I climbed off the bus and milled about, hoping to find Irena disembarking from another vehicle, but I must have missed her. When I asked Pawel, what could have happened to her, he told me there wasn’t enough space at the school for the entire convoy and the others had gone to different destinations.
Over our evening meal of spicy soup, and lamb with paprika and raisins, everyone learned to which camp they were being transferred. For me, it was Camp One. All those heading to Camp One had to remain in the school hall.
I asked Pawel if Irena would also come to Camp One, but he was vague. ‘It’s beyond my control,’ he said.
They turned off the lights later, and I lay in the darkness on the concrete floor, wondering if I would ever see my friend again. But such was life. Everything and everyone was fleeting.
At daybreak, half asleep, everyone crawled back on board their transport for the last leg of our journey.
Descending from the foothills, the driver took us through villages surrounded by date and olive trees, occasionally swerving to avoid animals that roamed the streets amid houses made of mud bricks, while the Persian people threw gifts of fruit and flowers into the passing trucks.
Further south, the land became drier, making travelling in a convoy of dust cloud an ordeal. Everyone was wide awake by the time we reached the outskirts of Tehran – with its skyline of minarets, domes and mosques.
Camp One was on the outskirts, and according to Pawel, it once belonged to the Iranian Air Force. Approaching the high yellow daub wall which surrounded it, I could see two substantial brown brick buildings. As our convoy passed through the gates and ended its journey inside the compound, I could see other buildings and many tents. Below us, civilians began surging towards the trucks and buses in search of their loved ones, and those on board pushed and shoved to be first off.
I sat for a while, watching their joy, their unfettered exhilaration when family members found each other again – hugging and kissing multiple times over. When the bus was empty, I scooped up my holdall, and climbed off, my limbs stiff from having sat for so long.
I didn’t see them at first, but there, waiting for the convoy were Gerhard, Lodzia and Ella!
They rushed towards me, and my brother crushed me to him. ‘Ahh, Marishu we’ve been waiting here for the convoys every day since we arrived. We’ve been checking at all the other camps too. What’s taken you so long?’
A nerve ticked below my eye. I knew I should answer but couldn’t.
He looked over my shoulder. ‘Where’s Mama, Tatta, and Karol?’
Another moment passed.
‘Dead!’ I cried. Then the dam burst and I sobbed in his arms.
‘You poor child.’ Lodzia joined us, slipped her arm around my waist, looked up at Gerhard, and they led me away.
Gerhard barely uttered a word until later in the afternoon, when we left the tent and they took me to the field kitchen for dinner. Over the meal of baked brown stew and macaroni, he shook his head countless times; his food left untouched. ‘I knew something was wrong when I saw you wearing Karol’s coat.’
‘What happened?’ Lodzia asked.
Gerhard continued staring at the food, ‘I knew we shouldn’t have left you at Vodopad. If I’d had any idea… Marisha, I am so sorry.’
I slipped my arm around Ella and planted a gentle, lingering kiss on top of my niece’s head.
‘I can’t imagine how you felt.’
‘Can’t you?’ I gazed into his eyes and felt my rage mounting. ‘I had to cut Tatta’s hair from the wagon wall. Ice – two inches thick. We couldn’t move him. We left him there… at Plesetsk… at some mortuary… a wooden shack with bodies piled up to the roof. Two days later, I had to carry Karol’s body. Another makeshift mortuary. And soon after, Mama. All on my own because no one would help me. Everyone feared dysentery. I left her body on the station steps at Penza, Gerhard. Left her because I hadn’t the strength to carry her any further. I deserted her. Can you imagine how that feels, Gerhard – can you? And where were you when I needed help? Where were any of you? I felt so guilty for deserting her like that; she deserved better.’ I thumped my chest with my fist, and my tears gushed unchecked.
‘Dear God, none of this is your fault.’
‘No one’s saying it is my fault. But it’s how I feel – it’s how I shall always feel.’
After a pause, he asked, ‘Where did you leave Karol’s body?
I composed myself. ‘In Vologda. At least he’s near Natasha and their baby.’
‘What baby?’
‘Didn’t you know? She was pregnant; that’s why her mother wanted to get her married off to that Valerik and out of Vodopad – away from Karol – before it showed. But he knew – oh, Karol knew.’
All Lodzia could manage was, ‘Dear God.’
Gerhard kept repeating, ‘I am so sorry.’
I closed my eyes and exhaled. ‘Enough.’ Now I had blood let my sorrow; I felt relieved. I swiped away my tears. ‘It is as it is.’
After the meal, Gerhard had to return to the military camp. They kept the men and women segregated.
‘They’re moving him out tomorrow,’ Lodzia said. ‘This was our last day together.’
‘Tomorrow! So soon?’
‘We were despairing you wouldn’t arrive in time.’
I had given up railing against what happened to us. That was the way of it – everything was short-lived; life was short-lived. ‘I spoke with Stefan’s sister just as they were leaving Pahlevi. He’s ill with typhus in the military hospital. He wants me to visit him. When Gerhard leaves, will you come with me, Lodziu? I need to know for sure if he’s dead or alive; I won’t rest until I find him.’
She squeezed my hand. ‘You poor child, you don’t have to ask. It’s close to here.’
I looked at my brother, withdrawn, subdued and distant and felt sorry for him. ‘Do you know yet where they’re taking you, Gerhard?’
He shrugged as if he didn’t care. I had lived with the death of our family for the past four months, but he had to go and fight with this burden.
‘Somewhere in Iraq to start with – we have to guard some strategic oil fields. Then we’re being moved to Palestine for training. After that, I suppose they’ll send us to the front line – either in Italy or North Africa.’
‘I’m sorry. Gerhard, please don’t go yet.’
‘I have no choice; I’m not the first. Thousands have already left. I’m lucky they’ve allowed me to stay behind this long. But at least I know you’re safe. You have no idea what that means, Marishu.’
39
The field Hospital at Dosham Tapu – or the 34th British Commonwealth General Hospital – as they knew it, lay on a salty plain beneath the shadow of the Caucasus.
I was hoping for the best, but prepared myself for the worst. What a sight greeted us. Hundreds of sick and dying people lay on folded blankets outside, as there were insufficient beds. The fatigue party were working non-stop, putting up more tents over them, and all the while more army ambulances were arriving from Pahlevi with the very sick and the dying.
We wandered inside and soon learned that it was an all-Indian staff, and we didn’t understand their language. Lodzia wrote Stefan’s name in capital letters on a slip of paper, but they couldn’t read that either. The only white people we saw – apart from the patients – were the sisters from Queen Alexandra’s Nursing Service who were so rushed off their feet, they couldn’t spare the time and spoke only in English. We asked some nursing sepoys, but none of them understood Polish. It was hopeless.