Our Dad

For as long as I can remember, our dad, Zbigniew Sujczyński, a doctor, worked a lot. In an ugly industrial small town called Żychlin in central Poland, where we lived between 1957 and 1964, he was seeing patients at the local health center and, in the afternoons and evenings, at home. Dad, only thirty years old at that time, was a very popular physician, and as such he did not have much time for family life or a social life. As part of their private practice, provincial doctors in addition to their clinic hours had to pay home visits to bedridden and disabled clients in the surrounding villages. Since cars were scarce and the doctors also did not own them, horse-drawn fiacres,  or droshky, or - in winter -  sleighs would be provided for them by clients’ families. Dad usually took me for a ride in these exciting vehicles, even at night, and while he was treating a patient in the warm khata, I toddled around the farmyard, if the weather permitted, or sat quietly in a corner, from where I watched him doing whatever a doctor usually does: taking the person’s temperature, pressing into their belly, tapping their back, looking into the ears, nose and throat, and listening to the heartbeat and lungs. Those visits were usually long ones, as Dad did not limit himself to performing the physical examination; he also talked a lot with his patients, mostly elderly people, who, more than medicine, needed a cordial chat with someone kind and friendly, craving words of comfort, and emotional support. And Dad gave them what they needed. He had a lot of warmth and empathy, and loved people. He was also a doctor endowed with extraordinary medical intuition, and was reputed to be an excellent diagnostician. He saw his profession as a mission, and he treated the poor free. He was a doctor by vocation.

            In Otwock, a charming small town where we moved in 1964, with characteristic wooden houses with verandas and porches, Dad initially worked as a radiologist (rather than as a doctor per se) at one of the tuberculosis sanatoriums, while preparing for the diagnostic radiology exam. He no longer had his private practice, therefore he could devote more time to his studies and his family. We all tremendously enjoyed long walks with him in the “healing” pine forests, reputed to provide protection against all sorts of pulmonary illnesses.  While we were walking, he would instruct us on how we should live our lives. He would stress the value of education, because it conferred a person  self-esteem and independence, and ensured the respect of other people. He also told us about his childhood in Choceń and Kiernozia, where his father, Theodor, was a school director, and about his participation in the Polish Boy Scouts movement which, during the Second World War, turned into an underground resistance organization called The Gray Ranks.

            Soon Dad became very busy again: he began working at a prestigious hospital which work often required him to stay for the night shift and weekends. Afraid of losing contact with us, he decided that we would spend Sunday afternoons with him at the hospital. While he was busy seeing patients, we were doing our homework, and Mom was reading or knitting. Dad would come to us whenever he had a break, to talk, make jokes, drink tea and eat the cake that Mum would bake especially for these occasions. Family was just as important to him as was his work.

            Then came the time of the long-dreamed-of travels: Dad received a medicine scholarship from the French Government, and spent a year in Paris as an intern at the Curie Oncology Center. Later, he went to Morocco, where he lived and worked for five years. He was a radiologist specializing in diagnostic radiology, but a doctor in a Moroccan hospital in those days needed to be a generalist. The experience and skills gained during the years of his medical practice in Żychlin proved to be invaluable to Dad, as was the ease of interacting with uneducated people, also acquired there. He enjoyed a great sympathy among the Moroccan patients and also with his co-workers, who invited him to their homes, and even to their  weddings. 

            When he retired, he walked his dogs, making the acquaintance of his neighbors and of passers-by. He would gladly exchange a few words with everyone. There was something special about him that made people confide their troubles to him, health-related or not. He listened to people, comforted them, gave advice. He also helped those less fortunate in life with small amounts of money. He was generous. 

            His death did not only pain his family and friends: a few days after his passing, a mailman brought his retirement payment as usual to “pan (Mister) Zbyszek”. When he heard that Dad had died, this man, always so cheerful, hugged Mom and wept. And an old friend from Żychlin, after reading the obituary in the newspaper, wrote to tell me that her mother, who was 86, had never forgotten the kindness of our Dad who had greatly helped her once.

