The American came to see us again later. He gave me a silver cigarette case and some money.
‘What are you intending to do when you are better, Slav?’
I told him there was only one course open to me. As a Polish officer I must rejoin the Polish Army.
‘Are you sure that is what you want to do?’
‘It is the only thing I can do.’
‘We shall meet after the war, of course. Where shall it be, Slav?’
‘In Warsaw,’ I said. And I wrote down for him the address of my family’s house in Warsaw.
‘I should like that,’ he said. ‘We will meet in Warsaw.’
A British officer and a Polish interpreter came to see me. It was a long talk with the characteristics of security interrogation not, however, overstressed. A long catechism about Poland, its people and its politics to test my bona fides. Then the Russians and the journey, all over again.
The interpreter returned alone the next day bringing me a gift of half-a-dozen white handkerchiefs and an Indian ivory cigarette-holder. He said transport was being arranged through the British for me to join up with Polish forces fighting with the Allies in the Middle East.
The night before I left, Kolemenos, Zaro and I had a farewell celebration in the hospital canteen.
Mister Smith came to the hospital to see me off on that last day, bringing me a small fibre case in which to pack my few belongings. I had resolved to make the parting from Zaro and Kolemenos as painless as possible. We said goodbye in the ward and the soldiers called out ‘Good luck’ and ‘All the best, Slav,’ and things like that. I walked towards the door, Smith ahead of me. Zaro and Kolemenos followed behind. I wanted them to stay where they were but they kept on walking. I turned at the door and big Kolemenos ran forward and hugged me and then came Zaro. And the tears came so that I had to drag myself away. The American walked with me, blowing his nose in his handkerchief.
He rode on the bus with me into Calcutta, where they dropped him off. ‘Look after yourself, Slav,’ he said. ‘And God bless you.’
The bus pulled away towards the transit camp where I was to await a troopship for the Middle East. I looked back at him once and he waved.
I felt suddenly bereft of friends, bereft of everything, as desolate and lonely as a man could be.
Slavomir Rawicz, The Long Walk: The True Story of a Trek to Freedom
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