Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski
September marks a time of somber thoughts, reflections. I am a Pole, Canadian Pole, European Pole – but Pole to the core, through and through. September is not only about approaching fall, of yellow and brown leaves, flowers fading and days getting shorter every evening.
For a Pole of my generation September is reminiscence of great and terrible world war, the one with number ‘2’ attached to it. Always, for as long as I remember: the national martyrology, almost a quasi religion: dark, mournful, full of pain. Yet, it is a true heavy feeling, not something you do because it is polite or out of obligation. No, it is not faked and it is not just laying wreaths at the bottom of some cenotaphs. It is happening at homes and inside the deep crevices of your soul.
The war was still inside us, our parents and grandparent lived through. It is true that there were also official circuses and commemorations to impress someone, to score some political points. Nonetheless, even these theatrical motions were performed by these people, who after returning home still had to go themself through these somber and sad moments. No one could escape it. After all, they were not remembering some magnificent Middle Age battle or campaign. No, the Second World War was a private Loss for everyone. It was such a total war, it touched all who lived through it and it touched their children. When I was a child – it touched me, touched my sisters, my cousins, all my friends. Us, young people, who were not even alive during the years 1939-45. We were all born mostly in years 1947-65, the majority of us during the 1950’s.
For generations of my grandparents it was particularly tragic and painful memory. They lived through the Bolshevik revolution of 1917, through the rebirth of Polish state in 1918, the victorious Polish-Soviet war of 1920. Now they are all gone, the last one was my grandma Wanda, who died in 1972.
But the truth is that for my generation all these previous wars were an ancient wars. Yes, exciting (particularly the battles for independence and the heroic Warsaw Battle against the Bolsheviks, which save Western Europe from communist oblivion) but at the end it was an ancient history, like the Greeks battle of Troy.
Yet, that war, the last world war – was still alive everywhere; in my childhood not all cities and towns were fully rebuilt. Finding partial ruins or bombed house was not difficult, the same as partially rusted shells in forests, on shallow shores of rivers, streams. Nor was surprising finding every day fresh flowers on some streets, where Nazis did some executions by firing squad or public hanging. These flowers were a daily routine. They marked places were their friends, their lovers, sons or daughters perished. For our parents, and grandparents these people were their friends, lovers, husbands, wives and children.
By the time I was fifteen I used to go on my own need almost once a week to lay a flower (sometime stolen from a city flowers box – sorry, did not have always in my pocket an extra five or ten zlotych[i]) on an exact street corner in front of an enormous building of National Opera, where a young Warsaw poet was shot in 1944 – Krzysztof Kamil Baczynski[ii]. He was shot almost fifteen years before I was born. Yet for me, he was my slightly older friend, very dear and close. Now – I am old but still think of him as my friend. More, I think that I actually loved him as person. Is it possible to be in love with someone, whom you never met and who died years before you were born? I think – yes, it is. After all I am still in love with Alexander of Macedonia, and that boy-king died not centuries but millennia ago!
Back to the subject though, the subject of changing guard, of generational exchange. We are on the last leg of a run through life. Mind you, it is not yet the proverbial ‘one leg in the grave’. We are still running. No, it is not an Olympic sprint anymore. Some might still have a desire to dance and to fall in love with another person if they are single, some are still working – but almost all are in a official retired age, but we are also the next echelon of humanity that starts to leave the train of life on a regular pace. It is normal course, nothing tragic, part of the journey. The cycle of generations continues.
Of course there must be a caveat: It is true that there are still very few among us, who remember the war as seen through their eyes, but those were eyes of very young children. They are now in their late nineties or over a hundred years old. My oldest cousin was born still in Vilno (now capital of Lithuania, then a large Polish city) in 1944. But he is gone now, too. It is next to impossible that he could have remembered anything of the actual war and he never pretended that he did.
The reality and the fact is that for practical reasons people, who lived during that war are gone. Now it is us, the next echelon of humanity that’s starting to leave the train of life on a rather regular pace. It is normal cycle of the generations. In a few years, maybe a decade, we will cease to be intellectually and emotionally the engine of the society. Matter of fact we are no longer the main engine, just the extra smaller ‘enginette’. When we will stop being that canister of our memories of post-war reality a silent social revolution will take place, silent, yet very powerful change will occur.
We are the last ones, who were personally affected by the war. A war with silent battlefields, and silenced guns – a war, which long shadows still lingered on our streets; in our neighborhoods, in our homes and during family gatherings.
