Free Homeland by Clare Francis Page B

ourselves
     ‘fascist imperialists’ who are refusing to go home because we fear and despise socialist democracy! (Sorry for the ink-blots – my pen is shaking with anger.) You can imagine
     with what disbelief and dismay we hear such things, and how vehemently we dispute such untruths. But our voices fall on deaf ears. The British believe that their mighty ‘friend’ is
     noble and brave, and has sacrificed everything for the cause of – yes, you have it – freedom. They cannot understand why we are reluctant to go home. They grow impatient with us.
     They tell us there is no future for us here, and reinforce the message by forbidding us all but the very lowliest jobs. But where are we to go, Helenka? We are like fish cast upon the shore,
     stranded and helpless and pining for home.
    Of course when we started fighting our way up Italy we thought we were fighting for freedom. We didn’t realise we had long since been betrayed. Even as late as this spring the Corps
     still believed they would be sent to Germany on garrison duty before returning to Poland as a victorious army. Instead, not only is the Second Corps being ordered to Britain, but it, like the
     rest of our armed services, faces the bitter and humiliating prospect of being demobilised. Once here, the British urge us to ‘go back home’ or, if we refuse, to join what they have
     termed the Polish Resettlement Corps (a good name for a disarmed, disowned and deracinated army, don’t you think?), thus taking our first cold step towards permanent exile.
    It goes without saying that the final decision is causing me great heart-searching. I want nothing more than to come home, I dream of it constantly, but am I sensible to do so? If I were to
     start a new life in Poland would it be a life worth having? I’ve heard that Poles turfed out of the Eastern Borderlands are being resettled in Silesia. But would I have any hope of
     qualifying? Does one have to be a member of the Communist Party, perhaps? Dear Helenka, I need you to give me your thoughts, to tell me how the land lies (as you see it), to give me your honest
     opinion on my chances. One hears so many different stories that it’s hard to know what to believe. I need the cool judgement of my elder sister.
    I have been gone six and a half years now, but the homesickness remains like an open wound. Oh, how it pains me, Helenka! More often than not it is the small things that create an agony of
     longing. A song we used to sing, a few lines of poetry, a taste of vodka (which is rarer than gold here), some delicious sledzie , which a compassionate friend smuggled in for me
     yesterday. Compassionate, I should explain, because you cannot imagine the food here. I will be generous and suggest it is due to the food shortages, which are still severe, but I rather
     suspect the English have a liking for this stuff. Example – tripe served plain, not pickled in any way (it’s inedible). Having spent the best part of three years with my belly
     pressed hard against my spine, dreaming only of food, I realise it is the height of ingratitude to criticise such fare, but, Helenka, I only have to think of Masha’s bigos for my
     mouth to water and my eyes to grow misty with yearning.
    The language is another trial. It is simple enough to reach a level from where one can conduct the basic commerce of life – intentions, actions, deeds – but to master the subtle
     heights of ideas and abstract thought: this is a very different matter. English has absolutely nothing in common with Polish, and not half as much as it’s purported to have with German.
     The grammar and pronunciation have more exceptions and inconsistencies than a sieve full of water, while the common usage is riddled with idioms and impenetrable slang which varies from region
     to region, and person to person. Occasionally my smattering of French comes in handy, but for the most part I might as well be studying Sanskrit.
    I didn’t mean to go on in this