The Polish Boy from London

By George Mula

In the early 1990s the communist block collapses and Poland re-emerges on the world stage. An incredibly exciting time of momentous change, including economic shock therapy, creating a highly charged atmosphere often described as the greatest opportunity in the history of capitalism. Like the Wild West, it attracted pioneers seeking to exploit the opportunity and the women who came with it. The book follows the life of an anti-hero born in the displaced Polish community after WW2 and ideally placed to be such a pioneer.

In a frank and honest way, it breaks the traditional male code of silence and exposes the behaviour of businessmen travelling abroad. A story of a meteoric rise to success followed by spectacular failure. The author doesn’t hold back on his strong opinion on the treatment of Poland throughout history, his own highly controversial views on political correctness and his clear preferences for the way women present themselves, in keeping with the period.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035829354

George Mula

George Mula is a holder of the Polish Silver Cross of Merit (Civil). Born in London, to a Polish family displaced by WW2, his mother fought in the Warsaw Uprising, his father in the Italian Campaign. Brought up in England, he made his career in London until the first free elections when he was a member of a British Government Mission to Poland, thereafter raising capital for a Polish business. He has appeared in TV, news, and media, as well as a ladies fashion magazine. Married and divorced twice, he has four sons and two grandsons. A keen sportsman he played competitive squash and, at the age of 65, he entered the boxing ring at the National Stadium in Warsaw.

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About the Author

George Mula is a holder of the Polish Silver Cross of Merit (Civil). Born in London, to a Polish family displaced by WW2, his mother fought in the Warsaw Uprising, his father in the Italian Campaign. Brought up in England, he made his career in London until the first free elections when he was a member of a British Government Mission to Poland, thereafter raising capital for a Polish business. He has appeared in TV, news, and media, as well as a ladies fashion magazine. Married and divorced twice, he has four sons and two grandsons. A keen sportsman he played competitive squash and, at the age of 65, he entered the boxing ring at the National Stadium in Warsaw.

Dedication

To Barbara and Marian, my parents, without whom none of this would be possible even if they might not wholly approve.

Copyright Information ©

George Mula 2024

The right of George Mula to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035829323 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035829330 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781035829354 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781035829347 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.co.uk

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

The photograph on the front cover was taken by Coral Mula.

Chapter 1

June 1992

Poland

The face in the mirror would be hard for anyone to tear their eyes away from: a truly arresting blonde, not unlike a young Grace Kelly, but with green eyes, like almond emeralds, to drown in. Both were surrounded by absurdly long natural lashes to which she was putting the finishing touches of mascara. Finally, she applied a fire engine red shiny lip gloss to accentuate her full and sensuous lips. Curiously, she didn’t find her own image quite so compelling, but even at twenty-four, experience had taught her that men found her almost impossible to resist. Her final look in the mirror was one of satisfaction rather than self-adulation.

This was going to be a horrible evening for Bożena Szymańska. The encounter was something she dreaded but was determined to go through with. She felt betrayed by George, whom she had thought was her great love, and was hell-bent on revenge. She wanted her revenge now. Badly. Even if that meant paying an awful price. In common with many young Polish women, or perhaps just young women in general anywhere, the Oscar Wilde wisdom ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’ was entirely alien to her.

She was wearing a light grey silk mini dress George had bought for her from the Young Polish Designers shop just behind the Universal building, in central Warsaw. It exposed her gorgeous long legs that were bare and lightly tanned now that it was June and pleasantly warm. It also accentuated her very slim waist and was cut cleverly at the top so as to give her firm young breasts support without the need for a bra. Her only underwear was in the form of white silk high-cut bikini panties.

The dress was coupled with silver sandals on stilettos to provide a truly stunning appearance with great poise but without the slightest trace of vulgarity. It was always a mystery how beautiful young women could achieve this effect to the eternal chagrin of ladies of a certain age. Otherwise, they could so easily have made themselves look like the working girls, behind the Marriott Hotel in Warsaw. Yet they didn’t, being young and fresh like flowers in bloom.

