The author of the memoir excerpts presented below, Janina z Rafalskich Warnecka (1901-1988), the wife of the distinguished actor and director Janusz Warnecki, was born in Poltava as the daughter of Bronisław Rafalski and Julia from the Eysymont family. Her father, an engineer-technologist, worked in this city as a specialist in the construction of waterworks. He built, among others, the water system in Poltava, sewage systems in Astrakhan, and artesian wells for Prince Kochubey in Dykanka. At the beginning of the 20th century, Russia was a lucrative labor market, attracting many Poles who found more favorable living conditions for themselves and their families than in their homeland. Janina Warnecka’s memoirs, written several decades later, provide a colorful picture of the life of the large Polish colony in Poltava and are an interesting contribution to the history of the Polish intelligentsia in Russia.
In 1914, the Rafalski family moved from Poltava to Astrakhan and remained there for the next four years, and in 1918 – after the outbreak of the Bolshevik Revolution – they returned to Poland permanently.
Seventeen-year-old Janina Rafalska then began her studies in the piano class at the Warsaw Conservatory on Okólnik Street. She made friends with students from the neighboring Drama School, including Jadwiga Smosarska. In 1920, while traveling on a medical train near the front of the ongoing Polish-Bolshevik war, she volunteered to care for wounded soldiers.
Continuing her studies at the conservatory, she took on part-time jobs, including at the Ministry of Public Works. However, she realized that a career as a pianist was not her calling, and that what truly attracted her was theater. As the only one among dozens of candidates applying for a position at the Union of Polish Stage Artists, she was accepted to work as a secretary, and by entering the theater community, she also began to try her hand at acting – with success. She performed on stage in Warsaw and Poznań, and in 1928, along with a group of actors, she embarked on an international tour – Paris, New York, Chicago, London. After returning to Warsaw, on August 29, 1929, she married Janusz Warnecki.
In the 1930s, Janina Warnecka, independently of her strictly artistic activities in the theater, developed her activity in another field – journalism. She collaborated with the Polish Press Agency and with Polish Radio, where she had her regular columns. Belonging with her husband Janusz Warnecki to the cultural elite of interwar society, she maintained close social relations with many luminaries of Polish literary and artistic life, a whole array of whom appear in her memoirs.
During the occupation, she worked, among other things, as a waitress in the famous Warsaw café “U Aktorek”. She experienced difficult moments when Janusz Warnecki was arrested by the Gestapo in connection with the murder of Igo Sym and imprisoned in Pawiak. After the fall of the Uprising, she, along with thousands of Warsaw residents, ended up in a camp in Pruszków. In the post-war period, she returned to work in the theater and also appeared in several films. Hanna z Nalepińskich Pieczarkowska, closely friends with Janina Warnecka since the 1920s, characterized her with this amusing poem:
To Nina W.
Though she was often difficult in everyday life,
In her youth, she had admirers at her feet
And even an enemy must admit:
She was sometimes unbearable – but never boring!
(compiled by Henryk Wąsowski)
Poles in Poltava before World War I, Part I
Our house was always full of guests. My mother was very sociable, my father, in his free time, enjoyed playing whist, and my brother Bronek’s friends would frequently linger on the terrace, window sills, and in the yard. There were many Polish families in the city, mostly the so-called technical intelligentsia. Polish engineers were highly valued and well-paid in Russia, as the vast Tsarist empire always lacked specialists.
In Poltava, Polish families – the Żelechowskis, Czengerichs, Kondrackis, Eynors, Korolcs, Mrozińskis – formed the so-called society. We also had two – as they were called then – old maids visiting. Even their names sound amusing today: Miss Kamilla and Miss Ottonina. Boring, perhaps, but fellow countrywomen, so we had to host them. Kamilla always said upon entering: “Praise be,” to which Bronek replied: “Forever and ever, ink.” Kamilla was fortunately hard of hearing, while Ottonina was terribly nearsighted. One evening, she entered a side room and, despite being called back, did not return. “I can’t… I can’t…” The poor thing leaned heavily on a dresser with flypapers spread out on it.
Poles did not perhaps form a hermetically sealed community, but there was a bond among them that could not be broken even when newcomers from the homeland did not meet the standards. On Sundays, everyone attended the Catholic church en masse, not so much out of piety, but for tradition and to emphasize their Polishness. The handsome Father Tarasewicz, a would-be opera tenor, held sway over souls and was welcomed as a good companion and partner in card games.
Besides the three of us (Bronek, Kazik, and me), there were always other children at our place in the summer, cousins, like Tadzio Zajączkowski, the so-called “otczajannyj” – daredevil. Our invaluable caretaker Moisiej used to say: “This little master won’t die a natural death…” Tadzio would perch on the branch of the tallest tree, hang over the opening of a deep well, and attack stronger ones. Unfortunately, Moisiej was right in his horoscope – Tadeusz was shot by the Nazis.
In the fence surrounding our yard, there was a gate that opened into a very old orchard. Apple trees twisted spasmodically, pear trees, cherries, fragrant herbs, swarms of bees, sun-warmed air, wildflowers, raspberries, nettles, large burdocks. Everything here lived its separate life, throbbed, chirped with bird voices, it was amazing how, just a few meters from the populated yard, another world began. There, we would fall from trees, sometimes painfully bruised, but we didn’t care at all. What was falling from trees! I had a worse adventure. In the summer, swarms of Gypsy women roamed the city, I was probably five years old then, playing in the yard, when a dark-skinned lady convinced me with a candy that I should go for a walk with her. Only around the corner of the street did the lamenting nanny catch up with us, somewhat changing the course of my destiny.
Holidays in childhood! We longed for Christmas or Easter. The second month of the school year passes – how long until Christmas? We calculated. It wasn’t the presents that mattered, but the atmosphere and the holiday break. We celebrated holidays traditionally. Christmas Eve, so many dishes, fish, mushrooms, dumplings, mistletoe, a Christmas tree at home, and a big children’s ball at the “Noble Club.” Shortly after Christmas, a separate celebration – New Year. It’s unbelievable how deeply rooted traditions were – gentlemen were obliged to “pay visits.” Such a gentleman in black, with a cane, necessarily in a top hat, would sit in the parlor, the master of the house usually absent because he also had to do his rounds. The guest sat stiffly in the armchair, offering wishes to the lady of the house, with whom he had no connection, or conversely – closely acquainted, having seen her yesterday, actually having nothing to say, repeating all the clichés – the weather, the Duma, Rasputin, drinking a glass and rushing to the third, fifth, fifteenth “visit.” By evening, he would collapse from exhaustion and, like a limp rag, slightly tipsy, fall onto the bed without strength. The same thing next year.
New Year’s Eve was celebrated noisily, but we children did not participate. Mother, in some airy dress adorned with butterflies, would bend over our beds and leave with father for unknown regions “to meet the New Year,” that’s what New Year’s Eve was called.
