One-way Ticket to Warsaw

The train journey took us along what could have been the Burgess MacLean route; Victoria Station to Southampton and then across the channel. But instead of heading to Moscow via St. Malo as the spy had done, my train chose a less audacious path and headed for Warsaw via Belgium and East Germany. It was not the most comfortable of carriages. In fact, the change of train in Brussels, had meant goodbye cosy British rail upholstery and hello Spartan wooden bench. But I was not bothered, thanks to my stock of Carlsburg Special brew the journey was made more pleasurable. I also had plenty to keep me occupied and with the phrase book I had purchased in London, I familiarized myself with some useful Polish phrases, compiled by Dr. J. Kieszlowski. “I do not wish to have a knife thrust between the ribs” was one I liked in particular. So much so, that I made a mental note to ensure it stayed embedded in my memory.  I imagined the writer had either a macabre sense of humour or else was seriously concerned for the well-being of travellers to his native country. No doubt, I would find out in due course.

Six months passed since I had last seen Rebecca.  I missed her terribly. We had a difficult relationship.  Only later, did I understand the nature of her illness. I liked slim girls for sure but Anorexia? Sounded bonkers to me. Eating large amounts of food only to throw it all up again? What a waste. I was convinced it was a curable disease, something a therapist could easily fix with hypnosis. Hypnosis had worked wonders for my dad. He quit smoking after just three sessions. I decided to confide in him. 

After hearing me out, I sensed his line of thinking:  Could young Nicholas not have fallen in love with a normal girl? The answer to that question was “no” because young Nicholas was in love.  He wisely steered our conversation elsewhere.  Getting into film school was high priority and everything else was going to work out just fine…He promised.

Dusk fell. We left the Belgian border and entered East Germany. The lush English countryside was just a memory. What faced me now was a bleak, flat landscape spreading hundreds of miles, punctuated by the odd tree. Then a solitary cow, its legless carcass buried in rising mist, looked up at me as our locomotive thundered passed. The further inland we penetrated, the more desolate the scene. Snow began to fall, not fluffy friendly flakes associated with Xmas but thin Godless slithers of ice. I watched, as it gathered on the telephone wires. Rising and falling, I counted the posts as they raced by until I was almost hypnotized.  A blizzard had started to blow and it was not hard to imagine how Stefan must have felt as a prisoner of war being transported across Siberia towards his Russian camp. The grim thought began to make me depressed. I pulled myself together, took out a beer from my suitcase and I reminded myself that I was not a prisoner but a student on his way to film school.

Thanks to Stefan, it was arranged I would stay in Warsaw with his ex-girlfriend Jagoda. Up till now, everything appeared to be going to plan. We reached the suburbs of Warsaw at 2.30 in the morning. It was here that I saw my first steam engine. Thick black smoke billowed from the funnel. As this magnificent machine sailed passed, I caught a brief glimpse of the driver, black with soot, shovelling coal furiously into the furnace. Where was I? Had I gone back in time? Would Dr. Who be there to meet me? With an ear-piercing screech of breaks, we pulled into Warsaw Gdansk Central Station.  I clambered onto the platform with my cumbersome luggage but the Doctor was not there. I was met instead by a biting wind, which hit me like an electric shock. Zipping up the collar of my jacket, I breathed in deeply and got my bearings. At the end of the platform a dim glow. A call box. I pulled out the crumpled piece of paper with Jagoda’s number on it and moved on. Unlike the British system there were no buttons A or B to be pressed. I fumbled with Polish Zlotys trying to decipher which ones to put into the slot. Then a taxi driver came to the rescue and thanks to him I was able to dial.

After what seemed an eternity, a voice on the other end answered. With my notebook in hand, I read off my lines in practiced Polish, explaining who I was. The woman’s reply came with such rapidity that I failed to understand a single word she said. Then the line then went dead and a sickening sensation crept over me. I already felt guilty for arriving at such an ungodly hour but what else could I do? Minutes later I was speeding through the suburbs towards my new home with my face glued to the taxi window. Unlike London or Rome, illumination was poor. As the bleak buildings sailed by, a nostalgic tune played in my head; “Down Town, where all the lights are bright, down town you’re gonna be alright…”. But Petula Clarks’ lyrics lost their magic here. Perhaps the Poles were saving on electricity? Then I understood. There was no advertising. Not even a single poster. No giant Haig whisky bottle to cheer me up. let alone a scantily dressed woman showing off her new bra. It was dismal. Then we pulled up in front of a building. The façade, puckered with what I later learned was shrapnel from the 2^nd world war. I paid off the cabbie and lugged my own baggage up three steps to the front door.

2

Jagoda Komorowsky was written on the button. Relieved I pressed it and the door opened on a safety catch. I introduced myself through the gap to a one-eyed lady in a dressing gown. It was not Jagoda. At first, she was cautious about letting me in, but then deciding I was safe, she slid open the latch. Once inside, I began to thaw out. We sat down at the kitchen table and I was given a slab of bread and a cup of very strong tea. “Djienkuje bardzo” I said politely. The woman laughed at my odd Polish. “Prosze Panu, Prosze” I laughed back too, proud of being understood.  It was the first and only time I would laugh genuinely for a long while.

I knew something was wrong. There was no sign of Stefan’s ex. Worse still, on the desk beside the phone, lay a pile of unopened letters. One in particular caught my attention. A brown envelope and I recognized the writing. My heart sank. It was from my dad, sent five weeks earlier announcing my arrival. His famous last words echoed at the back of my mind. “Don’t worry old Son, I’ll fix it” I could not help feeling the words, “I’ll get you into a fix”, would have been more appropriate.

Overcome by exhaustion, the old lady did the sensible thing and showed me a sofa where I lay down and instantly fell asleep. Unfortunately, it was a short-lived nap. A door slammed and when I opened my eyes, a woman, wearing a mink coat and net stockings stood over me. What might have been an erotic dream, turned quickly into a nightmare. “Wake up, wake up! The voice commanded. “Get up, you can’t stay here! “ I did as I was told and introduced myself: “How do you do, I’m Nick?” I said.  It was clear that after seeing me, the lady was not doing well at all. The woman was obviously in a state of shock. Having returned from Paris after a six-week holiday, she knew bugger all about me and was determined I should leave at once. It was 4 am. A glow hung over the city announcing dawn and the thermometer on the windowsill read minus 20 degrees Celsius.  The thought of leaving the warm apartment was depressing. With little choice, I said goodbye to the old lady and was hustled out of the building to a waiting taxi.

Polonia Palace was the most expensive hotel in Warsaw. Jagoda marched me to the reception and booked me in. I signed the register and was obliged to pay for the room in advance. This was a terrible blow. I had been advised by Stefan to change my dollars on the black market as soon as I arrived. The official rate of exchange was so bad, that the hotel room costing 70 dollars a night, was the equivalent of nearly 500 dollars on the black market. It was now 5 am. which by my reckoning, meant there was only ten dollars’ worth of night left to sleep.

