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The Rise and Fall of Polish Song

The vast majority of Polish popular music in the interwar period was written by one generation of composers and poets of Jewish descent. While this is not a generally accepted idea, it may be further obfuscated by the fact that their contribution was hardly visible on stage. Why was it so and what does this tell us about Polish pre-war culture?

The story of Polish pre-war entertainment music is a soundtrack made up of songs written and composed by authors of Jewish descent. Poets like Julian Tuwim, Marian Hemar, Andrzej Włast, Jerzy Jurandot, Ludwik Starski, Emanuel Szlechter and Władysław Szlengel, along with composers like Henryk Wars, Artur Gold, Jerzy Petersburski and Zygmunt Białostocki, stand behind the vast majority of the pre-war music hit chart titles.

They all belonged to a generation of acculturated Polish Jews, with virtually no ties to traditional Jewish culture and little connection to modern Yiddish culture. To a large extent this group of artists invented popular culture in Poland, and the songs they wrote became classics known today by every Pole.

The star of Polish cinema Hanna Ordonówna sings Na pierwszy znak (music by Henryk Wars, lyrics by Julian Tuwim) in the 1933 feature film Szpieg w masce (Spy in the Mask). Film and cabaret provided songs that would later become the national hit songs.

Still, while their influence on Polish music was enormous, their position on stage was anything but substantial. The stage and the limelight, it seems, were reserved for Poles. Why was this the case, and what does this tell us about Polish culture of the pre-war period?

Here is the short story of the rise and fall of Polish song. (Skip to the end to see the list of Holocaust victims among the Polish-Jewish poets and composers)

Song Is Born in Cabaret

Modern popular music in Poland – the songs heard on the street, with lyrics that were the talk of the town – is inextricably connected with the history of inter-war cabaret culture. It was in Warsaw's cabarets of the 1920s and 1930s, like Qui Pro Quo or Morskie Oko, that poets and composers crossed paths to create pieces that would later become the classics of Polish pop.

Like many other emerging branches of entertainment, cabaret in the interwar period was a new niche. It emerged on a grand scale after the reclaiming of independence in 1918, and soon became one of the most vibrant forms of cultural life. As such, it constituted an attractive field for young Jews, who were not only undergoing great civilizational changes but who also suffered from discrimination.

Cabaret and revue attracted many artists of Jewish descent, among them exquisite poets like Julian Tuwim, who is widely considered one of the greatest poets of Polish language in the 20th century, but also great craftsmen. The most famous among them Andrzej Włast, hailed 'King of Trash,' is considered the first mass culture author in Poland. For many years and on a weekly basis he delivered new texts for songs and skits; he is said to have written lyrics for over 2000 songs.

Jerzy Petersburski's Tango Milonga, with lyrics by Andrzej Włast, is one of the very few Polish interwar hits to have made an international carreer. In the world it is better known as Oh Donna Clara.

The music for most of those songs was written by Henryk Wars, Zygmunt Białostocki, Szymon Kataszek, Jerzy Petersburski, and Artur Gold (the last two composers were members of the Melodyst family, a famous Jewish family of musicians, originally from Riga). They were the ones who brought to Polish popular music the newest styles and rythms: the shimmies, charlestons, foxes, tango and jazz, but also the taste of the Klezmer music.

Cabaret as the slippery field of integration

But apart from being a new, unoccupied economic niche, cabaret also offered a unique space of freedom unavailable anywhere else. In the strongly hierarchized Polish culture of the interwar period, Jewish artists may have perceived the cabaret as a space exempt from the normal rules and conventions of social life and the restrictions it imposed on minorities. It offered the possibility of free speech, and of unrestrained commentary on social and political reality. This is explained by Elżbieta Janicka, a scholar specialising in Polish-Jewish relations:

- The cabaret actor/author takes on the role of a jester, which entitles him to do just about everything, and even more… He can mock the king himself, and even unmask violence and exclusion.

However, as Janicka explains, the joke is that all this freedom is meaningless... as the cabaret convention makes the critique illegitimate, a part of the the carnivalesque time of a temporary reversal of roles.

Janicka goes on to describe the Polish cabaret as a "slippery field of integration". In fact, cabaret helped to shape forms as ambiguous as the 'szmonces', a sense of humour which makes fun of the habits and the language of assimilating Jews – in 'szmonces' these are rendered in a grotesquely caricatural manner. Szmonces pieces were already subject to criticism in the interwar Jewish press.

"Its clownery has as much to do with the question of mending customs as does, for example, the cancan with the question of citizens’ equal rights", Nachum Sokolov stated in 1927.

One of the most popular szmonces pieces, Sęk was written and performed by Konrad Tom in 1926. Here's the 1972 version by Kabaret Dudek, performed by Edward Dziewoński and Wiesław Michnikowski

Importantly, szmonces pieces were produced by Jews themselves (Tuwim, Jurandot and Kondrad Tom were all masters of the genre) and this contributed to their ambiguous status. While they popularized many harmful stereotypes, they also offered a platform on which new Polish citizens could communicate with the 'Polish' Poles. This can be considered one of the unwritten rules of the slippery integration of Jews with the Polish dominant culture. As it turns out, there might have been more of these unwritten rules.

The Scene and the Ob-scene

Although the artists of Jewish descent stood behind the majority of cabaret pieces, this was completely invisible on stage. Very few Polish artists of Jewish descent found themselves among the actors and performers of cabaret programmes. A notable exception includes Kazimierz Krukowski, popularly known as Lopek, whose recognition came from performing szmonces pieces.

Other performative arts – theatre, film, and singing – all bear a similar mark. The only artists of Jewish origin to have made some kind of a career in interwar Polish film were Michał Znicz and Nora Ney. In the case of pre-war song, it was only Adam Aston and Wiera Gran. It seems that the dividing line ran here more or less along the border that separated the stage from the backstage. The Jewish artists created the Polish entertainment culture, but were invisible on its various scenes: film screen, theatre and cabaret stage, concert halls. Elżbieta Janicka describes this situation as an example of the ‘ob-scenity’ principle, which defines what qualifies for stage and what doesn't.

In fact, the names mentioned above, just like those of Marian Hemar, Andrzej Włast, Ludwik Starski, Albert Harris, Fanny Gordon or Henryk Wars, were pseudonyms and stage names. Taking on a Polish- or exotic-sounding stage name may well have been the prerequisite for artists of Jewish descent to get on stage and stand in the limelight –a price they had to pay in order to be able to face a 'Polish' audience.

Inventing Polish Urban Folklore...

But this generation of artists can be credited with more than inventing Polish popular music. To a large extent, it was also this very milieu that shaped the character of Polish urban folk culture, or even our image of what pre-war urban folklore looked like.

In Warsaw...

Many of the most typical Warsaw songs, such as Nie masz cwaniaka nad warszawiaka, Syn ulicy (Son of the Street), and U cioci na imieninach (A Party at Auntie’s) – which to a Polish ear momentarily evoke the iconic images and sounds of the prewar Warsaw's street - were authored by artists of Jewish origin.

Andrzej Włast played an especially significant role in this area. Born in Łódź, as Gustaw Baumritter, he wrote lyrics for such typical Warsaw pieces, as A Party at Auntie’s (with music by Bolesław Mucman) or Son of the Street (music by Jakub Kagan). His Varsovian repertoire includes also Na wolskiej sali iskry szły (Sparks Set Off in the Hall in Wola) (music by Zygmunt Wiehler) or Tango andrusowskie (Andrus Tango) (music by Jerzy Petersburski). A more lyrical testimony to Włast’s intimate relationship with Warsaw is the song entitled Warszawo, moja Warszawo (Warsaw, My Warsaw; music by Zygmunt Karasiński) and Warszawo ma - a version of a Jewish folk classic Shtetele Belz.

The same is true in regard to Władysław Szlengel. Known today primarily as the most important poet of the Warsaw ghetto, Szlengel before the war wrote lyrics for songs that later began to epitomize the urban culture of prewar Warsaw. His Panna Andzia ma wychodne (Miss Andzia’s Got A Day Off ), Chodźmy na piwko na przeciwko (Let’s Get a Beer Next Door), and Jadziem Panie Zielonka (Off We Go, Mr. Zielonka) are today the classics of the genre. According to Tomasz Lerski, these songs (with music composed by Bolesław Mucman) were "perfect parodies, full of charm and harmony, and alluding to the atmosphere of authentic working class ballads of the Warsaw suburbs". They soon became authentic themselves.

Perhaps the most symbolical of all of these songs is the ballad Bal na Gnojnej (The Ball on Gnojna Street). The song preserved in its lyrics some of the original atmosphere of a night canteen run by Gruby Josek (Fat Josek) near the Grzybowski square, a place were local Jewish porters and traders crossed paths with members of Polish political establishment and literary Warsaw's boheme. The music for lyrics written by Julian Krzewiński and Leopold Brodziński was composed by Fanny Gordon, a Russia-born Jewish composer, one of the most extraordinary composers of the interwar period.

...and Lviv

In Lviv the same pioneering role can be ascribed to Marian Hemar and Emanuel Szlechter. Hemar created dozens of songs written in balak, a highly original variety of Polish urban argot which comprised elements of Ukrainian, German and Yiddish.

Born in 1904, Emanuel Schelchter was one of the most talented lyrics authors of the young generation. Apart from the numerous all-Polish songs known to this day – such as Sex Appeal and Umówiłem się z nią na dziewiąta (I Have a Date with Her for Nine) – he also wrote lyrics for many typical Lviv songs, like Tylko we Lwowie (Only in Lviv) and My dwaj - obacwaj.

