Page 26 of The Storyteller of Krakow

‘Well,’ I said and smiled. ‘I first saw him the day that he stole my underwear.’

9

LATE 1942, KHANAQIN, IRAQ

To see your knickers being stolen off a washing line is never a good thing. And even stranger when the line in question is tied between two tent poles in a dusty camp in Iraq. And stranger, too, when you witness the thief to be a large brown bear.

The first two months in Iraq I spent in a hospital bed surrounded by others who were too weak to be taken to the training camp as part of the Polish Forces in exile. On that journey alone, I had lost the little weight I had gained in that village in Uzbekistan and was in and out of a delirium that made me think I was a young girl again.

According to Zosia, who never left my side, she said that I talked much of my brother, and would reach out and try to grab him and shout that he should not become a soldier, he should not leave.

She said I talked, too, to my parents, telling them about my day at school, laughing as if one of them had told me a joke.

I was embarrassed when I became lucid once more, but Zosia, with her sweet smile, told me that there was nothing to be ashamed of, for I had simply talked to the people I loved the most.

Janek, too, had visited, she had told me. Keeping her company and bringing food and small gifts when he could. I noted that when she spoke of him, she smiled more and played with her hair.

‘He really cares for you. For both of us,’ she had said.

Too weak to argue with her, I had nodded, but what I really wanted to say was that I no longer trusted Janek. His possessiveness and jealousy over the months in Uzbekistan had made me wary of him, even though I had welcomed his help on the ship. I knew that if I could get stronger, I could get away from that connection with him. But I feared for Zosia. She was softer, gentler than I, and I knew she needed to be taken care of.

But then, soon, I was set free from the infirmary and taken to the camp. It was a literal camp just like in Uzbekistan – would I ever be free from it? Rows upon rows of tents positioned in a dusty landscape. Sand, dust and half-dead trees strewed across the ground around us, and the skyline was littered with chimneys and silver tanks from a nearby oil refinery. I remember standing for a moment as the warm wind whipped at my hair, then stirred up the sand, creating balls that raced and raced along the ground until they settled again.

‘It’s not great, is it?’ Zosia said.

It wasn’t great. It was nothing like we had pictured when talking about it in Uzbekistan. We had thought perhaps mountains, perhaps the azure of the sea. But here, it was like the end of the world – the very end – the point at which nothing grows and just sits, waiting to die. It was just like the place we had left.

I realise now that my thoughts were strangled by my recent illness, and the fact that I knew little of this area of the world, and would soon come to realise that out of the depths of this camp lay beauty.

At that moment, however, I did not know what to say or do. I simply wanted to go back in time, for none of this to have ever happened. I wanted to go home.

‘Me too,’ Zosia said.

‘You too what?’ I asked.

‘You’re thinking you want to go home, right? Me too. I thought it as soon as I saw this place. But it isn’t so bad. You’ll get used to it. The other women are nice, and there’s more to eat. It really isn’t so bad.’

‘You’re just saying that because you’re a nurse and will work in the infirmary,’ I pouted.

‘Ah, but you said you would be a driver – you told them you could drive, or Janek did – so think about it, most of the time you won’t be here anyway.’

Begrudgingly, I let Zosia take me to the tent I would share with her and four others, thinking as I walked that I was sure there would be nothing but the same weak-reddish brown sand and trees with gnarled limbs and not a leaf on display.

Inside the tent, there were six small camp beds, three each side. Each bed was made up with a thin sheet and an itchy grey-green blanket folded at the foot, and each bed, bar mine, was littered with clothes and belongings of the other occupants.

‘I couldn’t get your things for you,’ Zosia said. ‘They will be brought here, now you’re out of the hospital.’

My meagre belongings had been taken from me on arrival, to be deloused and possibly burned.

There was nothing of note or value in what I had. Everything I had ever treasured was gone – my parents, Piotr. Stuff did not matter. And yet…

‘I need some underwear,’ I told Zosia. ‘The ones they gave me in the hospital are too big and keep falling down.’

She grinned. ‘You’re in luck. Only yesterday, one of the drivers brought back some new underwear for everyone. Everyone was complaining about the ones we had – too small, too big, too itchy. Anyway, this driver pooled some money together and said on her next delivery to Tel Aviv, she would go to the markets and get some. She said they were cheap, but good, and wouldn’t you know it, yesterday she returned and oh my! I tell you, Lena, when I showered yesterday and put on new underwear, I almost felt like myself again!’

‘I’m not sure a pair of underwear will do that for me,’ I sulked.

Zosia ignored me and handed me a uniform in light tan consisting of a shirt and skirt, and then a pair of overalls.