The artist Marek Zulawski, translation & Polish-British culture

Hi,

Seeing as there is an exhibition of Halina Korn's work on in Toruń, I thought I'd translate an excerpt about her from my father's autobiography.

It's about the day of her funeral, so not that much about her, in all honesty. But it is a interesting snapshot of what went through my dad's head - he was burying his wife while thinking about his next one, my mum.

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Something about the mystery of suffering and death

Kensal Green Cemetery in December 2005 via Wikimedia

There are many large trees in Kensal Green Cemetery. There are also some exotic shrubs that add colour to this place of eternal rest. Behind the high wall that separates the cemetery from the city's noise, birds sing. Squirrels chase each other among graves adorned with grey stone shaped like Greek columns, Egyptian sarcophagi and Gothic mausoleums.

Some of the grave slabs, sunken and overgrown with weeds and morning glory, are returning to the earth. They are forgotten graves, the names on them are no longer readable… Above them are weeping angels with broken wings.

The day of October 6th was — as you surely remember — sunny. The golden ochre domes of finger-like chestnut trees, romantic sycamores, beeches and poplars were outlined against the porcelain sky, alongside the white trails of jet airplanes.

A multi-denominational chapel. Like Kienholz’s famous portable war memorial, where the date of the battle, the location and why blood was spilled could all be freely altered — it's just like that in this chapel masquerading as an Ionic temple, where a Catholic altar can be transformed into the Ark of the Covenant or a Protestant pulpit.

Wearing red robes decorated with Maltese crosses, an elderly monsignor recited prayers for the dead. Then he delivered a convoluted speech.

"Nomen omen," he said. Halina means "beautiful." Something about the mystery of suffering and death. Eternal rest.

At the head of the ash coffin, covered with a mound of flowers, was a photograph of her from the 1950s. A radiant profile with a storm of hair — the head raised like a purebred horse — a thick shiny chain around her neck.

Eternal rest. And let perpetual light shine upon her. Amen.

Through a cemetery rustling with dry leaves, along gravel paths crunching underfoot, the mourners walked in solemnity. Some squeezed my hands. Others kissed both my cheeks. 

I was fully aware of the theatrical role I was playing, and I wanted to perform it as well as possible. I detest mediocrity. I was not only there to soothe my conscience but also to meet the expectations of friends. In their eyes, I was to fulfil the ritual — to pay my last respects to my deceased wife.

Bury the dead — that’s what the catechism says. The ritual must be respected; otherwise, there is chaos and scandal. You may, Maria, play games with your own funeral in your will, though even that is indecent. But someone else’s funeral must be firmly anchored in the tradition of the myth from which the ritual originates: the myth of Redemption, the myth of Eternal Life, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins… 

The monsignor, in his aged voice, promises immortality. No one sees the fear of death in his eyes. He has hidden it very carefully beneath his robes and liturgical gestures, for he too is playing his role well — the role of the priest, as expected of him. The Latin incantations are incomprehensible, and that increases their ritual significance.

They also help to endure the terrible sight of a coffin being lowered into a black hole dug into the bowels of the earth. The priest casts the first clod. Others follow suit. You hear the earth strike the coffin. The drum beat of death… Everything proceeds as it should. Now the speeches: in the silence — over this gaping hole — words fall that are meant to move us. George Him speaks beautifully. I am moved.

Meanwhile, the monsignor vanishes, only to reemerge from behind some monument transformed into a man dressed in black. And since there is no ritual without liturgical vestments, the mourners start to gradually disperse. Some search for their cars or talk about other matters. Yes, the ritual is over, the cemetery empties, and once again, you can hear the birds chirping.

That's when I started looking for you, Maria. You weren’t in my line of sight. A sudden panic seized me. Perhaps the funeral had been too difficult for you to bear, perhaps you had had enough of these ceremonies and gone home… But I'd underestimated you. You had simply stood modestly aside. But you were there. You were there — as always. I approached you briskly — I didn’t want to be left alone with the corpse of my wife. I needed you.

Portrait of Halina Korn by Marek Zulawski, 1941

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A Gen Z guide to Poland

Just to lighten the mood, here is something rather silly. A young man from the Midlands reviews Poland in this 3-minute YouTube video.

One highlight: "If you unfortunately can't get to Poland for thirteen pounds, I would recommend you go to Gloucester. It's pretty much the same thing."

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That's all for this week. Many thanks for reading. If you want to support the newsletter, please forward it to a friend or donate here.

Adam

Adam Zulawski

TranslatingMarek.com / TranslatePolishMemoirs.com / Other stuff

👉 Help fund the translation of Studium do autoportretu via Paypal 👈

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