Easter had a completely different aura. Even the preparations were exciting. At home, something like an earthquake, hustle and bustle. Beating, chopping, grinding, cracking nuts, all pots, pans, troughs, baking trays occupied, the crunch of almonds ground with sugar in unglazed bowls, tulle cakes, saffron cakes always in danger, mazurkas at risk – the foam might fall, the yolks might curdle, the cakes might “sit”… On Holy Saturday, somehow the fears subsided, on the tables everything was already glazed, decorated, polished. And then the setting of the table began. The blessed food didn’t stand on the dining table, but separately in the dining room at the back, by the wall. A white tablecloth with boxwood bouquets, carafes, bottles, azaleas, hyacinths, cinerarias, and stocks, in the middle a large cake with a sugar lamb on top, surrounded by colorful eggs, next to a raw Lithuanian ham, on the other side a ham baked in dark flour dough (the dog Ikar would eat this crust), a roll of baked sausage, a piglet with a painted egg in its mouth, rectangular mazurkas: marzipan, chocolate, gypsy, orange, water, and who knows what else, a cheese pascha in the shape of a squat obelisk decorated with candied peel. On Saturday at midnight, the adults approached the table for a piece of ham – a symbol of breaking the Great Fast.
On the first day of the holiday, I traditionally wore a new dress, already summer, and it was quite boring, but on the second day of the holiday! At dawn, Bronek would douse me while I was still in bed, I would jump up furious, and the endless water fight lasted all day.
In old Russia, as I recall, uniforms were always and everywhere obligatory. Not to mention the military, civilians also had caps with piping and insignia, such piping on jackets, students too, of course, were uniformed – uniforms, uniforms to exhaustion. It was strange that people of free professions, people of science, professors, teachers, officials – all were in uniforms. Poles probably broke away from this custom, wearing long frock coats, swallowtail jackets, and for sport – wide knickerbockers to the knee. Ladies naturally in corsets with uplifted busts – everything else was unimportant: legs, stomach – nonsense! Waist! A wasp waist is beauty, the waist was measured with a tape measure – squeeze more, tighten more, until the squeezed body went up or down. Incomprehensible that this round and hard waist like iron, because it was armored with stays, was what counted, and the fact that the figure looked like it was broken in half and emphasized the back was irrelevant. The waist circumference was measured in vershoks, and on the bust of a fashionably prepared lady, you could put a plate of soup. With the lady’s head enlarged with curls, the man looked insignificant. Short jackets, narrow trousers – even with an athletic build, he did not match the woman’s abundance. He made up for it with hairiness. Those mustaches, those beards, those curls, often pince-nez on a black ribbon on the nose – so much of it all on the face that if he shaved, no one would recognize him. Actually, a boy looked young until the age of 18, then he became a bearded older gentleman and remained so until the end of life – the beard growing longer, reaching halfway down the chest, gradually graying, resembling the coat of a piebald dog.
Being Polish in Tsarist Russia was both easy and difficult. Supposedly no oppression, respect for specialists, yet we were so different, they on their own, we transient birds. Whoever felt Polish, eo ipso adhered to democratic ideals, students along with Russians belonged to secret socialist circles. The word “Siberia” ceased to be a geographical concept, it was synonymous with oppression, degradation, and annihilation, my uncles Feliks and Antoni went there after 1905 and never returned. In our house, discussions on political topics were constantly held, especially when another bearded young man sent by Aunt Kicia for lodging appeared. Uncle Żeniek was explosive, always in opposition, passionately arguing Dreyfus’s innocence, but I remember his cold statement with a smile: “- Blue stocking, indeed… Suffragettes demanding equal rights! Silly women, they don’t see it will backfire on them… ha!… the battle of the sexes, they want to ‘show us’! Maybe someday they will succeed, and then what? They’ll work like galley slaves, and men will gladly shed some of the burden off their backs. Don’t you see the idiocy – demanding a worsening of fate!” What to say to that? I’ll say – hmm…
Father’s relations with workers, mother’s with servants were excellent. Contrary to common prohibitions, I wasn’t forbidden from sitting in the kitchen, which I loved. Sitting on the scrubbed table, I listened to tales, songs, gossip. Maybe not as fruitfully as Pushkin, but with pleasure. We had an old nanny Eufemia, who worked with us for 18 years until her death. In her childhood, she was still a “serf,” she never spoke about it, but once in the kitchen, she recounted how the master ordered her to be tied to a doghouse all night for some offense. She was afraid of the night, afraid of the dog, she screamed… This story made a huge impression on me, I couldn’t sleep for a long time, the next day, to her embarrassment, I kissed her hand. Sometimes the cook’s son in an embroidered shirt with oiled hair would come to the kitchen, and then we would sing Ukrainian songs, I remember:
U sosida chata biła
U sosida żynka myła
A u mene ni chatynki etc. etc.
The favorite topic of conversations was plagues, pestilences, and miracles. Apparently, a sense of social duty was sprouting in me – I should tell something interesting myself, not just listen. Just then, a card arrived from Aunt Mania – we have a beautiful little daughter Irenka. It was Aunt’s seventh child, I had to tell about this fact: “You know, my aunt has sooo many children… maybe ten, because she has a child every month… so small…” “But that’s impossible, Niunieczka” – discreet smiles. “But it’s true. Ask mom. Every month – a new child!” At that moment, with a loud clang, a huge copper pan fell from the wall, and the discussion ended amid laughter.
A few more words about nanny Eufemia. Above all, she was afraid of fire, once she ran in panic throughout the house, claiming she smelled burning, and it was actually the hem of her long skirt smoldering. She didn’t believe in paper banknotes, her salary had to be paid in gold. She saved it for many years in a pouch “for Kazieczka,” because she loved my brother Kazik the most, that he was so thin, sensitive – maybe she sensed his tragic fate. The old woman had no needs except… coffee. Father, returning from travels, always brought her a beautiful tin of the best Ejnem coffee. Eufemia, in Russian Jewfimia – a relic of past times, a suppressed individuality, an illiterate, lived for us, with our matters, demanding nothing for herself. In Poland, this type probably existed too, more akin to the “resident” type, today fortunately completely extinct. My first life compromises are associated with nanny. When I was refused something, I would announce with a scream that I was leaving home forever. “Nanny, pack up!” We would leave for the street with a suitcase, I would feel more and more foolish, no one stopped me. We walked ahead, finally nanny would start: – At home, they probably all cry… Ikar whines… and such a good dessert was supposed to be today… but that’s not for us… Slowly the anger would fade, but I can’t lose my 6-year-old face! After a hard psychological struggle, I decide: “We’re going back!” At home, feigned surprise: “You’re back already?” That’s where my endurance ended: I would burst into a big sob: “We’ll take the evening train!” And in the evening, no one reminded me of that decision.