Jagoda told me she would come by the next day and promptly departed. I was then led through a labyrinth of corridors to my room at the back of the hotel. What resembled a prison cell was actually Communist practicality at its best consisting of a wooden chair, a bed and high up in one corner, a tiny window, through which, I could see a solitary twinkling star. Where the other four stars had gone, was anyone’s guess? I collapsed onto the mattress and for the second time that night, fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

3

Over the next few days, Jagoda taught me three things: Firstly, her coat had nothing to do with moleskin and in fact was made from real mink. Secondly, Zanussi was a famous Polish film director and not an Italian make of fridge. And finally, more important than anything, she taught me how to bribe the immigration officers into prolonging my visa, by giving them presents of cheap perfume and flowers.

Jagoda was a wealthy, privileged woman holding a British passport. More than that, she was beautiful.  An apparition lifted straight off the front cover of Vogue magazine. Following her about town was an experience in itself. Immersed in a cloud of Chanel No.5 and the right amount of arrogance to go with it, heads turned, doors opened and cars swerved dangerously. In an attempt to balance things out proportionately, the rest of the population wore drab grey felt coats. We were certainly an odd couple and I was quick to sense Jagoda was irritated by my presence. I trailed in her wake as discreetly as possible like a scruffy dog that she had decided to rescue out of duty rather than out of goodwill.

In spite of her initial “iciness”, Jagoda proved extremely helpful in the days that followed. To her credit, she found me temporary lodgings and more important than that, took me to the Chelmska Film studios on the outskirts of Warsaw. The place where Polish blockbusters are made.  I could not have been in better hands. She introduced me also to her good friend, Krystoff Zannussi, who arrived on set immaculately dressed, wearing a pinstriped suit and above all his own brand of perfume which rivalled that of Jagoda’s. Zanussi was a budding film director hailed as the new Andrzeja Wajda but after getting to know his work better, I understood our visions were worlds apart. 

So where were the great directors I had travelled so far to meet? Most of them, I concluded, had fled the country back in the 60’s while the going was good. Roman Polanski being one of them. 

Out of all the sights one expects to see in Warsaw, a Mexican in a sombrero walking through the snow is not one of them. The man was not an extra in an avant-garde spaghetti western nor was he playing in any science fiction movie. Although he did seem to have arrived from another planet. Where he was going was anyone’s guess. He chewed tobacco constantly and for a split second, I had the feeling we had met before. As he passed, he topped his Sombrero and flashed me a gold but mostly toothless grin. I held him in shot for as long as I could, until he finally vanished behind a veil of snow.   

“You look like Roman Polanski”. A voice said from behind. I was never quite sure if my uncanny resemblance to the director was a blessing or a curse. I turned round and this time decided it was a blessing. Zanussi’s production assistant, Anna, stood there smiling at me. A tall handsome young woman with strong features and black hair tied up at the back of her head. I had noticed her on set before but till now, did not have the courage to speak to her. “My nose is nicer than his” I said. “Yes, you’re right, not so pointed” We both laughed and that was the beginning of our friendship. It turned out we had a lot in common: 

Photography and movies in particular. After the days shoot, Anna walked me back to my place and we talked non-stop all the way.

Anna informed me Since Polanski’s departure, the famous Lodz school had gone bankrupt. State funding had been cut and rumour suggested it would probably close down. After my Rome experience, it was a syndrome which sounded all too familiar. So what the hell would I do if it closed? Anna’s statement was seriously troubling. She sensed my disappointment. “I’m sorry Nick but don’t worry There’s a new school opening soon in the town of Katowice. And with your talent, I’m sure you can get in there”. So, there was hope after all! I smiled.

For the time being at least, I had more immediate problems. Since my arrival in Warsaw, I had changed address three times, relying entirely on the generosity of Jagoda and her friends.  Staying a week here, a couple of days there. But her amicability was beginning to wear thin. I knew it was vital to find permanent lodgings before our relation was strained beyond repair.

I confided with Anna and within two days, she found a solution. “I’ve arranged everything Nick. You can stay at my mother’s place and use my old bedroom. You won’t even have to pay any rent. “ she said. “My mother likes to speak English. Just talk to her now and then”.

The offer sounded too good to be true and I accepted gladly. But only after meeting Gertrude, did a warning light flash at the back of my mind. There was something rather sinister about the woman which I could not quite put my finger on. But a bed was a bed, and a free one at that.  I moved in the following week and did my best to behave like a good lodger; I fulfilled my obligations by conversing in English and also helped by taking down the rubbish in the mornings and wash the dishes in the evenings. I was good at that, at least I thought I was. Irritatingly, Gertrude thought otherwise and pointed an arthritic finger at my work. “There’s dirt on these dishes Nicholas. Do them again”. I scrutinized the plate for the alleged dirt but could find none.

What began as simple courtesy to help a teetering old lady soon turned into a full-time occupation. I had fallen into a trap. The chores multiplied by the day and I found myself racing about the apartment with a vacuum cleaner searching the carpet for invisible crumbs. Wasn’t I supposed to be studying movies? Or was that a dream? “You’re dreaming again Nicholas” she said “Hurry up and get the laundry from the launderette before it closes. I’m too old and my legs won’t carry me”. In a devious way, Gertrude had succeeded in turning me into Cinderella and derived particular pleasure from showing me off to her friends. “More Tea for the guests Nicholas”. I raced off obediently while the old cronies whispered amongst themselves. “What a charming young man…wherever did you find him Gertrude?”” I want one too…”

That night, I tossed and turned in tormented sleep. A pile of plates towered above my head. No matter how fast I washed, the tower kept on growing, snaking upwards dangerously. Then there was the laundry, stuck in the mouth of the washing machine. I tugged with all my strength. The plates came crashing down on top of me and simultaneously the linen ripped with a terrible roar and I looked in horror at the gaping hole.  I woke up in a sweat and disentangled the sheet, which had twisted itself round my neck like an umbilical cord.  My throat was parched. I crawled out of bed and tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water. Just a bad dream I said to myself, or was it? I stopped on the threshold, in time to see my landlady with a basket of eggs. Her back was turned so she couldn’t see me but I watched in awe, frozen to the floor as she cracked open an egg, plucked the embryo out and then, with head held back she swallowed it with a frightful sucking sound. I retreated from the scene as quietly as possible, feeling dreadfully sick and knowing instinctively it was time to move on.

Next day, I packed my things like a thief and was out of the apartment before anyone could say “Dirty knife”. It was the quickest move in history. But then on the landing, the dreaded footsteps of my landlady could be heard trudging up the stairwell. I braced myself for the worst. Three more steps and Gertrude stood before me. We looked at each for several seconds. Her gaze fell on my suitcase. When she finally spoke there was a trace of sadness in her voice; “Are you leaving my Dear, Why so soon?”. “Got to go”, I said, nervously. “Bye”.  “What a pity Nicholas, I was going to make us an omelette, “she said. Did I hear Eggs? Without wanting to know more, I fled down stairs and out of the building as if I’d been stung.

When I saw Anna at the studios next day, I felt terribly guilty and wanted to explain everything but of course she knew. “Don’t worry Nick. It’s ok, I don’t blame you. She’s a real witch. I’ll find you someplace else.”! Anna was not a production assistant without reason. She had a natural talent at organizing things and true to her word, she did find me another place.