The next generation – our children, nephews and nieces are free from the shackles and chains of that trauma. There are even free for most part from the memory of the abnormal reality of about forty years of living in the grey and absurdly tragicomical reality of PPR – Polish People Republic, a quasi-sovereign state in the years 1945-199o. Mind you – that quasi independent state was the only Poland I knew, were I was born, went to school, had my first romances. At the same time it must be stressed that this Polish state was sort of abnormality among all other Soviet satellites. There were even officially sanctioned other political parties that were not ideologically communist (unheard of in other Soviet satellites), there was a powerful Catholic Church, which resisted and maintained its independence with very powerful Church hierarchy, to a shock of the very first non-Italian pope in hundreds of years who was … a Polish cardinal – Karol Wojtyla, better known later as John Paul II. Stalin must have turned in his grave, LOL. Polish universities were of high scientific standards and a place of vigorous political and ideological debates – if not during formal classes then certainly on the corridors and courtyards. It comes to no surprise that the amazing first free trade union called ‘Solidarity’ was born in that ‘communist’ country. I had a small part in it being this union organizer in Warsaw. Even more important is that we, Poles, spoke freely at homes and on the streets. With caution – but freely. It was our daily rejection of the absurdity and abnormality of the Soviet system. In some strange way I could say that to a certain degree my generation of that Poland was perhaps freer than young people on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Not in laws and privileges given to us, but in cherishing and clinging to our internal freedom.
We also believed in certain civic decency. At that time a young intelligent Pole could not and would not call himself/herself a fascist. That was a Rubicon we would never cross[iii], regardless whether you were even an ultra right in your political views. In our eyes fascism was synonymous with Hitlerism. That was as plain as the difference between night and day.
The II world war changed that word, that rightwing ideological view forever. It wasn’t, as in the pre-war times anymore that fascist view was tolerated. Before the last war fascism was interchangeable with ultra nationalism, with hurray type of patriotism. That changed after the experience with that total war. Just Italian Il Duce[iv], Spanish Franco or Portugal Salazar could not have achieved what Hitler achieved with that movement. He himself made it synonymous with crimes unspeakable, horror indescribably. It was an abandonment of humanity beyond any scale.
Fascism was the gate to the Factory of Death of Humanity. A Gate that had its name: Arbeit macht Frei. Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Dachau. All of these names, places have one denominator: fascism.
That what my generation knew, understood. It came as the biblical Commandment you shall not kill, that we knew instinctively, that those who do kill are fascists, as simple as that.
An individual thief, a murderer, rapist – that is not the same. Those are individual crimes against society, crimes that could be judged, adjudicated and punished. Aberrations that, by proper education, could be avoided or corrected, minimized.
Fascism was a symbol of Gates to Hell, to Hades.
What I wrote above comes from one’s plea, one’s need to exalt in the reader of the next, younger generation this simple truth of History: fascism must be stopped, must be ostracized, must be condemn eternally. We, my generation and the generation of my parents knew that by heart, by true experience of what it is if it will ever get a free ride in public life, in public discussions. Yes, it could be discussed and taught in schools, universities as a painful lesson of history – a very tragic lesson. But it has to be stopped of having a right to be part of any public political platform of dangerous propaganda.
There are all these fascist or semi-fascist parties, movements, fascinations all over in Europe now: in France, even in one Land in Germany (sic!), to my horror in my dear Poland – has all the world gone crazy?
Wake up my dear Citizen, wake up and stop this aberration, this sickness that will devour your heart and mind. Don’t’ listen to these lies about patriotism that these people constantly spew from their mouths. The love of one’s country also means the love of all citizens of your country. But they profess only love of these citizens, who represent their sick minds. Only the whites, preferably the tall, only those born in very particular geographic location. So on and so on, to the exclusion of everyone else. But we all came from one and the same seed: the short ones and the tall, the white and the black, the blond and the brunette (and the red-hired too, of course), them of whatever sexual orientation, left-handed and right-handed, poor or rich, weak or strong, the Jew and the Gentile, the Muslim and the Christian (and Buddhist, of course) and don’t forget the ever more numerous non-believer.
Once you start making distinctions, selections, you are giving a moral right for others to judge you, to deselect you – to cast you aside. For what reason, you may ask? Yes, I will answer that question. Remember – when I was mentioning that horrible place, the apogee of fascist thought: Auschwitz? When a train arrived to that Hell on Earth carrying hundreds, maybe thousands new prisoners there was a man there awaiting them. He was a medical doctor called The Angel of Death or simply Josef Mengele. He examined the prisoners and with one flick of his hand he decided, who will be killed instantly and who will live for a while. Thousands upon thousands of people went through that decision. Every time you start making these distinctions among other human beings – you start growing inside you a new Doctor Mengele – the Angel of Death. That is exactly what being fascist means.
post scriptum
The picture that is attached to the article is somewhat symbolic. It is a simple exercise book, a typical ordinary school book to write in. I used it for some time now to write some of my texts, my poetry. I hardly ever leave home without carrying one of this type of notebooks. Have many of them laying around near my bed, my table. An old habit. That one is with the graphic symbol of Warsaw’s fighters in 1944 during Warsaw Uprising against fascism, the print below the graphic simply says: against fascism.
I started using that notebook around the time of first full term ultraright government in modern Poland in 2015. The first text in that notebook deals with growing dangers of far right politics and ideologies. This text you are reading now is the on the very last pages of that notebook. I think that the cover of the notebook is a fitting symbol of the same subject: protect freedom, protect rights of all. Otherwise a state becomes a gulag, prison.
[i] ‘zloty’ is a Polish currency
[ii] Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński – Wikipedia
[iii] Crossing the Rubicon – Wikipedia
[iv] the popular title given to Italy’s dictator, Mussolini
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