            “Goodness deserves love.” (Józef Tischner)

Paradise

In 1996 Money magazine identified Madison, WI as the best place to live in the United States. This agreed with our sense of the place.  At that time Ed and I  were renting an apartment in a neat high-rise building with a hotel-style lobby, underground parking, and a heated outdoor pool. The building bordered on a large park where wild rabbits hopped merrily, as in a Disney movie, elder folks gathered for Saturday concerts and younger people played tennis on nearby courts.  The "Sovereign Apartments" were meant to be perfect - to such an extent that the proud administrator instructed the tenants, in his newsletter, not to dry pool towels on their balconies as it “cheapened the building". Thankfully, we were allowed to have pets. I made friends with a young couple who owned two cats. She was a nurse and often worked the swing shift; we would chat while we watched our cats playing on the lawn. Somewhere out there, in the ugly world, a serial killer was prowling and attacking young women, but it did not concern us - we lived in a paradise. Or so it seemed to us.

          One day, in the ugly world, the serial killer struck again, and was finally caught. This time his victim was an exchange student from South America, to whom he delivered a package sent by her family. It turned out that the killer was working for UPS and living … in our idyllic apartment building, no less. Suddenly the "Sovereign Apartments" became a center of the ugly world, TV crews and reporters were swarming around the building and asking the surprised tenants about the murderer. Most of us never saw him. Only the nurse who worked night shifts confided to the reporter that she met the man once in the underground parking. When he looked at her, there was something in his gaze that gave her goose bumps, she said. As is usually the case, the media soon forgot about our apartment building, but the idyllic atmosphere was gone for good. The administrator gave up printing his newsletter, and the tenants started provocatively drying their pool towels on their balconies not caring in the least that it “cheapened the building".

                                       Gypsies

                        

They would come every year in their colorful horse-drawn wagons and set up camp on a large dusty square within easy reach of the workers’ main housing district. Was it in spring, in summer or fall? Gypsies did not wander in winter. Their sudden appearance would wake the little town up from its deep slumber, in which life flowed slowly and monotonously as if it were imitating the murky waters of the local brook. “Gypsies! The gypsies are coming!” people would warn one another, and instruct the children to always keep the house locked. Most of the people in this town worked at the local factory; after school the kids either remained in the care of their black-clad, limping and grumbling grandmothers, or just played outdoors, with their house key dangling on a shoelace from their skinny necks, and waited for the return of their parents.

        Every afternoon at three o’clock, when the loud siren announced the end of the shift, a wide gray river of workers would start flowing through the rusty factory gate. A little further on, the river would divide into separate streams of people, heading in the direction of their meager dwellings in different parts of the town, and in nearby villages. The workers all looked alike: the men wore gray uniforms and caps, while the women were dressed in gray smocks and scarves. In winter they would all wear grayish or blackish shabby overcoats. The faces of the workers were also gray, either from malnutrition - this was only a few years after the Second World War - from fatigue or both, and looked as if they were covered in ash. The gray crowd would fill the narrow streets lined with gray plastered houses. Clouds of gray smoke from the factory chimneys hovered above the little town, which, with its sparse vegetation, seemed to be devoid of all color. This would change in the blink of an eye, with the arrival of the gypsies.

        The gypsies were strange and frightening people: dark skinned, black-haired, black-eyed, and speaking an incomprehensible language. The women wore long, ruffled, flowery skirts, flowery shawls, and glittering jewelry; the children were dirty, uncombed, snotty, and barefoot; they had black curly hair and black shiny round eyes, which scanned the local kids with friendly curiosity. The blue or amber eyes of the local kids looked back at them with equal curiosity, but less friendly, distrustfully. Gypsies supposedly kidnapped Polish  children, and the kids had been told to be watchful, and to keep away from them. But kids’ curiosity is usually stronger than their fear, and they would sneak up close to the gypsies’ encampment, lured by the noise they made, by the smoke from their fires, by their colorful vehicles adorned with little mirrors and pictures of flowers, and by the rugs and countless cushions piled up inside the wagons. The gypsy women were cooking meals at fires in the open, and doing laundry in washbasins with their kids dabbling their feet in the soapy puddles. It was a separate world within the world everyone else lived in.

