Spring Will Be Ours (85 page)

‘Excuse me – I talk too much.'

‘No you don't,' said Elizabeth. ‘You have had a difficult time, of course you must talk about it.' She pushed back her chair. ‘Would you like coffee? Jerzy? Would you?'

‘What?' He was sitting with his elbows on the table, his head in his hands.

‘Are you all right? I asked if you wanted coffee.'

‘Oh. Yes, please.' He pushed his hair off his forehead. ‘You know what I'm thinking about?'

‘The poster.'

‘Yes.'

‘I knew you would be.'

Danuta watched them, not really understanding.

Jerzy spread his hands again, in that deprecating gesture. He said to Danuta: ‘I know what that poster must have looked like to you – an anachronism, yes?'

‘Excuse me?'

He translated.

‘Oh. Yes. It was very moving, of course, but –'

‘I understand. But to me –' He turned and looked at Elizabeth. ‘It speaks to me in the same way as your painting did. Even without seeing it.'

She nodded, and took his hand.

Danuta looked at them, and looked away, taking in the paintings, the one on the easel at the far end of the room, a half-finished portrait of an old man with a very Polish face, and the ones on the walls, more portraits, still-lifes, summer landscapes, landscapes full of snow, a watercolour of a street in Warsaw, in the Old Town. She and Mama had coffee in that street sometimes.

‘However,' Jerzy was saying to her, ‘all this does not help you, now.' He and Elizabeth dropped their hands, and Elizabeth said: ‘Sorry. Couples can be rather stifling.'

Danuta shook her head. ‘It is very nice to see people who are happy.'

Elizabeth laughed. ‘We have our moments.'

‘When are you getting married?'

‘At Christmas. We've only just decided that – it's just going to be a register office affair, nothing grand. Now –
do
you want some coffee?'

‘Yes, please. Can I help you?'

‘No, no – you do quite enough waitressing as it is.'

Danuta yawned. ‘And I must go soon, I have to work in the morning.'

‘Poor you. We must think of something.' She took the tray out to the kitchen, saying to Jerzy: ‘I take it you want one.'

‘Yes. Thanks.' He looked at Danuta, sitting at their table with her hands in her lap. She had short, shining dark hair, a pale face with circles under her eyes; she wore a sweater which was much too thin for this time of year.

‘How do you think we could help you?' he asked in Polish.

She shook her head. ‘It's kind of you – I'm all right.'

‘Have you made many friends since you came here?'

‘Just the hotel girls, the ones I told you about.'

‘And how long do you think you'll stay here? Do you have anything to go back to in Poland – anyone?'

‘My parents, that's all, really. My friends, of course, but – I want to stay here if I can. There is nothing there, and I can help my parents more by being here. I hope perhaps they'll come over here next year.'

‘If nothing happens.'

‘Well –' She swallowed, thinking of last month's headlines. ‘Perhaps … things are quietening down for the winter. Perhaps next year things will be easier.'

‘I hope so. Anyway – in the meantime, if there is anything we can do for you, you must say.'

‘Thank you. There's just one thing –' Wasn't it too much to ask that, on a first meeting?

‘What's that?'

‘Well – it's just that some of the girls have talked about finding a sponsor. Especially if they don't extend my visa, or if – if anything happened. I would need someone who could act as a sort of intermediary, with the Home Office, reassure them that – I'm sorry, this seems rather dreadful, to ask, but reassure them that financially I'm all right. That I have somewhere to live, a permanent address.'

Elizabeth was coming back, with a tray of coffee. Jerzy explained to her, in English. Danuta thought: It feels rather odd, that he and I speak the same language, and she doesn't. We could keep something from her, if we wanted to.

Jerzy turned back to her. ‘I don't think that would be a problem for us at all,' he said. ‘You can use this address if you need to. If they want a letter from me, from either of us – that's all right. The only thing is, I don't think we can actually afford to support you –'

‘No. No, of course not. I didn't mean that –'

‘No. So – there we are, anyway. No problems.'

‘Thank you. Thank you.'

