The theory of two enemies (as seen by a Polish witness).

“One of the school-board’s favourite questions that were randomly put to us at the classes during the Soviet times was: ‘what is the purpose of the theory of two enemies?’ And depending on the answer we provided, our parents could be arrested that same evening. This apparently innocent question was one of the tactics used by the Soviet control for finding out who could be, or could have been, involved in the underground Polish government during or after the war. Indeed, under the Soviet domination its members were -unofficially- prosecuted by the URSS because among them there was a faction (rather a minority) which had always considered that Stalin was as much of an enemy to fight as Hitler had been. This is the reason why Russia, despite combatting by the Allies against the Third Reich during the last months of the war, once this finished wanted to also finish with those who had been fighting Hitler in secrecy: because some of them had also fought Stalin. Sure enough, there were internal differences into our government behind the scenes, and about fifteen per cent of its members conspired against the Soviet power.”
In her halting English full of hesitations, struggling with her feeble memory and a lack of concentration that impeded her somewhat, Ela spoke to me in an elderly tremulous voice from her easy chair at the corner of the small appartment in Chłodna, the very same street where, seventy years before, some of the stories she told me had taken place. She uttered her sentences slowly, first shaping them in her mind, with her eyes closed–like if she had all the time in the world–and then pausing whenever she had to search for a word, which sometimes would take long seconds to come. But she was not in a hurry, neither was I.
It had been by sheer chance that I met her. Well… of course, in a way, we always meet people by some kind or other of coincidence; but in this case, had the things gone the way they were planned, we wouldn’t have ever got acquainted with each other. During one of my travels I was supposed to stay a few days in Warsaw with her son Krzyś, whom I had previously contacted through an accommodation website; but, on arriving to his place, it turned out to be in total chaos, allegedly after a recent sort of  reckless party held by his apparently unrestrained children. Indeed, the flat seemed to have undergone a battle, though some details (like the filthy bathroom or the strong cat urine smell that pervaded all over the place) suggested me that when in “normal” conditions it could hardly be less disagreeable. Ela was there too, not for helping his son to sort out the mess (her many years and aching legs didn’t allow her to do much work), but rather for trying to keep his spirits up, which were quite low. Sure, Krzyś was very embarrassed by the situation and heartfeltedly apologized to me, but when I hinted that we both would probably feel more comfortable if I just went to a hostel, then he seemed utterly desolated.
And this was how Ela, for trying to relieve him from his unease, took upon her shoulders the moral duty of hospitality that belonged to his son and offered me a bed in her own appartment. I hesitated for some moments, wondering what kind of coexistence could I have for several days with such an old and disabled woman; but the fact that she spoke a reasonably good English, plus the intelligence and softness that shone behind her small blue eyes, put my reticences away. I accepted.
“Powerless as it might seem”, she would go on, putting her hands on her legs and looking intently at me, “the underground government wasn’t however altogether useless. Thanks to it, for example, many of the Polish deportees in Siberia could be instructed and organized to form troops which, through Ukraine or Turkey, eventually managed to join the active Resistance. This Poles had been deported by Stalin at the beginning of the war, when (as not everyone knows) the URSS was on Germany’s side. In effect, only two weeks after the German troops had invaded Poland from the west, advancing at a fair speed, the Soviets started their invasion from the east and, meeting along a line somewhere around one fifth of the Polish territory to the right, both (allied) fronts halted and thus remained for one year and a half. During all this time, Stalin deported to concentration camps in Siberia all the inteligencja, the intelectuals, from his occupied fifth of Poland, leaving only that part of the population who were good for nothing more than working the land. It was, therefore, not possible to believe in any good will towards Poland from the part of Stalin.
The underground government was formed by Polish politicians and intelectuals who fled to Western Europe when the war started, and–mostly from London–they would direct the Resistance and organize such actions as, for example, the famous powstanie warszawskie, the Warsaw uprising against Hitler’s troops. However, this secret government was not dissolved when the war ended, but continued working in secrecy, now conspiring and fighting against the Soviet domination, whose control and government of Poland they considered as illegitimate as the German occupation had been. As a matter of fact, the underground government lasted virtually until the fall of the Berlin wall.”

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Do widzenia, Warsaw. (Do widzenia, Poland.)

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A farewell to Warsaw (and somehow to Poland as well).
Goodby Warsaw, I’m leaving you today.
Goodby, goodby, goodby.
Goodby all you people. There’s nothing you can say
to make me change my mind. Goodby.