        The gypsies - fortune tellers and peddlers, and also, as it turned out, thieves - would steal money from houses, and horses from the surrounding villages to sell them at the next town’s market. They would stay in one place for a couple of weeks only. Soon their wagons would form a caravan and they would leave, much to the relief of the deceived and mugged locals and to the chagrin of the children, taking with them color and glitter, excitement and anxiety. The little town would utter a sigh of sadness and go back to its everyday grayness and sameness.

The Victory of Old Widows

On Sundays, the old widows used to come to the church at dawn and stay till evening. They either hunched in the church pews next to one another, or knelt on the hassocks with their heads resting on clasped hands; I had a suspicion that they dozed, while pretending to be immersed in their prayers. In winter, their shabby overcoats, adorned with balding fur collars, smelled of old mothballs. This unbearable aroma mixed with the sweetish odor of stale urine competed with the stuffy smell of the church incense. In summer, it mixed with the smell of flowers, rotting in vases set on the altars.

On Sundays, the nine o’clock Mass was intended solely for children. They came to the church all dressed up: the girls, in addition to their colorful Sunday clothes, had their hair neatly braided in pigtails, while the boys wore jackets, white shirts and squeaky-clean shoes. Children came to the church on empty stomachs in order to be able to receive Holy Communion, and at least one girl fainted at every Mass. It did not interrupt the celebration however, causing only a minor commotion which lasted only until someone took the girl outside to revive her there.

Before the nine o’clock Mass, while the church was slowly filling up with children, the priest always appealed to the people occupying the pews to leave the church and wait in the yard or at least give up their seats to the kids, standing  to the side. Perhaps then the girls would not faint. But the repeated requests seemed to sink in the dense and smelly air of the church, and never reached the ears of the praying old women. Sometimes the priest would walk down the center aisle, shouting his appeal just above the heads of the hunched widows, but to no avail. Then he decided to use more drastic methods: one Sunday, he brought the church custodian with him, and the two of them tried forcibly to pull the old women from the pews. It was a truly Dantesque scene: the widows, plucked from a nap, not understanding the intentions of the priest and the church custodian, desperately clung with their bony fingers to the pew-tops, resisting with their feet, squealing. So fiercely did they defend themselves against this attempted eviction from the church pews that the priest had to give up. And although, Sunday after Sunday, he kept asking the older people to give their seats up to the children, his voice sounded resigned and sad – he had evidently lost faith in the success of these appeals. Thus girls continued to faint, and everybody seemed to accept it as something normal and inevitable.

Disclaimer: all characters appearing in this little story are fictitious. Only the dress is real.

Dress

The dress was a gift from a Dutch friend who bought it for me in a hard currency shop, which in itself made it special. We were spending Easter vacation in Zakopane, a well-known resort town at the foot of the Tatra Mountains in southern Poland; it was Spring and the snow was melting fast. To waterproof our shoes we needed to buy shoe polish; easier said than done: shoe polish proved to be one of the many almost-unattainable things in my country. When searching in all possible stores came to nothing, I decided to try a duty-free hard currency shop, and bingo! They did sell shoe polish, along with American jeans and corduroy pants, American cigarettes, French cognacs and French perfumes. For a “rich Western man”, as my Dutch friend liked to call himself, everything in this store seemed cheaper than dirt, so he did not content himself with a box of shoe polish; he also bought a good supply of pants for himself and a corduroy shirt-dress for me. The dress was in my favorite color of burgundy, and it matched my burgundy high-heeled boots as well as my fashionable quilted jacket, which was black on one side and burgundy on the other. From this time on I almost lived in this outfit: I wore it every day to work, washing the dress and drying it on a line over the tub in my bathroom every Saturday evening. Over the months, the dress gradually changed color from burgundy to raspberry, then to pink; then the buttonholes begun to fray. Once in a while a troubling thought came to me: “What shall I wear when this one turns to rags?” But I trusted that when the time came, I would find some solution to this issue. Until then I could sleep peacefully.