For this reason, George always found the reactions of such ladies, often overripe themselves, somewhat unworthy, jealous, small-minded and cruel. His own mother lived until ninety-five and had herself worn short skirts in the 1960s and 1970s. She was quite clear, even in her final years, that there was no image more attractive for a young woman than being dressed in a mini dress showing her shapely legs. Fashion, she insisted, was merely a means to create a constant market to sell cloth. It was never truly based on aesthetics but on the commercial necessity for perpetual change.

Unlike most women, she understood this only too well. But then she had honesty, intelligence, courage in her convictions and class on her side. Jealousy simply did not feature in George’s parents’ home. His father, a multi-talented man of many achievements, found such feelings quite repugnant, as did his mother. Just like the insidious social censorship of political correctness, hardly better than Stalinist totalitarian methods of prohibition. Given his upbringing, it was ironic that George was forever a victim of jealousy.

He was also acutely aware of the selective and somewhat female-dominated nature of political correctness. It was apparently acceptable to describe the physical attractions of the Adonis hero in Fifty Shades of Grey while completely unacceptable to portray beautiful young women almost in any forum. It seemed to him that sexual desires had somehow become acceptable for women but unacceptable in men, which underlined what nonsense it all was. But, in 1992, Poland was still one of the last bastions of male chauvinism.

Bożena stood up from the chair in front of the mirror with a sigh. She walked towards the door of her small apartment and put on the light raincoat hanging there. It was still quite warm outside, but the coat provided some cover from leering eyes. She really did look spectacular. The taxi was waiting for her, and she was fed up with cab drivers adjusting their rear-view mirrors to catch sight of her legs.

She was bound for Helenów Palace just outside Warsaw, past Pruszków, to the south-west. A very discrete facility run by the Ministry of Defence available to the ‘great and the good’ by approval and vetting of the Ministry. It was used especially for meetings where the highest level of discretion and security was required. The service was provided by uniformed soldiers. There was no menu. Five courses were served with alcohol to match each course. Bożena was due to stop at a designated point on Aleje Jerozolimskie, the primary east-west artery through the city centre, on the way out of Warsaw.

Presently, the taxi came to a halt at the address. She saw the ministerial standard issue black Skoda already parked and so paid the taxi driver and walked across. As she approached the car, the driver got out and opened a rear door for her. Inside sat a middle-aged man with a fat belly. She felt herself shiver but sat down next to him.

Andrzej Sikora, the minister introduced himself.

Bożena Szymańska. I’m very pleased to meet you, sir. She surveyed him. He was in his late forties but looked a good ten years older. Clearly, he took no exercise and lived an unhealthy lifestyle much like virtually all his contemporaries; no doubt, due for a heart attack before his time.

They made very little conversation for the remainder of the journey, just the odd polite exchange, and she was grateful when the Skoda finally drove into the grounds and stopped in front of the elaborate two-sided stairway to the pillared entrance. At the bottom stood an Army Major in uniform to greet them.

The Major opened the minister’s door while his driver stepped back to open the door for Bożena. He looked to see if he could catch sight of her legs, or perhaps even more, as she stepped out of the car, but the raincoat maintained her dignity admirably.

Bożena was proud of the characteristic Burberry coat George had bought her in London, in Old Bond Street. Afterwards, they had a drink at the Polo Bar in the Westbury Hotel, just around the corner, where they were staying. It was always the same with George. He loved that bar and unfailingly ordered a bottle of Louis Roederer Brut. They occasionally drank the vintage Roederer, ‘Crystal’, in clubs, but she discovered that when it came to vintage champagnes, George had other favourites like the stunning Comte de Champagne, champagne much favoured by Ian Fleming and seen in From Russia with Love as the choice of James Bond, himself.