4

The flat was already small before I moved in but now with five of us, the place was claustrophobic. I said nothing and smiled back gratefully. Janka, my new landlady, insisted I sleep in her bedroom while she slept on a mattress on the floor in a second bedroom together with her six- and nine-year-old daughters. Grandmother too had been forced to make a sacrifice and now slept on a couch in the dining room, which during the day was miraculously converted into a sewing table.  It was an appalling arrangement but in spite of my pleas, they would have it no other way. The only consolation they got for the inconvenience was the seven thousand Zloty rent I paid each month. A generous sum by Polish standards, which helped me feel slightly less guilty.

Included in the rent was breakfast and supper. The food took some getting used to. A daily diet of Kielbassa sausage, a piece of bread, sauerkraut and tea, taught me what it must be like to be a cat eating the same food, day in, day out! Oh, how I craved for Italian cuisine. A simple tomato and mozzarella salad followed by Spaghetti Carbonara, washed down with a bottle of Montepulciano.  But alas, it was to remain a dream. It wasn’t really Janka’s fault. She might have been a good cook had she been able to buy the ingredients. Polish food stores, ironically called “Delicatessa’s” were a farce. Their shelves rarely boasted anything more exotic than a can of peas!  

In other words, it was impossible to contribute anything remotely appetizing to the menu.  Result, I spent as much time out of the flat as possible and only returned late at night when everyone had gone to bed. 

Warsaw was a dismal city. Not only was shrapnel still embedded in the facades of buildings but many were still piles of rubble as a direct result of bombing from the Second World War. It was hard to believe this was the eighties. The special visa, which Stefan had arranged through the Polish ambassador in London, allowed me to roam around the city freely. Tourists on the other hand, were herded into special busses and discouraged to wander or make any contact with the natives. On one such excursion I reached the outskirts of town.  The light was fading and I decided to turn back. It was then I had the distinct suspicion I was being followed. I quickened my pace and retraced my steps, every now and then looking back over my shoulder. Sure enough, my suspicions were well founded. A shadow slipped into an alley just 100 yards behind.

It was Anna who shed light on the subject. According to her, every third student was a spy, paid by the state to gather information on anyone with disloyal intentions towards the party. In return, they were given pocket money and placed on the priority list for a flat or a place at university. Because there were queues for everything in Poland, the job was certainly attractive and tailing somebody like myself, might well have earned some patriot a bonus. From their point of view, I was an odd bean for certain and possibly the only foreigner walking about freely in the whole of Warsaw! I was probably perceived as a corrupt influence bearing wicked Western ideas and therefore a real threat to students. To be honest, I didn’t really care and in an odd way, being followed made me feel like 007.  I particularly enjoyed finding ways of shaking them off. One thing was certain, my current “shadow” hadn’t seen any Bond movies. He was not at all discreet and far too slow.  I turned a corner and jumped onto a moving tram, which conveniently happened to pass by. I looked back, in time to see the chap’s irritation on his face. No bonus this time mate, Sorry.

Next day, short of wearing a false moustache, I decided it might be best to change my appearance.

Nowy Swiat, (New world) was a dimly lit department store in the centre of the city. A sort of Communist Marks & Spencer. A good place, Anna told me, to buy shirts. The men’s department presented a choice of three models; red, green or blue. I bought one of each. They were made of thick cotton, and were easily ten years out of fashion. I paid the 150 zlotys to a cashier who then stuffed my purchase unceremoniously into a brown paper bag. I left without saying thank you. Customer service took some getting used to. As everything was state run, there was no motivation to boost sales and in Poland “service with a smile” was an unheard-of human emotion.

But I liked my new shirts. Especially the green one. I wore it every day and amazingly the spies left me alone. I melted into the crowd like a chameleon for the simple reason that every tenth citizen on the street was wearing exactly the same shirt. It was most uncanny. 1984 was approaching and George Orwell’s vision seemed to be right on cue.

Shopping was usually quite a dull experience. The markets had little to offer except apples and an abundance of Vodka. The latter of which was always available. A State security measure intended to sedate the population and thwart any ideas of rebellion. When I saw oranges one day, my mouth began to water. Anna told me the display was due to a visiting delegation of Chinese politicians. An attempt to give the impression Polish economy was flourishing. I was very tempted to buy one until I saw the queue stretching two hundred yards down the street and around the block. I would never have the patience to wait that long for an orange? I chose instead to go to the nearest Bar Mleczny for some lunch. A state run restaurant or milk bar (which had very little to do with milk). Not restaurants in the normal sense but more like canteens for feeding the “robotniczy”.  Translated the word meant “worker”, which ironically is where our word Robot comes from. Entering such an establishment was like stepping back in time. The place reminded me of Victoria station. Daylight filtered down gloomily from a giant glass ceiling onto dreary kidney-shaped tables and chairs from the fifties. Instead of trains there was a row of giant riveted steel cauldrons stretching the full length of the hall and each manned by large women in grubby aprons wielding large ladles. A procession of felt clad mortals held up bowls and shuffled solemnly along to get their daily quota of slop.  Steam billowed up towards the glass roof where it instantly condensed into large droplets of water. From there, I watched them trickle back down the glass and fall onto the heads of the hungry robots below. The atmosphere was like being in a tropical rain forest.

I joined the queue and waited my turn like Oliver Twist, holding out my bowl for a dollop of “Flacki”. This traditional Polish soup, made from chicken’s intestines cost just ten Zloty and tasted foul in both senses.

Having acquired my bowl of slop, I went off in search of a table and steered a course through an archipelago of coloured Formica islands inhabited by unshaven drunks who had collapsed into their dinners. I sailed onwards and avoided the barrier reef of empty beer bottles on the floor until finally, I found an uninhabited table.

I looked into the greasy liquid I had just bought, contemplated the flotsam and jetsam and felt suddenly terribly home sick.  What on earth was I doing here? How could I possibly have left a great city like Rome for this? None of the reading I had done before coming to Poland had remotely prepared me for such a culture shock and only now was I feeling the blow.  My gut instinct told me to jump on the next train and get the hell out.  But what about the film school? What would I say to my dad? I could not possibly return to England as a failure. Could I?

A curtain of sunlight filtered through the steam. I finished the soup and went back to the counter to order my favourite desert: “Naleszniky z serem”. A pancake filled with a yoghurt type sauce. At least that’s what they said it was.

5

My life alternated between two worlds. On the one side the elite, made up of Polish celebrities and actors I met on set, while on the other side there were the simple workers and technicians. Janusz and Piotr fell into the latter category. They had no illusions about life, were easy to talk to and wanted to be my friend. They bombarded me with questions about the West. Was it true everyone had a TV? Could you really buy a second-hand car for just 50 dollars? Did I know George Orwell? Would I sell them my wrangler jeans? I answered their questions as best I could.  And as they listened, their eyes sparkled like children dreaming of treasure. Then there was silence. A sort of mourning, as if the weight of their own reality just dropped into place. They cracked open a bottle of Vodka, took a swig and passed it on to me.

When you find yourself in dire straits, autopilot kicks in. What the reader might conceive as a depressing state of affairs, actually was not the case. The sheer energy required to avoid the flack coming my way, was in itself a driving force which left no room for self-pity. The daily challenges were also made more tolerable by simply day dreaming of Rebecca. Thinking of her gave me strength. Without her in my thoughts, I would sink. I dreamed of the day she would lay beside me again. I took another swig and felt the fiery liquid trickle down my throat.

