writing

Uncle Tomek

~ kasia1965 ~ Leave a comment

Uncle Tomek winked his eye, offered a mischievous grin, and gestured for Aleksandra to follow him. I trailed behind, curiosity piqued and mind prepared to translate my uncle’s Polish to my five-year-old daughter’s English.

We followed Tomek to the bedroom he shared with my Aunt Genia, my mother’s oldest sister. Tomek knelt down and slid a small, cardboard box out from underneath the bed. What did we see? A brand new momma cat surrounded by mewling kittens. Tomek modeled gentleness, caressing the newly-arrived felines. Aleksandra followed, dipping her little hand into the warm, purring fuzziness. Shared delight and wonder transcended any linguistic barriers.

Tomek loved animals. He worked as a veterinary technician, riding his bicycle or getting lifts from farmers to tend to ailing cows, horses and goats on nearby farms. At home, he favored dogs, small breeds – terriers or pugs – and took pride in training them well. Tomek reveled in giving his LITTLE dogs BIG names like Cesarz (Emperor) and Tyran (Tyrant). He loved cats, too, as evidenced by the box under his bed.

Tomek and Genia built their beautiful, tidy home in Radgoszcz, a small farming village in southeastern Poland during the communist era. Securing cement and rebar amid chronic shortages required tapping into Poland’s then-black market. My uncle designed an advanced heating system. My aunt hand-stenciled walls in traditional Polish nature motifs and sewed lace curtains. I loved visiting them when I was a university student in Krakow. “My” room had a balcony overlooking their fruit trees and garden.

Tomek and Genia also shared a wonderful sense of humor. I loved witnessing their light-hearted banter. They cared deeply for each other. Tomek and Genia were unable to have children. My uncle once told me, “If we’d been able to have children, I’d have hoped to have a daughter like you.” Tomek & Genia taught me what it meant to be a loving aunt and uncle. Growing up in the U.S., I had no aunts, uncles, cousins or grandparents on the continent. Tomek and Genia helped fill a void I didn’t know I had.

Tomek would tease me that I talked too much during dinner. “The table is for eating,” he’d say. “We’ll enjoy conversation with tea and cake in the kawiarnia after dinner.” Kawiarnia means “cafe” in Polish – this is what Tomek called their living room. 

My aunt and uncle were good people. They worked and tended their garden. They helped their neighbors. Genia packed homemade sandwiches and jars of compote made from plums or strawberries for my journey back to school. Tomek, a man of precision, gathered eggs from their coop, wrapping them in elaborately engineered “constructions” of paper and string designed to withstand my cramped bus and train ride back to Krakow. 

Tomek was thirteen years old when Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. Within weeks, Radgoszcz experienced brutal German occupation and pacification. Tomek’s father, Jan, was a politically active farmer before the war, striving to improve standards of living for the community. Jan and Tomek joined the Polish underground as father and son, risking their lives to disrupt German occupation via covert acts of sabotage. 

Tomek’s father died at Auschwitz. Jan was arrested in the spring of 1943 and murdered by the Germans within weeks. My uncle never spoke to me about his father and the immense loss he endured when just a teenager.

I am left wondering why, during the 2026 International International Day of Commemoration in Memory of the Victims of the Holocaust, German Diplomat and President of the United Nations General Assembly, Annalena Baerbach, acknowledged the suffering of  the Jews, Roma, Sinti, LGBTQ+ and people living with disabilities BUT LEFT OUT POLES. See text: https://www.un.org/pga/80/2026/01/27/pga-remarks-at-holocaust-memorial-observance-2026/

Annalena neglected to mention that Poles were the SECOND LARGEST GROUP OF DEPORTEES TO AUSCHWITZ, after Jews. An estimated 140,000-1500,000 Poles were sent to Auschwitz, with 70,000 dying there. Comparatively speaking, an estimated 21,000 Roma and Sinti and an estimated 15,000 Soviet prisoners died at Auschwitz. 

Clarifying this loss of life does not diminish recognition of the enormous loss of Jewish lives, estimated at 1 million, at Auschwitz. Actually, it provides a more accurate picture of the magnitude of German crimes.

I am left to wonder WHY German acknowledgement is lacking. My suspicion? Germans were socialized to believe Poles were untermenschen (subhumans) during WWII. Might it be that they have difficulty shaking this dehumanizing prejudice?

Jan Gondek, my Uncle Tomek’s beloved father, was living a life of meaning. He, too, deserves acknowledgement of his murder at Auschwitz.

Unacknowledged harm reverberates like so many waves of sadness, across generations. Annalena could have done better.

