Basia

BASIA

BARBARA MARCHWICKI

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2013            Barbara Marchwicki. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 4/25/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4096-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4094-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4095-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013906859

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

U.S. Copyright Registration Number 1-234-567-891

WGAW Registered 1234567

Credit for map image: © OpenStreetMap contributors

Credit to the cover designer - Cover design by Roman Waksmundzki.

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

AUTHOR NOTES

CHAPTER 1: NOW…DREAM

CHAPTER 2: THEN…1958

CHAPTER 3: NOW…WE SHARE ONE HEART.

CHAPTER 4: THEN…THE BIG FIGHT

CHAPTER 5: NOW…MY REAL ESTATE ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER 6: THEN…THAT AWFUL LAKE

CHAPTER 7: THEN…LUSIA AND STASIU GET MARRIED 1961-1965

CHAPTER 8: NOW…2006

CHAPTER 9: THEN…SLEDDING ACCIDENT.

CHAPTER 10: THEN…CANCER 1972 - 1973

CHAPTER 11: NOW…OUR DOG GUCIU

CHAPTER 12: THEN…FAREWELL TO MY MOTHER

CHAPTER 13: NOW…LUDWIK’S FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY

CHAPTER 14: THEN…WIESIU FIGHTS FOR HIS LIFE

CHAPTER 15: NOW…JANUARY 28, 2007

CHAPTER 16: THEN…A VISIT FROM HEAVEN

CHAPTER 17: THEN…ARTISTIC WORKSHOP IN CHODZIEZ

CHAPTER 18: NOW…KUBA

CHAPTER 19: THEN…MY FIRST BOY

CHAPTER 20: NOW…CHRISTMAS 2007

CHAPTER 21: THEN…HIGH SCHOOL

CHAPTER 22: NOW…MY MOTHER IN-LAW

CHAPTER 23: THEN…END OF COLLEGE

CHAPTER 24: NOW…HOW OUR FRIENDS ALMOST BROKE OUR MARRIAGE

CHAPTER 25: NOW…SOMETIMES, HEARTS GET BROKEN

CHAPTER 26: NOW…A RETURN TO NORMALCY

CHAPTER 27: THEN…EMPLOYMENT.

CHAPTER 28: THEN…JACEK

CHAPTER 29: NOW…THEN YOUR PERFECT LIFE TURNS UPSIDE DOWN

CHAPTER 30: THEN…I AM IN LOVE

CHAPTER 31: THEN…A TRIP BACK HOME

CHAPTER 32: NOW…SURGERY

CHAPTER 33: THEN…THE BREAKUP

CHAPTER 34: THEN…ILONA

CHAPTER 35: THEN…MY TRIP TO SWEDEN

CHAPTER 36: THEN…PATRYK

CHAPTER 37: THEN…AN UNEXPECTED WEDDING

CHAPTER 38: NOW…CHRISTMAS 2009

CHAPTER 39: THEN…LUDWIK 1979

CHAPTER 40: NOW…MARCH 12, 2011

CHAPTER 41: THEN…ALONE AGAIN

CHAPTER 42: THEN…REUNITED

EPILOGUE

I learned life is like a roll of toilet paper; the closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes.

—Andy Rooney

This book is dedicated to my husband

with thanks for waiting for me when I was searching for true love.

And to my son for being the man he is.

Love you both.

FOREWORD

We lived in communist Poland. I had four siblings. Like any child clear of prejudices and reasoning, I thought I had a fine childhood, bright and happy. I didn’t know any better. My mother made sure I grew up with a set of principles and responsibilities. She was a tough disciplinarian but also a passionate and selfless woman who kept our family together and well until she died at the age of fifty-three.

I was twenty years old when she died. Ever since she passed away, I have been overwhelmed by her absence. I don’t know if I was afraid of her or simply loved her too much, but it was as if she branded my brain with her initials. Whether it was an act of total stupidity or I did something incredibly fantastic, I was always compelled to relate every aspect of my life to her teachings. I missed her all the time. I also cried a lot. Perhaps not at all that strange, she kept me hostage up until I decided to put my weeping to rest by writing this book. In many ways, this memoir is also a gift to my son (our only child) who never met his maternal grandmother and who is so intensely interested in keeping the memory of our family alive. Everything I wrote in this book is based on my memory only, even though my brother or my friends recall certain events slightly differently. Originally, I wanted only to say a few words about how my mother lived her life and how she influenced my existence but the book grew to be a blend of recollections and reflections on the ups and downs of our whole family. In retrospect, the inserts about the present day were put in place to bring contrast to the past and a much-needed break for me to rest my mind and ease the pain of sometimes sore episodes. I hope this book will also allow my son and his family to get to know us better.

AUTHOR NOTES

As you will notice, I left all Polish names exactly as they were spelled and spoken. Sometimes their diminutive forms are used as well so that the character of the conversation is reflected, especially in dialogues between children or relatives. On many occasions, the endings of names will change as well because of the requirements of Polish grammar. To complicate things further, all of the first names in the Polish language may have another form that sounds and is spelled completely differently from their original version. For example, someone with the name Lucyna may be called, Luska, Lucynka, or Lucja. Wieslaw could be called, Wiesiek, Wiechu, or Wiesiu. Barbara can be called Basia, Baska, Bacha, Basiunia, Basienka, et cetera.

Some names, such as Krzysztof, are common and will appear quite a few times but people with the same given name will be distinguished by using the first letter of their family name.

I divided the chapters in this book into NOW and THEN, indicating the times I will be describing. At the end of the book, I included an EPILOGUE so you can learn the fate of most of the individuals you come across.

