Kilka słów o nieznanej w Polsce książce Ewy Curie

Ewę Curie wszyscy znamy głównie jako autorkę biografii jej matki, Marii Curie. Mniej ludzi wie, że była pianistką i koncertowała we Francji i Belgii, że pisała w prasie francuskiej artykuły oraz krytyki muzyczne, teatralne i filmowe pod pseudonimem „Claude Dore”, a jesienią 1933 roku zadebiutowała przekładem i adaptacją amerykańskiej sztuki George'a S. Brooksa i Waltera B. Listera Spread Eagle. O wydarzeniu tym donosił w korespondencji z Paryża „Ilustrowany Kuryer Codzienny”: Premiera tej sztuki w „Gymnase” była świętem teatralnem Paryża. (…) Premiera przybrała charakter tem bardziej świętalny, że dookoła przybyłej na nią Marji Curie-Skłodowskiej skupiło się b. wiele osobistości ze świata literackiego, naukowego  i politycznego. Był więc tam minister Paul Bancour, kilku innych ministrów i podsekretarzy stanu, prof. Langevin, prof. Morin, dziekan Sorbony, baronowie Edward i Robert Rotschildowie, kompozytor Henneger, wielu członków paryskiej Akademji Nauk i profesorów Sorbony i „College de France”. Wśród uczonych był także Jolliot, mąż drugiej córki p. Skłodowskiej. Ewa Curie zbierała sowite oklaski. (…)  Sukces był pełny - szkoda tylko, że prasa francuska pisząc o nim, nie zaznaczyła ani słowem, że Polką jest „madame Curie” czy „madame Skłodowska” i polska krew płynie w żyłach Ewy Curie - ubolewał na zakończenie autor korespondencji. 

Gdy w następnym roku zmarła Maria Curie, Ewa, namówiona przez amerykańskiego wydawcę, napisała biografię matki. Można zaryzykować twierdzenie, że właśnie pisanie o matce, studiowanie jej zapisków, listów, oglądanie jej fotografii, rozmowy z rodziną w Polsce i we Francji, przywoływanie w pamięci własnych wspomnień z dzieciństwa, które wcale nie było radosne, bo kładła się na nie cieniem rozpacz matki po śmierci ojca, faktycznie ukształtowało Ewę, miało wielki wpływ na jej późniejsze życiowe wybory. 

Z lektury Madame Curie pamiętamy, że Maria Skłodowska-Curie żywiła głębokie uczucia patriotyczne dla obu swoich ojczyzn - Polski i Francji. Wyrazem przywiązania do Polski było oczywiście nadanie nazwy polonium pierwiastkowi radioaktywnemu, który odkryła wraz z mężem Pierrem Curie oraz nieocenione zasługi, jakie oddała w stworzeniu Instytutu Radowego w Warszawie i zdobyciu 1 grama  radu dla tej placówki. Wcześniej założyła Instytut Radowy w Paryżu, zdobywszy w USA fundusze na jego wyposażenie. Gdy wybuchła I Wojna Światowa, Maria zorganizowała ruchome pogotowie z aparatami Roentgena, by nieść pomoc rannym blisko linii frontu. 

Dorównać takiej dzielnej i prawej matce, to wielkie życiowe wyzwanie. Obie córki, Irena i Ewa, każda na swój sposób, podjęły je. Gdy wraz z wybuchem II wojny światowej nadszedł czas próby ich dzielności, obie stanęły na wysokości zadania. Irena uczestniczyła we francuskim ruchu oporu, Ewa zaangażowała się w politykę międzynarodową. 

  Jeszcze zanim doszło do kapitulacji Francji, Ewa Curie zdążyła - na krótko - objąć funkcję kierownika oddziału kobiecego przy komisariacie do spraw informacji. Pomogła też zdesperowanemu premierowi Reynaudowi w sformułowaniu listu do Franklina D. Rooosevelta z apelem o pomoc dla Francji. Po rozejmie w Compiègne przedostała się do Anglii, gdzie opowiedziała się po stronie generała de Gaulle'a i Wolnych Francuzów. Kosztowało ją to utratę obywatelstwa francuskiego i pozostawionego we Francji mienia, łącznie z pamiątkami po matce, co najbardziej ją zabolało. 

Na początku wojny odbyła dwie podróże do Stanów Zjednoczonych, gdzie wygłosiła serię odczytów pod tytułem Francuskie kobiety i wojna, opublikowane jako esej w „The Atlantic Monthly”. Na obiedzie z Amerykańskim Stowarzyszeniem Księgarzy i nowojorskim „Herald Tribune” w hotelu Astor 9 kwietnia 1940 roku wygłosiła wykład o wojnie i Francuzach pod tytułem Cena Wolności (wydany drukiem przez Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc. 1940). Podczas następnego pobytu w USA przyczyniła się do powstania wzruszającego filmu dokumentalnego o Polsce The Land of My Mother (Kraj Mojej Matki) z jej narracją. Film ten miał na celu przypomnienie Zachodowi o okupowanej Polsce. 

