PART TWO - Part 02

symbolizing the light of life, was passed from person to person all around the table... The old people said the table was the place that united the family, the place were a common prayer could be said thanking God for the bread, wine and salt and for His generosity for providing the family with serenity, happiness and protection from evil... Our elders, Pan Vishnievski, learned this from their elders and passed it on from generation to generation. The old people said that the table was created by God to bring the family together, to sit in a circle like it was a single soul. They said the table brought harmony to the family. It protected each member from evil and disorder by bringing them closer to their family unit where each felt loved, equal, warm and secure. With this tragedy that happened to us recently, Pan Vishnievski, our family circle has been broken - our table has been broken. Your guests today are feeling the effects of that broken circle. Without their families around them, they see no point in congratulating anyone. They see no point in doing anything. Back home it was customary, according to our old customs, for the mothers to make offerings to God and to the spirits for many, many reasons. But what’s left of our homes and families now? Who should we congratulate and for what? There is nothing left for us to desire now for which to make offerings from the balcony. There is nothing left of our table and the people around it. There is nothing left of our rich lives. And without all that there can be no joy...”

A large tear fell from Kole’s eye revealing his immense and never-ending sadness... Both men went silent. While there was silence on their lips there was a storm brewing in their hearts and souls…

“Tonight, Pan Vishnievski, your guests were thinking of their loved ones who weren’t with them. Their thoughts were filled with past memories, of how their families used to get together and celebrate this great holiday and how now they were missing that. Their tears and sadness betrayed their sad feeling of not being with their families at home around the table. For us, Christmas Eve, as it is with you, is a family holiday. Our consciousness is deeply rooted in our belief that, on this day, on this evening, everyone should be at home and seated in a circle around the table... The old people always said that wherever you are you should be home on Christmas Eve. They said the whole family must always be home sitting together around the table waiting for the good news, the birth of our Lord

Jesus Christ... And tonight, as the people sat on the long tables loaded with the twelve dishes of rich Polish food, which for them was an unprecedented miracle, they were deep in their own thoughts, Pan Vishnievski. They were thinking of their own families which they no longer have. They saw the table full of food here, which they could no longer have at home... They thought of the home they no longer have; of their fields, their meadows and the mountains they no longer have, whose heights made them feel like eagles. They, my friend Pan Vishnievski, weren’t here in mind and spirit during the dinner; they were in their own homes... They were missing what they had and that made them sad... They were missing the flame of the oil lamp that glowed in the corner in front of the icon of their favourite saint. That glowing flame kept their faith alive just like it had for the generations before them which had endured centuries of slavery... We no longer have a state, a country of our own, but we do have our people and our faith. When we began to trust and believe the promises of outsiders, Pan Vishnievski, we had no idea… we couldn’t even imagine that they would turn us into even greater slaves than we already were…”

Kole stopped for a moment just to take a deep breath and then continued:

“I miss the church I used to go to and pray for the souls of our dead, for the health of the living and to light a candle so that there would be less darkness and more light for both the dead and the living, and for the whole family which I now no longer have. My family is broken and my people are scattered and without hope. That’s what my grandfather used to say. In my country, Pan Vishnievski, every village has its own patron saint. The village church bears the saint’s name and the saint is regarded as the guardian of the village. We also have saint name days. The day of the saint after whose name the village church is baptized is celebrated as a holiday by the village. On top of that every house has its own patron saint and the name day of that saint is a family holiday. Those saints are the protectors of our villages and homes. Let me tell you one more thing. We, the people from Kostur Region, call Christmas Eve KRACHUN... The word comes from ancient times and is preserved in the customs of our people... It means the end of a year, when the days are shortest and the nights are longest. When KRACHUN

arrives it signifies the beginning of more light and less dark. The birth of Christ coincides with CRACHUN... Both symbolize the coming of new life and high hopes. CRACHUN marks the end of long nights, darkness and the coming of longer days, in which the sun will shine longer, which means more light. Belief in the natural phenomena and in the Christian faith united people in hopes of a new life. As far as I know the word KRACHUN, instead of BOZHIK (Christmas), is used only in Kostur Region in Macedonia, as well as in Romania and Slovakia...”

Kole stopped talking. The silence lasted a long time. Pan Vishnievski was also silent. They kept silent and talked only with their thoughts.

Their night-long conversation was interrupted by the cold breath of the winter morning.

The day was greeted with the words:

“Christ is born...”

“Merry Christmas...”

“Happiness and good health to all for many years...”

