A Warsaw Diary: 1978-1981 by Kazimierz Brandys

Author:Kazimierz Brandys [Kazimierz Brandys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780701128869
Google: aKVKAAAAYAAJ
Publisher: Chatto & Windus
Published: 1984-11-15T00:17:01.759554+00:00

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1 Niezalezna Oficyna Wydawnicza (Independent Publishing House).

MAY

1980

I HAVE NOT noted everything that I have been doing, that has happened during the 150 days since I have finished the first volume of A Warsaw Diary.

March 25, Chojecki arrested. A week before, he discussed the publication of the Diary with me. Calm, with a smiling alertness in his eyes. A light-colored beard, his face haggard, dejected. “We’ll send you galleys to proofread in six weeks.” The courtesy and elegance, astounding in a man hounded for years by the police. His appearance neglected, his hands stained by ink, apparently.

In February the words of a taxi driver reviling the government when we were driving down Bem Street: “Hitler murdered people, killed people, but he let you live.” If I hadn’t heard this with my own ears, I would have thought it a macabre joke.

On a Saturday (in February, I don’t recall the date), I recognized Piłsudski’s granddaughter at a reception at the Wiktors’, where Halina was reciting.

I am unable to recall the exact date, but it was probably toward the end of the month that my literary evening took place at the Society for Scholarly Courses (the “Flying University”). It was not a banal event. For many years I had been avoiding meeting readers in the Press and Book Clubs or in the Houses of Culture (now they no longer invite me), those organized meetings that are, in essence, a surrogate, an ersatz version of a real discussion between society and a writer. It’s all predictable: the opening address, the content of the questions, the little bouquet of carnations handed to me by a cultured and worldly young lady. But my evening at the “Flying University” departed from the usual ritual.

Even that morning, leaving the house, I immediately felt my readers’ eyes on me. I felt them on my back. They walked behind me on the other side of the street, keeping close to a group of Ukrainian tourists visiting Warsaw’s oldest quarters. When I slowed my pace, they too began walking more slowly. There were three of them; one, with a merry little snub nose and wearing a quilted sweater, smiled at me. I stopped; they stopped too. They examined the souvenirs in a shop window, casting knowing, friendly glances at me. I realized that they wanted me to catch sight of them and to wonder why they were following me. My literary evening was scheduled for five in the afternoon. I was to be aware that my readers were informed and would be there without fail.

M. was in a store at the corner of Dhiga Street. I went in to get her; we had to go out to Żoliborz before noon. Near Świȩtojerska Street I looked casually behind me. Five of my readers were following me now. Glancing over at me, they were still walking behind the tourists from the kolkhoz. In their jackets and light overcoats, their heads bare (one had long hair and carried a blue denim zippered bag), they stood out from the short-legged Soviet peasants in their enormous fur caps.

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