Copyright © 2006 Ul. Czysta 5/19
by John Marshall KRAKOW, 31-121, Polska
Email: jpm1234@hotmail.com
(+0048) 0511109687
A police interrogation room in an unnamed American city, present day.
DETECTIVE
Interview suspended at 2:36.
The recorder is switched off.
Why are you wasting my time, Reece? We both know you killed her.
REECE
Really? Isn’t there a little thing called proof in this country?
DETECTIVE
I’ll get proof, Reece. One way or another, you know that.
REECE
I love bent cops, Mickey.
DETECTIVE
Detective.
REECE
Cops, detectives, whatever. Makes me feel almost superior.
DETECTIVE
That why you beat your wife, Reece? Make you feel superior, does it?
REECE
That’s all in the past. You know it is. Angie and me are fine now.
DETECTIVE
Seems to me any man who beats his wife’d have no problem strangling his hooker girlfriend.
REECE
What, you take a psychology course now? Didn’t know you dicks could read.
DETECTIVE
You are scum, Reece. Incapable of functioning within any normal society. You have three previous convictions for domestic abuse –
REECE
Two.
DETECTIVE
Two … three. We can change the numbers. Understand? A known criminal and wife-beater sends his girlfriend a text saying ‘I’ll shut you up for good, you f’ing bitch’ and an hour later she’s found dead in a motel room. I don’t know what to think, Reece.
REECE
Wish I could help you, detective.
DETECTIVE
Almost a shame this is a hanging state, really. Never believed in executions myself. Always thought that was too easy for men like you.
REECE
What is a man like me?
DETECTIVE
A man without honour. Wifebeaters. You’re all faggots underneath. Wouldn’t know what to do in a real fight. Ironic, really.
REECE
You trying to provoke me, detective? Shall we turn the tape back on?
DETECTIVE
No, Reece, I wouldn’t swap places with you for all the money in the world right now.
REECE
You don’t know I even saw Sally that night. You can’t prove nothing.
DETECTIVE
Let’s recap, shall we? Your wife says that on the night, you got a call – all very secretive – then you seemed to get angry for some reason. You wouldn’t say why. You left the house at seven thirty and your girlfriend was found dead in a motel room about an hour later. You arrived back home shortly after that, angry. When your wife asked you where you’d been, you struck her.
REECE
She said that?
DETECTIVE
Under oath.
REECE
The bitch! Well, she shouldn’t have started, should she? Like she ain’t getting nothing, right?
DETECTIVE
You told her to quote stay outta my face unquote and spent the rest of the night getting drunk. Now we’ve been here six hours, Reece, and so far you haven’t given me anything. What am I supposed to think?
REECE
I told you before. Sally called me, asking me for money.
DETECTIVE
Did you give it to her?
REECE
What? So she could stick it in her arm? I told her she was drunk and she better get some sleep. Then she started bawling, threatening to tell Angie all about it if I didn’t get over there right away!
DETECTIVE
And you couldn’t have that, could you, Reece? You need that rich wife of yours, don’t you?
REECE
I love my wife.
DETECTIVE
Then why d’you go to see Sally?
REECE
I had to! She was screaming, telling me she was gonna get the money somehow.
DETECTIVE
Like a loan, you mean? From a friend?
REECE
You know damn well what she meant!
DETECTIVE
But you’d already told her to get off the streets, right? It was too dangerous?
REECE
Look, detective, you know how many hookers get killed every year, or smashed up! I got to her flat, saw she was out – working – and drove straight back home. Yes, I was angry with her, but I never even saw her that night. The first thing I knew when they busted me yesterday.
DETECTIVE
And that’s your story, is it, Reece?
REECE
Ain’t no story. It’s the truth.
DETECTIVE
Well, it’s gotta tell you, over thirty years on the force, it’s one of the lamest stories I’ve ever heard.
Pause
But I believe you.
REECE
What?
DETECTIVE
I believe you. Or, to be more precise, I believe that a jury wouldn’t –couldn’t – convict. There’s no evidence. No forensics.
REECE
Then what the hell am I doing here? You got no case! Why’s that tape not switched on?
DETECTIVE
I’ll tell you why, Reece. You’re a low-life. And killing a woman’s just your thing, I reckon. But I don’t actually care whether you’re guilty or not. Either way, I’d be happy to see you executed.
REECE
Why the special interest, detective? Trying to keep your clean record?
DETECTIVE
I got a letter yesterday, Reece. From the hospital. Very official. The sort you don’t wanna get, you know?
REECE
You got a point?
DETECTIVE
Yeah, Reece, I got a point. I got cancer. Terminal.
REECE
Hey, I’m bleedin’ over here.
DETECTIVE
Exactly. Nobody cares any more, Reece. No concern for the fellow man.
REECE
And you want me to go to the chair? That brighten your day?
DETECTIVE
The thought did cross my mind, yes. If I gotta go, make sure I take one of you with me. Keep the balance, you know.
REECE
Keep the what?
DETECTIVE
But then I had a much better idea. I’d love to see you all hang. There’s nothing I’d like more. Guilty or innocent. But I never said I wanted you to die, Reece. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.
REECE
What?
DETECTIVE
You wanna coffee?
REECE
Yeah.
DETECTIVE pours coffees for both of them.
DETECTIVE
This cancer. It’s in the ‘advanced stages’, apparently. Cigarette?
REECE
Don’t smoke.
DETECTIVE
Wise man. It’s lung cancer, you see. I got about a month, they reckon. Maybe less.
REECE
I still don’t figure what that’s –
DETECTIVE
If I die of cancer, I got no insurance. My wife gets nothing, Reece. And I can’t have that.
REECE
Why you worried? She’ll be shacked up before you’re even cold.
DETECTIVE
My wife is not a hoar, Reece, unlike the women in your life.
Reece starts to get up.
REECE
My wife is not a hoar!
DETECTIVE
Careful, Reece. Cameras.
Pause
It’s good to see you have some feelings for the little lady. I care about my wife, too. That’s why I wanna make a little proposition for you.
Pause
I want you to kill me, Reece.
REECE
You want me to what?
DETECTIVE
Insurance won’t pay. Not on these lungs. But if I was to die at work, in the line of duty, well the government would pay. Full whack. I’d be a hero!
REECE
You want me to kill you so your wife gets a pension. Is that right?
DETECTIVE
I’d make it worth your while. Well, for your widow, anyway.
REECE
You’re talking about killing a cop. So I go to the chair so your wife and mine spend the winter in Florida together? You’re forgetting, detective, you said yourself no jury would convict me of killing Sally.
DETECTIVE
They would if had they more evidence. Forensics, for example.
REECE
What are you talking about?
DETECTIVE
DNA. We’ve got your DNA, Reece.
REECE
But I wasn’t with Sally that night. I don’t even know which motel she was at! You ain’t got no DNA and you know it!
DETECTIVE
Oh, come on, Reece! With your record? We could fucking clone you if we wanted!
REECE
But you wouldn’t do -
DETECTIVE
Wouldn’t do what, Reece?
REECE
You’re gonna plant my DNA in the motel?
DETECTIVE
Reece, you’ve done time for manslaughter and you’ve got a long record of violence against women. I’ve arrested you myself twice. Now, what’s a jury supposed to think when your DNA is found in a motel room with a murdered hooker?
REECE
And you talk to me about honour!
DETECTIVE
Reece, you’re gonna die. There’s no question. But I’m offering you a deal, a business deal, if you like. Now, I’ve already arranged for $50,000 to be delivered to your wife, tomorrow.
REECE
Fifty? Cops do pretty well these days.
DETECTIVE
Government bonds. And I’ve also hidden the DNA, Reece. If I die, the money goes to your wife and forensics don’t get their evidence. Reece, you don’t look so good. Won’t you have a cigarette? For your nerves?
REECE
You deaf? I told you I don’t smoke.
DETECTIVE
Of course. I forgot.
He opens the cigarette packet.
Last one, anyway. Look.
He take the cigarette and slides the packet over to Reece
REECE
What’s that doing in there?
DETECTIVE
It’s a key, Reece. This room’s locked. Once you kill me, you’ll need to get out. There’s a door at the end of the corridor - same key. If you’re quick, you should get out of here.
REECE
What if I take my chances with the jury?
DETECTIVE
Of course, that is your choice, Reece. Still, it would be a shame to involve your wife in all this.
REECE
My wife? What d’you mean?
DETECTIVE
A classy woman, your wife. But not exactly old money, is she? Tax avoidance, fraud, embezzlement,. Quite the couple, really, aren’t you!
REECE
Angie’s businesses are 100 per cent legitimate. That’s old news and you know it.
DETECTIVE
Oh, I do, Reece. But I could easily make it new news. Your wife’s running out of friends fast in this town.
REECE
What are you doing?
DETECTIVE
I’m putting a silencer on my gun. There. There it is, Reece, sitting on the table. Pick it up. Take the gun, shoot me and get out of here.
REECE
You’re crazier than me. You know that?
DETECTIVE
I am going to die, Reece, either now or in the next few weeks. It seems entirely logical to me.
REECE
Even if I got out I’d be on the run.
DETECTIVE
But alive, Reece. Alive.
REECE
What about the cameras? You just offered me your gun.
DETECTIVE
Seems I forgot to switch them on.
Pause
Now, Reece, I’m going to turn my back to you now, I’m going to stand against that wall by the door and you’re gonna kill me.
He starts to walk
REECE
Shit, man! You’re serious!
DETECTIVE
Take the key, Reece, stand up and put it in the door, ready to go. Then come up close behind me, shoot me in the back and get out. Walk until you get out of the building, then run as fast as you can.
REECE
This is crazy. I won’t do it.
DETECTIVE
I’m offering you a way out, Reece. Do it right and you and your wife are free. I’m going to count to ten. If I get to ten, Reece, you’re going to the electric chair. One …
Over the count, Reece picks up the key and the gun, puts the key in the door and walks up to behind DETECTIVE.
two … three …
REECE
Hey, maybe the doctors are wrong! You know what they’re like!
DETECTIVE
Four.
REECE
Maybe you’re not gonna die!
DETECTIVE
Five. Doesn’t matter. Too late now.
REECE
You bastard!
DETECTIVE
Six. Come on, Reece! You’ve always hated me. Now’s your chance to do something about it! Seven... that’s it. Eight … now squeeze the trigger, Reece. Nine …ten.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
The Waiting-Room (A One-Act Play)
Copyright © 2006 Ul. Czysta 5/19
by John Marshall KRAKOW, 31-121, Polska
Email: jpm1234@hotmail.com
(+0048) 0511109687
A basement café.
