Showing posts with label resilience. Show all posts
Showing posts with label resilience. Show all posts

Friday, November 10, 2023

Polish Refugees Surviving Global Politics (Vol. 14, No. 4)


At the time of Thanksgiving we think of things we are thankful for. Let's start from a positive lesson and some advice...

A Starchild’s Lesson

I found the Philosopher’s Stone. 
Transmogrification.
Fear into Love. The lead of sorrow
into the pure gold of childlike laughter. 
There is no other alchemy, but this.

“Shine”— said the Voice.
“Be fruitful”—Someone wrote
in the Great Book for all ages. 
Even if half true, it is true enough.

Listen. Do not stray from your path. 
You know what lies ahead —
past a frozen meadow of snowdrops and sasanki, 
white and violet, glowing with innocence
 in a forest clearing —

past peach orchards, misty with blizzards
of falling petals —past lakes of blooming lotus, 
patiently stretching from mud to the Sun — 
past golden fields of rye, ready for harvest,
to make bread for the journey—

Open the parasol of ancient wisdom above you — 
for shelter, as you walk into the embrace of your destiny
and shine — shine — shine —

NOTE: Sasanka, plural sasanki is a Polish name of a spring wildflower called Pulsatilla or Pasqueflower from genus Anemone.

(c) Maja Trochimczyk, published in "Crystal Fire: Poems of Joy and Wisdom" (2022)

Cemetery in Trzebieszow, May 2023

Polish survivors of WWII and their families have lots of reasons for gratitude. Many of these reasons were suppressed in the media in the 50 years after the war ended, when Polish People's Republic was a Soviet satellite state and actively concealed proof of Soviet crimes against Poles and Poland.  So... let me recall some family facts....

Poland first fought with the Soviet Union in 1920 when Soviets invaded the newly reborn Second Polish Republic after 123 years of partitions (when the country was split between Russia, Prussia and Austria, the latter the most tolerant). Poland was recreated in WWI Peace Treaty of 1918, signed on 11 November, Poland's Independence Day - the patriot, pianist and composer Ignacy Jan Paderewski was the signatory. He later became Poland's Prime Minister. In 1920, the Soviet troops went all the way to Warsaw on their way to conquer Europe, but "A Miracle on the Vistula" took place, while all citizens fought back and the Red Army was defeated and sent back.  I talked about Paderewski and Poland's Independence here:

https://chopinwithcherries.blogspot.com/2018/10/paderewski-100-years-of-polands.html

My grandfather Stanislaw Wajszczuk fought in WWI. During the revolution in Russia, he was a  conscript to the White Army and participated in battles in St. Petersburg; he saw blood flowing down the streets, unspeakable atrocities. Then, his brigade was sent to the Western front to fight against German troops. He was caught by Germans and imprisoned in Dachau, until he escaped with help from a prison commander's daughter. Two decades later, his brother, Feliks Wajszczuk, a Catholic priest, was imprisoned also by Germans and also in Dachau (1940-1945); subject to medical experiments on lung capacity, he barely survived. 

In 1917, Marshal Jozef Pilsudski started forming his Legions to liberate Poland. No longer a German Prisoner of War, my Grandpa joined the Legions and fought with them to liberate Poland.  Thus, I can say that mine is a "Pilsudczyk" family. I did not know about this for decades, just that my Mom taught me to sing the Legionnaires' songs, and that she had a portrait of Marshal Pilsudski on her living room wall. Knowing these facts as a student in the Polish People's Republic was dangerous for the family; I could have disclosed it accidentally at school...

Father Feliks (Felix) Wajszczuk's letters to his mother Jozefa from Dachau Concentration Camp. Prisoner Number 22732,  HIs cousin Father Karol Leonard Wajszczuk (Karl, 1887-1942) died in Dachau, Prisoner Number 22572

Fast forward to 1939, my Grandpa was in Baranowicze (now in Belarus), working for the Polish railroads and the radio station. By that time, he was already married, with two children. When Soviets struck a secret deal with Nazi Germany and invaded Poland on 17 September 1939 he went into hiding. Another former Polish soldier, Uncle Glinski was shot in the street by NKVD, his widow, Ciocia Tonia (Antonina) was arrested the next day with two sons and deported to Siberia, where one son died. I talked about some of these stories here: 

https://chopinwithcherries.blogspot.com/2021/01/portraits-of-survivors-babcia-prababcia.html

In total, over 1 million Poles were deported by Soviets to Siberia or Kazakhstan. While parents often perished, orphaned children survived. Deportations of Poles from then-Polish lands of modern Ukraine and Belarus (it was all part of Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth since 1364)  started already in 1937. These were not random acts of terror, but a full scale pre-planned campaign of ethnic cleansing removing Polish residents from formerly Polish lands, some incorporated into the Russia in 1918, the rest taken over by Soviet Union after 1945. (In the Ukraine about 200,000 Poles were murdered by UPA Ukrainian Nationalists during WWII; I know children of survivors, living here in California). My mother's aunt and uncle were among the Polish deportee orphans in Siberia, their parents perished of hunger and disease.