It was Friday night. Shooting was over for the day and Janusz and Piotr invited me down town. We visited one bar after another, testing all the different types of vodka en route. It was extremely cold weather and the burning liqueur slipped down easily. We followed the tramline on foot, passed Palac Kultury (a monstrous building resembling a wedding cake) until finally we reached the Ulica Pulawska. Had I known this was the most dangerous part of Warsaw, I might have turned down the invitation. But I didn’t know and so we continued, spurred on by a ravenous appetite. Janusz suggested we go to a Pizzeria. Pizza in Warsaw?  The idea sounded so surreal, that I could not say no.

We pushed our way through a heavy felt curtain, designed to keep out the cold. Inside the place was full of smoke and buzzing with life. We ordered three Capricciosa’s and sat down to a third bottle of Vodka. The pizza tasted nothing like Italian pizza but it was hot and I ate with gusto, trying to imagine I was in Rome. Janusz filled my glass again until finally my bladder could hold out no longer. I left the table and went in search of the Gents. Down a narrow corridor, through the kitchen and out back. A smell of fried food mingled with the stench of urine. I reached the water hole. And hole it was. In England a place like this would have lost their licence long ago.

I had drunk far too much and was determined to get home. Yes, that’s what I would do. I would say goodbye to Janusz and Piotr and go home. I zipped up, unlocked the door and pulled the handle. That’s odd I thought, it’s jammed. What happened next came as a shock. Two huge men burst in. “Szjadai, szjadai!” one of them shouted. I was pushed down onto the toilet seat at knife point.  Within seconds his comrade grabbed my wallet and emptied the contents onto the floor. Everything seemed like a bad dream. The thought of fighting back never entered my head. A good thing too, because had I done so I would have probably ended up a corpse.

While I examined the end of the dagger, thinking to myself, it really was rather sharp, my brain searched desperately for a famous phrase I had recently learned on a train whilst travelling too someplace? Now where was it? Oh Poland, yes! that was it. In spite of my drunkenness, I managed to blurt out the words in perfect Polish. “Nie chce dostac nozem miendze zebra” in other words, “I do not wish to receive a knife between the ribs” I said.  The men looked at me as if I was mad, threw my empty wallet back at me and ran out slamming the door. God bless Dr. J. Kawicy, thought I.

I rushed back through the kitchen in a state of stupor and entered the restaurant. Perhaps Janusz or Piotr had seen them? I turned to our table. Of course, they too were gone! Fuming with rage, I understood I had been set up!  I stormed out onto the street in hope of catching at least one of them.  But it was dark and at this point having lost complete control of my senses, I just grabbed hold of the first poor blighter that came along. “Give me my money thief, give me my money back” I shouted. Then the freezing night air sobered me up. I let go of the poor chap and walked off with a trail of abuse in my wake. 

Needless to say, Janusz and Piotr did not show up on set next day, nor the day after that. I was not surprised. Nobody knew their whereabouts and it was unlikely they would ever return. The fourteen thousand Zlotys’ they had stolen from me that night, was enough to keep them and their friends celebrating for at least six months. My terrible hang over made it difficult to follow the shoot. We were on location in a house in the old part of Warsaw. Zanussi was doing a scene with actress Zofia Morowska. It was snowing outside and the new technicians had succeeded in creating artificial “sunshine” with a gigantic spotlight. It shone through the window brilliantly and rested peacefully on the coffin. On the far side of the set, Zanussi was in deep conversation with Anna. Then, Anna looked at me.  I hadn’t told her about the incident the night before. Feeling guilty for my drunkenness, I decided to keep quiet about it. She came up to me. Would I be a good chap and do the crew a favour? Zofia was superstitious and refused point blank to lie in a closed coffin as written in the script. With no body in it, the box would appear far too light, so would I oblige instead?  I felt like death anyway and indeed it seemed the perfect place for me.

The lining inside was pure silk and very comfortable. They slipped the lid across and hammered it down firmly with real nails. Suddenly it was pitch dark. Through the mahogany walls I could hear the muffled sounds of chanting. I felt peaceful and nearly fell asleep. Then a voice distracted me, not of God, but of the director shouting “CUT!”. The chanting stopped. The lid came off and like a miracle, I popped out into the brilliant artificial sunshine re-incarnated as a new man.

6

The thought a lot about Rebecca. I desperately wanted to call her. Find out how she was doing. But putting the plan into action, to place the phone call was no easy task. In Warsaw, you could not simply pick up a phone and dial through. Far too risky. The lines were tapped, especially international numbers. Not that I had anything to hide, but it might have complicated my life unnecessarily. Witek was familiar with this problem and knew how to fix it. We met up in the old town at 6pm. His brother Mariusz picked us up in his Skoda. I had no idea where we were going but after about half an hour, we appeared to be on the outskirts of Warsaw. Fields and trees. A forest then open countryside. Now it was dark. We turned off the main road, up a dirt track. This was all getting a bit too weird. “Don’t worry Nik”, said Witek sensing my concern. “Almost there”. To our right, I saw the tall barbed wire fence. We pulled up and got out. “Military Zone”. “Keep Out” read the sign. On the other side I saw a disused airfield. No planes in sight, just a control tower bang in the middle. Over here Witek signalled. I followed him together with Mariusz and crawled through a hole in the fence trying not to tear my shirt as I went. We proceeded across the tarmac. Weeds grew through cracks and it was now pitch black.  On reaching the tower, Witek pushed open a squeaky metal door and ushered us in. Guided by his torch we climbed a spiral staircase and reached the air traffic control room. The radar screens and technical stuff was all still there but looked in a pretty bad state of repair. I barely had enough time to absorb the scene, when Witek shone his torch at the far side of the room. There, he said. And sure enough, there it was…A bloody telephone! Talk as long as you like. It’s free! We’ll wait outside Nik. Keep the torch. I know the way. He left. And I picked up the receiver. A dialling tone? Yes! Unbelievable. The thing actually worked. It was probably the only phone in Warsaw which had been completely forgotten about. The missing link to the outside world. civilization. I dialled the number and waited.

Ten seconds later, Rebecca answered. “Hello?” she said, crystal clear. Her sweet voice broke me up inside. I fought down the tears and pulled myself together. “It’s me, Nik. Your old devil” Her surprise was obvious. Hello my Love how are you? Where are you? The conversation was broken. I was lost for words. “Warsaw” I said. “Great! So, you made it Nik. I knew you would” Long silence. “Just wanted to know if you were alright…Are…. are you eating? Did you visit that clinic we talked about? Longer silence. I shouldn’t have brought the subject up. I wanted to kick myself. “I had a relapse.” Rebecca said finally. “They put me on a drip and force fed me. But I’m ok now. My weight is under control. I was discharged three weeks ago. I decided to work on an exhibition, so don’t worry.” Those photo’s you mean? I asked “Yes, I took some more. Large format this time. I’ll send you an invitation to the exhibition. “That would be nice” I said. “But only if…. The line went dead. Damn! I knew it was too good to be true. I tried to call back but this time there was no tone. All I could hear was… heavy breathing. I slammed down the receiver and fled the room.