It’s funny how my parents, native Varsovians, and my mother a Warsaw native, slowly acquired a singing accent. We were bilingual, at home we spoke Polish, read Polish, subscribed to Polish newspapers, associated with Poles… and yet. Very rarely did Russians visit us, except for a certain electrical engineer named Nikolai Ivanovich Troitsky. He was married to an actress in St. Petersburg, divorced, emigrated south, and asked for his daughter Toni to be accepted by us for the summer. We were both 11 years old. The girl was pretty, exuded Petersburg style, everything she had was better than mine: shoes, dresses, big straw hats with bunches of cherries. I met her 12 years later in Paris, performing at the Folies-Bergere.
Troitsky had two motorcycles – Karl Ivanovich and Amalia Karlovna, those were their names. He would arrive with noise on one of them and immediately rush to us, to the children. We adored him, and rightly so. He was interested in us and knew everything. To start – an acrobatics show, a few somersaults in the air, then he would put us on our heads. If we weren’t properly warmed up, a laughter lesson would begin. He laughed lightly at first, then louder and louder, reaching such paroxysms that tears would run down our faces, exhausted we would collapse onto the couches. In moments of calm, I would bring out an album. I would make a watercolor blot on a page, say a bright green one. Our friend would then start painting a picture in such a way that my blot or some wavy line became a necessary part of the whole. It was fascinating to follow the progress of the watercolor – what would he come up with?
My father was an astronomy and mathematics enthusiast. We had a telescope in the attic, and when Mr. Paderewski visited, they would observe the sky together. Paderewski was tall, red-haired, and I don’t remember if he was a brother or cousin of the great Ignacy. Always thoughtful and absent-minded, he would come alive “with stars and music,” as he played the cello. Once, when my mother was busy, I had the honor of accompanying him – oh, of course – it was Ogiński’s polonaise.
By then I was practicing systematically. Our professor Schontag, otherwise a very sought-after pedagogue, was a pianist who played like a sewing machine. A sincere Czech patriot, he always offered Czech music, made me play Sharvenka, Drdla, or Dvořák, and bored me quite a bit. Unfortunately, I had an ease with reading music, playing large pieces a prima vista, and before I mastered a piece by memory, I was already bored with it and discarded it unpolished, unfinished.
We weren’t an exception, we owned a strange object with a crank and a huge horn, called a gramophone. Large black records played for probably less than a minute, and then cranking the handle again, changing the needle. If there had been “golden records” back then, the performer of Gypsy romances, Wialcewa, would have undoubtedly won one. Her records flooded the market: “Oczi cziornyje,” “A Jasmine Branch,” or “Gajda trojka.” There was shameless soul-baring in these romances, volcanoes of jealousy and love, goblets of wine, racing “troikas” of sleds, despair, all feelings in max. The greatest international career was made by “Dark Eyes,” perhaps greater than the famous “The Maiden’s Prayer” by Bądarzewska, and yet she, if ZAIKS had existed then, would have become a millionaire.
The one thing no child in our environment could avoid was dance lessons. In a light dress with a sash tied below the waist in a bow, with ribbons in my hair, polished, I was led with my brothers to the Kondrackis. They had a huge salon full of unexpected things, such as ‘screens’ covering stoves – large rectangles painted or embroidered, framed in mahogany on wheels, “artistically” painted screens with sunflowers or birds, sets of white gilded furniture, and finally a huge Voltaire chair, in which a completely mummified grandmother sat. Next to the chair was a footstool upholstered with soft fabric with a fringe, and on the back, on golden cords, hung something like a muff – a silk, embroidered pillow for the head. On the wall, there was a huge oil painting depicting Cleopatra at a critical moment in her life, holding a small snake in her fingers, its tongue eagerly approaching her ample décolletage. On the consoles stood palms, there was also a Chinese corner, a nodding porcelain bonze, unfolded fans on the wall above. The polished floor sometimes creaked warningly, the house was old. Mothers, aunts, grandmothers sat against the walls, we gathered on the other side, boys separately, girls separately. The master arrived, the pianist struck the keys, and we began. The oddity of the dances was so astonishing that it resembled math problems, the multitude of figures so complicated that it was easy to confuse their order, which spoiled the flow of the choreographic tasks being solved. I would start with a partner as God intended, but soon I had to find myself face-to-face, we bowed to each other, changed places, once hands on hips, once crossed, a few steps to the right, a few to the left, a jump, all on the command of one, two, three. The pianist kept time with the precision of an automaton. We finished “pas de quatre,” began “polka-coquette,” “hiavata,” “pas de patineur,” salon lezginka, mazurka, and finally waltz. That was something. You could spin yourself into dizziness. But to make it harder, we danced a figure waltz, changed partners, the master’s tenor thundered: “En avant!”, “Rond!”, “A vos dames!” The command was only in French, such were the customs.
Poles in Poltava before World War I, Part II
Almost every year we would come to Warsaw, “so the children wouldn’t lose their nationality.” Ah, Warsaw… it was a different world. Strange, everyone spoke Polish, quickly with a hard accent, everyone was in a hurry… The narrow Marszałkowska Street seemed very elegant to me, especially the shop windows. More than toy displays, I began to be interested in the countless windows of Bogusław Herse (Marszałkowska corner of Kredytowa), besides dresses, beautiful trinkets were displayed, who remembers today: Pompadour silk ribbons, wide, in delicate stylish flowers, satin ribbons, moiré, velvet, taffeta, ostrich plumes plereuse tied to extend the natural length of each fiber, dyed fancifully – at the base, for example, deep orange, gradually lightening to pale yellow and white, so beautifully waving on hats or sorties. Parasollets in countless tulle ruffles, various artificial flowers to pin, bouquets of Parma violets, Atkinson’s perfumes, Gabilla, and lace, lace – thin valancienne, fleshy guipures, embroideries, szychy, snowy ermine stoles, sables. Inside, Herse’s store was arranged in such a way that it would make a modern Art Nouveau enthusiast dizzy. These gildings, twisted balusters by the pompous stairs covered with raspberry carpet, mirrors everywhere, alabaster maidens with torches in their hands, showcases, vases – not a single straight line! Behind the counters, young ladies – elegance itself, grace, corseted tightly, eyes tense – to anticipate the client’s wishes, to please! On the upper floor, salons with armchairs, separate fitting rooms, and mirrors, mirrors, on the ceilings flourishes, stucco in cornucopias, garlands, gilding, and crystal chandeliers. However, I placed “Aurelia” first, Marszałkowska corner of Złota. “Aurelia” – corsets! In the large mirrored windows, I watched with tension a dozen mannequins of beautiful ladies of natural size. They presented white, pink, black corsets, and fragments of some lingerie. The mannequins were very realistic. A separate sophisticated accent – one of the ladies was a Negro. It’s incomprehensible how the company could run such a large shop, selling only corsets as the sole article! Later I heard a rumor that it was a disguised brothel.
