Once upon a time, circa 2008, I was lucky to be invited by a friend to visit her in Paris. My stay there coincided with the visit of one of those rare individuals who –in his unassuming way- was a giant of his era. He made an incredible contribution to mankind and is known as the British Schindler.
Sir Nicholas Winton, “Nicky” to his friends, was in France for a special program on anti-Semitism. He hailed from Maidenhead (UK), was a lover of gardens, a gentle, kind, no-nonsense man who stressed that he was not a diplomat.
His story is one for the ages. In 1939, as an English stockbroker, Sir Nicholas Winton spent some time in Prague and he became a “living angel” by rescuing 669 Czech children from their doomed fate in the Nazi death camps. Most of the saved children never saw their parents again. These unfortunate souls perished in the German Nazi concentration camps.
Nicholas Winton’s feat was unrecognized for more than 50 years, and most of the children he saved were totally unaware who their savior had been. His story came to light when his wife Greta, rummaging through their attic, found an old leather briefcase that contained lists of the children and letters from their parents.
Sir Nicholas’ perspicacity made him aware that something was terribly wrong. Unlike so many others, he was courageous enough to do something to right what was so terribly wrong at the time. Because he was born of Jewish parents who later converted to Christianity, he was not recognized as one of the Righteous Gentiles at Yad Vashem.
The impact of Sir Nicholas’ remarkable achievement was so striking that there has even been a movie made of him, One Life, with Anthony Hopkins playing him. There also is a children’s book written and illustrated by Peter Sís called Nicky & Vera: A Quiet Hero of the Holocaust and the Children He Rescued. Below are 3 videos that tell his poignant story better than me.
I had the privilege, honor, and great fortune to meet a living legend, who lived to be 106 years and died in 2015. I spent a few times with Sir Nicholas and heard the harrowing experiences from the man himself. He had a sparkle in his eye and a most beautiful smile. I think of him often, and how it is so true that one person can make an enormous difference.
Sir Nicholas Winton never thought what he did was outstanding. It was just the right thing to do.
Poland is a land of contrasts, incredible beauty, sad history, and unique resilience. Driving from the Czech Republic to Warsaw, it is easy to understand why it is a land that has been ravaged by enemies from all over… It is largely flat, like the pampas of Argentina.
While Prague is a magical city, that basically remained intact, Warsaw is a ravaged city (more than 85% of it was razed to the ground in World War II) that rebuilt itself from the smoldering ruins catapulted by the retreating Germans and gleefully observed by the Soviet army across the river.
Many have forgotten the cruelty that the Poles experienced 60+ years ago. But when you live in Poland, it is palpable (every street corner or so has a plaque memorializing the execution of Polish citizens by the Nazi Germans –the formula was for one German killed, 10 Poles would die-).
The Poles are a proud people, and rightly so. After all, the Poles were the only Europeans to mount a counterattack within its occupied country. It is amazing how little anyone knows of this uprising. People in general confuse it with the Jewish Ghetto uprising. The Poles are perplexed that the world doesn’t know that about 200,000 Poles died in the Warsaw uprising.
While there were some resistance movements among occupied European nations, none rose to the level of the Poles. How many people today remember that the Poles played a crucial role in the battle of Monte Cassino (1943), and that so many of them died there? It was on the fourth assault of the monastery, led by the Poles, that the Germans were defeated. The graveyard in Monte Cassino is numbing, and, in the context of history, it is overwhelming, because it was thanks to this assault that the road to Rome was opened and Rome was liberated 3 weeks later. There is a sad last stanza of a famous Polish poem, dedicated to those who shed their blood in the battle for Monte Cassino:
D`you see this row of white crosses? Polish soldiers did honour there wed. The further you go, the higher, The more of such crosses you’ll meet. This soil was won for Poland, Though Poland is far away, For Freedom is measured in crosses When history from justice does stray.
But I digress… As I said, Poland is a land of contrasts and, in many ways, it is a land that puts many of us to shame. Beginning in early November, we have no real sunny days in Warsaw. In fact, the sun may shine a few hours a couple of days, but, for the most part, the days are gray, cold, and very short. Sunlight creeps its way around 8AM and decides to disappear by 3:30PM. Luckily, the rainy days soon give way to snowy days. One has to have a happy heart, and a strong backbone, not to be depressed or enter into a state of perennial hibernation during the winter months. It takes great effort to get up in the morning and be ready to go.
I cannot help but be reminded every single time I walk through the streets of Warsaw that this is a city that, against all odds, fought the Germans only to be stomped by the Soviets, and had more than 85% of its buildings razed to the ground only to be re-built, brick by brick. There is not one Pole who has not said to me that theirs is an ugly city that it cannot compare to other cities, especially Prague, in its beauty. In many ways, it is true that you cannot compare Warsaw to Prague. Prague is a small jewel that reminds the visitor that sometimes time can stay still. Warsaw, on the other hand, screams out -at least to me- that no matter how horrible life turned out for the Poles, they defied their state in life and literally came up from the ashes.
