The Winter Palace by Paul Morgan

Author:Paul Morgan [Morgan, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781761049101
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

23

Anton stood on the Persian shore. Naked and freshly washed by the waters of the Caspian Sea, he lifted his arms to feel the warmth of the sun on his body. So this was how freedom felt. He’d forgotten.

Around him were dozens of other Polish soldiers standing in relaxed poses, as though modelling nude for a sculptor. Some of the men stood alone, staring out to sea and lost in thought. Others were in groups, talking casually. Some huddled in more furious conversation, drawing deeply on cigarettes held in cupped hands to protect them from the breeze.

Far down the beach, the women were unclothed too. Children played around them, running in and out of the surf with squeals of excitement. Two little girls held hands and waited for each wave then hopped across it together. Time after time they jumped, never tiring of the game. They could be children anywhere, at any time, thought Anton: in Ancient Greece or China, Australia or the Baltic coast. On the beach behind them was a great bonfire of the Poles’ ragged clothing, which sent billows of black smoke over the sea.

Anton had arrived with the Anders Army in Krasnovodsk on the Russian side of the Caspian Sea a few days before. After much officious checking of papers and stealing of belongings by Russian soldiers, they had been allowed to board some rusty freighters for the voyage to Persia before travelling on to Palestine to join the British army there. Stalin must have rubbed his hands together with satisfaction at having rid himself of General Anders and his army, which the Russian dictator had never quite trusted. The Caspian voyage lasted two days and nights. When the freighter docked at the port of Pahlevi, the Poles were met by British soldiers and nurses. They were taken to a nearby beach and told to undress and hand over their lice-infested clothes for burning.

‘Everyone must shower for disinfection,’ a Polish-speaking British officer called out, ‘then report to the quartermaster’s tent to be issued with new uniforms.’

Anton was in no hurry to dress again. He enjoyed the feel of sand beneath his feet and warm air caressing his skin. The great pyramid of foul clothing was still burning further down the beach. Ash drifted down like black snow from the pillar of black smoke. Only at this moment did Anton realise he’d left Elisabeth’s photograph in his jacket. It must be burning now with the rest of his clothing. The years of handling since he’d left home had worn away the image. Her face could barely be seen any more, yet the little square of acetate was still precious to him: a totem of all he had left behind, and to which he was drawing closer again. How could he have forgotten the photograph? Anton bit his lip and walked towards the tent to collect a new uniform.

The Russians and the British had done their paperwork: new identity documents were waiting for him in the name of Sergeant Komarowski.

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