4

As it happened, Kiro was returning home with Mr. Vishnievski, the farm manager. On the way Pan Vishnievski asked Kiro to go with him to the co-op inn.

“Pan Kiro, would you accompany me to the inn. We can warm up there. It’s a cold and humid day... What do you say?”

“Yes, yes, no problem. I will come with you, Pan Vishnievski, but it isn’t right for you to honour me three, or even four times now, and I never… I’m not comfortable… Of course, it’s nice to have a stiff drink in this cold weather, but... You know what I mean...” Kiro said shyly. “I want us to go but it’s a shame that you should have to pay every time…”

“That’s not a problem. Both you and I got paid today and I don’t mind if both of us spend some of it,” replied Pan Vishnievski and insisted that they go, pulling him by his arm towards the inn.

“That’s a good idea, Pan Vishnievski… of course it’s a good idea, but still I can’t because, you see, it’s inconvenient for me because I have no money...” said Kiro with a sad tone of voice, squeezing the last two words out of his mouth with a heavy sigh.

“How can you not have money? Didn’t you pick up your salary today? What happened to the money?” asked Vishnievski with a surprised look on his face.

“What salary? We don’t get paid. Who told you we were being paid? replied Kiro.

“The man from the committee, your man from the city. I personally gave him the payroll in a bag for him to pay all the workers. I’ve

been doing that for months...” said Vishnievski with a raised tone of voice.

“All we do, Pan Vishnevski, is sign or put our “X” on the payroll sheet and that’s all. We never got any money, only small packages of candy, sweets, string, needles, buttons and some other small stuff...” explained Kiro.

“And money! Money, I ask you, does he give you any money?! asked Vishnievski with a loud voice.

“As I told you, Pan Vishnevski, all we do is just sign and then get a small package, a gift from the people’s government... We get nothing else…” explained Kiro.

“And money, I ask you, you say he doesn’t give you money?” reiterated Vishnievski.

“The comrade told us that part of our salary goes towards the common cauldron from which we all eat, and the other part goes to help the jailed communists in Greece... That’s what he told us...” explained Kiro.

“And you say he gives you no money. Absolutely none?!” asked Vishnievski.

“None!” replied Kiro.

“What else did the man from the committee tell you?” inquired Vishnievski.

“He told us that we should be satisfied and happy because we now have peace, food, warm bedding… and we have all this thanks to the Party and to the Polish people’s government... This is what he told us...” replied Kiro.

They left the inn late. On their way they ran into Lazo who, without greeting them, asked:

“Where are you two making your way so cheerfully?”

“We’re going home,” replied Kiro.

Lazo went a little closer in front of them, stared into their faces and, while suspiciously waving his finger, said:

“Comrade Vishnievski, I would like to speak frankly and openly with you. Do you have some time?”

“Why not... When do you want to meet?” replied Vishnievski.

“Well now, if you don’t mind, Comrade Vishnevski,” said Lazo.

“All right then. And what is your name?” asked Vishnievski.

“Lazo...” replied Lazo.

“What do you want to speak to me about, Lazo?” asked Vishnievski.

“Comrade Vishnievski, I want to ask you something about a very important thing. And that important thing is, how can I say it without it being an insult; I want to know how much money I should be getting for working in the field. Well, Comrade Vishnievski, I want to tell you that, I mean to ask you if I should have a salary or is it enough that we eat three times a day from the common cauldron without paying. Thank God the food is good and tasty and there is so much that I can’t eat it all. I’m not complaining, thank God I’m full of bread and peace. I’m sleeping peacefully, I’m not having nightmares, but when I’m awake I ask myself how much do the Poles get paid in the neighbouring agricultural economy for the field work they do? Don’t I deserve to get paid for the work I do collecting potatoes, beets and carrots every day in those big fields and loading and unloading them? I don’t know. But I should know because if I’m not told, then it is injustice, exploitation, like my Party says. I want, Comrade Vishnievski, to earn a living for what I do. Let’s say this: You tell me how long you work and I tell you how much money you get? And then what do we do? Then we have to agree. I will work and you will pay me. I and everyone else here are working honestly, but honestly we don’t get any money. I want to have my own money to buy something that my wife will cook at