Od 10 listopada 1941 roku do 23 maja 1942 roku Ewa Curie podróżowała po świecie, jako korespondent wojenny. Odwiedziła Afrykę, Bliski Wschód, Związek Sowiecki, Birmę, Chiny i Indie, przeprowadziła wiele wywiadów z żołnierzami,  cywilami i mężami stanu. Wśród nich - z synem Winstona Churchilla, Randolphem, z generałem Georgesem Catroux z Wolnych Francuzów, z młodziutkim szachem Mohammadem Rezą Pahlawim, z generałem Władysławem Sikorskim, z generałem Andriejem Własowem (zanim zwrócił się przeciw Stalinowi), z Sofią Andriejewną Tołstoj-Jesienin (wnuczka pisarza), z ambasadorem Stanisławem Kotem, z generałem Władysławem Andersem, z generalissimusem Czang Kaj-szekiem i Song Meiling (madame Czang Kaj-szek), z komunistycznym generałem Zhou Enlaiem, z Song Qingling (siostra madame Czang Kaj-szek, wdowa po Sun Jat-senie, działaczka komunistyczna), z dowódcą „Latających Tygrysów” Clairem Chenaultem, z Jawaharlalem Nehru, jego córką Indirą (w przeddzień jej ślubu), z Lordem Tajnej Pieczęci Sir Staffordem Crippsem, z generałem Archibaldem Wavellem, z wicekrólem Indii markizem Linlithgowem, z Mahatmą Gandhim i z przywódcą Ligi Muzułmańskiej Muhammadem Alim Jinnahem. 

Owocem tej podróży była książka, Podróż Wśród Wojowników, wydana w 1943 roku w Nowym Jorku przez wydawnictwo Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc. i w Londynie przez wydawnictwo William Heinemann Limited. Interesujący znak czasów - wydanie amerykańskie opatrzono następującą uwagą: Książka ta została wyprodukowana w warunkach wojennych zgodnie ze wszystkimi przepisami rządowymi odnośnie kontroli użycia papieru i innych materiałów.

Książka została przetłumaczona na hiszpański (wydana w Argentynie w 1943 roku, Viaje Entre Guerreros), na francuski (wydana przez Flamarion w 1944 roku, Voyage Parmi Les Guerriers), na niemiecki - wydana w Szwajcarii w 1945 roku pod nieco zmienionym tytułem Eine Frau an der Front (Kobieta na froncie) oraz na niderlandzki i wydana w Holandii i Belgii w 1947 roku również pod zmienionym tytułem Mijn wereldreis in oorlogstijd (Mój świat w czasie wojny). 

Podróż Wśród Wojowników nie została nigdy wydana w Polsce, choć Ewa  Curie zadedykowała ją drogiej sercom wszystkich Polaków matce, której miejsce urodzenia w Polsce i miejsce śmierci we Francji znajdują się pod niemiecką okupacją w czasie, gdy  odbywam tę podróż. Książka nie została wydana w Polsce, choć autorka z wielką sympatią wyraża się o spotykanych na każdym kroku Polakach, jej pół-rodakach, jak ich nazywa, i z dumą przytacza pochlebne opinie o polskich żołnierzach. Ewa rozmawia z Polakami na Pustyni Zachodniej, w Kairze, w Teheranie, w Kujbyszewie, w pociągu kolei transirańskiej z Teheranu do Basry.

  „Bohaterską postawę Polaków na niezliczonych polach bitew” przywołuje również w rozmowie z Gandhim  - na co usłyszała pogardliwe stwierdzenie, że „Polacy to rasa wojowników, którzy nie mają najmniejszego pojęcia, na czym polega filozofia niestosowania przemocy”.

Łatwo się domyśleć, że to część poświęcona pobytowi Ewy w Rosji Sowieckiej zadecydowała o tym, że książka nie nadawała się do wydania w Polsce powojennej,  była „niecenzuralna”, czy jak kto woli nie spełniała wymogów „politycznej poprawności” tamtych czasów. Ewa wypowiada się o Rosjanach z głębokim podziwem dla ich bezgranicznego patriotyzmu, nie nabiera się jednak na propagandę, którą jest częstowana na każdym kroku, nawet przez biskupa rosyjskiego kościoła prawosławnego, Pitirima. Z lekkim rozbawieniem komentuje w książce butne deklaracje młodych robotnic, które usiłują jej wmówić, że lubią pracować po jedenaście godzin na dobę w nieogrzewanych halach fabrycznych. Zadaje kłopotliwe pytania, „nie po linii”, jak je określa, na temat nawoływania przez Rosję Sowiecką, zanim sama została zaatakowana, do spowalniania pracy w fabrykach wojennych w Europie zachodniej, ustami tamtejszych komunistów. Nawet do wstrząsających opowieści mieszkańców rosyjskich miasteczek i wiosek o bestialstwach faszystów Ewa podchodzi z początku ostrożnie. Uczciwie relacjonuje to, co widzi i słyszy, nie upiększa. 

