About me

I have strong memories of my childhood in Poland, to the surprise of many, given my young age. Each city has its own particular energy, it's own rhythm. Warsaw was a mix of grey communist style blocks and half demolished post war buildings awaiting to be reborn, interspersed with the sounds of barking dogs, or of rugs being beaten by somebody's mother in the courtyard.  With that backdrop there was an underlying fear of the Communist system that seemed to pervade every aspect of our lives. The hushed tones sometimes spoken while the adults gathered around the table, half burnt cigarettes in hand, a vodka or beer bottle in front, flirting occasionally with the topic of our oppression and the hope that one day we would be free.  Those hushed words would be quickly swept up even before the cigarette ash gathering on the table, lest an unintended ear would catch wind.  We learnt to speak in codes and sent letters with hidden messages and meanings to our loved ones who happened to be "zagranicą - abroad".   Alcohol was all pervasive and always present, and it was not unusual to see some adult laying on the frozen ground in the middle of winter and yet somehow miraculously defying death.  Like the Communism, it was an uncomfortable topic that no one wanted to talk about, something that was a part of the everyday fabric of life. We all knew that neighbour who had crossed that line beyond the casual everyday drinking into co-dependence. How could we not? they provides us with the regular song of voices raised, demanding an accounting of where the money had gone, where they had been for the past three days and why was the electricity not paid.  Drifting from behind closed doors, the symphony would sometimes be complemented with the creak of opening doors and enquiring heads peeking out into to the foyer, straining the ear to check if one, or both were still alive.  Silence...then the sound would come, a slight lowering of voices, the shuffling of guilty feet mixed with  he sounds of pots and pans being placed on a stove a little too aggressively, signifying a temporary truce.  Being reassured thus, the heads would retreat back like a turtle returning to the shelter of his shell. We understood what it meant when we saw that boy or girl of our age getting themselves ready for school on their own each day, we understood the emptiness of their stomachs and the quiet shame that was pushed back each day with a face set to resolute dignity.   At the very least, it taught us to survive.