Thursday,
28 December 1939 Contents
was always like this; times change and people must change with them.
He also said that each one of the senior officers will be judged and some have already been judged. Let's hope so, let's hope that the unworthy ones never get to positions of power again, where they could create new tragedies for Poland.
Beruit. 26 December
18:40 hours -after supper. The inactivity and monotony are boring. Endless waiting, assemblies, classifications, etc. Again, 95 people have left the ship to go into town - they'll stay here, the remaining 500 will set sail again. The English are looking after us; the air force is their domain, under their jurisdiction. You can see that these are civilised people -they are concerned about people's comforts. They're transporting only 500 in a ship which carried over 1200 of us before. They're taking the ship's supplies on board already -copious, we'll have plenty of everything.
It'll be comfortable this time. The hall where I've installed myself with my colleagues is quite large and will sleep some twenty of us. They're giving out new palliasses, maybe get rid of the present ones, which are apparently infested with lice. I
hadn't noticed but it is a problem and disgusting to boot.
I can't write, lulek drank some wine and is singing at the top of his voice. His mates
are pulling his leg about it. They can't quieten him down -why shouldn't he have a laugh - a bit of fun-
I've returned from roll-call. We sang "All our daily deeds"*, "In the still of the night"**, "Lord who has protected Poland"***. When we were singing "In the still of the
night", I imagined I was the small boy of times long gone, singing carols with my friends
by the Christmas crib. What sweet, beautiful memories!
We got some cigarettes. They're too rough for me. Obviously the French like their
cigarettes strong, just coarse tobacco without any flavourings or additions.
It looks as if we'll be sailing shortly. The food and other ship's supplies are mostly
loaded. Tomorrow "Patris" will probably be out at sea again. And there'll be all that
rocking again.
Beriuth. 27 December
Strange, it's December and you can see people bathing. In the clear water, their partly
submerged bodies look like grotesque creatures, due to the light refraction.
What a shame -we're wasting such beautiful, windless weather; we could already have
been sailing blissfully for some days. Men have spread themselves out all over the decks
in various positions like lazy oxen. Glistening in the sun, the snowy peaks remind us only
of our Polish winter. They remind us also of the ski season in Zakopane. Zakopane -
those times were so delightful -those gypsy bands and the merry "skipping" dances to their
melodies.
* Wszystkie nasze dzienne sprawy" -popular Polish hymn sung in the evening in
thanksgiving.
"* Wsr6d nocney ciszy" -popular Polish carol.
*** "Bore coS Polsk~" -solemn Polish hymn, asking for God's protection for Poland.
-23-
11:
10 a moment ago, after tea. They didn't supply coffee today, because apparently
we're supposed to be living off the ship's supplies already. The ship isn't
sailing yet, apparently not enough cigarettes and oranges were loaded. The
colonel has just asked for more. Apparently there are insufficient cooking
cauldrons on board - from my point of view all these reasons put together don't
look like real reasons.
A
sudden surprising development -we're all disembarking here; they don't want to
let us go on this ship. Am I dejected or pleased? Rather pleased, I'll visit
these exotic surroundings, my dream.
I
don't think it'll be bad here, eventually I'll make it to where I'm going. And
anyway, things are alright as they are.
The
Poles are a homeless nation, ill-treated by fate. I've already met two other
Poles - soldiers from round here.
The
Rumanian ship carrying our people has docked. 1 didn't see Wladzio on deck
amongst the others. I think it's those who sailed through Constancia. They had
all the comforts like the gentlemen on a first-class ship. There were
considerably fewer of them.
We're
packing our bags for disembarkation.
14:00
hours.
15:25
hours. We're leaving our "Patris". The mood's exactly the same.
Changes leave everyone cold.
We
marched to the cars in fours, led by French soldiers. I thought of history and
of exiles and deportees. People were looking at us -I was ashamed, I don't know
why,
After
all, I'm not guilty of anything. Yes, I felt ashamed as a Pole, not as myself.
