The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  “Deed you see that beeg stone?” he cried, staring at me with a terrified expression. It was a little jest for my benefit.

  Again I have spent another disgracefully lazy day, stretched on my bunk, reading. I would have loved to do a few exercises on my hidden corner on deck, but I dare not take the chance. Even my trip for my daily shower is fraught with danger. It is a communal shower and, so far as I know, the only one on this tiny vessel. It is just a few yards away down the passage past the crew’s quarters, but it seemed a long way as I reeled along, armed with towel and soap.

  On my way, I could see several of the big, flaxen-haired seamen lying on their bunks, and I am sure I did not imagine the hollow groans issuing from the doorways. Can it be that even these supermen are seasick …?

  I really have nothing more to write about today, but tomorrow we should be in Stettin, and with a bit of luck I might get ashore and see something of interest.

  November 5, 1961

  My wedding anniversary. Strange to be spending it in Poland.

  This morning when I awoke, the world was still, and the sea and sky were not wheeling beyond my cabin windows. I realised that we must be in Stettin and heaved myself up in my bunk. I saw that we were moored to a frost-covered quay. It was very foggy, but I could see several men with rods fishing from the quayside.

  There was a Polish soldier on guard, but he was not festooned with artillery like the Russians. Also, he smiled when I called out to him. We were lying in a quiet backwater of the main river, the Oder, and there were willow trees and rushes at the water’s edge. I judged from the wooden sheds with pens that this was probably a special place for the loading of livestock.

  The usual mob of officials descended on us. Representatives from customs, immigration and farms. Among them was a handsome young Polish army officer who insisted not only on seeing the passports, but on interviewing each of their owners too.

  I tentatively approached the captain as he dealt with the throng in his cabin.

  “I’d like to go ashore into the town,” I said.

  His expression was slightly harassed, and I couldn’t help feeling that he would be glad to get rid of this pest from Yorkshire. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

  “I am too busy to go with you, Mr. Herriot, and we must leave here at 11 A.M.”

  “Well, that gives me two hours,” I replied. My natural curiosity and my almost desperate desire for some exercise lent weight to my appeal.

  “All right.” He raised a finger. “But you will not be late?”

  “No, I promise you.”

  He nodded and returned to his business, while I showed my pass to the soldier and set off for the town. Oh, it was lovely to be able to stride out in the frosty air, to feel my limbs moving after the days of immobility and Nielsen’s insidious skills. The fog had lifted, and I could see, about two miles away, the roofs and spires of a sizable town.

  First I passed a military barracks with gymnastic equipment outside it, then allotments with a few women digging in them. My immediate impression as I approached the town was of the tremendous devastation left from the R.A.F. raids in wartime. Everywhere there were ruins and empty spaces. Vast buildings, some with ornate statuary over the doors, stood roofless, with gaping windows.

  During the first mile of my walk, I saw hardly any evidence of effort to repair these ravages. It was not until I reached the town centre that I came on modern blocks of flats with shops on their ground floors. I took great care to impress every turning on my mind—if I got lost, I couldn’t ask my way back.

  Right inside the town, I was able to pin a general impression of the place and people. Obviously they observed Sunday as a holiday, because there was nobody working in the port area, and most of the shops were closed. Notable exceptions were two hairdressers’ salons side by side, designated “Damski” and “Meski” above their respective doors. A lady was having a manicure in the front window of “Damski.”

  The population was arrayed in its Sunday best, and it seemed to me remarkable that the well-dressed man in Poland wore what amounted almost to a uniform. Black beret with a small stalk projecting from the top, dark gabardine macintosh and navy-blue suit. Also, every single one had a scarf crossed under his coat. The women were much smarter than in Klaipeda.

  There were little kiosks on every comer, and people were strolling up to buy their newspapers and cigarettes. These places also sold draught beer and, having been on an exclusive diet of bottled lager for some time, I watched with envy as one fellow downed a frothing pint. If I had possessed any Polish money, it would have been nice to emulate him.

  Stettin has 350,000 inhabitants, and I was struck by the greater air of comfort and civilisation, compared with Klaipeda. The people looked altogether smoother and more urbane, and the town had a cheerful atmosphere despite the ever-present ruins.

  Funny little single-decker tramcars ran through the streets, always in pairs, one joined to the other, and there were a lot of private cars and taxis.

  Shops displayed attractive dresses and materials, but a huge picture of Lenin reminded me that I was still behind the iron curtain.

  Croups of youths, well dressed and laughing among themselves, were sauntering around, and I watched one family getting off a tram: Mum very chic in a light, fluffy hat and brightly coloured coat, Dad in the unvarying black beret and mac, and two teenage sons in identically the same outfit.

  As I passed over the main river bridge, I could see innumerable barges moored along the banks. I walked past many churches but saw only two elderly women going into them.

  I was amused when a little man in a soft hat, breeches and riding boots came and asked me the way to somewhere in an unintelligible gibberish. He, too, it seemed was a stranger, but not, I warrant, as much a stranger as I.

  It was now a glorious cold, sunny day and I was revelling in the activity after my incarceration, but I kept referring to my son Jimmy’s pocket watch and, when I saw I had been away an hour, I had to turn back.

  I reached the ship before 11 A.M. and found the Polish officials still in the captain’s cabin. They had given the free booze and cigarettes a severe hammering and were exuding bonhomie when I came in.

  They seemed very glad to see me and shouted for me to sit down with them with merry cries of “Doktor, please, Doktor, please.” I thought it was the schnapps that made them so welcoming, but later the captain said they had been anxious in case I got lost and kept asking him, “Has the Englishman returned yet?”

  But, he said, there was no doubt they had wrought havoc among the bottles, all except the young Polish officer, who had been very correct and after one drink politely declined any more.

  I went down to the hold and had a look at the pigs. We have them for only twenty-four hours and nobody seems particularly concerned about them, but pigs are funny things—they often fight among themselves, and it occurred to me that if 800 of them started a free-for-all, it would be a problem.

  However, Polish pigs are perhaps more placid than ours because I found them all lying asleep, snuggling up to each other in perfect harmony. During the day I heard an occasional squeal from the hold and dashed down there in some anxiety, but it always turned out to be an isolated squabble or flash of irritation, with none of the bleeding scars or torn ears I had seen so often in Yorkshire. On the whole, peace has reigned.

  We have taken aboard a great load of potatoes to feed them till we reach Lübeck.

  The crew do not like carrying pigs because of the smell, and there is no doubt the ship has an entirely different aroma now. This does not percolate as far as the cabins or mess room, but I am told that in the summer it is pretty bad and shipboard life is dominated by the ever-present atmosphere of pig.

  After lunch I spent a fascinating afternoon on the deck as the ship made its way through the delta of the Oder, which spreads itself into a maze of huge lakes. This, I was told, is characteristic of the coastline in this region, right along through Estonia, Latvia and