Every third house on Marszałkowska was a confectionery. At that time, they didn’t say ‘cafe,’ but ‘confectionery,’ and the pastries were excellent. Actually, all of Warsaw smelled to me of cream cakes, and the second elusive scent – gas. In distant Russia, we didn’t have gas, and my nose was sensitive to this new smell. Confectioneries offered stacks of newspapers and illustrated magazines, local and foreign, and billiards. Ladies rather didn’t appear in billiard salons, as players would remove their jackets, revealing – indecently – vests and white shirt sleeves.
All of Marszałkowska echoed with the dull clatter of horse hooves. Dull? Indeed, because Marszałkowska was paved with wooden blocks. Yes. It’s hard to believe today that a road surface could be laid with wood like a room floor. It would wear out, bulge, blacken from water and snow, but it was there. I would say there was some elegance in it, intimacy, cobblestones couldn’t compare to these surfaces.
I don’t remember much from those stays in Warsaw, we obligatorily visited Powązki at the grandparents’ graves, the Zachęta Gallery, once at the theater (probably at the Summer Theater in the Saxon Garden for Fertner), in Łazienki, in the Botanical and Pomological Gardens on Nowogrodzka. I got to know a different Warsaw in 1918 and remained there with small interruptions for the rest of my life.
We returned to Ukraine full of impressions and resumed our studies. When I turned 10, it was time to seriously think about my education. There wasn’t much choice of schools, so I took the entrance exam to the Mary Gymnasium. It went well, and properly uniformed, I sat at the desk. It went surprisingly smoothly for me, and I think I immediately adopted a good system of paying attention in class, often volunteering “to answer,” and therefore I didn’t have much work at home. As the only two Poles in the class, we were very proud when the whole class had a religion lesson, and we were excused as Catholics. We had religion all together – a dozen or so girls from the whole gymnasium of different ages, taught by Father Tarasewicz.
In those times, it was believed that an educated person should have at least a cursory knowledge of Latin, and in schools, Latin was by no means a marginal subject, and students crammed it seriously and with great effort. Some percentage of acquired knowledge stayed for life, and it certainly helped a lot in studying other languages. Most young people considered Latin a divine punishment, but not infrequently young minds succumbed to the charm of antiquity, especially when the Latin teacher was at a high level. From those times, I remember a humorous poem, testifying to the significance of the Latin language in student life:
EGO po polu szatałsia,
MIHI PUER powstrieczałsia,
PUER LAPIDEM schwatił,
MIHI w CAPUT zapustił.
A real earthquake at school was the visit of Empress Maria Feodorovna, the mother of the “graciously reigning over us” Nicholas II. She patronized all the Mary institutes throughout Russia. The teaching staff trembled, the director trembled, and the last scullery maid trembled. Learning was set aside, we practiced courtly bows, walls, ceilings, floors were scrubbed, exotic trees in vats were brought in.
The multi-story building of our school was situated by a large round-shaped square. In the middle, a large square-park, around the buildings of the boys’ gymnasium, the cadet corps, some offices, the road ran in a circle. A cavalcade of carriages slowly circled the roundabout, in the open landau the empress, on the sidewalks crowds of citizens, policemen were tripling in great zeal, finally, the horses stopped in front of the pompous school facade. We stood in a row in the hall and along the stairs when the mother-empress appeared with her entourage. She walked slowly among local notables, looked like Queen Mary of England, and then Lucyna Kotarbińska. A complicated hat in the shape of a beehive, feather boa, short train, jabot, white long glasse gloves, an unattractive face full of “graciousness.” Thus she paraded, and we in the deepest plie with folded hands. What shortcomings she could notice in this polished readiness, I don’t know, but that’s probably the fate of all inspectors.
Soon after the “most gracious visit,” a sad incident occurred at the school. A sixth-grade student died of “sugar disease.” Contributions, wreaths, and we had to go to the church for the panikhida and funeral. Like a primitive animal, I couldn’t stand the sight of corpses. In Russia, there was a strange custom of carrying open coffins to cemeteries. I would avert my gaze. Now in the church, I stood close to the catafalque, I knew the girl, it seemed disloyal to close my eyes, so I glanced “with a quarter of an eye” and… I had enough. Incense smoke rose around, the ears filled with the chants of the deacon basso profondo, the terrifying sight of several long-haired and bearded priests – I was close to fainting. Apparently, I turned very pale, as the crowd parted when I tried to leave.
I wasn’t very aware of ‘public matters’ at the time, but even I heard about the “clay feet” – the expression for the Tsardom standing on clay feet. There were whispers of unheard-of debauchery and Rasputin’s drunkenness, of treating the empress like a farm girl, of miracles, prophecies, scandals, of his incredible arrogance. It was far away, and we had our own scandal. In 1913, a trial of national fame, maybe even worldwide, was held in Kiev, like the Dreyfus affair: the famous Beilis trial. Beilis was accused of ritual murder. Children whispered: “he killed a little boy, drained his blood for matzo.” This horrific story inflamed hatred, there was talk of pogroms, Jews worldwide were stirred, petitions came from many countries, the most eminent lawyers defended Beilis pro bono. Mothers trembled for their children, as if some black abyss had opened, horrible, unknown, full of mysteries, mysticism, and fanaticism. In the end, Beilis was acquitted, and public opinion calmed down.
In the Ukrainian climate, children grew up healthy, we didn’t avoid various infectious nasties like mumps, diphtheria, etc. Moreover, I vaguely remember the annual outbreaks of epidemics led by cholera. My mother, very healthy and strong, fell victim to the plague. A peasant woman came to the kitchen with eggs for sale, my mother noticed suspicious blisters on her hands, and the old woman: “Don’t be afraid, it’s smallpox!”. Bagatelle! Soon my mother had a fever of 41 degrees, smallpox developed, the most dangerous kind. I was probably 5 years old, but I remember how we were separated, the sickroom was all lined with red paper, red lamp shades, which supposedly protected against pockmarks. It did indeed. Why does one remember details from over half a century ago, precisely these and not others? I remember us eating green peas loudly picking with forks, how the nurse ran in demanding silence, and how I heard whispers: “the lady is dying,” and my mother supposedly in delirium complained about the brilliance of diamonds, rubies… That’s what I remember, and I don’t recall at all the time of her convalescence.
Returning to later years. I read a lot. I must confess – more willingly in Russian than in Polish. Well, the influence of the surroundings, school, exchanging books with friends. Maybe because I read so much, the Russian language was my strong point, I wrote essays for top grades. We read everything. The youth author Czarska, novels by Cooper, Verne, classics, I was fond of Hamsun, I devoured forbidden romances: “Keys to Happiness” by Wierbicka; at 13, I already knew “The Torture Garden” by Mirabeau. A mishmash in the head. Miss Vintel provided me with French novels when I outgrew the tales of Countess de Segur for well-behaved young ladies. I always liked the French language and lament that blurred English has displaced the magnificent, precise, and clear speech of Lamartine.