Kiedy Rosja Sowiecka znalazła się w obozie alianckim, w USA i w Wielkiej Brytanii zaczęto gorączkowo pracować nad zmianą obrazu Rosji. Zimą 1942 roku, gdy wiadomości z rosyjskiego frontu były niezbyt pomyślne, producent Samuel Goldwyn otrzymał, drogą pośrednią, zamówienie od prezydenta Roosevelta na film o „rosyjskim sprzymierzeńcu”. Miał to być taki wizerunek Rosji Sowieckiej, który by wzbudził współczucie społeczeństwa amerykańskiego dla narodu rosyjskiego i wzmocnił poparcie dla sojuszu USA z Rosją. W ten sposób w 1943 roku powstał film North Star (Gwiazda Północna), do którego scenariusz napisała znana dramatopisarka Lillian Hellmann. Film opowiada o walce partyzanckiej ukraińskich wieśniaków z niemieckim najeźdźcą. Niestety, nachalna propaganda pro-sowiecka, wyidealizowany i po hollywoodzku naiwny obraz życia w ukraińskiej wsi-kołchozie przekreśliły i pogrzebały wiarygodność filmu. (Nawiasem mówiąc, w latach pięćdziesiątych film przerobiono - wycięto zeń ów kłamliwy, słodki jak ulepek obraz kołchozu.) Na życzenie prezydenta Roosevelta powstało więcej takich propagandowych filmów, m.in. Mission to Moscow [Z misją dyplomatyczną do Moskwy] i Song of Russia [Rosyjska pieśń]. Być może gdyby Ewa Curie namalowała taki obraz Rosji, jak przywołane tu filmy, to książka w Polsce by wyszła. 

A jednak nie, nie wyszłaby. Nie wyszłaby z powodu rozdziału „Dojdziemy do Polski”. Przed odlotem na Daleki Wschód, Ewa Curie zatrzymała się w Kujbyszewie. Spędzała wtedy dużo czasu w Ambasadzie Polskiej, w cichym domku przy ulicy Czapajewskiej, gdzie przyjmowano ją jak członka rodziny. Spotykała tam Polaków, wyłaniających się z nicości - ze śmiertelnej ciszy sowieckich łagrów. Pisząc o sprawach polskich,  wspomina o wizycie generała Zygmunta Szyszko-Bohusza i jego negocjacjach z generałem Armii Czerwonej marszałkiem Borysem M. Szaposznikowem w sprawie zwolnienia  Polaków z więzień i łagrów. Jestem tutaj, żeby się dowiedzieć, co się stało z ponad milionem Polaków, mężczyzn, kobiet i dzieci, których aresztowaliście w '39 roku i wysłaliście w głąb Rosji do łagrów, obozów pracy, wszelkiego rodzaju więzień. Wspomina też o zaginionych oficerach: Na każdym kroku padały bardzo bolesne pytania, na które nie było natychmiastowej odpowiedzi. Polacy, na przykład, dysponowali listą pięciu tysięcy nazwisk oficerów, o których wiedzieli na pewno, że zostali internowani. W żaden jednak sposób nie dawało się znaleźć ich śladu w całej Rosji, a sowieccy urzędnicy, przypuszczalnie uczciwi, odpowiadali z ewidentną bezradnością: „Nie wiemy, gdzie oni są.” W ogólnym wojennym zamieszaniu zgubili pięć tysięcy osób jak igłę w stogu siana. Ta szczególna tajemnicza sprawa bardzo irytowała Polaków w czasie mojego pobytu w Kujbyszewie, pisze autorka.

W Podróży Wśród Wojowników jest wiele polskich wątków. Ewa Curie wspomina, jak polscy żołnierze - wśród nich jej kuzyn, Władysław Skłodowski - przybywali jeden po drugim do Francji, zanim Francja skapitulowała. Słoneczny czerwiec sprowadził na Francję katastrofę - katastrofę, która bardziej zaskoczyła Polaków niż samych Francuzów. Polacy pamiętali słowa Mickiewicza: „W wojnie ufałbym Francuzom, jak gdybym miał w ręce cztery asy …” i podśpiewywali swego ulubionego mazurka „Dał nam przykład Bonaparte, jak zwyciężać mamy”.  W sierpniu 1940 roku odwiedziła St Andrews w Szkocji, gdzie stacjonował 1 Korpus Polski i gdzie znowu spotkała swego kuzyna. Tego samego dnia generał Władysław Sikorski wizytował swe pierwsze bataliony. 

