The Polish Connection 12

December, 1915

For ten days nothing happened, and then, one Sunday after church, I was just leaving when Father McSweeney said, “Oh Mrs. Davis, I have a letter here for you from the Isle of Man. Strange that the person would send it here rather than to your home.”

“Oh, thank you Father, I said. “It is probably from somebody who heard me playing the organ at church and wants to know more about the music or something like that.”

“Yes, I suppose it might be that. Why don’t you open it to find out?” He clearly was curious and wanted me to open it in front of him.

“Why not,” I thought. I wouldn’t show him the contents.

Safe and well but missing you all.

“Yes, that's it. Someone heard the recessional for the wedding I played for last month and wondered if I could tell them the name. I will do so with pleasure. It is always a treat to have compliments on one’s musical ability. And how are you now, Father? I was very impressed with the sermon you gave at the burial the other week. It brought tears to all our eyes.”

“Yes, well I worked on it for quite awhile. I knew the man from when he was a lad, you see, and it was quite a loss to me as well as his family. He was a server here in his youth.”

“Well, I’d best be getting back now. Good day to you Father.”

“God bless you, my child.”

“Thank you Father, and you too.”

I hoped I had convinced him with my story. I had played for a wedding, that part was true. I am becoming an accomplished liar.

Funny how that doesn’t seem a sin to me, or not a very serious one anyway. It is necessary in order to protect those I love, and somehow that justifies it. And I suspect that I will be doing a lot more lying before this war is over.

Now that I know that Peter is safe and is in the internment section of the Isle of Man rather than the prisoners of war section, I am greatly relieved. I knew his life would be difficult, but at least he will be relatively safe from the retribution of his own people. I knew I would have to find a safe route for communicating with him, but still felt it was important to keep our relationship secret, both for Beth’s sake and for my reputation.

A few days went by, and then we had a confirming letter from John saying he had been given one week's leave and would be home for Christmas. We were so excited and spent our time getting the house clean, buying lots of food, and baking cakes in order to make his home week memorable. It had been nine months since I had seen him. Of course I had changed in that time, become an adulterer, a liar, a schemer amongst other things, but I hoped that he wouldn’t get to know those things.

Beth and I went to the local shops, to Mr. Joseph Bradbury, the poultry man whose chickens and turkeys line the front of his window. I hated to see the whole carcasses outside like that, but he insists that it is perfectly sanitary. We got ingredients for our other cooking and baking from Mr. John Chesters and Mr. Robert Carlman. Of course the Co-operative provides most of our groceries, but sometimes the other smaller grocers have the edge on special items.

How wonderful it was to see John as he came through the front door. He looked much the same, handsome as ever, but perhaps a bit thinner, perhaps a bit older looking, care worn. I saw a few grey hairs. He hugged and kissed me, and then Rebecca, and then we introduced him to our little Beth.

“My goodness,” he said, “you are a lovely child. I am pleased to meet you,” he said solemnly, putting out his hand for her to shake. She looked up at me questioningly, and when I smiled and nodded, she put her small hand into hers and gave him a huge smile.

“Do you like living here?” he asked.

“Yes, my best friend is Patrick and I have a teddy and I have a dolly called Baby Susannah,” she said in almost faultless English. I was so proud of her.

Introductions over, we settled down in the living room and I made tea and brought in slices of the fruitcake which I had made for the occasion. John seemed happy and content, and there was no way that I was going to spoil this leave for him by telling him what we had really been up to over the last few months. I had cautioned Rebecca to say nothing about Peter to him, either, and even if Beth prattled on a bit about her daddy, it wouldn’t be taken too seriously, I didn’t think.

John brought us lovely gifts he’d bought in Cyprus, hand crocheted doilies for me, and a big box of halvah for the children. I gave Beth the new Raggedy Ann doll which has just come out (her first toy of her own) and also a copy of Peter Pan. I gave books to the others too, always my favourite present to get and receive. I gave John, The Genius by Theodore Driser, Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham, and The Rainbow by D.H. Lawrence. I gave Rebecca North of Boston by Robert Frost and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot. I also made her a new middy blouse. Having a sailor style is very much the thing these days, as a way of us women showing our solidarity with the war effort by looking a bit like sailors. We had a wonderful Christmas week, renewing our relationship in all its aspects, visiting friends, going to church, but too soon, the week was up and John was due to leave again the next day.

After we had made slow and intense love for the last time for awhile, and as we were lying in each others arms, John said, “You haven't mentioned anything about Beth's father. I purposely haven’t brought it up, because I thought if there was anything about him I should know, you would have told me. Do you know where he is?”

“He's in the Isle of Man, and in the internment camp due to his Germanic background.”

“How do you know this?”

“He managed to send us a message.”

“And have you communicated with him?”

“I would like to, but I didn’t know if it would be proper, or whether it would put Beth at risk.”

“I know that they don’t intern women or children, so there is no risk of her being taken there. What other risk are you worried about?”

“Perhaps others might make fun of her if they knew her father was interned. You can hardly keep post going and coming from the Isle of Man a secret in a village like this.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you were someone who was worried by idle gossip. Do write to him, openly, and if anyone asks, tell them the situation as if you were quite happy with it, and not at all as if you were ashamed of it. He is not a prisoner in any conventional sense, and hopefully he will be treated with respect, be given work and even wages, and should not suffer in the long run as a result of it.”

“That greatly reassures me. I will now try to contact him, and perhaps as she learns to draw pictures and write simple words Beth can send them to him, to give him information about how she is developing, to keep up her relationship with him.”

“Yes, do that, and tell me, when you write to me, how it has gone. I shall miss you all so much. I am very lucky that I am not in a danger zone, so you don’t need to fear much for my safety. I presume my letters are getting to you pretty much unaltered.”

“Yes although they often arrive many weeks after you wrote them. Occasionally a word or place name has been blacked out, but they are much as you wrote them. And we do so much love getting news from you. We miss you very much and love you very much. I hope you know that whatever happens that nothing will shake my love of you.”

The next day and the parting came too soon, but we walked with John to the station where he would get the train to Manchester and from there he would go to Liverpool and then take a boat from there back to Cyprus. The whole operation would take him several days.

I was so relieved that John had accepted Beth into the family without question, quickly coming to love her as much as Rebecca and I did. And the fact that he not only agreed to our communicating with Peter, but had suggested it himself, made me happy. I would write to him straight away this evening, after the girls were in bed, and then perhaps we can find out what his life is now like and what we can do to make things easier for him.