|
|
|
| Current Issue |
|
|
| Resources |
|
|
|
Sons and Fathers: Going Back to Poland
| Article
# : |
19338 |
|
|
Section : |
MODERN THOUGHT
|
| Issue
Date : |
6 / 1991 |
6,545 Words |
| Author
: |
Philip Gerard
Philip Gerard is the author of eight books, most recently
Secret Soldiers: The Story of World War II's Heroic Army of
Deception (Dutton, 2002). He holds a Distinguished Teaching
Professorship in the creative writing department of the
University of North Carolina at Wilmington. |
I stand beside my bag at the curb of No. 24, Ulica Pederewskiego, in Szczytno, Poland, waiting to meet a family I have never known, who speak a language I do not speak, and who do not know for sure I am coming. Nevertheless, they are my family, and I've come to reclaim them.
My guide--a young man I met on the train from Warsaw--has led me here. He doesn't speak English, but I've shown him a letter of introduction from my father explaining, in Polish, that I am looking for his neighbor, Helena Szablinska.
Now he approaches the door of the white stucco house, open to the summer breeze, and calls inside. A pretty teenaged girl in designer jeans appears--cousin Kasia, the granddaughter of my grandfather's brother's daughter, whom I recognize from a black-and-white photo--and raises her hands to her face in the universal gesture of surprise and delight. Anyway, I hope it's delight.
My guide motions me toward the house, then disappears with a wave. Kasia embraces me at the door and leads me by the hand into the kitchen, where she pulls up a chair for me and stands smiling, unsure what to do or say next. She giggles and I laugh, elated to be done with a journey that has brought me 5,600 miles by air, five hours by train and taxi, and four generations into my family past to this neat stucco house that already feels like home.
American rock music plays from a boom box on the kitchen table. Sunlight spills in with the breeze. Kasia fixes me a cup of tea, then bustles around the house straightening furniture and finishing chores, telephoning first one relative, then another.
She brings me soft slippers and motions for me to remove my shoes, which in a Polish household are customarily left at the door. "Babca," she explains--the affectionate term of grandmother, for Helena--then points to her watch and flashes three fingers. I nod. In Polish families, the babca will take charge of almost any situation. She will know what to do about the language difficulty, and she will return at 3 P.M.--only a little while from now.
In the meantime we trade phrases from my little Berlitz traveler's booklet and get acquainted. On the train I felt exhausted, jet-lagged, and overwhelmed by travel. Now, in the presence of this bright-eyed cousin, I feel invigorated again. I relax and savor the hot, robust
...
Read Full Article
Look for this article in Ask.com
|
|