          Then something terrible happened. One weekend, the central heating in my flat broke, and the dress did not dry. On Monday morning it was so damp that even pressing it with a hot iron did not help. I panicked: what would I wear?! Completing the alternative outfit (which consisted of a black pencil skirt, a gray shirt and a black cardigan), took me something like an hour, in a state of hysteria, so I must have arrived late to work. Normally, it would not matter much, but it was Monday, and Mondays started with important meetings or lectures. That fateful Monday, the lecturer was the director of my department at Institute of Nuclear Research. I was not one of his favorite employees, that much I knew. Scared of interrupting him and exposing myself to a reprimand, I could not make myself open that door and go in. To my relief some other lagger arrived a few minutes later, and without the slightest embarrassment or hesitation, entered the room. I took my chance and slipped in quietly behind him, hoping that nobody would notice. I could not have been more wrong: not only did the director stop his lecture in mid-sentence to bow to me in an ironic gesture of welcome, with all faces turned in my direction, but also a good friend of mine asked aloud with false concern: “Monika! What happened? Has someone broken into your house and stolen your dress?” Some of the audience snickered, and some laughed out loud. I wanted to sink into the ground or die on the spot. I wished I had never been born. I do not recall how I got to my chair nor how I survived the rest of that day. One thing I remember for sure: I never wore that shirt-dress again.

 

French classes at the House of Scientists

There was not much to do in the evenings, so when we learned that the center employees could sign up for French classes, we didn't think twice about it. However, the beginning of the course coincided with a trip to Poland, and we missed the first couple of meetings. When we finally reported to the class, we sensed that we were not welcome there. The teacher did everything in her power to discourage us from remaining: she said it might be difficult for us to catch up with the rest of students, and that the textbook was out-of-print. We told her not to worry and that we'd manage all right. The room was full of Russian scientists and engineers, and we were hoping to make friends with at least some of them.

            In fact, meeting people was the real reason for our attending this course. But when we next came to the class, there were only five students. I felt so disappointed. One nice thing happened though: an older Russian mathematician, lent us the textbook, saying that he owned two. To show him how much we appreciated his friendly gesture, we brought him something unobtainable in Russia: a bottle of French wine and a French record. To my great  surprise, he did not want to accept the gifts. Only after long persuasion did he take the wine and the record, but he absolutely refused to visit us at home; so much for making friends with the Russians.

             The teacher somehow came to terms with the fact that we were attending the class. It soon became apparent that although her pronunciation was incomparably better than mine, I understood more words in French than she did. The only trouble was that I did not always know them in Russian; this made for was a lot of guessing and laughing. The class turned out to be a fun one for our small group.

            And we did, finally, make friends: a young engineer named Lusha, who lived close to us, did not mind walking home together. She came to us for dinner and invited us to her home. Once I asked her why she thought so many people had dropped the class. “It happened because of you” she said. “You mean, they don't like Poles?” I queried. To my relief, I learnt that it had nothing to do with our nationality; the reason was much simpler: the scientists worked on classified projects, and were not allowed to have any contact with foreigners. So when we showed up and insisted on attending the class, they were told - by the local security service agent - to drop it. Others could talk to us, but they had to be careful not to get too friendly. I mused over it all and thought to myself that the inherent Russian distrust of foreigners took really extreme forms.

Eploring around the city of Dubna

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*Lusha did not elaborate by whom. It was generally understood that all people in Dubna were under close surveillance.

                 Obninsk

I'm acting like a celebrity here. What was I thinking? Anyway, Marina is on my left.

