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.