Open Writing

It happened in Poland, more than 50 years ago. It was not the wedding of my choice - it was two decades before they invented beatniks, hippies, and other species of the new human race, which, should they ever consider such a square thing as getting married, would probably like it this way.

I had been one of the millions of ordinary girls who were determined to have an extraordinary wedding. My trousseau was ready when I was still at school. In pre-war Eastern Europe the loving maiden-aunts, immediately after they stopped knitting baby-jackets for you, would start embroidering dozens of table-cloths and double sheets for your wedding day. Discussing and designing wedding-dresses was a favourite occupation of all the young girls long before they had chosen the man to take them to the altar. And after one of our society belles got married in a stunning gown made of white suede, we were all busy thinking how to be ‘one up’.

Then the war started. No one had a white wedding any more. It wouldn’t be the proper thing in an occupied country, with almost every family in mourning for somebody killed on the front or in the air-raids. The girls were resigned to getting married without their dream wedding dresses, but alas, there were no young men to marry! The majority of them were in prisoner-of-war camps, the rest were fighting in other countries as aliens or in the forests engaged in guerrilla warfare. The embroidered trousseaux went yellow in bottom drawers while crowds of sad young girls were busy with all sorts of clandestine patriotic activities.

Then came the Warsaw uprising. In two months of hopeless fighting, 200 000 people were killed, and most of the town was bombed and burned to the cellars. Our house and factory were no exception. I was lucky to escape alive, but what a sight I was! After being badly burned by an incendiary bomb, I was covered with horrible scars, my hair had been almost burnt away, most of my body was covered in dirty bandages and my skirt was in cinders.

After the capitulation Warsaw was evacuated and I found myself in a little provincial town, where I didn’t know a soul. I had no idea where my parents were. We had been separated when the police were sorting us after the capitulation.

You would have thought that the friendly people from the little town would have made a terrific fuss over the poor refugee, and here my troubles would end. No hope! There were thousands and thousands of people like me. Refugees dropped on these little towns like locusts, bringing with them the menace of famine and disease.

I still was fortunate. A strange man gave me one of his shirts, so that I could shed my bandages … otherwise I might have been the first one to launch the topless dress! There was also a kind lady who gave me a pair of shoes as mine were falling to pieces. The shoes were too small for me, so I cut the tips off, letting my toes peep through. An old woman took me to her one-room lodging and gave me a straw bag to sleep on. I couldn’t help thinking of the dozens of sheets in my bottom drawer - how I would love to have had at least one of them. At the moment I had only a well-worn blanket, but I could not even afford to enjoy this luxury for too long - with the old lady’s permission, as it was already winter, I made a coat of it. I had also reversed my old skirt, around which the burnt smell still lingered. Now, when I had to wash my only shirt, which was performing double duty having replaced my burned petticoat and bra, I was able to be up in my coat instead of sitting wrapped in the blanket while my shirt was drying over an iron stove.

Things were happening fast - the Russians were moving to the West and replaced the Germans, but nothing changed in my miserable life.

And then, one day, when I stood in the queue waiting patiently with the masses of refugees for a bowl of soup, I noticed a man, who had stopped to look at me with curiosity. He wore a very patched American uniform which meant that he was one of the recently liberated prisoners-of-war. His face seemed familiar. “Don’t I know you?” he asked in a pleasant voice. "Hey you," shouted a voice from behind me "don’t try to smuggle yourself into the middle of the queue by pretending that you know this girl!" “But I really do know her” protested the man. At that moment I too, was also almost sure that I knew him. I abandoned my precious place in the queue and we walked away.

“That was kind of you” grinned the man, and by his smile I recognised him at once.

“Mike! I can’t believe it! Don’t you remember the lousiest skier from Warsaw?” I exclaimed. “Stefania! Yes, of course, I do now! That’s why I didn’t recognise you at first, because you are standing up instead of lying in a cloud of snow with your skis entangled!” he laughed.

We walked for hours telling each other what had happened to us in the six years since we last met in Zakopane, on a skiing holiday, where we had stayed at the same hotel. Mike, then a smart naval officer, had a smashing blonde with him. We became acquainted because I was terribly unsuccessful at my first attempts to ski, and they came to my rescue when I dislocated my ankle. They were very kind to me, but when the holiday was over, they went back to Gdynia (Gdansk) and I returned to Warsaw and I never saw them again.

“So, after being in a prisoner-of-war camp all these years, you are now returning to your blonde?” I asked. “She was killed outright at the beginning of the war” sighed Mike. For a moment we walked in silence.