Long time ago, when I was working at the Institute of Nuclear Research in Poland, I was sent by pure accident to a conference in Obninsk, Russia. (For those who don't know it, the first nuclear power plant in the world for the large-scale production of electricity opened in Obninsk in 1954.) This conference was only for Russians, obvieusly my absent-minded boss did not read the small letters. The scientists in Obninsk were very surprised when I arrived, but they let me participate in the conference which lasted the whole week. The first sessions started with a welcome "Comrades and Ms. Monika". Then one of a young women, a mathematician named Marina, requested that the session start with "Comrades, Ms. Monika and Ms. Marina". Soon everybody wanted to be called a Mr. or a Ms.  instead of a Comrade. Finally, the political commissar, the so-called politruk, who never smiled and who - I suspected - was there mainly because of me, became really concerned. This looked like a counter-revolution to him, pure and simple.  He had to act. So he took those witty physicists and mathematicians aside and had serious conversation with them. Then the sessions were continued as if nothing had happened.They started as before - with "Comrades and Ms. Monika". 

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From Wikipedia:
The history of Obninsk began in 1945 when the First Research Institute Laboratory "V", which later became known as IPPE was founded. On June 27, 1954, in Obninsk started operations of the world's first nuclear power plant to generate electricity for a power grid. The city was built next to the plant in order to support it. Scientists, engineers, construction workers, teachers and other professionals moved to Obninsk from all over the Soviet Union. Town status was granted to Obninsk on June 24, 1956. The name of the city is taken from Obninskoye, the train station in Moscow-Bryansk railroad, built in Tsarist times.

             Prague

Here is another conference story. This time it really is an international meeting and it takes place in a nuclear research center about 10 km from Prague. The participants are from Russia, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, East Germany, Bulgaria, Cuba and last but not least, from Poland - I from Swierk and two men from Wroclaw. The Cubans are terribly late; they finally arrive in an embassy limousine adorned with funny little flags; it turns out that one of them is a big director of the Cuban nuclear power plant, and the other is - a minister of education. I find it weird; this is a working conference after all, the participants here are to present the results of calculations carried out at their centers.

            The conference is chaired by a Russian (of course) whom I immediately dislike. He has steel grey eyes, and his face reveals no emotion: today's Putin. We all have to speak Russian (of course), with the exception of the Hungarians, who pretend not to understand this language - they brought a translator with them. Everyone in turn presents their results, which were obtained with the use of a Russian computer code adapted to the particular needs of the participating groups. The results differ slightly one from another which is acceptable as the input data are not the same. So far so good. Then comes the turn of the Poles from Wrocław; they did not use the Russian code for their calculations - they wrote their own code. "Putin" says their results are completely off and asks them to repeat the calculations. The Poles insist that their results are correct, unlike all the other results presented. "Putin" ends the session.

            During the break the Cubans, then the others as well, approach the Poles to compare the input data and the method of calculation. They all want to repeat their calculations using the Polish code. I'm amazed, and am proud of my countrymen. I'm proud that they did not bend to the will of the Russian chairman. The Cubans whisper that they're throwing a little party downstairs - will we come?

            When we meet I sense that the Russian chairman was not invited. The group is smaller. We spontaneously switch to  English - to the satisfaction of the Hungarians. The two Cubans, the minister and the director somehow got hold of a guitar, and while we drink the iconic Czech liqueur "Becherovka"which tastes of herbs, the Cubans play and sing beautifully in Spanish. I'm amused how reactor physics mixes well with "Guantanamera". Suddenly the door opens… it's "Putin". "I heard singing", he says faintly and tries to smile. He knows he is not welcome, especially since we deliberately keep talking in English. He joins the conversation - he does speak English. After a few drinks, he tells the Poles that there might be - I cannot believe my ears - an error in the Russian code. He is going to investigate it when he gets home.  I dislike him less now. 