Podróżując po Afryce, Bliskim Wschodzie, Birmie, Chinach i Indiach Ewa Curie opisuje świat, którego już nie ma, świat imperiów, kolonii. Świat, w którym obowiązywał brytyjski styl życia,  wyrażający się m.in. przez wymóg przebierania się w strój wieczorowy do kolacji, wojna nie wojna; świat, w którym wierzono, że imperia niosą misję cywilizacyjną barbarzyńskiemu światu. Ten świat na jej oczach świat ulegał zmianie. Konserwatywna, tradycyjna, patriotyczna kultura brytyjska zaczynała ustępować miejsca dynamicznej, pragmatycznej kulturze amerykańskiej. Cierpliwi Brytyjczycy przez wiele dziesięcioleci kolonizowali, cywilizowali Afrykę niemal niepostrzeżenie. Ale teraz na Czarnym Kontynencie zjawili się Amerykanie i energicznie zabrali się do rzeczy. 

Podniesiona tym na duchu, kończąc swą Podróż Wśród Wojowników, Ewa Curie zastanawiała się, czy świat po wojnie będzie lepszy. Wiedziała, że będzie wymagało to wielkiej pracy tych, którzy wojnę przeżyją. Po wojnie działała aktywnie na niwie politycznej, m. in. w rządzie de Gaulle'a, w NATO, w UNICEF-ie, promując pokój i rozwój. „Jej energia i jej zaangażowanie na rzecz poprawy świata powinny być dla nas wszystkich inspiracją”, napisano w komunikacie prasowym UNICEF-u po jej śmierci. Zmarła w 2007 roku, przeżywszy prawie 103 lata.

Kilka lat temu trafiłam w amerykańskim antykwariacie na Podróż Wśród Wojowników i inne publikacje Ewy Curie z czasu II Wojny Światowej. Liczącą 500 stron, Podróż Wśród Wojowników przetłumaczyłam na język polski z zamiarem wydania jej w Polsce. Niestety zdobycie praw autorskich do tej książki okazało się dla mnie niewykonywalne. Wygląda na to, że Podróży Wśród Wojowników nie jest pisane trafić do polskiego czytelnika. A szkoda.

Magnified Emotions

“Traveling tends to magnify all human emotions.” 

— Peter Hoeg (Danish writer)

In the summer of 1981, to be Polish was exciting, as was proclaimed by inscriptions on T-shirts sold in Western Europe. A third of all Poles, myself included, had joined the Solidarity movement believing that we were participating in something significant. This was the non-violence mass social movement - or the revolution - of the Polish baby boomers. We did what all revolutionaries do: we sang protest songs such as “Mury” (Walls) to the melody of the Catalan “L’Estaca” (The Stake) by Lluis Llach, (although “Mury” seemed to have more powerful words in Polish, written by the young Polish poet – “the bard”, as he was called - Jacek Kaczmarski). We hailed banners with the word SOLIDARNOŚĆ  (Solidarity) inscribed in characteristic red letters on a white background with euphoria, and last but not least, we experienced a feeling of genuine solidarity with each other and with the rest of the humanity. 

I made my second trip to Morocco that summer. Normally I would have flown, but with a small “Solidarity” badge, with its characteristic marching letters proudly pinned to my shirt, I felt more adventurous than it was usual my nature to do – or was it just the excitement of being Polish at such a time? Whatever the case, after a short visit to Bourges, a town with a glorious past, where my brother had been studying painting at the local École des Beaux Arts, I took a night-train from Paris to Sète, a port on the Mediterranean coast. I arrived there early in the morning. The ferry from Sète to Tangier (in Morocco) was leaving in the afternoon, so I had enough time for sightseeing. Sète is a charming small town, notable for being commemorated in the poetry of Paul Valéry. A number of France’s most famous artists and sculptors were born and raised in Sète, Georges Brassens, a French singer-songwriter and poet, among the others. Paul Valéry is also buried here - in the graveyard above the harbor, the same graveyard he depicted in his most famous poem, “Le cimetière marin” (The Graveyard By The Sea). Like the poet, I too had walked to the cemetery at noon, when impartial noon patterns the sea in flame, and motionless noon, noon aloft in the blue, broods on itself -- a self-sufficient theme.  

In the past, whenever I had taken a ferry across the Baltic sea to Sweden, I would buy the cheapest ticket, which meant that I would be sleeping on the upper deck or, more accurately, in the cafeteria which would close for business at night. At dawn I would be woken up by the buzzing of a vacuum cleaner around me, and - if I was sleeping on the floor - feel it brushing against my sleeping bag, but that was a minor inconvenience. In the morning, while the ferry was approaching Stockholm through the beautiful archipelago, I would get up and refresh myself, so I could step off the ferry feeling well-rested, and eager to pay a visit to the student employment agency. 