Along with the brilliant screenwriter Ludwik Starski, author of such hits like Zimny drań (Cold Rascal) and Już nie zapomnisz mnie (Now You Won’t Forget Me), they created the screenplay and dialogues in bałak for several films set in Lviv. Szlechter and Starski also authored two lullabies known even today to every child in Poland: Ach śpij kochanie (Ah, Sleep, My Love) andDobranoc, oczka zmruż (Goodnight, Close Your Eyes), both composed by Henryk Wars.

Between Cultures

While these artists were instrumental in creating and shaping the style of Polish popular music (and its local Warsaw or Lviv variations), they also interwove it with Jewish folklore. It was thanks to them that the Polish versions of such songs as Main yiddishe mame and SzteteleBelz made it into mainstream Polish music. They facilitated the creative exchange taking place between the dominant Polish-language culture and the flourishing popular culture in Yiddish, with its theatres, cabarets, movie theatres, music.

Throughout the entire interwar period, popular Polish songs were translated into Yiddish. Eugeniusz Bodo’s film song Nie można kogoś zmuszać do miłości (You Cannot Force Someone to Love), was played in Yiddish under the title M’ken nisht tzvingn tzu kayn libe and was performed by Menashe Oppenheim, star of Yiddish film in Poland, and also a composer and singer.

The same artist also sang the famous SexAppeal (music by Wars) in Yiddish, originally performed by Bodo in the film Piętro wyżej. The Yiddish lyrics were written by Samuel Korn-Teuer, author of the lyrics for Mayn yiddishe mame. Another interwar hit song - Jerzy Petersburski's Ja się boję sama spać (I'm afraid of sleeping alone) - had a Yiddish version entitled "Ich hob a moyre schloffen allein".

Occasionally this process also went the other way. The popular song Zuleyka sung in Yiddish by Menashe Oppenheim was recorded in Polish by Adam Aston.

Aston may be considered an exceptional artist in this respect, as he sang and recorded in three languages: Polish, Jewish and in Hebrew (he would use Ben-Levi as a stage name when singing in Hebrew). His was the Hebrew version of the 1935 Jerzy Petersburski's hit song To ostatnia niedziela (in Russia popular as Utomlyonnoye solntse). The lyrics for Ha-shabat ha-akharona (The Last shabat) were written by Israel M. Biderman.

Jewish musical motifs made it into Polish popular music through the efforts of composers like Zygmunt Białostocki. His 1933 tango Rebeka with lyrics by Włast was based on a sorrowful musical motif from a Chasidic melody, the lyrics dealt with the cultural distance that separated the shtetl and the city, the culture of Jews and that of the goys. Apparently, it was even sung by Hasidic Jews.

Another Jewish musical motif can be found in a song "List do Palestyny"(Letter to Palestine) composed by Bolesław Mucman, with lyrics by Andrzej Włast. It includes a musical fragment from Max Bruch's Kol Nidre, both music and lyrics becoming the expression of a Zionist longing for the Promised Land.

A different musical vestige of those Jewish origins is the so-called Jewish- or Yiddish-fox, a kind of foxtrot inspired by Klezmer music. (Although it is possible that in this case, the inspiration came to Poland via Hollywood.)

This cultural exchange also emerged in other fields. The texts performed by famous Jewish comedians from Łódź – Dzigan and Schumacher – originally written by Moshe Broderzon, were translated into Polish. Broderzon, who was a member of the important avant-garde poetry circle Yung Yiddish, was also a cabaret artist and authored the lyrics of many popular Yiddish songs. He cooperated with Henoch Kon, the most important composer of Yiddish music in the interwar period, next to Dovid Beigielman.

The Holocaust of Polish song

Despite the fact that most of these artists identified with Polish culture and had little connection with traditional Jewish life, upon the outbreak of WW2 they found themselves in the ghettos, or had to go into hiding.

This fate did not spare the king of song himself. The Almighty Andrzej Włast found himself in the Warsaw Ghetto, where he was murdered after, as legend has it, attempting to escape. It was there that he wrote one of his saddest song, Warszawoma (My Warsaw), a remake of Shtetele Belz.

Władysław Szlengel, author of many Warsaw songs popular to this day, died during the Ghetto Uprising. Today he is primarily known as the bard of the ghetto.

Another songwriter to die in the Warsaw ghetto (probably in 1943) was Józef Lipski. Before the war, along with Szlengel, he co-wrote the lyrics for the beautiful TangoNotturno.

Jerzy Ryba (Jerry), film critic and author of lyrics for Bo to się zwykle tak zaczyna (Because It Usually Begins This Way) and Zapóźno (Too Late) died in the Warsaw ghetto. The exact circumstances of his death remain unknown.

Emanuel Szlechter –author of many songs, a screenwriter and artist behind the lyrics to SexAppeal and Umówiłem się z nią na dziewiątą(I’ve Got a Date with Her at Nine) – died during the liquidation of the Lviv ghetto in 1943.

The losses among composers were just as shocking.

Zygmunt Białostocki, author of Rebeka, was murdered in the Nazi death camp in Treblinka following the liquidation of the Warsaw ghetto.

Arthur Gold, composer and author of the tango Jesienneróże (Autumn Roses) and the melody for the hit song Tamałapiładziś (This Little One’s Been Drinking Today) died in Treblinka. Before his death, the Nazis forced him to establish a camp orchestra.

Bolesław Mucman, close collaborator of Szlengel and composer of U cioci na imieninach, was killed in the Warsaw ghetto.

Jakub Kagan, who composed the popular tango Złotapantera (Golden Panther) and the Varsovian-old-style hit Synulicy (Son of the Street) died in the Warsaw ghetto, probably in 1942.

Szymon Kataszek, pioneer of Polish jazz, author of Każdemuwolnokochać (Everyone is Allowed to Love) managed to escape from the Warsaw ghetto. He returned to conducting an orchestra on the Aryan side, but was denounced, arrested and executed in the Pawiak prison in 1943.

Feliks Halpern, who wrote the music for the ballad Czarna Mańka (Black Mary), died in the Łódź ghetto on the 3rd of March, 1942.

Dovid Beigielman, music director of the Yiddish theatre Ararat in Łódź and composer of songs such as Nisimnisim and Yidn, shmidn was in the Łódź ghetto during the war. He probably died in the camp of KL Auschwitz in Gliwice in 1944.

Author: Mikołaj Gliński, December, 2014

Translated with edits by Paulina Schlosser, March 2015

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Polish Literature 101 Mixtape

From 14th century sacred verse to 21st century “hip-hop novels,” Poland has a rich and diverse literary tradition. Though we encourage you to dive in and read everything, seven centuries of literature is….a lot. Fortunately, Poland also has a tradition of setting poetry to music, and the words of many of the nation’s greatest writers have found their way onto rap, rock, klezmer, and jazz albums. Here, Culture.pl offers a playlist to guide you through some of the highlights of the last 700 years of Polish literature.

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Bogurodzica (14th Century)

One of the earliest pieces of Polish literature, the Bogurodzica, emerged around the 14th century. The hymn invoking the Mother of God was sung by Poles at the Battle of Grunwald in 1410 and accompanied the coronations of many Polish kings. Originally composed to be sung, it is perhaps no surprise that musicians continue to set the words to music. Jazz, metal, ambient, dubstep, reggae…Bogurodzica has seen it all.

The Polish ambient electronic musician Michał Jacaszek released his own take on the “national hymn” in 2008. The recitation of the famous words over Jacaszek’s sparse and atmospheric track bring the distant past into a sonic present.

Jan Kochanowski (1530-1584)

Polish literature continued to develop in the centuries following the composition of Bogurodzica, and it truly blossomed in the work of the Renaissance poet Jan Kochanowski. Along with the Laments for which he is perhaps most famous, Kochanowski wrote a number of poetic songs. Czego chcesz od nas, Panie, za Twe hojne dary?/What do you want from us, Lord, for your countless gifts?, the first of these religious songs, was written in 1562 and often is called a “Renaissance manifesto.” In it, Kochanowski celebrates and gives thanks for the beauty and order of God’s creation on earth in beautifully composed verse that formally mirrors the harmony he praises and lyrically describes earthly splendor.

What do you want from us, Lord, for your generous gifts?

What for the kindness, that you do not measure?

The church does not contain You, everything is full of You,

And in the abyss, and in the sea, on land, in the sky….

Thou are Lord of the whole world. Thou built the heavens

And embroidered with gold stars;

Thou laid the foundation of the immense earth

And covered its nakedness with various herbs.

By Your command in the shores the sea stands,

And fears to cross its limits,

Rivers hold great abundance of endless water,

Bright day and night dark know their own time.

In 1981, Wanda Warska recorded Pieśni i Fraszki Jana Kochanowskiego, a collection of Kochanowski’s poems set to music. The singer’s poignant rendition of What do you want from us, Lord… highlights the musicality and harmony of Kochanowski’s verse, even for those who can’t read the original Polish.

Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)

Adam Mickiewicz. If you know anything about Polish literature (or if you’ve ever spent time looking at statues in any Polish city), you’ve probably heard of Mickiewicz. The Romantic poet became the voice of Poland in the turbulent 19th century, and his Romantic spirit continues to affect Polish culture even today.

This ethos of Romantic sacrifice is evident in his Reduta Ordona/Redoubt of Ordon, written in 1832 after the defeat of the Polish November Uprising the year before. The work memorializes Julius Konstanty Ordon, a commander of one of the redoubts in Warsaw during the battle for freedom from Russian partition. The fort was blow up by one of its defenders in the last moments of battle, and in Mickiewicz’s verse the act is committed by Ordon in a display of heroic Romantic sacrifice.

A 19th century poet might seem like an unlikely source of inspiration for the very contemporary genre of hip-hop, but a number of Polish artists see themselves as the heirs of Mickiewicz’s artistic legacy. In 2002, the Polish hip-hop artist Doniu told the New York Times,

If Mickiewicz were alive today, he’d be a good rhymer.

