Spring Will Be Ours (41 page)

The train stopped at Clapham with a jerk. Ewa got out and walked among the crush of passengers up the long flight of steps to the barrier; she showed her season ticket to the yawning West Indian woman and hurried through, crossing the main road just as the lights changed.

Then she walked up the long, treeless street, with its heavy green paintwork. Many of the windows were open in the afternoon heat; the light from televisions flickered bluely behind net curtains; dishes clattered; from an upper window a radio blared. She could see, ahead, the third-floor window with the net curtain held aside, and her grandmother waiting. She raised her hand but did not walk faster; almost every day she called in on them, but sometimes, if they hadn't seen her coming, she went very quietly up the uncarpeted stairs, unlocked the front door of the flat where she lived with Mama and Tata and Jerzy and crept guiltily inside. ‘We didn't hear you come back.' Babcia or Dziadek would say later, with the lightest brush of reproach in the tone, and she would answer, even more lightly, but inwardly irritated at having always to account for herself: ‘Didn't you? Well, here I am.'

Squatters had taken over the ground floor of a house two doors from theirs, and tacked up Indian cotton bedspreads at the window. As she drew near she slowed down a little, and glanced towards it: they had pinned back one of the curtains to let in the air, and she could see through the open window figures sitting on the floor and a candle burning on a low table. The cloying smell of incense drifted into the street, and the smell of something else, too. She stopped, stood for a moment, sure no one inside had seen her, and saw a tall man leaning against the mantelpiece draw deeply on a cigarette and turn towards a girl at the back of the room who was switching on a tape. Music began to throb; the girl turned, took the cigarette, inhaled and saw Ewa, watching.

‘Hi. Want to come in?'

She flushed, turned away and walked quickly to her own front door, closing it behind her. Had Babcia been watching her, watching them? The wire-mesh letter box was stuffed full of cards for minicab firms; there was a letter from Warsaw for Mama, she took it out and climbed the dusty stairs, hearing above her, Dziadek's and Babcia's door click open; as she rounded the last corner she saw Babcia looking down on her, smiling.

‘Hello,
kochana
, I have made you some tea.'

‘Thank you, Babcia.' She reached the top, kissed her lightly on both unpowdered cheeks. ‘Have you had a good day?'

Babcia shrugged. ‘Quiet, quiet. Come in.'

Ewa hung her denim jacket on a peg in the hall, and felt like a granddaughter again. Then she went into the sitting room, hearing Dziadek's paper rustle; as always, he rose, kissed her hand.

‘Good evening, darling. Come and sit down.'

Babcia came along the corridor from the kitchen carrying the tray from Peter Jones which Ewa had bought for her Saint's Day, pale green, with roses. She set it on the white cloth covering the varnished table, took three drawn-thread napkins from the drawer, three pale blue tea plates from the tray. A marbled cake in chocolate and vanilla sponge was sliced; tea poured into pale blue cups, where thin slices of lemon floated to the surface. Dziadek unfolded his napkin and spread it neatly on his knee; from his pocket he took a small bone penknife, and carefully sliced the marbled cake on his plate into smaller pieces. Babcia shook her head. The clock on the narrow varnished mantelpiece over the-gas fire gave five metallic chimes, a little wavering. It had sounded like that for years.

Ewa sipped her tea.

‘No Jerzy today,' Babcia said sadly.

‘No. He's on a trip this weekend.'

Babcia sighed. ‘Such a strange thing.'

From the far end of the corridor, where the kitchen overlooked the track, came the sound of an overground train increasing speed. The faintest of vibrations shook the teacups.

‘You think so?' asked Ewa.

‘I think so.' Babcia took another slice of cake. ‘Dziadek, also. What does a clever young boy want with trains, trains all the time? Travelling all by himself.'

‘It is a stage,' said Dziadek. ‘It will pass. And perhaps he is learning something. I worry only for his safety.'

‘I shouldn't,' said Ewa. ‘I'm sure he can look after himself.'

‘But the asthma …' said Babcia.

‘He says he doesn't have it when he's away.'

Her grandmother shrugged, puzzled.

