Open Writing

My second circle of school friends was inclined to dismiss as childish the endless pursuit of pleasure. We took ourselves very seriously, placing a greater emphasis on matters intellectual. Our inspiration came from Erna, an exceptionally graceful, tall, dark-haired creature, with finely chiselled features and intense brown eyes.

We were attracted by her magnetic personality. Had she lived, she would have undoubtedly become a great writer. Her literary skills, both in poetry and prose, were extraordinary. When she spoke Polish, her eloquence and turn of phrase made our usual exchanges sound quite pedestrian. As befits artistically inclined people, she was a very exalted sort of girl, given easily to drama and exaggeration.

She came from one of the wealthiest Jewish families in Lodz. They lived in a two-storey mansion on a large property on the outskirts of the city. If one did not have a car, then one could reach her house only by a dorozka. I relished the annual return trips to her birthday parties. Each small carriage held six of us squeezed together. We clutched our presents as we filed into the vast dark lobby of polished timbers to be welcomed by Erna and her mother.

I fondly remember the scrumptious afternoon tea and playing hide and seek in the huge, mysterious house or exploring the crops growing in the fields. That was the place where I saw corn growing for the first time in my life. I remember tasting it raw and liking it.

When the festivities were over, we would return home in the same dorozka. To us, travelling thus by ourselves in the dark was a riveting experience. I usually managed to be delivered home last, sometimes close to midnight. At that hour, my Mother, who had waited for me impatiently in her night attire, was seated on a kitchen stool by the 'lodowka' (ice chest); she was not easily pacified.

Erna jumped to her death out of a burning house during the liquidation of the Warsaw Ghetto.
Another member of the group remains today my closest childhood friend on earth. Her maiden name was Jasia R. She had left Poland shortly after the end of the war and has been living ever since in Lyon France. I visited her there several times.

In the pre-war era in Lodz, Jasia lived with her widowed mother and maternal grandmother in a flat next to her future husband Stasio, who grew up in identical circumstances.
Jasia has always been endowed with great sensitivity and a rare sense of humour. She was quite large, and she carried her bulk strapped in corsets from an early age. We used to say that with such voluminous hips she would end up with a large brood. Yet, she has but one daughter.

Even as a child, she moved slowly, ponderously: a bit like a duck. She was invariably very late for any kind of appointment. A few funny incidents from that period of our lives have stayed in my mind.

There was our walk to Percyk, a second-hand book dealer, located at the bottom of Piotrkowska Street. We went in search of a printed translation of a Latin text (the use of which was explicitly forbidden by our teacher). The shop was a salvation for lazy students like us. We walked at a normal pace on a warm summer's day. Poor Jasia, encased in her corsets, was soon overcome by exhaustion and perspired profusely. In spite of frequent stops to relieve her panting, we nearly did not make it.

On another occasion, we celebrated the beginning of spring. In spite of snow in the streets, the two of us decided to follow the custom of having a gelato in the very trendy 'Chlodnia Wloska' (an Italian Gelateria). It was situated in a basement in Piotrkowska Street. Jasia lead the way down the stairs of the establishment, with me following behind. Suddenly, she seemed almost kowtowing to someone down below, before retreating hurriedly back up the steps. It looked hilarious. I was forced by her rear, back into the street. There, she explained that our Headmistress in person was enjoying a gelato. Since we were wearing socks instead of the prescribed stockings, she did not dare to proceed. I fully agreed with her. Undetected, we hurriedly withdrew.

How the times have changed!

Besides Erna, Jasia, and me, the participating members of our literary afternoons included Hania S. She was the one at the top of the class, who had a weak bladder. Ipcia was also a member of the group, and, on occasions, a few others joined us. Each week we would gather in another girl's home.
Those Erna-inspired ceremonial meetings resembled a spiritual seance. We spent most of our time reading and discussing various extracts from books or from Erna's own writings.
We read the Polish writers of the caliber of Henryk Sienkiewicz, Stefan Zeromski or Boleslaw Prus. We were all familiar with the works of Tolstoy, Dostoyevski, Emile Zola, and the Bronte Sisters to name but a few. John Galsworthy's Forsyte Saga, Knut Hamsun's Hunger, John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath were some of the masterpieces of fiction we cherished in our youth.

I used to make a rather modest contribution to any deliberations; yet, at the same time, I could not help feeling flattered at being welcomed as a member of such an illustrious body. All the while, deep down, I knew how undeserving I was to have been chosen to join them!

At that stage of my school life, I strove to emulate Erna as much as I could. One year, Orzeszkowa organized a two-months summer camp in the Beskidy mountains near Zaleszczyki, by the Rumanian border. It was the first time my Mother yielded to my pleas and let me join my friends in such a venture. I was probably 11 years old at the time. The principal purpose of the project was to teach us some self-reliance. Our activities were somewhat akin to the Australian 'Outward Bound' camps.

Meanwhile, serious floods developed in the region. They really posed no danger whatsoever to us; however, Erna's mother spotted the news item in the paper. My parents had not noticed it. Erna's mother was highly strung, and she immediately saw a potential threat to her daughter's safety. She sent a wire to Erna seeking reassurance. In reply, my friend sent home a telegram, saying: 'All is well, love Erna.' I did not wish to be outdone, so I needlessly sent an identical telegram to my parents. It was delivered at midnight, and the delivery caused them to wake up in sheer terror that something might have happened to me, since they had ignored the floods altogether. Many explanations had to be exchanged!

During the same summer, for the first time ever, I sent to my grandmother Przybyszewicz a beautifully written postcard. Unfortunately it was signed 'Ernusia' instead of Lusia. I must have got carried away by my zeal, and so the secret was out.
Our 'literary' group selected a small, second-rate cafe in Andrzeja Street for our more casual gatherings. We went there after short school days when we had a couple of hours to spare before our customary 2:00 p.m. lunch at home. Its name was 'Zielony Balonik' (the Little Green Balloon'). It featured a few sections that were intimately partitioned off. And it sold very cheap stale cakes. We assembled in the small, dark cubicles, away from the crowds, and we created a conspiratorial atmosphere which we adored. There we would chat on and on about nothing in particular, all the while feasting on the stodgy cakes. At Erna's request we were all sworn to secrecy.

On one such occasion, I forgot the time. I was late coming home. Mother, who was easily alarmed, began ringing up my friends one after the other until, at last, she found Jasia at home. Jasia was petrified by my Mother's state, and she muttered that I was most likely still at the 'Zielony Balonik'. Mother had never heard of this establishment before, and so she suspected the worst. 'What is 'Zielony Balonik'?', she exploded, tormented by anxiety. When I finally materialized at the front door, I had once more a lot of explaining to do.
Looking back at my school years, I feel as though they were amongst the happiest and most fulfilling years of my life. There was, of course, the purely academic content, but, more importantly perhaps, this was the beginning of lifelong friendships, and of a quite unique 'togetherness' coupled with an unparalleled depth of understanding.

Warmth and closeness helped to enhance our intellectually active, enthusiastic, witty young minds. The fact that we spent so many years together and that some of us even suffered through the years of hell of the Warsaw Ghetto together, gave us that rare, special bond which still exists among the few survivors. We remain an almost extinct breed. When we meet we need but few words to express a great deal. We just know what we mean instinctively. We feel and remember together.

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