Source: https://www.auschwitz.org/en/history/auschwitz-and-shoah/the-number-of-victims/

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

Still Standing: An Enduring Warsaw Cafe

~ kasia1965 ~ 3 Comments

It was a sunny, breezy morning in Warsaw. The Heat Dome which would soon engulf Central Europe in steamy, perspiring heat had not yet arrived. Our brunch reservation was at 11:00. This was a brunch at a special hotel, delayed six years by the COVID-19 Pandemic.

True to form, I woke early, showered, dressed and emerged from our hotel on Grzybowska Street. My departure cleared a path to the one bathroom shared with my sister Chris and her fashion-attentive son who is entering his senior year of college. I’m a bit more “wash and wear.” Joseph met us in Warsaw after completing a semester abroad at FAMU, the renowned film school in Prague. 

Walking Warsaw’s streets along with Monday morning commuters, I was struck by the youth, the pace, and the sartorial displays. Young women with perfect hair and subtle make-up navigated sidewalks in sleek ensembles; young men sported fine shoes and crisp, collared shirts. These young professionals were accessorized with ear buds and the occasional, tasteful tattoo. Middle-aged folks like me were trying to keep up — appearances and momentum. I suspect my “sensible shoes” stuck out, just a little.

It seems impossible to believe that this vast, beautiful, tree-lined city, with Paris-like boulevards and stunning architecture was reduced to rubble and ash in WWII. By war’s end, German forces leveled the city, leaving approximately 85% of this Central European capital city destroyed. (Comparison: Approximately 20% to 30% of London was damaged or destroyed during the Blitz.) Ninety percent of Warsaw’s historical monuments and 100% of its bridges were destroyed. 

Warsaw’s pre-war population was 1.3 million in 1938. It’s estimated that 700,000 to 800,000 residents died during WWII. This represents a range of 53.8% to 61% loss of life in the capital city. Jews comprised an estimated 10% of Warsaw’s pre-war population

Thousands upon thousands of Varsovians – including those who participated in the Warsaw Uprising of 1944*, the single largest military effort by a European resistance movement during World War II – lay buried in the rubble. Unlike Berlin, there would be no Marshall Plan money from the United States to assist in rebuilding. Poles paid a tax on every single box of matches sold in the country, for decades, to pay to rebuild their capital city. Areas of the city were referred to as Dziki Zachod – the Wild West – into the 1960s as rebuilding continued.

What if our capital, Washington, DC, was reduced to rubble? Imagine the majestic Lincoln Memorial a battered, incongruous heap of granite and marble. Think of the vast holdings of the Smithsonian. Picture the 45.52-carat Hope Diamond or the Napoleon Diamond Necklace, scattered in pieces amid broken glass with security alarms screeching — and looted by an invading army? Warsaw lost its people;  its cultural treasures; and its basic infrastructure of roads, bridges, heat, hot water and sewage. All had to be rebuilt in a truly Herculean effort.

I scoped out our brunch meeting place with time on my hands. I entered the vestibule of the nearby Visitation Sisters’ Church of St. Joseph intent on quiet meditation. The original wooden church, dating from 1660, was replaced by a stone structure, with Baroque and Rococo elements, completed in 1763. I heard the sound of a vacuum and noted a layperson at work inside. The sanctuary was closed. It was Cleaning Day.  

That’s when I found the Secret Garden. An adjacent doorway attached to the church revealed a serene, walled oasis, sans the hum of the city. I passed the cream colored klasztor – convent – built in 1654, flanked by creamy white roses and sculpted bushes. The resident cat, a gray tabby with amber eyes, followed me around before disappearing in the undergrowth. I was treated to mini-daisies, beautiful purple berries I could not identify, and a vegetable garden with three long rows of tomato plants. A bench under a larch tree invited visitors to sit. I walked deeper into the garden, passing an open window from which emanated a radio broadcast. Small ornaments made of stained glass — a ladybug, a religious image of Our Lady – were suspended on an upstairs window. I didn’t see a single nun. Did they notice me, I wondered? 

I hold in my heart a fond memory of staying with cloistered, Benedictine nuns in Warsaw in 1985. We communicated via hand-written notes on a Lazy Susan in our guest room. I learned then that these nuns shut themselves away FROM the world in order to focus on praying FOR the world.

My sister met me for our brunch reservation at the very elegant Cafe Bristol. Joseph overslept, as a young person might do. I have a “thing” for luxurious breakfasts and brunches at fancy hotels. It’s a way to experience the glitz and glamour without a hefty room charge.

Why the Bristol Hotel? This Art Nouveau hotel with Viennese interiors, co-founded in 1901 by Polish pianist and statesman Jan Paderewski, survived World War 1 and World War II INTACT. This makes its existence a small miracle in Warsaw.