SETTING: There is a small table downstage right, set with salt and pepper pots. The lights are very low.
AT RISE: Enter GORDON. In one hand, he carries a flashlight. In the other, he carries a mug of tea. A visibly old newspaper is tucked under his arm. He is wearing a long black coat and a hat. He carries a bag. As he stoops to put the bag down, he bangs his leg against the table-leg.
GORDON
Bloody hell! Could’ve killed myself then! I say, can’t you get more light down here? Get some candles, or something! Bloody power-cuts! I’ve never known anything like it!
Hmm, only me here, ay? Quiet today, isn’t it?
(Louder)
I say, it’s quiet today!
(Quieter, apologetically)
Sorry. ’Course, it’s Sunday, isn’t it. And these bloody power-cuts don‘t help, do they! No. I’m surprised you’re open, really. Must be worth it, though, I suppose, ay? I mean, you’re getting enough, are you? Warm bodies - like me - just passing through? Good. I like to see a place do well.
(He takes out some books from his bag and puts them onto the table.)
Listen, this is going to sound weird, I know. I think there’s someone following me.
That‘s why I came. I knew she wouldn’t find me down here. It’s too dark, you see.
It’s a good-looking woman. Or man, not sure which. I keep seeing her, him. Just now, for instance.
I’m walking along, and I get this voice in my head. It’s strong like a man’s, maybe, but softer, warmer.
It’s not the first time. And it’s trying to tell me something - something important. A message, or a warning, maybe. But I can never catch the words. Like a radio not tuned right, you know. And I want to: it’s a beautiful voice. If it is a voice, mind. Sometimes it’s more like the sound of a, a trickling river, if you don’t mind. Heavenly, you might call it. Like a beautiful song. Then, I call it my angel. Well, why not? But, sometimes, you know, it scares me, too. When I feel sad or lonely, it roars like a lion, or maybe a raging fire, you know? It sounds angry and I want to run away. That’s how it was this time. So, I began to walk faster. Then I ran. I ran until I had no strength left. Then, I stopped and looked up. And there it was, right in front of me. A face, eternal, if you get me. Looking straight at me, no, straight into me, into my soul, if you understand me. There’s a real kindness in the eyes and I want to hear the gentle voice again.
I was afraid, you know. But I said, “Why are you tormenting me? You don’t think I have enough problems?” And then it disappeared! Just like that! What do you think? You know, I haven’t touched a drop since coming here, as God’s my witness, but … well, I don’t mind the lovely singing, but the other stuff - and hasn’t a man got a right to some privacy?
So, anyway, I escaped down here, into the darkness. And cold. Bloody cold it is, too! Hey, I said - now where’s he gone to? A customer in the other room, perhaps. Well, good luck to him. I hope it’s warmer than in here.
(Shouts)
And lighter, too!
(He opens his bag, takes out a photograph of himself and puts it on the table.)
Bloody power-cuts! I wouldn’t mind in the summer. ‘Be all right then. But not now. Feels like years since I saw the sun. It’s the cold that’s the worst. Gets to you - right inside your bones. Like everything: your arms, you legs, even your heart, maybe, wants to stop. Maybe he’s got some more candles round here somewhere. Let me have a look.
(He goes upstage and searches for candles. LIGHTS: There is a flash of light and a candle lights on another table. Turning, he sees a young man at the table.)
Alright, mate! Didn’t see you there. I’m not really talking to myself. Just looking for some light, you know. You didn’t bring any with you, did you? Light? No. Not seen you before. Just arrived, have you? OK if I - ?
(He starts to sit at the young man’s table.)
No. ’Course not. Sorry. A man needs his privacy, right? Right.
(He stands behind his chair.)
I remember when I was your age, ’used to like my privacy, too. I valued my time, you see. You know, I used to think that other people might steal it. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Out loud. ’Stealing time’. I didn’t want to share it with anyone, you see. Afraid that they might take something away from me, perhaps. Yes, if there was one thing I had at your age, it was time to myself.
‘That your paper? Do you mind if I - ? Only, this one’s a bit old, see.
(He reaches for and takes the newspaper from the other table.)
Thanks. Another murder! Only a young lad, too. Look!
(He shows him the photo.)
Fancy! You two not twins, are you? Sorry. Bad taste. Well, it’s no good, anyway.
(He puts the paper back and wanders upstage).
Might as well be blind for all the light there is down here. Surprised you can see - never mind read - that book there. What is it? ‘The Tibetan Book Of The Dead’? Comedy, is it? Sorry. I used to be a great reader. Could always find time for a good book, you know. Didn’t go anywhere without a book. Trouble was, over the years, it got so I couldn’t leave the house without one. Or maybe a newspaper. Company, I suppose. Like a prop, maybe. Then the prop starts to be a crutch, then it turns into a defence, a wall. I mean, if I had my time again …
(He sits at his own table.)
So what’s your story then? Poland, ay? Krakow? You like it there, do you? Yes. You’re studying, I suppose? Oh, a writer, hey? A wordsmith, that’s the word, am I right? Wordsmith. Yes. I knew a writer once. In Berlin. Here’s a good word for you: partition. Meaning: to bisect, to divide. Like Berlin, you see, partitioned. East and West. No, never a soldier: undercover, me. Well, tell the truth, I was the writer. That’s what I told them, anyway. Oh, it’s alright. I can tell you. Can’t hurt me now, can they?
(He moves his chair a little closer to the young man.)
Lvov also. You know? Ukraina, yes.
(He gives a thumbs-up).
I was a baker. Finland, also. Truck driver, there. Norway: repair technician. All very cold. Dark, too. Not much light, you see. Not really. You need the light. To be happy. I’ve learnt that. My travelling days are over, now, of course. Spend most of my time down here, if I’m honest. Trapped, maybe could say.
You got friends over there, have you? Good friends? Course you have. You must have good friends. Married, are you? Oh, girlfriend. Is she? Helps with the language, am I right? Difficult language, yes? Of course it is. ‘How are you?’ - I used to know. Jik … jik shee mish … jik shee nish? Now, tell me, how I’ m wrong. What’s that? Jak sie masz? Yes! Am I right?
(He gives a double thumbs-up).
Never forget, do you?
Polish man comes in here, you know. Most days. I hear the language, you see. You never forget.
(He winks)
‘Dzien dobry‘, he says, every time. That’s right. ‘Good day‘. You know. Him and his friend. Two teas with lemon, they order. Not milk. It’s Polish, see. Herbata, they call it.
Herbata. Kasia used to drink that. Bez cukrem. ’I’m sweet enough,‘ she‘d say. Polish girl, you know, living in Berlin. We were going to get married. Translator. You know, good with words. Clever. Like you. Could tell you any street, church or square in the city - the West, anyway. Mannstrasse vierundfunfzig. Hagenstrasse und Main. I’d say the name and she’d drive.
I remember this one time, there was a party. She hurt her leg, dancing. We’re both pretty drunk but I’ve got the legs, so it’s me driving back.
(He stands.)
I was rushing because of the curfew. ‘Right at the church‘, she said. ‘Right at the church‘. I distinctly remember this, you see. But ‘after’, she meant. ‘After’, not ’before’. I thought it was before. Always words, you see. So important. You know. They wanted to see our papers. Then they wanted names - all words again, do you see? ’Course, we didn’t have our papers, did we? Left them at the party, hadn’t we? Drunk, remember? So they searched the car. And they found them: her translations. ’Classified’. From the Russian.
(He takes some official-looking papers from his bag and puts them onto the table.)
So they took us in: for ‘questioning’. And all the time, questions. For days. ‘What were you doing? Why were you there? Why? Why? Why?’ I don’t really know what they wanted. I don’t even know if they cared. It was all a game back then. The Cold War, you understand.
(He takes a gun from his bag and puts it onto the table.)
And the questions got harder, of course. Longer. Painful questions, if you understand me. And they way they asked, well, it wasn‘t fair, you know. In the dark, at nighttime, when you‘re sleeping.
(He sits down.)
Well, I‘m not a strong man, you see. Never have been. The pain got louder than the questions. I’m not proud of it, but put yourself in my position. I wonder if you can. I made a deal. Me and Kasia would be free to go, but on the condition, of course. They wanted names. Names of people operating in the Eastern Sector. I thought: they only want more words, that's all. To put on their reports: statistics, number and names of enemy operatives identified, year-by-year. That was how I justified it to myself, you see. Just a game, with words.
I don’t remember now which names I gave them. But they seemed happy with their new words and the next morning, they released me. I waited outside all day but Kasia never came. So, I went up and asked them.
(He stands up.)
‘Just a few more questions’, they said. ‘Come back tomorrow’. So I went and I came back the next day. Every day for a week I went back. Always the same answer. Then, on the seventh day, I got a letter.
(He opens a letter.)
Unstamped: I had to pay for it. ‘To whom it may concern. Fraulein Kaminski has been found guilty of espionage. Evidence of serious anti-state activities has come to light during periods of intensive questioning. Her confinement will be indefinite.’
(He puts the letter back into his pocket.)
So it was all for nothing: my treachery, my weakness. I hated myself. But so what? I’d spent most of my life hating myself. But the guilt, that was the worst thing. I couldn’t escape the guilt. Three years they held them for. Three years of questions, pain, words, darkness. I know.
Here’s a good word for you: amnesty. Yes, a word of power. They released them - Kasia too. ‘They took her east. Try the Ukraine.’ I tried to look for her; to tell her that I hadn’t betrayed her - my life for hers. I knew that’s what they would have told her. I wanted to tell her about the words and the games. That it wasn’t treachery. I’d done it for us. For love.
Where is she now, do you think? She’d be older, of course. Yes, with a big family, I reckon. Babcia, even. Do you know ‘babcia’? Grandmother? ‘Course you do. You’re educated, you see. You know things. You know words. Words that have power.
Hey! How about that! They’ve put some lights back on up there. Maybe there’s hope for us yet!
The voice!
(He goes upstage, listening for the voice.)
There it is - again! Still a roar. Quieter, but still … You hear it too, don’t you? But you hear the voice, right? You know what she’s saying, don’t you? Tell me. What’s the message? No, don’t leave now! Please, tell me, what’s the message? Come back. Please … Gone. Just like the others. Where do they go?
(LIGHTS: There’s a flash of light. He returns to his seat. Another flash of light. He half-stands and tips his hat to a young couple who he now sees sat downstage right. As he does so, he bangs his leg again on the table.)