After tea, Ewa flicked through two or three copies of the
Polish Daily, Dziennik Polski.
Yesterday's front page was full of the news that reservists were being called up from Lithuania, the Ukraine, and elsewhere in the Soviet Union, to carry out manoeuvres along the Soviet border with Czechoslovakia. ‘The undoubted aim is to ensure that the Czech summit meeting proceeds along the lines ordered by the Kremlin …'

‘Dziadek?'

‘Yes?' He was fiddling with the radio, which was old, and buzzed. Tata had offered to buy them a new one, but they said they could manage, he needed his money. Nor did they want a television, though they came in from time to time to watch the one Mama had rented.

‘Do you think Czechoslovakia is safe?'

The radio crackled. ‘Of course not. It is only a matter of time.' He switched off the radio irritably. Dziadek was not often irritable; she should have known better than to ask that question.

The back pages of
Dziennik
contained, among the personal columns, black-bordered announcements, where the English names of cemeteries in Gunnersbury, Ealing, North Sheen, of the Brompton Oratory, stood out amongst the Polish like signposts in a foreign land. Ewa wondered sometimes about the children and grandchildren of these old people – born in Warsaw, in Poznań, Bydgoszcz, Kraków, Katowcie, Gdansk, dying in Ealing, in Clapham, in Stafford, Hereford, Edinburgh, Cardiff and Croydon. Sometimes the announcements mentioned mourning relatives not just in England but in Canada, Chicago and New York, South Africa, Argentina: whole families scattered across the world, carrying Poland with them as her parents and grandparents had. Did their grandchildren still believe, as she and Jerzy had been taught to believe at Saturday school, where Dziadek still taught, that one day they or their children or grandchildren might return to a free Poland?

‘More tea,
kochana?'

‘No thank you, Babcia.' She put the paper down. ‘Can I help you wash up?'

‘A few tea things? Of course not.'

‘I think I'll go and have a bath, then; I have to be at the pub in half an hour.'

Babcia sighed, and cleared away the teacups.

Dziadek got up as she pushed back her chair. ‘Do you not think … Would you perhaps like to work at the Club, instead? I'm sure it could be arranged …'

‘No, no, Dziadek, thank you. It's very kind, but …'

She and Jerzy had spent many evenings in the Polish Club on the road to Balham, taken there mostly by Dziadek. They watched films of pre-war Poland, of occupied Poland, of the Warsaw Uprising; they heard talks about the betrayal of Yalta. Last year she had been to a wonderful New Year party, and a few times to discos, where jeans were forbidden; once she had gone to the wedding reception of a girl from a class higher up at Saturday school. She felt at home there, but she did not want to feel too much at home.

‘Well, never mind,' Dziadek was saying. ‘If you change your mind one day …'

‘Thank you.' She took his hand. ‘Tata should come for me more often – it's a lot for you, isn't it?'

He pulled a face. ‘You make me feel a hundred. It is a pleasure to come for you. Tonight, however, I believe your father is coming – your mother mentioned it to Babcia before she left for work.'

‘Honestly, I'm sure I'd be all right walking home by myself – it's not far, after all.'

‘Never. Go along now.'

She kissed them both, went out and across the uncarpeted brown square of landing, letting herself into the empty flat. Burek came padding out from his basket in the kitchen; he was old and milky-eyed now, his legs trembling as he stood to be patted. She went to open a tin of dog food, then ran a bath.

Mama wouldn't be home from the hospital for a little while. Ewa lay in the bath listening, through the small open window at the top of the swirled glass, to Dziadek and Babcia moving about their kitchen, where they must have a window open, too, on to the tiny balcony overlooking the railway line. She couldn't hear what they were saying: their voices simply sounded reassuring, matter of fact, companionable. She thought about the ordered pattern of their days since Dziadek had retired from the factory. Breakfast at eight, listening to
Today;
a walk on the common with Burek unless it was very wet; a visit to the local library once a week, and to the Polish Library once a month. Lunch prepared by Babcia, whose little English was used only when she went shopping, while he was at the library; if she wanted to shop for herself, to buy clothes, she took Mama, or Ewa went, to quell the bored disdain of the girls in C & A or John Lewis.