            The next day the Cubans and the Russian are gone, and the rest of us walk around Prague. What a beautiful city! We pass Zlatá ulička, the Golden Lane - Franz Kafka lived here. In the afternoon we are almost caught up in a demonstration. (It's early fall 1989, the eve of the Velvet Revolution.) Young people, fleeing from the police, shout something. I grab somebody's arm: "Tell me what you shout!" - "Masaryk!" he/she says (Why "Masaryk"? - I wonder. Why not "Dubcek" or "Havel"? ). In the evening we go to a pub. It's not just any pub, it's the U Fleku. The U Fleku brewery is the only brewery in Central Europe which has been brewing beer for 500 straight years. The customers, men and women, sit at long wooden tables and benches. They drink beer in big pitchers and sing Czech folk songs. And oh! how they sing. Unlike my countrymen, the Czechs know all the lyrics, have beautiful, trained voices, and sing in key. I wish I could stop the time: "Then to the moment might I say, linger awhile. . .so fair thou art” (from Goethe's Faust). 

Scenes from Andalusía, Spain, November 1981

Scene 1. We're on the road from Seville to Córdoba. It's siesta time; I'm driving, and my Dad is taking a nap on the back seat. At this time of day, the roads in Spain are completely deserted. Suddenly, I see a car in the rearview mirror - it appeared out of nowhere. I slow down, letting the car pass. Two men inside are smiling and gesturing to me.  After few minutes they slow down, letting me pass. We play like this for some time, back and forth. They gesture to me to pull over. I'm not going to comply, and frankly, I'm tired of their company. But they are not going to give up: they start honking. They become really loud which finally wakes my Dad. 'What the heck', he says and sits up. Young Spaniards, clearly surprised, leave the scene pretty fast.

Scene 2.  One of the goals of this trip was to visit La Mancha and to see the famous windmills which Don Quixote took for giants. The windmills are white and built on bare sunlit hills. I take pictures of them, then we head to El Toboso, the hometown (more of a village, really) of the famed Dulcinea. There is a church, and in front of it a marketplace with stalls offering used clothes. The town includes La Casa de Dulcinea and the Cervantes Museum.  Dulcinea's house displays typical farm tools, cheese-making apparatus, seventeenth-century furniture, large vats where wine would have been stored, and has a large oil press in the courtyard. In the Cervantes Museum one can see copies of his masterpiece in a huge range of languages. It holds over 400 copies of "Don Quixote" from all over the world, signed by the leaders from the time they were collected, such as Franco and Mussolini. Hitler sent a signed copy of "Songs of the Nibelungen". The museum seems proud of those artifacts; to me, they are ominous.

Scene 3. We get to Madrid during the celebrations of the sixth anniversary of Franco's death. On the weekend following November 20^th, Madrid goes crazy: the streets are full of people dressed in dark blue shirts and black pants (men, women, even kids), extending their hands in a Nazi salute. There are hundreds of posters with swastikas, numerous stands where young neo-fascists are selling “Mein Kamp”', and fascist paraphernalia. Young people are driving erratically, waving flags, shouting, honking, saluting. The streets don't seem safe to us, especially after some neo-fascists snatched my camera from me and almost beat me up because I'm taking pictures. We find an asylum in a coffee bar where people turn out to be normally dressed - what a relief! They all look very sad. When we tell the barista what has just happened to us, he says we'd better hide in a nearby movie theater for the rest of the day.

Scene 4. When the unbelievable celebrations are finally over (on Monday morning one cannot see even a trace of what was going on in this city over the weekend), we're going to see the famous 'Guernica'. The monumental painting arrived in Madrid only two months earlier, in time to celebrate the centenary of Picasso's birth on October 24. There are huge long lines outside the museum.  The police are checking our purses and backpacks thoroughly.  The masterpiece is displayed behind bomb- and bullet-proof glass. In the front of the huge glass case there are commandos with machine guns in hand, facing the public. I find their presence disturbing, but on the other hand, they add specific drama to the painting.

Agnes

When I think of Agnes I think of our childhood. Various scenes from our childhood scroll before my eyes. In all those scenes Agnes is a happy girl. She is very positive. She is smiling. I don't think she ever cried in my presence or laughed out loud. She was well-behaved.  I don't remember her in any other way. 