Grandfather Stanislaw Wajszczuk and Grandmother Maria Anna Wajszczuk, nee Wasiuk

But my grandparents were lucky. They were not deported. In 1939, my grandparents and mother made it through the border from Soviet-occupied Baranowicze to German-occupied Poland. Their destination was my Grandpa's ancestral village where they lived out the rest of the war. 20 people slept in a two-bedroom house, this ordeal lasted for 4 years, food was scarce. During the illegal border crossing, a German soldier took all their valuables - gold coins and jewelry and gave them a receipt. My Aunt Barbara framed it later, since post-war Germany refused to honor it and return what was stolen. Maybe the receipt was fake and the soldier pocketed the gains. Who knows... In any case, the Soviets did not pay reparations either - and they owed a lot, for the lost house, as well as estates of other members of extended family... 

https://chopinwithcherries.blogspot.com/2022/09/remembering-polish-war-anniversaries.html

The house of survivors in Trzebieszow

After the British and Americans struck a deal with Stalin to take over Eastern Europe after WWII, a secret deal made in Teheran in 1943 and sealed in Yalta in 1945 (a deal that nobody knew about until  the takeovers started), Gen. Wladyslaw Anders was allowed to take out imprisoned soldiers from the Soviet camps, in order to form the Polish Second Corps. The soldiers were allowed to take their families with them, while orphaned children were allowed to leave as well, cared for by the Red Cross. Orphaned Irena (my mom's Aunt) went with the troops to Iran, where the refugees were divided and sent to other camps. Irena went with the Red Cross through Switzerland to Chicago, where she later married and had a family. About 220,000 people were saved by Gen. Anders.  They dispersed around the world.

≡ SHAMBHALA ≡

Do children who die on the way
carry bejeweled parasols in a Tibetan heaven?

Is Siberia too far from Shambhala
for the bedraggled orphans to enter through
its golden doorways, glistening with ten thousand
ornaments, treasures from a galaxy with ten billion suns?

Are they too sick and dirty to walk on a shining path
made for the birth of the Buddha — scented
with sandalwood, adorned with an unsurpassed
multitude of rarest gems.

When the Buddha was born, the Earth
moved six ways, the wise man said.

Did it move at least once to mark your passage?

When you rolled in pain and moaned
until the blessed moment of relief?
Gave up your last breath like a crystal question mark
in a frozen Siberian air? Convulsed
in a sudden burst of gunfire, a bullet straight
through your heart? Froze to death in a convoy?
Fainted on the floor of a railroad car?

There was no hooting of owls, they say,
when the great Shakyamuni Buddha
was born. Sweet sounding music floated 
through a myriad of flowering orchards,
filled with a rainbow of gemstone trees.

Did you hear an owl hoot when you died?

Oh, hungry child of gulags, the lost child
of Siberia — Did the Earth move?

Were there parasols, or owls?

(C) 2021 by Maja Trochimczyk, published in The Rainy Bread: New Poems from Exile (2021)


https://culture.pl/en/article/the-maharaja-who-saved-hundreds-of-polish-orphans

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xAdW1gIN4E (interview with one of the orphans from India)

The 1000 children who went to India and were saved by the Maharajah, had an interesting teacher with them. Poland's most famous pop singer and movie star Hanka Ordonowna, who went to India as their teacher and counselor, and wrote a great book of horror stories told to her by the children survivors, starving, ill, and covered with lice when she met them. It was such a blessing for her and for the children to encounter a real saint, the Indian Maharajah, with such generosity and love. 

After a performance, Polish orphans with the Maharajah in India, Wikimedia Commmons.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OYkFiUsEQ8U - Ordonka sings "Love will forgive you everything..." 

Ordonka's greatest hit "Love will forgive you everything" was named Poland's no. 1 song 50 years after the war. Its composer Henryk Warszawski, known in California as Henry Vars, was a soldier in Anders' army, a Polish-Jewish musician who after surviving the war, established a film-composer career here. Its poet, Julian Tuwim, was also Polish-Jewish and survived the war in South America, he wrote some of the greatest poems of Polish language and was enticed to return to post-war Poland, but died in 1953 without publishing much except of Poland's most famous and beloved children's verse, I still know two of these poems by heart. I wrote a poem for Ordonka, in my "Rainy Bread" book, second expanded version:

https://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2021/04/new-e-book-edition-of-rainy-bread-poems.html

Hanna Ordonowna, Wikimedia commons

More poems from the second edition of the book are here:

https://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2021/10/trochimczyks-rainy-bread-more-poems.html

Poles in California had among them some survivors from Anders's Army orphans and soldiers, poet Kazimierz Cybulski among them. He went through Iran, though, and then was sent to Uganda where he was in a refugee camp for several years. After the war, over 120,000 soldiers went to England, where they lived in refugee camps closed only in the 1960s. Britain did not want them to live there, just to fight for them. They were gradually sent out to all parts of the British Empire. Many went to Canada and Australia, some were allowed to immigrate to the U.S.  I found Cybulski's obituary online, albeit in Polish, he was a Polish-language poet: https://www.zppno.org/aktualnosci/kazimierz-cybulski-nie-zyje/

I did not write about him, but I commemorated the deportations with a poem published in the expanded version of The Rainy Bread: New Poems from Exile (2021).