George had delighted in showing off and telling her about the Polish connection. Ian Fleming had an affair with the famous Polish World War II spy Krystyna Skarbek, aka Christine Granville, among other pseudonyms. She provided him with the inspiration for Vesper, the main female character in Casino Royale, Fleming’s first James Bond novel.

But all that was behind her now. Bożena was determined on her path. The soldiers took their coats, and they went straight to the dining room rather than up to the bedroom, which had been prepared for them. Neither had even taken an overnight bag, which the soldiers greeting them had expected to take from the car. Bożena felt a little awkward, but that was the least of her worries.

The dinner was painful. Sikora’s attempts at humour left her cold, especially after the sophistication she experienced with George. She picked at her food and drank sparingly. Just enough to dull her senses a little. While Sikora mixed his own steak tartar, including a sardine and lots of raw onion, he alluded rather crudely to the imagined effect on his virility.

He washed this down with copious amounts of vodka. Bożena managed a wan smile while she thought of the vile smell of his breath. This was made even worse when they moved to the library for dessert, always cake in Helenów. Or in the case of Sikora, brandy and a Cuban cigar. Bożena didn’t want the cake, but it did help in putting off the inevitable for a few more minutes.

Sikora was looking very smug by now, I think it is time to go upstairs, my dear young lady, was his sole pathetic attempt at charm.

Of course, but perhaps you would like to finish your cigar, sir.

No, I think not. Let’s go, he said taking her hand, almost pulling her out of her chair. She wrestled her hand free but accompanied him up the stairs, nonetheless.

A couple of pairs of soldiers’ eyes followed Bożena until she was out of sight. They then looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. What a waste? one of them muttered under his breath.

Sikora opened the door, and as Bożena stepped in and saw the bed in front of her, another chill travelled down her spine. I just need to pop into the bathroom for a minute, she said stepping in that direction.

Just don’t be too long, was his rather obvious reply.

He threw off the cover from the bed and started to undress. Meanwhile, Bożena took off her dress and put on the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, placing a condom in the pocket. He isn’t going to spoil my dress as well, she thought to herself and gritting her teeth opened the door.

Stepping into the bedroom, she placed the dress on a chair. Sikora was already in bed. His clothes were strewn over the floor. He covered most of his body with the bed linen. Not only was he fat but covered in dark black hair all over his body, including his back. Everywhere, that is, except his head where he was receding heavily as well as having a significant bald patch at the back.

So come over here where I can look at you and take off the robe, he said imperiously. She moved towards the bed and slipped off the robe. ‘Fuck’ was all he could say at the sight of her perfect body still in the white silk panties and stiletto heels. Come here. Get into bed. He was sounding more authoritarian by the minute.

Once in bed, he was all over her trying to kiss her too. She turned her head away. His breath was, as she had anticipated, unimaginably disgusting, and he was panting heavily. She reached down for the condom, which she had placed on the bedside cabinet and handed it to him. I think you had better put this on, she said. She had never used condoms with George but bought this heavily lubricated variety earlier in the day.

While he busied himself with the condom, she slipped off her panties and lay on her back. All too soon, he climbed on top of her, still vainly trying to kiss her while pushing her legs apart and entering her. He started to crudely thrust into her, panting even more heavily.

Far from looking bored, a look of disgust formed on her lovely face. He was hurting her. Please, God, let this be over quickly, she pleaded in silence. Deserving or not, her prayers were answered almost immediately as he came with a great roar.

Instantly, Bożena extracted herself from under his now limp sweaty bulk. She first put on her panties and stilettos and then quickly grabbing the dress from the chair, almost running, retreated to the bathroom. After locking the door, she took out cigarettes and a lighter from the handbag she had left there and lit one with shaking hands.

What a fucking pig! Jesus! That is a minister? Drunken fat pig! I will never ever forgive George for this.

Chapter 2

1956

North London

On a Victorian terrace in Islington, two small kids three and four years old were playing in a modestly furnished room. The three-year-old was a girl called Marta while the elder boy was George although they spoke Polish, and he was known by the Polish version Jerzy, or rather the diminutive Jurek. If George is read as if written in the Cyrillic alphabet, it is pronounced Juri and so nothing is lost in translation. In each case, the ‘J’ properly sounds like a ‘Y’ in Polish.