Elizabeth was passing coffee cups. ‘You know,' she said, ‘when we were in Poland, apart from Jerzy's aunt, we spoke to no one. I mean no one like you, who might need us one day. Now, suddenly, we have two Poles from Poland in the family – you and a fellow called Stefan, who's living with – staying with – Jerzy's sister. He was very involved in Solidarity, he must have come over about the same time as you, I think.'

‘After Bydgoszcz.'

‘Yes. And Jerzy likes him, too, don't you? He hardly used to like anyone.'

Jerzy frowned. ‘For heaven's sake …'

‘Sorry. I'm only teasing.'

‘I shouldn't think it's very interesting for Danuta.'

Danuta thought: There's something about these two. They're not so happy. Or they move to extremes too quickly. Or something. I don't know. She said: ‘I don't mind. Anyway, I must be going.' She swallowed the last of her coffee. ‘Thank you again, so much. It has been lovely meeting you.'

‘And you,' said Jerzy.

‘Come again,' said Elizabeth.

‘Thank you, I will. I like your paintings.'

‘Good.'

They saw her downstairs, to the dusty hall. Jerzy pulled open the front door, and a gust of cold wind blew in. Elizabeth looked at Danuta's thin sweater, and cotton trousers. ‘You can't go home like that, I'll lend you a sweater. Hang on –'

She turned, and ran up the stairs. Jerzy shut the door again, and they waited. The hall was rather bleak, it reminded Danuta of the atmosphere in the first hotel, in the basement. She looked up at Jerzy, and said: ‘Do you think of yourself as Polish?'

He laughed. ‘I've been trying to answer that all my life. I don't know how to answer it now.'

Elizabeth came running down, holding out a thick blue jumper.

‘Are you sure –'

‘Of course.'

Danuta pulled it on. ‘Thank you.'

Jerzy said: ‘I'll walk you to the station.'

‘No, please don't bother.'

‘Let him,' said Elizabeth. ‘It's late, he's right, you shouldn't be out alone.'

‘Well – goodbye.'

‘Goodbye.' They kissed, lightly, on both cheeks. Then Elizabeth held open the door, and the wind blew in again, and Jerzy and Danuta hurried out, into the lamplit street.

‘I shan't be long,' said Jerzy.

‘Don't worry.'

She climbed the stairs again, more slowly. When she was in their flat again, she went to the sitting room window overlooking the street, to wave, as Anna and the grandparents always did, when they visited. She pulled back the curtain, and looked down, but Jerzy and Danuta had already rounded the corner, and there was no one else about.

Warszawa
30 October 1981

‘Kochany Stefanie, ‘Thank you for your letter. I was worried at not hearing from you for so many weeks, and especially without a phone call. We miss you, too. Olek is talking quite a lot, now, not sentences yet, but a lot of words, and he has
grown.
I have to tell you that he does not use the word Tata so often, now. I show him the photograph of us, most days, and tell him that the funny-looking guy underneath the Pope is Tata, but of course he doesn't understand. Mama says she has not had a letter for weeks, and she worries more than I do. I know you must be very tired after work, but even so …

‘Do you follow all the news from Poland? I'm sure you do. You know what they have started showing on the television? The countryside swarming with army personnel. They show us officers in the villages, talking to the peasants as if they were old friends, helping to mend tractors, checking the stocks of grain. They are “earning the confidence of the people”. I can imagine your face, if they were to visit your factory, with their comradely smiles.

‘Another thing: people from Szpitalna Street drop flysheets and bulletins in here from time to time, for me to put up in the library, and pass round. You remember that the Solidarity News Agency has always had that heading “Against Solidarity” in its regular statements? A couple of weeks ago there was an item which we all found a little sinister: Jaruzelski has formed a Committee of National Salvation. Six men. What does that mean, exactly?

‘Oh, Stefan.'
Here there was something heavily crossed out.

‘I know how much you want to stay for a little longer, and of course it has been wonderful to have the parcels. Olek looks sweet in the pyjamas, and what he really needs is something warm for the winter, a new, thick snowsuit, size 2–3, all right, because he's so enormous. Cigarettes
doubled
the price at the beginning of the month. Can you imagine? So Tata was very pleased with the Marlborough. And all the tins … I cooked a meal for all the parents when the last parcel came, and your father and Tata were drinking your health, and all we women were looking at each other and thinking we'd rather have you home again.