The Polish hip-hop ensemble Trzeci Wymiar (Third Dimension) seems to agree. In 2009, they released a version of Reduta Ordona. Give it a listen and you can hear the timeless rhythm of Mickiewicz’s words brought to life.

Juliusz Słowacki (1809-1849)

Like his contemporary (and sometimes rival) Mickiewicz, Juliusz Słowacki is remembered as a “poet-prophet” of Poland. Perhaps best known for his brilliant (and bloody!) drama Balladyna and the digressive epic Beniowski, Słowacki was a prolific author. His poem Jeżeli kiedy w tej mojej krainie…/If ever in that, my country… recalls his native Krzemieniec from abroad.

If ever in that, my country,

Where my Ikwa flows in its valleys,

Where my mountains grow blue in the twilight

And the two rings above the chattering stream,

Where the tree-clad banks a-scent with lily-of-the-valley

Run up to cliffs, cottages, and orchards –

If you will be there, soul of my heart,

Though given back from the splendor to the body,

You will not forget my longing,

That stands there like a golden archangel

And from time to time circles the town like an eagle,

Then once more rests on the cliffs and shines.

The lighter airs, that will restore you to health,

I have poured from my breast to my country. (Source)

The popular Polish singer Marek Grechuta– known both for his own poetic lyrics and his adaptations of classic works of Polish literature – recorded Jeżeli kiedy w tej mojej krainie… in 1984. Grechuta, whose songs often reflect nostalgically on his homeland, is perhaps the perfect artist to capture the wistful spirit of Słowacki’s words.

Cyprian Kamil Norwid (1821-1883)

Cyprian Norwid never found the success of his Romantic peers. Younger than Słowacki and Mickiewicz, Norwid wrote in an era when Romanticism was on the decline, and his work reflects and critiques the ethos of that era. Norwid was an eccentric and a recluse whose talent was not recognized in his lifetime. He died impoverished in a Paris shelter for Polish war veterans and orphans. As a poet, novelist, playwright, sculptor, painter, and draughtsman, Norwid explored the philosophical and social issues of his age.

In Norwid, Czesław Niemen found a kindred spirit. Niemen, an immensely successful figure of the Polish psychedelic and progressive rock scene, set a number of Norwid’s poems to music – and found more success with them than Norwid ever managed. Niemen once commented, “I feel like Norwid’s late grandson,” adding,

There are some moments, from some verse, picture, memory, or music that cause deep resonance in the soul. Encountering Norwid was for me such a shock – I’d previously not suspected that any artists of the past could be so contemporary, so up to date, also so original in every way, yet so close to every person.

In 1970, Niemen transformed Norwid’s 1861 poem Bema Pamięci Żałobny-Rapsod/To Bem’s Memory – A Funeral Rhapsody into a thirteen-minute prog rock showpiece. The poem commemorates Józef Bem, who fought in the 1830 Polish November Uprising (clearly a popular subject …we saw it in Mickiewicz too).

Stanisław Wyspiański (1869-1945)

Stanisław Wyspiański did it all – he was a playwright, poet, theatre director, and visual artist. Working at the turn of the century, Wyspiański was a leading figure of “Young Poland,” and his symbolist drama Wesele/The Wedding remains one of the most influential works in Polish literature. Densely packed with allusions to Polish history and culture, the work offers a critique of both political stagnation and ideas of “art for art’s sake” through the tale of a wedding that brings together not only peasants and urban intelligentsia, but also a host of spirits and ghosts. It was notably adapted for screen by Andrzej Wajda in 1972.

In 2008, Polskie Radio released a compilation of Polish artists’ recordings of Wyspiański texts. The band NOT’s interpretation of Niech nie nad grobem mi nie płacze/Let Nobody Weep Over My Grave is included and reimagines Wyspiński’s reflection on death and beyond as a moody guitar-driven rock tune. We might think about how this recontextualization changes the meaning of Wyspiański’s words…or we could just enjoy the music.

Let nobody weep over my grave

except my wife.

Your dogged tears I easily waive

and your feigned grief.

Let neither a bell croak over my pall

nor someone sing with a shriek;

but the rain may sob at my funeral

and the wind creak…

And then, perhaps, once more, maybe,

bored with lying down,

I'll break that house enclosing me

and run to the sun. (Source)

Bolesław Leśmian (1877-1937)

Bolesław Leśmian’s career bridged pre- and post- WWI Poland. He masterfully employed the Polish language in verse that found the structure of the world reflected in the structure of language. Because his poetry plays with the innovative potential of Polish and is filled with allusions to Polish folklore, some have deemed him “untranslatable.”

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In 2014, the pop/jazz singer Stanisław Soyka collaborated with multi-talented pianist/composer Adam Strug on Strug. Leśmian. Soyka., an album of compositions based on Leśmian’s poetry. So, for those who can’t read his words, perhaps this musical rendition of Tam Na Rzece/There On the River will offer a glimpse into his creative genius.

Julian Tuwim (1894-1953)

Like Leśmian, Julian Tuwim was active both before and after WWI. His linguistic virtuosity found expression in a number of forms, from his work with the interwar Skamander poets, to his keenly observed satirical works (Bal w operze/The Ball at the Opera) and poems for children. Though with age he grew increasingly contemplative and critical, much of his work is characterized by a playful blend of masterful lyricism and humor – particularly his poetry for children. Lokomotywa/The Locomotive, one of the most popular of these poems, uses the sound and rhythms of the Polish language to describe – and aurally evoke – a passing train. Listen to Polish pop/hip-hop singer Lilu’s rendition of the piece to get a sense of how Tuwim creates a “linguistic locomotive.”

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Bruno Schulz (1892-1942)

A truly original voice and a master of creating disorienting worlds of great poetic beauty, Bruno Schulz remains a beloved figure of Polish literature. His work evokes inaccessible time and lost experience in dreamlike meditations on the interaction between imagination and experience. Though his life was tragically cut short when he was murdered during the Nazi occupation of his hometown of Drohobycz, the collections he left behind – Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass and Street of Crocodiles– remain and are not to be missed.

It’s hard to imagine the worlds Schulz creates being expressed in any medium other than his own words, but that hasn’t stopped people from trying (check out Wojciech Jerzy Has’ 1973 The Hourglass Sanitorium for a trippy glimpse into Schulz on screen). In 2005, the Cracow Klezmer Band released a recording of compositions by John Zorn written in tribute to Schulz. Though not a direct adaptation of Schulz’s words, the music evokes a feeling for Schulz’s worlds.

Wisława Szymborska (1923-2012)

One of Poland’s four recipients of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Wisława Szymborska is among the most beloved figures of contemporary literature. Her work exhibits sensitivity, wit, and ability to lay bare new perspectives on the everyday. Szymborska’s nimble use of language and relatively simple verse has made her a favorite among musicians. Her poems have been adapted by 60s pop singers, contemporary jazz musicians, and a Taiwanese diva.

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Almost forty years after Szymborska published Nic dwa razy/Nothing Twice, the popular Polish rock band Maanam included an adaptation of the poem on its 1994 record Roża. The track’s propulsive rhythm and rock vocals enact the relentless movement of time that Szymborska’s poem conveys. In it, we hear that indeed,

Nothing happens twice

And so for this reason

We are born without practice

And we will die without routine

Even if we were pupils

Dumbest in the school of the world

We will not repeat

Any winter or summer

No day will repeat itself

There are not two same nights

Two same kisses

Two identical looks in the eyes no, no, no, no

Zbigniew Herbert (1924-1998)

Along with Szymborska and Czesław Miłosz, Zbigniew Herbert is one of the most frequently translated Polish writers. His cerebral verse is deeply engaged with questions of ethics and history; it is both moral and ironic. Robert Hass describes Herbert as,

…an ironist and minimalist who writes as if it were the task of a poet, in a world full of loud lies, to say what is irreducibly true in a level voice.

Grzegorz Turnau, a contemporary Polish singer and songwriter, lovingly recited Herbert’s Testament at the inaugural concert of the Herbert Festival. Turnau’s piano and lush orchestration accompany Herbert’s words,

I bequeath to the four elements

all I had in my brief possession

to fire –thought

may fire flourish

to the earth I loved too much

my body that fruitless kernel

and to the air words and hands

and longing superfluous things

all that remains

a drop of water

let it go between

the earth and sky…

…so I’ll give back to four elements

all that I had in my brief possession

-- I won’t return to a source of peace

Dorota Masłowska (1983-)

To wrap things up, we turn to Dorota Masłowska. Masłowska burst onto the scene with the 2002 publication of Snow White and Russian Red. Since then, she’s continued to surprise and delight (and occasionally confuse and infuriate) readers as she brings her gift for capturing the language of the streets to her sharp, often pessimistic, and darkly ironic prose. In The Queen’s Spew, which won the Nike Award in 2006, Masłowska fashions a literary “hip-hop freestyle” that casts a critical lens on contemporary media and pop culture. Though that work suggests an interest in musical forms, Masłowska’s most recent move – from author to recording artist – was nevertheless an unexpected delight.

In 2014, Masłowska released Społeczeństwo jest niemiłe/Society is Mean under the moniker Mister D. On the album, she brings her keen ear and biting wit to a collection of songs that blend rap, punk, and dance. Discussing the project with Agnieszka Kowalska of Gazeta Wyborcza, Masłowska commented,

My creativity intensifies when I am forced to learn something new, when I am so unsure that it pushes me to play games, pretend I can do something I really can’t. Obviously, everything I do is word-oriented, so it is no surprise that lyrics are the cause and the heart of the album.

In this case there is no adaptation. Here, Polish popular music has caught up with Polish literature in Mister D.’s off-beat Chleb/Bread.