CHAPTER 1:

NOW…DREAM

I couldn’t sleep that night. The bedroom was dark and my eyes were quite open. I scanned the room. The annoying security light that sent a bright beam into my room came from my neighbor’s patio and lit part of the fireplace mantel and an armchair. Why they waste energy by keeping that light on all night is beyond me. According to a clock on the nightstand, it was 2:00am. As if I was expecting some answers from Him why I couldn’t sleep, I turned my head toward the wall where the image of Jesus made from leather and framed like a picture was hanging—a gift from my husband’s brother. I usually pray to my Jesus but that night I was cranky and had no desire to have a conversation with anyone.

I concentrated on Ludwik’s breathing to determine whether he was asleep or not. He sometimes wakes up for no apparent reason but lies still not to wake me up. He is unquestionably luckier than I am and usually falls asleep before me. The fact that he’s able to snore with total contentment in a sound sleep as soon as he hits the bed pisses me off.

I like to lie on the edge of the bed and don’t move much during the night and when I wake up in the morning my position seems exactly the same as the night before. We have a king-sized bed and because I sleep virtually on the edge of the frame I can’t hear Lu’s breathing and I can’t touch him even with an outstretched hand. I know he falls asleep only because he stops moving and gets still.

When I wait to fall asleep, I sing in my head and usually it’s the last song that caught my ear that night. It’s against my will and it’s annoying. I always repeat the same sentence or hum to the music and my head repeats that sequence over and over until I drift into the night only to wake up with the same song. Thinking is always negative, worrisome and repetitive. I often wonder why I don’t think of something pleasant and nice. Even when I order my brain to go to the beach and lie down under the palm tree, I always end up in the office or at home with some unresolved issue to rethink. Come to think about it, even my dreams are weird and scary. Why my brain is provoking those ugly scenes and not giving me a chance to relax is beyond me. By nature, I’m a very strong and vigorous lady with unrestrained character and frequent bouts of laughter. In the daytime, I have a positive outlook virtually on everything but at night, my brain takes me in the opposite direction.

When I finally fall asleep or maybe in that state in-between, most of my early childhood memories came back to me as if in the movies. I was taken to my childhood home. I saw my parents, my siblings and most of my friends who I played with. I got to see the death of two kids my age, one from drowning and one in a car accident. I witnessed my own near drowning and the dramatic rescue by the boy who I beat up a year earlier and later almost killed in a freak sled accident. Next, I went to the hospital where I had my appendix removed. I wasn’t sure whether I was already asleep or not so I shifted in bed, making sure I could register the movement.

What’s going on? Why do I have these flashbacks? Am I going to die today? This is very weird and I don’t appreciate that! The pictures came back, although this time I saw myself at the age of eighteen in college holding the letter from my mom’s friend and our close neighbor informing me that she had, in fact, been diagnosed with cancer and it was not curable.

I didn’t know what to think of these trips into the past. One thing was certain though. There is a reason for it and I need to tell Ludwik to have a vigil because I may die tonight.

My heart is not perfect and I’ve definitely had many head spins lately, I thought. Stroke was possible although not very likely. I was having problems with bronchitis but sudden death from it is very farfetched. As I was analyzing my health, Lu moved slightly and that gave me a signal to wake him up. After all, he always tells me it’s okay for me to wake him up if I need to.

Just then, my alter ego whispered, Do you remember when your father pulled the trick about dying on you? Do you want to become your father?

Oh no, not my father, not him.

When he was fifty-two years old and shortly after my mom passed away, my father had a lot of strange illnesses. He had ulcers, high blood pressure, back problems and an achy heart. He was always looking for sympathy so a lot of those problems were acted out.

One evening when I was about to leave to visit my friend he asked me to stay because he felt very weak and it was possible he could die that night.

Dad, what are you talking about? Just a few hours earlier, everything was okay. What happened?

Death comes uninvited, he answered flatly.

One minute you live; next minute you dead. I want you to stay by my bed tonight because I don’t feel too good. Is this too much to ask for?

No, Dad. It’s not too much to ask. I will be happy to stay. Do you want me to get you to a doctor?

Doctors are idiots.

With that statement, he went to bed. It was about 8:00pm. It tortured me to sit by his bed that early and watch him sleep. I have to admit he looked pale and at times, I thought he struggled for breath. However, as time passed, he appeared more and more relaxed and rested and I could hardly keep my eyes open. I wanted to be alert, but I knew it wouldn’t last long because watching my dad sleep made me sleepy too. I lied down in the adjacent bed.

When I woke up, it was already dawn and my dad was gone. What the heck? Where is he? Oh, I get it. He probably died and went to heaven and took his body with him. …

I jumped from the bed and went to the living room. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the kitchen and not in the bathroom. I called his name a couple of times but he didn’t answer. Hoping that he was in the garage, I opened the kitchen window and called out.

Dad, are you there? Please say something. I know you must be somewhere. …

He said nothing and I knew something terrible has happened and the idea that he died and took his body with him didn’t seem so ridicules. I felt weak and my knees were shaking. I knew my dad was a character and many times his practical jokes were far from being funny but I just couldn’t believe he would make a joke out of this.

Just then, my eyes caught a little note stuck to the bathroom mirror.

I went fishing.

I’m not going to wake up Ludwik, I thought. I’m not my father and even if those memories are uneasy. I will deal with it myself.

John Mayer’s ‘Mothers and Daughters’ was still in my head. I did not remember lyrics and only one or two verses kept recycling until my brain took me to my mother.

"Hi, Mom.

