October 1, 2019
A while back, in a
conversation about squabbling relatives, the comment was made: “The
best place for family is in a photograph.”
The fact this came
from a young Polish woman was as ironic as it was wise as, for many a
year, being half Polish myself that was really the only place I could
see my family.
Through the 1950s,
’60s and ’70s, when the Cold War was at its chilliest, my
father’s family was on one side of the Iron Curtain, and we were on
the other. With my mother being an only child from a broken home that meant my closest
relations were virtually beyond reach.
Communication was
restricted to letters that were checked, censored or ‘lost’;
travel was expensive and difficult, and almost impossible in the ’50s
as it could have seen my father, a former officer in the Polish free
forces, being unable to return, or just disappearing into a Soviet
camp.
As the ‘exiled’
part of the family we made just three journeys to Poland together, in
1962, 1966 and 1971.
So while growing up
in Fife, like my friends and schoolmates, I had aunties, uncles,
cousins, even a granny, but I rarely saw them and, of course, when I
did, I couldn’t speak to them, my Polish was limited to the basics
and they had no English.
So while there was
the politeness of a “please” or “thank you”, there was never
any real conversation. Given the cultural and political divide, the
material side was also dramatically different. There were no birthday
or Christmas presents, just a family Christmas card, and, of course
given the Polish Catholic tradition, one at Easter too.
We would send
parcels now and again, mainly clothing and, through special agencies,
sometimes medicine. I have a vague memory of a winter coat being
dispatched for my grandmother. And when we were next in
Poland she expressed her gratitude. We’d never seen the shabby
thing she was wearing. Our gift would have been exchanged by some
postal customs worker and a substitute wrapped up. But she did get
something, I suppose.
So I really had two
homes, there was Leven, with my pals, my school, my language, my
culture but we were ‘different’. It is almost forgotten now but
after the war the Poles were another ‘Windrush’ generation. For
many returning to a now communist country wasn’t an option, they
were viewed as political enemies and an uncertain fate awaited those
who took the risk. The Trades Union Congress in the United Kingdom,
concerned about foreigners taking British jobs, launched an
anti-Polish campaign after the war. Slogans such as ‘Poles go home’
were daubed on doors and walls and that contributed to that feeling
of being ‘outsiders’ while reinforcing the bonds of the Polish
community.
And then there was
Zawiercie, with all my relatives, the school my father had attended,
the touching little tributes of flowers in rusty old cans at various
locations in the streets where men, women and children had been
executed by the Nazis. But we were ‘different’ there too. We were
from the ‘affluent’ West. I’d be stopped in the street by
someone wanting to buy my jeans, or folk would approach my father
wanting to buy dollars, or for us to smuggle out a letter.
But these three
visits to Poland made a massive impression on me, one I still carry
today. I received so much affection, so many hugs and kisses from a
family I knew I would have to sob farewell to in just a couple of
weeks. And, of course, on each of these three visits, there were less
of them as time took them, but I remember them all, and how safe they
made me feel. And, to me, that was probably how every child in my
primary class felt all the time.
I suppose it also
forged my politics, much to my father’s horror. While I am no
apologist for the communist system or the Soviet era, as an
‘outsider’ the emphasis seemed to be on family, love, laughter
and care. Materialism didn’t seem to matter. But, of course, it
did, it was just that there wasn’t much to be had and life was a
struggle to even put bread on the table. It was a hard, brutal and
desperate way of life for a subjugated people.
But, and I still
remember dad’s exasperation (and anger), as I’d naively argue
that an empty butcher’s shelf in Poland was no worse than a full
one in Leven that the most vulnerable could not afford to buy from.
Or that full employment for a pittance of a pay was no worse than
being unemployed, alienated by society and made to feel worthless.
To this day, I’m
still amazed at how many different brands of toilet roll or coffee or
beans or cars etc, we need and demand. Or that someone can indulge in
luxury Christmas presents for a pet while a vulnerable neighbour
can’t afford to put on a single bar on the fire.
I see pictures now
on nostalgia websites and Facebook pages of folk sharing their family
history and I still envy that people have memories of conversations
with their aunties and uncles, of joking with their cousins, and
being spoilt by a granny.
But I do have those relatives in photographs, and even though I only met them briefly, I loved them
dearly and I miss them all.
Some of us remember that the Polish people also fought for us during the war. Personally I respect and admire you all, just as much as all the races who joined us in fighting the enemy! I think it is a disgrace that some people, I would like to think very few; do not make you welcome in Britain. Without you, we would not have won the war. You are friends and allies and I thank you all. XXX
ReplyDeleteThat's a powerful and touching piece of writing Jurek. Maybe all the more relevant today as the Government seem so determined to put up more barriers to people.
ReplyDelete