Thursday,
28 December 1939
It
was cold all night. I lay cold in a half-sleep; nightmarish dreams haunted me. I
shrank into a ball, covered myself, tossed around -it didn't help. It was cold
in the tent and what's more the wind blew through the tent flap which could not
be fastened.
That's
what our new living quarters were like. Tents pitched on clay soil giving an
appearance of an encampment of Indians or some other wild men. There was just a
lack of trees and grass.
I
felt deeply depressed yesterday when they brought us here. They put us in ten to
a tent. The tents were empty inside. We had expected some civilised
arrangements, when we saw the tents we forgot about such possibilities; anyway,
when an exile is thrown onto the mercy of strangers, he has to agree to
everything. So, he doesn't have the right to want anything. Seeing the soft,
clay earth in the tents, without any boards for sleeping on, or anything to sit
on, people were overcome with apathy and inertia. All the more so as there were
no officers, they didn't want to command in such living conditions; they
preferred to take advantage of the quarters assigned to them in town as soon as
possible. They forgot about us. That's what our officers were like. They were
first-class socialites in Poland, frequenting only cabaret bars, with their
drinks and their women. Every one with some high-minded idea about himself, with
no concept of the calling. Making a pompous hero of himself, but disintegrating
at the slightest puff of wind. The military -the colonels' - regime gave them
huge scope for showing off. But what could they show off with, only with
wantonness and contempt for those beneath them. And where are there notions of
toughening up the spirit, of honourable impulses of patriotism and true heroism.
After all does one imagine an officer without these last characteristics? Who
would disagree?
Later
they gave us wooden pallets, made from boards which had been nailed together,
-25-
which
we put on the ground on the two sides of the tent; and when the tent began to
look different,
we began to believe something could be done. Later still they gave us
mats and pa1liasses.
It has to be said, they didn't give them to us straight away and this caused
some unpleasant incidents. As soon as the cars arrived, people threw themselves
at them, like hungry wolves at sheep. They started tugging those palliasses,
even grabbing them from one another- every one was out for himself. No-one
wanted to consider that the French are
a civilised
people and wouldn't let anyone sleep like a pig; this isn't Rumania where, when
we were arrested, we had to sleep on damp earth. This image didn't say much for
us. A French captain leapt onto the car and had to tear the palliasses from
people, having
been
unable to calm the angry crowd. Then in a temper he expressed his surprise.
"I didn't expect," he said, "the Poles to be capable of something
like this, and soldiers to boot."
Yes.
often when abroad the Poles allow
themselves such discourteous behaviour - which
surprise even me -a
Pole. I write
the following words with shame and by sheer force:
the Poles in large part are a
non-descript riff-raff.
When
we obtained the mats and palliasses, and two blankets each and made our beds,
the mood changed. We sat down around our bedding, and by the dim light of a
paraffin lamp
we started our usual conversations -I
even felt good, it was quite cosy and
pleasant.
We
busied ourselves until
late evening. When I glanced
later at the tents shrouded in darkness,
I was reminded of the historic sieges of towns by wild peoples that one read
about in novels. The light of the lamp shone through the fabric of the tent. The
shadows of those moving around inside appeared on the canvas, like on a screen.
One could hear the chords of mouth organs drawing out their melancholic tones,
and then somewhere else someone
with a better
voice sang some entrancing tango to the strumming of a guitar
-26-
accompaniment.
Again, like a romantic
gypsy encampment. How one longed for love, when
one heard singing, music with such a
beautiful backdrop. I remember
sitting at the cinema
with a
girl, how I had
wanted so very much to experience everything I saw.
And I had
also seen tents surrounded by darkness, or drenched in moonlight, and
illuminated from
the inside by a
lamp or a campfire,
and had heard the singing, the music, I'd seen love.
Is it not by God's grace that I'm experiencing everything now -except love.
Obviously,
love belongs to my past experiences.
Oh
delicious love.
You
belong to the past,
All
feelings yearn for You,
Happy
are those who enjoy You.*
The
sun is setting -the last rays colour the world. The world here is so beautiful.
I
have to break- they're serving supper.
After a warm, sunny day it's
turning cold again.