home for me. I tell you, she’s a good cook. Here, in the dining room of the common kitchen, we eat well-cooked potatoes - stew and other appetizing dishes. I’m not complaining, the dishes are delicious, but there is one that doesn’t suit me. When I see that black stuff that looks like porridge, I don’t remember what it’s called, then my stomach jumps. I don’t like that dish but please don’t be insulted, right? I’ll say again that we are full, well fed, sleeping in warm beds but I want my wife to cook some of our meals, at home, to cook and even to buy something for my wife, the poor girl already goes without socks. I want to cook something for ourselves, like at home. It’s good that we get these packages the comrade from the committee gives us, why not, but my wife doesn’t knows what to do with so many needles, laces, buttons and candy. Her bag is full of the stuff. What do you say, Comrade Vishnievski, can I, I mean, all of us who work, get a salary, buy things for ourselves and let our women cook our meals at home? I’m not saying the Polish dishes aren’t good, they’re great, glory to God, we’re all well fed, no one is complaining, God forbid, right? I don’t want to bother you anymore, Comrade Vishnievski. Keep what I told you in mind and say a few words about it up there, right? I’m not asking for anything more, Comrade Vishnievski. Goodbye now and don’t forget what we talked about, right?” replied Lazo.

Lazo stopped talking but stood in front of Pan Vishnievski staring into his eyes as if looking for the affirmative answer to his plea. He whispered goodbye and left for the field where the sugar beets, which had been lying in piles for ten days, were loaded onto a trailer whose wheels were stuck in the mud. The tractor pulled the loaded trailer and with difficulty dragged it out of the mud and onto a dry spot. It then went to haul the cart that was blocking the way. After the cart was dragged onto the road, Kole got his horses and, with help from the women, positioned them in front of the cart and tied them to the cart harness.

Lazo, who arrived in the field late, approached Kole and asked:

“What is that stuff in the cart, Kole?”

“Beets...” replied Kole sounding like he was out of breath.

“I’ve never seen beets so big? Yesterday we brought beets from the fields but they weren’t as big as these...” said Lazo while weighing a beet with his hand. Then, after he put the beet back on the cart he said: “It’s probably not a beet, Kole, it must be something else. Could it be some kind of pumpkin, huh?”

“It’s a beet, Lazo, a sugar beet,” replied Kole.

“What kind did you say?” asked Lazo.

“A sugar beet, Lazo... From which sugar is made?” replied Kole.

“What?!” asked Lazo looking confused.

“I said sugar is made from beets like this, do you understand? They boil them in large cauldrons in the factories, Lazo, then drain them, dry them and carry them in sacks where they want to take them... Do you understand?!” explained Kole.

“I understand if you’re telling me a joke, I understand, but don’t make fun of me anymore...” replied Lazo, looked away, smiled and quietly said: “Look at him… he tells me sugar is made from beets…”

Kole heard him and interrupted: “Look Lazo, if you don’t believe me then ask that Polish man over there…” and pointed at the man walking by.

Lazo turned around, looked at the man passing by and shouted:

“Hey, hey, you, Comrade Pole! Stop, I want to ask you something...”

The Polish man stopped and Kole explained to him what Lazo wanted to ask him.

The Polish man firmly said that the factories do make sugar from these beets and went on his way.

“What do you say now, Lazo, do you believe me? Sugar is made from these big beets and that’s why they’re called sugar beets,” explained Kole.

Lazo laughed and said: “I can’t believe you’re telling me this. Come on stop fooling. Stop trying to make me believe sugar can be made from these beets that look like pumpkins... Even if I see it I’ll have a hard time believing it...” Lazo then crossed himself and without saying another word went to a trailer where others were loading sugar beets and, with his bare hands, began to throw the big beets on the trailer. All this time he couldn‘t get out of his mind what Kole had told him. He kept thinking of sugar being made from sugar beets. If that was true, Lazo thought to himself, if what the Polish man told him was true, and if what that joker Kole told him was true about boiling these beets in large cauldrons and making sugar, then it’s certain that sugar can be made in even smaller cauldrons, and perhaps even in a larger pot.

That thought kept going through Lazo’s mind all day long. When he came home he thought of making sugar himself and imagined how much sugar he could get out of one large sugar beet. He could sell it on the black market and make money. He then wondered how much money he could get from selling the sugar. And the deeper he got into these exciting thoughts, the more he filled his head with all the money he could make… money he would hide under his pillow... His mind was occupied with these thoughts every hour he was awake.

At dusk, when it was dark outside and everyone was gathered in the great hall eating their dinner, being careful not to be seen, Lazo went to one of the trailers full of sugar beets, filled a small sack with big sugar beets and hid a few smaller ones in his bosom and wide trousers and, without been seen, returned home. He dropped the beets on the floor.

His wife, surprised at the sight, asked:

“Why Lazo, why did you bring all these black pumpkins here?”

Lazo looking at her with obvious pleasure and, pointing at a large beet with his leg, instead of answering he said:

“They’re not pumpkins, they’re sugar beets. And do you know, Lazovitsa, what they do with these beets?”