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Sources: Culture.pl, Zbigniew Herbert The Collected Poems, “Czesław Niemen o Cyprianie Kamilu Norwidzie.” Radio France Internationale, 2001.

Alena Aniskiewicz 20.07.2015

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A Guide to the Wooden Villas of Otwock

There were hundreds of them before the war, but the fable-like houses with wooden verandas and openwork balustrades are slowly disappearing from the map of Otwock. Here are the most beautiful "Świdermajer" villas of the summer destination on the outskirts of Warsaw.

They derive, for the most part, from a trend for relaxation. Local architects transported styles from across the world to the town Otwock near the Świder river. They looked up to the beautiful, decorated residencies in the Swiss Alps, as well as the cottages of Tsarist Russia. And thus, towards the end of the 19th century, the pine woods by the Świder river began to see ornate houses being built, whose distinct style was once monikered by poet Konstanty Ildefons Gałczyński "Świdermajer”, alluding to the 19th-century Biedermeier period.

The prominent illustrator Michał Andriolli – known for his drawings in Mickiewicz’s Sir Thaddeus, among other titles – is considered the author of the style. In 1880, for the sum of 18 thousand rubles, Andriolli bought more than 200 hectares of land stretching along both sides of the Świder river. He was the first to start building wooden summer houses in this area, and some of them were also based on his original designs. Prus, Tuwim and Korczak all marvelled at the Świdermajers, and Reymont is known to have spent his holidays there.

Anin, Międzylesie, Radość, Miedzeszyn, Falenica, Michalin, Józefów, Świder, Otwock, Śródborów – these are the towns on the suburban Warsaw route that have an array of homes with the unique spirit. The stylish wooden villas that used to house pensions, hotels and sanatoriums back in the old days all constitute unique souvenirs of the area’s history. Who used to live in the houses? What is left of them now? Here is our photographic reportage from an excursion to the Świder river.

The impressive Gurewicz

We start our walk by the newly renovated Abram Gurewicz Sanatorium, the largest wooden building in all of Poland, and maybe in all of Europe. It is the most precious representative of local architecture, with its seven wings attached to each other, open terraces for sun bathing, and the charming verandas with glass windows. It is a treasure of Otwock which tells the centennial story of the trendy summer destination. Wealthy patients would come here before the war, in search of rest, a healthy climate, and entertainment. Bolesław Prus was thrilled by it, and Julian Tuwim and Janusz Korczak were both regular visitors. The villa was surrounded with a pine-scented park, and a cherished garden with an orangery, exotic plants, and fountains. There was a reading room, a play room, a dining room and a concert hall with a piano.

For the past few years, Gurewicz has been coming to life for a few days in the spring. It opens its doors to guests of the Świdermajer festival, becoming a music stage, as well as a photographic and film site. Vocalist Mela Koteluk was so taken by the beauty of świdermajer that she made her videoclip in its garden for the song entitled "Melodia ulotna” ("An Ethereal Melody”), and in interviews, she admits that she regularly returns to Otwock and the surrounding area. The festival aims at restoring the pre-war trend for this summer destination.

But let us return to history.

The exclusive pension was constructed in phases, between 1906 and 1921, gradually transforming itself from an intimate Gurewicz Villa to a grand summer wellness resort. Later it would change its function many more times. During World War II, it was the headquarters of a military unit and a military hospital, later serving as NKVD headquarters and a medical high school after the war. For years it would deteriorate into ruin, and now, thanks to its new owners, Gurewicz is set to be restored to its past splendour. In an interview for Gazeta Wyborcza, they declare "Its big tile stoves have been preserved in very good condition. They are devoid of any decoration, because Abram Gurewicz was not a spendthrift, but a practical person. We will certainly keep those stoves, as well as the old balustrade of the staircase. That is the reason we bought this building, in order to preserve something of the old atmosphere in it.” We will be watching you!

Świdermajer – movie set

We get to Kahan’s Villa through a sandy road hidden among the trees, over the other side of the train tracks. It is here, in the picturesque veranda with its well preserved openwork balustrade on 7a Konopnickiej street that the actress Danuta Szaflarska spent her time in the film by Dorota Kędzierzawska entitled Pora umierać (Time To Die). And just like in the film, each corner of this house has its own story. It’s worth taking a peek! One of the most beautiful and nostalgic Świdermajers of Otwock is under the protection of a heritage conservationist.

Reymont’s Summer

The door of the one-storey building from the late 19th century is opened for us by Maria Mikołajewska, who was willing to tell us stories about its centennial history. The property includes one other building, which is meant to become a chamber commemorating Władysław Stanisław Reymont, the Polish novelist and 1924 laureate of the Nobel Prize in literature. The owner adds the reservation, "only if we manage to gather the funds”, because these houses require immediate renovation works, and it is becoming growingly difficult to keep them in a good condition.

This summer villa once belonged to Reymont’s grandparents, and the writer lived and worked here in the years 1908-1918, a fact of which we are reminded by a commemorative plaque right next to the charming veranda.

Preserved records indicate that this was where the fourth part of the Nobel-winning epos"Lato"("Summer”). Reymont’s house is located in the oldest part of Otwock, called Aleksandrówka. The history of the street is tragically bound with the fate of Adela Tuwim, Julian Tuwim's mother, who was a patient of the psychiatric hospital Zofiówka during the years of the war, and who hid outside of the territory of the Otwock ghetto. Germans found her in the house on 1 Reymonta street. Her body was thrown out the balcony. She was one of the 10 thousand people murdered by Germans during the liquidation of the Otwock ghetto.

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Sendlerowa’s house

"I was constantly drawn to those areas. I think that this was caused by early childhood experiences which were strongly imprinted in me. These experiences were exactly the legend of Otwock times for me!"– Irena Sendlerowa, Righteous Among Nations remembers. Sendlerowa lived in the house on 21 Kościuszki street in the years 1911-1920.

Today, very few citizens of Otwock know or remember this fact. Her father, Stanisław Krzyżanowski – a Polish doctor and social activist – used to run a sanatorium for patients with lung diseases. He implemented progressive treatment, using the unique assets of the spa's climate. He put the sick up on the veranda even in the winter time. After the doctor’s death, the sanatorium was liquidated.

Irena Sendlerowa later remembered her childhood in Otwock as the happiest time of her life. What remains of it is a grand building, surrounded by a park. It once boasted twenty comfortable arranged rooms, glass-covered resting areas, a play room, a library, a bath house, a dining room, and an admissions office.

The "clogs" on Prusa street

Large wooded areas on 7 Prusa street conceal a small wooden house from the early 20th century. According to the turystycznyotwock.pl portal, this building is the former pension of Mr. and Mrs. Gołembowski, which was presented to nuns with the purpose of running an orphanage there. At the end of the street, one ought to stop by number 13 in order to see the renovated Kasperowiczówka, a Świdermajer-style building with a little tower.

The renowned social activist Edward Kasperowicz lived here before the war. He was the secretary of the Society of the Friends of Otwock and the author of the first design for the city’s crest.

The smell of "Luxury” on Kościelna

The excursion towards Świder ends in the oldest and most representative street of Otwock. The largest amount of the historic buildings typical for this area have been preserved on Kościelna street. There are those which have been meticulously renovated, and those which are slowly crumbling down. We stop by the pension house with the number 23, which was once ran by the famous medical doctor, Paweł Martyszewski. The building is crowned with a tympanum and it was created in 1924. The legendary confectionery called "Luxury" ("Luksus” in the original) used to have its premises here before the war, together with the Hotel Polski.

The richly decorated veranda hidden away in the back of the street attracts attention to the one-story villa of Odo Bujwida, a renowned bacteriologist and the founder of the Polish school of microbiology. Raised in the 1880s, the villa is one of the oldest Świdermajers. One also cannot miss the 1890 summer villa of General Michał Jacymirski, whose address is 22 Kościelna street.

Sources: Gazeta Wyborcza, świdermajer.info. pl. www.andriolli.pl. Radio KiS, Turystyczny Otwock, Polska Niezwykła

Text written by Anna Legierska, photographic editing by Sylwia Jabłońska and Dagmara Staga.

Translated by Paulina Schlosser, 10/08/2015

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Discovering the Hidden Brilliance of Poland’s Poetry for Children

What has prison got to do with translating Polish poetry? Is children's literature meant to prolong the experience of childhood, or introduce our little ones to the darker realities of being a grown-up? Covering the last 300 years of Polish poetry, Marek Kazmierski presents three new translations of poems meant for children, which – like all great works of art – speak to all ages, cultures and tastes.

A decade ago, I was teaching creative writing in prison in West London. Working with people who were often denied access to even the cheapest paperback helped me realise that books are portals of the most extraordinary kind.

Just think about what they do – the non-physical thoughts and emotions of the writer are converted into sound (the basic form of language), then pictures (letters started out as pictograms), then infinitesimally complex sequences of words, sentences and paragraphs, which are then printed on cut-down pulped trees so that countless others can use the light flying in from the nearest star, bouncing off the page and inside their eyeballs, to convert their reflection into the same thoughts and emotions the writer was feeling at the time of writing... or, as is often the case, the very opposite to what the writer wanted the reader to think and feel.

Still, whatever the eventual outcome, what our humble books do for us is truly spectacular. Cheap to produce and distribute, easy to carry and use, capable of conveying words and pictures, great as gifts and as tools, eminently recyclable, they might just be the cleverest and most important thing we have ever invented.

The key to bringing Polish writing to the world?

And yet, are books the best way of conveying poetry? Many people in Poland think the world is well-versed in names such as Mickiewicz, Tuwim or Szymborska. But statistics published in 2015 by Literature Across Frontiers show that Poland produces less books of literature translated into English than almost any other European language in comparison to the size of its population.