It's the wind from the West
that's doing it; I feel
it's going to be a cold night
again.
19:30
hours. By the weak light of our little lamp, we're playing bridge for oranges.
The
frogs are singing in the distance, and crickets close by. A
cool wind blows through the
torn canvas of the entrance. For the time being it isn't cold, but it may be by
morning.
*
Four
rhymed lines -a quotation?
:
O
rozkoszna mitoSci.
Ty
naleZysz do przeszloSci,
Do
Ciebie wszystkie uczucia spiesza,
Szczesliwi
ci co Toba sie ciesza.
29 December
We're
on
an excursion
in a beautiful
green valley. It's enchanting here. We sat
down on the walls of a bridge.
A beautiful
bridge, made entirely of yellow stone, over a small
river.
A negro soldier from Madagascar joined us. He is somewhat comical, he says he's 32; he looks like an
18-year
old boy. They all look fairly
young -a healthy
people,
It's
hot here in this valley, really sweltering. I'm amazed how anyone can survive
here in the summer. Ahead of us a
beautiful
specimen of a tree.
Leaves similar to those of our willow; the trunk, however, looks as if
the bark's
been peeled away -a delicate
silver-blue covering. There are many of
these trees here, creating cosy shady glades.
The
Arabs have a very characteristic garb. They wear long white cassocks, their
heads covered in a folded
cloth, wrapped around and tied in typical fashion.
A
lot of negro soldiers; one comes across the cavalry mounted on mules I
never
believed that these southern parts would indeed appear as mottled as I had
seen them in
pictures. Truly exotic. Mountainous terrain with gentle slopes. Lots of brown
rock, their bases, seen from a distance, resemble our turf but are
multi-coloured. The entire background has a red hue draped here and there with
the vivid green of the various glades. Across the slopes, reaching up to the
peaks themselves, are scattered little stone cottages with red roofs, surrounded
by greenery and flora of various colours. A fairy tale sight, especially at
sunset. Everything is then in its natural form, bathed in the sun's red glow.
Very
interesting chats with the little black negro. He's intelligent, talks in
French.
When
we mentioned we'd like to visit Madagascar he said, "It would be a great
honour to welcome you, we would be delighted." A
good
little race.
-28-
Monsieur
Marisou...*
The
little negro signed himself at my request: "Mr Marisou".
As
we parted we gave him a
condom. He was terribly thrilled, couldn't contain his joy. He was
laughing -behaving according to his own custom. But he knew what it was for.
"At home in Madagascar," he said, "we don't have these; 1'11
take it back to my wife."
I'm
amazed that this man can be so
happy, like a child, and
how well he demonstrates his
joy; we Europeans aren't able to do this.
We're
looking at some beautiful marble
gravestones, surrounded by tall cypresses.
Some
sort of memorial. The monuments have our Catholic crosses on them. some have four-armed
crosses**
or
crescents. Sarcophagi. One sarcophagus has columns and is guarded
by angels. A
beautiful grave.
I
can see an elderly
Arab woman. A black veil covers
her face. An age-old tradition maintained
to this day.
We're
passing the Arab beggars' quarter. They live in shacks made from rags sown
together. Wretched sight. These are tramps. Some of them approach us wanting to
tell our fortune with the help of some beads.
We
stroll through a shady
glade. Dwarf -like trees, twisted, their trunks full of holes, the
leaves similar to those of our Polesie willow***.
There are so many of them, all the
*
�Monsieur M�.� -
the signature is not very legible -the surname is only a
guess.
**
The Jerusalem cross, with four anns of equal length.
**
"Loza poleska�
-a species of willow common in the Polesie region of pre-war Poland (wetlands
east of Brzesc, now in Belarus), used particularly in wicker-work. (Salix
cinerea)
-
29 -
hillsides
are covered with them. I can see they've been planted this way on purpose, as
they form straight lines. The hillsides have been unnaturally cut into steps,
the edges of which are lined with stones (something like our skiing pistes).