(“Adapted” from Pink Floyd)
I’ve finally left Warsaw (and Poland) for good; but, certainly, not without sentiment or melancholy, not without a disquieting grief that shrunk my heart and dwelled for some days in my throat; a distress that hasn’t fully abandoned me yet. Indeed, I wouldn’t leave the place where I’ve been living for so many months – a place so full of memories, anecdotes, recollections, loves and passions – without at least paying some kind of hommage to it. And here’s mine to you, Warsaw; here’s my ode to the city that provided me with so many remembrances and good moments. Here to you as well, Poland!


Ode:
Goodby Warsaw!, captivating blend of trees and concrete, parks and asfalt; glass, steel and rust.
Warsaw of the anachronical and ubiquitous tramcars, scrappy and worn out, all creaks and racket, honking to the traffic with their familiar rings; wide opened doors through which all the winter colds get in, torture of the bearing passengers.

Warsaw, helter skelter of constructions, damp of urban styles: the dignified old town, the horrid blocks of communistic architecture, the incongruous modern skyscrapers, the emblematic Palace of Culture, a polemic Stalin’s gift and legacy, the breathtaking gardened roof of University Library with its fabulous view over the river.

And the countless parks!, so white and still in winter beneath a snowy blanket, upon which a thousand feet and paws trace their antlike tracks; so brightly green otherwise, full of life, of aromas and flowers, and of loving couples… Park Wilanów with its picturesque, elegant French gardens with the forged iron benches, a renaissance palace, a pond with water lilies, and the slanted sunrays hitting the bright grass. There’s a forgotten corner where I first met her, a slavic romance, all in white like an angel, her silvery hair shining in the summer light as an aura. Park Łazienkowski, thick trees and labyrinth paths, forest and mounds, voluptuously damp. Forever my memory will embody a snapshot: her handsome shape laying supine on a wooden bench, her comely features, mischievous smile and half opened dress — letting my fingers crawl, like caterpillars, inch by inch on her dashing white thigs (where a tiny spider has climbed down its glittering thread from the sky) and up to her chaste, moist knickers…

Goodbye for good, city of the broad unpassable avenues, the unreasonable junctions, the uneven pavement and its one million puddles (crazy drivers speeding for splashing the pedestrians); of the underground passages (stenchy bakeries and smelly zapiekanka), Centralna Station and its maze of tunnels, cheap food, takeaways, kiosks, kebabs, ticket booths; of the endless ambulances, police and firemen cars untiringly drawing a tiresome web of coloured, noisy sirens which disturb, day and night, the life of the citizens, the unlikely peace of the slumbers.

Farewell Krakowskie Przedmieisce, the main promenade with its excessive decoration, so baroc, so overloaded with gold and mirth, so kitsch. And Nowy Świat, the Mecca of commerce, tourists sitting in the terraces and watching the incessant flow of beauties, that natural catwalk of attractive ladies -short skirted, long legged, all made up- passing up and down to be admired, looking lewd, evasive and delusive as only slavics can be; unpredictable, contradictory, feminine and feministic, looking for they-really-never-know-what. Farewell popular Rotunda, where all the citizens meet each other, where I last saw her, a hot afternoon in the late summer, her bosom pulsating under the dress, a light perspiration on her forehead, and her vacillating smile. There she went!, down the subway scalator.

And the river!, the inaccesible Wisła which can only be seen and crossed -but not approached- east to west, west to east on the tram, on the bus. Wisła, its apparently calm waters reflecting at night the bridges’ lights.

I leave behind, the hostility, bitternes, aggressivity and anger, the sad faces, elusive stares and unanswered salutes. Warsaw of the drunks, the restless warriors and the troublesome men kurwing around; of the scary night busses which, despite their army of massive, wardrobe-sized rude guards, are sewers of inebriated human waste, stinking digested alcohol and vomits; gangs trying to hit each other, spitting “kurwas” and oaths from end to end of the long, double-bodywork vehicles. Fights in the bus, fights in the streets and the bars; too much beer and vodka, too little sex. Hormons jealous of the foreigners who pick up the local flowers.

Farewell to the kawiarnie (Tarabuk, Czuły Barbarzyńca, Chłodna), where universitarians and protointelectuals gather together for protesting, over a coffee, against the prime minister and solving the country’s politics. Also to the clubs, the salsa bars, the jazz and the striptease; all light and music, false joy and real money.

