[b]Polish Ex-Combatants Association
Hammersmith, London
6:15PM, 29th July, 1966[/b]

Bohdan “Bobby” Lewandowski had spent all morning and afternoon looking for work. In his most expensive suit, he had traipsed from one factory to another – hoping his clothes might keep certain doors open that his accent would not. He had, of course, been unsuccessful. According to the newspapers, unemployment was at its lowest rate in over ten years. Given the number of doors Lewandowski had slammed shut in his face over the past few weeks, it was hard to believe that.

There was one place where he knew would be given a warm welcome. Hammersmith was home to half a dozen Polish shops, twice as many Polish clubs and associations, and even a library owned by an elderly Polish couple. Here “Bobby” could become Bohdan again. He could speak in his mother tongue, eat meals that he had grown up eating, and hear slithers of news smuggled back from the Motherland.

There was no better a place for that than the Ex-Combatants Association on King Street. The receptionist smiled upon spotting Bobby entering it and clambered to let him in. She was pretty, older than him by a good six or seven years, and unmarried – which explained why she always left her stool with such speed when she spotted him. The pair spoke for a few moments before Lewandowski made his way through the common room to the office of the man he had come to see.

“<General Jarosiewicz.>”

In a green leather armchair in the corner of the spacious office sat an old man in military uniform. According to his friends, the old man had once been all of six foot, four inches tall. Some combination of the injuries he had sustained in the war and old age had left him just north of six foot now. He was as thin as a rake, and his craggy, greying skin was lighter even than his hair. On his brow sat one, continuous, black eyebrow – it rose as he rose from his seat to greet Bohdan.

“<Andrzej will suffice, young master Lewandowski.>”

They embraced and the general returned to his seat.

“<How are things?>”

The old man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket a produced a weathered notebook and a pencil. He flicked the notebook open, licked the tip of the tiny, grubby pencil and scribbled down a few words.

“<Things? [i]Things[/i] are fine, Bohdan. Gomułka’s false promises have turned to ashes in our people’s mouths, as I warned them they would, and now our country stands on the cusp of something far worse.>”

“<I did not think things could get worse, General.>”

“Things can [i]always[/i] get worse.”

There were some at the Ex-Combatants Association that questioned why the old man still wore his uniform, but it was clear enough to Lewandowski. [i]His war never ended[/i], he thought to himself as he watched the old man making notes. [i]His heart is still there – still in Poland[/i]. 

“<You know, when we first came to London during the war, your father was convinced the British would stand by us at Yalta. Maybe the Americans would renege on their promises, but the British? Winston Churchill? After all we had done for them, all the Polish lives lost, Churchill would be true to his word.>”

They had all thought it – even the good general himself, though he rarely recounted that part of the tale. “[i]The betrayal[/i],” as it had become known in the Motherland. The moment a grubby deal between Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin sentenced hundreds of thousands of Polish scattered across Europe to a life in exile. It was in the moment that Andrzej Jarosiewicz and Bobby’s father, Bartek, knew their war would continue here in London. They had spent every penny they had helping the resistance in Poland – smuggling contraband home to those in need, even smuggling people [i]out[/i] on occasion.

It was a risky business.

“What I would not give to be young and naive again, Bohdan.”

The younger man nodded knowingly and produced a flask from inside his coat. He unscrewed it and passed it to the general, who took a hearty swill of the vodka inside of it, before passing it back. They spoke among themselves for a time with Bohdan keeping Andrzej informed about his search for work. Finally, they reached the topic both men had been dancing around since Lewandowski’s arrival.

“<Tomorrow is an important day.>”

“<Do not talk to me about the football. Everywhere I go there is football. These people are obsessed with it. You know, poor Mieczysław was set upon in the street by some children. They thought he was German.>”

“<No,>” Bohdan replied. “<Tomorrow I take delivery of another shipment. A [i]substantial[/i] one – perhaps the largest to date. I hope to buy myself a new pair of shoes, perhaps a new coat, but otherwise I hope that you will be gracious enough to accept a … [i]donation[/i] from me. For those in need back in the Motherland.> 

The old man’s eyes narrowed slightly – as if voicing his silent concern for the boy’s safety – but sure enough they softened and his rose once more from his seat. The greying flesh of his hands clasped Lewandowski’s shoulders tightly in a grateful embrace.

“You are a good boy, Bohdan. Your father would be proud of you.”

With that, Lewandoski took his leave. A tube and a train later and he was back on the street he called home in West Norwood. There were flags in the house of every window and the sound of children’s feet skittling after well-worn footballs carried through the night. Every now and then there would be a roar as a young boy would put the ball through a goal made of discarded jumpers or milk bottles. They would wheel away, arms lifted in celebration, as they celebrated what was surely the winning goal in the World Cup Final.

That England would be victorious tomorrow was a given to them. Whether Lewandowski would make it through the heist was anyone's guess.