“They give them to the cows,” Lazovitsa affirmed. “They bring a lot of these beets to the dairy farm and feed the cows with them so that they’ll produce more milk...” she added.

“That’s right, here they give some to the cows but wife do you know what they do with them there, in the factories, huh? You don’t know. I’ll tell you. There, my dear wife, in the factories they boil them in large cauldrons and make sugar out of them. So that you know, sugar is made from these beets by boiling them. Now see if we have a small cauldron, and if we don’t bring that big pot... What are you waiting for; I told you what to do... Don’t wait around... Also start the fire...” ordered Lazo.

“And what are you going to do, my poor Lazo, huh?” she asked.

“You’ll see. Just watch and you’ll witness a miracle...” replied Lazo enthusiastically.

Lazo washed the beets in a wooden tab, peeled them with his pocket knife, cut them into large pieces and poured them into a large pot. The iron plate on the stove on which Lazo placed the full pot was already hot. The water with the beets was slowly warming and when it first began to boil Lazo started stirring it with a large wooden spoon he’d taken from the hall kitchen without permission.

The beets boiled all night. The water was evaporating but Lazo kept adding more water and stirring them, turning them left and right and jerking them out of the boiling water, and still they tasted bitter and not sweet like sugar. Sometimes he woke his wife up to help him mix so he could take a little break, sit down, rest his legs and smoke a cigarette. He had no patience to wait so he quickly replaced her and again took over the job of mixing the boiling beets. He did this until dawn.

“Did you make any sugar?” asked his wife half asleep.

Lazo grabbed a piece of beet from the pot, handed it to her and said:

“Here, taste it.”

Lazovitsa blew on the hot piece of beet to cool it down and, with an undisclosed curiosity, licked it, wet her lips, twisted her cheeks and spit. She then said:

“My poor Lazo, if only sugar could be boiled out of beets... Shame on you... You kept me awake all night... You kept telling me stir, Lazovitsa, stir so I can get a break…” she barked at him and, while looking straight into his eyes, scolded him even more: “Shame on you Lazo… but you have no shame...” She again looked him in the eyes and said: “Go, get out of my sight. Go out there and get rid of this concoction. Pour it in the brook and make sure nobody sees you. If people find out what you’re doing, God forbid, we’ll be ridiculed all our lives... Look at you, with your big ideas of becoming a factory owner and a businessman making sugar out of pumpkins... Yes my poor Lazo... get the beets out of your head…” she cursed and swore. “You were going to make sugar in a pot, shame on you...” she said loudly and laughed even louder.

Lazo frowned all that day and for the next two days didn’t show up for work in the field to collect and load sugar beets.

He not only didn’t think of beets but couldn’t stand to look at them. Even the sugar in the canteen tasted bitter to him.

5

Pan Vishnievski couldn’t believe what Mitre and Lazo had told him. He was overwhelmed by the thought that people had been cheated and grossly wronged. He nervously hit the top of the desk, belonging to the head of the state agricultural holding, with his fist and said:

“Mr. Director, this is unheard of and shameful... I don’t want to say anything worse. The way these people are being treated, looks to me like the way the black people were treated. Those who worked on American plantations and were given only food and a small gift for the work they did.”

“This isn’t how we do things here… This isn’t us. In fact this brings great shame to us... Please, Mr. Vishnievski, calm down. Today I will go and check everything out and will erase this shame by all means possible...” replied the director.

“It isn’t only outrageous, Mr. Director, but humiliating... In a country where the spirit of freedom is glorified, we’re allowing these beaten down people to be treated like slaves...” added Vishnievski.

“Don’t talk like that. You are saying harsh words, very harsh words... If those people don’t get paid for the work they do, it doesn’t mean that your harsh words are justified... I want you to know that the Polish authorities showed a great deal, I would say unlimited tolerance towards the Greek comrades. They asked us not to interfere in matters concerning the refugees. They have insisted that all the problems related to their stay with us would be resolved by their Party committee and maybe there are mistakes. I have learned that the committee has assumed some powers that are outside our Polish law. In a conversation with Secretary Ianis, I underlined that refugees would be sanctioned only if they violated

Polish law. On this Ianis told me that all the refugees are subordinate to the party leadership, which receives directives from the Bucharest headquarters and strongly warned me not to interfere in their work and that the fate of the refugees is their party’s responsibility...” explained the director.