7

A tin of Campbell’s tomato soup looked up at me from within the glass cabinet. This was not an Andy Warhol exhibition but it might have been. I was standing in the Pewex shop in Ulica Bruna. A modern glass building (the one and only in Warsaw) where western products could be bought with black market Dollars. Next to Andy stood a bottle of Johnny Walker’s Black Label, priced at an astonishing fifty dollars. There was also a pair of Levi’s and next to them a bar of Cadbury’s fruit and nut chocolate. The purple wrapper now turned pale mauve, as a result of being bleached by the sun. How many summers had it been sitting there I wondered, melting inside its aluminium foil and then freezing up again? Four, five years perhaps? Who would want to eat it anyway? Not me. Time was running out. My visa was about to expire. It was time to face the ladies at immigration. I entered the shop but could not remember which perfume I bought last time with Jagoda. Was it Chanel No.5?  In the end I made a radical decision and bought the one with a French name that fit my budget. Ten dollars for “Lou Lou” would have to do. I could afford no more. I handed over my last 20 dollar note to the cashier, who then calculated my change by flicking little wooden balls on an abacus. In the age of electronic calculators, it was amazing this archaic method was still in use.

That same afternoon at 3 pm, I joined the queue at the Visa office. But it had been a hit or miss situation. Without Jagoda’s flamboyant presence to protect me, I was treated like all the rest; A poor sucker begging for a visa. And then it was my turn. Without even bothering to look up, the woman continued to paint her nails and waved a lazy hand in the direction of a shelf behind her. There I placed my offering of perfume and patriotic red & white carnations next to a row of similar flasks and wilting flowers from other poor suckers. I then stepped back and waited patiently while the woman continued to paint her nails. Did she really think I would leave without a fight? A minute passed and she looked up absent minded as if to say, “What? You still here, what do you want?” Then remembering with irritation, she had a job to do, she signalled I should hold my passport open in front of her on the desk. She blew her nails dry and with her one and only free hand, picked up the rubber stamp and with a resounding thump, granted me another three months hard labour.

I should probably have been grateful but after having been robbed, plus the cost of the visa, meant I was now    almost penniless.

In true Son-of-my-Father style, I went to the nearest “Milk Bar” to draw inspiration from a large Vodka. A solution had to be found. My usual table was occupied by a drunk with his head in his soup. I imagined I would soon be joining him.

I sat down nearby and after several minutes, the back of my neck felt hot. I was being watched. My camouflage green shirt obviously wasn’t working. Here we go again I thought. This time it was not the usual student spy in search of a better life. It was a whole family of gypsies. They smiled at me from across the room. What could they possibly want? Then I understood they had seen the gold ring in my ear and probably thought I was one of them. Yeah, right! An English gypsy on holiday. In one respect, we did have something in common.  I too was a nomad, wandering aimlessly from country to country, place to place. So, I smiled back. It was Easter was it not? A time of goodwill. The dark-skinned gentleman with black beads for eyes raised his glass and flashed a set of stainless-steel teeth at me. He was offering me a drink. His wife, son and seven very pretty daughters, grinned likewise. Before I had time to think properly, I had joined their table. “Nazywa sie Nick” I said in broken Polish. “Gierek” answered Gierek taking my hand in his with a vice like grip. Introductions over, we talked about the usual things; Rome, the Pope and the cost of 2^nd hand cars. Before I knew it, I was being invited back to their place. At first, I hesitated, recalling my recent unhappy encounter at the receiving end of a dagger but then the combination of vodka and curiosity proved stronger than any common sense I might have possessed. 

8

Their camp lay half a mile up river on the banks of the Vistula. On arrival, we ducked under a washing line of frozen laundry. Stiff pieces of cardboard swaying in the icy wind. I imagined they would offer me a bowl of Flacki soup. But inside their shack, I was pleasantly surprised. It was warm and cosy and a table had been set for an Easter celebration. To be precise, the assortment of food was astonishing. Everything from rolled Herring to caviar, olive bread, cakes and Bulgarian wine. A chair was pulled up onto which I sat and from which I could not conceal my amazement. How come these poor folk were able to find such an incredible variety of food in Warsaw, when the rest of the population was on a diet of sausage and sauerkraut.?. Was there a Tesco’s in town I hadn’t heard about? When I asked them, they laughed. No. The answer was simple. They had scoured the city and countryside for six whole months, gathering each ingredient bit by bit. Rumours of smoked ham to be found here and a rare herb to be picked there. Fruit, cake, pâté, you name it, they found it, until finally, having collected enough food to feed an army, they stored it under lock and key for the next celebration.

To be invited to share their feast was all the more touching. They gave me Vodka, cake and then more Vodka.

After just one hour, I reached the state of merriness they had planned and the conversation turned to that of my ring. Not the one in my ear this time but the one on my finger. A treasured memory I had made for myself before leaving Italy. A wild boar, intricately carved in solid gold. Her magnificent mane running the full length of her spine. It was odd. Just that morning for no particular reason, I decided to wear it and now she was the main topic of conversation. When I told them the creature had been a family pet, they were dumbfounded. Then came the questions. “Why didn’t you turn her into sausage meat?” I tried to explain but could not find the Polish translation for “Sentimental British fools”.

I was not the only one wearing gold.  Gierek had a heavy gold chain round his neck. His wife’s ear lobes were weighed down to her shoulders by large golden balls and the seven daughters were each adorned in similar ways.  My ring would obviously make a nice addition to their collection. It would also take a hell of a lot of persuasion for me to part with her. On the other hand, my finances were at rock bottom.

Another shot of Vodka and the decision was made. I handed it over. All eyes twinkled as my pig was scrutinized and tested between Gierek’s steel teeth. Satisfied the gold was real, he then left the table and returned five minutes later with a wad of money rolled and tied with an elastic band. We watched the ritual in silence as Gierek counted out an astonishing fourteen thousand Zloty. The exact amount I had lost on the night of the robbery. Hallelujah! I felt resurrected like Jesus Christ!

From that moment on we became the best of friends and just before my departure, it was agreed the entire clan would visit me in England, camp in the garden and meet my parents. After four hours seated at table, I got up with a full belly, embraced the 10 members of the family and left the camp knowing I would never see them again. On my way home, I stopped to relieve myself behind a bush and watched with interest as an amber stalagmite grew from the ground. At minus 30 degrees Celsius, there was a real danger that something else might freeze as well. I zipped up and moved on.

9

With the sale of the ring, I had played my last card. It was time to become responsible I told myself. No more boozing around with bad company. No more aimless wondering about town. Monday, first thing, I went to Chelmska Film studios to have a serious talk with Anna. Five months had passed and there was still no news from the film school. I was bored with 

waiting. Anna agreed it was time to find out what was going on.

The mining town of Katowice lay on the border to Czechoslovakia. A five-hour journey by train. After months in Warsaw, I was really excited at seeing another part of the country. But the journey was disappointing. Flat and monotonous most of the way. Only on reaching destination, did things become more interesting. To the West of the city, gigantic mountains of coal were silhouetted against the horizon. With some imagination, they could have been the pyramids of Ghiza.  Katowice central station turned out to be a real treat. A Brunellian masterpiece of riveted steel engineering. I stepped off the train and followed the commuters into a caged lift. Giant cogs groaned as they turned and lifted the contraption one inch at a time. With a jolt and a sigh, a saracinesca gate slid open and we were deposited at the end of a long iron bridge. From there we crossed the rail tracks. I stopped halfway looking down the line towards infinity. The steel rails warped and reflecting in the sunshine. Then a steam locomotive approached and I waited for it to pass beneath me. And as it did, an updraft of filthy, hot steam engulfed and warmed me for three seconds. Then it was gone and the freezing wind forced me to move on.

