I’m sitting in my favorite Polish cafe on Bracka Street, a short walk from Krakow’s spectacular medieval square.  Two weeks into my stay, I completed my first book interview and started volunteering with Ukrainian refugees.  I’m reveling in Krakow’s rich cultural offerings and take daily walks to Wawel, the magnificent castle overlooking the Vistula River.  I am immersing myself in this place, this time.  When one speaks the language of a place—even imperfectly—the “aha moments” multiply.

Poland is my first stop on a project to gather stories Poles who experienced WWII German and Russian occupation told their children, here in Poland and, in the Diaspora.  This is about interviewing folks of my generation to understand the impact on how we view our world.  I am currently interviewing children of Poles who remained in Poland or returned after surviving forced labor camps in Germany.  Virtual interviews with the Diaspora begin in January.

As WWII ended, Polish refugees—like my father—fled communism to far corners of the globe. Traumatized by war, they learned new languages and adapted to new cultures, rebuilding their lives in Europe, North America, South America and Australia.  I once interviewed a member of Poland’s underground resistance who boarded a refugee ship to New Zealand.  Tadeusz and I sat on a bench overlooking Wellington Harbor in 2006 as he recounted the British soldier who helped him sneak from the Russian-held sector to the British-held sector of a defeated Germany.  Russian “liberators” would have forced him to repatriate to a Soviet-dominated, newly communist Poland. Tadeusz wanted to live in a free country.

I conducted my first interview with an acquaintance who is a university professor.  We were classmates during the 1985-86 academic year.  He expressed some hesitancy about tilling the soil of his parents’ wartime experiences.  His parents’ stories, to him, seemed quite ordinary.  This was where I gently explained that I was seeking stories of ordinary people experiencing extraordinary circumstances.  My curiosity lies in how people were impacted amid the deprivations and horrors of a dual occupation, Germany from the west and Russia from the east.

My former classmate, like me, was raised on stories about the war.  Viewed through our parents’ childhood lenses, these were not fully formed narratives.  They appeared as anecdotes, whisps of stories.  What they lacked in historical chronology and literary description was more than made up for with uczucia–feelings.  As children, we understood, instinctively, that our parents’ childhoods were disrupted by war, infused with themes of hunger, loss, grief and displacement as bullets whizzed and bombs fell from the sky.  As adults, we understand our parents did what they could to shield us from experiencing such horrors, and yet, the stories seeped out.  My classmate’s parents’ stories and his reaction to them was familiar, resonant.  The differences lie in the details of when, where, and who the protagonists were.

Krakow hums with Ukrainian voices and so many refugee mothers with their little children.  I see them on the square and on the Planty—a circular park encircling the core of the Old City.  They hold their children’s hands as they speak into iPhones with often serious faces, perhaps talking with their husbands defending their homeland against Putin’s war.  I can only imagine these women and children sheltering in basement bomb shelters and enduring far-too-long bus and train rides to cross the border to the safety of a NATO-member country.  I envision tearful goodbyes as their boyfriends, husbands and fathers remained behind to fight a Russian invasionary force. 

Let me tell you about my “little ones.”  I am supporting two Ukrainian teachers, refugees themselves, as they teach at a school housed in a basement suite.  Classrooms and meeting spaces are named after Ukrainian cities.  I am intentional—at this moment—to not reveal identifying information as the war rages.  Working with these beautiful little boys and girls, ages six to eight, feels “right.”  Folks helped my deeply traumatized parents learn English when they arrived in the U.S. decades ago.

I am careful to follow the lead of the Ukrainian teachers.  They are the experts; I am a “helper” who brings the gift of being a native speaker.  I pull out small stuffed animals and a squishy black plastic spider we named “Charlie.”  We dance, we sing and we play games to instill familiarity with a new language and alphabet.  One of the teachers is writing a series of fables designed to teach the children English’s non-cyrillic alphabet.  I get to be her out-loud reader. The teachers work magic keeping the lessons fun.  The children’s personalities emerge with the little girl in auburn braids whose pronunciation of “th” (very difficult) is flawless and the energetic boy with a buzz cut who likes to climb under the table.  There’s a sweet girl, with dark hair and dark eyes, who was so very shy on her first day who now runs along with the pack during recess.  These children enthusiastically give and receive hugs, an important part of our time together.  It’s been liberating to “hop like a bunny” and “swim like a fish” amid a swirl of English, Ukrainian and Polish words in the air.

Thank you for reading.  Please be in touch as I invite you to follow my blog (https://presenttime.blog/).  I invite your questions, too!

P.S.  Folks have been asking about Tony.  My beloved husband and “best friend ever” is in France, engaged in a French immersion program.  He’s been studying French for about five years and hopes an immersion experience will yield a fluency in speaking that he’s already achieved in reading.  We miss each other very much AND support each other in this adventure!  We look forward to celebrating Thanksgiving in Poland with Aleksandra, Alan (hopefully) and family! 

I invite you to follow my blog, Present Time, at https://presenttime.blog.

Photo: Ukrainian children’s backpacks at school