“Mr. Director,” Vishnievski went on to say, “I’m not asking for us to interfere in their affairs as you mentioned, but I strongly demand that these people be paid the same salary as the Poles who do the same work with them. Don’t take this as a threat... But I’m going to ask Warsaw for an answer...” added Vishnievski while pointing his finger at the wall on which a portrait of the President was hanging, and without saying anything, left and headed for the office exit.

“Pan Vishnevski, wait!” called the director. “Have some patience. Somebody has certainly made a mistake here, intentionally or unintentionally, but that doesn’t mean that things are so bad that we need to involve Warsaw. Come back in, sit here, calm down and let us think together on how to fix this mess instead of asking someone else to fix it for us... Believe me, I promise you that today I will talk to the Greek committee and ask them to obey our laws. I will tell them, most strongly, that we Poles are also responsible for the fate of the refugees... I will talk to them gently and with calmed nerves. And honestly and respectfully please don’t bring Warsaw into this. And as you said, of course, we must urgently change things and as soon as possible. We are masters in our field. I, as the director, now here before you, have already made a decision. I will ask all the farm directors in writing to sign employment contracts, of course, the same as those with Polish workers. Refugees have the same job responsibilities as Poles. That’s right, isn’t it? You, Vishnievski, can sign an agreement with everyone today. Let them know how much money they will be making. Let them be equal to our workers in the agricultural holdings. We won’t treat them differently,” concluded the director.

6

After dinner, after everyone had gone to their rooms and the usual noise was gone, Pan Vishnievski knocked on the door of the basement room where Kole lived. After a second knock, stronger than the first, Kole appeared looking sleepy.

“Oh, Pan Vishnievski, come in... sorry, I...” said Kole before he was interrupted by Vishnievski who asked, in an apologetic tone of voice, if he had been sleeping and walked inside his house.

“I came to see you and invite you over to be my guest,” said Vishnievski.

Dressing hastily, Kole asked:

“What’s the occasion of this invitation, Pan Vishnievski?”

“It’s a great occasion. Let’s go to my place and I’ll tell you... Dress up warmer because it’s cold outside. It’s already cloudy and it’s going to snow more. Put on a hat. If you’re ready, let’s go,” replied Vishnievski.

They slowly made their way through the frozen snow. The cold and strong north wind blew right in their faces and slowed their walk. They walked silently for almost half an hour and stopped in front of the entrance to the large building, where Pan Vishnievski lived alone in one of the many rooms.

“We’re here, Pan Kole, we have arrived…” said Vishnievski pointing to the entrance of his building with his hand. “This palace was built in 1582 with additions made to it over the centuries that followed. Many generations of four powerful families have lived here and in the surrounding area, whose coats of arms have been engraved on the portal (an ornamental architectural enclosure

usually found at the entrance of churches, palaces, city administration buildings and other elegant buildings). The agricultural holding took it over in 1945.

Kole stood in front of the stairs and stared at the tall tower, towering beside the three-storey house that was attached to another two-storey building and next to it was a one-storey building. While Pan Vishnievski unlocked the front door, Kole stared at the portal that had a carved figure resting on a skull and next to it was an inscription that read: “Hodie mihi, cras tibi”, which Kole read silently. Pan Vishnievski noticed him reading the inscription and asked him:

“Can you read what it says? And do you know what it means? As you can see, it’s in the Latin alphabet and it means ‘today me, tomorrow you...’ Yes, this is how it is for everyone, Pan Kole,” said Vishnievski and opened the big door wide. He then bowed forward with his arm stretched out in front of him motioning, and in a quiet tone of voice, in the face of the strong wind said: “Come on in Pan Kole, please enter my kingdom... Go straight then left into the living room...”

Kole’s chilled face and slightly stiff toes began to warm up in the warm heat radiating from the gleaming stove that glowed in the left corner. With amazement Kole looked at the large pictures hanging on the walls in gilded frames and portraits of old bearded men, and old women in long dresses wearing gold rings on their fingers and necklaces on their bare necks. Vishnievski didn’t notice Kole looking at the portraits. With an astonished look on his face at what he was seeing for the first time, Kole turned to Vishnievski and, in a tone of great surprise and curiosity, asked:

“Are all these yours, Pan Vishnievski?”

“What you see, Pan Kole, was left here by the former residents of this place... And it’s not just the portraits. Follow me I’ll show you what else they left. The whole household was here. Leaving in panic and fear the Germans only took what they were allowed to take. Everything that was left six years ago when this house was full of life, which was terribly extinguished at the end of the Great War, is

still here, left the way it was then. Everything is here...” said Pan Vishnievski and added: “Do dziś tu nie dotarli szabrownicy...” (To this day, the plunderers of the abandoned properties haven’t arrived.) He then said: “Before you got here other houses were slightly looted. This house was saved by the commander of the border battalion who occasionally stayed here...”