F - ! Oops!
(Apologetically)
Bloody power-cuts. What can you do, ay? Oh, don’t worry; he’ll be back in a minute. You just visiting, are you? Tourists? What - newlyweds! Now, that’s nice. Seems strange, though, a nice, young couple like you, down here. Ah well, you’ve got your own story, I suppose. Everybody has.
(He moves his chair a little closer to the other table.)
So how long is it? Only a week? So you’re on honeymoon, then. From London? Hey, wasn’t there a plane crash from there the other day? No survivors, right? You know, you look a bit rough yourselves, with your clothes all burned and all that blood on your faces. Don’t mind me. Actually, flying’s the safest form of travel, statistically. Provided you don’t believe in fate, that is.
Not sure, myself. Used to be. All for free will, I was. Each moment is the doorway to a thousand possible futures. And each of those thousand futures … in the end, there’s no way of knowing. You start off with all good intentions. Then something happens. It always does. We had a child, you know. In London, it was. I lived there - for a while. Artist, I was. Anyway, let me be honest: she had a baby, and I got drunk. Proud father? The nurse said I didn’t walk into that hospital ward, I floated on air.
(He takes out a family photo from the bag and puts it on the table.)
Those next six months were the happiest time in my life. I adored my son and I worshipped her for giving me such a beautiful child. Nobody was more in love than we were. Nobody.
But you know how to make God laugh? You tell him your plans.
We lost the child. Meningitis, you know? That night, he died, just like that. No warning. Nothing. There was a moment that night when we both walked through a doorway together. Doorways, remember? But, somehow, a moment later, we’d both chosen different routes. It finished us. And I said to God, ‘Why? Why have you done this to me? You’ve taken the only people I’ve ever really loved away from me! I want my happiness back!’
And do you know what happened? Nothing. There’s no God, I thought. And if there is, he doesn’t give a damn! So I began the drinking again, but worse. And every drink moved us further apart. She never said anything, but I knew she blamed me. I should have been quicker. ‘Called the doctor, called an ambulance, done something, for God’s sake!’ She’s right, I thought. It’s my fault. And so I’d have another drink. And another. I deserved to be hurt. Badly. And every time we looked at each other, all we saw was our little boy. And then she left.
I spent a long time hating myself, feeling guilty, usually with a drink in hand. Going over the same scenes, again and again, stopping at the parts that hurt the most, twisting the knife, until there wasn’t a moment I couldn’t fill with some pain or regret, real or imagined. I was screaming inside. I couldn’t think. This is hell, I thought. I’ve died and gone to hell. And then I saw her, for the first time. The lovely voice, remember?
When I listened to the voice, to the song, the screaming would subside, if only for a moment. But even that was a blessing. In time, I learned to listen harder. And as the song took the place of the scream, I began to think, once again, but honestly, without self-hate or deception. It was hard, but at least the screaming had stopped. You know, It’s only when you look back, honestly, that you start to find redemption. I’ve been a bad man. I know that. A fool, a coward, adulterer. Yes. I wanted forgiveness. To get out of hell, you know. You know what I learned? You want forgiveness? You have to forgive. You forgive. Then forgiveness. That was the moment. And I’ve done it. Oh, it’s taken me a while, but I’ve done it. I’ve sat down - God knows how long it’s taken me - I’ve sat down and honestly forgiven everyone who I felt had ever done me harm, including him, God.
(He takes a mirror from the bag and holds it in his hand.)
You know, of all the people, you were the ones I was afraid of seeing the most. It’s what you represent to me, you know. Forgiving myself: the baby. That’s been the hardest thing. Forgiving myself. For everything. And I mean everything! And I feel lighter, you know, all the time. Do you know how free, how light, you feel when you forgive? When you give, you get. Forgive, forget. Let go of the pain you’ve been carrying, holding tight to yourself for all those years. And so I know I’m ready now. To try again, you know. Maybe do things differently this time. Try to make it up to a few people.
(He closes his eyes.)
There she is! My angel! And she’s singing: everything I’m going to do; everything I’m going to be. Hey, I think I like this song!
by John Marshall KRAKOW, 31-121, Polska
Email: jpm1234@hotmail.com
(+0048) 0511109687
A basement café.
SETTING: There is a small table downstage right, set with salt and pepper pots. The lights are very low.
AT RISE: Enter GORDON. In one hand, he carries a flashlight. In the other, he carries a mug of tea. A visibly old newspaper is tucked under his arm. He is wearing a long black coat and a hat. He carries a bag. As he stoops to put the bag down, he bangs his leg against the table-leg.
GORDON
Bloody hell! Could’ve killed myself then! I say, can’t you get more light down here? Get some candles, or something! Bloody power-cuts! I’ve never known anything like it!
Hmm, only me here, ay? Quiet today, isn’t it?
(Louder)
I say, it’s quiet today!
(Quieter, apologetically)
Sorry. ’Course, it’s Sunday, isn’t it. And these bloody power-cuts don‘t help, do they! No. I’m surprised you’re open, really. Must be worth it, though, I suppose, ay? I mean, you’re getting enough, are you? Warm bodies - like me - just passing through? Good. I like to see a place do well.
(He takes out some books from his bag and puts them onto the table.)
Listen, this is going to sound weird, I know. I think there’s someone following me.
That‘s why I came. I knew she wouldn’t find me down here. It’s too dark, you see.
It’s a good-looking woman. Or man, not sure which. I keep seeing her, him. Just now, for instance.
I’m walking along, and I get this voice in my head. It’s strong like a man’s, maybe, but softer, warmer.
It’s not the first time. And it’s trying to tell me something - something important. A message, or a warning, maybe. But I can never catch the words. Like a radio not tuned right, you know. And I want to: it’s a beautiful voice. If it is a voice, mind. Sometimes it’s more like the sound of a, a trickling river, if you don’t mind. Heavenly, you might call it. Like a beautiful song. Then, I call it my angel. Well, why not? But, sometimes, you know, it scares me, too. When I feel sad or lonely, it roars like a lion, or maybe a raging fire, you know? It sounds angry and I want to run away. That’s how it was this time. So, I began to walk faster. Then I ran. I ran until I had no strength left. Then, I stopped and looked up. And there it was, right in front of me. A face, eternal, if you get me. Looking straight at me, no, straight into me, into my soul, if you understand me. There’s a real kindness in the eyes and I want to hear the gentle voice again.
I was afraid, you know. But I said, “Why are you tormenting me? You don’t think I have enough problems?” And then it disappeared! Just like that! What do you think? You know, I haven’t touched a drop since coming here, as God’s my witness, but … well, I don’t mind the lovely singing, but the other stuff - and hasn’t a man got a right to some privacy?
So, anyway, I escaped down here, into the darkness. And cold. Bloody cold it is, too! Hey, I said - now where’s he gone to? A customer in the other room, perhaps. Well, good luck to him. I hope it’s warmer than in here.
(Shouts)
And lighter, too!
(He opens his bag, takes out a photograph of himself and puts it on the table.)
Bloody power-cuts! I wouldn’t mind in the summer. ‘Be all right then. But not now. Feels like years since I saw the sun. It’s the cold that’s the worst. Gets to you - right inside your bones. Like everything: your arms, you legs, even your heart, maybe, wants to stop. Maybe he’s got some more candles round here somewhere. Let me have a look.
(He goes upstage and searches for candles. LIGHTS: There is a flash of light and a candle lights on another table. Turning, he sees a young man at the table.)
Alright, mate! Didn’t see you there. I’m not really talking to myself. Just looking for some light, you know. You didn’t bring any with you, did you? Light? No. Not seen you before. Just arrived, have you? OK if I - ?
(He starts to sit at the young man’s table.)
No. ’Course not. Sorry. A man needs his privacy, right? Right.
(He stands behind his chair.)
I remember when I was your age, ’used to like my privacy, too. I valued my time, you see. You know, I used to think that other people might steal it. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Out loud. ’Stealing time’. I didn’t want to share it with anyone, you see. Afraid that they might take something away from me, perhaps. Yes, if there was one thing I had at your age, it was time to myself.
‘That your paper? Do you mind if I - ? Only, this one’s a bit old, see.
(He reaches for and takes the newspaper from the other table.)
Thanks. Another murder! Only a young lad, too. Look!
(He shows him the photo.)
Fancy! You two not twins, are you? Sorry. Bad taste. Well, it’s no good, anyway.
(He puts the paper back and wanders upstage).
Might as well be blind for all the light there is down here. Surprised you can see - never mind read - that book there. What is it? ‘The Tibetan Book Of The Dead’? Comedy, is it? Sorry. I used to be a great reader. Could always find time for a good book, you know. Didn’t go anywhere without a book. Trouble was, over the years, it got so I couldn’t leave the house without one. Or maybe a newspaper. Company, I suppose. Like a prop, maybe. Then the prop starts to be a crutch, then it turns into a defence, a wall. I mean, if I had my time again …
(He sits at his own table.)
So what’s your story then? Poland, ay? Krakow? You like it there, do you? Yes. You’re studying, I suppose? Oh, a writer, hey? A wordsmith, that’s the word, am I right? Wordsmith. Yes. I knew a writer once. In Berlin. Here’s a good word for you: partition. Meaning: to bisect, to divide. Like Berlin, you see, partitioned. East and West. No, never a soldier: undercover, me. Well, tell the truth, I was the writer. That’s what I told them, anyway. Oh, it’s alright. I can tell you. Can’t hurt me now, can they?
(He moves his chair a little closer to the young man.)
Lvov also. You know? Ukraina, yes.
(He gives a thumbs-up).
I was a baker. Finland, also. Truck driver, there. Norway: repair technician. All very cold. Dark, too. Not much light, you see. Not really. You need the light. To be happy. I’ve learnt that. My travelling days are over, now, of course. Spend most of my time down here, if I’m honest. Trapped, maybe could say.
You got friends over there, have you? Good friends? Course you have. You must have good friends. Married, are you? Oh, girlfriend. Is she? Helps with the language, am I right? Difficult language, yes? Of course it is. ‘How are you?’ - I used to know. Jik … jik shee mish … jik shee nish? Now, tell me, how I’ m wrong. What’s that? Jak sie masz? Yes! Am I right?
(He gives a double thumbs-up).
Never forget, do you?
Polish man comes in here, you know. Most days. I hear the language, you see. You never forget.
(He winks)
‘Dzien dobry‘, he says, every time. That’s right. ‘Good day‘. You know. Him and his friend. Two teas with lemon, they order. Not milk. It’s Polish, see. Herbata, they call it.