Hi, honey.

She was sitting at the kitchen table crying.

Mom, are you crying again?

Yes I am.

Why are you crying?

I don’t really know.

What’s wrong? I insisted.

There are a lot of things wrong.

Do you want to tell me?

Why would I? Why would a fifty-year-old women tell you, my happy, bubbly and vivacious beautiful daughter, what’s wrong? Who wants to hear this?

I do, I said, but I didn’t think I meant it.

You don’t mean it honey.

She went on.

We live in the hard times and I made a lot of choices that I wouldn’t make had this not been post-war times.

She didn’t finish. Instead, she got up and straightened her apron.

I will get you some tea, she said, and without waiting for my approval, said, Tea is good for everything, just like a chicken soup.

My bedroom got darker. The neighbor’s light finally was turned off.

Hallelujah. Praise God for timers.

My thoughts were drifting in and out of reality. How am I to deal with the information I’m getting? Why did my mom never really reveal anything about her past?

What was the truth behind her third-born child being left behind with strangers during the war? Who were my mom’s in-laws and why had we never met them even though, as we found out later, they were living fifteen miles away from our house!?

What really happened to my parents? Why do they never talk to each other? Let me see. How many years have they not talked to each other? Ten years seems like a long time. To their child, it seems like an eternity.

Piotr was my mom’s first husband, the love of her life. She had three children with him, Staszek, Lucyna and Wanda. Piotrek, according to the fragmental conversations with my mother, was killed in 1943 in front of her parent’s house. From the bits and pieces of the conversations that I remember, the circumstances surrounding his death were quite suspicious.

Lots of the assassins were wearing civil clothes. She added, Maybe Russians killed him or Ukrainians?

She had to run and hide. In 1944, the two older kids, Stasiu and Lucyna, were already walking. Wanda was an infant, so my mother decided to leave her behind with a woman she knew who she called Babka—‘Grandma’ and promised to return for her right away, but it took her much longer. After an exhausting long trip through all of Poland from east to the west, she stopped in the small village. That is where she met my father.

Praying always puts me to sleep. It never really failed. The longer I pray, the less I understand any word of it. It seems to me that my conscious wants to pray but my subconscious wants to sleep. It gets much worse with my personal prayers—I call them ‘amateur requests.’

Since they don’t follow any known pattern, they become so chaotic in form and purpose that I frequently forget what I was asking for. I pray half in English, half in Polish. In my prayers, God has a few names and Jesus even more. In my prayers, I ask for personal favors. I know I’m not supposed to do that but I can’t help it. I also promise a lot of things in exchange for the favor but I forget my promise the next day. I’m very careful not to promise something that I can’t deliver. So, I try to make sure that my pledge is suitable for my busy schedule.

This time I needed desperately to clear my head and fall asleep. I asked God to help me to get a nap. I also asked Him to allow me to remember what happened to me because I was certain that my trip into the past was for a reason.

I woke up when it was still dark. Ludwik was heading toward the bathroom.

Where are you going?

I’m going to take a piss. It is five o’clock in the morning. Where do you think I can go other than the bathroom? You ask me that question every time I get up at night.

Do I? I’m sorry Lulus. I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s probably a stupid habit.

We both laughed.

His time in the bathroom has gotten to be much longer. Many times, I fall asleep before he gets back to the bed.

Basia, do you think I ought to check my prostate?

You’re too young; try to sleep.

Goodnight honey,—he pulled the comforter the way that my warm side moved to his.

I totally ignored it. Ten years earlier, this reckless behavior would cost him. Not now. At fifty-two, I don’t want to waste my time.

Love you, I said instead.

Love you too, he answered.

Do you think we’ll be able to sleep?

Sure, he said.

But we didn’t fall asleep. We were quietly enjoying the period before the morning routine kicks in—the time for rest. Time where there is no news to listen to, no paper to read, no music, no dogs to tend and no phone to answer. No reality.

I was humming to John Mayer’s the whole night tonight.

As I said it, I realized I was really tired of that singing business.

I’m sorry Basia. I know it’s probably debilitating.

Why do you think I get that every damn night?

Your brain is malfunctioning. Your computer is screwed up.

Do you think I should see a shrink?

Yes, definitely and while you’re there, tell him your husband has a problem urinating and see what he will tell you.

I had no recollection of anything that happened to me at night.

After eating breakfast, listening to the news and reading the Daily Herald, we moved to the bathroom. We took showers. He shaved. We brushed our teeth. I created a simplified hairdo and applied makeup. We do all of those activities with a certain system that is precisely the same each morning.

Sometimes we say aloud what we’re doing so that we don’t miss any activity.

The easiest to forget are teeth and armpits. We miss them occasionally, so I make sure I have a full set of brushes and toothpaste along with the deodorant at the office.

During the morning routine in the master bathroom, we rotate our activities so that we don’t have to get territorial. No matter how big the bathroom is, two people at the same time is one person too many.

For seven years now, we go to the same office where we’ve worked together. It’s our company. We consciously made the decision to run the company together and we don’t regret it. We use the ‘bathroom routine’ at the office. We understand the need to move around each other efficiently, politely and with purpose. We definitely stay out of each other’s way if the morning bathroom routine is interrupted for some reason by a hostile behavior.

We have everything figured out almost to perfection. We both are busy and efficient; therefore, the time in the office goes quickly.

Coming home from work is like a reward. We love our home.

We surrounded ourselves with the things we love to do, periodicals and books we like to read, and hobbies that take most of our evening. Somebody once asked me how I would describe my home in one sentence and I said this:

My home is, books, flowers, candles, a glass of wine, light, pictures on the walls, and windows without the drapes, hardwood floors, a garden, dogs, music, laughter, love and respect.