Both were contentedly drawing. At first, princesses, sharing a protractor when drawing their expansive crinoline dresses. Then George started to copy a picture of a Winged Hussar from an illustrated book about the great Polish victory at Vienna in 1683 when King Jan III Sobieski routed the massed armies of the Ottoman Empire that held the city under siege. The battle started with a charge by the winged hussars. The wings made from feathers, usually eagle feathers, made the hussars look larger. But the noise they made during the charge, as the wind passed through the feathers, served to frighten the enemy and terrified their horses.

Their mother Irena, was working bending over a table in the corner of the room, making jewellery. By coincidence, the BBC Light Programme on the radio was playing a song by Renata Bogdańska, the wife of the much revered Polish General Władysław Anders who brought more than a hundred thousand exiled Poles out of Siberian labour camps in 1942 to form the Polish II Corps, which fought as part of the British Eighth Army, most notably in Italy. George’s father and his immediate family had taken part in that epic journey and struggle for survival.

The children finished their drawings and ran across to show their mother their works of art. Mummy, we have finished the pictures for our grandparents, said George holding up his picture of the winged hussar.

Wonderful. How beautiful! I will just put them in an envelope together with my letter to your grandparents. I will tell them as well that you have learnt the words of the Polish National Anthem. They will be proud of you, was Irena’s response as she kissed and cuddled her children.

This area just off the Caledonian Road, no more than half a mile from Pentonville Prison, was not then as fashionable as in later days when Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister, lived nearby. In the mid-1950s, in the immediate vicinity, there were three Polish families, a few Irish families and Cypriots as well as English. There were still a few bomb sites around which they passed on the walk to the Polish church on Devonia Road.

All three Polish families sent their children to private Catholic convent schools, complete with elocution lessons, to give their children the best possible start in life. They did this by making great sacrifices in order that their children could integrate into society in ways which were not necessarily open to them as foreigners, especially Poles. It is difficult for any society to accept people whom it has betrayed. Conscience made it almost impossible. The Poles were certainly betrayed at Yalta where Churchill and Roosevelt sold their most faithful ally to Stalin.

The army had taken the Poles to England. Virtually, none of those who had survived Siberia felt they could return and the lands from which they came, ‘Kresy’ were now annexed into the Soviet Union. They were not made to feel very welcome in England but were rightly afraid to return to the system from which they had barely escaped with their lives where so many others perished and some didn’t gain freedom until the collapse of the Soviet Union.

They were the lucky ones but had become displaced persons without a home. Most came with nothing. Once demobbed, George’s father’s first job was in a Manchester coal mine. After moving to London, he worked as a waiter in Claridges where his own father, in contrast to his enviable position in pre-war Poland, was now a doorman. George’s father then started to study and ultimately became a highly successful figure in his field.

Chapter 3

Summer 1964

School

By 1964, George had grown very fast and at 168 cm was very big and athletically built for his age of twelve. Having passed his eleven plus exam, he was attending a grammar school with excellent sporting facilities. He was a fine cricketer already able to bowl quite fast. It was a Wednesday afternoon, which always ended with a double games period. The sun was shining, and they were playing cricket. George was bowling. Standing at the crease was a plump batsman the same age and while also quite tall for his age, slightly shorter than George.

George began his long run up and gathering pace bowled a very fast ball that beat the batsman for speed and broke the stumps. How’s that? shouted George together with his fielding teammates.

The schoolteacher umpire raised his finger to pronounce the batsman ‘out’ in answer to the appeal. His teammates patted him on the back.

Bloody Polak! mumbled the batsman George had just removed.

Yeah. Want to make something of it? replied George squaring up to him.

What? You going to take off your jersey Jerzy and fight me? said the batsman swinging his bat