Almost every other European tongue, including Albanian, Catalan and Icelandic, seems to be doing better than Polish at exporting itself in translation. And yet, Polish children's books seem to be experiencing a renaissance. Stats published at this year's London Book Fair, where Poland was the Market Focus guest, show that while all areas of publishing are in decline, the sales of children's and illustrated books went up by a third in the last five years!

All over the world, people are taking a fresh look at old stories and tales written for children. As in the case of Marina Warner's Once Upon A Time, fables and poems are being taken seriously as literature – after all, long before we had the modern education system, they were the only way most children had of learning. And not just how to speak and perhaps read, but also why they shouldn’t trust old ladies handing out shiny apples, or go eating houses made of cakes hidden inside unfamiliar forests.

Fairy tales always had a serious purpose

Stories about dragons and witches and monsters were clearly meant to warn children off trusting strange things and developing their self-protective interests. Not all fairytales were noble in intention though – Beauty and the Beast was written relatively recently as a means of convincing young girls to marry much older men, namely those chosen by parents wishing to finding solid matches for family estates. Its moral is: you may think your new beau is beastly, but in time you will learn that looks are not so important.

It’s hard to say why Poland has such a tremendous store of children's poems and stories, and why so little of it has been translated so far into English (with some notable exceptions). Yet, I suspect that the last 300 years of invasions, partitions, occupations and other national disasters have not only honed the pens of Poland's poets, they have also inspired them to write amazingly colourful verses, for the young and the old, designed to keep both spirits and guards up.

The first poem I would like to share with you is from the 18th century, written by Ignacy Krasicki (1735-1801), Prince-Bishop of Warmia and Archbishop of Gniezno (Primate of Poland). Krasicki was Poland's leading Enlightenment ‘Prince of Poets’, the author of the first Polish novel, a playwright, journalist, encyclopaedist, as well as a translator from French and Greek. From his busy and pioneering pen comes this cheeky, cheery poem which should entertain not just kids, but adults too:

ALL ABOUT FAIRYTALES

There once was a boy who did everything slow,

even though his old man always lived on the go!

There once was a king who was wise, not just rich,

and a priest who lived just as he preached.

A thief who gave all he stole to the needy,

a banker who wasn't horribly greedy.

A scientist with a heart as big as her brain,

and finally a poet who tried to explain:

But what is a fairytale? Now, there's a thing!

Don't worry, you sleep, and just let me sing.

Like Toy Story, Shrek and a whole host of children's books also loved by adults (Harry Potter, The Little Prince, Winnie the Pooh and so many others), this poem is fun for young audiences, firing up their imaginations and dancing in their wee ears, but also has hidden ‘inside jokes’ for adults, which gives it added depth. I won't go diving in it for you, but if you stop and think about what the poem has to say about both people and poetry, you might be pleasantly surprised.

My next translation comes from the 19th century, and was written by Stanisław Jachowicz (1796-1857), a Polish educator, poet and author of children's books. He is regarded as the founding father of children’s literature in Poland, having written many fairy tales, penned the first children's songbook in Poland, and even set up the first European daily newspaper for young readers.

LITTLE TED

Once, a naughty boy called Ted

got an idea into his head

that using a bottle would be funny

for trapping flies and feeding them honey.

But his wise father gave Ted some sweets

then locked his bedroom, where Ted now weeps.

All day long, little Teddy cries,

'til father says: ‘See how time flies?

Don't go hurting those smaller than you,

And don't do to others what hurts you too!’

Here we see a key theme developing – that of the morality play for kids. Ted has been forced to learn a painful, yet essential lesson about empathy. Current scientific research shows children only begin to develop awareness of the needs of others around the age of five, but obviously nobody knew this back in the 19th century! So, fairy tales, poems and songs for children had to make do with traditional wisdom and, in the absence of paid-for play-schools and child psychology, prepare Poland's young'uns for adult life.

Perhaps because Poland suffered so much through the past three centuries that its poetry for children is so powerful – Polish poets have always had to use charming words not only to cheer children up, but also to protect them from harm. The last poem isn't in any way as dark as classic fairy tales such as Red Riding Hood and Hansel & Gretel, but it does give us a hint of the creative genius of the man who wrote it.

Julian Tuwim (1894-1953) remains Poland's best loved poet of popular verse for young and old. Born in Łódź (then part of the Russian Partition), Tuwim became a major figure in Polish literature after Poland's return to independence in 1918. He is the author of many classic poems such as Locomotive, Birdie Radio and Missing Glasses, and the 1935 recipient of the prestigious Golden Laurel of the Polish Academy of Literature. Here is a poem in which he celebrates the glory of our senses in the simplest and most perky way possible:

WEE WONDERS

Once, in July,

while I dozed in the park,

blue snow did fall

and birds they did bark.

While dogs were chirping,

a cow had some fun

trying to jump over

a bright green sun.

I saw butterflies weave

nests upon flowers,

all of which lasted

less than an hour.

I saw blue clouds

in yellow skies,

and saw it all

with half-shut eyes.

Once they were open,

the magic was gone,

It all looked so dull

I had to yawn.

But all these wonders

are easy to spy –

use your imagination,

not just your eyes!

Clearly, this sort of poetry, written almost 100 years ago, echoes nicely with our current attempts to develop children's creative and imaginative faculties as a means of surviving in the 21st centuries crazy cultural chaos and career environment.

Overall, it is essential not just to read poetry to delight in its form, but also to consider its inner purpose. If the 20th century was a period of a very modern sort of darkness, dominated by abstract forms and existentialist philosophies, perhaps now we can safely revisit our folklore (which after all means ‘people's stories’ in Old English) and traditional tales to discover long-forgotten gems.

As I busy myself translating the likes of Fredro's Monkey Taking a Bath, Brzechwa's Wacky Ducky and Tuwim's legendary Locomotive, I am finding a joy I rarely experience translating poems written solely for grown-ups. In their work, I feel a deep sense of respect for their little readers – easily bored and yet easily influenced, great children's poetry has to entertain and educate in equal amounts.

It’s something Polish poets seem to truly excel at!

Written by Marek Kazmierski, May 2017

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Brzechwa, Fredro, Tuwim: Poland’s Greatest Entertainers & Greatest Educators?

In the past 300 years, Poland has produced some of the world's most fascinating works of children's literature. Here, using new translations of verses by Jan Brzechwa, Aleksander Fredro and Julian Tuwim, Marek Kazmierski shows how they can help us not just restore happy moments from our own childhoods, but teach a new generation of readers creative thinking, conflict resolution or even basic maths and physics skills.

Whenever I'm asked to give talks about literary translations at universities, schools or libraries, I always begin with a simple 'ice-breaker' question – if, on average, €10 today buys us a couple of drinks, a cinema ticket or a paperback, what is the wisest way of spending our disposable income?

The aim of the exercise is, of course, to make us contemplate just how amazing books are, both as objects and as products – we can spend hours in any bookshop, browsing and perusing their wares for free (try that in your local bar or multiplex)... we can enjoy reading books for days, even weeks on end... we can share them with others, passing them on as gifts, or giving them to charity, or reselling them... or else we can keep books forever, going back to our favourite volumes any time we like... we can join reading clubs, in real life or online, and use them to make new friends, discover new places... the list of benefits seemingly endless.

And yet, even in 'developed' countries, we keep spending more on fleeting follies than we do on literature. What impact does this have on our children, and their ability to choose? How can reading classic poems help a new generation of youngsters navigate a future characterised by an ever accelerating pace of change?

I believe there are two reasons why Poland has produced so much great literature, much of it for children. If a key purpose of poetry is to keep our spirits up during hard times, then Poland, with its uniquely troubled past, will have had much need for such uplifting entertainment. And if another purpose is to convey useful information, be it life lessons, historical content or even creative thinking skills, then again – after centuries of divisions, invasions and occupations – we can see how much the children of Poland have had to learn about coping under pressure. Keeping all that in mind, here are three of Poland's most beloved poems, not just in brand new translations, but with added comments which should help us both be amused and enlightened.

Wacky Ducky – a lesson in creative thinking

The first poem I would like us to look at, Kaczka Dziwaczka by Jan Brzechwa, is short, sweet and deceptively silly.

WACKY DUCKY

Near a river, if you're lucky,

You might meet Ms Wacky Ducky.

Being wacky was her passion,

in her life, her moods, her fashions.

At a barber's, she'd say:

'Please, can I have some bottled cheese?'

At a church another time

she tried to buy a book of limes.

At a local army camp

she asked them for a magic lamp.

Other ducks were going spare:

'Wacky Ducky, don't you dare!'

She would lay hardboiled eggs,

standing on her head, not legs.

And to spite the other ducks

she refused to ever quack.

Her use of toothpicks for combs

made the other duckies groan.

She ate some ribbon for tea

Claiming it's pasta, you see!

Swallowing coins wrapped in paper

She said she would cough them back later!

Still, our Wacky little Ducky

Always seemed to come out lucky.

One sad day, a nasty crook

said: 'Your goose is truly cooked!'

Having plucked our little duck,

he stuck her on an oven rack!

But dear Wacky wouldn't have it –

she just turned into a rabbit!

Served with beetroot, because

That's how wacky she was!

At first glance, the poem follows no logical pattern. It seems like just a random selection of rhyming words thrown together, topped with a truly absurdist ending. Yet, somehow the poem continues to be very popular with readers, even today. I don't think this is by accident – it seems the author actually asks us to question the idea of ‘herd mentality’: sure, our Wacky Ducky is being silly, but is she doing any harm? Perhaps less so than the other ducks, which seem so awfully keen on forcing her to behave like all everyone else.

Brzechwa's poem encourages us to question social norms and find our own path in life – as more and more career advice experts predict that creative skills will be more useful than practical qualifications in finding future jobs, is Wacky's example not more relevant than ever?