Although, I definitely have most of the house chores delegated to me, I don’t mind it since that aspect of my life is also well-planned.

We were eating dinner. I had a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and Ludwik had Merlot.

This is very good. I haven’t had chicken with spinach and feta cheese for a long time, said Ludwik.

Thank you. It took me only forty minutes to get it done

Are you going to paint tonight?

I don’t know, I was thinking maybe I will go outside and work around the garden a bit since the weather is to die for.

Sure, it sounds like a good idea. I’ll be in the garage.

I had a weird dream tonight, I said." I don’t remember exactly what it was. … No, wait. I do remember. … I don’t even think it was a dream. It was some state in-between.

Fortunately, my husband belongs to those few men who even though very masculine and manly he’s definitely very sensitive in the area of paranormal events. It took me a few minutes to explain to Ludwik what happened at night. He wasn’t laughing. Although not surprised, he was also not very interested in continuing. Don’t take me wrong. … Normally we would probably talk about other similar events, explore unexplainable things or talk about UFOS. But tonight he had something else on his mind.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about the events of the night. Strangely, I was drawn to them with some weird persistence. It occurred to me that I didn’t know my parents that well. I was both too young and ignorant. I couldn’t remember stories my mom or dad told me about their childhood. The tales about my grandparents were tied to the wars—World War I and World War II and my mom wasn’t too eager to share them with a teenager. I guess my mom thought that we would have plenty of time to talk about serious stuff when I matured a bit. My favorite uncle, Steven, my mom’s brother who happened to live here in the States, was as mysterious as my mom was. He hated the past, drank a lot and died when he was sixty-three years old. Since he lived in Boston and I settled in Chicago I saw him twice before he dropped on the floor with massive coronary failure. I always considered him my friend.

I started to feel lonely. I knew the feeling. It was not the first time that my memories floated my empty soul into the open sea. It was a dreadful sense of complete isolation.

I looked around the kitchen. Ludwik was gone to the garage. It was his world of tools, gadgets, airplane models and projects to do. He could disappear there for hours just like me when I paint. He could always find something to do there.

At times, his disappearing into the garage was bothersome to me. You know, we women can always find something to do around the house, even if there is virtually nothing more to be done. Women can go the extra mile to figure out how to keep their man busy. But as we all know, men are the last ones to give in to that kind of nonsense and that’s where most of the trivial domestic fights come from. I tried that many times and I know it’s a complete waste of time and energy. So, I too got busy with the things that aren’t related to house chores and shopping. I PAINT. I AM AN ARTIST. I became one three years ago. How does one become an artist? Take me for example. No training, formal schooling, no dream to become one, not even a thought for forty-eight years … and then one day, boom! Your husband buys you a set of brushes and a few canvases and encourages you to paint something. You do and it looks like crap, but you get a little better with each painting.

Where was I? I was feeling sorry for myself for lack of memories and adulthood with no mother and an estranged father. I felt sorry for the fact that every frigging holiday at least for twenty years I was crying because I was alone here. Of course, my husband and my son are my family. I love them more than I can think. But there are simple pleasures in having other members of your family with you—a brother or sister who you can talk with about the past because they are part of your past.

Sitting at the table and feeling desolate, I knew was not good. I needed to take charge. Slapping my face or a scream was an option. It wakes you up. It helps interrupt the cycle. Anthony Robbins built his speaking career on that concept.

Instead, I stood up and went to my office. I started the computer. I have to write everything down. I need to have a past. My son and his kids need to know who we are … who we were.

How do you ever know if you will live long enough to share with your children your family history, to tell them who you really were as a kid? How many times really and honestly have you sat down with your son or daughter to tell them a story from your childhood? Heck, we don’t have the time to sit down at dinner together, let alone time for fables from the old days. Let’s look at the lives of our children for a moment. Between school, various school activities, soccer or baseball practice, social lives, a part-time job at the Card and Party Outlet Store, an occasional movie with friends and homework usually done in front of TV, when do you think our kids have time to explore the cultural heritage of their family? Never! We got to be so busy that parents need to make an appointment with their children and vice versa. We got used to living in such materialistic chaos. Our priorities changed. Our spiritual lives are erratic. We become selfish and indifferent. Money rules and our children are thought to get tougher out there. Winning is more important than fair play. Stress becomes a national epidemic. Television is oversaturated with reality shows that teach kids nothing else but double standards.

Now, I did not want to go that direction. I’m not criticizing our youth. On the contrary, I admire them for being able to handle all that society is expecting of them without complaining. Multitasking, my son is a master at it and I allow it, but I know he is special. He’s an excellent student and good kid—true to himself, transparent.

CHAPTER 2:

THEN…1958

Ma, I don’t want to go to the bathroom and sit on the big toilet. I want the little potty, I demanded.

But why, you are five years old Basia?

Today my butt hurts Mama. It hurts more than yesterday.

I know honey. I’m sorry. You’re having the worst case of Chicken Pox I have ever seen.

"Why I got Chicken Pox, Mommy?

Most of the children your age get it, Mom said, matter of fact.

Wiesiu didn’t have it. I was not satisfied with the answer.

If he didn’t have it, he will and he will probably get it from you.

Who did I get it from?

I don’t know exactly but most likely from one of your friends from the daycare center

I don’t have friends there. I only have Krysia and she didn’t have it.

Basia, I could see my mom was losing patience, please don’t talk and concentrate, I don’t have a whole day to watch you sitting on the potty.