“Can we go higher?” asked Kole.

“Why not! We’ll go to the tower and from there you’ll see the entire surroundings. You won’t see much now in the dark, but by day you can see the entire wide plain. Let’s go...” replied Vishnievski.

A very narrow set of stairs led to the tower. When they reached the top, Kole walked from window to window and gasped as he looked at the large plain dimly lit by the full moon. From the clearly drawn lines of the fields plowed and sown in the spring, he realized how much effort he and everyone in the economy, who had come from the south, had invested in harvesting all that this flat land had to offer. Kole had guided the horses for two and a half months going from field to store drawing hundreds of carts loaded with beets, potatoes, carrots and cabbages. Hundreds of people worked hard for more than two months, from morning to evening, gathering, loading and unloading vegetables... They poured much sweat on that wide plain now covered with white snow. Kole was amazed looking at the size of the great plain and thinking about how much work had been done to harvest it.

“Let’s go down into the living room and have a shot of vodka and some appetizers. Let’s celebrate, Pan Kole. Be my guest, you go first...” said Vishnievski.

Sitting on top of the table in the living room was a round tray with plates full of finely cut slices of ham, round slices of sausage, marinated mushrooms and pickles. On the side there was a bottle of żubrówka vodka and two crystal shot glasses.

“Here, Pan Kole, czym chata bogata” (you are invited to eat and drink), said Vishnievski and, with a wide swing of his arm, pointed to the table.

They sat down. Pan Vishnievski filled the shot glasses with vodka and said:

“Let’s toast, Pan Kole. Today is a great Polish holiday. To the bottom!”

Kole raised his glass and asked:

“And which holiday are we celebrating?”

“A great Polish national holiday... Today, on November 11, 1918, after 123 years of slavery, Poland regained its state independence,” replied Vishnievski.

“Happy holiday and may you celebrate it for many centuries,” replied Kole.

Kole took a sip of vodka and, somewhat restrained but with a tone of surprise in his voice, said:

“Today when we went to the city, Pan Vishnievski, to take potatoes to a large factory, I saw no flags and slogans marking a public holiday...”

“That’s true. You wouldn’t have because today this holiday isn’t a public holiday. In present day Poland this holiday, more or less, has become a family holiday far from the eyes of the authorities. The kind of celebration you are thinking of, which involved flags, slogans, speeches, rich lunches at factory canteens and many people walking on the boulevards and squares, is celebrated on July 22. (July 22, 1944 was established as a public holiday in the People’s Republic of Poland.) Today we have a new Poland, with new boundaries defined by the Great Powers. In the East we are without Kresi (that’s what the people of Poland call the territories in West Belarus and Ukraine from which they were displaced in 1945), in the West we are with Ziemie Odzyskane (northwestern areas of Poland awarded to Poland in 1945), without a king and president, but with a politburo and a central committee, with a proletariat dictatorship, an obedient government and a modified state coat of

arms. The royal crown which sat on the centuries-old white eagle was taken down…” replied Vishnievski with a trembling voice and he stopped talking.

Pan Vishnievski filled his glass with vodka, took a sip and, in a quiet voice, continued to tell his story.

“In the centuries that passed, Pan Kole, we Poles have been rising and falling. We were a state that meant something in Europe. Yes, it meant something in Europe but inside, at home, we had divisions. Some ideas that came from the West weren’t acceptable to the Polish magnate, the aristocracy and the high priesthood, which obeyed the Roman pope. At that time the people in Poland were reading French books and learning various things including the three principles of the French Revolution - freedom - equality -brotherhood. Those were advanced ideas at the time and were accepted by many members of the Polish assembly who had been debating them for four years in order to transform them into constitutional provisions. So on May 3, 1791, Warsaw proclaimed Poland’s first constitution, which unfortunately divided the Poles. On the night of May 18 and 19, 1791, opponents of the constitution -prominent tycoons and some bishops - gathered in a small town called Targovitsa and sent an appeal to Russian Empress Catherine II to help them. Poland was attacked by the Russian army starting the Polish-Russian war. Poles bravely defended themselves and achieved some victories which prompted Polish King Stanislav Ugust Poniatovski to order a cease fire and put an end to the hostilities. He sent a letter addressed to the Empress, proposing an eternal alliance, and even abdicated his royal title in favour of her grandson - Constantine. The end of the war sealed Poland’s first division between Russia, Prussia and Austria. Then in January 1793 the second division between Russia and Prussia followed. In response to this was a national uprising called Koshchushkovstvo, named after the leader of the uprising Tadeush Koshchushko. Unfortunately, the uprising failed and on October 24, 1795, for the third time, Russia, Prussia and Austria split Poland. Poland was erased from the European map. In past centuries the Polish kings divided Poland between their sons and Poland was Poland. The powerful neighbours divided Poland and, according to them, Poland was no longer Poland. For one it was a governorate, for the other a