≡ OF TRAINS AND TEA ≡

I remember trains and horse-drawn wagons –
being all cooped up in a pile of blankets.
Was it so far? Were we going in circles?

Давайте, пойдем — Xорошо, хорошо


Yes, I remember the hypnotic noise
of train wheels on the railroad tracks.
Piercing, repetitive, permeating your body
and echoing in your brain. To the border,
two days waiting, then a different patter
of Russian, broader tracks.

It was dark and cold and I was afraid.

Yes, I was, too. I did not know where
we were going, what dark hut was destined
to be our home for who knows how many years.

The road there was so long.
Stopping and starting.
As if to never end.

The sad train whistle, the calls
of the guards, that’s what’s real now —
as they sit, sipping tea out of fine bone china
on the patio scented with orange blossoms
of the glorious California spring.

Мы готовы — давайте —
xорошо, хорошо —

(c) by Maja Trochimczyk, published in "The Rainy Bread: New Poems from Exile" 2021

Polish sky in May 2023

After the war ended, Poland was denied the right to participate in the Victory Parade in 1945. All stories of refugees and survivors were suppressed - like the stories during the war of trains of refugees and orphans going through the U.S. to Mexico, where in Santa Rosa camp over 3000 survivors lived. (trains had blacked out windows, and moved at night to not be seen by Americans, Stalin was the good guy for them then, on covers of magazines!). They continued write about what they remembered: here are some poems by Alexander Janta Polczynski, published in England:

https://chopinwithcherries.blogspot.com/2018/08/from-13-polish-psalms-by-alexander.html

Polish government in exile in London continued to be active, though not recognized by Allies until 1989 when it dissolved; these same Allies betrayed their agreements to defend Poland in 1939. Survivors had no home to return to. After 1944, when Polish People's Republic was formed by Soviets, a puppet government was installed. Polish People's Republic in its first ten years during the Stalinist regime of Boleslaw Bierut murdered and imprisoned thousands of survivors of the Home Army, and especially soldiers and leaders of the Second Polish Republic. 

Meanwhile, deportations from former Polish lands took the rest of 3-4.5 million of Polish inhabitants from what is now Belarus, Lithuania and Ukraine to former German lands of Silesia and Pomerania that were given to Poland in the Stalin-Churchill-Roosevelt deal. These lands were emptied of German residents. I know a German music historian Martina Homma who was kicked out of Gdansk, her family had 24 hours to leave, and settled in Cologne.  This "you have 24 hours to pack" was a mantra of new rulers everywhere...A California poet Dorothy Skiles was just 2 when Soviets went through Berlin and raped every woman, while men in her family died in Wehrmacht on the Eastern front. She gave copies of my poems about war experiences of my extended family to her sons and grandsons, offspring of German Wehrmacht soldiers. We should all know and learn from the past. 

Polish Diaspora in the world. Dark red: over 10 million, red, over 1 million, dark pink: over 100 thounsand, light pink: over 10 thousand. Wikimedia Commons.

The Polish refugee camps everywhere were clean, tidy, well organized and taken care of. Poles immediately formed Polish schools, each little barrack had a veggie garden and a flower garden, there were social groups, dance groups, theater groups, choirs, and such. Churches as well, they were mostly Catholics in these camps. I want to publish Hanka Ordonowna  memoirs in English translation, amazing stories. Alas, she died in Beirut, was too sick after the gulag camps in Siberia and never fully recovered.

Eugeniusz Bodo, actor, Wikimedia commons.

Another famous actor Eugeniusz Bodo died in the Soviet gulag. But an amazing painter Julian Stanczak survived, though lost the use of his right hand, paralyzed after beating in the camp. He became a painter instead of a cellist that he wanted to be. He learned to draw with left hand in a camp in Uganda, then came to the U.S. He was a very well known Op-Art painter in the mid-West. Died in 2017. 

Eugeniusz Bodo, prisoner in Soviet gulag, Wikimedia commons

War is a beast, so we should be all against all wars, and favor peace, and help others. In recent wars, Poles took in refugees from the Ukraine, I sent money to a friend who took in a mother with daughter to his small apartment, where he lived with his wife and baby. His grandfather was also kicked out of the Ukraine, maybe that woman was an offspring of the perpetrators? Who knows, she or her child were not guilty, and the best way to stop wars is by forgiveness and generosity. 