It’s too hard on my bottom. I need something softer Mom and I can’t sit like that, I moaned.

What do you want me to do? my mom asked and rolled her eyes to show me my scabby behind was giving her a headache.

I want to sit there! I pointed to the sofa, Sofa is much softer.

The look on my mother’s weary face changed. She put on a big smile and laughed.

Okay, let’s move you and your potty to the sofa. I don’t imagine it will be easier on your butt but certainly more interesting.

With that statement, she grabbed my potty in one hand and me in the other and put us both on the sofa. She was right. I didn’t last there more than a moment because I was losing balance.

How is your butt honey. Does it feel a little better?

No, it’s not, I said struggling to keep my balance. I think you can put me down on the floor now, Mom.

This was my first reminiscence from my childhood. I remember my hands were bandaged. My mom said I was scratching scabs and she feared I would either have infection or would scar my face.

I was the last child my mother had. She and my dad had argued about that pregnancy.

Unwelcomed child sounds banal; I know we’ve all heard about it and I won’t bring it out.

With the exception of a few incidents, I have had a wonderful childhood. I was described by everybody I have encountered as a ‘tomboy.’ My brother Wiesiek was born four years earlier and I think he was the reason my parents got married.

As I mentioned before, my mom’s first marriage to Piotr didn’t last. Piotrek was the love of her life and my mom used to mention his name occasionally—usually when she cried or was sad. My dad Edward was her second husband.

Edek was a fun guy to be with, my mother used to say. He was well-read, intelligent and he made me laugh.

She didn’t reveal to me that there was actually another guy, a friend of my father and his coworker who had a crush on her at the same time as my father, until some twenty years later. It was his funeral. As my mother stood at our bedroom window watching his funeral procession she whispered, There goes my boyfriend. … I looked at her with disbelieve. He was a very well-known man in our town and a police chief who was loved by everyone—tall, handsome, elegant and well-respected. My father, at some point, worked in the police station, but quickly quit, citing irreconcilable differences. Was it over my mother?

Although my dad didn’t have much education, he loved to read. He, my brother Wiesiek and I had many contests about who would read certain books first. Sometimes my brother would tell me the end of the book before I got to read it, which was cruel especially with the mystery books. I hated him for that.

My dad was also a very good storyteller. We would sit in his bed, three of us and he would tell us magical fairytales before we were going to bed. My favorite ones were those of Hans Christian Andersen. My dad could almost recite whole pages of his tales. I loved my dad for those enchanting moments in my childhood. I’m certain that my love for books and reading is part of my dad’s legacy.

Unfortunately for us kids, my mom and dad grew estranged and did not sleep together that I can remember. There were very long days of silence sometimes weeks and months between my parents. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop talking. I became the liaison and confidante to both of my parents, a position no child wants to ever find himself in.

Nevertheless, my life seemed to be as normal as other kids’ with one small exception. I was either with one parent or the other but never with the two of them together.

Since I was the loudest of all of the kids in our courtyard, naturally I became the leader. Not without struggle though.

We lived in the apartment houses, which, by the way, were adjacent to each other creating almost a square like a courtyard. At the end of the U-shaped buildings and adjoining to the lake from behind was a row of a mixture of mechanical shops and body shops including a tool shop and tire shop.

Customers were coming to those shops quite often and mostly with bicycles to the tire place. You have to remember, in the early ‘60s only a few citizens in my city had cars.

Nonetheless, these various small businesses had their days filled with work.

We were never really interested in the nature of those establishments nor who the owners were and what their lives were. We were only interested in the fact that behind those shops was our beautiful lake, which for us kid was not accessible.

On occasion, we would ask somebody to let us pass through the garage but not too often because we were denied access almost all of the time for liability reasons.

Next to the shops, two of the families who lived in our apartments had small gardens and they too had access to the lake but it was well-guarded. Only once in a while Krzysiek’s parents let us use their vegetable garden to go fishing on the lake. We used a wooden dock that was built specifically for that reason by Krzysiek’s dad. Our lake was deep and fish were in abundance. When the lake was frozen in the winter, my dad would go ice fishing. He would freeze his butt off there. We could see him from our kitchen window. On many occasions, his catch was too strong and too big for my dad to be able to hang onto it. He would let go only when he was inches from the fishing hole. My brother Wiesiek and I would watch our father struggle with his catch, and terrified, we would call our mother. She would only say:

One day he will go under, and would go back to whatever she was doing.

That lake was glacial and crystal clear. As much as everybody loved it for this or other reason, every year at least five people would drown there.

One Sunday afternoon in July, my sister Lucyna and I were busy peeling potatoes for dinner when we heard terrifying screams from the lakeside. It was a warm day so our windows were open. Lucyna was much older than I was. She practically took over some of my mom’s responsibilities and protecting me was part of those liabilities.

Stay here. Don’t leave the house. She gave me a quick look and asked again, Did you hear what I said?

Yes, I heard you. What happened there?

I don’t know, she said. I need to go down there.

With that statement, she ran out of the kitchen. The yelling was growing louder and more frantic. I could hear our neighbors running down the stairs. I went to the window and tried to determine the exact location of the cry but I still couldn’t see anything. I wanted to leave the house but I knew Luska had loose hands and she most likely would punish my behind. I ran to the bathroom window, but the view from there wasn’t disturbed by anything unusual. The window in the living room showed only the far end of the lake so my options had run out. The cries got somewhat subdued but I could still hear voices and the water splashing. My sister wasn’t coming back and both of my parents were out. Wiesiek was out as well but I knew he was next door at his friend Andrzej’. I yelled his name a few times but he didn’t hear.

