FROM A FAR LAND

New Zealand Listener, Volume 11, Issue 282, 17 November 1944, Page 20

FROM A

FAR LAND

leeting Seven Hundred Orphans

(By

a Staff

Reporter

HE big ship slid into the dock. The bands struck up. The tiers of soldiers cramming over the rails cheered and catcalled. These were Wellington’s familiar hills. Those were their countrymen clustered on _ the wharf. But there was something that differentiated this ship from other troopships we had seen. The foredeck was crammed with children, and up on that deck there was silence. Small heads, some shaven, some well-covered, were motionless. Small faces, some pale, some sunburnt, were turned to the shore. Their eyes were staring, their mouths were shut. They were wondering what kind of fate was waiting for them this time; whether those people down on the wharves were kind or cold; whether this was one more alien port in their trek to sanctuary, or home at last. It was five years since they had been thrown out of their homes, and the only reminders of those days which they still had with them were the few things they’ had packed into small suitcases. ‘Of course these Polish children were "news," and the Press hurried on board for sensations; but at the sight of all that quietness and orderliness the news sense died, and was replaced by a feeling of wonder and humility. They had been so disregarded, they had travelled so far and seen so much, and yet they were still children. The youngest ones smiled shyly and twisted their legs, some a little older laughed among themselves, but the oldest stood off watching almost apathetically. But whether they talked, played, or did nothing, they were all alike in their orderly unobtrusiveness. They didn’t clamour for attention, they were there because they had been put there, they were obedient because they had been told to obey. New happenings were just happenings, and they accepted them without a murmur and with pathetic resignation. * a Bs HE Press must have some story, however, but could they speak English? Different reporters tried different methods. I sat down next to one of the Polish women and started to talk.

She nodded, she understood, and she could answer in English. This was her story: "In 1939 we were deported to Russia. In 1940 we were in Siberia, where we worked 10 hours a day, every day. The first year we worked in the fields, digging and building irrigation works. The second year we made bricks, 6000 a day, and carried them to the buildings. It was all very, very hard work. We had to give away our rings and valuables for bread. Then after much negotiating, we and many of the children were sent to Persia. There were 3000 children in the camp there. Many of them are still there. The conditions were better than in Russia, but the children suffered greatly from the inten heat. We lived in school buildings, wit one kitchen to the whole camp. The children were divided into pre-school, primary and secondary, and we were free to give them schooling to the best of our ability. Most of the adults here are teachers. Very few of the children have mothers in this party, for mst of the children are orphans. Many of them saw their parents die before their eyes. In Persia the girls were all taught dressmaking and tailoring. It was there, too, that all the boys and girls became members of the scout movement, which has been a very great help to them. You will notice that many of them are wearing khaki drill tunics. Those are scout clothes. : Some of the children were ‘standing round displaying their scout badges while she went on talking. Her English was good, considering the very short time she had been learning it. Of the overpowering conditions that had so altered their lives and had spread such misery upon them, she said nothing. Yet the weight of what was left unsaid bore more heavily upon us than her words. "IT come from Cracow," she continued. "Cracow was one of the oldest cities in

Europe. My husband was an officer there. He is on the ship, too, but he is very ill. He has been in a labour camp." % * %* Y this time other women had come up, burning with questions, which the first woman translated. "Tell us something about Wellington, pleasé," they entreated. "What kind of vegetables can you get, what kind of fruit? How many people live here? Can you buy wool? What are the prices of dress materials? What about milk, butter, eggs? Is there any flat land in New Zealand, or is it all hills like this? Everyone was standing about now. They were hungry, for this was a two-meal-a-day ship. I felt my acquaintance’s hands, and they were cold. She looked very tired all af a sudden. The sores of the children will be much quicker healing than the mental hurts of these women, I thought. But they are charming women and very hospitable. "Come and have dinner with us," they pleaded. "Come and share our meal," they insisted. Below deck the children, hungry but resigned, were crowded into queues between the tiers of bunks. They didn’t push, they didn’t ‘talk much, but each child’s face was turned firmly towards the food. Feeling like a usurper, I stood with the women and became a refugee. We moved on. This life was bounded by food queues, but on the ship there was no fear of the food disappearing before we were fed-and it was good food, too, not waste material. The Americans stood in a line and dished out meat and vegetables, bread and ice-cream on to our trays, which were fitted with depressions for the purpose. They found seats for us all, poured us cups of tea, hovered round to look after us. The Polish people ‘said grace and crossed themselves before they started to eat. As they finished, they moved off quietly to make room for others. Opposite me was a mother with small twin daughters. One was eating heartily, the other was a dabbler. With all the patience of a refugee ‘the mother coaxed the child to eat. Thus she had done in Persia, in Russia, through every stage of the weary journey. A refugee who is a mother has the hardest task on earth, I thought.