Julian Stanczak in 2013 with one of his paintings, Wikimedia Commons

If everyone did as they should, and followed the example of the "Good Maharajah" the world would have been so much better. But then, the survivors and refugees should have behaved like Poles did in those camps, work, be grateful, and build a new, peaceful world. Stanczak,  Cybulski, Vars, and other immigrants to America have done it in the New World. They successfully created new identities for themselves and contributed to the culture of their new country. 

Now, that so many global agencies and corporations seek to destroy "nation-states" and erase or cancel the multitude of distinct identities - linguistic and cultural - of nations around the world, it is even more important to remember and support cultural diversity of these nations. In my case, it means remembering the achievements, resilience, and honor of the Polish nation. 

Polish Americans have two Independence Days to celebrate, two languages to learn, two national anthems to sing. Not 195 Independence Days of all the world's countries. Not all 160+ languages, cultures, and traditions of all the world's residents. It is impossible to open borders and accept as equal all the different nationalities without creating for them a standard and a model to accept. Here, the language is English, the Independence Day is on 4 July, the Pledge of Allegiance defines "one nation" - that all the newcomers belong to. All the Displaced Persons of Stanczak's generation or Solidarity-era emigres of my generation, are free in the U.S. to learn Polish and study Polish history and culture. All are free in our "land of the free" where we do not forget our roots, while becoming Americans of double identities. 

More on Poland's Independence and patriotism of Poles:

I think it would be best to finish this story with a positive poem that fits the theme of Thanksgiving: 

LIKE GRAPES ON A VINE

   —we grow and grow. 

Nourished by gold light 

and sapphire water, 

we become sweeter as we age. 

Last traces of bitterness 

and resentment dissolve

 into forgiveness.

 

Yes, it was a long road.

Yes, it was hard.

But we are here.

Grapes on the vine.

 

I’m kind to myself, kind to others, 

kind to the world. I listen.

 

All grains of sand on the beach, 

all dancing droplets in the ocean,

the salty mist on my lips – sing 

the song of creation. Such a joy to be. 


Present. Attentive—

to the sparkling pathway 

of sunlight leading beyond the horizon— 

to the relentless rhythm of the waves 

crushing all worry into smithereens.

 

Out flows my pain.

Out goes my sorrow.

In flows my peace.

In comes my gladness.

 

Like the ripening grapes on the vine 

we become sweeter as we age.




(c) Maja Trochimczyk, published in "Crystal Fire: Poems of Joy and Wisdom" anthology in 2022






Sunday, January 24, 2021

Portraits of Survivors - Babcia, Prababcia, Grandma, Great Grandma... (Vol. 12, No. 1)


 My Aunt Barbara recently found and posted a photo of her Grandmother, my Great Grandmother, Konstancja Wasiuk. Born Sudnik Hrynkiewicz, she lost her husband in 1935 in the eastern Borderlands ("Kresy") that are now Belarus, but were then Poland (1918-1945).  Konstancja's mother, my Great Great Grandma, came from landed gentry, Woyno Sidorowicz, from the Nowogródek area. Konstancja and her husband Wladyslaw Wasiuk lived on a country estate called Kamionka in the same county.  After the death of her husband, she survived the war, living successively under the Soviet occupation (1939-1941), German occupation (1941-1943), and back again Soviet occupation. The area became a part of the Soviet Republic of Belarus to 1990 and the country of Belarus after that. 

ONCE UPON A TIME  IN  BARANOWICZE 

This city is a cipher without a face. Just splinters 
of images caught on paper.  The blustery winter 
street with a round poster stand just like in Warsaw. 
The opulent interior of the photographer’s studio
with a bearskin for naked babies, a mahogany stand 
for First-Communion girls, with rosaries and lace gloves. 
Flowers for Marshall Piłsudski, tightly held in a fist
by the prettiest girl with locks of curly hair.

That’s all. No childhood street corners, no velvet 
and muslin curtains of the family home. 
No church bells. Some forgotten shrines.
 
This was the site of battles. In 1916 — 100,000 dead, 
far less than the 700,000 of Verdun. Known to no-one.
Still, each life matters. Once more: Baranowicze 
where, in forty-two, forty-eight priests and teachers 
were murdered in cold blood. By Germans?  Soviets? 

The German rule meant disappearing in the ghetto.
Half of the town gone. The Soviet rule equaled 
crowded freight trains to Kazakhstan, Irkutsk, 
and Arkhangelsk. For me, this city is a cipher, 
only existing as the birthplace of my Mom.