province. But in all those 123 years of slavery, in the consciousness, heart and spirit of the Poles, Poland has always been Poland. The conspiracy in Targovitsa with us Poles is remembered as the greatest national betrayal of all times. The traitors who invoked foreign aid to preserve their privileges were marked by eternal infamy, and during the Koshchushkovstvo Uprising many of them were hanged in the streets. The word ‘Targovitsa’ today is synonymous with the worst betrayal our nation and state faced.

Vishnievski paused, took a sip of vodka from his shot glass, sighed deeply and continued:

“They divided us, Pan Kole, as a state, they divided the state territory, but us, the Poles, they didn’t divide us as a people. We have preserved our name and language and over the years, enriched our national culture. We have always been a great people and had a large and powerful church, which has always been a church of all Poles in Poland as well as outside Poland. On top of teaching us the word of God, our church, Pan Kole, in the past and now has always used the word Poland... An inseparable duality - Poland and God... We were Poles then and we are Poles now, Pan Kole... For centuries our flags have been inscribed with the words “Bóg, Ojczyzna, Honour...” (God, Fatherland, Honour). Now the new authorities have deleted those three words from the flags but they remain in the hearts of the Polish people...”

Vishnievski stopped talking for a moment. Kole, excited to hear more, kept looking at his pale face.

“Let us sit by the fireplace. It’s warmer there,” said Vishnievski, interrupting the brief silence. Then, after making himself comfortable in the soft armchair, Vishnievski continued telling his story:

“And then? Then, Pan Kole, we had uprisings and heavy defeats. Our neighbours kept dividing us but we kept rising up. We had weapons, but most of all we had consciousness. Thousands of Poles joined Napoleon and fought in his wars because he promised he would resurrect Poland. He kept promising and the Polish people kept dying in his wars. We lost many young people in San Domingo

and Saragossa and in the war with Austria, Prussia and Russia. Yes, it’s true, Napoleon wrote a constitution for us and created the Warsaw principality, and in return we appointed Maria Valevska... But as the old saying goes, ‘he who writes can erase… he who gives can take… he who builds can destroy’. It all depended on those with whom Napoleon associated and why they needed a written constitution and a principality. When we launched the second uprising in 1830 - we were alone against the Russians. We suffered a catastrophic defeat. Europe opened its doors and took the survivors and their leaders, including all those who were maimed and crippled by the war. There were divisions among the Polish aristocratic elite who had gathered in the Parisian lounges and hotels. They argued for years over who was guilty, who was patriotic and who was a traitor. And everyone was convinced that only they were right. It’s amazing that the idea of freedom can divide people. Thirty years later, we rose up again and again we were defeated and had to flee into exile (He was talking about the 1864 January Uprising called -Powstanie Styczniowe). Many escaped to the west. The Parisian lounges and hotels were overcrowded but still divided. After the Great War, one hundred and twenty-three years later, we got our state back. We crushed the Bolsheviks - in the Polish - Bolshevik war at Visla. We succeeded because we had a leader, a leader who united the Poles, who during his entire lifetime didn’t unbuckle his belt on which his war sabre hung. (He was talking about Joseph Pilsudski (5.12.1867-1936)) Everyone is silent about him today... Twenty years later the Germans crushed us and again we were on the run. Some ran to the East, others ran to the West. We became soldiers of all the armies that fought against Germany. We were fighting in all the big and small battles. We were also dying in the forests where we were shot in the head... But today it’s forbidden to speak about that... (He was talking about the shooting of Polish officers in the Katiska Forest.) In all this we shouted our old Polish slogan – “za naszą i waszą wolność” (for our and your freedom), which was engraved on all the sabres and embroidered on the flags of the Poles who participated in the struggles all throughout Europe and America. The Polish fighters were always sent to the battles which the Great Power armies failed to win. Thousands died in the battle for Monte Casino in Italy. The following hymn is sung for them today:

Czerwone maki pod Monte Casino (Red poppies under Monte Casino) Zamiast rosy piły polską krew… (In place of dew they drank Polish blood...)

