“Righto, guv.”
Count Adam Tarkowski was a small man in his late fifties. The removal of his homburg hat revealed a short outcrop of silvery hair crowning an appropriately aristocratic-looking head. The face was long and spare and deep, hollowed eyes looked out over a prominent Roman nose. The Count pursed his thin lips as he looked at his watch again. “Hmm. More likely seven-thirty,” he muttered to himself. “Well, she’ll just have to get on with it by herself.”
The Count had back problems and leaned forward carefully to open his large brown briefcase. He withdrew a copy of The Times and browsed through it. It made bleak reading. He looked for stories about Poland, but couldn’t see any. He didn’t need to as he knew well enough what was going on. Since the German invasion a year before, Poland had been partitioned. A brief period of Polish independence had been ended yet again and, as in the previous century, Germany and Russia had carved the country up. Russia had taken most of the eastern part of the country and Germany had taken the centre and the west. Warsaw was no longer the capital of Poland, but the administrative centre for the German province of Galicia.
His country had once more been wiped from the map. Furthermore, the occupying powers had waged a vicious war on its inhabitants. Intellectuals, members of the political and military classes, and many other ordinary Poles had been purged ruthlessly as the twin totalitarian masters of Europe imposed their grip. The Jews were having a bad time of it too, but that was only to be expected.
Count Tarkowski thought of his two younger brothers. Where were they now? One had been in the army and one in the air force. He checked regularly on the lists of Polish officers who were reported to have arrived in England. The flow of escapees had been particularly strong after the fall of France, but had now reduced to a trickle, and neither name had yet shown up. Were they prisoners or were they dead? What of their families? And what of Maria’s family? Her brothers? What of Karol? He sighed and ran his hand over his thinning hair.
His mind turned to the problem at the office, which had caused him endless trouble. What should he do? Replacing the newspaper in his briefcase with a sigh, he took out the papers that had been submitted to the meeting. At the top of the small pile was the text of the rallying cry that the general had given. Sikorski had had a long meeting with Mr Churchill, who had told him, “We shall conquer together or we shall die together.” Poland would rise again like a phoenix from the ashes. Britain would provide General Sikorski and the Polish government in exile with all necessary support. Utmost efforts would be made to supply the Polish forces in Britain with whatever they required. And so on. The Count hoped the general’s optimism would be rewarded, but he couldn’t help thinking that a Britain on the brink of its own precipice was not very well positioned to fulfil its promises.
He stared gloomily out of the taxi window. Baker Street gave way to St John’s Wood and then Swiss Cottage, where the traffic was particularly thick. It was indeed just past seven-thirty when the Count got out of the cab and paid the driver. He turned to face the large, rambling, old Victorian house that they had been lucky enough to find. All of a sudden his mood improved as he appreciated again how fortunate he and his wife had been to escape from the hell of their homeland to this new life in London, despite the many problems they faced.
*