Lucyna tells a different story — bus trips to Świteź,
Mickiewicz’s poems, silver ponds at Grandpa’s farm.
Spring: white bells of the lilies of the valley, 
picked by the bucket.. Summer: gold fields,  
sunflower heads as huge as dinner plates. 
Autumn: the Soviets came. Nothing 
could save them from deportation, ruin — 
you know — life as usual. 

(c) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk, from "The Rainy Bread: Poems from Exile"

After the war, Great Grandma Konstancja moved for the last year of her life to Trzebieszow,  near Lukow in the Lublin Voivodeship (Province), where my maternal grandparents lived: Konstancja's daughter Maria, with her husband Stanislaw Wajszczuk and children, my Mom Henryka and my Uncle Jerzy, plus Barbara born after the war.  (The family tree of Wajszczuks with some seven thousand entries is online includes those names, but not Konstancja - http://wajszczuk.pl/polski/drzewo/147stanislaw.htm ).  I heard she loved music,  so maybe, my fascination with Chopin is a tradition inherited from her, via my Grandma's radio and listening to the daily Chopin Hour concerts at noon that were the fixture of my childhood? I do not know for sure. I just do not know enough. 

She looks pretty here, with a pleated hairstyle, traditional in eastern Slavic countries, called the crown.  My Mom said her Babcia Konstancja was very pious and very mean. Apparently, she was not happy in a small, crowded, poor farm-house with two bedrooms and no running water. It is not hard to guess why - she was traumatized by the war, loss of family, loss of her real home near the city of Baranowicze.  Konstancja's Catholic faith was steady and deep: once she got tired of living as a refugee, a permanently displaced person, she decided to die with Lord Jesus on Good Friday. She went to bed on Monday and waited until Friday, when she breathed her last. Such faith! If only were she able to use it to love her Grandchildren and tell them stories of the lost past, instead...

So, if Konstancja Sudnik Rynkiewicz Wasiuk was a piece of music composed by Chopin, what piece would she be?  The music has to capture her youthful serenity in a noble home, comfort of extended family and country estate. Then, there must be a dramatic storm that interrupts and breaks the serenity...  Ballade No. 2, in F Major, Op. 38 seems to fit the bill... Here it is, played by the young Krystian Zimmerman.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ceuf0hCdQ2w


Christmas 1938 in Baranowicze, my Grandparents with my Mom, 
her brother and Great Aunt Wiktoria in a white dress.

When I was studying musicology and sound engineering in Warsaw, I met a composer, sound designer, Tadeusz Sudnik Hrynkiewicz who told me he was my cousin. I never understood how we were connected. Finally, I know! Great Grandma Konstancja, from a landed gentry family of Sudnik (Hrynkiewicz and Rynkiewicz sound like variants of the same name), married somewhat below her status, assuming the last name Wasiuk - this name, I think, could only be of a farmer, not of someone of a noble origin. However, my Aunt tells me that Wladyslaw Wasiuk was connected to the most powerful aristocratic family of the area, Duke Radziwiłł: attended their events, dinners, and hunting parties. Wladyslaw's brother worked as an administrator on the Duke Radziwiłł's vast estate.

 Grandma Maria with her sister Jadwiga, married Hordziejewska

One of Konstancja's daughters, Jadwiga Wasiuk, married back into the landed nobility. As a wife of  Dominik Hordziejewski she lived on a large country estate in the same county of Nowogrodek. It was the favorite place of my Mother's that she visited with her parents in a horse-and-buggy. She loved trips to the lake Switez, and eating blintzes with butter in the huge, warm kitchen... After the war, Ciocia Jadzia with her husband and son ended up on Gdansk Oliwa, forcibly resettled by the Soviets, who confiscated their manor, all possessions and lands. . . they could keep one cow and some furniture, that would fit in half of a railway carriage. Here's a poem to commemorate their fate.

ASTERS 

Her mother’s aunt, Ciocia Jadzia works in a kiosk in Oliwa
selling papers and razor blades in a ruined city
of charcoal buildings and five-year plans
She hides the best blades for her faithful clients
in the kiosk on the way to the Cathedral
 
where angels with puffy wooden cheeks
triumphantly blow their golden trumpets
walls and benches shake with the majesty of Bach
the gold-starred ceiling shimmers
in summer evening cold
 
The music of the seaside vacation heals the grey hours
of the girl, sitting in the kiosk, selling matches and tickets
after Ciocia Jadzia goes home to cook dinner
for her silent husband, drunk artist son
 
She works — Uncle Dominik, a proud nobleman
in a top hat and a black Sunday coat
walks through Oliwa’s parks
with his last, prize-winning Holstein cow
He grieves the loss of his estates — the life he had had
before that fateful train ride from the East
 
He still sees the red-roofed manor with a white porch
bronze oak leaves scattered on the gravel path
silver gray of Lake Świteź
golden rye fields before the harvest
 