Paul and Gall – conflict resolution in an age of turmoil

One useful thing I learnt when translating Aleksander Fredro's Paweł i Gaweł is that the latter forename comes from 'Gaul' or 'someone of Gaelic origin', but is actually spelt 'Gall' in English. Which is fantastic, because when we say someone had the 'gall' to do something it means they were rude or crazy enough to act in a way unacceptable to others – conduct typical of the character in Fredro's timeless poem:

PAUL AND GALL

Paul and Gall shared a single home:

Paul lived upstairs and Gall down below;

Paul, a quiet fellow, never bothered a soul.

Gall, his sole neighbour, he was crazy though.

Just stayed in his room with a gun, for real,

running, trying to hunt for his next mad meal,

seeing foxes, rabbits, he would hunt to kill,

jumping up and down, never keeping still.

Paul had to say something, in spite of the riot,

They were neighbours, right? Gall could not deny it.

'Sir, your hunting ways, can they be more quiet,

else might I suggest a less ambitious diet?'

But Gall screamed: 'I will not be hassled!

I do as I please. My home is my castle!'

What was there to say? Paul went back upstairs,

going crazy now, pulling out his hair.

Gall is sound asleep, he just doesn't care,

yet, when he next wakes, trouble's in the air.

Not just trouble – rain! Dripping from the ceiling,

Gall races upstairs, by Paul's keyhole kneeling

sees a flooded flat, Paul perched on a shelf

with a fishing rod, smiling to himself.

So when Gall then cries: 'Are you mad, by god?!'

Paul replies: 'No sir, I'm fishing for cod.'

'Cod? Have you gone crazy? Stop this now, you rascal!'

To which Paul retorts: 'My home is my castle!'

And so we learn something oh-so true:

As you do by others, they will do by you!

On a micro level, this poem can be read as a lesson in neighbourly politics. If Gall is hyperactive and totally self-absorbed, is Paul's response not indicative of passive-aggressive personality type? Could we use this poem to help us teach kids the consequence of 'breakdowns of communication'? It might be a great idea for parents to sit with their little ones and maybe write another stanza to add to the poem – one in which we see the consequences of this conflict (ceiling collapses – no one has a 'castle' to live in – lose-lose situation) – or even rewriting the poem to show what could happen if Paul was a bit more assertive and actually talked to Gall before flooding their home.

In an age where we are doing more thinking about how local actions have global consequences – how we shop, if we recycle, where we invest our money or go on holiday – as individuals, as families, as communities – perhaps the story of these two unfortunate neighbours also works on a macro level, relevant to nations, as well as neighbours?

Locomotive – the ultimate adventure?

Last but far from least we come to Julian Tuwim's epic Lokomotywa– probably the best-known children's poem Poland has ever produced. It has been recorded endless times, converted into an app in both Polish and English, and even made into an illustrated book without any words at all by the London-based Centrala publishing house. But as you read this brand new translation and do what most Polish readers do – check to see if the train noises Tuwim captures so flawlessly in Polish also work in English – be mindful of other, less obvious things to be discovered while rereading it in a new language:

LOCOMOTIVE

A locomotive stands at the station,

Huge, heavy, huffing with perspiration,

An oily sensation!

It stands there, puffing, roaring and glowing,

Heat from its fiery belly blowing:

Whoosh – how hot?!

Shush – a lot!

Gosh – how hot?!

Like a steaming pot!

Boiling and toiling, it's ready to roll,

yet the train driver keeps shovelling coal

adding more wagons on wheels of steel,

heavy and huge, the train still until

our first wagon is packed full of crowds,

the second horses and herds of cows.

In the third wagon some chubby boys

stuffing themselves full of saveloys.

The fourth wagon is filled with bananas,

while the fifth holds six grand pianos.

On the sixth wagon I see a huge cannon –

I hope it doesn't flatten our wagon!

The seventh lugging oak tables and chairs,

the eighth quite a zoo, with giraffes and a bear.

In the ninth wagon a pen full of pigs,

and in the tenth trunks, cases and things.

How many wagons? Forty in all,

I've no idea what they all hold!

And if a thousand strong men ate

a thousand steaks, clearing their plates,

and each one huffed and puffed as one,

they couldn't lift it – it's too many tons!

The whistle blows!

Ready to go?

The chimney smokes!

But why so slow?

Lazy

at first,

like a snail

or a tortoise

the train

is crawling

without

any purpose.

It tugs at the wagons and pulls them, real slow,

The wheels barely turning, refusing to go,

but it keeps pulling and picking up speed

and knocking and rocking and rolling indeed.

But where to? Oh, where to? Where shall we go?

Up over bridges, rivers running below,

through towns and tunnels, forests and fields

straight down the rails, a racket until

we drum out a rhythm, a beat and a rhyme

and rushing and straining to get there on time.

Lightly and sprightly floating on wheels,

as if it's a ball, not tonnes of pure steel!

Instead of machine, tired from toil,

the tiniest of trifles, a toy of tin foil.

But where is it from, and where does it go?

What is it, how is it, what's pushing it so?

Making it hurry and chatter and flow?

Steam, under pressure, is making it blow

hot air from the boiler, to pistons then shove.

Those pistons then pushing the wheels from above

and chasing and racing and shoving the train,

the steam under pressure still cannot remain,

and so it keeps rocking all the night through:

choo choo... choo choo... choo choo... choo choo choo!!!

There are numerous problems inherent in translating this fabulous verse. First of all, Poles tend to know it off by heart and don't necessarily 'feel it' in another tongue. Polish is also more flexible in how one can modify words, and so lends itself better to all sorts of experiments and word/sound games. The times we live in are different too – should the title be Locomotive or perhaps The Tank Engine or maybe even Choo Choo Train? Maybe it is best for readers to decide what their kids prefer or identify with – using digital technologies, we can shape texts as we see fit, printing them at home or displaying them on mobile devices, modified according to personal taste.

What is singularly remarkable about the poem, in an objective sense, is how much it offers the reader. There is a basic lesson in counting ('In the first wagon...'). Then there are all the names of things the wagon contains, animals and objects which may be new to young children, along with lesser-known words such as 'lugs' and 'pen' (of the farming sort). And then there is the story of the journey itself, imbuing young audiences with a passion for travel and adventure. Finally, even a lesson in how steam engines work! I have chosen to soften the onomatopoeic ending, compared to the original (‘tak to to, tak to to, tak to to...'), seeing as kids are often ready for sleep at the end of such a lengthy poem. Still, even though no translation can ever be perfectly true to the original, we can see just how much learning and linguistic folly our genius Tuwim was able to cram into his masterpiece.

The last 20-odd years of Polish history have been blissfully, and uncharacteristically, mostly free of great turmoil. Still, it is wonderful to think that in the 21st century we can not only revisit the poems of our childhood but also sit still with our own siblings, children and grandchildren and discuss what they actually mean to us. It is healthy fun to read verses together, delighting in their sounds and strange characters, even more so when we can play with them in other languages, wondering from the earliest age: 'Is that what the author meant to say? Can I understand each tale in a range of ways? Can I try to translate them differently?' and then use them as a springboard for crafting new songs, illustrations or even happier poems.

Written and translated by Marek Kaźmierski, July 2017

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The Writers of Warsaw

They loved Warsaw. They wrote about Warsaw. They brought the essence of the city in the inter- and post-war periods to readers everywhere. Culture.pl takes a look at writers whose prose revolved around the Polish capital.

Stefan ‘Wiech’ Wiechecki (1896–1979)

An author of prose, a satirist and columnist, was known as the ’Homer of Warsaw’s streets.’ He was known for his humorous columns, rather cruel in their satire, which he signed using his pseudonym ‘Wiech’. Although he addressed issues pertinent to life in the capital, Wiech’s columns were much awaited and passionately read across all of Poland. Drawing on local suburban slang, and enriched here and there with grypsera (prison slang), the specificity of his language has become the object of study of many a linguistic dissertation.

From Wysoka Obdukcjo (editor’s translation: Your Highness, Autopsy):

"Świadkiem dowodowym była ich długoletnia przyjaciółka, pani Wiktoria Komoda, która z rozdartym, jak mówiła, sercem złożyła następujące zeznanie:

The evidence witness was a long-time friend, Ms. Wiktoria Komoda, who made the following statement, with, as she herself claimed, a broken heart:

’For three years, your honour, I observed what went on there. Only the finest of thieves in all of Grochów, the so-called prison elite, gathered there, lugging in all kinds of items. They had everything: radios, gramophones, men’s and women’s underwear, and Kolczyk went around and sold all of it. Then once, I come and I see Kolczyk lying on the bed in imported underwear, pouring himself some stolen raspberry juice into a glass of water, munching on some stolen frankfurters, and saying to me:

'Look, Ms. Komoda, look how I live, I got everything the soul could dream of’, and he pointed with his leg to some Italian brawn, which lay on the bed.

Stefan Wiechecki’s writing didn’t appeal to everyone’s taste, however. He was often accused of using crude language, as well exhibiting a primitivism of thought. What is interesting is that Wiechecki’s literary talent was most appreciated by poets. Polish poet Maria Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska claimed:

Wiech is a gentleman, terribly funny, never mean, and often moving. His columns are the result of very careful observation, and of work that is quite creative and entirely original.

Jan Lechoń echoed her thoughts:

Wiech is definitely an under-valued first-class writer, who managed to describe drukenness and fights about a thousand times, and every time, it was different.

Julian Tuwim paid a personal homage to the author, inventing a genius way of incorporating entire sentences written in the so-called Wiech manner, into the Kwiaty Polskie (editor’s translation: Polish Flowers) poem.

