The Polish Connection 19

 

August 1916

I knew that it was likely that Paul would be removed to Wakefield in Yorkshire – the special camp for the privileged few, and hoped that he would continue to write to me even after he was no longer helping Peter with his letters. So I wrote to him in this vein, and also asking him to tell me a bit more about himself – as I had been corresponding with him for many months, and knew very little of his background. Here is his reply.

Dear Barbara,

You won't be hearing from Peter this week, as his cold turned to
pneumonia, and he has been carted off to a hospital camp. But I am
sure he will be well soon, and back writing to you again.

How kind of you to want to know more about me personally. What shall I
tell you?

I was born in Berlin in 1880 (so that makes me 36) of Austrian parents,
was educated in Geneva, took up painting, and was living in Paris
when Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in June 1914. Despite
the increasing rumours of war, I carried on with my life and
travelled to England to spend a few weeks with friends in Devonshire.
When England declared war on August 4th, 1914, I found myself
stranded: My flat and my belongings were in France, my relations in
Austria and Germany, I myself with summer clothes, painting
materials, and £10 in an England one could not leave. The next
day, I discovered I was now an “enemy alien.”

For the next ten months, I lived in a sort of limbo, unable to leave
England, unable to move from one location to another without official
permission, unable to hold a job legally. I joined with other
expatriates to form a makeshift opera company and busied myself with
sets and costumes until I received notice to report to the local
police station the next morning to be interned. And the rest you
know, because on the boat to the Isle of Man I met up with Peter.

I am in contact with my mother in Vienna, (I occasionally send her one of
my weekly letters instead of you, but she doesn't reply nearly as
faithfully as you do) and she supplies me with a weekly allotment
which pays my way, and will pay my entry to Wakefield, if it should
be granted it. As far as continuing to communicate with you after I
leave here, I promise I will write at least occasionally to let you
know how I am getting on.

Best regards,

Paul
I was worried about Peter's being hospitalized, and was so pleased when two letters from him came a few days later.

Dear Barbara,

It has been some time since I have been
able to write to you, al ethough I trust Paul has been filling you in
on the situation. My bad cold turned worse. One morning I awoke with
what must have been very high fever. I was too dazed to realize what
was happening as I was carried out of the hut on a stretcher, but
when I did realize my surroundings I discovered myself in the Camp
Hospital, of which I had heard awful tales. I suppose I had
influenza. I was given aspirin, and on the second day I felt fully
conscious again and well enough to get interested in my new
surroundings. Being in hospital was truly much worse than being in my
usual hut.

It is a hut like all the others, only it has a w.c. at one end. It
contains two parallel rows of beds and nothing else. It lays on a
road outside the compound though inside the camp, and its inmates are
allowed no intercourse with anyone outside the hospital. There is one
solitary doctor or medical officer to look after the health of all
the thousands of prisoners. Needless to say, he
is terribly overworked and has no time to attend to individual cases
that are not extremely urgent. The nursing of the patients and the
care of the ward is left to a number of men chosen from such
prisoners as have or pretend to some experience of nursing. Their
control and power over the sick is as good as unlimited, for when the
doctor pays one of his rapid visits one of these men accompanies him
on his round, serves as an interpreter and prevents direct
communication. That, at least, was what the sick man in the bed next
to mine told me when the nurse had left the room. The poor fellow, a
sailor, is terribly ill with some disease of the bones which
necessitated operations impossible to perform here. He has lain there
for weeks waiting to be moved to an operating hospital and he has
lost all hope. Maybe his is really a hopeless case and that there
would be no object in moving him and operating on him, but that was
what he had been told and what he believed, and so he lay there
cursing all: the people who made the war, the English who are letting
him rot and die; but worst of all he hates the nurses.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked me.

“Nothing much,” I said, “I shall go back to the camp in a day or two.”

He stared at me and started a loud and prolonged laugh. “You go back
to-morrow?” he cried. “You will be here a good long time, believe
me.”

“But why?” I asked in surprise.

“Because you have money,” he explained as if he were talking to a child.
“One's life here,” he said, “is unbearable if one
has no money. They just take no notice of you at all. Every little
service has to be paid for. But the moneyed are very precious to the
nurses, and their one idea is to keep them here as long as ever
possible.

“As to the doctor, it is no use counting on him, even if one could talk
to him there is no chance of doing so; he just hears the report of
the nurse, telling him what to do.

“You can believe me,” he said, “you will live here while the war lasts
and I shall die here long before it is over.”

Imaginings of a diseased brain? Possibly. I tried the nurse in the evening.

“I am quite well enough to go back to my compound again,” I said, “I
would like to go to-morrow.”

“That is quite out of the question, you are much too ill,” he said curtly
and went away. I thought the matter over during a restless night, and
the next morning I got up and dressed - which did not worry the nurse
at all.