Herbata. Kasia used to drink that. Bez cukrem. ’I’m sweet enough,‘ she‘d say. Polish girl, you know, living in Berlin. We were going to get married. Translator. You know, good with words. Clever. Like you. Could tell you any street, church or square in the city - the West, anyway. Mannstrasse vierundfunfzig. Hagenstrasse und Main. I’d say the name and she’d drive.
I remember this one time, there was a party. She hurt her leg, dancing. We’re both pretty drunk but I’ve got the legs, so it’s me driving back.
(He stands.)
I was rushing because of the curfew. ‘Right at the church‘, she said. ‘Right at the church‘. I distinctly remember this, you see. But ‘after’, she meant. ‘After’, not ’before’. I thought it was before. Always words, you see. So important. You know. They wanted to see our papers. Then they wanted names - all words again, do you see? ’Course, we didn’t have our papers, did we? Left them at the party, hadn’t we? Drunk, remember? So they searched the car. And they found them: her translations. ’Classified’. From the Russian.
(He takes some official-looking papers from his bag and puts them onto the table.)
So they took us in: for ‘questioning’. And all the time, questions. For days. ‘What were you doing? Why were you there? Why? Why? Why?’ I don’t really know what they wanted. I don’t even know if they cared. It was all a game back then. The Cold War, you understand.
(He takes a gun from his bag and puts it onto the table.)
And the questions got harder, of course. Longer. Painful questions, if you understand me. And they way they asked, well, it wasn‘t fair, you know. In the dark, at nighttime, when you‘re sleeping.
(He sits down.)
Well, I‘m not a strong man, you see. Never have been. The pain got louder than the questions. I’m not proud of it, but put yourself in my position. I wonder if you can. I made a deal. Me and Kasia would be free to go, but on the condition, of course. They wanted names. Names of people operating in the Eastern Sector. I thought: they only want more words, that's all. To put on their reports: statistics, number and names of enemy operatives identified, year-by-year. That was how I justified it to myself, you see. Just a game, with words.
I don’t remember now which names I gave them. But they seemed happy with their new words and the next morning, they released me. I waited outside all day but Kasia never came. So, I went up and asked them.
(He stands up.)
‘Just a few more questions’, they said. ‘Come back tomorrow’. So I went and I came back the next day. Every day for a week I went back. Always the same answer. Then, on the seventh day, I got a letter.
(He opens a letter.)
Unstamped: I had to pay for it. ‘To whom it may concern. Fraulein Kaminski has been found guilty of espionage. Evidence of serious anti-state activities has come to light during periods of intensive questioning. Her confinement will be indefinite.’
(He puts the letter back into his pocket.)
So it was all for nothing: my treachery, my weakness. I hated myself. But so what? I’d spent most of my life hating myself. But the guilt, that was the worst thing. I couldn’t escape the guilt. Three years they held them for. Three years of questions, pain, words, darkness. I know.
Here’s a good word for you: amnesty. Yes, a word of power. They released them - Kasia too. ‘They took her east. Try the Ukraine.’ I tried to look for her; to tell her that I hadn’t betrayed her - my life for hers. I knew that’s what they would have told her. I wanted to tell her about the words and the games. That it wasn’t treachery. I’d done it for us. For love.
Where is she now, do you think? She’d be older, of course. Yes, with a big family, I reckon. Babcia, even. Do you know ‘babcia’? Grandmother? ‘Course you do. You’re educated, you see. You know things. You know words. Words that have power.
Hey! How about that! They’ve put some lights back on up there. Maybe there’s hope for us yet!
The voice!
(He goes upstage, listening for the voice.)
There it is - again! Still a roar. Quieter, but still … You hear it too, don’t you? But you hear the voice, right? You know what she’s saying, don’t you? Tell me. What’s the message? No, don’t leave now! Please, tell me, what’s the message? Come back. Please … Gone. Just like the others. Where do they go?
(LIGHTS: There’s a flash of light. He returns to his seat. Another flash of light. He half-stands and tips his hat to a young couple who he now sees sat downstage right. As he does so, he bangs his leg again on the table.)
F - ! Oops!
(Apologetically)
Bloody power-cuts. What can you do, ay? Oh, don’t worry; he’ll be back in a minute. You just visiting, are you? Tourists? What - newlyweds! Now, that’s nice. Seems strange, though, a nice, young couple like you, down here. Ah well, you’ve got your own story, I suppose. Everybody has.
(He moves his chair a little closer to the other table.)
So how long is it? Only a week? So you’re on honeymoon, then. From London? Hey, wasn’t there a plane crash from there the other day? No survivors, right? You know, you look a bit rough yourselves, with your clothes all burned and all that blood on your faces. Don’t mind me. Actually, flying’s the safest form of travel, statistically. Provided you don’t believe in fate, that is.
Not sure, myself. Used to be. All for free will, I was. Each moment is the doorway to a thousand possible futures. And each of those thousand futures … in the end, there’s no way of knowing. You start off with all good intentions. Then something happens. It always does. We had a child, you know. In London, it was. I lived there - for a while. Artist, I was. Anyway, let me be honest: she had a baby, and I got drunk. Proud father? The nurse said I didn’t walk into that hospital ward, I floated on air.
(He takes out a family photo from the bag and puts it on the table.)
Those next six months were the happiest time in my life. I adored my son and I worshipped her for giving me such a beautiful child. Nobody was more in love than we were. Nobody.
But you know how to make God laugh? You tell him your plans.
We lost the child. Meningitis, you know? That night, he died, just like that. No warning. Nothing. There was a moment that night when we both walked through a doorway together. Doorways, remember? But, somehow, a moment later, we’d both chosen different routes. It finished us. And I said to God, ‘Why? Why have you done this to me? You’ve taken the only people I’ve ever really loved away from me! I want my happiness back!’
And do you know what happened? Nothing. There’s no God, I thought. And if there is, he doesn’t give a damn! So I began the drinking again, but worse. And every drink moved us further apart. She never said anything, but I knew she blamed me. I should have been quicker. ‘Called the doctor, called an ambulance, done something, for God’s sake!’ She’s right, I thought. It’s my fault. And so I’d have another drink. And another. I deserved to be hurt. Badly. And every time we looked at each other, all we saw was our little boy. And then she left.
I spent a long time hating myself, feeling guilty, usually with a drink in hand. Going over the same scenes, again and again, stopping at the parts that hurt the most, twisting the knife, until there wasn’t a moment I couldn’t fill with some pain or regret, real or imagined. I was screaming inside. I couldn’t think. This is hell, I thought. I’ve died and gone to hell. And then I saw her, for the first time. The lovely voice, remember?
When I listened to the voice, to the song, the screaming would subside, if only for a moment. But even that was a blessing. In time, I learned to listen harder. And as the song took the place of the scream, I began to think, once again, but honestly, without self-hate or deception. It was hard, but at least the screaming had stopped. You know, It’s only when you look back, honestly, that you start to find redemption. I’ve been a bad man. I know that. A fool, a coward, adulterer. Yes. I wanted forgiveness. To get out of hell, you know. You know what I learned? You want forgiveness? You have to forgive. You forgive. Then forgiveness. That was the moment. And I’ve done it. Oh, it’s taken me a while, but I’ve done it. I’ve sat down - God knows how long it’s taken me - I’ve sat down and honestly forgiven everyone who I felt had ever done me harm, including him, God.
(He takes a mirror from the bag and holds it in his hand.)
You know, of all the people, you were the ones I was afraid of seeing the most. It’s what you represent to me, you know. Forgiving myself: the baby. That’s been the hardest thing. Forgiving myself. For everything. And I mean everything! And I feel lighter, you know, all the time. Do you know how free, how light, you feel when you forgive? When you give, you get. Forgive, forget. Let go of the pain you’ve been carrying, holding tight to yourself for all those years. And so I know I’m ready now. To try again, you know. Maybe do things differently this time. Try to make it up to a few people.
(He closes his eyes.)
There she is! My angel! And she’s singing: everything I’m going to do; everything I’m going to be. Hey, I think I like this song!
Lost In Lwow
‘5 days in Lwow? In January? In this weather? Don’t tell me … you’re English, right?’
Saturday afternoon, late January. Krakowians hunch and crunch their way home through the snow while, inside, I sit cosy with my crossword. My girlfriend appears, informing me of my neighbourly and boyfriendly duty to clear the snow and icicles from our three balconies, lest a lawsuit await our return from five days in Lwów. I discover the answer to 5 Across (‘Winter Instrument Of Torture’: shovel).Duties discharged and bags packed, we depart for Lwów late on Saturday night. Our driver is Rafał, the son of Asia’s colleagues in Lwów. He’s a quiet, amiable young man, studying at Krakow’s theological college. Tonight, however, he is disconcertingly dressed in camouflage trousers and kicker boots and commences to drive with the same attention to safety as any normal Polish young man. However, as the realities of the severe road conditions and a seven-hour drive begin to unfold, he settles down and selects a Nat King Cole CD. In turn, I relax and stare out of the window, as mile after snowy mile passes, illuminated by a full moon, brilliant stars and memories of Doctor Zhivago.
Suddenly, we hit a snowstorm and slow from 100kph to 10kph in 5 seconds. Outside our warm cocoon, it’s a whiteout: our main Kraków to Lwów road now resembles a mountain track in the Tatras. We crawl slowly through, hoping to pass unnoticed, sheltering for a while in the warm neon-glow of a service station.
I’d heard horror stories about the border, especially the Ukrainian, and fully expected a long, cold wait of several hours. However, we were in and out in only 20 minutes. We could not believe it. What Rafał, a Ukrainian, could believe, however, was the all too predictable demand by a Ukrainian border guard for a 30GRN fee, based upon some spurious ‘problem’ with his car. Be warned, also, that Polish travellers (and maybe other eastern Europeans) will need to buy 10zl insurance at the border. Although this is a legal requirement, the insurance is worthless – just think of it as an entrance fee.
We arrive at Lala and Władek’s flat at 4:30am – a journey time of 7 hours for 350 km. Straight to bed.
Sunday afternoon: Our first taste of Ukrainian hospitality. Lala’s sister has a big, busy house in the woods and the glasses and plates on the long dining-room table bear witness to the day’s many visitors. Some arrive with best wishes, others bear small presents for the children. All leave with bear-like hugs and alcohol breaths – a combination of beer, wine and vodka. In the words of The Borg: ‘Resistance Is Futile’.