Our city was famous for the battle with the Swedes in 1709, interesting objects, old coins, weapons, skeletons were constantly being unearthed. A curiosity was the wooden church where Peter the Great prayed for victory, it would undoubtedly have crumbled to dust if it hadn’t been walled around. Like in a case, it survived the centuries, with beautiful icons inside.
The year 1914 was approaching. In the summer, my brother Bronek was already sent to our uncle’s in Łomża, father went on business to London regarding rapid filters, we, the rest, spent holidays by the Baltic in the renowned resort of Palanga. Very close in port Alexander III lived my beloved uncle Jan Zajączkowski, the quintessence of charm and talents, a marine engineer, once a Japanese prisoner after Port Arthur. One day we were playing some old albums of salon pieces for four hands. At one point, uncle didn’t like the sound of the “C-sharp” key. Without thinking long, he took apart the piano’s guts, but lacked the energy to put it back together, preferring to swim with me. We bathed in our funny costumes, and it was divine.
Suddenly, a piece of bad news hit – w a r ! Everything turned upside down, we quickly found ourselves in Libau. Trains departed irregularly, desperate crowds occupied the platforms, I remember Dantean scenes in the hotel corridor, sobs, spasms, a lady in a shirt with loose hair to her waist collapsed on the floor in a hysterical fit, children screamed, commotion, suddenly a voice: “Calm down, after all, Germans are not animals!” After a few days, hope of departure dawned on us. We got up very early and set off by carriage to the station. When, after many peregrinations, we finally reached home, father and Bronek were already waiting for us. We were still supposed to go to the favorite village of Gołtwa, where we often spent part of our holidays, but given the horror of war, we gave up.
I don’t even remember if the traditional Sorochinsky Fair took place then. These fairs had nothing in common with the concept of trading in fairground junk. Representatives of large companies would arrive, in pavilions, one could buy a diamond ring, an expensive fur, a thoroughbred horse, or a guitar. It was simultaneously a colorful display of folklore, comely Ukrainian women in national embroidered costumes, strings of coral, with wreaths on their heads, served as today’s hostesses, serving national dishes – dumplings made of dark flour with cheese and cream in painted bowls, famous Ukrainian borscht, dry Kiev preserves, and many other specialties.
Here I am about the fair, and yet war broke out. Much was happening in the world, and changes occurred in our lives too. Father thought it was time to change location, before Ukraine, he had changed many cities, Bronek was born in Tsaritsyn (later Stalingrad). Two possibilities emerged. An offer to take the position of director of the waterworks in Kalisz and the construction of a sewage system in Astrakhan. Parents were drawn to the homeland, but on the other hand, any specialist had to be tempted by a great construction, whose budget was roughly 5 million rubles. Not to mention the honors, financially Kalisz and Astrakhan compared like a zloty to a thousand dollars. At an ad hoc family meeting, the children categorically opted for Astrakhan, Bronek was soon turning 17, we were under his influence. Besides, the Volga… one of the largest rivers, exoticism, caviar, grapes, the nearby Caucasus – poor Kalisz couldn’t withstand the comparison.
The decision was made. We are going to Astrakhan. Thus ended the Ukrainian period.
Poles in Astrakhan 1914 – 1918
One hot September day in 1914, we found ourselves in Saratov, we were supposed to board a ship and sail south. I was a bit taken aback when I saw the Volga, compared to it, the Dnieper was a stream. In the river port, there was great activity, several large ships anchored, small motorboats buzzing around, commotion, noise. Advertisements for the two largest passenger companies – “Samolot” and “Kawkaz i Merkurij” lines. We just boarded such a “Kawkaz” – in the first class, an unprecedented comfort for those times, salons, deck games, showers. We sailed admiring the width of the river and the panorama of the banks, there were no shortages of choirs singing “Ej, da uchniem” and “Wniz po matuszkie po Volge.” It was getting hotter, the landscape gradually turned yellow, only in the distance were vineyards green. Heat over 40 degrees, crowds in the port in white, the smell of fish quite unpleasant.
In Astrakhan, we were greeted by several gentlemen in white linen, and finally, we went to our new accommodation. There were about 9 rooms with a glass gallery, where roller skating competitions could be held.
I was admitted to the 4th grade of the exclusive private gymnasium of Madame Szawerdowa. At school, I was an exotic bird “from the west,” we had 13 Armenian girls in the class. Tatar, Kalmyk, and Kyrgyz girls did not attend schools.
And here, as everywhere in the world, there were quite a few Polish families. They were patronized by Mrs. Stanisława Klimaszewska (photographic studio, specialty – artistic portraits), along with two nieces, Miss Anna Arkuszewska (who had just returned from Switzerland, where she studied bacteriology) and Miss Florentyna Arkuszewska, a photographer. They had their own spacious house, the apartment adjoined the studio. I remember a small parlor with a strange sofa in the shape of a closed circle, from the center shot up a tall green palm. Aunt Klimaszewska settled in Astrakhan as a result of the complicated fate of political exiles – I can’t piece it together – husband, father, or grandfather, enough that she had been here for 40 years, accumulating wealth and respect from the surroundings, generously helping those in need. Everyone called her “aunt.”
The director of the power plant was also a Pole, engineer Garszwa, married to a Russian woman – charming, ugly, cross-eyed, and supposedly very wealthy. She wore the world’s most expensive fur – chinchilla, not just for holidays, liked dogs, and from her, we got a puppy, another Ikar. Polish families Werner, Łotocki, Bujko – we all met again in Warsaw years later.
Somewhere battles were fought, but the theater of war was distant, sometimes troops passed by to the Caucasian front, and that’s it. No shortages in food, abundance of everything. Armenian and Tatar traders in ‘tiubeteikas’ on their heads, many Persians with henna-dyed red beards and nails, veiled women encountered, but the greatest impression was made on me by a Chinese pair of traders, due to the poor, deformed feet of the Chinese woman – a relic of the cruel custom of foot binding for girls.
In the steppes adjacent to Astrakhan, Kyrgyz, Kalmyks camped in their yurts among flocks of sheep, wealthier ones had strong Kabardian horses. A colorful crowd moved through the city – national costumes brightly embroidered, strange cut footwear with torn tips, large fur hats of the Kyrgyz in the heat, silk ‘bałachons’ of Tatar women, slanted eyes, flat noses, magnificent teeth – it was exotic. Cossacks, in Ukraine with red stripes, here had yellow. The Cossack ataman was a great personage in the city. The Astrakhan region was rich in all sorts of goods – ore, salt, vineyards, fish, game. There were many industrialists here – almost illiterate, handling millions. I recall such a millionaire named Tielatnikow, he had two adolescent sons and a daughter who were so fat that they always rode in a carriage alone, they wouldn’t fit on the seat together.