These trees are planted at the margins of the terraces. There's a cave visible
in one of the terrace walls. It was inhabited once -the grotto's fire blackened;
one can see a few women milling around there.
Driven
by our curiosity we walked too far along this hillside. We didn't feel like
going back, because we would have had to return to that first little bridge I
mentioned; all the more reason why we wouldn't have had time, since we wanted to
get back in time for lunch. So, in an attempt to take a shortcut, we had to
descent into a steep gorge, at the bottom of which flowed the stream I mentioned
earlier. The slope was very steep, overgrown with thorny bushes. A jungle
expedition, we needed axes to cut clear a path.
And
the stream? Why, the stream is an opportunity to wash our dirty feet. Youthfully
adventurous, we ventured on a daring trek. We got scratched by the thorns; some
of us recalled our childhood days, when we'd slid down slopes of compacted snow
on our backsides.
My
friends washed themselves, undressing completely. The water was very clean,
cold, like spring water. It fell with great gusto, flowing over the smooth
stones. I didn't feel like undressing; I just washed my feet which were by now
covered in half a centimetre of dirt.
We
didn't make it back in time for lunch, but after some effort, we managed to get
some when the newly-arrived "Polonezy"* came. Some 350 arrived,
amongst them
*
"Polonez" -jocular term for Poles; strict meaning -the national
ceremonial dance, the Polonaise.
Wladzio-
I
was so very happy. What a shame
it would have been if such a good
freind and
able man had been stuck somewhere.
Saturday,
30 December
I
recently changed 170 zloty and got 51 francs. What was the point of maintaining
the high exchange rate at all costs before the war.
The
trips are a
real delight. We set off
south, walking along the slope of a high hill, along a path of
hairpin bends. On the right a deep
gully along the bottom of which flows the
stream I mentioned yesterday. They call it the "Jordan". (not the one
where Christ was baptised,
though). Down below, clearly visible lies Beyrouth, and beyond it the sea. A
beautiful
panorama.
We're
sitting on the hillside. The wind
penetrates our shirts and tickles our bodies. It's
warm nonetheless. the wind isn't cold.
There
is a
vast amount of rocks of different type here. A whole
slope of upright bluish rocks.
Huge boulders scattered everywhere. There are mountains too, made up of some brownish
red materials which looks something like an
ore, think
they're of volcanic origin. One comes across all sorts of rocks here, even
marble. There's iron ore as well.
Nevertheless
the mountain peaks aren't bare; they're partly overgrown with a thorny moss and
various shrubs. I can see a mountain whose slopes are bare rock, but on its peak
are normal trees and even some buildings.
Masses
of cactuses -we see them by the roadside, growing on the rocks, with their roots
reaching between the rocks to where there is soft soil.
We
make our way along the road, which
snakes its way ever higher up the hillside.
We
meet three mates from our tent here. The rest is not intended to overcome any
tiredness, which one doesn't feel, but to register our delight. It is difficult
to express this joy. By the sea one can see a shifting dune of red sand.
We're
high up. Here again the hillside consists of man-made terraces lined with
stones. A lot of work has gone into this; the whole hillside, all the way from
the base has been cut into terraces. Clearly they're there to prevent water from
damaging the slopes.
It's
strange, though, that one also sees completely barren rocky hills whose slopes
have also been cut into terraces. Is this some human mania here, or an attempt
by the local people
to maintain their terrain homogenously, or do they just see a
particular beauty in this?
It is beautiful, but it must have taken some organised joint labour. Very
characteristic. One came across this in Balcic already, but only within the
precincts of the homesteads. In the
main the galleries of such terraces are cultivated or lined with trees.
Tut!
Tut! This
has its appropriate purpose, because otherwise the hillsides wouldn't be usable
at all, as everything would be washed away by the water draining down. Yes, that
makes sense, because for example, here by the buildings, the terraces are
specially maintained, one can even see that a different soil has been brought
here.
11:15
hours. We're returning for lunch.
The
meals aren't good, there's a shortage of meat. It's all stringy and inedible. No
wonder, they don't have meat here, they have to import it. The situation is
saved to a large extent
bv the fruit.