Then I went and stood outside the hospital - which one was allowed to do
to get fresh air - and leant against the wall. I had decided to wait
for the doctor, and after I had waited five hours or more I saw him
approaching and walked up to him. “I am quite well, again,” I
said, “and would like to return to my compound. I had a little
fever, but it has quite gone now.”

“In that case you may go back,” he said indifferently.

“Would you be kind enough to give me a written order?” I asked, “It is
apparently not easy to leave this place without one.”

He gave me a quick look, but he asked no questions poor fellow, he had
enough to worry him, no doubt, without going out of his way for more
trouble. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and gave it me.

I thanked him and went back to lie on my bed. When the nurse came round
in the afternoon I casually remarked, “I am going back to my camp
to-night.”

He grinned sarcastically: “You don’t say so! Quite a mistake, I
think.”

“Hardly,” I replied, showing him the precious scrap of paper. He was furious
but impotent.

“Well,” he said gruffly, “what are you waiting for?”

“Only for the pleasure of your company, because you have to accompany me to
the gate, you know.” I said farewell to the poor sailor and
promised to do my best for him.

I don't know whether it was due to my agitation (with Paul's help) , but apparently he was
sent off to be operated on a few days later - though I haven’t
heard the result. I left my most unwilling companion at the gates of
my compound. I felt, absurdly, that I was once more free and I pray
but for one thing: never to be ill again in camp! I met all my
camp-acquaintances as if they were most intimate friends from whom I
had been separated for years; I am overjoyed to be back amongst
them. I am grateful for what seems freedom, security, and human
fellowship by comparison.

But you can rest assured that I am feeling well now, and will do my best
to stay that way.

Love,

Peter

And then the letter that I hoped would not come.

Dear Barbara,

As I have told you before I have become quite happy at Knockaloe and was
almost wishing I had not asked for a transfer, but now it has come. A
list was published yesterday, giving the names of the prisoners whose
desire to go to Wakefield had been granted, and my name is on that
list. There are sixty in all, but Peter’s name is not amongst them,
and fifty-nine of them are overjoyed at their good luck. But I feel
curiously depressed. We chosen ones instantly became objects of envy
and hatred to most others, and I am almost inclined to share their
point of view. I feel I am leaving them in the lurch, that there
should not be ‘gentlemen’s camps’. I feel a great regret at
tearing myself away from Knockaloe and particularly at leaving Peter.
All of which is no doubt illogical and sentimental, but the fact
remains all the same.

I will try to send you a message from Wakefield if I can, but of
course, I don't know what the routine will be in that camp.

Love
from Paul

I wrote back to Paul immediately and hoped that it would reach him before his transfer. I am feeling most bereft even though I have never met the man. In the meantime another arrived letter from John.

My darling girls,

Here it is averaging 105º-110º daily and about 75º-80º at night, which
is too hot for comfort. The sea temperature is over the 80º mark as
well – you just lie in the water and sweat.

I have had another turn in managing the catering department. Nothing
happens when you need it to. No matter how big a fuss I make, nobody
pays any attention.

I made eight telephone calls today trying to hurry it up and everyone I
rang up passed it on to someone higher up. Eventually I got a Colonel
who I told exactly what I thought of the whole set up before he said
who he was. I don’t think he was very pleased but I think he has my
point. Anyway, I don’t expect it will make any difference. Probably
the right forms haven’t been submitted in triplicate of something.

I had quite a busy day today as I was invigilating an army exam again.
I got them started and then collared a Sgt. who was strolling past on
his way to the Sgts. mess for a pint and told him to invigilate while
I was away. I was away for over an hour – I don’t think he was
very pleased either.

Tomorrow I am paying officer for the Squadron and the day after I am on a
stores condemnation boards. All is this in addition to running a line
troop and the unit messing. It will be quite fun. I have at last
prevailed on those in authority to let me teach my troop to shoot.
They made a mistake over the number of rounds of ammunition I
requested. I asked for 1000 rounds for 20 people. They apparently
thought it was 1,000 rounds each which seemed so important that they
let me have it. Amongst 20 people this works out at 500 each.

They should be able to shoot straight after that I think. I shall have go
get anything the next time now – just multiply the request by 10.

Cheerio for now. Don’t be too worried about what you see in the papers. I
shan’t be getting shot, and I am perhaps less likely to be killed
in a traffic accident. When I hear of the deaths and devastation
elsewhere, I feel guilty that I have such a safe job.

Love,

John

And yet another, very sad letter from Peter.

Dear Barbara,

I feel so lost now that my best friend has been transferred. I have no
one to help me write letters, so they will now be boring and
ordinary, and much poorer in English. I wonder if we will ever meet
again. I will do my best to write, but just now I can’t think of
the right words.

Love
from Peter

Rebecca has just received from the school her certificate to all who wrote essay about “Alcohol and the Body”. She is so pleased she has put it up on her wall. I must write to John and tell him all about it.