I participated in a truly historic day today. The remains of the first three Polish presidents in exile were exhumed 3 days ago from Newark Cemetery and today the 3 coffins were officially blesssed in St Mary Magdalene Catholic Church in Newark and made ready to begin their final joutney to be interned at the Holy Providence Church in Warsaw, along with other figures, forming part of a kind of a Polish pantheon. Polish ministers were present along with the Earl of St. Andrews and many of the leading figures from the Polish community in London, Manchester and Bradford filled the church to witness this event.
In London we had turned up to catch a coach outside the Polish Embassy at the outlandidh time of 7.45 in the morning. Many of the the leading chairs of Polish organizations in London were in that coach and although the atmosphere was very serene and friendly we mostly spent the early part of the journey in silence, carching up on sleep. We stopped for breakfast somewhere near Peterborough, and again for a shorter stop near Grantham. We finally arrived in Newark outside the church after mid-day. From the coach I could see the attraction of the town centre with a medieval castle overlooking a very picturesque River Trent and also some fine Georgian and Victorian architecture, including a brewery, perched around tiny narrow streets through which our giant coach could barely pass.
The rain had stopped and although I had arrived with a large umbrella and a coat, I decided to leave them in the coach. After all, I was only going to spend time indoors, first in the church, and then for a reception at Newark Town Hall, which was almost directly opposite to the church. Big mistake. The inside of the restored medieval church was beautiful indeed, tall and full of light from the upper windows. It was also very cold. The mass, which started at 1.30 was an hour and a half long. The Polish army choir vied with the local St Magdalene Church choir as they interspersed the liturgy with hymns, some in Polish and some in English. But the mass was also punctuated with bugle calls and with Polish soldiers in full dress uniform stomping up and down the aisle as they changed their watch over the three coffins, draped in presidential colours. As we all felt the chill inside the church, I could at least reminisce about my previous visit to this church, when the remains of Polish wartime prime minister General Sikorski had been exhumed 30 years ago and transferred to the Wawel Castle in Krakow, under the watchful eye of the Duke of Edinburgh.
The oldest of the three presidents had been Wladyslaw Raczkiewicz, who had been nominated in September 1939 by the last pre-war president, after the latter had been interned in Romania. Raczkiewicz had been based in France and after 1940 in London and was recognized as the rightful president by all the allied and even neutral governments, and even, at one stage by Stalin. However, when under the Yalta Agreement in 1945, Poland was left abandoned as a Soviet satellite state, Rackiewicz was no longer recognized as President. Yet he continued until his death in 1948 and, after much controversy, he was succeeded by his eventual nominee, August Zaleski, a former Polish foreign minister, who had managed to have Rackiewicz's last will changed in his favour, rather than the previously designated nominee, Tomasz Arciszewski, who was a Socialist. Zaleski remained President in exile until his death in 1972, and refused to step down when his five year term of office had ended. This caused a massive rupture as General Anders, along with Arciszewski and the prominent diplomat, Count Raczynski, set up a rival Committee of Three. Zaleski was succeeded in turn by his nominee Stanislaw Ostrowski, the last Polish mayor of pre-war Lwow. Ostrowski, who was seen as a unity president, then carried on the burden of office until 1979, before he too handed over the seals of office to his successor, Raczynski. It must all seem very ruritarian but these presidents were acting in accordance with the 1935 constitution, whereby in time of war or national emergency, the president, who, according to that constitution, "was responsible only before God and history", could nominate his successor. The legitimacy of this office acted as a moral and political counterweight to the Communist regime in Poland, whose legitimacy was not based on proper free elections, but on the will of the Soviet overlords. Amazingly enough these presidents completed their mission to the end, as Raczynski eventually nominated his successor Kazimierz Sabbat, and then, as late as 1989 when Sabbat died unexpectedly, his successor Ryszard Kaczorowski handed over his seals of office, the original copy of the 1935 constitution, and the presidential flag taken down from the Royal Palace in 1939, to his successor, Lech Walesa, who was legitimately elected by universal suffrage in December 1990, after Poland was free. One could smirk, but still it was truly a matter of mission accomplished. Today that completed mission was honoured by the transfer of the remains of these three presidents to Warsaw.
I remember when Zaleski died in 1972. He had lived in isolation in his residence in Eaton Place, near Sloane Square, rarely venturing out, because the majority of public opinion in Polish London had tended to view General Anders as the most prominent Polish figure. However Anders, the hero of Monte Cassino, died in 1970, and following Zaleski's death 2 years later, the London Poles were able to agree a compromise candidate in Stanislaw Ostrowski. Although I had no reason to like or admire Zaleski, I travelled by car with Albina and another friend, a former paratrooper from the Battle of Arnhem, to Newark Cemetery. I was drawn there by curiosity over all the pomp and symbolism. I remember the silence over the grave as Ostrowski spoke, praising his predecessor, and renewing his oath to continue the mission, though to all intents and purposes, they lived in an enclosed bubble of unreality, their seeming legitimacy ignored and treated as irrelevant by the majority of Poles in Poland, and also by many in my generation. I also remember that we then travelled back to London, taking General Kopanski, who had been commander of the Polish garrison in Tobruk, into our car, as he did not want to be returned by coach. Embarassingly my friend's old banger of a car broke down. I had to flag down one of the London bound Polish coaches following not far behind, to make sure the frail old General who was running after me, could get back safely to London.
Finally the ceremony in the church was over. The three coffins were led out of the church by a military escort. Slowly we made our way out of the church, into the pouring rain. I was still coatless, not only frozen cold, but also wet, as I made my way across the market square to the beautiful Georgian town hall for the reception. Then there were many speeches, from the Polish Ambassador, Polish ministers, a member of Ostrowski's family and the Mayor of Newark. As usual the Polish speeches were pompous and overong, and the English speeches short, respectful and humorous. When will they ever learn? However the snacks that accompanied the wine, provided by Nottinghamshire County Council, were a delight, as they were small morsels, brimming with exciting and unexpected flavours, both sweet and savoury, that you could just pop into your mouth There were numerous TV stations but I was too absorbed chatting to friends who travelled from Bradford and Manchester and missed any opportunity to engage with the media. Probably a sad thing as the Polish communities were seen largely as witnesses to the event, rather than as fellow organizers. After all, the three presidents were part of us and our heritage, and we were not even party to the decision to make the transfer.
What would public opinion in Poland make of it? Something from the obscure distant past, of little relevance to Poland today. Earlier, on my way from the coach to the church, as I crossed the market square, I overheard a Polish TV journalist consult his programme manager in Warsaw. "All right, all right," he was snarling, "just how many of these fucking Presidents are there?" On the one hand, sentiment and admiration for a mission accomplished, on the other cynicism and indifference about the past. Welcome back to Polish reality.
Our coach sped back silently through the night, back to London and to reality.
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