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.Worshippers from the first Mass were streaming out of the chapel and mingling with the crowd waiting for the next service.Through the open doors of the corrugated-iron hut Wladyslaw could see candles burning on the altar and the shadowy figure of the priest passing in front of the flames like a giant moth.For a brief moment he felt a nostalgic pull for the ritual and solace of the Mass and the memories of home and family it would bring him.But he had determined to stay away, and he was not going to let emotion undermine his resolve now.His dispute with God had begun in Archangel, deepened in Uzbekistan, and rumbled on with varying degrees of intensity ever since.He could no longer accept the idea of a loving, all-powerful God who stood aside and allowed the innocent to suffer and the wicked to triumph in the name of free will.The promise of justice and retribution in the next life wasn’t nearly enough.In the beginning this argument had caused him the sort of misery he’d felt on quarrelling with his father when he was seventeen.But while he had been quickly reconciled with his father, his dispute with God had proved more intractable.Among the line of people making their way into the chapel Wladyslaw recognised the solid form of Jozef’s honorary godmother Alina, followed by the equally unmistakable Danuta.And, obscured at first, then becoming clearly visible, the sharply etched profile of Jozef.Wladyslaw hurried forward but before he could attract Jozef’s attention a tall figure detached himself from a nearby group and stepped into his path.It was Major Rafalski.‘Ah, Malinowski,’ he said.‘How’s the farm labouring?’Wladyslaw watched Jozef disappearing into the chapel.‘Fine, thank you.’‘Not too arduous?’‘I have no complaints.’‘And the people – have they made you feel welcome?’‘Oh yes.They’ve been lending me books.Asking me into their homes.Helping in all sorts of ways.’The austere face registered mild astonishment.‘Really.And what about the conversation? Do you find enough to talk about?’‘Plenty,’ Wladyslaw replied, thinking of Stella.‘Then they must have hidden qualities,’ the major said dubiously.‘I find them impossible myself.Warm and jovial one minute, stiff and insincere the next.And so very coarse.Don’t you find them coarse? Their jokes are really disgusting.’‘I ignore the jokes.’‘Their attitude to women is dreadful – disrespectful, callous.And then they have the effrontery to accuse Polish men of being gallant and well-mannered, as if it were unsporting in some way.’ The major scanned the horizon like a man undergoing a long and futile siege, searching for the relief force that would never come.‘You’ll be staying on then, will you?’ he asked.‘All being well, yes.’‘Well, careful how you go.A British patrol took a potshot at one of our people yesterday.They were looking for two escaped German POWs and got their nationalities, not to mention their uniforms, mixed up.’‘No one was hurt?’‘Fortunately not.’‘I think I saw them,’ Wladyslaw said.‘Who, the Germans?’‘No, the patrol.’‘You were lucky, then,’ the major said wearily, ‘that they didn’t take you for an enemy.’The chapel was filled to capacity, the overflow clustered around the open door.As soon as the priest’s voice began to incant the first prayer, Wladyslaw excused himself and made his way to the canteen.There was a long queue for breakfast, but the wait was worth it.He emerged with a full plate of fried eggs, bacon, sausage and fried bread, with toast and jam to follow.At first glance it seemed that every seat in the canteen was taken but then Wladyslaw spotted a place at a table near the door, opposite a man bent low over some papers.Only after Wladyslaw had put his plate down and pulled the chair out did he take a proper look at the man, and then it was too late to find another place.‘Oh, hello, Grobel.’Grobel stared at him.Then, in the manner of someone who likes to nail his facts, he stated, ‘Malinowski.’‘How are you?’‘You’re a civilian then?’ said Grobel, ignoring the question.‘I’m working on a farm a couple of villages away.’‘How is it?’‘Not so bad.’ Brandishing his knife and fork, indicating with a cheery gesture that he intended to concentrate on eating, Wladyslaw attacked his food.‘Will you be coming to the meeting at eleven?’ Grobel asked in his toneless voice.Wladyslaw finished his mouthful before answering.‘I hadn’t heard about a meeting.’‘We’re voting on a motion requiring the authorities to segregate traitors and collaborators from the rest of us.To put them in a separate camp.’‘Ah.But now I’m living elsewhere I don’t imagine I’m qualified to vote on such an issue.’‘I don’t see why not.’ Grobel extracted a slip of paper from the stack in front of him and slid it across the table.‘Come and vote anyway.’The slip was headed: ‘Important Meeting!’ Wladyslaw glanced over it while he ate.‘So long as everyone comes along and casts their votes then the authorities will have to take notice,’ Grobel declared.‘Anyone who doesn’t – well, they’ll have to look to their consciences! They’ll have to live with the responsibility of leaving the rest of us in an intolerable situation!’Wladyslaw nodded sagely, and continued to nod as Grobel rumbled on through his old grievances, adding a few new ones for good measure, which seemed to revolve around the injustices of the American and Canadian immigration policies and their bias towards single men and other undeserving types.Finally, as Wladyslaw mopped up the last of his egg, Grobel fell silent.‘Have you had news of your family?’ Wladyslaw asked dutifully.‘Yes.’‘Are they all right?’‘Yes.But there’s no hope of a transport before April.’‘I’m sorry to hear it.’After a pause, Grobel said, ‘Uganda’s a thousand metres above sea level, you know.It makes the climate bearable, even in summer.’‘That’s something.’‘It’s summer there now.’‘Ah.’‘They’re living in mud huts with thatched roofs.’‘But adequate for the climate, I would imagine.’‘The authorities have built a school for them.There are two qualified teachers among the women, so the children are getting proper tuition.’‘That’s good.They’ll have made up for lost time.’‘It’s made of mud, the school, like the huts.They’re short of books.’Wladyslaw prepared to stand up.‘Well.April’s not so very far away.’Grobel glared at him.‘But they won’t stick to it, will they? You don’t imagine the British will keep their word, do you? You don’t imagine Polish women and children will be given anything but the lowest priority? No, the British will let us down, like they always do.No, April.September.What do they care?’With the angry frown of a man who finds he has been unwittingly distracted from more pressing matters, Grobel made a dismissive gesture and, bending over his sheaf of handwritten notes once more, began to scribble
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