I would return in two-weeks’ time for the lemon shade.
Stopping at another shop, we treated ourselves to sandals, the kind that slipped between the big toe.
On our stroll back to the Mission, I caught Pola’s arm. ‘Wait! Look!’ A fat snake slithered across the road ahead of us, and another uncoiled itself from a branch of a Baobab tree. Dangling in front of us, it fixed us with its beady stare, while all the time its forked tongue was working as if slavering after meal.
Skirting slowly around it, we made a dash for it. The four of us became vigilant, as we often found the snakes coiled up in long grass amid cactus plants. I hated them and could see no use for them.
What made me laugh aloud though, was the crane, with its comical opened fan of feathers perched on its head. It was an enormous bird about a metre tall with a wingspan of two metres. It stomped its feet as it walked, like a flat-footed angry old man, to flush out insects which it caught and gobbled up.
It didn’t take long for us to fall into the unhurried life of Kondoa. Lodzia, the most gregarious person I knew, made friends with everyone, and Ella was growing up fast and had little friends of her own. I spent my morning in the fields, and after lunch lay sweating on my bed before temperatures dropped enough to attend English lessons. However, I spent my evenings sauntering into Kondoa town, with Pola, Stefcha, and Bronia; and our love of coffee and sweetmeats turned into a habit.
Settling into our novel way of life, we found fresh interests. I joined an embroidery group, and Lodzia, a theatre troupe. However, I realised that despite all the outward normality, life here held nothing for me; I had been dead inside since my parents and Karol died, going through the motions for Lodzia’s sake, because she had tried so hard to help rehabilitate me. But no matter what I did, I could not purge my sorrow. The scars of Russia had scabbed over, but they were still painful if I scratched too hard, so I chose not to go there.
The mail was always slow. No one wrote to me, but Lodzia received letters from Gerhard. Why doesn’t he ever write to me? I wondered, but knowing Gerhard, he would assume Lodzia would pass on his news?
In his last letter he wrote:
Moja Kohana, (My Dearest)
We’ve arrived in Palestine, and it is a relief to have left Iraq behind and Kizil-Ribat with its 120-degree shade temperatures. The climate in Palestine is much kinder, although we are not here on holiday. Most of the Jews defected to join their army, including one of my friends.
They have told us we are going into combat in Italy and we have been conducting large-scale exercises with the British army.
In our free time, we do some sightseeing. So far, I have visited Jerusalem and Bethlehem. It is incredible how small-scale everything is compared with how I had imagined it from the Bible. The Mount of Olives, which in my mind’s eye was always a considerable escarpment extending for hectares, is tiny. I suppose I have to be thankful. Had I remained in Poland, and none of this had happened to us, I don’t think I would ever have experienced anything – although I am not sure I want to experience what lies ahead.
Is my darling Ella still keeping well? No more recurrences of the blood poisoning, I hope. And how is Marisha? I worry about her all the time, and cannot forget how she coped with all the grief that befell her at so young an age – at any age.
Write again soon if you can, I miss you all.
Lodzia kissed the kisses at the bottom of his letter and clutched it close to her heart. That is something I would never be able to do because the only future I had was here within the confines of this tiny Mission and I would die here, unfulfilled, growing beans and corn.
42
September 1943
Nothing much ever happened in Kondoa, but today the place was buzzing. A man had arrived at the Mission and we were all to assemble at the church after work.
Changing out of my work clothes, I asked Lodzia who he was.
‘No idea; he’s been with the priest since he arrived. Those who’ve seen him said he was wearing a cork hat, an open-neck shirt and a loose tie.’
It was a toss-up between my red dress, the vibrant lilac or they yellow one. I chose the lilac. ‘That’s no help – everyone here wears a cork hat. Was he black?’
‘No, white – as far as I know. Perhaps he’s here to tell us the war’s ended.’
‘Father Barbaranelli could have told us that.’
It was standing room only in church.
‘You must all be wondering who I am,’ the man said. ‘I am an envoy from the Polish Government in exile which is now based in London, and I’m here on a mission. My task is to search out recruits for the Polish Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, willing to enlist and travel to Great Britain for training, to help the British fight the Axis forces.’
That raised a buzz of excitement. The envoy stood and waited until the chatter died.
For a few of the girls, the decision was clear-cut – they needed no persuading.
I raised my hand to gain his attention. ‘What would we be doing in this Air Force?’
‘We need office workers, drivers, mechanics, wireless operators, meteorologist, cooks, … in fact, auxiliary staff in every department to work alongside the men.’