We also had the Warsaw Uprising... It was our heroic Polish suicide... The defeats we suffered, however, didn’t discourage us. And let me tell you, Pan Kole, we were also involved in foreign uprisings and victories, and, as I told you before, we carried our slogan for freedom written on our sabres... Yes... We gave the Americans Tadesh Koshchushko, the Hungarians and the Turks Iusef Bem, they were ours and they’re national heroes, and we gave the Russians Felix Dzherzhiniski ((11.09.1877 - 10.07.1926), -creator and head of the first Soviet security authorities.) I think that Poles also participated in your unfortunate uprising. Despite all the poverty that the war left us in, we were helping the civil war in Greece. Coincidentally, the other day I met with an old friend of mine, who was engaged in the so-called “S” action, a cryptonym under which we helped the Greek and Macedonian partisans commanded by General Markos under strictly confidential conditions. My friend in the so-called “nocne Polaków rozmowy” (Polish nightly talks - confidential meetings and close-knit Poles talking about the political situation at the time of Poland’s slavery, as well as in later times, especially during communist rule) told me that Poland gave the partisans 10,000 pairs of shoes, 10,000 shirts, 15,000 metres of canvas for making military uniforms, 4,000 “Mauzer” rifles, 50 heavy and 15 light machine guns, 18 mortar launchers for 0.81mm mortars, 679 pistols, 4 million bullets, 8 complete US radio stations, 26 tons of sanitary material and medical equipment, 600 anti-tank mines, 1800 anti-personnel mines and many other explosive materials. The partisans received aid from Poland and other Soviet bloc countries through Yugoslavia until Tito and Stalin began to quarrel. After that any aid collected in Poland was delivered by Polish airplanes and ships through the Albanian port of Durres. According to my friend, Poland sent the first shipment of aid by plane, which flew from Warsaw on October 8, 1948 carrying a ton and six hundred kilos of medical equipment, medicine and explosives. The next shipment was sent by ship. The ship “Stalova Vola” carrying five hundred tons of military material left Port Gnidia on November 7, 1948. All this, according to my

friend, was done under the cryptonym “S”, meaning special action. It was carried out by II command of the Polish Army’s General Staff. But that’s not all, Pan Kole, many Polish surgeons worked in makeshift mountain hospitals housed in caves. There was also a military hospital camp in Sukt, near Durres where the wounded were rehabilitated, the chief physician in that hospital was a Jewish woman from Poland. In July 1949, at the behest of the top Polish state leadership headed by Beirut, the secret military hospital ‘250’ was opened on the island Uznam, capable of treating two thousand wounded. This hospital was equipped with state-of-the-art medical equipment and employed top Polish surgeons and doctors of various specialties. When the Polish authorities did an audit to determine how much aid was given to the partisans, they came up with 177 line items with types of equipment that started with 105mm cannons, 120mm mortars, and ended with hand-held shavers and razor blades. My friend also revealed to me that, according to a report written by General Komar, Poland accommodated 13,868 people, including 1500 wounded and 3,000 children. A separate bank account was opened for them to cover the costs of transportation, food, health care, accommodation, education for the children and other necessary services. Pan Kole, Poland, like the other countries in the Soviet bloc, got into this dirty war about which Stalin said: ‘Do you think Britain and the United States, the most powerful states in the world, will allow us to cut off their lines of communication in the Mediterranean?! And we don’t even have a fleet.’ For this reason Stalin ordered the uprising in Greece to end as soon as possible. But the Greek Communist leadership didn’t obey. And that was the first terrible landmine. In July 1948, at the height of the heaviest battles in Gramos, which lasted 70 days and nights, American journalist Polk, who arrived in Gramos via Yugoslavia, met with Zahariadis and told him that the Athens government was ready to negotiate a ceasefire and put an end to all hostilities. This time too, the Communist leadership didn’t want to listen and stepped on the second landmine which led to their defeat. The journalist who spoke with Zahariadis was found dead in Solun. We don’t know which side killed him... Sorry, Pan Kole, for getting into your drama. I wanted to tell you more about our Polish drama...”

Vishnievski stopped talking, took a burning piece of wood from the fireplace and lit the cigarette he had been rolling between his fingers

for a long time. He inhaled a long puff which made his chest expand. He then exhaled the smoke through his nose. His entire face disappeared into a grey fog. After smoking about half the cigarette, he turned to Kole and, unexpectedly changing the subject, asked:

“Back home, Pan Kole, did you give away brides?”

“No, we didn’t. Our masters took them by themselves... by written order verified by signature and seal...” replied Kole.