Unique Przekaski i Zakaski, the most emblematic bistro in town, small, crowded and noisy, gathering all kinds of urban beasts, clash of classes: politicians, avang-gardes, actors, beggars, street workers, students, foreigners, drunkards and drunks; all of them struggling shoulder to shoulder for a cheap vodka, a small beer, a bad wine, a snack to keep standing the night. Exhausted waiters and a scrounger bouncer trying to make some extra money on a toilet made up fee.
And Praga, the damned district, the accursed one; so ruined, authentic and unspoiled, yet soon to be marred by the press and the snobs. Praga of the dark streets, the rough dwellers and the cheap, shoddy clubs: five zlotich for the broad-shouldered doorman and, inside, a crowd looking forward to get lost in smoke, music and dance.

Goodby also to the stifling summer fog, the suffocating humidity, the unbreathable air. Another snapshot: it’s night in the dark and gloomy Pole Mokotowskie park, the grass is steaming as if with cauldrons underneath, and I’m kissing someone under a dim lamp, both inmerse and astray in the concealing vapour…

Farewell to my many whereabouts and their sonorous names: Saska Kepa and Rondo Wiatraczna in Praga Połódniu, plac Starinkiewicza and Raszyńska in Ochota, Solicarności and Chłodna in Wola-Ratusz, Narbutta in Mokótow, Świetokrzyska, Puławska… so many flats, so many hosts, so many landlords and mates. And, oh!, that magic appartment in Narbutta with its unique, unforgettable kitchen table -eyes down- and the oval wardrobe mirror -eyes up-. Something grand took place there and lasted what lasts a blink.

Adieu to all my good friends and my many acquaintances.

Do widzenia Warsaw! You gave me success and failure. You’ve been my every day, expectations and dreams, fears and pleasures. I’ve known you so well, I’ve enjoyed you so much, I’ve stood you so long, that now you’re a part of me. Hard to say goodby leaving behind such a loadful of memories and emotions, and yet… do widzenia!

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

(Shall I never come back? Oh!, surely I will, some time or other. But the Warsaw of the daily strolls, the frenzy, friends and affairs… that Warsaw is gone forever.)

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Podlasie

Podlasie is a stroll in the rain along the forestry park, and a sweet — oh! how sweet first kiss under the umbrella: her strangely bland lips, intensely crimson, invariably juicy, provokingly fleshy.

She in an absurd sanguine-red dress, all buttocks, merrily dancing and laughing along a dirt road in rural Supraśl.

Her hobbit feet in purple suede shoes stepping on the mossy cobblestones of Tykocin.

She in a red gown photographing a tourist who photographs a ruminating cow who inevitably stares at the gown.

Her red laughter from the back of our red car.

A balneary whose waning customers covet her freshness, her beauty and youth, while their glances disapprove of incestuous me: father and daughter?, satyr and nymph?

She peeping out the window of and old Soviet-style restaurant featuring a well, an ages-old dry tree-trunk and traditional Russian music.

An Orthodox church, her heavenly eyes staring at the heaven’s doors with reverence and awe.

A drowsy warm afternoon, flies buzzing around the massive wood table where she squats, hot, humid and knickersless.

A silent walk in the woodland looking for a cushiony spot where to lay and get laid.

Her emerald-blue eyes reflecting the sky-blue sky.

She shooting at the shutters of the shelters and the sheds.

A forest road leading nowhere and her musical voice asking a peasant some impossible directions.

The heat and her odourless sweat, and her groans and her thigs underneath the uplifted skirt in the back seat.

A trading post with peculiar, delicious dishes served on solid-wood tables under the tree foliage, right across Belarus where her roots lay.

Her strawberry lips crimsoned by leaking ripe strawberries in a sunny summer day.

A small wooden room in Hajnówka’s youth hostel, with a narrow bed where we love and sleep then love again in forced close-up contact the whole night long.

A bicicle ride to Zabłudów, pursuing her hypnotic rump, wrapped in a pair of clownish rainbowed trousers; chasing after the notes her chrystal laughter writes in the air.

A break for lunch, and her imperfectly perfect snow-white teeth biting lipstick-red tomatoes and blood-brown kabanos.