The next morning, it’s snowing heavily and the icy paths in the city centre are treacherous (not having been cleared since the winter’s first snowfall). Cars and trucks negotiate their way brusquely past the ice, other vehicles and – sometimes - pedestrians. We retire to a cosy fin-de-siecle patisserie, from where we stock up on provisions: tea (chai), coffee (kawa) and one gateau (ciasto) for 26GRN before the journey home.
A word about the buses. There are lots of them, small and rickety but cheap, scooting past as frequently as Krakówian taxis. A ticket costs 1GRN, no matter how long or short the journey. They are always very full. One night, I found myself acting as go-between between passengers and the driver – my plea of ‘nie rozumiem’ (I don’t understand) failing to discharge me of my duties. So, if you get in through the back door and can’t see, never mind reach, the driver, just pass the money to the person in front, signal ‘1’ and your change will come back to you shortly. (OK, it’s like sardines in there and you’d probably get away with it, but think: it’s only 60 groszy; the country needs the money, and; do you really want to spend a long night in a Ukrainian police station?)
In the evening, our hosts gave a house party; the guests writers, poets and painters all. While poetry was read, cognac, wine and vodka were drunk and a parody composed on-the-spot. Such homely gatherings (whether artistic or otherwise) were a mainstay of both Ukrainian and eastern European communities under Communism, where public gatherings of more than, say, four or five people would attract the attention of the authorities, concerned that they were not simply chewing the fat but plotting the overthrow of an authoritarian regime. Ukrainian, German, Polish and English was exchanged and we raised our glasses as the immaculately-dressed elderly German surgeon gave lengthy toasts to the charming women of Ukraine, Poland and England.
Lwów old town is beautiful. The Rynek (main square) and surrounding streets are calm and dignified; uncluttered by media hoardings, hordes of tourists or the babble of foreign tongues. The four-storey 17th and 18th century buildings share the same pastel-coloured grace and former glories as their counterparts in Venice. We glanced at galleries, crept quietly into cathedrals and quaffed in the kawiarnas. In the churches, it was refreshing to see brightly-lit Christmas trees and nativity scenes, when in England, at the beginning of February, television ads would already be shoving Easter eggs down our throats and dragging us off on sunny summer holidays.
That evening, we ate traditional Ukrainian food at Stefa Restaurant (Steфa Pestpaн) on Svobody Avenue (Пpocпekt Cвoбoди), near to the statue of the hero of Polish literature, Adam Mickiewicz). 63GRN bought 4 beers, 2 starters and 3 main courses (I was hungry!) and, refreshed, we stepped into winter darkness. In the meantime, the city had awoken and people were hustling and bustling their way home.
We were hustling for a bar and found ‘Titanic’, a clean, bright watering hole on Teatral’na Street (Teатpaльна), where we fell in with a friendly bunch of Ukrainians. Graduates of Lwów University, Roman and Zoran’s knowledge of Applied Mathematics was used mainly by the military until the collapse of the USSR. Now they work in printing and marketing, while most of their peers apply their mathematical skills with foreign corporations **** . We discussed politics, the Orange Revolution, and life in general, before proceeding to a newly-opened pub-club ‘Kult’, on Tchaikovsky Street (Чайковського). Although a little empty at 2am, the manageress, Iryna, promised great live music at the weekends.
There seems to be very few bars in Lwów, at least compared to Kraków. Keep your eyes open, follow every lead and see where the people are going; we found several dark, unpromising passageways that led to cosy, hidden bars. Once settled, enjoy the cheap prices. A large beer on the Rynek costs around 4GRN to 5GRN (2.50zl – 3zl) and a vodka about 2.50GRN (1.50zl).
Another night, we were taken to Pub “Korzo” on Brativ Rohatyntsiv Street (Братів Рогатинців). This is a cosy place with live music from Thursday to Sunday and the only pub where I saw Murphy’s. Although heavily tempted, we decided against the 20GRN price-tag, in favour of the local brew, at 8GRN a glass. My frugality, however, proved unnecessary as Roman insisted on paying for everything – both nights we met him: we were his guests and that was all there was to it! Such kindness was, I found, to be typical of the Lwówians.
When not imbibing, my girlfriend and I took several long walks around the old city and castle (Zamek) area, on the hillside. The city, named after Lew, the Lion, is 750 years old (like Krakow) and has an extensive old town, almost a small town in itself, with many old buildings, streets and local churches to explore and get lost in. It felt how Krakow must have felt some years ago: a whole city, seemingly, suspended; a page in a book caught at the moment of turning.
We arose at 7am on Thursday as our host, Władek, was eager to show us Lwów’s market. From furniture (reconditioned) to fish (fresh), it had it all, including a giant meat hall, where all manner of meats lay, hung and were presented for our approval by smiling, well-fed women, who seemed very curious and happy to see us, particularly me, I think, looking, as I do, distinctly non-eastern European. A twenty-second wonder, I felt like I was in Mongolia, not the second city of an aspiring European Union member state.
Earlier in the week, we had tried to book a theatre show. Lwów has many theatres, but they only perform at the weekends. However, after a chance comment of mine on the first day, opera tickets for Thursday were arranged. They were a gift from one of the performers that our hosts knew: more Ukrainian hospitality.
Back to reality and the journey back to Krakow: take the 71 bus from the corner of the opera house - corner of Torhova (Пл Торгова) and Svobody Avenue (Пpocпект Cвободи). Allow about 45 minutes and get off at the last stop, the bus station, in time for the 22:00 departure to Krakow. Tickets are about 110GRN, booked at least a day before. The journey itself was almost too calm: I had expected to share a seat with a formidable middle-aged woman, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, packs of cheap Ukrainian cigarettes and vodka strapped to her body. But it was not to be so. Ten minutes out of the bus station, the lights went off and a peaceful ten-hour journey began, interrupted only by a much more typical border wait of three hours.
Lwów is a beautiful city with generous inhabitants. I advise you to go there, and soon, before people start writing magazine articles about it …
Saturday afternoon, late January. Krakowians hunch and crunch their way home through the snow while, inside, I sit cosy with my crossword. My girlfriend appears, informing me of my neighbourly and boyfriendly duty to clear the snow and icicles from our three balconies, lest a lawsuit await our return from five days in Lwów. I discover the answer to 5 Across (‘Winter Instrument Of Torture’: shovel).Duties discharged and bags packed, we depart for Lwów late on Saturday night. Our driver is Rafał, the son of Asia’s colleagues in Lwów. He’s a quiet, amiable young man, studying at Krakow’s theological college. Tonight, however, he is disconcertingly dressed in camouflage trousers and kicker boots and commences to drive with the same attention to safety as any normal Polish young man. However, as the realities of the severe road conditions and a seven-hour drive begin to unfold, he settles down and selects a Nat King Cole CD. In turn, I relax and stare out of the window, as mile after snowy mile passes, illuminated by a full moon, brilliant stars and memories of Doctor Zhivago.
Suddenly, we hit a snowstorm and slow from 100kph to 10kph in 5 seconds. Outside our warm cocoon, it’s a whiteout: our main Kraków to Lwów road now resembles a mountain track in the Tatras. We crawl slowly through, hoping to pass unnoticed, sheltering for a while in the warm neon-glow of a service station.
I’d heard horror stories about the border, especially the Ukrainian, and fully expected a long, cold wait of several hours. However, we were in and out in only 20 minutes. We could not believe it. What Rafał, a Ukrainian, could believe, however, was the all too predictable demand by a Ukrainian border guard for a 30GRN fee, based upon some spurious ‘problem’ with his car. Be warned, also, that Polish travellers (and maybe other eastern Europeans) will need to buy 10zl insurance at the border. Although this is a legal requirement, the insurance is worthless – just think of it as an entrance fee.
We arrive at Lala and Władek’s flat at 4:30am – a journey time of 7 hours for 350 km. Straight to bed.
Sunday afternoon: Our first taste of Ukrainian hospitality. Lala’s sister has a big, busy house in the woods and the glasses and plates on the long dining-room table bear witness to the day’s many visitors. Some arrive with best wishes, others bear small presents for the children. All leave with bear-like hugs and alcohol breaths – a combination of beer, wine and vodka. In the words of The Borg: ‘Resistance Is Futile’.
The next morning, it’s snowing heavily and the icy paths in the city centre are treacherous (not having been cleared since the winter’s first snowfall). Cars and trucks negotiate their way brusquely past the ice, other vehicles and – sometimes - pedestrians. We retire to a cosy fin-de-siecle patisserie, from where we stock up on provisions: tea (chai), coffee (kawa) and one gateau (ciasto) for 26GRN before the journey home.
A word about the buses. There are lots of them, small and rickety but cheap, scooting past as frequently as Krakówian taxis. A ticket costs 1GRN, no matter how long or short the journey. They are always very full. One night, I found myself acting as go-between between passengers and the driver – my plea of ‘nie rozumiem’ (I don’t understand) failing to discharge me of my duties. So, if you get in through the back door and can’t see, never mind reach, the driver, just pass the money to the person in front, signal ‘1’ and your change will come back to you shortly. (OK, it’s like sardines in there and you’d probably get away with it, but think: it’s only 60 groszy; the country needs the money, and; do you really want to spend a long night in a Ukrainian police station?)
In the evening, our hosts gave a house party; the guests writers, poets and painters all. While poetry was read, cognac, wine and vodka were drunk and a parody composed on-the-spot. Such homely gatherings (whether artistic or otherwise) were a mainstay of both Ukrainian and eastern European communities under Communism, where public gatherings of more than, say, four or five people would attract the attention of the authorities, concerned that they were not simply chewing the fat but plotting the overthrow of an authoritarian regime. Ukrainian, German, Polish and English was exchanged and we raised our glasses as the immaculately-dressed elderly German surgeon gave lengthy toasts to the charming women of Ukraine, Poland and England.
Lwów old town is beautiful. The Rynek (main square) and surrounding streets are calm and dignified; uncluttered by media hoardings, hordes of tourists or the babble of foreign tongues. The four-storey 17th and 18th century buildings share the same pastel-coloured grace and former glories as their counterparts in Venice. We glanced at galleries, crept quietly into cathedrals and quaffed in the kawiarnas. In the churches, it was refreshing to see brightly-lit Christmas trees and nativity scenes, when in England, at the beginning of February, television ads would already be shoving Easter eggs down our throats and dragging us off on sunny summer holidays.