I cannot help but be awed by the Poles, when I think of all the beautiful spots on Earth that I have seen or lived in, where the weather is beautiful, the sun shines all the time, where food grows wild, without the harshness of the cold, and yet everybody complains about everything, that their problems are caused by “them” and never by “us”.
The amazing thing for me is how little we have ever been taught about Poland, and how quickly the world forgot what Poland went through.
In a Kafkaesque moment, I had a young Russian telling me that she found Warsaw ugly, with all the dull gray buildings (built under communism), and that, compared to a Budapest or a Prague or a Paris, it was a hideous city. Some chutzpah! I just sat there, looking at her a bit wild-eyed, and tersely mentioned to her that, of course, the city had been all but destroyed by the retreating Germans, adding that the destruction had been done while the Russians watched across the Vistula river, and that communism’s legacy in the architectural field left a lot to be desired (the same hideous panelak buildings are seen all over Russia and Europe, especially in those countries that were enamored of social planning…the barren projects in Paris where the Muslim youth rioted come to mind).
Taking the train all the way to the Baltic Sea, I often visited the largest Gothic fort in the world, that was the seat of the Teutonic Knights, those pesky Crusaders who were invited to come to Poland by a Polish king, and overstayed their welcome by a couple of hundred years. Malbork Castle is a beauty, and it is astonishing to see how efficient in their engineering ingenuity these knights were. They actually had central heating!
I’m sure the Germans who returned during WWII truly enjoyed their stay there, recapturing -so to speak- what they believed was rightfully theirs… Unfortunately, half of Malbork had to be re-constructed after the war. Today, it is a UNESCO protected spot.
An hour or so away from Malbork is the city of Gdansk, the birthplace of Solidarity. It is a marvelous city and the architecture is delightful.
Visiting the boatyard, where Lech Walęsa became famous, I had a mixture of emotions… Shock at how much has happened in such a short time; admiration at what a few individuals were able to do against the odds; awe at the mystery of what makes people leaders for a good cause; sadness at how quickly we all forget what the world was like before Pope John Paul II and Solidarity; and happiness knowing that Poland finally after WWII and the Cold War is now enjoying what it should have had after V-day and did not.
So, echoing the Gdansk exhibit, it was thanks to Solidarity (with the Pope’s blessing, when he told them not to be afraid) that Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Bulgaria, Romania, Croatia, Serbia & Montenegro, Albania, Moldova, Slovenia, Macedonia, Georgia, Ukraine are free from the communist yoke. The Poles started it all! I did not know that the famous gigantic ballpoint pen that Walęsa had used to sign the agreement with General Jaruzelski to end the strike had a big photo of the Pope. The influence of this man on the Poles, as well as the impact of Catholicism in the lives of the Poles, are monumental and I believe it is what keeps the Poles forging ahead with patience and optimism, against all odds.
It is also what annoys the rest of Europe about them as well, because Europeans have lost their Christian roots.
The crooked house in Sopot
Malbork Castle
A Teutonic Knight
Gdansk
Lech Walęsa helps a suffering Jesus on the way to Golgotha
So…instead of enjoying the beautiful Autumn Leaves in Virginia, or spending a leisurely Sunday Skypeing with children and grandchildren… Or delving into a good book… I spent the weekend sorting out various and sundry “stuff”, wondering why on earth I have accumulated so many things.
The problem that I have is that every little item I discover holds a tender memory, of my parents, my parents-in-law, my grandparents, my grandparents-in-law, my siblings and their families, my 2nd grade teacher, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. How do you discard those memories? I need them. I want them in my life. Yet, they contribute to a clutter that I am trying to resolve.
When I start packing a little cup (and I am chock-full of little cups), I remember vividly the occasion of receiving that little cup. My Polish teacher who first taught me Russian (when I was young and so excited about going to the USSR), gave me a Polish cup so that I would never forget about Poland – even though that happened about 20 years before I ever moved to Poland!
I once knew a lady who took her life in the Foreign Service as an opportunity to de-clutter her home every 3 years or so, including all her children’s stuffed animals and toys. She told me -many years ago- that her kids never, ever forgave her for being so callous. I was horrified then. Today, I am looking at Ninja turtles, lego critters, baseball cards, and wondering. Mmmm. Sometimes one needs to be heartless.
As I continue the process of filling up boxes and making decisions, I finally understand the significance of the Gospels, and why the Apostles were told -basically- drop everything and join “me”. Material things weigh heavily and draw us down. I also think about all those people who have suffered total losses with the California fires and the hurricanes. Am trying to understand my need to cling to objects that bring me close to my memories and to those whom I left behind or who have left me. War, natural disasters, they obliterate the “things”. Memories last a lifetime.
Going through old papers I found this little sketch that I had made. It brought back memories of the Czech forestry students who decorated the grounds. It also brought memories of the happy times my daughter Adriana and I spent in Prague: the times we shared with visitors (family and friends), the defining moments we shared with new friends -who have become lifelong friends-, the dead boar (THAT is another story for another day).
Oh well. I need to get back to the de-cluttering and packing. There is light at the end of the tunnel, I know. But, my tunnel is S-shaped, and I can’t see it now. But I know it’s there. I hope so!