The coal dust was impossible to ignore and lay thick in the air. Within minutes of arrival, I felt an irritation at the back of my throat. Smokeless fuel had obviously not yet reached this part of the world. Everybody was 

coughing and old men spat black phlegm onto the pavement, which froze instantly as it touched the surface. Katowice was grimmer and grimier than any place I had been to before. It was also the place where I would probably be spending the next five years of my life. I would have to get used to it.

I had arranged to meet Anna’s friends at 10am. Outside the station, a queue waited for a taxi. If I joined them, I would definitely be late and it was damned cold. Why freeze my balls off unnecessarily? I remembered a trick Jagoda had taught me. Risky as it was, I could think of nothing better.

I loitered on the curb twenty yards up, pretending to admire a bronze statue of Lenin. Not a minute passed and sure enough, a grubby Skoda came into shot. It circled round the statue, once, twice and then without stopping slowed up in front of me. That was the signal. I ran alongside, grabbed the door and jumped in. The driver pushed his foot hard on the gas pedal and I was thrown back into my seat. These Illegal cabs were the best way of getting around. They were cheaper and faster but thing was, not to get caught. As we shot passed the official taxi queue, eyes of contempt burned into the back of my neck.

The film school was a wing of Katowice University and like most buildings, a grey, shabby concrete block. Anna’s friend Malgorzata, met me at the entrance together with a group of students, all cheerful and eager to meet the foreigner. I exercised those rarely used facial muscles and smiled back.

The morning was spent going round the school. From room to room, lecture to lecture. Each time I sat down discreetly at the back of the class and followed the lectures to the best of my ability. Heads turned to take a look at the new boy, as if it was my first day at school, which in a way it was. But as we continued the tour, there seemed little evidence to suggest this was a real film school. I was beginning to get depressed. Malgorzata detected my insecurity and then led me to a cupboard. On a shelf inside, sat a Krasnagorsk. A Soviet built 16mm clockwork camera named after the city but notorious (I had been warned) for scratching its own film. She also told me with enthusiasm, that at the end of the five-year course, I would be allowed to shoot a five-minute movie on any subject I liked. I responded, with a show of thrilled anticipation but actually inside I was shocked. The prospect of doing nothing but theory for five years was depressing. I began to feel like a miner, trapped beneath a ton of coal.

The afternoon was more promising. Indeed, I was relieved to discover there was a real projection room. A sound proofed cinema complete with several rows of seats and a large screen. Now I would be able to satisfy the curiosity of my fellow students and show them what I was made of. The room dimmed and the images of my prize-winning film, flickered across the screen. I had seen it a hundred times before and I was proud of it. But how would my masterpiece go down with the Poles?

The film ended. Silence. No applause, nothing. Just coughing. Whether due to coal dust or embarrassment was hard to tell. Either way, I decided on the spot, I must be from another planet.

My appointment with the school director was a welcome distraction. At 5pm Malgorzata led me to his office, wished me good luck and departed. This was the moment of truth. The moment I had been waiting for, for six months.

Visibility was poor. At the back of the room, I heard coughing.  I groped my way through the smoke until finally I was able to make out the shape of Dr. Klimkiewicz, the school director. He was seated behind a large desk and on seeing me, he rose from his chair and held out a skeletal hand for me to shake. He then pointed to a stool opposite his desk onto which I sat. The awful climate was due to an ashtray on the desk, which overflowed with smoldering cigarette stubs. Klimkiewicz said little and preferred to let me wait while he lit another cigarette. A pile of papers in front of him then caught my attention and I instantly recognized my application form and precious portfolio. As I watched, the Dr turned the pages and scrutinized their content. Then his eyes fell on my Diploma. The forged document which stated I had successfully completed a four-year course at Guildford Art College. Beads of sweat formed on my brow and I expected him to detect the fraud instantly but miraculously he didn’t. Instead, he pushed the papers aside and offered me a cigarette. Being a non-smoker, I declined. Klimkiewicz pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. I opened it and understood with amazement I had been accepted to the school. There it was. Black on white, albeit translated into appalling English. “We look forwards to seeing you in September“he said in a raucous voice. I beamed back, genuinely delighted with the news. The Dr then pointed to the small print on page three. Something to do with school fees. I saw the figures at once. Two hundred dollars a term? A pittance to be sure I thought happily. It was best to check again. Regrettably the lost noughts had rolled off the typewriter onto the next page, from where they now looked up at me greedily. Twenty thousand Dollars? they must be mad. Val’s famous last words came to mind; “The Poles are only interested in money Nicholas.” He was right!

Klimkiewicz rubbed his hands in scrooge-like fashion, probably wondering how he would refurbish his run-down office, or more likely, embezzle the funds to finance his Dacha in the countryside. But I was not about to reveal my shock. Instead, I shrugged off the horrendous fee with an air of nonchalance. A triviality not even worth mentioning, while at the back of my mind, I was actually trying to calculate how many mounds of earth I would have to shift for Jason.  The monstrous equation immediately overtaxed my brain and I was forced to abandon the task. Then came the questions. Did I like Poland? What did I think of Polish cinema? It was a test to check my knowledge of the language. “Yes” I answered in perfect Polish. “I love Poland and I love Polish movies especially. Andreja Wajda, Krystoff Kieszlowski, Zannussi, all of them, they set a fine example to the world!” Klimkiewicz beamed proudly as I reeled off their names. In fact, he seemed to like my answers so much, that as an afterthought, I added Roman Polanski to the list.

“POLANSKI?” retorted Klimkiewicz angrily! It was a name he obviously disapproved of. How stupid of me. Polanski was generally seen as a traitor having abandoned his country. I could have kicked myself. but it was too late to make amends. Klimkiewicz burst into a grotesque fit of coughing indicating that he did not share my views at all. All I could do was watch as the school directors’ face turned from red to purple. As he gasped for breath, I could hear the air rushing into his lungs with a dreadful wheeze. I offered to pat him on the back but the man waved me off angrily. It was obvious no more words were going to come forth, so I thanked the Dr. profusely and bowed my way out of the smog polluted office as quickly as possible, fearing he might expire on me.

Malgorzata and her friends saw me off at the station. “See you in September” they shouted as my train moved off. “And don’t forget the Levi’s. I’m a size nine. ..and me I’m a ten.” And last but not least, “. By the way, we really liked your film Nick” I laughed and waved until my new friends were out of sight. I didn’t know quite what to think. They had all shown such goodwill. Perhaps my pessimistic view of everything was unjust. Despite the grim scenario of ice and smog, perhaps Katowice would become my second home after all.