That evening, we ate traditional Ukrainian food at Stefa Restaurant (Steфa Pestpaн) on Svobody Avenue (Пpocпekt Cвoбoди), near to the statue of the hero of Polish literature, Adam Mickiewicz). 63GRN bought 4 beers, 2 starters and 3 main courses (I was hungry!) and, refreshed, we stepped into winter darkness. In the meantime, the city had awoken and people were hustling and bustling their way home.
We were hustling for a bar and found ‘Titanic’, a clean, bright watering hole on Teatral’na Street (Teатpaльна), where we fell in with a friendly bunch of Ukrainians. Graduates of Lwów University, Roman and Zoran’s knowledge of Applied Mathematics was used mainly by the military until the collapse of the USSR. Now they work in printing and marketing, while most of their peers apply their mathematical skills with foreign corporations **** . We discussed politics, the Orange Revolution, and life in general, before proceeding to a newly-opened pub-club ‘Kult’, on Tchaikovsky Street (Чайковського). Although a little empty at 2am, the manageress, Iryna, promised great live music at the weekends.
There seems to be very few bars in Lwów, at least compared to Kraków. Keep your eyes open, follow every lead and see where the people are going; we found several dark, unpromising passageways that led to cosy, hidden bars. Once settled, enjoy the cheap prices. A large beer on the Rynek costs around 4GRN to 5GRN (2.50zl – 3zl) and a vodka about 2.50GRN (1.50zl).
Another night, we were taken to Pub “Korzo” on Brativ Rohatyntsiv Street (Братів Рогатинців). This is a cosy place with live music from Thursday to Sunday and the only pub where I saw Murphy’s. Although heavily tempted, we decided against the 20GRN price-tag, in favour of the local brew, at 8GRN a glass. My frugality, however, proved unnecessary as Roman insisted on paying for everything – both nights we met him: we were his guests and that was all there was to it! Such kindness was, I found, to be typical of the Lwówians.
When not imbibing, my girlfriend and I took several long walks around the old city and castle (Zamek) area, on the hillside. The city, named after Lew, the Lion, is 750 years old (like Krakow) and has an extensive old town, almost a small town in itself, with many old buildings, streets and local churches to explore and get lost in. It felt how Krakow must have felt some years ago: a whole city, seemingly, suspended; a page in a book caught at the moment of turning.
We arose at 7am on Thursday as our host, Władek, was eager to show us Lwów’s market. From furniture (reconditioned) to fish (fresh), it had it all, including a giant meat hall, where all manner of meats lay, hung and were presented for our approval by smiling, well-fed women, who seemed very curious and happy to see us, particularly me, I think, looking, as I do, distinctly non-eastern European. A twenty-second wonder, I felt like I was in Mongolia, not the second city of an aspiring European Union member state.
Earlier in the week, we had tried to book a theatre show. Lwów has many theatres, but they only perform at the weekends. However, after a chance comment of mine on the first day, opera tickets for Thursday were arranged. They were a gift from one of the performers that our hosts knew: more Ukrainian hospitality.
Back to reality and the journey back to Krakow: take the 71 bus from the corner of the opera house - corner of Torhova (Пл Торгова) and Svobody Avenue (Пpocпект Cвободи). Allow about 45 minutes and get off at the last stop, the bus station, in time for the 22:00 departure to Krakow. Tickets are about 110GRN, booked at least a day before. The journey itself was almost too calm: I had expected to share a seat with a formidable middle-aged woman, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, packs of cheap Ukrainian cigarettes and vodka strapped to her body. But it was not to be so. Ten minutes out of the bus station, the lights went off and a peaceful ten-hour journey began, interrupted only by a much more typical border wait of three hours.
Lwów is a beautiful city with generous inhabitants. I advise you to go there, and soon, before people start writing magazine articles about it …
Chaos, fear and terror
For as long as I can remember, the media has misused and overused the words ‘fear’ and ‘chaos’, usually in screaming headlines and usually unnecessarily, hyperbolically. And whilst I can only comment on the British media, I am pretty sure the situation is the same in other, principally Western, countries.
This predilection for extreme, scary words can partly be explained by the media’s apparent need to grab our attention, to excite and shock: as our blood pressure rises, so, it seems, does newspaper circulation. In Britain, at least, we are all used to such headlines as “Transport chaos as two inches of snow fall in a single day!” Now, whilst I freely admit that the combination of a little inclement weather and Britain’s inadequate transport system can indeed cause sudden problems, the use of the precise word chaos is nothing more than an over-worn cliché and we, the reader, can usually make up our own minds about the real meaning of the word chaos (the snow causing you to arrive at work an hour late, for example, as opposed to being plunged suddenly into a primeval state of disorder and inherent unpredictability). But then why do the media love this word so much? Is it merely because they can’t help sensationalising news stories or is it also because the word ‘chaos’ unsettles us, frightens us?
The second scary word beloved by the media is ‘fear’. Fear, it seems to me, is quite different from chaos in its effect upon the listener or reader. To be sure, the use of the word ‘fear’ is sometimes entirely appropriate to the article. But usually it is used with the sole intention of generating fear (or anxiety) itself: literal, physiological, emotional fear. Take another sample headline: “Fears continue to grow over the whereabouts of a missing teenager”, or this: “A group of mountain-climbers are feared to have died last night” (in passing, we may note the media’s use of the abstract noun ‘fear’ as a verb, thus allowing its use in an ever-widening range of situations). Such anxiety-inducing headlines as these are everyday occurrences and we are passively complicit: we hand over our money, pick up a paper and spread the virus in pockets and briefcases or allow these disturbing words and emotions to be transmitted and broadcast onto our TVs and laptops.
And, in the end, are these ‘human interest’ stories in fact fearful? I don’t think they are. Yes, of course I am sorry that a young woman may have been abducted or that a party of mountain-climbers have perished several hundred or thousand miles away but I would argue that many such quote “news items” unquote are of little or no interest to the rest of us. Do you really wish to be notified of every distant abduction, house fire, murder and cot death in the country – or world, for that matter? Yes, knowledge is indeed power and in many ways the global village is a beneficial reality. We may choose to send a loving thought or donation to the disaster appeal fund but, be honest, more often, we don’t. Most of us, most of the time, simply allow a flow of sentiment to wash steadily over us, tut-tutting as we are led by the hand to the next apparently necessary piece of chaos or fear.
And even if we did wish to keep informed of every sad, tragic and fearful global occurrence, we simply don’t have the time or the attention-spans. The media is well aware of this: notice how they all seem to agree upon a certain story to be fed to us: hourly, daily, weekly, relentlessly.
The thing about ‘fear’ is, that like forest-fires and lies, it spreads quickly and easily. It has long been commonplace for fear to be inserted into what would otherwise be a much more mundane news story: for example “It is feared that several hospitals may close this year” et cetera. What’s wrong with using another, more expressive and accurate verb? “It is thought, believed, rumoured” etc. The answer, of course, is that it wouldn’t be as sensational, not so … scary. Someone, somewhere, it seems, wants you to be afraid.
And yet it would seem that it’s not enough any more to be merely afraid. You have to be terrified. Yes, ‘terror’ is the new word, the new thing. Suddenly, terror is on everyone’s lips. For the media, for politicians and advertisers, fear is … sexy. Open your paper, turn on your TV, check the net: what do you see? ‘Terror!’ Of course, terror’s been around for quite a while. Terrorists. IRA terrorists, for example. Us Brits grew up with that, got used to it, even. And they were real enough, those terrorists. In Northern Ireland alone, there are thousands of gravestones, ruined lives and families to testify to the reality of the terrorist’s bullet and bomb. But the trouble with terrorists is that they can be beaten or negotiated with. The terrorists, at some point, stop being terrorists: they die, grow old, renounce violence or become politicians. History shows that there is always an end to terrorism. But the need for terror - in some minds, at least - is never-ending. The vacuum in our minds must be filled – by those in power, by those with power, by those who want - and are determined to keep - their power.
‘The War On Terror’. Every day for the past four or five years, we have heard about the war on terror – terror which is not an army, not flesh and blood, but ‘terror’, grammatically, an abstract noun. Like stupidity or deceit. Soldiers and civilians die every day. And what killed them? According to your government, according to your media, terror: an undefined, unknowable, unbeatable force. You see, as soon as you defeat terror here, terror pops up over there! And how do you know? Because you’re told, you’re told to know, by the media – sorry, by the government.
There is real fighting and real bloodshed every hour of the day: in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in a dozen other ‘terror-filled places’ of the world. In fact, the war on terror begins anew every morning: at every breakfast table, every sitting-room and every tube-train and tram in the land. It’s a mighty battle, to be sure. The Long War. It’s a battle for hearts and minds, principally minds – mine and yours. Every time you read, and accept without questioning, the words chaos, fear, terror, the war on terror, you unconsciously help strengthen the concept, and a concept, if believed in by enough people for a long enough time, becomes and stays a reality.
Terror is a state of mind. Choose your own state of mind. Do not believe in terror and certainly do not believe in the thing called the war on terror. These things simply do not – cannot – exist, unless you, by your thoughts, words and actions, choose to give them life. Remember what the man said? “The revolution will not be televised”. The revolution, the battleground, is in our heads, in our minds, and not, ultimately, on the streets on Basra and Baghdad. What we all believe to be true and necessary things in this world, these beliefs, opinions and attitudes are where the real battle takes place. It began the day you first opened your eyes all those years ago, is influenced by every thought, word and deed and will continue, for as long as you are capable of free and independent thought – and not a moment longer.
In George Orwell’s dystopian novel 1984, an elite member of the ruling totalitarian party sets out the desired mentality of the everyday citizen …
Quote. ‘It is necessary that the Party member be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adulation and orgiastic triumph. In other words it is necessary that he should have the mentality appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether the war is actually happening and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does not matter whether the war is going well or badly. All that is needed is that a state of war should exist.’ Unquote.
In 1984, there exists a state of perpetual, but carefully-managed and orchestrated warfare between three global power blocs. Such a situation is uncomfortably close to that of ‘The Long War’, George Bush’s short-lived re-classification of the war on terror, a war which cannot be won either by grammatical definition (terror being an abstract noun) or because, in fact, it is not in the interests of a small yet hugely powerful section of global society. And why is it not in certain interests that the war be won? 1984 again: quote “If the High … are to keep their places permanently – then the prevailing mental condition must be controlled insanity.” Unquote. In a world where foreign forces invade and continue to occupy sovereign nations in breach of international law and on the pretext of what have long turned out to be lies, fuelled in reality by the desire for a consolidation of regional power, well, I think that we too exist within such a controlled insanity.