Therefore, when I was buying the ticket for the passage from Sète to Tangier, which lasted some three days and two nights, I took for granted that I would spend the nights on the upper deck. I could not have been more mistaken. After we had embarked the ship, I learnt that those in tourist class sleep on reclining airplane seats on the lowest deck. The lounge was already full of older Moroccan men in dejellabas, long robes with full sleeves and baggy hoods, small turbans or fezzes, and soft yellow pointed slippers. (Women were probably in a separate lounge, which I guessed later. The ticket seller had clearly mistaken my gender. Although, perhaps different rules apply to non-Muslim women.) Hundreds of thousands of Moroccans who now lived in France would to go back to their mother country as often as possible. My accidental travel companions were already settling down for the night, unfolding mattresses and brightly colored blankets (which they clearly did not need) in the spaces between the seats. Since the hour was still early, I wanted to sit or stroll on the open deck, enjoy the sunset, the air, and the views, but I hesitated as to what to do with my belongings. I was the only woman here among at least 50 men, who - to my horror - used both restrooms in the lounge. How could I survive three days and two nights in a stuffy space full of Berbers or Arabs, who at that moment were all watching me expectantly, as if waiting for some decision on my part? They had wise faces; their glossy black eyes smiled, but their lips did not. While I was gloomily reviewing my situation, two more men arrived, and one of them looked French. Another European, at last! The Frenchman looked around, fished me out of the crowd: “Pardon, mademoiselle, avez-vous de l'aspirine? J'ai la migraine si horrible,” he complained loudly, in the manner of a capricious character from a nineteenth-century French novel. I shook my head apologetically. Feeling a little disappointed by this effeminate Frenchman, I looked at his companion. Something about the face of this dark boy struck me as being very sad, but they left their things and headed to the exit before I had time to ponder it. I put my luggage on my chair and followed them to the upper deck.

The ferry boat set sail in the late afternoon. We would spend two nights aboard and arrive in Tangiers on the morning of the third day. I found an empty canvas chair on deck and settled down happily with a book. Meanwhile, Sète had long disappeared over the horizon. Reading had made me hungry, so I went to the cafeteria, where I spotted the Frenchman again. He was eating alone. I looked around and found his sad companion watching him, like a starving dog, from outside, through the glass partition. There was something terribly disturbing about this picture. 

A little later I saw the Frenchman moving in my direction. Judging from his polite smile, he wanted a favor from me. I guessed right. “Mademoiselle, pouvez-vous garder mon pulll et ma serviette, s'il vous plait?” Obediently though unwillingly, I agreed to keep an eye on his expensive cashmere pullover and his towel, soft as a cloud. Next day I would learn that he tended to carry around far too many accessories: not only the baby blue sweater and the yellow towel, but also a leather man-purse, a chic scarf, and so on. Looking after his things for him made me feel as if I were on duty.   

Evening came, and to delay whatever surprises awaited me on the lowest deck, I went to the discotheque, a somewhat desperate decision for someone who avoids noisy music and crowds. I had barely sat down when a young Palestinian boy emerged from the dimness of the room and asked me to dance; it turned out  he was fascinated by the Solidarity badge pinned to my shirt. He suggested an exchange: his keffiyeh (a black and white Palestinian scarf) for my badge. He had been deported from France for participating in political demonstrations, and his parents, who lived in Palestine, had been forced to emigrate to Morocco. For a moment we felt a special bond - two kids with their “tribal stigmas” among these happily dancing people. I gladly exchanged my badge for his scarf. 

The night came and I headed down to my chair. Oddly enough, the big lounge full of elderly men did not smell bad. In fact, it did not smell at all. The air didn’t seem stuffy, the ventilation was working perfectly. I covered myself with the provided blanket and went to sleep. Thus I spent the rest of the trip: the night among silent Moroccan men, the day with a book on the upper deck, guarding the Frenchman’s things while he would vanish God knows where. As we sailed past the Balearic Islands the next day it became unbearably hot; the air began to cool down just past Gibraltar on the morning of the third day. Finally we arrived in Tangier, where I was reunited with my dad for a happy vacation. 