After lunch they rested, half an hour each, Babcia on the bed, Dziadek on the less comfortable sofa, reading the paper. Then Babcia wrote letters, or visited her friend in Tooting, or read, while Dziadek spread his books and papers over the table – military histories: of the First World War; of the defeat in 1920 of the Red Army at the gates of Warsaw, where against all the odds Piłsudski had forced the Russians to turn back, staving off communism for over twenty years. Dziadek was editing a collection of memoirs from his own regiment. Of the Second World War he spoke little: Ewa was aware of the silences between him and her father about those years, which Dziadek had spent interned as a prisoner of war while Tata and Babcia struggled to survive the occupation. Though Tata had been decorated for his part in the Uprising, Dziadek rarely referred to it. He must have felt excluded, impotent.

By four or four-thirty each afternoon he was clearing away, waiting to see Jerzy, after school, or Ewa, back from a lecture or the library. In the evenings he and Babcia read, or listened to concerts on the radio – it didn't buzz quite so much on the Third Programme. Sometimes he went to meetings of the Army in Exile, visited friends or went with Tata to the Club, but on the whole they did not go out much: his pension was tightly budgeted. On Saturdays he still taught in Saturday school; on Sundays they went to mass. Ewa had stopped going; Jerzy still went with them sometimes, but she didn't know if he got anything out of it any more.

The street door banged below, and Ewa heard her mother's footsteps on the stairs. The front door opened and closed, there was the sound of a shopping bag set down.

‘Ewa?'

‘Yes, Mama?'

They kissed on both cheeks, Ewa's damp hair brushing her mother's face. Her dressing gown was pale blue cotton, old and soft and found in a jumble sale; Anna had repaired it, and thought every time Ewa wore it how innocent she looked, how vulnerable.

‘How is my Mama?' Ewa picked up the shopping bag and followed her into the kitchen. ‘There's a letter for you – I put it in the living room. From Wiktoria.'

‘Oh, good. It seems such a long time since she wrote.' Anna took, a jug of orange juice from the fridge and poured a glass. ‘I'm tired and hot and worried,' she said wryly, and took a long drink. ‘That's better.'

‘So everything is as usual,' said Ewa. ‘I'd better go and get dressed.'

‘Have you seen the grandparents? How are they?'

‘Fine. Worrying about Jerzy. I suppose you are, too. I think it's good that he goes off, at least he's doing something.'

‘And who says that you do not give me cause for concern, wretched girl? Go on – off you go, or you'll be late. And Ewa … try to look nice.'

‘Yes, Mama.'

Ewa went to her room, and Anna took her glass of juice into the living room and picked up the letter from the table. The face of Gomułka, stern behind horn-rimmed glasses, looked at her from the stamp. She sat down in the moquette chair and began to read.

Warsaw
July 1968

My dear Anna,

You must forgive me for not writing for so long, I thought that once I retired from the university I'd have so much time, but the last months have been filled with ill-health – my wretched hip; still, I won't bore you with all that again. There have been far more significant events, which I'm sure you must have heard something about already. It's difficult to know how much I should say here …

It always is
, thought Anna.
You know I'm used to reading between the lines.

Just before Christmas last year, I went with a friend to the National Theatre, to see the Mickiewicz play
Eve of Our Forefathers.
Did you read it at school? Has Ewa read it at university? Anyway, it's a very powerful play, about the struggle for independence from the Czars at the end of the nineteenth century, and it was presented to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of the October Revolution.

Of course, we heard about all this over here – a tremendous fuss when the authorities realized that the audience was going mad with every reference to ‘rogues from Moscow'.

There was some disagreement about the nature of the play …

They banned it. They shut down the theatre and banned it. And on the last night, when everyone had stayed inside, singing the national anthem, there was a great march to the Mickiewicz monument in Krakowskie Przedmeiście – the avenue where Teresa and I said our goodbyes – but when they got there the police were waiting. Arrests. Detentions.

… and since then, you may have learned that things have not been entirely peaceful.

Within a few weeks, almost every university in the country was in uproar – demonstrations, occupations, marches, police brutality. It was like Paris.

You may remember I told you about my good friends at the university?

Which ones does she mean?

They have now left Poland. In April I went to see them off at the station, and the platform was so crowded that we could hardly stand – many, many friends like mine …