10

 For once I got mail. Janka brought the postcard to me at breakfast table. On the front was a photo of a giant whalebone. No, it wasn’t a whalebone. More like a human pelvis or an X-ray of one, hand coloured in luminous green. What seemed odd at first, soon clarified itself. It was in fact an invitation to a photographic exhibition in Zurich. And the pelvis of course belonged to my beloved girlfriend Rebecca. The card was passed round the table. First Grandmother scrutinized it by holding it up to the light with a shaky hand, trying to fathom its meaning. But at 85 years old, near death herself and with vivid memories of the war, it was probably all too much. She passed it on to her daughter Janka, who was also lost for words. In short, it was beyond anyone’s comprehension. To be honest, it was beyond my comprehension too but then I was in love. “Modern art” I explained in defence of Rebecca’s artwork. I had no translation for words like “therapy” or “eating disorder”. Especially in a country like Poland where food was meant to be eaten. With relief my explanation was accepted and the card returned.  My heart raced as I read Rebecca’s message on the back. “Hope you are well Nik. I love you. Hugs and kisses, R”. For once, I ate my Kielbassa sausage with gusto! It was the sign I had been waiting for. The date of Rebecca’s exhibition in Switzerland coincided perfectly with my departure from Warsaw and I would be able to surprise her at the opening with my arrival. Two years was a long time but the separation had not remotely stilled my passion. I just hoped Rebecca felt the same way about me? I was not particularly good at farewells but sooner or later Janka and her family would have to be told.

When I broke the news a week later, I detected a certain amount of relief. It was understandable. Janka would finally be able to reclaim her rightful bed and Grandmother’s sewing-table-come-bed would be turned back into a bed-come-sewing-table. I was truly happy for everyone. Only nine-year-old Natascha seemed sorry to see “the man with the funny Polish accent” go. She ran up and hugged me so tight I thought she would never let me go.

Next on my list was the crew at Chelmska film studios. I didn’t worry about them. I could not imagine anyone would miss me there. Instead of saying goodbye, I thought it best simply to dissolve into a veil of snow like the mysterious Mexican. One day in the future perhaps, someone might ask, “Whatever happened to that odd English chap?” But then of course they probably wouldn’t. I didn’t really care. I felt at home with my invisibility. The only person I did care about was Anna.

When I caught up with her next day, she showed me the newspapers excitedly. An electrician by the name of Lech Valesa was apparently doing his best to short circuit the Polish state. After organizing an illegal strike at Gdansk shipyards there was an uprising and rallying on the streets. “If it carries on like this, Anna said, the borders will close down and the Russians will move in” “I’m sure they won’t” I assured her. But Anna was not so convinced. I was glad to be out of it. The idea of being trapped behind the iron curtain was not at all funny. “Oh Politics…It will sort itself out” I said naiifly.

A delicious smell drifted into the room and the disturbing subject was dropped. Anna handed me a bottle of Bulgarian wine.  “Do the honours will you Nik” she said and vanished back into the kitchen. It was my last day and she had prepared a surprise farewell supper for me. Coq au vin. I didn’t ask her where she got the “Coq” from or how much it had cost but I guessed it had been a real financial sacrifice. We devoured the entire creature, drank two more bottles and talked late into the night until finally, weariness overcame us both.

At the door to her flat, I stood on my toes and gave Anna a kiss goodnight. She had been a really good friend and I knew I would miss her a lot. In fact, if I had been two feet taller, I might well have fallen in love with her. But I wasn’t and I didn’t.

Warsaw Central Station. Platform One. Anna arrived last minute with a parting gift. A small briefcase made from “Good Soviet Leather in which to keep my Oscar winning scripts” she announced. The train jolted into motion and I stuck my head out of the window, watching as Anna waved and vanished into a tiny dot on the platform. I then settled down onto a wooden bench and prepared myself for the 12-hour journey to Vienna.

11

After four hours, we were deep inside Czechoslovakia and I had already started to make friends with my fellow passengers. Then the train slowed and finally came to a halt. It was too dark to see where we were. A door slammed and the atmosphere became tense. What happened next could not have been predicted. When the Czech immigration officer entered our compartment and asked to see our documents, I showed him page one of my passport and pointed to the small print: “Allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance…” it read, but the official did not seem impressed by the Queens request at all. There was however, another language he might understand. I put plan B into action and pulled out a bottle of Polish Vodka from my suitcase. I waved it in his face but he was not impressed. My heart sank. Dad would have called me a prize Charlie. I called it rotten luck. How could I have known, a transit visa for Czechoslovakia could not be bought on the train? In that respect, the East Germans had been more civilised. And so it was, that at 11 o’clock at night, I was escorted off the train and deposited in some Godforsaken outpost in the Czechoslovakian outback. Outside, it was ten degrees below zero. I took a long swig from the bottle. The Queen had let me down badly I decided. She had obviously overestimated her power in the East.

After the cosy warmth of the carriage, I now found myself on a cold, windswept siding in the middle of the night and in the middle of bloody nowhere. I watched regrettably as my train moved onwards towards Austria without me. Twenty yards up, there was a wooden shed where three guards sat, playing cards. I was told to wait and sit on a bench outside until the next train bound for Warsaw arrived. As a precaution the guard left his Alsatian tied up next to me to make sure I would not run off. But the idea was ludicrous. Where the hell would I run to anyway? There was nothing out there except tundra for hundreds of miles! However gloomy the prospect, I had no choice but return to Warsaw.

Six hours later, the grey suburbs manifested themselves through a steamy window and only then did the magnitude of my predicament dawn on me. Having been expelled from Czechoslovakia, I was now faced with the prospect of having to say hello again to the same friends I had said “emotional” goodbyes to just hours earlier. Worse, my Polish visa had expired also, which meant I would probably be expelled from Poland as well. I dreaded to think where I would end up.

“Passport” The Polish officer demanded. I handed it over and braced myself for the worst. The immigration officer scrutinized my expired visa for several seconds and then (God save the Queen) handed it back to me and walked off without comment. I could think of no logical explanation for the man’s lenient behaviour, other than he probably had a dreadful hangover. Even if that was not the case, my relief was overwhelming.

Warsaw Central Station, 5 am. A miserable place at the best of times and too early to make calls. All I could do was hang around until a more civilised hour. At 8am I picked up the phone.  I dialled the first three digits of Anna’s number, stopped and put back the receiver. It was too embarrassing. I could not possibly bother her. What would she think of me? Silly twit for sure! So, I buried the idea and simply hung around until the Czech Consulate opened.

As the day unfolded, it brought new frustrations with it. I was obliged to purchase my transit visa with Polish Zlotys, which would have been ok had I not already exchanged them the night before into Austrian Schillings! Which meant, dear exasperated reader, the Schillings had to be exchanged back again into Zloty’s. The official rate being so bad, that my already meagre funds lost thirty percent of their value in just one transaction and left me with a miserable 50 zloty note. (Just about enough for a ham sandwich.) I decided on the spot never to play the stock market! I decided also not to complain. At least I had the visa and technically speaking, nothing could stop me leaving the country. Or could it?