On my way back to Europe, I would take a train from Madrid to Hendaye on the French frontier, where I would change for the Paris train. My dad came with me to the Madrid Atocha station to see me off, before driving back alone to Morocco.  The train which started its route in Algeciras (the Spanish town across the bay from Gibraltar) was already standing on the platform. To my horror, the carriage in which I had a reserved place was full of Moroccans, all older men again, who suspiciously resembled my pals from the ferry. I did not want to share a small compartment with them. They would probably sleep on the floor again. “Don’t worry”, said my dad, “we’ll find you another seat. Look at that carriage over there, it’s empty.” We went to the empty carriage and without a moment’s hesitation, I boarded the train. It did not occur to either of us that the carriage might be empty for a reason. If there was any information posted anywhere, we did not notice it. I took a window seat in the middle compartment like I owned it. I was the sole occupant of the carriage until about three minutes before the train’s departure. Out of the blue, a squad of Spanish recruits in fresh uniforms with brand new backpacks on their shoulders ran onto the platform and quickly boarded the empty carriage. They seemed as surprised to see me as I was surprised to see them. My presence there caused a small confusion. Obviously I had taken someone’s seat. The carriage was full to the brim now. My dear dad, standing on the platform, looked terribly anxious, but it was too late for me to go to the “Moroccan” carriage where I belonged.  Luckily, all the recruits found their seats, and nobody kicked me out of the compartment. The train began to pull out, and I waved goodbye to my worried parent.  

Feeling uneasy as the only woman in this company of young men, I tried to read and alternately stared out of the window. I was counting on the age difference making me invisible to the young Spaniards. A pipe dream. They were not going to leave me to my thoughts. To catch my attention, someone would say something, then all would burst into laughter and watch my reaction. It took them some time to realize that I didn’t speak Spanish and that their jokes were wasted on me. With resigned looks on their faces, they took up their backpacks to browse their contents. What do we have here? They would jokingly wave in front of me every piece of their new garments: socks, T-shirts, boxer briefs, sweatshirts, all in the military patterned khakis. I now bitterly regretted giving away my SOLIDARITY badge. The badge would send out a clear message that I had more important things to think about than fooling around with recruits. Finally they got bored with the clothes or simply got hungry. They opened their paper brown bags with genuine curiosity, took out sandwiches and canned soda, and - in sign language - offered some to me. They were really kind boys. I wanted to keep my guard up but they effectively disarmed me. 

In this friendly, relaxed atmosphere we arrived at Vitoria-Gasteiz, the principal city of the Basque country. The city is known for the battle in 1813 in which a British, Portuguese and Spanish army under Wellington defeated the French army under Joseph Bonaparte, the elder brother of Napoleon. Beethoven dedicated a symphony “Wellingtons Sieg oder die Schlacht bei Vittoria” (Wellington's Victory, or, the Battle of Vitoria) to the victory. To fulfill the military tradition of the area (or for other reasons), there are Spanish army headquarters of the Basque region in Vitoria-Gasteiz, and this is where my happy traveling companions were going. A puffed up army sergeant with a very sinister looking smile was already waiting for them on the platform. They started pointing at him and groaning loudly. Their gaiety had suddenly vanished. Seeing compassion in my eyes they bent over me, one after the other, and asked for a kiss on the cheek. Adiós, adiós, they sobbed. The boys from adjacent compartments asked me to kiss them too. That day I must had kissed, para la buena suerte, over a dozen extremely handsome Spaniards. Good luck with the sergeant, young soldiers. And good luck to you, the Palestinian boy, with smuggling my Solidarity badge into Morocco, and good luck to you, the sad looking Moroccan lad, with your life. 

The actress

My dad wanted me to be either an actress or a stewardess. I never quite understood how he came up with those two ideas: women in our family were either teachers or pencil pushers. I strongly resented the idea of becoming a flight attendant. I knew only too well that the profession would not suit me, as I was not gracious enough and had a poor sense of balance, and would not be able to walk straight, in high-heels, on a tilting airplane, without grabbing the passengers’ heads for balance. Becoming a stage actress was more appealing to me; I had once played a vengeful queen in a primary school play, and had reveled in being a villainous character. Everybody who saw the play said I had killed my subject very convincingly. I also loved to recite patriotic poems at school assemblies. I did not, however, have the retentive memory necessary for a stage actress, and was unable to get those long Shakespearean monologues down pat, so I chose to study physics instead, mainly because physics requires understanding and logical reasoning rather than memorization.

            Nevertheless, the yearning for acting - awakened in me by my dad’s hopes for me and by my superlative school performances - remained. I kept imagining that by some strange twist of fate, I would one day be given the chance to play a part on a real stage in a real theater. All I wanted was a small part - say, the role of a maid - who announces that dinner is served or that the carriage is at the door - a part that does NOT involve memorization. A more realistic goal to achieve, that of being an extra in a movie, did not appeal to me; I didn’t want to be one of a crowd, I wanted to play an individual, no matter how insignificant.