‘Please – couldn't you just get your passport from the Home Office and come home in time for Christmas? I can't bear the thought of Christmas without you.

‘Who is the friend you're staying with? Aren't you on the phone? It was bad enough not being able to phone you when you were in that hostel, but now … Is it a woman – no, I don't even want to ask. I know you, Stefan, but I know you wouldn't want to do anything to hurt us, so I won't ask.

‘I'll let Olek give this letter a kiss – there, he's done it, you can see the mashed potato. And I kiss it too, with all my heart. I wish we hadn't quarrelled, before you left. Write again soon.

Your Krysia'

The post office in William IV Street was always crowded, the floor littered with cigarette butts, bits of string, scrunched-up bits of paper. Also, there were often drunks in here – there was a hostel for the homeless round the corner, and another at the far end of Covent Garden. Stefan stood reading the letter in a corner, by the long counter running the length of the plate-glass window. He lit a cigarette and read it again. Then he looked at the clock on the wall. Six-thirty. Ewa would be already ahead of him, on the train from Charing Cross by now: sometimes they met after work, but usually he worked overtime, and she went on ahead to be there, in the attic flat, when he got home. He rubbed his face, thinking. An hour behind in Warsaw, so Krysia would be just leaving the library, she would be at her mother's to pick up Olek in half an hour? An hour? There was the chance, just, that she hadn't gone to work, or that she had left early, and was already home.

He felt in the pocket of his overalls, pulled out a five-pound note, and went to queue for change. They didn't like it when you asked for change for the phone, but to hell with that. He stood in the queue, watching the office workers weigh their parcels. When he got his change, he went out to the phone booths, and dialled the number of their apartment in Warsaw. It took three attempts to get a ringing tone. When he got it, he stood, listening, for a long time. He imagined the living room, all tidied up before Krysia went to bed last night, Olek's toys in a cardboard box; their photograph on the mantelpiece, the Solidarność posters on the wall. Outside the window was the park, with the swings and silver birch trees; the graffiti on the wall of the nearby apartment block. What were they writing now? He imagined the tiny kitchen, and the bathroom where the water pressure was low, and their bedroom, Krysia asleep in the double bed alone, Olek sucking his thumb in the cot beside her. Or perhaps she took him into bed with her, now?

The phone rang and rang.

‘Excuse me, mate, you going to hang on all night?'

‘What?' He turned round, saw another guy in overalls, looking impatient.

‘No. Sure – go ahead.'

He put down the receiver and came out. He lit another cigarette and read the letter again. Quarter to six. He could phone Ewa, and tell her he was working late, have a drink, and read the paper, and come back here to phone. Then he thought: I'm already deceiving one person. That's enough. He put the letter in his pocket, and buttoned it, and went out, and across the Strand to Charing Cross.

November, and very cold. Grey skies. Occasionally, the clouds were diffusely lit by a pale and watery sun. At the weekend, at the end of the garden behind the Blackheath house, Stuart made bonfires of the leaves from the bare trees, and the smoke drifted over the grass, the straggling michaelmas daisies, the tight-petalled dahlias, over the wall into other gardens, and into the wintry sky. He came in for an early tea by the fire, and television, bolting the french windows.

At the Academy cinema in Oxford Street, they were showing
Man of Iron.
Ewa and Stefan stood in the queue after work one evening, arm in arm. It had rained this afternoon, and the puddles on the pavements and in the gutters gleamed in the lights from the shop windows. Taxis swished past, and buses, with the lights on. The queue was long: it was a Friday night, and Wajda was talked about a lot, these days. Outside the cinema was a large blow-up of the leading actor, in his overalls and cap, smiling up at the sun. In the papers, in the reviews, there were photographs showing scenes from Gdańsk. A bus went past, very close to the kerb, and splashed up water. Ewa jumped, and moved away. Stefan looked down at her wet feet.

‘Okay? Are you okay?'

‘Yes. It wasn't very much.' She leaned against him, the collar of her coat turned up, brushing his cheek with her hair. ‘Does it feel strange, to be going in to watch this here?'