At midnight our train slowed to a halt. I knew exactly where we were. “Checkpoint Prize Charlie”. What happened next was like a re-take in a movie but without a clapperboard. The same immigration officer from the night before boarded the train. He walked down the aisle slowly, checked each passenger one by one and stopped in front of me. I held out my passport ready. He looked at the new stamp and smiled. “Dobrze, Dobrze” he laughed and then left the train wishing me a pleasant journey. As we rolled off again, I just had time to catch a glimpse of the guards outside playing cards in their little hut. The Alsatian barked. Then it was dark and only when I was sure nothing else could possibly go wrong, did I allow myself to fall sleep. But my dreams were tormented: Long corridors with piles of bones at every turn. At 6 am a jolt woke me up. We had stopped. This time in the middle of a field covered in mist.  I guessed we were near the Austrian border. Thank God my journey would soon be over. I thought of Rebecca and had every reason to be euphoric. But then something disturbing outside caught my attention. As the mist lifted it revealed a ten-foot barbed wire fence surrounded by watchtowers. Each strategically placed on all sides, monitoring all movement within and around the train. Down the line, armed guards with kalashnikov’s approached. Fierce Alsatians escorted them, led by obscure officials dressed in black. I was overwhelmed with loathing. Tension in the train congealed into a silence thick enough to hear a pin drop. The soldiers searched every carriage, up, down, inside and out. Prodding their bayonettes at the ceiling of the corridors, beneath the seats and into our luggage. All this in search of some poor wretched bastard looking for a better life. They did a thorough job though and it was my guess, only a Houdini would have been able to avoid detection. It was the first and only time in my life I imagined I might easily “disappear” off the face of the earth. A strong reminder, I was still in hillbilly country.

Then it was over. The defector could not be found and if he was still in hiding, then I wished him good luck. A jolt and our train moved on. The barbed wire fence retreated giving way to open countryside. The overwhelming relief of my fellow travellers was now very audible. People laughed and chatted excitedly, took out sandwiches and popped open bottles of beer. As we left Czechoslovakia, the mood changed totally.

The tracks too were different. No longer warped but well maintained. Good old Capitalist railway lines. We gathered speed and shot forwards like a rocket. In the compartment next to mine, a family of Bulgarian musicians took out their instruments and began to play.  As I listened, my face was glued to the window. I watched gentle hills of bright red poppies fly by. With the music, the exasperation and humiliation of the past six months began to lift. Then it happened. Weeks, months and probably years of pent-up emotion began to surface. Tears welled up in my eyes blurring my vision and condensed into heavy droplets, which then streamed down my face. There was no way to stop the flood and although I did not care to look, I was convinced they must have formed a puddle about my feet. 

12

Vienna. 4pm. It was great to be back in the West. The greyness of Warsaw now far behind. People in Austria were colourfully dressed. The streets were clean and flashy cars purred up and down the boulevard. Even the sun seemed to shine brighter than in Poland. I took in a deep breath of air and was surprised to find there was no coal dust in it. My tears had since dried and all I wanted now was to fall into Rebecca’s arms.  But my journey was not yet over. I still had to get to Switzerland and having bought the 50 Zloty sandwich on the train, meant I was now penniless. Lack of money seemed to pursue me like a curse. To sum things up, my talent at getting myself into a “fine mess” was worthy of Stanley Laurel himself.

The next train to Zurich was due to leave at 6pm. If I could get onto that, I would be home and dry. With just under two hours to find a solution, my mind raced round wildly in search of an idea, any little scrap of information, short of stealing, which might help me work out a plan. Then the coin dropped: Something my dad had once told me. A pompous idea but an idea never the less. I immediately looked at my passport and scrutinized the small print. “…  Afford the bearer such assistance as may be necessary”. it read. Yet again, the Queen was meddling in my affairs. But I was in no position to ignore her advice this time. In a flash, I knew what to do. There was still time and if I acted fast, I might just make it.

The British Consulate was a twenty minutes ride by tram. I crossed the city and almost reached destination, when as ill fate would have it, a dreaded inspector stepped on board. He approached menacingly down the aisle. The sensation of impending doom was all too familiar. This time there was no escape. By the look on his face, the man was obviously set on weeding out any miserable wretch who thought he could sneak aboard his tram without a ticket and get away with it. I could tell by his expression; he would sadistically enjoy the task of crushing the little rat. I held my breath and watched him check everybody’s ticket. Then the monster loomed above me. He looked me straight in the eye, about to lash out with his lizard tongue. My mind went blank.

No useful phrases came to mind. I waited for the merciful shot.

“Ticket?” the man growled. He thrust his arm across my chest. My neighbour obviously wanted to be gobbled up first. The inspector took his offering and purred contentedly. “Punch, Punch” he went with his little machine and left two neat little teeth marks in it.

Hunger satisfied, the inspector decided to ignore me and promptly left the tram. To this day I have no explanation for the phenomenon other than that of divine intervention or more likely, I was indeed James Bond and without realizing it, had activated an invisible shield.

The Union Jack sailed into view. Oh, that beautiful flag, God bless it. I jumped off the tram and ran as fast as I could towards it. I entered the building five minutes to closing time and shot up the stairs to the Consulates’ office.

On entering, the poor man barely had time to look up when I blurted out my entire saga in a monologue of gibberish lasting three minutes. He listened courteously as I explained every detail of my predicament, until finally lack of oxygen caused me to stop. “I’ve come for the assistance mentioned on page one of my passport Sir. If possible?  Actually, it was my dad’s idea. Something he once said. I may be wrong but I hope I’m not. I want to surprise her you see and it would be horrible to miss her exhibition. Of course, it’s about bones mostly and nobody understands a thing but I was still wondering and hoping you might think about it. ““Think about bones? asked the Consul. “Not bones sir, about my rotten luck. You see I wouldn’t have lost anything had I known before like in East Germany where you can buy it on the train. But the Czechs don’t like Polish vodka. I think they prefer their own brand which is understandable don’t you think? That’s why I had to go back to Warsaw.”  To buy Vodka? asked the Consul.

“No Sir. To buy the Visa. The transit visa through Czechoslovakia which used up all my money in the first place and which is the cause for all the rotten luck I’ve had. Because if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be here now Sir, I would be there in Basel together with my girlfriend drinking champagne. And as you will see, I am a British subject and the true bearer of passport No; 328 19 C and as my needs are truly necessary, I was hoping you might consider my request, circumstances being what they are, because as the secretary of state promises on page one, he will assist me, the bearer, if he can afford it. At least I think that’s what he means. Doesn’t he?”

Mr. Steven. If you are in some sort of difficulty, it would make things a lot easier if you could tell me in plain English what it is you want from us?” The poor man was obviously tone deaf so I repeated myself in a loud voice pronouncing each syllable slowly and clearly but not so slowly that I would put myself in danger of missing the six o’clock train.

“One hundred schillings for the train to Zurich should be enough Sir”.  There was a long pause as the consul absorbed my request, until finally; “Well, under the circumstances …I shall see what we can do”. Was I hearing right? I could hardly believe my ears. Praise the Lord! The Consul might have been tone deaf but he was obviously a decent chap.  The man leaned forwards across his desk holding out my passport but before letting go, he looked me straight in the eye. “What guarantee do we have Mr. Steven you will repay the Consulate?” It was a tricky question and I thought deeply before answering. In the end, a phrase like something out of an old Humphrey Bogart movie forced its way onto my lips. I tried to suppress the temptation but could think of nothing better. “You have my word of honour Sir?” The Consul smiled approvingly. He then leaned forwards and pushed the button on his intercom.

“Miss Moneypenny. Bring Mr. Steven 100 Schillings please.”