He walks home to rusty bricks pocked by bullet holes,
smoke-dark hallways, and a burst of color
in the courtyard where asters tremble —
in last evening breeze –
a bouquet of fallen stars

(c) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk, from "The Rainy Bread: Poems from Exile"

What would have been Ciocia Jadzia's portrait by Chopin?  I picked Scherzo No. 2 in B-flat Minor, Op. 31, very dramatic and full of twists and turns, restarts and digression. Pathos interrupted by moments of sweet delight.  Krystian Zimmerman again does the honors of playing this work, for my maternal Great Aunt, Jadwiga nee Wasiuk Hordziejewska:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MgmHetWIfPc


My Grandma Maria nee Wasiuk Wajszczuk (1906-1973) was a real beauty. Haughty and elegant, she never stopped being a city girl from Baranowicze, displaced to a village where she ended up after running away from the Soviets in the winter of 1939-40.  I retell that story in a blog about my gold heirlooms, my Mom's sapphire engagement ring that now graces my finger... After Soviets invaded Poland on Sept 17, 1939, and uncle Glinski, a Polish soldier, was shot in the street by NKVD, his widow, Ciocia Tonia (Gransma's sister, Antonina) was deported within 24 hours to Siberia with her sons. My Grandpa Stanislaw, who had worked for the Polish Radio Station and the Polish Railroads, was next on the list; he went into hiding, moving from one place to another every couple of days. He had good friends that helped! 

In a month or so, my Grandma sold what she could, bought gold Krugers (Krugerrands, South African coins) to sew into my Mom's coat and hide in her toy bear. Then, just before New Year's Eve, they left everything and took a train to the border, to walk at night across the frozen river Bug to the Polish side. Though occupied by the Germans, this area was still safer for a Polish family of a former Polish government official, much safer than their town of Baranowicze, occupied by communist Soviet Union. Deportation to Siberia or death would have been their fate if they had stayed.

Babcia Maria, Dziadek Stanislaw with 
Mama Henryka (Henia) and Uncle Jurek, Baranowicze park, 1938.

I wrote about that time in my "Slicing the Bread" poem from the book of the same title, published in 2014.  Here's a story of the escape through the winter landscape, as told my my Mother, from "The Rainy Bread"

STARLIGHT

The Soviets came in 1939.
They shot her uncle in the street, 
and took his widow, Aunt Tonia, 
with their two sons to Siberia. All in 24 hours.

Her father did not wait. He sold what he could.
They went through the “green border” 
back to his family near Lublin.
Germans were not half as bad. 

Two pairs — a parent, a child — walking quietly
in a single file through deep snow drifts.
Long shadows on the sparkling, midnight white.
The guide took them in a boat across the river Bug.
Smooth, black water between brilliant banks.

Twisted tree branches, turning.
The moon hid behind clouds.
Stars scattered.  On the other shore,
the guide told her to take off her coat. 
He ripped out the lining, counted 
the gold coins her mother had sown 
into the seams.  He tore apart her teddy bear, 
took the jewels from his belly. 

I got frostbite on my cheeks and hands that night.
Look at the spots, she told her daughter.  
We had paid him already. You cannot trust
anyone, not anyone at all.

_____________________

They finally arrived in Trzebieszow the ancestral village of my Grandpa Stanislaw Marcin Wajszczuk (1895-1973). His father, my Great Grandfather Franciszek Wajszczuk (1862-1935) was the village's Mayor and a poet, too... 

Trzebieszow, Winter 2016, photo by Barbara Miszta

Apple tree in bloom, Trzebieszow. Photo by Barbara Miszta

So  it could be said that the family was well established in that large and vibrant village, where houses lined the road in a single file, for miles on end. While grateful for survival, the refugees from Baranowicze were starving through the rest of the war in a two bedroom house, with 20 people crammed together into bedrooms with wall-to-wall fold-away beds. Outdoor bathroom, no running water, and very little food...

SLICING THE BREAD


Her mother's hunger. One huge pot of hot water
with some chopped weeds ‐ komesa, lebioda ‐
she taught her to recognize their leaves,
just in case‐plus a spoonful of flour,
for flavor. Lunch for twenty people
crammed into a two-bedroom house.

The spring was the worst ‐ flowers, birdsong,
and nothing to eat. You had to wait
for the rye and potatoes to grow. The pantry
was empty. She was hungry. Always hungry.
She ate raw wheat sometimes. Too green,
The kernels she chewed‐still milky‐made her sick.

Thirty years after the war,
her mother stashed paper bags with sliced, dried bread
on top shelves in her Warsaw kitchen.
Twenty, thirty bags...enough food for a month.
Don't ever throw any bread away, her mother said.
Remember, war is hunger.

Every week, her mother ate dziad soup‐
fit for a beggar, made with crumbled wheat buns,
stale sourdough loaves, pieces of dark rye
soaked in hot tea with honey.
She liked it. She wanted to remember
its taste.