Wiesiek! My voice sounded high-pitched and agitated. Wiesiek, Lucyna, please somebody, come home. I’m scared!

But I don’t think I was scared for me, rather, for whomever was in trouble. Neither Wiesiek nor Lucyna has heard my cries. Both of them were by the lake. When they came back home, after ten, maybe fifteen minutes, they looked sad. My sister had tears in her eyes. She said that little Tomek had most likely drown but they were still trying to resuscitate him. She said that two men jumped into lake immediately after they heard his sister yelling but they couldn’t locate him. Later came more people including Tom’s dad. They all dove into the lake searching the water around the dock but they couldn’t find him. Finally, somebody spotted Tomek hanging beneath the dock. His shirt got caught by a large nail. His body was slouched. Part of it was above the water. Unfortunately, his head was submerged. Tomek was five years old.

I remember we talked about Tomek that whole evening. My mom was crying. She didn’t know Tomek’s mom very well but she kept saying that she was sorry for her loss and that no mother should ever experience such tragedy. She asked Wiesiek and me to be extra careful around that awful lake and after we reassured her, at least ten times we would not go near the lake unsupervised, she seemed to get better. Seeing my mom relax a bit made me feel better too. We got up from the kitchen table and started to get ready for bed.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I hated washing my face with cold water. I pretended that I was getting the water into my hands but most of it was running through my open fingers. Getting below the jawline was equally challenging. Ears were touched only when my parents saw to it. Only on Saturdays when the whole family bathed in the large tub in hot water did I consider myself really clean.

We went to the bedroom. My dad was already in the bed reading. I asked him if he knew what has happened. He said instead that he has a great story to tell me. So, with great anticipation I climbed into his bed and sat beside him. My mom came a little later and my brother followed her right after. With the exception of my teenage sister Lucyna, we all slept in one bedroom. It was a huge room, (approximately twenty by twenty feet). My dad and mom had two beds adjacent to each other. I slept with my mom and my brother slept alone in the other corner of the room. My dad, although close to us, slept by himself as well.

The beds were freshly made. Linens were crispy and smelled like the morning sun. We had no dryer. We dried all of the clothes and linens outside or in the attic. My mom always put a lot of starch into the sheets and duvets. In the winter, all of the fabric got so stiff that we used to sprinkle it with water before ironing.

I went to sleep happy after all. I had my story and my mom and dad nearby.

There were seven kids in our courtyard. We were all within four years of each other. Our home was represented by my brother Wiesiek and me. There were three kids in the Niewiarowski family and two—Andrzej and Krzysiek—in the Babiracki family. Ewa was my best friend and the only daughter of my adopted aunt and family dentist Mrs. Bajraszewska. She was a divorcee and her son Marek lived with his father in a different town.

Each family also had other children but they were much older than we were and didn’t participate in our games. They were somewhat responsible for us and in a time of crisis or misbehavior they acted on behalf of our parents. Dreadful stuff was part of their business, like nagging us to eat or do homework. My sister Lucyna was the toughest and loudest and I was afraid of her. She didn’t hesitate to hit me with whatever she had in her hands. When she wanted something from me and wanted me home, I made sure that she didn’t have to call twice.

We were a wild bunch.

Even though I was the second youngest and a girl, I got to be a leader of the group. This is how it happened.

Mr. Wanat, the owner of the body shop, told us he had anticipated some kind of inspection from the village. His body shop was producing most of the garbage. That junk piled up for months before he got his mechanics to clean it all up. Kids were often using the two old cars for hideout but parents didn’t like it. We could find strange things in those junks, empty bottles of beer and alcohol, leftover sandwiches, cans and old tools. Once, we found old panties and one stocking and we knew the cars were also used for after-hours activities.

Anyway, Mr. Wanat asked kids to help him clean the whole courtyard with extra attention to the body shop area. Our courtyard was quite large and cleaning it on a weekend was quite a challenge. We bargained.

We will do it if you will do something for us, I said bluntly.

What would you like me to do for you kids? he asked without hiding his surprise.

We would like you to build for us a swing set. We don’t want the kind that looks like a rope on a tree branch. We want a ‘real one,’ the kind that community parks have.

Small Basia has the big idea, he murmured and put a grin on his face.

Why then you kids go to the community park to use the swing set, he smiled, as he was happy he found a smart way to handle the situation.

Some of us are too small to wander off without our parents’ permission, said Krzysiek the youngest of us.

Besides, we can use it much longer here and our parents wouldn’t mind, said Ewa.

Mr. Wanat seemed to drift with his thoughts. He rubbed his chin and weighed his options.

We’re not cleaning the court if you’re not going to build the swing set, I said and turned around.

Okay he said. I will build the set. Just clean the dammed court.

I didn’t trust him. Something in his last statement wasn’t right. I looked at his face with the intention to figure out if he was trustworthy. He fidgeted. The rest of the bunch was waiting upon my decision. I didn’t know how to handle it so I looked at Ewa—she too was a smart one—and asked her what we should do.

Mr. Wanat had the inspection on Monday. Either we do it or his three mechanics would need to work on the weekend. He would have to pay them. His choice was easy.

I will build the swing set for you; just give me a month or so.

We worked as diligently as it was humanly possible. There were eight of us. We handpicked all of the nails and screws. We organized piles of debris, old car doors, tires, some glass that looked like car windows without the frame. We threw away metal cans with old lubricants and pushed three car seats against the wall of the garage. There were large scraps of metal sheets that we put all together on top of each other. We swept the whole stone-paved courtyard. The dust was so thick, everybody had to keep the windows shut for most of the afternoon. Occasionally, we would sprinkle the grounds with water from the lake, but bringing water in buckets seemed too much for already tired hands. By the evening, things looked pretty good. Tired but successful, we went home.

