Page 27 of The Storyteller of Krakow

‘Drivers wear these.’ She pointed at the overalls and wrinkled her nose.

I sat, watching her as she talked of the other women, Janek, of her job in the hospital as she tidied her own area around her bed. She seemed different to the Zosia I had first known – more alive – I suppose more herself, and I found that I was jealous of it and at the same time afraid. Our friendship had been one, prior to this, of me cheering her up, and I was not sure I liked that she now had that role, nor was I sure I liked that it had placed some form of distance between us.

‘Anyway,’ she said, stopping finally and plopping down on her bed. ‘I saved you some underwear. I wore mine yesterday, but the others said we should wash them before wearing them. I said I’d take my chances, but as you were sick, I’ve made sure yours were washed. They’re drying out there, but I’ll get you them in an hour or so, and you can shower, and then I’ll show you the mess hall, and then I’ll introduce you to the others and then…’

She continued rambling, reminding me of Janek and his constant digressions, and I simply stopped listening to her for a moment and instead looked down at the dirt-covered ground and let a silent tear escape.

Before I could give in to any more tears, a shout came from outside, followed by shrieks of fear.

Zosia immediately stood, went to the door of the tent, and then ran back inside.

‘A bear, Lena!’ she screamed.

I looked at her and thought this was a joke.

‘A bear?’

I did not wait for her to answer and went to the door myself to see what she was on about, certain that she meant something else.

The scene in front of me, at the time, was frightening, and now I see it as comical. In front of me, indeed, was a bear. A brown bear, running about with a string of washing line with knickers attached to it. He kept stopping to look at the knickers and held them in his large paws, then wrapped the washing line around his head a little as if he thought that was the way to wear them.

Behind him, women were hiding in their tents, their faces peeking out from the flapped windows and doors, while a man ran around after the bear, screaming, ‘Wojtek! Stop!’

I did not scream, simply watched this large animal, an animal I had never seen in the flesh before, act with complete joy at having a line of women’s underwear to play with.

Zosia repeatedly told me to come back inside, but I refused to do so and simply watched and watched, feeling a warm bubble rise from my stomach and soon come out of my mouth as laughter.

‘It’s so funny!’ I turned to Zosia, tears now streaming down my cheeks. ‘It’s so funny! Come and watch!’

Zosia stood back, her arms folded, and shook her head.

I shrugged and went back to watching, seeing this man, red in the face, finally get to the bear, who allowed him to remove the line of string from his head and take the underwear away from him.

He gave the bear an apple, which it took, happy for the gift and happy now to sit and chomp on it while this man went about picking up the knickers and apologising profusely to the guards who had come to see what was going on.

I could not hear what was said, and it was only a minute later that the man and the bear walked back to a truck. The man opened the door for the bear, who climbed into the passenger seat, then the man sat behind the wheel as if this were an everyday occurrence.

I watched the truck drive away, the bear sticking his head out of the window, and I swear he looked at me and smiled.

10

1943, KHANAQIN, IRAQ

A month had passed which saw me learn how to drive a heavy three-tonne Dodge D15. At the front was a cab painted in a light stone, the back a large truck bed, covered with a canvas. It seemed bulbous to me, this thing. The front of it, all round and jutting out, like it wanted you to notice it. The tyres were big, too big in my opinion, as I had driven only once in my life, and that was my uncle’s tiny car. This thing seemed monstrous in comparison, and I was sure my lack of credentials as ‘driver’ would quickly be found out once I got behind the wheel.

I needn’t have worried, though; even though my instructor was a little doubtful when he saw I struggled to climb up into the cab and then forgot completely how to turn the engine on.

‘You said you had driven before?’ he had asked.

‘I have,’ I’d replied, a slight wobble to my voice. ‘A few times.’

He had nodded, then let out a little sigh and told me the basics, and wouldn’t you know it, I was a damned natural!

Two days, and I had that beast of a machine figured out, and all of a sudden, all those doubts and worries and sadness were lifted somewhat. No longer did I sleep too much and refuse to talk to the other women; no longer did I let my gaze sit for long on the barren landscape; instead, I drove.

I drove around the camp, then between the camp and small villages, where I would roll the window down and stick an arm out to feel the air blow through my fingers. I actually drove my instructor mad too, making him take me out for more and more drives until he eventually told me after a week I was fine to now go solo and would soon receive orders of where I was to deliver the letters from home for the other soldiers who were in different camps, and tins of rations.

The first time I went out alone, the keys were warm from the sun by the time they touched my palm. I drove past the rows of tents and the cookhouse where the smell of onions and fat clung to the air, past men in shorts and rolled-up sleeves carrying kit, past the water point where someone was already shouting about someone else taking too long. It was always like that: dust, heat, tempers made short by both.