Stefcha’s hand shot in the air. ‘May I volunteer?’
‘You may.’ His eyes roamed the crowd, and a few more girls added their names before his gaze returned to me. He was expecting an answer.
‘How would we get there?’ I asked. I had to admit the prospect sounded tantalising.
‘By sea. We will take you to Mombasa, put you on a ship that will take you down to Durban, and then you will travel by troopship to England.’
‘How long do we have to decide?’ I asked.
‘No rush; I’ll be here until tomorrow lunchtime; I have other Polish refugee camps to visit throughout central Africa.’
Pola raised her hand, ‘I’d love to go, but I have my elderly father and my little sister to consider.’
‘Arrangements can be made to accommodate them too. England needs all the help it can get.’
Later, when the meeting disbanded, and we were walking back to our hut, Lodzia said, ‘Will you go?’
‘I’m tempted.’ Yet I was undecided. I would have to part with her and Ella, and I wasn’t sure I could do that. She and Gerhard were the only family I had left. Who else was out there for me?
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘So long as I’m not expected to fly the aeroplanes.’
‘No, Marishu, they won’t expect you to do that. They have proper pilots.’
In the evening, when I joined Stefcha, Pola, and Bronia for our stroll into Kondoa town, the only topic of conversation was the Polish envoy and his proposal.
‘There’s nothing here for me,’ Stefcha said. ‘I’m off. What about you, Marishu?’
‘It’s parting from Lodzia and Ella that bothers me. I don’t know if I can do it.’
‘What about you Pola?’
‘I’d love to go, but my father’s the problem.’
‘Yes, but the envoy said they could accommodate him.’
‘That’s the problem; Tatta wants to know where. What do they intend to do with him; he and my little sister will be on their own in ‘some’ foreign land. At least here, he’s amongst Polish people. He’s dug in his heels and refuses to budge – and in all conscience, I can’t leave them behind.’
‘What about you, Bronia, will you go?’
‘Not if Pola doesn’t. We’ve all been like a band of sisters, and now this envoy is tearing us apart.’
‘So that’s two of us for enlisting – and two against.’
It was the end of September when an open-topped truck arrived to collect us girls. We were on our way to Tengeru.
Tengeru was the largest refugee camp in the area, and the muster point for all recruits making their way from all corners of central Africa, and even as far away as India.
Unable to persuade me to remain, Lodzia said, ‘Marishu, will you need those dresses? They’ll give you a uniform. I could do with them myself.’
I agreed to share them. ‘Which do you prefer, the lemon, the lilac or the red?’
Lodzia tried on the lemon one. ‘See, a perfect fit.’
The day to leave arrived all too soon, and we all bade our farewells.
‘Remember to write the minute you arrive so I know where you are,’ Lodzia reminded me for the umpteenth time. ‘Be safe, kohanie.’ She hugged me and planted a huge, sturdy kiss on my cheek.
I hugged her back, crouched down, and kissed and hugged Ella. ‘Look after Mama, kohanie.’ My voice caught in my throat, and I climbed aboard with tears in my eyes; frightened that one good blink would release a torrent.
We set off along the bumpy track of the old caravan route. Those we had left behind stood waving, and we all waved back until a cloud of dust obscured our views of one another. The enduring picture I carried with me to my unknown life was of Lodzia, with her light brown hair plaited in a coronet around her head. She wore my lemon dress and beside her stood little Ella in a sweet pink dress with her fair hair tied up in two bunches and secured with white ribbons.
For some time, there was silence on board the truck as we all came to terms with our partings, of the decisions made and of what lay ahead. I would miss Lodzia so much; she had helped me through my trauma. To whom would I turn now for help?
Startled by the sound of the engine, a herd of wildebeest took flight, their hooves pounding away, and in the distance a cluster of antelope looked up from their grazing. From then on, the wildlife of the Masai Mara, the giraffes, the elephants and game animals occupied our attention; who knows perhaps as a foil to the momentous decisions we had made.
With the breeze in my hair, I felt somehow liberated. It was the first decision I had made and whether it be right or wrong, I had only myself to blame.
Approaching Tengeru, the warm air of Mount Meru caressed our skins. We drove through sprawling banana and coffee plantations where the soil was fertile. The natives spoke to us in Swahili and we answered back, having picked up the rudiments of their language. In the distance, the snowy stack of Mount Kilimanjaro tracked our journey.
Tengeru was a large, delightful settlement vibrating with birdsong, its circular mud huts set amid tropical plants of white flowering umbrella like Acacias.
Each day a few more girls arrived from all destinations. A week later, Pola appeared, having regretted not volunteering, bringing her father and little sister. Tagging along behind was Bronia. What joy!
There was nothing to do here, no digging, and no planting. We spent our days strolling around the massive settlement, socialising and attending English lessons. God, it was a tough language to master. Sometimes we would venture to the nearby bazaar and watch local families going to market to sell their produce. The husband would stride out in front, followed by his dogs and elder children, while behind them plodded his wife, a basket loaded with fruit and vegetables on her head, lugging a baby in a sling on her back.
When the Polish envoy had rounded up about five hundred of us, they took us to Makindu, another camp closer to Mombasa, to await the ship that would take us to Durban.
Our journey to Durban was a nightmare. We sailed with the shoreline always in sight to our right. The ship was small and the currents violent. The prow of the boat went up, up, up, and then it dropped so fast it made everyone sick. Our seasickness was so severe after a few days that even the Captain worried about us. Our meals went uneaten, and when we refused his plain digestive biscuits he seemed at his wits end.
It relieved me when we docked in Durban a week later, and I wobbled off the boat, trying to regain my land legs. Now we were all worried, because if this were to be a foretaste of ocean travel, we would have been better staying behind in Africa.
The Nieuw Amsterdam was yet to arrive. It was sailing from Australia, and due to dock in Durban on 20th February, remaining one day to collect us five hundred new recruits. So, while they allowed sightseeing in the meantime, everyone had to be back here on 19th February without fail otherwise, the ship would sail without us, and we would have no means of returning to Kondoa.
Africa helped me heal. Yet the naked truth of feelings I could never convey to anyone who had not been through what I had endured – and had no wish to recapture – would remain in my mind like an etched plaque.
Had I made the right decision to leave Africa? Perhaps – perhaps not. But the remembered contentment of my once secure and peaceful life in the meadows of Szpitali lay curled up in my heart forever. It was some mystical earthly paradise to which I yearned to return, to relive the carefree days of my childhood with my family, but Stalin’s barbaric war machine had put paid to it forever. I said goodbye to Africa – and braced myself to set sail for England and an uncertain future.