Tailor of Inverness, The Read Online Free PDF Page A

telling us ‘OK, so you’re nearly there, but it hasn’t been easy for you and it’s going to stay that way. Don’t forget us. We’re not far away.’
    I think even in my childish mind it wasn’t difficult to reach an understanding of how easily paranoia can be induced. Steel railway lines, the Iron Curtain, barbed wire, gun turrets. It seemed as if Communism’s rulers had produced a shape-changing metallic monster to control us. But we had our own little metallic monster to protect us, our red Vauxhall Cresta, our capitalist V-sign. Up yours, Brezhnev, look at us! We never felt quite so gung-ho then as we travelled inside the Iron Curtain, but the sight of us and our relative wealth probably had that effect on some. We were quiet, respectful and curious, and sometimes I felt a little guilty to have come from a luckier part of the world.
    And then we were there, Lesna.

3: Arrival
    We trundled along the long straight Ulica Baworowo into the village, turning left at the little pink-painted bar into a narrow driveway which led to three houses set back from the road. The middle house was Uncle Adam’s, a neat, solid, two-storeyed pre-war German-built dwelling. The lights were on and they were standing in the drive as if they’d been waiting there all day: Adam, his wife Aniela, and their children, Jurek and Ula. In spite of stiff bodies, we sprang from the car to be greeted. My father immediately hugged Adam, laughing and crying, and they planted three kisses on each other’s cheeks, left, right, left. We followed suit, struggling with our Scottish reserve and our lack of Polish, while my father, after a 14-hour drive, found a new energy, full of animation and good humour, chatting away and translating for us as we were led into the living room where a great spread awaited us: soup,
placki
, cold meats,
kielbasa
, salads, bread,
kompot
, tea and vodka.
    Adam was shorter and stockier than my father. He was barrel-chested, with thick, brown wavy hair which infringed over his shirt collar at the back, Teddy Boy sideburns, and a square, open face, big working hands and a twinkle in his blue eyes. He had an infectious sense of humour, which heused constantly during our stays, always happy times for him and us. He was a good-time guy, a bit of a tearaway in his youth and five years younger than my father. Fourteen years old when the war broke out, he had remained in Gnilowody with his parents until the Germans occupied it in 1941. He was taken 500 miles east by them to work as a forced labourer in a Silesian quarry, not far from Lesna. He worked there until the Soviet liberation of 1945.
    When he realised, a few months after the war had finished, that the ground he was standing on was no longer German, but Polish, and that returning to Gnilowody wasn’t an option, he occupied an empty flat, a former German home. He met and married Aniela, herself a former forced labourer. Jurek was born and they needed a bigger house. Adam learned of the house on Ulica Baworowo which was occupied by a couple of Soviet officers. One night, the officers were drinking and playing cards in the house when Adam burst in like a madman, wielding an axe. The officers fled. He had been there ever since. That’s the story I was told. I expect the truth was less dramatic, but you never know.
    Aniela ran a neat general store in the town square. It wasn’t hers, of course. All shops belonged to the state. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, kind and conscientious, sober and watchful. She drank very little and cooked wonderful Polish food. She never mastered any English beyond yes, no and thank you, but then neither did my mother with Polish. She often persisted with the daft idea that if you say something loudly enough in English, it will be understood. ‘In Scotland, we drink tea with milk. IN SCOTLAND, WE DRINK TEA WITH MILK! WITH MILK! MILK! Matt, tell them what milk is.’ At least she kept trying. She must have experienced a great deal of