this.’
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Bennett murmured, thinking of the brother.
‘Sometimes letters that say too much do not arrive with families in Poland – we know this. And sometimes letters from families don’t arrive here with us.’ Shaking his
head, Wladyslaw leafed through the last few pages of his letter. ‘Yes . . . I think I write too many things. I think I make danger for Helenka.’
While Bennett liked and admired the Poles – it was almost impossible not to – and would always defend them against the Phippses of this world, there were moments when he
couldn’t decide how far their ardent and excitable natures coloured their view of events, particularly those affecting their homeland, for which they had a quite extraordinary passion. It
wasn’t a question of deliberate exaggeration, as Phipps liked to insist, but of being carried away by strong emotion and intense moral indignation.
‘When do you expect to get a reply?’
‘I think not before two, maybe three weeks.’
‘Well, when you do, I’m sure your sister will let you know if you’re speaking too openly.’
‘You are right. Of course!’
Wladyslaw gave a sudden smile, open and beguiling. He was slim and energetic, with clear grey eyes, high-boned cheeks and fine features. His moods were like a barometer that switches abruptly
from stormy to sunny without transition. He could laugh gaily, sink into gloom, argue forcefully, and pull one’s leg, all, it seemed, within a matter of seconds. Beneath these weather shifts,
however, a steady intelligence flowed. He looked on the world with an inquisitive gaze that missed little and tolerated much. The only thing he could not stomach was what he described as organised
evil. On this score Wladyslaw found little to choose between the Germans and the Russians, a view he was prepared to debate at length with anyone who cared to take him on. He had been at university
at the outbreak of war, studying literature, although he had an almost equal passion for philosophy and history. Only the finer points of the English language seemed to confound and frustrate his
agile mind.
Watching him fold the letter and slide it into the pocket of his tunic, it seemed to Bennett that, despite the quick smile, he wasn’t looking too fit today, that the pale skin was
unnaturally tight over the high cheekbones, and that beneath the clear grey eyes the shadows were more marked than usual.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘How’s the chest? How’s the leg?’
‘All is good! I feel – how is it? Right as rain?’
Bennett smiled. ‘That’s it.’
‘I learn this from beautiful lady in pub. I learn “right as rain”, “tickety-boo” and . . .’ Wladyslaw searched his memory. ‘“In
pink”?’
‘In the pink.’
Wladyslaw grimaced gently. For him, as for most Poles, the devil was in the definite and indefinite articles. He repeated obediently, ‘In the pink.’
‘I suppose pubs are as good a place as any to learn English.’
‘But cider is not good, I tell you. Not good for stomach, not good for head.’
‘Ah yes. I heard there was some trouble with Matron.’
Wladyslaw glanced towards the far side of the room where four young Poles were talking volubly in their own language. ‘OK, some of our boys, they come back late. They make noise. Just
young, you know. Long time away from home. I go to Matron, I say sorry. I ask please’ – he pressed his palms together in an attitude of prayer – ‘that we are permitted to
stay here because in our heart we are all good boys.’ He laughed long and easily, before adding in a more reflective tone, ‘But perhaps not good for us when boys do this too much.
English – they think Poles always make noise, always drink too much.’
Bennett completed the litany to himself: And always charm the women off their feet.
‘They get bad idea about us. They think we are good for nothing.’
‘They could never think that, Wladyslaw. No, no.’
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Bennett murmured, thinking of the brother.
‘Sometimes letters that say too much do not arrive with families in Poland – we know this. And sometimes letters from families don’t arrive here with us.’ Shaking his
head, Wladyslaw leafed through the last few pages of his letter. ‘Yes . . . I think I write too many things. I think I make danger for Helenka.’
While Bennett liked and admired the Poles – it was almost impossible not to – and would always defend them against the Phippses of this world, there were moments when he
couldn’t decide how far their ardent and excitable natures coloured their view of events, particularly those affecting their homeland, for which they had a quite extraordinary passion. It
wasn’t a question of deliberate exaggeration, as Phipps liked to insist, but of being carried away by strong emotion and intense moral indignation.
‘When do you expect to get a reply?’
‘I think not before two, maybe three weeks.’
‘Well, when you do, I’m sure your sister will let you know if you’re speaking too openly.’
‘You are right. Of course!’
Wladyslaw gave a sudden smile, open and beguiling. He was slim and energetic, with clear grey eyes, high-boned cheeks and fine features. His moods were like a barometer that switches abruptly
from stormy to sunny without transition. He could laugh gaily, sink into gloom, argue forcefully, and pull one’s leg, all, it seemed, within a matter of seconds. Beneath these weather shifts,
however, a steady intelligence flowed. He looked on the world with an inquisitive gaze that missed little and tolerated much. The only thing he could not stomach was what he described as organised
evil. On this score Wladyslaw found little to choose between the Germans and the Russians, a view he was prepared to debate at length with anyone who cared to take him on. He had been at university
at the outbreak of war, studying literature, although he had an almost equal passion for philosophy and history. Only the finer points of the English language seemed to confound and frustrate his
agile mind.
Watching him fold the letter and slide it into the pocket of his tunic, it seemed to Bennett that, despite the quick smile, he wasn’t looking too fit today, that the pale skin was
unnaturally tight over the high cheekbones, and that beneath the clear grey eyes the shadows were more marked than usual.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘How’s the chest? How’s the leg?’
‘All is good! I feel – how is it? Right as rain?’
Bennett smiled. ‘That’s it.’
‘I learn this from beautiful lady in pub. I learn “right as rain”, “tickety-boo” and . . .’ Wladyslaw searched his memory. ‘“In
pink”?’
‘In the pink.’
Wladyslaw grimaced gently. For him, as for most Poles, the devil was in the definite and indefinite articles. He repeated obediently, ‘In the pink.’
‘I suppose pubs are as good a place as any to learn English.’
‘But cider is not good, I tell you. Not good for stomach, not good for head.’
‘Ah yes. I heard there was some trouble with Matron.’
Wladyslaw glanced towards the far side of the room where four young Poles were talking volubly in their own language. ‘OK, some of our boys, they come back late. They make noise. Just
young, you know. Long time away from home. I go to Matron, I say sorry. I ask please’ – he pressed his palms together in an attitude of prayer – ‘that we are permitted to
stay here because in our heart we are all good boys.’ He laughed long and easily, before adding in a more reflective tone, ‘But perhaps not good for us when boys do this too much.
English – they think Poles always make noise, always drink too much.’
Bennett completed the litany to himself: And always charm the women off their feet.
‘They get bad idea about us. They think we are good for nothing.’
‘They could never think that, Wladyslaw. No, no.’
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