            The things we dream about usually come true, though sometimes in a convoluted way. One summer in the late seventies I was staying with my friend’s sister in Paris, an art director in film production whose name was Danka Semenowicz. Every couple of years I intruded upon her privacy by showing up at her door without being invited, but she never expressed any objection nor showed annoyance. Her apartment was a nice place to hang my hat after walking the streets of Paris all day, and she was very hospitable. I tried not to be pain in the neck, but there wasn’t much chance of that happening as she spent every day from morning till night on the set, leaving home before I woke up, and coming back when I could barely keep my eyes open. However that particular week they were shooting at the Institut de Physique Nucléaire d'Orsay, and I could not resist asking her to take me with her.  The Institute of Nuclear Research in Poland, where I was happily employed at the time, always looked up to its French colleague. I did not stand a chance of being invited to work at Orsay (of that I was absolutely sure), but at least I could take a look at the campus … Danka woke me up early the next morning, and after a 20-minute drive, we arrived at the important scientific center. The commotion and excitement there did not seem to fit this normally quiet and tranquil place. There was also some nervousness caused by the fact that the movie crew was short of extras: they needed more young people to play physics students. Would I be interested? Of course I would! Need they ask? And I didn’t even have to pretend, as I had only recently graduated from university.

            That day “we” were shooting three scenes, all featuring the end of a lecture. The first scene took place in fall, the second in winter, and the third in late spring. For the first two scenes we were wearing sweaters and scarves, which we took off for the spring scene. Before shooting each scene, a real physics professor would write a bunch of formulas on two huge blackboards (I checked, they made sense.) Then the actor-professor would finish the last formula and say something funny to end the lecture. Students would laugh and start leaving the hall; while the professor was packing his scattered notes into a briefcase, a female student from the first row would approach him to ask questions. Their conversation was inaudible. In the fall scene the professor was relaxed, and he would slowly leave the lecture hall, accompanied by the female student. In the winter and spring scenes his behavior was different: in the winter scene he would head toward the exit before the female student had even finished talking to him, and in the spring scene he would leave in haste, not giving her the chance to catch up with him.

            The physics professor was played by the great Swiss actor Bruno Ganz. The shooting of those three short scenes took the whole day, as each of them had at least fifteen takes. Every time Bruno Ganz became exhausted and confused his lines, the director would call for a break; I happened to be alone with Bruno Ganz once in the coffee room. He seemed very friendly and easy to talk to, but I only managed to utter “merci”, when he handed me the cream jug.

            The movie, called “5% De Risque”, turned out to be a fat failure in spite of having a great cast. The story was about a perfect crime. In order to help his politician friend, (a woman? I wasn’t sure) who is being blackmailed, the hero David - Bruno Ganz, a physics professor, resolves to kill the blackmailer. David’s idea was to do it within a short time, so that it would not seem humanly possible for him to have done it. To gain time for the murder, he was shortening his lecture little by little, hoping that nobody would notice, including the inquisitive female student (played by a young Belgian film director). According to his estimations, there was a 5% risk that he would be caught. Meanwhile his politician friend died, but David was so involved in his “project” that he had to pursue it to its end.

            I did not have a chance to see the whole movie, and only saw part of it at a private screening, so I’m not sure how it ends; did the professor get away with murder? I hope so. Danka told me that my face did show up on the screen for a split second, so I can brag that I co-starred with Bruno Ganz in a French movie. I did not let my dad down after all.

Stupefaction

“I knew who I was this morning but I’ve changed a few times since then.”  

                  From “Alice in Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll

  
                            Stupefaction

                                         

The train, resembling a long earthworm, was slowly making its way through the dense darkness of Eastern Europe, until it finally reached the border between the two parts of divided Berlin. After a careful inspection, (accompanied by some orders shouted in German), the train - escorted by the hostile gazes of the East German guards, menacing in appearance, and all too reminiscent of Nazi soldiers, and by the ferocious barking of the German Shepherds (what else) - entered West Berlin, and the scenery changed dramatically: the city, whose presence one could only guess at from the other side of the border, suddenly became evident: it manifested itself through bright streets, huge neon signs, illuminated billboards on high buildings, and animated traffic. The view made the young Eastern European newcomer’s head spin; so this was the country that had lost the war?  She could not believe her eyes. 

     But her stupefaction did not last long: soon the train was crawling again through the dimmed villages of East Germany - which had a calming effect on her, so she leaned against the back of the seat and closed her eyes, oblivious to the fact that the train was about to enter West Germany and the view might change. She woke up in the early morning of the next day in completely different surroundings, as the train was rushing now at great speed through the Netherlands. Rows of small colorful houses, seemingly busy admiring their own reflections in the canals, glided before her eyes. The houses looked almost like toys, or decorations in a folk play; she almost expected to see people walking in folk costumes; Holland was too adorable to be real. “The Dutch sure are happy people,” she murmured to herself. 