(C) 2014 published in "Slicing the Bread" (Finishing Line Press), reprinted on Quill and Parchment: http://www.quillandparchment.com/archives/Oct2014/new.html

Here we are, coming home from Church in Trzebieszow.

I earlier commemorated my Grandparents in a mazurka poem from the Chopin with Cherries anthology (2010). My Grandpa played a folk fiddle in a folk kapela, and his violin, decorated with ribbons, was a source of much delight in my childhood. I often asked him to play for me and danced with my brother to the lively obereks and mazurkas. . . We loved to eat the baked mazurkas, cakes for Easter, one of the specialties of Grandma. 

 How to Make a Mazurka (fragment) 

             after Chopin’s Mazurka in A Minor, Op. 17, No. 4,

               for my Grandparents, Stanisław and Maria Wajszczuk,  
               who could play and bake their mazurkas like no one else


Take one cup of longing
for the distant home that never was,
one cup of happiness that danced
with your shadows on the walls

of Grandpa’s house, while he played
a rainbow of folk tunes
on his fiddle, still adorned
with last wedding’s ribbons [...]

____________________

I dedicated the "How to Make a Mazurka" to Chopin's Mazurka op. 17 no. 4, wistful and nostalgic, full of emigre sorrow...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLl3xtlO6Vk  Here it is played by Josh Wright. 


My mother at First Communion, Baranowicze, 1937.

So far, I wrote too few poems about my Grandma Marianna, who was an amazing chef, baker, and hostess. Elegance personified! Speaking proper literary Polish amidst a sea of peasant dialect; always wearing white gloves and beautiful dresses, with elegant jewelry.  My Mom inherited her gift for baking and giving parties. The very first poem I wrote about my Grandma is in my book "Slicing the Bread" - she taught me the meaning of war-time hunger that she experienced, and the displacements that scattered the family around the world.

PEELING THE POTATOES

Her Grandma showed her how to hold
the knife, cut a straight, narrow strip,
keeping the creamy flesh nearly intact,
ready for the pot of boiling water.

Don’t throw away any food.
The old refrain.
My sisters, Tonia and Irena lived on potato peels
in Siberia.
 The girl is confused. She knows
Ciocia Tonia — glasses on the tip of her nose,
perfectly even dentures — but Irena? Who is that?

They were all deported to Siberia. Not sure how
Irena’s parents died — of typhus, or starvation, maybe?
They used to pick through garbage heaps,
look for rotten cabbage, kitchen refuse
to cook and eat. They cooked and ate anything
they found under the snow, frozen solid.


The water’s boiling. Babcia guides her hand:
You have to tilt the cutting board
toward the pot, slide the potatoes in.
Don’t let them drop and splash you.


What happened next? The orphaned children
went with the Anders’s Army and the Red Cross
to Iran, Switzerland, Chicago.
The kitchen
fills with memories. Mist above the stove.
Grandma piles up buttery, steaming,
mashed potatoes on her plate. Eat, child, eat.  

Ten years later, Aunt Irena came to visit.
She looked like Grandma, only smaller.
Her legs were crooked. 

(c) 2014 by Maja Trochimczyk, reprinted in "The Rainy Bread" 2016


The "river" Krzna - called a river, though really not much than a stream
flows through flat Trzebieszow fields. Site of great fun at vacation time. 

A more recent poem is dedicated to Grandma Marianna's exile in a village, where she did what she could to protect her identity and pride.  This is published in "The Rainy Bread: Poems from Exile" of 2016.

NO CHICKEN

Ko-ko-ko — the clucking of hens
is a homey refrain of my California morning.
Some neighbors got themselves a chicken coop
in our sunlit village on the outskirts
of a grand metropolis.

Ko-ko-ko — the sounds take me back
to vacations with Grandma. Too proud
to stoop down to the level of peasants, she
wore a thick apron and gloves for work outside,
took it all off every time she walked into the house.

She could kill a rooster swiftly with one strike of the axe
and peel off the feathers in a gruesome spectacle
of steaming blood and guts.

Ko-ko-ko — dark orangey goo of the egg yolks
colored with a gold hue the best Easter babka,
the muslin one, so tall and delicate that children
were sent out while it cooled atop feathered pillows
in the locked bedroom.

We ate the rooster soup, rosół,  with home-made noodles
Sliced with the sharpest knife, from a sheet of dough
dried in the same room on clean white linen towels.

Ko-ko-ko — the hen measures time as I think of Babcia.
In her city youth, she never touched a chicken,
a fashionable niece of a rich landowner,
she wore her pearls and an ostrich-feather hat
for the Sunday ide to church, while the farmhands
worked as hard as she does now.