Just outside the city were two extraordinary lakes: Elton and Baskunchak – almost pink, the mud at the shore bluish. If a twig was dipped in the shallow water, after an hour it looked like a beautiful frosted stalactite, so covered it was with salt. Everything around was so salty that no vegetation could grow. The steppe was different. Friendly Tatars once invited us to their yurt. It was magnificent: as far as the eye could see a flat area, grasses waving like an endless sea, indescribable air, I stopped wondering that every ‘steppe’ person suffers from tuberculosis in the city. You had to be careful not to praise anything in the yurt, as such an item would immediately be offered as a gift. We were received with green tea, to which no shortage of butter (properly rancid) was added, and I was completely dumbfounded when a crowd of children devoured eggs broken on the ground along with the shells. I really like Tatars, they are such a friendly, hospitable, and cheerful people.
We had a new, beautiful piano, again “Br. Diederichs,” and I was taught by Prof. Rossi, an Italian, an old gentleman in a wheelchair because his legs were paralyzed. There was no more talk of Czech pieces, I played preludes, then Bach’s inventions with great pleasure, thrashing outside lessons everything that was fashionable at the time – Sinding’s “Rustle of Spring,” Braga and Schubert’s serenades, “Les adieu” by Bohm, and naturally Tchaikovsky’s miniatures.
About a year later, Austrian and German prisoners began to arrive. Some were sent to Siberia, many remained in Astrakhan, especially civilian prisoners, i.e., Austrian and German citizens, of course, among them were many Poles from Krakow, Lviv, or Poznan. All Polish families considered it their sacred duty to take care of compatriots, and it was relatively easy because – oh idyll – prisoners freely left camps, strolled around the city as they wished. Father had people assigned to work on the construction, he chose Poles, often preventing further deportation, creating fictitious positions, and somehow it went. The prisoners came from various backgrounds, none of them spoke a word of Russian, they longed for their families, withered before our eyes – all this revived when they acclimatized a bit and began to visit Polish homes. They came every day, could talk, complain, sometimes eat well, or like engineer Beill, play the piano. I recall a story from cheerful Mr. Nowakowski from Lviv:
– I’m walking, sir, through the market… and here on the stall a bowl of caviar… such, sir, mournful black, and it glistens so cheerfully… They encourage, please taste… So I… naturally… with pleasure. I gesture that I can’t without a roll… so there’s a piece of roll, they spread, sir, a spoonful of that specialty. Delicious! And on my face, I carved a look full of disappointment: too salty… At another stall – not salty enough. I tasted, sir, about half a pound, and here I am, I can’t eat anything else, I’d like a drink…
Christmas Eve at our place became incredibly numerous, at least a dozen prisoners sat at the table – it all ended in 1917 when some authorities changed, prisoners were locked up seriously, and many were sent east. Only walking to the Catholic church on Sundays was allowed, and then you could slip a note or a package. Invaluable was Mrs. Sienkiewiczowa, our cook, an elderly woman in a scarf, drew less attention from the guards, and it was she who often managed to smuggle provisions. Sienkiewiczowa survived with us for the entire 4 years, Russian maids changed more frequently, almost always illiterate, whom I eagerly taught “literacy.”
Despite the long hot summer, there was snow in Astrakhan in winter, and then sleighs would come out in the city. Usually, a man riding with a woman held her by the waist. It was as natural as in a waltz, the strictest mothers didn’t protest when a young man embraced their daughter at the waist, it would even be in bad taste if he didn’t.
In those times, film began to develop dynamically. The largest studio, Br. Chanżonkow, produced quite decent films. I remember so many of them well! “Anna Karenina,” “War and Peace” (Natasha – Karalli, who was actually a dancer – subtle, airy, with large black eyes), “By the Fireplace” (Płoński, Maksimow, and the great star Wiera Chołodnaja, also a black-eyed brunette, once it was thought that blondes were unphotogenic), “The Song of Triumphant Love” based on Turgenev, also with Chołodna, finally the great triumph of silent cinema “The Man Who Killed” based on Farrere with… yes, with Wojciech Brydziński in the lead role of Marquis de Sevigne. I remember him perfectly, there was some kidnapping from a harem and a large scene in the Eyub cemetery in Constantinople.
Our “Moderne” bioscope was grand, with a palm house and a buffet, yet another golden business of a local millionaire.. Besides Russian production, we watched Max Linder, Chaplin, and the Marx Brothers. Even today, these comedies are very funny, a cream pie thrown in the face, a dog running away with a ring of sausages – unfailing effects, the audience could roar to their heart’s content, after all, the film was silent. Incidentally, it wasn’t called a film, but a ‘picture.’
Gypsy romances began to tire, a song appeared. Several singers became quite famous, primarily Ali, who performed somewhat intimately, standing to the side against a lowered curtain. Ah, those lyrics! The punchline of one song, incredibly daring for those times: a lover persuades a girl to buy a lottery ticket together. And what? They win a double bed! Ha, all problems fell away, the future clarified. The most popular singer was Aleksander Wertyński, initially performing with a whitened face in a Pierrot costume. The audience went wild, his lyrics were written in good language, quite skillful. He gained fame outside Russia, performed for years as an emigrant in Paris, also visited Warsaw. To shock the simpletons, he sang about drugs, suicides, falls to the very bottom, millionaires, beautiful ladies in automobiles, all together was quite innovative in terms of the song’s delivery, without emphasis, straightforward and with good diction (…)
War news was sparse, newspapers reported victories, but more and more people were drafted. The concept of a “front” still existed, people in the interior weren’t exposed to bombings. Despite seemingly normal conditions, tension was rising, whispers of the empire’s end. Rasputin was no longer alive, there were rumors that the empress had fallen into melancholy, that the heir to the throne Alexei’s illness was progressing, more and more often the name Lenin was mentioned, there was outrage over the brutal suppression of strikes, talk of betrayal in the army command, where so many positions were held by foreigners led by General von Rennenkampf. Finally, the supreme commander became Grand Duke Nicholas, indeed great, because very tall. It was obvious that we were on the eve of historical events.
We were entering the fourth year of the great war. We received news from St. Petersburg in the newspapers, appropriately prepared, more trust was placed in the grapevine. The name Kerensky was most often mentioned, stories of his extraordinary appearances, his showmanship, how at a rally in the Great Theater he spoke lying under the ceiling on a specially constructed platform. So many prominent leaders had died, who would have thought that Kerensky would end his life at the age of 90 in the USA! Up north it was boiling, nothing was happening with us, the city was under the control of yellow Cossacks, to whom any revolutionary ideas were foreign.
In the spring of 1918, I had already graduated (both Kazik and I – gold medals), I remember, we were at a performance of a certain pianist, he looked like Chopin himself, only tall. He appeared on the street in a large black hat and cape. In the evening, he played splendidly, I remember Liszt’s “Death of Isolde” after Wagner. At one point, he got up from the piano and spoke: – I ask everyone to rise and honor with a moment of silence… his voice broke – the great composer Claude Debussy has died… I will play a piece by Debussy… perhaps not quite appropriate… composed in a fit of good humor… Cake-walk… forgive me.