(Originally journaled exactly 7 years ago, but it still applies! I am still grappling with de-cluttering and packing. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”!).
In my peripatetic life, I have found that, no matter how many times I move, it never gets any easier. In fact, the annoyances that come with sorting the relevant with the irrelevant don’t seem to decrease in size. They actually metamorphosize into Kafkaesque gigantic insects, which cannot be swatted down.
However, the hardest part of having to get up and go, is the realization that I am leaving behind a portion of my heart. Partir c’est mourir un peu. To leave is to die a little. It hurts. There is a hole, and nothing will ever fill the void. Yes, there will be new experiences, and new friends, which will allow the hole to shrink, but a hole it will always remain.
One of the nicest memories I took away from every Foreign Service post was sharing times with most Embassy members, trying, in a small way, to serve the U.S. Government while I was there.
I was not the “employee”, but rather what was then labeled the “dependent spouse”, a moniker that I never liked because it made the spouse an appendage of sorts! And it did not reflect reality either. Also, there were lots of partners accompanying the Foreign Service Officers. But that is a subject for a future musing.
An era always ends, when so many good Embassy people leave, and a new era begins, with so many new people coming to post.
I always imagined, based on myriad of conversations, it had to be hard for all the local employees who remained to adjust to yet another change, no matter what. Although, in a few occasions, they were delighted that the tour was relatively short, to see insufferable characters move on! At the end of the day, though, we, the expats, come and go… but the Foreign Service Nationals are always there, a wonderful steadfast presence.
If I have two big regrets that have been common whenever I left every country I lived in it is that I failed to avail myself of all the incredible opportunities that the Embassy network and expat and local communities provided the transient dependent, and that, because of my own busy life, I did not dedicate as much time to get to know many of the Embassy member employees better. Sometimes, our paths did cross again, here or there, but not as often as I had hoped.
Those are the regrets that come with the realization that life is a river, never stopping, ever flowing, until the end.
I learnt about this poem and the song from my Mother, when we lived in Tokyo, She was a young mother then, and now I realize how she ached for what she had left behind. But at the time, she never showed her melancholy. On the contrary, we were embarking on a new and exciting adventure.
I leave you with the great Pavarotti and a translation of the French poet Edmond Haraucourt’s best known poems.
Rondel de l'adieu by Edmond Haraucourt
To part, is to die a little, Dying to the things we love: We leave a little of ourselves In each hour and each place.
Always the grieving of a wish The closing verse of a poem; To part, is to die a little, Dying to the things we love.
And in parting, just a game, Yet until the final goodbye With our souls, we leave Our marks at each farewell: To part, is to die a little.
Sometimes, we tend to forget that actions have consequences and relegate our own to the dust bin of irrelevance or oblivion. A while back, I discovered this is not necessarily true, and that our actions can have surprising consequences.
About 20 years ago, a lady I knew adopted a Russian child. She brought the 6-year old to my home, to a party we were hosting. At the time, this new Mother was thrilled with her new status, but trepidatious, because there was an enormous chasm between her and her son: they just could not communicate. The boy was shy and withdrawn, and she ached to hold him and comfort him, but it was oh so very difficult to penetrate the boy’s world.
I happened to have a lot of children’s stories in Russian (including Tolstoy’s stories), because I once had had BIG dreams that my sons would learn the language, having lived in Moscow. It didn’t work out. None were interested. To my chagrin, they preferred the romance languages.
Listening to this lady’s plight, I remembered my precious little Russian children’s stories, and, without hesitating, I gathered all these books and gave them to her. Before doing so, I chatted with the little boy in my elementary Russian and his eyes lit up. Seeing that flicker of recognition in that boy’s eyes made me think that, maybe, these stories would help a little Russian boy lost in America.
Fast forward 7 years. I return to the US after many years abroad, and I meet a strapping young 15-16 year old young man accompanied by his Mother, who is selling Boy Scout Christmas wreaths. I don’t recognize the young man, and his Mother looks vaguely familiar, but I cannot quite place where we have met. (This is a phenomenon that has happened to me a lot during my life in the Foreign Service!).
The lady greets me warmly and tells me that I may not have realized it, but I had helped both her and her son many years before. I am baffled. She then proceeded to tell me that through the gift of a bunch of Russian stories I had made a long time ago, she and her adopted son had bonded. Although it would take a little while for them to overcome the language barrier, those books brought the two of them together. That little boy, many years back, could find solace in something so familiar, and could read in his language… and she, at least, could hold the books while he snuggled with her, delighting in their content.
I had totally forgotten what I had done. Yet the memories came pouring out of the recesses of my mind. I was humbled and touched as I have never been. Today, the little Russian boy is a young man. I wonder what he is doing nowadays.
Actions do have consequences. One sometimes is blind to the ripple effect of a tiny gift. So, my sons did not learn Russian – they closed that door. But, for a little boy out of a Russian orphanage, lost in his new home in the US, a window was opened.
And for me? The boy’s Mother gave me the biggest gift of all: discovering that I had, unknowingly, helped open that window!
Dum Spiro Spero 