     Soon - too soon for her liking - the train arrived at its final station: Hoek van Holland Haven. For the next leg of the journey the passengers were to embark on a ferry which would take them across the North Sea to Harwich in England. To the young newcomer from Eastern Europe, who knew only the small ferries used to transport people and cows as well as the occasional car across a river, the huge ship did not look like a ferry at all, but like a transatlantic vessel. The prospect of a real sea voyage got her excited and proud; “I’m becoming a true adventurer,” she smiled to herself. Unfortunately, her first real sea voyage did not turn out well: as soon as the passengers had finished their small meal, the North Sea had become stormy; the big waves began to rock the ship, then to shake it, then to toss it. Almost every passenger on board became seasick. Our sea travel newbie felt so miserable that she wanted to die on the spot. When she had got rid of the entire contents of her stomach with the addition of some bile, somebody from the crew helped her to get out on the deck to breathe in the cold air. Holding on to the railing and looking down at the raging waves from the height of what seemed to her to be ten floors, she seriously contemplated suicide. Luckily, the sea suddenly decided to calm down, so she abandoned the terrible thought and went back inside to freshen up and prepare for the last leg of the journey, that from Harwich to London. 

      She had been thinking about England continually for the last few months. It had all started with the visit of Grandma who brought “The Woman and Life” - one of the women’s magazines her mother would never buy. The magazine contained gossip, beauty tips, recipes and sensational little stories, copied from similar French or English magazines. While waiting for Grandma to finish unpacking, so the life of their small apartment could return to normal, Dad was leafing through the magazine; suddenly he stopped: one story had actually caught his attention. It was about a French boy who worked in England as an “au-pair”. “A boy helping with housework is unheard of,” wrote the journalist, “yet he does not complain and seems to be coping well with the dusting and ironing, and looking after the kids”. To prove it, the story included a picture of a smiling young boy.  An “au pair” was a new notion to Dad. Mum explained that it meant living abroad as part of a family and helping with chores; a young person could learn or master a foreign language that way. That evening was conceived the bold idea of Emma going to England and working as an au pair. Of course, putting it into practice required a lot of ingenuity and effort: Eastern Europeans did not travel freely outside the Iron Curtain. Her family had to find a distant cousin in England and ask him/her for an invitation and the train ticket which cost Emma would repay from her pocket money from the au pair job. Having an invitation and a ticket was a prerequisite to be able to apply for a passport. With the invitation, the ticket and the passport, one could finally apply for the necessary visas. If one were traveling by train one needed several transit visas. Without the help of the distant cousin who lived in Oxford, she would never have been on that train - not 1969, anyway. 

          

     Quite astonishingly, Emma did not notice anything as interesting or unusual about her first encounter with England. The brutality of the sea crossing had left her tired and apathetic. The train from Harwich arrived in London in the late afternoon; she felt neither joy nor relief that this journey, the longest one in her life thus far, had finally come to an end. A huge crowd awaited the bewildered newcomers from Eastern Europe on the platform. Most of her fellow passengers were quickly found by their families and friends. Standing on the platform, she examined ‪the remaining people in search for her unknown aunt. After few minutes of her nervously looking around, it became painfully clear to Emma that her aunt was simply not there. She panicked. All she knew about her aunt was that she had grey hair, lived in Oxford, and taught mathematics at the local grammar school. The family of a passenger from the same compartment, whom she had befriended during the trip, kindly offered to give her a lift to Redding, which was halfway between London and Oxford. And then what? she wondered, feeling completely at a loss. 

      Fortunately, just when the nice people from Reading had decided to leave her in the care of someone else there, a young woman pushed through the crowd, hugged her, and apologized for being late. She explained that since it was snowing, her mother had decided against driving to London. When they got outside the big railway station, it was still lightly snowing; the snow melted as soon as it touched the ground. The wet, well-lit London streets were shining magically in the dusk. The cousin hailed a taxi - one of those iconic London cavernous black cabs - and asked the driver to take them to Paddington Station. 

 

      Her journey was not over yet: she was now to take a train to Oxford. And - alone! She almost fainted with fear. To calm her nerves, the cousin assured her that the train was a fast one that would stop only once between London and Oxford. She also told her at what time the train would arrive in Oxford. The train, however, turned out to be a slow one, and it stopped what seemed like every few minutes. What was worse, her watch did not show the right time. The only other passenger in her compartment was a long-haired young man, who at first did not win her trust (even though he smiled at her and had kind eyes).  Emma began to worry that she might miss her station; so when the train slowed down preparing for the next stop, she would look at her fellow passenger and ask: “Oxford? Yes?” “No, not Oxford”, he reassured her and, before returning to his book, said something which she did not understand, as her knowledge of English was at this point less even than rudimentary. Every time the train slowed down, she would look questioningly at her fellow passenger. “No,” he would shake his head in response. She now trusted the long-haired man. When the train finally did arrive at Oxford, he smiled and nodded his head, took her heavy leather suitcase off the rack, and carried it down to the platform; apparently he was traveling further. A really kind hippie, she mused. As she stepped down to the platform and looked around in search of another cousin who was supposed to meet her there, a strange thought struck her: she did not know anymore who she was; a parallel with an erased blackboard came to her mind.

     

                                       

                                   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.