Summer was in full swing when the fight between the Cossacks and the Bolsheviks flared up. Great naturally in quotation marks, considering later wartime experiences. It lasted a few days. There was heavy shooting, but no tanks or planes, I don’t even know how many people died. We had no supplies, food was scarce. The Cossacks fled disgracefully, some houses were burning, prisons and prisoner camps opened, a new era was beginning. Part of the sewage works destroyed.. A time of reckoning began, there were stories of ‘bad’ supervisors being taken away ‘on wheelbarrows,’ fortunately, father avoided that, he was even offered to continue working, but amidst the general chaos, systematic work on the construction was out of the question. Food began to disappear, gangs of robbers appeared. It was hard to predict how our fate would unfold, after all, foreigners, thoughts of returning to the homeland became more frequent.
Finally, in August 1918, we left by ship, still first class, to Saratov, from there by train, second class, to Moscow. We stayed with father’s colleague, engineer Stebelski. Generally, it was calm, theaters and cinemas were open.
Moscow didn’t seem like a metropolis to me, many narrow streets, so-called pereuloks, women in scarves, but the stores known from labels greeted me like old friends: Ejnem – coffee, Siu – tea, Abrikosow – sweets, or Daziaro – reproductions. People strolled along the Alexandrovsky Gardens, full of cafes, orchestras played, there I went curious about the capital’s glitz. I had great success, those approaching promised golden mountains, jewelry, voyages, in short, courting on a grand scale. To my shame, the escapade was discovered: when we were sitting at the table, the caretaker appeared with the news that ‘such people’ had come and asked about the young lady… Our host roared with laughter at me, the fool: he explained that a lone girl on the Alexandrovsky is synonymous, to put it delicately, with adventure hunters.
We had to “process papers,” I often heard the name of envoy Lednicki, until suddenly the news broke that envoy Mirbach was killed. This again delayed our efforts. Finally, after two weeks in Moscow, we set off third class, in hard wagons, westward. We traveled for probably two days, then switched to peasant carts, at the border point we were warned that “echelons” were commonly robbed to the last thread by some gangs. There was no choice. We set off on foot, and the expedition succeeded. We were outside Russia. Again a terrible ride, probably fourth class (and such existed!), until we finally stood in Warsaw, healthy and whole, but completely devoid of any worldly goods.
A new period began, unfortunately, as it later turned out – interwar.
Warsaw in 1918
It was not a cheerful sight – Warsaw 1918. Germans were still there, there were ration cards for bread, people were intimidated, gray. The city was small, or maybe it just seemed so, because in the absence of faster communication, people moved within their districts, not venturing further.
An eye-catching accent was the countless notes pinned to house gates: “Four rooms with amenities for rent,” “3-room comfortable apartment,” “6-room front apartment,” “Studio with bathroom,” etc., all – ‘immediately.’ Not to mention the advertised rooms “with family.” We treated it as normal that there were vacant apartments, and since we had neither money nor furniture, we rented two large furnished rooms on Marszałkowska 68. I don’t know for what reason we later moved to Piękna 62 Street, where the old Mrs. Woyszwiłło rented us two furnished rooms as well. This apartment is always associated with “Carnival” by Schumann for me, because someone next door constantly played it.
We lived day by day like the birds of the air, so much was happening, and the most pleasant news – reports of German defeats. Finally, disgracefully, as they were sometimes disarmed by newspaper boys, the Germans withdrew. Warsaw breathed a sigh of relief, caricatures of “Wilusia” in a spiked helmet came to light – he never dreamed of ending his career chopping wood in Dorn!
New times were coming. Independence!! We were all intoxicated by it – the streets were full of joyful faces, people felt like prisoners released. German posters were torn down, hideous Gothic inscriptions with eagles were swept away like with a broom, the vile relics of captivity. Portraits of Marshal Foch, President Wilson, Piłsudski, Dmowski, Korfanty appeared. Everything seemed simple, radiant – finally on our own, without arrogant Germans, without policemen and officials. It was worth living to see this! The patriotic surge united everyone, mutual kindness increased, people remembered they could laugh heartily and loudly.
<p My father started working in the Ministry of Public Works, my brother Kazik entered the Faculty of Architecture at the Warsaw University of Technology, and I, naturally, went to the conservatory on Okólnik Street. I took the exam, playing Schubert's Impromptu and two three-voice inventions by Bach. I had such terrible stage fright that my hands were shaking. I should have realized then that I wouldn't be a pianist, but I was accepted into the intermediate course, and so it began. Of course, we didn't have a piano, I went to practice at Aunt Gaszczyńska's on Szpitalna 10, and then I read an advertisement: "Piano for practice, reasonable price." There, on Nowogrodzka 43, at the fair-haired Moszczyńska ladies, I worked from morning until 5 o'clock. The entire apartment consisted of two rooms with a kitchen, never heated – I warmed my hands in the fur of a large St. Bernard named Misio, my great friend.
At the conservatory, the renowned violinist, Stanisław Barcewicz, was the director at the time. Stout, red-faced, he moved through the corridors, for me, he was Zeus. Soon, however, director Henryk Melcer took over. Choirs were led by Prof. Kazuro, pianists were taught by professors Drzewiecki, Melcer, Jaczynowska, Przyałgowski, and others. I quickly made friends, but surprisingly, maybe I got closer with a few students from the Drama School, which was literally next door to the Conservatory. The recruits were very diverse in both places, from all partitions and social classes, girls studying out of passion and boredom, often beautiful, like our violinist Miss Brinckenhoff, and in the Drama School, Jadzia Smosarska. Somehow I don’t remember the boys, except for the picturesque figure of the lanky, long Jerzy Lefeld, whom I never got to know better.
Thus, I battled the piano in an unheated room on Nowogrodzka and ran to Okólnik in worn-out shoes.
The war ended for Europe, unfortunately not for us. The year 1920 was approaching. Many residents packed up and left Warsaw. On the streets, foreign uniforms were seen – French, English. At one of my aunts, Captain Parissot, who diligently attended her jourki, once walked me home. When we entered Piękna Street, searching for a topic, I asked if he knew the meaning of this street’s name. “Oui, oui, je sais, c’est vous, mademoiselle!” – he replied gallantly. The French were full of gallantry for Polish women, many left a piece of their heart in Warsaw. Back then, the French walked in the glory of fame, brave like Napoleon, illuminated by the glory of Verdun, Ypres… they were like that…
An extremely picturesque figure was General Carton de Viart, a very elegant, stately Brit, an avid hunter, who stayed in Poland on Polesie for many years. He had no eye, no hand. A story was told: somewhere in Polesie, a local factor arranged a quarter for him. During the installation in the room, the general sat down and ordered the orderly: – Take off my hand… which the orderly did. The factor’s eyes widened. The general took out an eye and put it in a glass. After a moment, he ordered: – Unscrew my head!… The factor fainted.