This article is not meant to be a polemic or rant against the Western presence in the Middle East. It is, rather, a gentle and, I hope, timely reminder: always to think for yourself, to remain alert to what exactly you do and don’t believe to be true, to keep the media, the government and its many systems of misinformation well at arm’s length. And most essentially, I mean to be positive. This is not 1984, this is reality. And in reality, you get to write a new page every day. Choose your words with care.
© Copyright John Marshall 2007
This predilection for extreme, scary words can partly be explained by the media’s apparent need to grab our attention, to excite and shock: as our blood pressure rises, so, it seems, does newspaper circulation. In Britain, at least, we are all used to such headlines as “Transport chaos as two inches of snow fall in a single day!” Now, whilst I freely admit that the combination of a little inclement weather and Britain’s inadequate transport system can indeed cause sudden problems, the use of the precise word chaos is nothing more than an over-worn cliché and we, the reader, can usually make up our own minds about the real meaning of the word chaos (the snow causing you to arrive at work an hour late, for example, as opposed to being plunged suddenly into a primeval state of disorder and inherent unpredictability). But then why do the media love this word so much? Is it merely because they can’t help sensationalising news stories or is it also because the word ‘chaos’ unsettles us, frightens us?
The second scary word beloved by the media is ‘fear’. Fear, it seems to me, is quite different from chaos in its effect upon the listener or reader. To be sure, the use of the word ‘fear’ is sometimes entirely appropriate to the article. But usually it is used with the sole intention of generating fear (or anxiety) itself: literal, physiological, emotional fear. Take another sample headline: “Fears continue to grow over the whereabouts of a missing teenager”, or this: “A group of mountain-climbers are feared to have died last night” (in passing, we may note the media’s use of the abstract noun ‘fear’ as a verb, thus allowing its use in an ever-widening range of situations). Such anxiety-inducing headlines as these are everyday occurrences and we are passively complicit: we hand over our money, pick up a paper and spread the virus in pockets and briefcases or allow these disturbing words and emotions to be transmitted and broadcast onto our TVs and laptops.
And, in the end, are these ‘human interest’ stories in fact fearful? I don’t think they are. Yes, of course I am sorry that a young woman may have been abducted or that a party of mountain-climbers have perished several hundred or thousand miles away but I would argue that many such quote “news items” unquote are of little or no interest to the rest of us. Do you really wish to be notified of every distant abduction, house fire, murder and cot death in the country – or world, for that matter? Yes, knowledge is indeed power and in many ways the global village is a beneficial reality. We may choose to send a loving thought or donation to the disaster appeal fund but, be honest, more often, we don’t. Most of us, most of the time, simply allow a flow of sentiment to wash steadily over us, tut-tutting as we are led by the hand to the next apparently necessary piece of chaos or fear.
And even if we did wish to keep informed of every sad, tragic and fearful global occurrence, we simply don’t have the time or the attention-spans. The media is well aware of this: notice how they all seem to agree upon a certain story to be fed to us: hourly, daily, weekly, relentlessly.
The thing about ‘fear’ is, that like forest-fires and lies, it spreads quickly and easily. It has long been commonplace for fear to be inserted into what would otherwise be a much more mundane news story: for example “It is feared that several hospitals may close this year” et cetera. What’s wrong with using another, more expressive and accurate verb? “It is thought, believed, rumoured” etc. The answer, of course, is that it wouldn’t be as sensational, not so … scary. Someone, somewhere, it seems, wants you to be afraid.
And yet it would seem that it’s not enough any more to be merely afraid. You have to be terrified. Yes, ‘terror’ is the new word, the new thing. Suddenly, terror is on everyone’s lips. For the media, for politicians and advertisers, fear is … sexy. Open your paper, turn on your TV, check the net: what do you see? ‘Terror!’ Of course, terror’s been around for quite a while. Terrorists. IRA terrorists, for example. Us Brits grew up with that, got used to it, even. And they were real enough, those terrorists. In Northern Ireland alone, there are thousands of gravestones, ruined lives and families to testify to the reality of the terrorist’s bullet and bomb. But the trouble with terrorists is that they can be beaten or negotiated with. The terrorists, at some point, stop being terrorists: they die, grow old, renounce violence or become politicians. History shows that there is always an end to terrorism. But the need for terror - in some minds, at least - is never-ending. The vacuum in our minds must be filled – by those in power, by those with power, by those who want - and are determined to keep - their power.
‘The War On Terror’. Every day for the past four or five years, we have heard about the war on terror – terror which is not an army, not flesh and blood, but ‘terror’, grammatically, an abstract noun. Like stupidity or deceit. Soldiers and civilians die every day. And what killed them? According to your government, according to your media, terror: an undefined, unknowable, unbeatable force. You see, as soon as you defeat terror here, terror pops up over there! And how do you know? Because you’re told, you’re told to know, by the media – sorry, by the government.
There is real fighting and real bloodshed every hour of the day: in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in a dozen other ‘terror-filled places’ of the world. In fact, the war on terror begins anew every morning: at every breakfast table, every sitting-room and every tube-train and tram in the land. It’s a mighty battle, to be sure. The Long War. It’s a battle for hearts and minds, principally minds – mine and yours. Every time you read, and accept without questioning, the words chaos, fear, terror, the war on terror, you unconsciously help strengthen the concept, and a concept, if believed in by enough people for a long enough time, becomes and stays a reality.
Terror is a state of mind. Choose your own state of mind. Do not believe in terror and certainly do not believe in the thing called the war on terror. These things simply do not – cannot – exist, unless you, by your thoughts, words and actions, choose to give them life. Remember what the man said? “The revolution will not be televised”. The revolution, the battleground, is in our heads, in our minds, and not, ultimately, on the streets on Basra and Baghdad. What we all believe to be true and necessary things in this world, these beliefs, opinions and attitudes are where the real battle takes place. It began the day you first opened your eyes all those years ago, is influenced by every thought, word and deed and will continue, for as long as you are capable of free and independent thought – and not a moment longer.
In George Orwell’s dystopian novel 1984, an elite member of the ruling totalitarian party sets out the desired mentality of the everyday citizen …
Quote. ‘It is necessary that the Party member be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adulation and orgiastic triumph. In other words it is necessary that he should have the mentality appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether the war is actually happening and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does not matter whether the war is going well or badly. All that is needed is that a state of war should exist.’ Unquote.
In 1984, there exists a state of perpetual, but carefully-managed and orchestrated warfare between three global power blocs. Such a situation is uncomfortably close to that of ‘The Long War’, George Bush’s short-lived re-classification of the war on terror, a war which cannot be won either by grammatical definition (terror being an abstract noun) or because, in fact, it is not in the interests of a small yet hugely powerful section of global society. And why is it not in certain interests that the war be won? 1984 again: quote “If the High … are to keep their places permanently – then the prevailing mental condition must be controlled insanity.” Unquote. In a world where foreign forces invade and continue to occupy sovereign nations in breach of international law and on the pretext of what have long turned out to be lies, fuelled in reality by the desire for a consolidation of regional power, well, I think that we too exist within such a controlled insanity.
This article is not meant to be a polemic or rant against the Western presence in the Middle East. It is, rather, a gentle and, I hope, timely reminder: always to think for yourself, to remain alert to what exactly you do and don’t believe to be true, to keep the media, the government and its many systems of misinformation well at arm’s length. And most essentially, I mean to be positive. This is not 1984, this is reality. And in reality, you get to write a new page every day. Choose your words with care.
© Copyright John Marshall 2007
An immigrant’s thoughts on returning to Krakow
I’ve just come back from a week’s walking and camping in Devon, south-west England. The sun shined brightly as me and my girlfriend hauled rucksack, sleeping bags and tent around one of the most beautiful stretches of coastline in the country. As an unfit, middle-aged man, I was anxious how my body would cope. Surprisingly well, it turned out, and that old knee problem from my abortive Pennine Way trip many years ago seems to have healed up nicely. All this by way of saying that I stepped off the Ryanair plane last Saturday night feeling like a new man.
Under a full, crisp, Krakowian moon, the Balice shuttle bus whisked us efficiently the thirty or so metres from the aircraft to Customs. This fifteen-second hop always seems quite unnecessary to me. Is it a piece of classic British health & safety stowed away to Poland via an Extraordinary Rendition flight, a nod to a full-employment Communist past or, and this I suspect, a simple act of kindness to us, the weary travellers? Either way, it is infinitely preferable to the fifteen-minute slog through the Essex countryside when arriving at London Stansted.
Owing to my somewhat old-fashioned and probably reactionary English attitude to standards of public behaviour, I have, for as long as I can remember, always adopted a sedate, almost langorous, pace when joining a queue, considering any unseemly jostling or scrambling for position to be rather barbaric, certainly not ‘British’. However, I’ve been an expat for two years now and, hopping quickly first off the bus, I found myself the first to stand before the guard at passport control, looking just over his shoulder with a carefully-constructed mix of innocence (me, a terrorist?) and affected boredom in an effort to convince him I feel just the same as he does and the sooner he lets me back onto Polish soil, the sooner both he and I can go home. He appears not to notice my subliminal attempt at camaraderie and merely slides my passport back to me, his gaze already transferred to the babcia behind me, who is already digging her passport into my back, in mute defiance of both regulations and what was once-upon-a-time known as ‘personal space’.
On the bus, I’m immersed, cocoon-like, into blissful ignorance as the still largely-unfamiliar Polish language begins to bubble all around me. I’m tired of being shouted at from invisible speakers to buy Ryanair scratchcards and to choose from the exclusive range of in-flight purchases. Now, as the familiar houses and blocks slip past in the night, I relax, safe in the knowledge that whatever inanities and profanities are being muttered, most of them will slip harmlessly by.
I close my flat door behind me, disconnect myself from my rucksack (na koncu!) and, as my granny advises, try to ‘feel how I feel’. It, in fact, feels good to be back in Krakow. And I like my flat. A little cold now in the autumn, but a small adjustment to the brown ceramic sentinel standing guard in the corner will soon sort that. I switched on the kettle and fired up some BBC radio comedy on the laptop.
Windows XP appears rudely disturbed by my presence. It yawns, rubs the sleep out of its eyes and staggers slowly out of hibernation.