A worn out, unfolded map of the region where she outlines, with bitten-nailed fingers, delicious routes that would bring us delicious memories of Podlasie…

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The Ukrainian bus adventure

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The Ukrainian bus was a heap of scrap, as old and filthy as I hadn’t seen the like since the impoverished Spain of my early childhood, and it had no heating at all. It took us eight hours to cover the little more than 200 km between Lviv and Lublin. Those experienced passengers among us, the acquainted with the conditions, were cautious enough to wear warm clothings or blankets; but, for me, the trip meant eight hours of static and inescapable freeze, as if nothing walled me from the snowy landscapes visible through the filthy windows. The procedures in the border took close to three hours. When we finally arrived, I was stiff and frigid like a frozen cod. However, during all the trip the passengers behaved like a big family, showing a praiseworthy solidarity.

Travelling in Ukraine is always an unforgettable adventure.

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Stories of the past

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During my last stay in Warsaw, Ela, my 77 y.o. lovely host, told me a number of fascinating stories about the WWII, the German occupation and the ulterior (and much worse) soviet domination. Here’s a little example:
After the Second World War, and at the beginning of the communist times, the poverty of the population was extreme, and special precautions should be taken when posting goods, in order for these to not being stolen. My family in Canada wanted to send me a pair of shoes, but they could only send one shoe at a time, with an interval of several weeks. A single shoe was much less likely to get stolen than a full pair!
As a writer, I was stricken by this little anecdote, because it’s the type of thing one would have never thought of unless told about it or personally gone through the experience.

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Slavic soul

At times, there is nothing like three friends chatting over a few beers…
My companions were fascinating, though they could hardly be more dissimilar: Roman, tall and corpulent, was a bachelor in his full forties, an intelectual, well cultured, the nationalist type, rather pessimistic and, most of all, deeply sentimental; Olek, on the other hand, was a womanizer in his late thirties, married of course, a merry and optimistic spirit, some of a petit bourgeois, very laid back, rather took on the pro Russian side. Each in their own way, they both were true slavic souls.
I was lucky to meet them thanks to some website. Sitting at a table in that popular restaurant near Khreshchaty, we talked of course about women, love and friendship, those three fundamentals of life. And I was moved to see how much empathy they both had for the hearbroken people, for the sorrowful ones, for the unhappy; how much sincere compassion. Also, I was surprised at their extraordinary insight when guessing some facts about my life, surprised at how they managed to read my truth through but only a few words from me. Their intuition was so piercing that, I must confess that, at first I was a bit bothered: they drilled my shell down to my deepest secrets. But I soon realized their support, their solidarity, and this made me feel understood and comforted. Pure Russian spirit, they were.
Half a dozen beers sufficed to do the magic, and it was almost with tears in our eyes that we parted. None of us dared to say what we were all thinking: that I would never ever meet them again. Roman hearfeltedly shook my hands and, after warmly hugging me, disappeared down the subway steps, resolutely, without looking back. Then Oleg and me took the same mashrutka for a strech. His stop was first. When he stepped off, he stood there on the street for a while, piercing at me through the dusty windows, like a child who’s left behind, until the bus started and our visual link was broken by the distance and the street posts…
Sometimes this wonderful, authentic people come across the traveller’s path; persons who stake out our lives and make everyone else in between seem mediocre and superficial.

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The map of sorrow

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It’s a chill and sunny November morning of a slavic capital.
His gloved hands seeking for shelter in the pockets of the worn-out coat, the man wanders along the wide avenues of magnificent Stalinist architecture, his head hanging down, his heart contrite, demolished by the unending and merciless blows of fate and overwhelmed by a woe which his undermined heart could not endure. He’s still young; possibly in his thirties; but the deep wrinkles engraved on his face by a cruelly fateful fortune make him ten years older. He’s tired; not of walking, but of suffering.
Now he totters; but he doesn’t halt, and keeps strolling, knowing perhaps that if he checks his pace it might mean the last stop. When he raises his unshaven and famished cheeks to the weak autumn sun, there’s a shimmer in his eyes. Tears? Maybe it’s just the cold.
Adrift, always heading nowhere, his aimless ramble draws invisible footprints on the city sidewalks, tracing an absurd map of sorrow.
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The change

The mashrutka was, as usual, crammed with people. No way to get to the driver and pay. ‘What’s the fare?’, I asked to my young, pretty and kind travel mate for the occasion. ‘One seventy five’, she said. I handed a 2 hrivna banknote to the passenger in the seat ahead of mine and instinctively gave up the change: who would care to pay me back 25 kopeks, scarcely 3 euro cents?
To my astonishment, a couple of minutes later some passenger put into my hand the despised quarter coin…

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