It was a symptom of our condition, I suppose, that when we were driven in a bus through the teeming, noisy Calcutta streets we were as bright as crickets, pointing out the sights one to the other, almost hysterically good-humoured. I could have persuaded myself then that recovery had already begun. I was being fooled again by the fever of a new excitement.
The bus drove between the tall main gates of a hospital and a medical orderly took Zaro, Kolemenos and I away for a preliminary medical examination. At first we were bogged down in language difficulties. After some time it was understood that between us we spoke Russian, Polish, French and German — but no English. Eventually we were interviewed by an orderly who spoke French. They wanted a medical history from childhood, so Zaro told the orderly about our measles and our whooping cough and our operations. It all went down on a set of stiff cards. We were examined by doctors, weighed, measured, given a bath, decked out in pyjamas and tucked in bed in a long ward, Zaro and Kolemenos in adjoining positions on one side and I facing them from directly opposite.
Quite clearly I remember my awakening the next morning, a spotless vision of a nursing sister standing beside my bed laying her strong brown arm against my white one and joking with me until I smiled up at her. Then came the breakfast, of fresh eggs with wafer-thin white bread and butter.
I went back to sleep that morning and dropped into a bottomless pit that stole all mind and recollection from me for nearly a month. I learned all about it later, and it was Mister Smith who gathered the story and told it to me.
They gave me sedatives, they kept a day and night watch on me. Meanwhile Zaro and then Kolemenos went under. At night I screamed and raved in madness. I ran from the Russians all over again, I crossed my deserts and my mountains. And each day I ate half my bread and slyly tucked the remainder under the mattress or in the pillow case. Each day they gently took away my precious little hoard. They talked to me and brought in great white loaves from the kitchens and told me I should never have to worry again. There would always be bread. The assurances meant nothing. I kept collecting bread for the next stage of my escape.
The climax came after about ten days, I was told. After that I was quieter, very weak, exhausted and on the danger list. Kolemenos and Zaro, too, were in a bad way.
But, said the hospital staff, neither of the others matched the performance I put on during the second night of my stay in the ward. I fetched out my saved-up bread, rolled my mattress, bedclothes and pillows and, to their astonishment because they had not believed I had that much strength left, set off staggering under the load for the door. By the time I had rolled my bedding, the night sister had the doctor there. He had said, ‘Leave him; let us see what he does.’
At the door the doctor, the sister and two male orderlies blocked my way. The doctor talked quietly as he would have done to a sleep-walker. I went on. The orderlies held me and I dropped my burden and fought with savage fury. It took all four of them to get me back to bed. I have no memory of the incident.
Four weeks after my admission to the hospital I woke one morning feeling refreshed, as though I had slept the night through dreamlessly and restfully. I could not believe when I was told that my night had been a month long.
Mister Smith came to see us. He looked lean and spruce in a lightweight civilian suit. For a week, he said, he had been close to death. He had been to see me a couple of days earlier but I had shown no signs of recognizing him. He had talked to the doctors about us, told them in detail what we had been through.
‘You are going to be all right now, Slav,’ he said. He gestured over to where Zaro and Kolemenos were sitting up in bed and beaming across at us. ‘And so are they.’
One of the soldier patients in the ward wanted to know our names. The American told him but the soldier had difficulty in getting his tongue around the unfamiliar syllables. A compromise was reached. We became Zaro, Slav and ‘Big Boy’.
Our story got round. From other parts of the hospital staff members came along to take a peep at us. The British soldiers in our ward showered us with kindnesses. One of them went round with his hat collecting cigarettes, money, chocolate, little personal gifts, and shared the offering between us.
The American came to see us again later. He gave me a silver cigarette case and some money.
‘What are you intending to do when you are better, Slav?’
I told him there was only one course open to me. As a Polish officer I must rejoin the Polish Army.
‘Are you sure that is what you want to do?’
‘It is the only thing I can do.’
‘We shall meet after the war, of course. Where shall it be, Slav?’
‘In Warsaw,’ I said. And I wrote down for him the address of my family’s house in Warsaw.
‘I should like that,’ he said. ‘We will meet in Warsaw.’
A British officer and a Polish interpreter came to see me. It was a long talk with the characteristics of security interrogation not, however, overstressed. A long catechism about Poland, its people and its politics to test my
The interpreter returned alone the next day bringing me a gift of half-a-dozen white handkerchiefs and an Indian ivory cigarette-holder. He said transport was being arranged through the British for me to join up with Polish forces fighting with the Allies in the Middle East.
The night before I left, Kolemenos, Zaro and I had a farewell celebration in the hospital canteen.
Mister Smith came to the hospital to see me off on that last day, bringing me a small fibre case in which to pack my few belongings. I had resolved to make the parting from Zaro and Kolemenos as painless as possible. We said goodbye in the ward and the soldiers called out ‘Good luck’ and ‘All the best, Slav,’ and things like that. I walked towards the door, Smith ahead of me. Zaro and Kolemenos followed behind. I wanted them to stay where they were but they kept on walking. I turned at the door and big Kolemenos ran forward and hugged me and then came Zaro. And the tears came so that I had to drag myself away. The American walked with me, blowing his nose in his handkerchief.
He rode on the bus with me into Calcutta, where they dropped him off. ‘Look after yourself, Slav,’ he said. ‘And God bless you.’
The bus pulled away towards the transit camp where I was to await a troopship for the Middle East. I looked back at him once and he waved.
I felt suddenly bereft of friends, bereft of everything, as desolate and lonely as a man could be.
Maps
About the Author
SLAVOMIR RAWICZ (1915–2004) lived in England after the Second World War where he met and married his wife Marjorie. They had five children and lived in the countryside of Derbyshire. Slavomir’s ill health led to an early retirement during which he gave many talks about his experiences, raising money for orphans in Poland. He also corresponded with people throughout the world who were inspired by his story.
Copyright
Constable & Robinson Ltd