Under the streetlight outside, an alcoholic shakily proffers his mate a cigarette and receives, in exchange, a swig of something nameless and purple from a clear glass bottle. I wonder, once again, just how many broken, middle-aged alcoholic men there are in Krakow. Tens of thousands? Maybe. For every one on the street, you can bet there are another ten creeping about in dosshouses and soon-to-be redeveloped attics and basements. Where do these poor souls go when they get their marching orders? Where now, for example, are all those dangerous individuals who, we hear, made it impossible to walk safely through Kazimierz before the fall of Communism began to reunite kamienicas with long-forgotten landlords?
Because of the passage of time, and the passing of both generations and title deeds, some of these nouveau landlords, of course, have little connection to the city and have probably never even set foot here. Strangers from afar remoulding the country and its economy. I’m an immigrant myself, of course. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Me, an Englishman, an immigrant. ‘Funny how we all prefer the term ‘ex-pat’, when the name we give to the rest of the world is immigrant. Is it because many of us ‘ex-pats’ consider ourselves only temporary Krakowians, ready to skip off to the next country in a year or two or is it that the word ‘immigrant’ suggests a search for money and material gain while we are, in contrast, so wonderful, talented and comparatively affluent that ‘ex-pat’ is so much more appropriate: empowered, assured, cosmopolitan, safe?
If the truth be told, I am three things in one: ex-pat, immigrant and asylum-seeker. Firstly, I am an ex-pat, by which I mean that I am an educated Westerner who is blessed with opportunity and choice. Imagine, as a native English-speaker and teacher with money in my pocket, I can actually choose just about any country in the world to live in! Like most ex-pats, I am fairly affluent by Polish standards and I am also an ex-pat because I am able to skim along the surface of everyday Polish life without getting bogged down in details. It’s easy to be invisible in Poland. It’s easy not to pay taxes. It’s easy not to understand the language and remain aloof from day-to-day life. There is, to use Milan Kundera’s phrase, a ‘lightness of being’ in being an ex-pat.
But if immigration is about seeking a better standard of living, then I am also an immigrant as well as an ex-pat. Currently, I am in the process of buying a flat in Krakow and have also begun working for a company that never, never pays cash. After two years, I have this week officially become a resident, I have applied to the tax office for a tax number and I shortly intend to start my own business. Why this sudden loss of social invisibility? Money. I want more of it and I want it here, in Poland, where I don’t have to work as hard as I would in England - just like any other immigrant.
Oh, yes, I said I was an asylum-seeker, too. OK, maybe not in the real sense of the term but, come on, have you seen your country lately? Americans love America and I sure love England, but, to quote the bard himself, I fear that England has become quote a country afraid to know itself unquote. I am happy to be back in Poland. Sure, Krakow’s not all Rynek Glowny and beautiful Planty: outside the old city dogshit, graffiti and alcoholics assault the eye at every turn while the city and its people struggle to find a sense of self and of pride after generations, if not centuries, of humiliation and subjugation to foreign powers. But at least Poland is moving, slowly and painfully, in the right direction, not squandering its inheritance, afraid of its own shadow like England. I am here seeking asylum, not from oppression or tyranny, but from cultural ignorance, mental slavery and moral and political cowardice. Now of course Eastern Europe (like much of the world) is seeking to emulate the west in so many ways: its embrace of free-market economics and the attendant fracturing of once-supportive communities, for example. Poland is not a paradise and I am very glad I don’t understand the moronic television news or the foul-mouthed teenager standing next to me on the tram. But I am lucky: in England, it would be nigh-impossible to escape such things. Here, I am an ex-pat, an immigrant and an asylum-seeker, and am thus largely able to cherry-pick from Krakow and Poland only those experiences and realities I wish to.
One thing that definitely is ‘ex-pat’ and not ‘immigrant’ or ‘asylum-seeker’ is that sense of difference, the feeling of otherness that we all enjoy so much. I suspect that, for many of us, besides the wanderlust and sense of cultural inquiry that first sent us from our shores, there is also a desire to be a little out of focus, just a bit off the radar in a way that we could never be back home. We enjoy being the foreigner, the one looking in instead of out. As we wonder, marvel, gripe and groan about our new surroundings, we sometimes also stop and learn things about ourselves and those around us: things we’d never notice in our own cultures. And that’s worth a hell of a lot of dogshit!
Under a full, crisp, Krakowian moon, the Balice shuttle bus whisked us efficiently the thirty or so metres from the aircraft to Customs. This fifteen-second hop always seems quite unnecessary to me. Is it a piece of classic British health & safety stowed away to Poland via an Extraordinary Rendition flight, a nod to a full-employment Communist past or, and this I suspect, a simple act of kindness to us, the weary travellers? Either way, it is infinitely preferable to the fifteen-minute slog through the Essex countryside when arriving at London Stansted.
Owing to my somewhat old-fashioned and probably reactionary English attitude to standards of public behaviour, I have, for as long as I can remember, always adopted a sedate, almost langorous, pace when joining a queue, considering any unseemly jostling or scrambling for position to be rather barbaric, certainly not ‘British’. However, I’ve been an expat for two years now and, hopping quickly first off the bus, I found myself the first to stand before the guard at passport control, looking just over his shoulder with a carefully-constructed mix of innocence (me, a terrorist?) and affected boredom in an effort to convince him I feel just the same as he does and the sooner he lets me back onto Polish soil, the sooner both he and I can go home. He appears not to notice my subliminal attempt at camaraderie and merely slides my passport back to me, his gaze already transferred to the babcia behind me, who is already digging her passport into my back, in mute defiance of both regulations and what was once-upon-a-time known as ‘personal space’.
On the bus, I’m immersed, cocoon-like, into blissful ignorance as the still largely-unfamiliar Polish language begins to bubble all around me. I’m tired of being shouted at from invisible speakers to buy Ryanair scratchcards and to choose from the exclusive range of in-flight purchases. Now, as the familiar houses and blocks slip past in the night, I relax, safe in the knowledge that whatever inanities and profanities are being muttered, most of them will slip harmlessly by.
I close my flat door behind me, disconnect myself from my rucksack (na koncu!) and, as my granny advises, try to ‘feel how I feel’. It, in fact, feels good to be back in Krakow. And I like my flat. A little cold now in the autumn, but a small adjustment to the brown ceramic sentinel standing guard in the corner will soon sort that. I switched on the kettle and fired up some BBC radio comedy on the laptop.
Windows XP appears rudely disturbed by my presence. It yawns, rubs the sleep out of its eyes and staggers slowly out of hibernation.
Under the streetlight outside, an alcoholic shakily proffers his mate a cigarette and receives, in exchange, a swig of something nameless and purple from a clear glass bottle. I wonder, once again, just how many broken, middle-aged alcoholic men there are in Krakow. Tens of thousands? Maybe. For every one on the street, you can bet there are another ten creeping about in dosshouses and soon-to-be redeveloped attics and basements. Where do these poor souls go when they get their marching orders? Where now, for example, are all those dangerous individuals who, we hear, made it impossible to walk safely through Kazimierz before the fall of Communism began to reunite kamienicas with long-forgotten landlords?
Because of the passage of time, and the passing of both generations and title deeds, some of these nouveau landlords, of course, have little connection to the city and have probably never even set foot here. Strangers from afar remoulding the country and its economy. I’m an immigrant myself, of course. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Me, an Englishman, an immigrant. ‘Funny how we all prefer the term ‘ex-pat’, when the name we give to the rest of the world is immigrant. Is it because many of us ‘ex-pats’ consider ourselves only temporary Krakowians, ready to skip off to the next country in a year or two or is it that the word ‘immigrant’ suggests a search for money and material gain while we are, in contrast, so wonderful, talented and comparatively affluent that ‘ex-pat’ is so much more appropriate: empowered, assured, cosmopolitan, safe?
If the truth be told, I am three things in one: ex-pat, immigrant and asylum-seeker. Firstly, I am an ex-pat, by which I mean that I am an educated Westerner who is blessed with opportunity and choice. Imagine, as a native English-speaker and teacher with money in my pocket, I can actually choose just about any country in the world to live in! Like most ex-pats, I am fairly affluent by Polish standards and I am also an ex-pat because I am able to skim along the surface of everyday Polish life without getting bogged down in details. It’s easy to be invisible in Poland. It’s easy not to pay taxes. It’s easy not to understand the language and remain aloof from day-to-day life. There is, to use Milan Kundera’s phrase, a ‘lightness of being’ in being an ex-pat.
But if immigration is about seeking a better standard of living, then I am also an immigrant as well as an ex-pat. Currently, I am in the process of buying a flat in Krakow and have also begun working for a company that never, never pays cash. After two years, I have this week officially become a resident, I have applied to the tax office for a tax number and I shortly intend to start my own business. Why this sudden loss of social invisibility? Money. I want more of it and I want it here, in Poland, where I don’t have to work as hard as I would in England - just like any other immigrant.
Oh, yes, I said I was an asylum-seeker, too. OK, maybe not in the real sense of the term but, come on, have you seen your country lately? Americans love America and I sure love England, but, to quote the bard himself, I fear that England has become quote a country afraid to know itself unquote. I am happy to be back in Poland. Sure, Krakow’s not all Rynek Glowny and beautiful Planty: outside the old city dogshit, graffiti and alcoholics assault the eye at every turn while the city and its people struggle to find a sense of self and of pride after generations, if not centuries, of humiliation and subjugation to foreign powers. But at least Poland is moving, slowly and painfully, in the right direction, not squandering its inheritance, afraid of its own shadow like England. I am here seeking asylum, not from oppression or tyranny, but from cultural ignorance, mental slavery and moral and political cowardice. Now of course Eastern Europe (like much of the world) is seeking to emulate the west in so many ways: its embrace of free-market economics and the attendant fracturing of once-supportive communities, for example. Poland is not a paradise and I am very glad I don’t understand the moronic television news or the foul-mouthed teenager standing next to me on the tram. But I am lucky: in England, it would be nigh-impossible to escape such things. Here, I am an ex-pat, an immigrant and an asylum-seeker, and am thus largely able to cherry-pick from Krakow and Poland only those experiences and realities I wish to.
One thing that definitely is ‘ex-pat’ and not ‘immigrant’ or ‘asylum-seeker’ is that sense of difference, the feeling of otherness that we all enjoy so much. I suspect that, for many of us, besides the wanderlust and sense of cultural inquiry that first sent us from our shores, there is also a desire to be a little out of focus, just a bit off the radar in a way that we could never be back home. We enjoy being the foreigner, the one looking in instead of out. As we wonder, marvel, gripe and groan about our new surroundings, we sometimes also stop and learn things about ourselves and those around us: things we’d never notice in our own cultures. And that’s worth a hell of a lot of dogshit!
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