"Mom, do you think Mr. Wanat will keep his word? I asked my mom that evening.

He seems to be a nice man, she said.

I like the way our courtyard looks now, I said proudly. When we get our swing set it will look even nicer, don’t you think mom?

She didn’t comment. I looked at her and I swear I saw in her face the same look Mr. Wanat had right after he made his pledge. It disappointed me. I repeated my question.

Mom, will Mr. Wanat build the swing set for us?

I don’t know. You certainly deserve it but don’t get your hopes up. I don’t want you to be let down.

Tears filled my eyes. Why is she telling me this now? After we did all that work!

We will get the set! I will see to it. And with that, I went to bed.

On Monday, we watched for the inspection. We didn’t see anybody important. We didn’t know how the inspectors would look. We could only assume that they would be dressed well and look better than an average person looks and they should definitely have some kind of notebook and pen. Krzysiek, Ewa and I were sitting glued to the window in my house staring and judging. It was relatively quiet. People were coming and going and as usual, most of them were visiting the tire shop.

After a couple of hours, we got bored. How long should we wait? What if nobody will show up? Would we get our swing set?

We decided to play. Our favorite activity was pretending that we owned the grocery store. Everyone wanted to be a cashier and deal with the money. Counting the change was the most challenging but also very important. Naturally, people who could handle money in stores had to be very smart and important. No owner would trust anybody with their money.

The currency was made from paper. We cut it in small rectangles. We had a scale to weigh everything. Sugar, flower and rice were favored articles to weigh. We used real stuff. It was very critical to have many customers so that the store was busy. Some days we could get four of us together to play and it was always more fun because our store looked very busy. It was even more essential to make sure we clean up after ourselves. My mom didn’t like us to play with the food. For a moment, we forgot about the inspection and the swing set. Ewa’s grandma called her and we needed to wrap up. When I got up, I peeked through the window.

"Somebody important came! I yelled excited. Ewa and Krzysiek rushed to the window.

The car is nice, Krzysiek noted.

I bet it’s the inspector, whispered Ewa. I have not seen a car like that yet. What is it? she asked and looked at Krzysiek.

I’m not certain but it must be from America. My dad told me that they have large cars there, bigger than my bedroom.

The car disappeared in the garage of Mr. Wanat’s shop. I started to clean up and my friends went home. The next day I ventured to the garage. Tomek, Mr. Wanat’s right hand and a very good mechanic, was the only one there. In the middle of the garage stood the car we saw yesterday from our window.

Is this the inspector’s car? I asked, and quickly added, It’s the biggest car I saw in my life!

Tomek gazed at me with surprise.

Nope, the car belongs to Mr. Shreder from Germany. He is visiting his relatives and his car broke down. He brought it here to fix it. It is nice isn’t it? Tomek said putting his hand on the hood of the car.

So, the inspector didn’t come yet?

What are you talking about? What inspector? He looked at me convinced I was talking nonsense.

Mr. Wanat asked us to clean the courtyard because an inspector was coming and he wanted it to be spotless I looked around looking for somebody who could confirm the story.

He also said that he will build for us a swing set if we clean it good.

Mr. Wanat wanted the court to look nice because he was expecting Mr. Shreder not because an inspector was coming.

Tomek knew he said too much because my face turned sour. I realized that we did cleaning for Mr. Wanat’s client, so that he could impress him. I turned around and left.

Tomek yelled, Hey kid, I don’t know what Mr. Wanat promised but he will be here later!

When we returned to the garage, there were five of us. We asked again for the swing set. He promised we would get it in a month. A month passed and then another. We knew we were taken advantage of. After a short discussion, we disappeared into our homes. One beautiful Sunday morning when most of the parents went to church I stood in front of the garage and took a good look at Mr. Wanat’s establishment. I picked up the first rock and without hesitation threw it toward the window. The sound of smashed glass carried on. I needed to work quickly so that the noise wouldn’t give me away. I reached for another pebble and smashed the next pane. I was afraid and trembled like a fugitive about to be caught but my dissatisfaction needed to be released.

I probably will get some beating, I thought to myself. I looked around to pick up another stone.

Fredek opened the window and yelled. What’s going on out there?

Everyone was afraid of Fred. He was a man in his forties who was built like Tarzan and could easily intimidate the biggest bullies. Hell, my father had respect for him and my dad wasn’t scared of anyone. I ran home as quickly as I could, opened a book and pretended I was reading it. Yes, I was pretending because I was so nervous I actually couldn’t read.

When Mom returned from wherever she was—she was not a church person—she asked me what happened to Mr. Wanat’s windows. I just said as calmly as I could, Windows? What windows? I don’t know and that was the end of it.

Nobody ever came from the shop to interrogate any of the kids. After a week or so, all of the windows were replaced.

We got our respect back. Nothing like that ever happened again. Mr. Wanat died a few years later and his brother took over. By then, we were all mature.

CHAPTER 3:

NOW…WE SHARE ONE HEART.

Our life with Ludwik is designed around feelings. Nothing really is more important than the love we have for each other. If one of us is emotionally off the other one is hurting. We can sense this disconnection immediately and when it happens, we have to confront each other right away. It can go either way and it looks something like this.

Are you okay?

Yes, I am.

I don’t think so.

Why?

Because you are not yourself today, I can feel it.