And, in his novel Beautiful Twentysomethings,Marek Hłasko

wondered, ‘although I am an inhabitant of Warsaw, born in the Powiśle district, I don’t get it: does Warsaw speak the way that Wiech writes, or is it Wiech who writes the way Warsaw speaks.’

In his writing, Wiechecki combined the use of his own neologisms with the stylised language derived from the Kercelak area (where at least five different Warsaw dialects blended together). He managed to render this style legible even after the war when newcomers speaking various additional dialects from across Poland arrived in Warsaw. Wiechecki doesn’t have any direct successors who would be equally successful in their transmission of the unique character of this speech, although, paradoxically, many of his expressions became part of living, spoken Polish.

Stanisław Grzesiuk (1918–1963)

He is an example of an artist who grew into an admired writer on the streets of Warsaw. And the name of the exact street was Tatrzańska – in spite of being so close to the Łazienki Palace, his world was entirely different from the royal one: it did not include palaces, but rather low-rise houses and neglected tenement buildings.

People lived there crammed into small, overcrowded cubicles, with no sewage and no electricity. Thus, by the force of pure reality, their life moved out onto the streets. Social bonds of the area’s inhabitants tightened in the queues to the loo.

These conditions cemented the ties in the local community, and every appearance of the police was unanimously received with silence. The visits of police officers and secret service agents became frequent especially during the time of the world economic crisis, which naturally hadn’t spared Poland. During this period, employment cuts affected large numbers of workers, who would find themselves jobless and without any resources overnight.

Unemployed heads of families desperately clung to any chance of making money, often in conflict with the law. An honest citizen could turn into a criminal overnight. Hence the iron rule everyone abided by: do not inform on anyone.

Stanisław Grzesiuk became the bard of these very people, the desperate, the abandoned. Using commonly understood, simple language and with a banjo on his knee, he sang of everyone’s shared longing: for a job, a home, a family and a normal life in freedom. After the war, he began to write to fight the boredom of solitude in tuberculosis sanatoriums where he was regaining his health after being a prisoner of concentration camps.

Grzesiuk wrote wonderful memoirs (Pięć Lat Kacetu [editor’s translation: Five Years of the KZ], 1958, Boso, ale w Ostrogach [editor’s translation: Barefoot But Spurred], 1959, Na Marginesie Życia [editor’s translation: On Life’s Margins], 1964), in which he preserved the supple beauty of authentic spoken language from the pre-war Czerniaków district. The everyday life of workers he depicted was far from the preferred models promoted by the communist regime. He received many tough blows from various guards of the compulsory morality, who criticised him for ‘glorifying the customs of society’s margins.’ Luckily, readers didn’t care much about these judgements, and new editions of his books quickly disappeared from library shelves, competing in their popularity with vinyl recordings of Wiech’s ‘suspicious’ ballads.

Marek Hłasko (1934–1969)

Another writer strongly rooted in Warsaw. His memoirs, preserved in the essay collection Beautiful Twentysomethings from 1966, present unparalleled descriptions of locations within the capital which provided an escape from the communist party’s models of doing things. They are, first and foremost, the famous clubs and bars, who also gained their legendary status thanks to the fame of their regular guest, Marek Hłasko. They were the diner-clubs of various associations: actors’ (SPATiF), filmmakers’ (the so-called ściek, literally meaning sewer), visual artists’, architects’, journalists’ – seemingly exclusive, they were accessible to anyone with the power of ‘breaking’ (or drinking) their way in. And there was also the Kameralna café. Located on the corner of Nowy Świat and Foksal streets, it was governed by anarchy and alcohol.

From the Beautiful Twentysomethings:

Kameralna was one of the places to go to back then. It was a flawlessly run restaurant, divided into three parts: day-time Kameralna one, day-time Kameralna two, and night-time Kameralna. The innovative character of this gastronomic-architectural solution allowed one to start drinking in day-time Kameralna two from the early morning hours, after which one would proceed into the day-time Kameralna one for lunch, and ‘play with the bottle’ till the evening, and the opening of the night-time Kameralna where one could finally deal with all the social drama.

Any old scoundrel could enter day-time Kameralna one and two, but a certain etiquette was respected in the night-time Kameralna: guests had to wear a tie and a jacket. It was completely indifferent if the consumer had just spent twenty-four hours in the rubbish bin, he only had to have a jacket and a tie. Because at the time I didn’t have any permanent place of residence, and I often lost the elements of my wardrobe in frequent fights with other inhabitants of the capital, I came up with an idea which was almost spartan in its simplicity: I bought a velvet jacket and a tie at the state department store and I left them in the cloakroom of the night-time Kameralna. Thanks to this, upon my entry, I transformed from a dirty scoundrel into a classically educated, promising youth, and entered the place in joyful leaps.

No one else described new life rising up on Warsaw’s post-war rubble with such power, dictated by the nostalgia of an emigrant’s distance. Nobody had the same way of picturing people’s attempts at preserving scraps of their dignity, faced with the obnoxious dominance of those who abided by ideological and aesthetic doctrines from the East. At the time, the longing for an entirely different model of culture, be it the old one from the past, or the new, unknown culture of the ‘rotten‘ West, was very strong.

For example, Marek Hłasko described crowds of people in Warsaw who stormed an exhibition which was meant to unmask the enemy’s evil conspiracy and the activity of the West’s secret agents. The exhibition had an ideological undertone – among other things, espionage equipment was put on display. But people crammed against the windows in order to catch the smallest glimpse of Western prosperity, something completely inaccessible to them at the time.

The topography of Warsaw, as well as portraits of many more or less famous of its inhabitants, can also be traced in Hłasko’s short stories from the Pierwszy Krok w Chmurach (editor’s translation: A FIrst Step into the Clouds) collection from 1956 and in the novels: Ósmy Dzień Tygodnia (editor’s translation: The Eighth Day of the Week) from 1954, and Wilk (editor’s translation: Wolf) from 1953, first edited in 2015).

Leopold Tyrmand (1920–1985)

An author of prose, who rose to fame with his novel The Man With White Eyes (Zły, 1955), on the eve of the Polish thaw of 1956. Under the guise of a sensational crime novel– with the significant input of brave officers of the communist Civil Militia, who fought the capital’s criminal underground – Tyrmand managed to smuggle in images of both material and spiritual post-war destruction, suffered by all citizens of Poland under the communist regime. In The Man With White Eyes, he portrayed the irreversible losses resulting from the construction of the Palace of Culture and Science.

The street was called Wielka, once, when it still existed. Now, only a large apartment house stands there, rugged and patched up in numerous places. The last one standing – it is designated for demolition. Its background was the creamy mass of a high-rise building. The space of Europe’s largest construction site spread all around it, furrowed with trenches and folds of building materials. The construction site was borne out of suffocating sediment, among clouds of dust and the drone of diggers, concrete mixers and bulldozers. All that remained of Wielka Street was the roadway and the curbs of sidewalks, and these too were doomed to destruction.

The novel turned out to be a best-seller, many editions were published and, the author was granted a special a car-coupon for it, and the Main Headquarters of the Civil Militia invited him for a series of lectures on hooliganism. The critics remained unmoved. Andrzej Kijowski wrote: ‘Yes, Leopold Tyrmand is a great writer. For brats.’

A fuller image of the era was recorded in Tyrmand’sDziennik 1954 (editor’s translation: Diary 1954). Its first official edition was released in Poland only 25 years later, in 1980, though underground copies were passed around in the so-called ’second circuit’. No presentation of this author would ever be complete without evoking how he expressed his uncompromising stance towards the system by cultivating jazz music, forbidden at the time, and leading an unconventional lifestyle. Agnieszka Osiecka remembers him in her Szpetni Czterdziestoletni (editor’s translation: Ugly Fortysomethings, Warsaw 1985):

The whole world could wear any kind of socks they pleased, but Tyrmand’s red or striped socks were not just socks. They were a challenge and an appeal, they were like a charter of human and citizens’ rights, they were a manifesto. These socks insisted on the human right to be different, and even the right to play a fool. The socks said ‘It’s me, it’s me! I don’t want to be one of many, it’s enough that I am one of two’.

I- say, I met Tyrmand after the October thaw, but he was active, writing and dressing up already in the early swinging fifties, and ever before that. He dressed up protesting the common uniform, and let’s be honest, he risked quite a lot by dressing up. I mean, we all looked like Mao-tse Tungians back then. And if anyone wanted to look different, they would be accused and trialled for bikiniarstwo. […] Of course, nowadays, it’s no secret that these were indeed also Dreams of the West. But this West, especially in the case of early Tyrmand, was not what it is to us today: a normal and entirely real collection of cities and villages, where we travel to work, to visit friends, and so on. The West was a myth, a dreamland, an Eden, and also everything that is unknown. If you understand 'the abroad’ in this way, it’s also no shame to be a raging provincial.

Tadeusz Konwicki (1926–2015)

Warsaw is strongly present in the majority of Tadeusz Konwicki’s writings. His Wniebowstąpienie (editor’s translation: Ascension Into Heaven) from1967 is one of the most important Polish books of the 20th century. Its protagonist, a middle-aged representative of the intelligentsia, mythically named Charon, suffers memory loss due to a head injury. Lost in the backward reality of the Gomułka period, he meets a series of picturesque figures at a harvest festival in Warsaw.They are all part of the urban underworld: crooks, thieves, déclasséjournalists, writers who pose as princes of the night, aged beauties from the right bank of the Vistula, striptease dancers, as well as staggering individuals who try to get change from people ’for a tram ticket‘. Charon’s journey is layered with a sense of panic, triggered by the threat of yet another global conflict (a sense of psychosis after the Soviet-American conflict in the Bay of Pigs) and a criminal scandal (the echo of a real-life attack on a cashier, which took place near a bank on Jasna street).