In my memories, Agnes is a smart and serious girl. She intimidated me. Just before John and I started school, she was teaching us reading, writing and counting. I think she wanted us to be ahead of other kids. One day she announced that she'd give us a dictation next time she saw us. I had no idea what a 'dictation' was, so I felt rather scared. I meant to ask my mother, but I forgot the name of this thing that Agnes was going to do to us. I don't think I slept that night. I was so afraid that I'd fail and disappoint my first teacher.

As a child, Agnes was a very brave and very rational girl. Once John and I were told at school that the next day we'd go to the clinic for X-rays. We were wondering if it would hurt.  "Don't worry - Agnes told us - I guarantee you it won't hurt, but it may sting a bit".

Even as a child, Agnes was very mature, a responsible and caring person. She had a very good heart. For example: we were living in a small town surrounded by villages. People in those days (the late nineteen-fifties) were really poor, workers and farmers alike. Many children in our school, especially those from villages, were malnourished. And naturally they did not do very well at school. Agnes volunteered to tutor one particularly unfortunate girl. This girl would come to their house every day after school, have dinner with Agnes and John, then she would study and do her homework with Agnes. Thanks to Agnes she passed to the next grade, and later graduated from that school.

I was John's playmate. Agnes was older and played with her friends. But I watched her closely and imitated her to some extent. For instance, I read the same books, I also tutored poor kids. One can say that Agnes was my first role model. 

When we grew older, we went to different schools and we saw each other less often. (We did not live in the same little town anymore.) Agnes became a beautiful young woman. She was very stylish too. I remember her wearing a fashionable turban made from a headscarf, high heels and heavy make-up. (This fashion, turbans and 'Egyptian' make-up, set in after the film "Pharaoh" in the late nineteen-sixties.) At the same time she was an 'above and beyond' student. 

Agnes was unique. Almost too good to be true. I've never met anyone even remotely similar to Agnes. She was the proverbial pearl.

Agnieszka died on August 4, 2012. Suddenly, unexpectedly. She was only 62 years old.

    I have known Her almost all my life, although I do not recall our first encounter. We were both at the age, when one does not record events for a long time, if at all. When we met again, I was five and half years old. I don't recall this meeting either, but I do remember many of the later scenes from our happy childhood together. I remember, for example, the theater on the porch of their house. One day we presented "The Trojan War" based on Agnieszka's brief, handed to us orally, scenario and with Her "starring" as the beautiful Helen. (Jaś played the role of Parys, and I was the jealous Menelaus, while understanding almost nothing of the story.) Agnieszka was a little older than me, but much more mature, and I watched her closely, the way a younger sister watches her elder sister. I suppose I imitated her to some extend. Certainly, I read the same books. 

There was only one tiny bookstore in our small town. I see vaguely three stairs leading to the dim interior, a serious looking woman behind the high counter, and I remember distinctly the smell this place - the mysterious and exciting smell of new books. And the purpose of our visit. In the early sixties they started to reprint "Mary Poppins" in Poland.  The book was translated between the wars by Irena Tuwim who changed the protagonist’s name to "Agnieszka". That winter day -  was it our Agnieszka's birthday? - we visited the bookstore to find out if "Agnieszka comes back" had already been delivered to our town. Why do I remember this scene so vividly? Did I record it in my memory because of the two Agnieszkas? Or maybe I was deeply impressed that Agnieszka knew about a book about which I had no idea? In the lives of children that we were at that time everything is just beginning and nothing definitely ends. Also, in the stories we read. And although Mary Poppins abruptly left, disappeared from Number Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane, which filled the Banks children and us, the young readers, with deep sadness, we all shared the same hope that the magical nanny will return in the next book, because in the farewell letter she wrote "Au revoir ", not "Adieu".

   More than a half century have passed since our memorable visit to the tiny bookstore. My peers and I came to the stage of life in which hardly anything starts anymore, but many things end. People we have loved suddenly leave, disappear from our life. And they do not come back like the heroine of P. L. Travers books. 

This story will not have a sequel. Adieu, Agnieszka.