“Where are you staying?” Mike asked. I told him about the sack of straw in the old woman’s room. “And what about you?” I said, changing the subject. “I was very lucky; one of my father’s friends lives here in this sleepy town, he is a doctor. I went to his house this morning, and although they are crammed full with other friends from Warsaw, he put me up. My bed’s in the pantry, as with so many guests the pantry was emptied a long time ago”, said Mike. “Well, I have to go home, it’s getting dark”, I said, suddenly feeling terribly lonely. “No, come with me, you missed your midday soup, you must be starving”, said Mike. “But you just said that the pantry in the doctor’s house is empty”, I protested weakly. “Don’t worry, he told me that he always gets something to eat from his patients in the country”, answered Mike.

I can’t say that I received a very warm welcome at the doctor’s house. The other guests looked at me with poorly-disguised hostility. Another mouth to feed, was what I read in their faces.

“Look here, Captain” said one of the guests, a retired judge, I learned afterwards. “You’re just free from the prison camp and obviously you don’t know your rights. You must go to Lodz, to the Rehabilitation Commission, where they will fix you up with a job, accommodation and food. As a liberated prisoner-of-war, you have better opportunities than any of us”.

Mike’s face lit up and then he looked at me, then back again to the old man. “But what about Stefania, how can I leave her behind?” he asked. “Marry her and take her with you”, said the judge. Distressed as we were, we could not help laughing. “But we hardly know each other!” I exclaimed.

“It doesn’t matter, my dear, people shouldn’t really know each other too well, it doesn’t leave much room for any thrill after the wedding” said the judge’s wife.

I looked in bewilderment at Mike, when the doctor cut in, “It isn’t such a mad idea as it seems, Mike. You don’t have to have a church wedding immediately, the local magistrate is a friend of mine and I’m sure he’ll marry you tonight if I vouch for you. Being your formal wife, the girl will have the same privileges as you and it will be a great help to her. If you get on well you can have a church wedding later. If not, you can easily get a divorce and we will testify as to the special circumstances in which the wedding was contracted."

“Well, Stefania, what do you say?” asked Mike with his lovely smile. I thought, in a daze, that only six hours ago I hardly knew that this man existed, and here he was willing to take care of me. And then I suddenly recalled that in Zakopane, years ago, I had been rather jealous of his lovely blonde girlfriend.

“Well, young lady, don’t ponder too long, or he will change his mind,” said the judge’s teasing voice, bringing me back to reality. I turned to Mike “Do you really mean it? I guess I do” he said, and this time his face had a strange seriousness.

“That’s fine, give them something to eat while I bring the magistrate” said the doctor, and left before I was able to utter a word. We went to the kitchen where the doctor’s wife warmed up some potatoes. Hungry as I was, I could not swallow a crumb. I apologised to my hostess.

“I can’t blame you, you are suffering from wedding nerves”, she laughed. “And don’t worry about the food being wasted, I’ll keep it for the cat,” she added and put the plate down in the corner.

When the doctor arrived with the magistrate, nearly all the other guests were already asleep. Only the judge, who was going to be a witness, lingered. The big table in the kitchen was cleared and the magistrate spread open his register. I had to make a sworn affidavit, which served in place of my burned personal documents. Then the sleepy magistrate asked the routine questions and we answered the routine “I do,” and so we were married!

Suddenly I remembered that my old lady would surely worry about what had happened to me, so although it was almost midnight, we went to my lodgings. I was right, she was still up, waiting for me. When I told her my incredible story, she laughed happily. I was not quite sure whether it was her way of congratulating me, or just the joy of getting her little room back for herself once again. She thoughtfully presented me with my ‘mattress’ which we carried through the empty streets to the doctor’s house.

Mike chivalrously offered me the bed in the pantry and he slept in the kitchen on my old straw bag. And although this wedding night was so completely different from all traditional wedding nights, I had my heavenly bliss - I was in a real bed, with a pillow, blankets, and snow-white sheets!

I couldn’t sleep, though. Now that I’d calmed down, I felt so terribly hungry that I wanted to weep. I lit the candle and crept to the silent kitchen. Mike was fast asleep under his trench coat. I went to the corner where the potatoes had been left for the cat. I was lucky! The cat hadn’t come in yet, so that the potatoes were still there! I took them to the pantry and the taste of them was better than any wedding feast. Afterwards, I dived under the blankets and fell asleep almost immediately.

Next morning, after a hurried good-bye to our hosts, we got a lift on a lorry and arrived in Lodz, where, just as the judge had told us, everything was well organised and we were able to get a tiny flat and parcels of food and clothing from dear old UNRRA (United Nations Rehabilitation and Relief Agency).

Soon the war ended and through the help of the Red Cross we were able to trace our parents.

“Let’s have a church wedding and invite them all” said Mike. “Now that we are so happy together and are sure that it’s going to last, why not do it in the traditional way, with both mothers crying?” he quipped with his usual smile which I grew to adore. So, that's what we did, and lived happily ever after for nearly 50 years!