Cafe Bristol was “the place” to be seen in Warsaw during the interwar period. Artists, writers and politicians, women in bell-shaped cloche hats and men in Homburgs, sipped vermouth and aperol spritzes. Then, German occupiers requisitioned the hotel during WWII. It fell under state control during the Communist Era, reserved mostly for party elites and foreigners. The hotel closed in 1981, after years of neglect. The 1989 fall of Communism launched reinvestment and restorations of Polish architectural gems that languished for decades. The Hotel Bristol, with its Viennese-style Cafe Bristol, was meticulously restored and re-opened in 1993. 

Upon entering the cafe, I noticed the black, copper and white tiled floors. Pressed glass chandeliers were suspended overhead like so many celestial bodies. We were guided to a table by a window, enveloped in natural light amid wood and marble furnishings. It proved the perfect perch to people watch as we dined. We indulged in Cafe Bristol Lattes, topped with real whipped cream, and Turkish-style, poached eggs with yogurt and harissa. We extended the experience by sharing a slice of kremowka  – cream cake – reasoning our planned miles of walking that day would justify the caloric intake. 

The food was excellent. The service was friendly and professional. The place was deeply evocative and STILL STANDING.

* Warsaw Ghetto Uprising was in 1943.

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

Inflection Point

~ kasia1965 ~ 1 Comment

I walked along Basztowa Street as chestnut and poplar trees awakened from winter’s sleep. A sweet soprano voice slipped out a second floor window. I stopped. I listened. Were those lyrics…Russian? I noticed the sign on the building’s entrance: “State School of Music, Krakow Division.” 

I stepped inside and, on a youthful whim, inquired about voice lessons. Could there be a place for this soprano from Massachusetts?

The receptionist eyed me with skepticism. Few Americans hung out behind Poland’s Iron Curtain as university exchange students. I imagined fewer, if any, asked to study at this school. I said I could pay with U.S. Dollars.

“Wait here,” she said.

I sat on the steps, feeling suddenly unnerved by my audacious inquiry. A knock on a studio door interrupted the sweet soprano. The receptionist returned, “Ms. Lehnert asks you to wait.” 

Sonia Jaskula-Lehnert, a plump woman in her fifties, approached, looked me up and down, and said, “Let’s first see if you can sing.” We started with scales.

I dutifully showed up each week for lessons with a crisp U.S. dollar bill — a highly valued, scarce currency traded on the Black Market in 1980s communist Poland. Ms. Lehnert had been a professional opera singer. She demanded precision in posture, breath and articulation. She taught me to roll Rs and encouraged my emerging vibrato. She introduced me to the works of Wladyslaw Zielenski (1837-1921), a Polish composer whose operas incorporated folklore themes. 

Ours was a formal, teacher-pupil relationship and yet, stories from Ms. Lehnert’s life trickled out. She told me she was taken from her family and deported to Germany as a forced laborer during WWII. She spoke of the sheer terror many Polish women felt, at war’s end, of their Russian “liberators” — many of whom brutally raped former female prisoners.

“We hid from Russian soldiers,” she said.

One year later, I was auditioning for admission to the Krakow Conservatory of Music. Ms. Lehnert encouraged me to apply and helped me prepare my piece. If accepted, I’d receive a full scholarship. 

My twenty-one-year-old self preferred living in Europe, even communist Europe; I wasn’t ready to return to “capitalist” America. Was I naive to consider attending conservatory? Yes. Was the idea far-fetched? Yes. Did it feel within the realm of possibility? Yes. I even formulated an elaborate plan in my mind to complete my U.S. degree in summers.

Audition day arrived. I remember the formality. I dressed in black. I handed the accompanist my music and faced a faculty committee charged with evaluating my merit. I felt the weight of competitors at my back as they sat in rows of metal chairs behind me. We vied for highly-coveted scholarships. I don’t remember which aria I sang. I do remember Ms. Lehnert’s words…”posture, breath, articulation.”

“You have a place,” Ms. Lehnert said, weeks later, “on the condition you continue studying with me until term’s end.” 

I was thrilled. I was also immediately ambivalent. Did I receive “extra points” as an American? Looking back, I suspect so. 

I pondered the opportunity. I held immense respect for this teacher who helped stretch my soprano voice. I met with Ms. Lehnert to express my gratitude. I explained how I realized that singing was my passion, my avocation. I believed I was far better suited to becoming a history teacher, who also sang as a soprano.

Ms. Lehnert understood. She respected my decision. We continued our weekly lessons until I returned to the U.S. in June 1986. I graduated from college in May 1987. We met again in 2001 when I visited post-communist Poland with my family. I brought her flowers. We drank tea. I said thank you.

Forty years on, I still carry the valuable lessons Ms. Lehnert taught me…”posture, breath, articulation.”

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