Everyone who could enlisted in the army. My brother from architecture went to some school where they turned him into a sapper. The elder Bronek finally returned after many peregrinations from London, where he lay for a long time on a traction with a shot leg, brought Virtuti Militari and the English Military Cross, paraded in a blue Haller uniform with a coalition belt over his shoulder.
It seemed inappropriate for me, healthy and strong, not to participate in the general surge. Parents didn’t want to hear about me going alone into the unknown, so I completed a Red Cross course, but working at the Warsaw station didn’t appeal to me at all. Fortunately, an adopted aunt, Chrzanowska from Vilnius, who became the head of sisters in a sanitary train, came along. Under her care, I was incorporated into train no. 71, called the disinfection-bathing train, but if necessary, we had to attend to wounded and sick soldiers. These trains were patronized by ladies Olizarowa, Ciundziewicka, Ciechanowiecka, and Dzierzgowska, I met them at the introductory meeting, and having received the nomination, I was preparing for the journey, but yielding to fashion, I went to a ‘clairvoyant.’ It was a period when all kinds of seers advertised in newspapers quite shamelessly and were very popular. I went to Mrs. W., who, looking at me penetratingly, said:
– You are planning a trip… I wouldn’t advise it… I see… I see… something like an infectious disease and… darkness… don’t go…
I probably never wasted money more foolishly in my life. I went to the front, cared for typhus patients, didn’t get infected, and didn’t die.
We traveled on that train no. 71 through distant borderlands, from Zdolbuniv we returned to Równe and mostly circled in that area. I don’t remember the name of our train’s commander, but we often encountered the sister train no. 70, led by Dr. St. Liebhardt, a Lvivian, a buddy, who even in those conditions managed to conjure flowers for me.
War has something of a drug, it was hard to immediately enter an orderly life, though there was no shortage of stimuli in our country. The plebiscite in Silesia, everything was just being organized, created anew. Supposedly all compatriots, yet from three long-standing partitions – different mentality, different drill in the army, even the language differed greatly. Misunderstandings occurred. A lady from Lviv complained she couldn’t get b i l. What is bil?! Simply – bacon. And the famous: Marysia in the funeral spilled plums – Marysia in the cellar spilled cream. Or – my husband lifted a dress for me for my name day (gifted). And the Poznań “stretching fieran,” “stiffening male ancestors” (in shirts). Lviv blueberries are Warsaw’s blackberries, and blueberries – gogodze. The unforgettable Prof. Noakowski, a man-wonder, wrote on a card pinned to the Polytechnic corridor board: “I receive after Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.” It hung briefly, as someone from the professor’s admirers corrected it.
Thus, compatriots chatted, and it wasn’t without charm, never mind that they mocked each other.
The most characteristic accent of Warsaw’s street was the newspaper boys. At certain hours, they would besiege the editorial offices, and receiving a stack of newspapers, they would race at a breakneck pace into the city, shouting at the top of their lungs the names of the papers and sensational headlines, e.g., “Seven corpses in one bathtub!”, “Lady killed man with a pin!”, “Tunnel under the bank!” Many, after selling newspapers, offered bouquets of flowers in the evening, jumping on the step of a carriage carrying a couple in the Ujazdowski Avenues.
Warsaw after the First World War was divided into areas completely dissimilar to each other.. Today’s new construction has unified many districts – looking at photos, it’s hard to guess whether it’s Praga II or Ursynów. Once the differences were great. The dignified Ujazdowska Avenue, occupied by wealthy landowners, well-groomed ladies with dogs on leashes, nicely dressed children with nannies. Nowy Świat – the district of cinemas, theaters, restaurants, walks on Sunday after mass at St. Cross, Krakowskie Przedmieście with palaces, ending with the Castle Square with the soaring column of Sigismund and the royal castle, and not far away – Bielańska, Tłomackie, Nalewki. Another world, a city within a city, black with caftans, skullcaps, beards, sidelocks, Yiddish chatter, crowded sidewalks, hand-loaded carts, business everywhere – in stores, on floors, in the depths of vast courtyards, some arcades, tailoring workshops, a swarm of children and bedbugs, signs along and across the buildings, the most bizarre names: “Icek Różanykwiat,” “Ryfka Rękaw,” “Mojsze Pistolet,” “Latest Parisian novelties,” “Kosher poultry,” button factories, artificial flowers, lace.. If something wasn’t in the store, the owner sent Srulek to other “interests,” until the sought-after item was found. Letting a customer go? Suicide. A story was told, how a shopkeeper, praising his goods, stopped a passerby, and the latter:
– I doubt if you have it…
– Nu, what is it? Doubt… There is doubt…
The curious goy entered the shop. The shopkeeper took stacks of boxes off the shelves, opened them, showed, offered… nothing came of it.
– Nu, doubts will be… will be doubts… And these suspenders, aren’t they great suspenders… And the esteemed person will see this tie, and this collar, even a count wears such… a wonder… you can go a year without washing… such a year on me… where are those doubts?
Finally, he climbed to the topmost rung of the ladder, took down the last box, it was empty.
– Ahhh… look, sir… doubts are gone… sold the last one yesterday…
On Friday evening, Nalewki, Zakroczymska, Miła, Krochmalna, Twarda calmed down. Thousands of lit candles in windows – Shabbat. On Saturday, silence, on Sunday work began anew. Although it wasn’t allowed to open shops, trade flourished clandestinely and “from the back.”
It’s true that great capitals were in the hands of Jewish financiers, but at the same time, among the Jewish proletariat, there was an exceptional poverty. Poverty of dirt, reddened eyelids, pimples, worn-out caftans, women’s wigs, countless hordes of hungry children, often crippled. This poverty had the smell of herring and onions, unlike Polish poverty stinking of cabbage and suds. These were the scents of Annopol, Marymont, Wola, odors of hopelessness, unemployment, and dispossession. And here, and there, heaps of malnourished children with crooked legs and sad, unchildlike eyes (…)
On Nowy Świat, right after the First World War, the café “Kresy” was established. The name itself clearly indicated who ran it. Many landowners were unseated due to the geographical location of their estates, they were outside the borders of the Republic. Connections remained, sometimes jewelry, and that was all. Many male representatives somehow managed, often in diplomatic service, many young ladies went to offices, which was a novelty, but entire divisions of ladies and young ladies had nothing to “attach their hands to.” During wars and just after them, undoubtedly the most secure business is gastronomy, so the ladies from the borderlands established a café. The success was downright dizzying, people stood in passages waiting for a table, snobbery played, after all, bigos served by the hands of a countess becomes an arch-bigos. In “Kresy,” everyone frequented, native Warsaw residents and wanderers from other partitions, youth and older. A waitress kissed on the hand sometimes sat down with familiar guests, older ladies in unfashionable hairstyles, with cameos, lorgnettes, in high collars, resided at the cash register and behind the counter. There was no time for the posture of dethroned queens – they gave orders in a singing accent, faces as the hours passed were covered with scarlet, and guests kept coming to the small establishment.