Was I a communist?

I have just listened to Polish radio having my Aussie breakfast. It is a very turbulent and sad time in Poland. People reminisce and worry. The people I have in mind are intellectual and/or moral role models for me. I have kept those people in high regard. Now with political changes they feel that the country is going in a tragically wrong direction. The subjects of the discussions are generally depressing and I should not really poison myself with that type of news. But I can not stop it in spite of numerous promises I give myself. In the last couple of days the main news subject is Lech Walesa. So called historians are pushing him off the pedestal, the place he deserves in eyes of many. Mine as well. Not so much a pedestal maybe as a luminous place in the country history and gratitude of all Polish people. This is really not my subject of writing today, but the worry about Walesa, his health, pride, safety and wellbeing makes me think about him excessively right now.

                               

Listening to various discussions about experience in communistic times brings back memories. They are happy, actually, memories. Not that the times were particularly joyful but my youth was free of worries. It was very difficult to get many everyday items and food. Not that I was ever hungry and I have not seen really hungry people then, but it was difficult to buy things. There were queues in every shop for anything. One bought things when they were available not when one needed them. And we queued for everything. I loved queues in bookshops. One could have a really good conversation sometimes and plenty of time to expand on any subject while waiting to get to the counter. There were the times when I did not do comfort eating and I felt I really did not need or particularly liked food. At the same time due to my parents rather privileged situation and my father’s initiative there were the times I ate best beef filets, partridges, quails, crayfish and absolutely organic vegetables. And I even did not understand that it was anything special about it. It must be a bit confusing for people who did not live in Poland in the communistic times or it may even come across as confabulation.

I remember one of my first visits to some very civilized Scandinavian family in Sydney. In fact it was my only visit at their home as I misbehaved very badly. I understand that they did not want to have much to do with a rude communist, I appeared to be. It started with introducing me to civilization and sympathizing with horrible things I must have experienced. I tried to correct some of their impressions, but with prolonged sympathetic treatment my pride and frustration woke up. At the same time my English could not cope with the challenge of the moment. I was missing the right words. Responding to descriptions of horrific communistic times and my  miserable life in Poland, I used the only argument that came to mind. It was - BS. I used it more than once as I was really angry. Now, I blush a bit remembering the time and inappropriateness of my defense. It was silly on many levels. One of many funny mistakes and inabilities of youth combined with Polish temper...

There was a time I was seen as a communist and this was rather dangerous to my happiness and could have finish in heartbreak.  When I was introduced to my future in-laws, they focused on my Polish background not knowing much about me. Even if they really knew me, I was still a sort of an oddball, at least in a conservative Swedish society. My future husband met with greeting of his father: I fought communists all my life and you are bringing one to MY home!!!  It was all happening behind the scenes and I was not aware of how controversial my visit at this civilized home was. The redeeming factors were my small feet (I still wonder why it was important) and correct behaviour combined with good skills of eating crayfish on a festive Swedish yabby night.

                          

Crayfish reminds me of a story, I particularly like, told by my uncle. The uncle came from an aristocratic family that in the times before the 2^nd World War lived in the eastern part of Poland, now belonging to Ukraine. When I mentioned crayfish in one of  family dinner conversations, we heard comment muttered under his breath: “When in my family the fish pond was drained off water, we ate the fish and gave crayfish to the village rabble”. It is all relative and this is beautiful. Some think crayfish is wonderful, some think it is rubbish.

Interesting what morning musing can result in. Maybe this is a function of many memories being stored in my memory bank?