The writer lived in central Warsaw (on Górska street behind Nowy Świat Street), and his windows and his balcony looked out onto the Palace of Culture and Science. This monumental building became a recurring image in both his prose and his films. The author of Kalendarz i Klepsydra (editor’s translation: The Calendar and the Hourglass) seemed to be fascinated with this alien architectural aesthetic, which had been imposed on the city and wasn’t necessarily worthy of praise. In an interview for the Rzeczpospolita daily newspaper in 2007, he said:

We had a dramatic and tragic fate, though sometimes also a sublime and beautiful one. This whole tangle of complex fate isn’t of interest to anyone out there in the world. Andrzej Łapicki told me he mentioned the Warsaw Uprising in Germany. Young Germans were surprised. What? There was another uprising apart from the one in the ghetto? The knowledge of our fate in the world is incomplete and dictated by chance. Californians, and this is something I know from my daughter Marysia, who lives there, are convinced that during the Nazi occupation everything functioned normally, people lived their lives, and perhaps every so often some German appeared on the horizon. They have no idea about Auschwitz or the labour camps in the depths of Russia.

That’s why, in a gesture of solidarity with the fate of the unappreciated, I wanted to give this ruined city a somewhat metaphysical touch. I tried to create a magical square out of the streets in Śródmieście [the centre of Warsaw]. I picked their names, Świętokrzyska [Holy Cross], Nowy Świat [New World], Aleje Jerozolimskie [Jerusalem Avenue], Trzech Krzyży [Three Crosses’] square. This Warsaw demanded to be elevated wherever possible.

Warsaw is constantly alluded to in the para-journalistic works of the writer: Kalendarz i Klepsydra (1976) Wschody i Zachody Księżyca (editor’s translation: Moonrise, Moonset, 1982), Nowy Świat i Okolice (editor’s translation: Nowy Świat Street and its Vicinity, 1986) and in the anti-regime triptych: Kompleks Polski (editor’s translation: The Polish Complex, 1977), Mała Apokalipsa (editor’s translation: A Minor Apocalypse, 1979), Rzeka Podziemna, Podziemne Ptaki (editor’s translation: Underground River, Underground Birds, 1984). After the fall of communism in 1989, it still makes an appearance in the works: Zorze Wieczorne (editor’s translation: Northern Lights, 1991) and Pamflet na Siebie (editor’s translation: Slander Against Myself, 1995), and in the novel Czytadło (editor’s translation: Page-Turner, 1992). If anyone dared to convey the picture of Warsaw as a magical city, they would simply have to draw from the works of Konwicki, himself a native of Vilnius.

Marek Nowakowski (1935–2014)

Marek Nowakowski’s books have turned out to be an unparalleled chronicle of life in post-war Poland. The numerous volumes of his prose, whose plots usually take place in Warsaw, portray people from the social margins as they live day to day, usually conflicted with the law. The underworld of hobos, prostitutes, crooks and smugglers wasn’t quite in line with social norms; it was also most definitely not in line with the image of reality promulgated by communist propaganda at the time. During a period of ideological imprisonment, the anarchic freedom of Nowakowski’s protagonists was intriguing, not only for how exotic it seemed.

In the titular short story from the collection Książę Nocy (editor’s translation: The Prince of the Night) from 1978, which resonates most strongly with autobiographical references, we meet a boss of the Warsaw underworld become an unexpected mentor for a young man on the threshold of adulthood. For the only child in a family of teachers, bar-hopping with the ‘prince of the night’ becomes a real life lesson for the sensitive boy. The boss entices him with a plan of a big hit, which can never actually take place, he becomes embarrassed of his overly protective mother, and his heart surprisingly quickly conquered by one of the beautiful favourites from the whorehouse.

Each of Marek Nowakowski’s pieces is an excellent account of the context of local practices, with an array of especially colourful personas. The pageant of outsiders consists of what remained of pre-war craftsmen, clerks, restaurant owners. They were the so-called prywaciarze (private operators), who did relatively well and were thus seen as bad. The lot is put down with thieves, crooks, smugglers, partly forced to bypass the law by the system, whose activity was based on the assumption of a permanent lack of basic products. All these people, together with some members of the intelligentsia, representatives of liberal professions, writers, artists, and scientists, were united in one thing: their refusal to succumb to any spiritual enslavement.

In Mój Słownik PRL-u (editor’s translation: My Dictionary of the Polish People’s Republic) from 2002, a treasure trove of precious information about Poland from the post-war years up to 1989, the author’s fruitful definitions are enriched with colourful tales. For example, he evokes the so-called dechy (literally meaning planks)– in parks and in open urban patios and squares, temporary floors were constructed with raw wood, in order to serve as dancefloors and podiums for orchestras and bands.

Booths with hot-dogs, sausages, cold drinks and ice-cream were set up next to the dance-floor. It was forbidden to sell alcohol. But people would secretly sip it, and dancers weakened because of the alcohol often fell to the floor, pulling down their partners with them. Fights among men were a regular sight. And the reason was usually a woman. In cases of more serious disturbance, the militia and ORMO intervened. Parties on the dechy reached their climax during the World Festival of Youth and Students in 1955, when our youth got to dance with representatives of exotic lands for the very first time, and, ’after less than a year, new born babies of colour appeared in Warsaw, a fruit of the festival nights.’

Marek Nowakowski was the most persistent chronicler of post-war Warsaw. His collections of stories manifest his great need of recording his fascination with the city through writing. Especially the rarely described nooks, street markets, diners, clubs, local dens and suburbs. In Okopy Świętej Trójcy. Rozmowy o Życiu i Ludziach (editor’s translation: Trenches of the Holy Trinity. Talks On Life and People) Krzysztof Świątek in conversation with Marek Nowakowski, he said:

I always had my own ‘Trenches of the Holy Trinity’ in the city, places of my own. A little shop here, a small workshop over there, a colleague here and another somewhere else. Within the past two decades, these enclaves of mine, these trenches all got buried, they aren’t there anymore. An engineer friend of mine had a small business of his own in a gateway, selling halogen lighting. He’s not there anymore. I had an old book-binder. Also gone. […] There’s a certain regret for something.

The writer depicted people who made up the essential tissue of this rebellious city, frequently rejected figures, marginalised by society. In his books, he gave them back their dignity and honour.

Janusz Głowacki

A writer who devoted a significant part of his work to Warsaw. Like Tyrmand and Hłasko, Janusz Głowacki spent a good part of his life outside of Poland. But unlike his predecessors, he was able to return. After 1989, he began to divide his time between Warsaw and New York.

Usually, the protagonists of his prose were permanently on the run, attempting to escape the oppressive system that tried to take control of every aspect of its citizens’ lives. The earlier stories written by Głowacki in Poland often took place in clubs, where students and people of the creative milieu tried to create small enclaves of their own independence. With a reporter’s sensibility, he depicted the atmosphere of these places created both by those allowed to enter the circle as well as those who remained on the outside, waiting to get in.

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He was the first of the chroniclers to notice and describe the phenomenon of a specific agreement between exponents of power holding positions in the state, and those who represented private initiatives. The former had the privilege of power; the latter had capital. Mixed marriages of children from both circles provided a guarantee of relative stability of the established covenant. Głowacki’s debut novel describing the phenomenon, Wielki Brudzio (editor’s translation: The Great Dirty) – was published in the Kultura weekly in 1964. A realistic description of the life of so-called ‘banana-youth’ caused widespread indignation. Marriages between children of the ’red bourgeoise‘ and the so-called badylarze (translated as greengrocers), who weren’t officially accepted, but were essential for the economic circuit of the state, were taboo.

Guards of the communist party dogma, touched to the bone, spoke out, as well as regular citizens who had a different understanding of social justice – they way it had been presented to them for years. In the introduction to the Five and a Half selection of plays, Głowacki wrote:

After all, our country is especially sensitive to moral issues. And it is renowned in the world for its honesty.

The Wirówka Nonsensu (editor’s translation: The Centrifuge of Nonsense) collection of stories (1968) only exacerbated people’s first impressions of the writer. He was soon labelled a cynical playboy, devoid of any moral instincts or political engagement. In Off the Top of My Head he wrote:

After my high-school exam, in spite of the objections of my uncle, who was a well-known actor and who had his reasons to claim I have no talent, together with crowd of ungifted candidates, I was accepted to the theatre school on Miodowa street. They taught us using the simplified Stanislavsky method, I mean they told us to alter between identifying [with the character] and being empathetic. (…) I rolled on the floor like an egg or murmured like a tree in November Night, and I wasn’t as good at it as the others. I’ll tell you the truth: I completely refused to be an egg. Professor Maria Wiercińska asked me, ’Janusz, how come you don’t want to roll like the others?’ 'Because I am embarrassed in front of you”, I replied honestly. And that was the first time they accused me of cynicism.

The superficial character of these judgements is known to any astute reader who had the chance to know at least some part of Głowacki’s work. One can describe him in many ways, and point out his deeply ironic distance to reality and the human actions he described. But surely, he cannot be denied empathy or called insensitive to the fate of the unwanted and rejected. Off the Top of My Head again:

Recently, I was walking back home in the evening, and on the other side of a brick wall, I saw the head of parking guard. ’Mr. Janusz!,’ he called out, ’Please, come over here.’ He shook my hand fiercely a couple of times. ’You don’t even know how much I respect you. Forgive me, for urinating at the moment.’ I thought maybe I should return to Poland, after all.

As the author of prose, essays, andan screenplays, (including Wajda’s Fly Hunting,1969, We Have to Kill this Love by Janusz Morgenstern, 1972) he was closely connected with Warsaw from the outset. He returned to this city from involuntary exile the moment it became possible.

Originally written in Polish, Apr 2017, translated by Paulina Schlosser, Sep 2017

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