That’s not true; I’m all right.

Bull, I can see you’re off. Something is eating you. Can I help?

You can’t always help me.

Ha! I knew something was wrong, let’s talk about it.

This happens exactly the same way with Julius, our son. Whenever he’s sad, I can feel the change in his voice immediately and I always ask what happened. He hesitates at first but after I press a bit he spills the beans. He tells me later that he gets to feel much better after we have a chat. He is the perfect combination of Ludwik and me with his professional ambitions and insatiable love for a social life and parties, which he, without a doubt, inherited from me and his perfect gentlemanly conduct and likability that he got from his father. We all have one thing in common though. We share one heart.

In so many ways, Ludwik and I are quite different. Essentially, he is a perpetual optimist and I’m a chronic pessimist. Mine is like a disease; his is a blessing. When I wake up in the morning my head is full of strange and very vivid recollections from some bizarre dream I had, his is usually clear and clueless. My outlook on life and future is typically highlighted by worries about aging and death especially in the view of my family’s problematic gene pool that I inherited; his is cheerful and practical with an emphasis on longevity and prosperity in old age. His family has a long lifespan. I’m frank and brusque; Ludwik is gentle and easygoing. He is a stickler; I prefer creative disarray.

Obviously, one of the most important differences between us is that he is a MAN and I am a WOMAN.

Like most men, he is blind and deaf when he needs to be and I have to see and hear for both of us. It’s almost certain that during the course of the day he will ask me countless times where I hid any of these items, Milk, butter, a laptop, his iPad, his wallet, glasses, receipts from some purchases he made, the phone or anything else for that matter because he can’t find it even though they are always in the same place or right in front of him. He insists we use the same bathroom although we have three and I would prefer the whole bath for myself, because when he takes a shower he never has a clean towel by his side and I need to hand it to him. I may be doing something in the kitchen or be dressing in my closet but when I hear his yell, I don’t have a towel, I drop whatever I’m doing and go to the bath. I tried to teach him to have the stupid towel close by or otherwise get it by himself from the basket that sits three feet away from the stall but he tells me that he doesn’t want to step out of the shower and expose his body to the dangerously low temperatures of our bathroom. He hates to be bothered with the trivial stuff that doesn’t pertain to his current state of mind and pretends he can’t hear me. I understand it now but before, when we were in our thirties, we fought about it all the time. Fighting was a stupid activity. We rarely accomplished any permanent changes in our habits but wasted a lot of time on talks and apologies. It would have been easier to learn one fundamental truth of marriage. Whenever women nag, men usually gag.

Our biggest fights always evolved from small, insignificant arguments, which usually pertained to the house chores. He didn’t do the dishes or vacuum the house and I was so tired. I gave him a list of things to do and he didn’t even start yet and it was almost a year now. Stuff like that. Today I would say, Who cares but then it was a personal rejection. It was so hurtful—God knows why—that I had an obligation to hurt him back. Only then when we finally wounded each other to the point of tears and total humiliation were we able to reach the state of satisfaction and go back to happiness again. Human nature is bizarrely complex.

Ludwik is not a flawless man. Heck, I don’t think I want him perfect. God only knows how messed up I am but the truth is, I’m absolutely in love with him and can’t even begin to comprehend what I would do without him.

He is funny, smart, intelligent and very honest. He always takes me the way I am and never ever criticizes me. If anything, he always supports me in things I do. He is my greatest admirer and loves everything I represent. Not always. Sometimes he calls me a big pain in the ass but even when he says it, it doesn’t sound that bad. He is the reason I wake up in the morning with a smile on my face. In fact, the first thing I do when I open my eyes is to turn my head toward him and check if he is next to me.

Ludwik is a very generous man. I love him for that. He takes such a pleasure in giving. It’s a rare quality. I know so many men who have no idea how to be flamboyant. Ludwik likes to be with me when I shop for clothes and doesn’t mind being a critic. He lets me parade in front of him like a model on the runway. It is so incredibly sexy to me. I see women who can’t get their man to enter the store unless there is an Apple Store next door. My Ludwik takes a mental picture of the item I really liked but dismissed for financial reason and buys me the same thing the next day. He loves to watch my face when I open the box. He behaves as if it was he who got the gift. It can’t get better than that. Oh, wait. It can get better! Buying a piece of jewelry for me, especially when I don’t expect it or anticipate something completely different and unpretentious, is priceless. He could spend months planning something like that!

For our tenth anniversary, Ludwik decided to take me to dinner. It was a welcome change from the usual jewelry box. We talked about it a few weeks before and we both determined it would be very romantic and different. I had no idea what restaurant we would go to, as it was to be a surprise.

As long as I could be seated outside, I will be totally happy, I mentioned.

We celebrate our anniversary in September. It’s a perfect month for that occasion. Still warm but not too hot, September brings an ideal setting for an outside dinner.

We were driving toward downtown but he didn’t stop in the familiar places. He kept going toward Navy Pier. I would’ve been happy with ‘Tempo’ or ‘La Bocca’ but Ludwik decided we needed something more romantic than a regular restaurant and made a reservation for the ‘Odyssey’ the luxurious boat stationed at Navy Pier. Dinner and dancing while you cruise Lake Michigan and look at downtown Chicago is definitely dreamy. I loved the whole setting. I thought he hit a perfect ten. There were plenty of people on the boat celebrating different events. The group of friends next to our table celebrated a birthday and across from us, an older and very elegant couple was taking to the waiter. They seemed very happy.

They look as if they met yesterday, don’t they? I whispered to Ludwik. "I hope we will look like them when