A lone lady in a peasant village, she learned
how to pick the eggs and bake a babka.
She has her crystal vases full of lilac, still,
but she knows how to cut off the rooster’s head
with one blow, how to cook her unexcelled rosół
with fresh carrots she picks from the garden,
like a lady, in gloves. 

(c) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk, from "The Rainy Bread"

Now, to think of a piece of Chopin that captures the spirit and personality of my Grandma, Maria nee Wasiuk Wajszczuk... I did not have to think for a long time at all. Chopin's "Heroic" Polonaise in A-Flat Major Op. 53 has the grandeur, nobility, bravery and pride, with tumultuous section of national drama. Here it is played by none other but Artur Rubinstein:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEl9zn8JPW8

Easter table of Mom with her grandson Marcin, Warsaw 1980s.

Great Aunt Tonia (Antonina), Grandma Maria, Great Aunt Jadzia (Jadwiga)
with their daughters, Aunt Basia (Barbara) on the bottom right in the back, 1960, Gdansk Oliwa. 
_____________________________

A line of brave, courageous, feisty women - who loved to cook, host parties, dress up, sing, dance, go out. They did not play the piano, as far as I know - but all loved listening to Chopin. They were all survivors, all displaced from their homes in one way or another.  What do you do when the "winds of history" take you from country to country, from one continent to the next? Change your hair color? Style? Name? 

My Mom was a brunette and become a blonde, a color she picked after turning grey. Black hair color looked awfully fake in Poland and she spent half of her life as a blue-eyed blonde. She loved singing, sang in a chorus as a young girl, but never learned to play any instruments, and never pursued an active career in music. Gave me lots of opportunities to listen to Chopin at home, bought my first LPs of classical music...

 
Mom at 39, her favorite age 

Mom at 64 in Abu Dhabi where my father worked for 20 years. 

If my Mom, Henryka Teresa nee Wajszczuk Trochimczyk were to be composed by Chopin, with her fantasy, warmth and  deep, unstable emotions, would she be a Polonaise? Probably not, too straightforward... Maybe a Ballade? The Ballede No. 4 in F Minor, Op. 52 would fit the bill -  so sublimely sweet and tensely dramatic, and profoundly sorrowful, despite the surface gaiety... Let's hear Krystian Zimmerman again:

Mom Henryka and Maja at one year old.

LANGUAGE

—- is all there is, all you take with you when you go
from country to country, carried by the winds of change.
The merciless gale of history blows you backward
to the time before homes were homes,
before safety, before love.

Hold on. Language is all there is. You’ll leave
your sentimental treasures — a miniature
flower vase from your cloistered Godmother,
brown like her Franciscan habit and warm eyes.

A worn sapphire set in the ornate gold ring
Dad bought in Moscow for your Mom’s engagement —
scarred by work and trouble, washing dishes,
work, always more work.
A suitcase of photos you are too raw
with grief to open — one day, you say,
I promise, I’ll do it, one day.

Language is all there is. Words slip back
under the avalanche of hours. What you took
was yours then, what is theirs now?
Rough tones of Polish mountain village resound
through the gilded salons of an L.A. mansion.
They speak a 17th century peasant dialect in Quebec.

Out of one accent, not yet in another,
you sound foreign everywhere, to everyone.
You keep your word in-between kingdoms.
One day, you’ll find new treasures.

Language is all there is
until your New Day comes. 

______________________

Sapphire engagement ring of my Mom.

So we can think and write and keep the shards of memory alive, with just a couple of photos, just a couple of stories, never enough, never with a proper context. What do we really know about the past?  The gift for music, the love of music, beautiful singing voices pass on through generations. No pianists? Not a problem... The love of music stays alive. 

Now to play the game again, what piece of Chopin would I be? If I could be a piece of music? Maybe Fantaisie Impromptu Op 66 with its shifting moods and unpredictable directions? Serenity interrupted by frantic motion? Maybe... 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gus4dnQuiGk. Recorded by Rousseau.

What about my daughter, Anna Claire Harley-Trochimczyk? She sings jazz choir, and barbershop style choral music, but if she were a piece by Chopin, I think she would have been the Ballade No. 1 in G minor, Op. 23.  Here it is, played by Krystian Zimmerman.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ce8p0VcTbuA


Maja Trochimczyk with Daughter Anna Claire Harley Trochimczyk, USC graduation 2011

Mama Henryka as a butterfly, 5 years old, Baranowicze, 1934

Maja at four, dressed up as a snowflake and brother with a bow and arrow

Daughter Ania at 3 years old in Warsaw

Thanks to Ciocia Basia and cousin Waldemar Wajszczuk we now have the Wajszczuk family tree. I do not know of similar family trees for the Wasiuks, or Sudnik Hrynkiewicz, or for my father's side, Niegerysz and Trochimczyk.  I'm also grateful for the scanned photos, used here along with the ones I inherited from Mom. 

Ciocia Basia with frost flowers in the winter.