The artist Marek Zulawski, translation & Polish-British culture

Hi,

This week I've translated a story about a girlfriend my father had during WWII. She made quite an impression on him.

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A clashing of worlds

Bush House, former home of the BBC World Service

World War II is getting closer to Germany's inevitable defeat, but I don't feel it yet. From England, like from a lighthouse, I can only see sinking ships.

I work nights at the BBC. In the morning, tired, I come to the studio. Sometimes I have to walk. On the empty streets, only a few cars pass by. One of them slows down near me at the traffic lights.

"Can you give me a lift?" I ask the female driver cheekily. 

"I can," answers a girlish voice that rings out clearly in the morning fog. 

The girl is in a Wrens military uniform. From under her brimless cap, dark ebony hair tumbles onto her shoulders. "Where should I drop you off?" she asks matter-of-factly before falling silent. The conversation doesn't flow. Her offering me a ride wasn't an invitation on her part, but when she stopped in front of my studio, she let herself be persuaded to have a cup of coffee.

Only when she got out of the car did I see her figure in her well-tailored uniform. Tall, wasp-waisted, with a large bust and long neck — she might have been all of eighteen. She stayed in the studio only briefly — she drank her coffee while standing. 

"I'm on duty," she said in such a tone that I didn't dare protest. Would she come again for a longer visit? I asked her somewhat automatically. 

"Who knows, maybe," she replied and for the first time showed off her white teeth in a smile. As I closed the door behind her, I thought I would certainly never see her again. 

How wrong I was.

In this world of apparent inconsistency and mysterious logic, our paths were evidently meant to cross. A few weeks later, persuaded by my poet friend William Gardener, I went to one of those poetry evenings that were very fashionable at the time since hardly anything was being printed. And there I saw her again.

In fact, I heard that voice on the stairs coming in — or maybe just sensed it — because that clarity was in the air, scattering the cigarette smoke just as it had scattered the morning fog then. 

She was reciting a poem. Rhythmically, precisely, knowingly. She was dressed in civilian clothes, and her magnificent hair now touched her shoulders. I approached her during the interval. It seemed like she wasn't surprised at all by my presence. Could she, driven by female instinct, have known we would meet?

We walked out together. I wanted to learn as much about her as possible. She was born in Canada, but she finished drama school in London. Parting on the street corner, we exchanged phone numbers. Normally.

And then I see her again in my crumbling Victorian studio by that small port called Little Venice, where one branch of the inland canal disappears among old factory buildings and another crawls under the bridge deep into the earth and runs further under the roaring city to the docks on the Thames. Then I see her in that elegant uniform, glowing with health and style, or in a civilian suit tailored by a first-rate tailor, which she casually throws onto the dirty armchair in the studio. I see her emerging from a black Chinese kimono in her bachelorette flat near Hyde Park… Or in that strange little hotel by the sea, where in the morning I see her faintly in the shadow of the drawn blinds.

And all the while, we are in a pleasant conspiracy. Although her mother, thin, tall, unfriendly, looks at me with a critical eye. She wants to marry off her daughter and is convinced that I'm not suitable as a husband. To her, I am a suspicious foreigner and, what's worse, an artist. I am actually a bit afraid of her and avoid possible encounters. I hesitate. I am not inclined to make any life decisions. I still speak poor English, and the lifestyle of these people, their money, dogs, horses, is completely foreign to me. Fox hunting makes me feel disgusted.

But one-on-one with Janey — I feel good, although we actually have little to say to each other. In Brighton by the sea, where this island ends with a white cliff that the waves crash against, I mock her high heels and narrow skirt. 

"You can't walk over rough terrain like that," I say. 

"I'm here not to walk — I'm here to look lovely," Janey replies cheerfully.

Evenings in an old pub, where barrels of beer and golden sherry disappear in the candlelit darkness and the mahogany bar gleams with a century-old varnish, we drink gin and lime and return merrily to the hotel. 

Who said there are problems in the world that can't be solved? You just have to not think about them…

I don't yet have the courage to break up with Eileen, and Halinka, evacuated after Hitler's invasion of France, has already appeared in London, and although we still live separately, the matter is starting to become more serious. 

Sooner or later, I will have to make some sort of decision…

On one of those days when a cold wind blows rain through the streets of London and everything suddenly becomes unbearable, I tell Janey, brutally, that I will probably marry Halinka. Janey stops and looks at me with narrowed eyes for a moment without a word. Then, with our heads bowed against the wind, we continue towards her car, which is parked around the corner. 

It's like a silent film. Janey takes out the key, opens the car door, sits down, starts the engine, and drives off… Just like that, without a goodbye. 

She's in uniform. Girls in uniform don't make scenes.

I still twist inside, still think I should have handled it differently, still consider a longer conversation, at least by phone. And then, like a white seagull, beautifully printed in italics, the announcement of her marriage to George falls onto the dirty floor of my studio.

Janey and my father did keep in touch a little after this, mostly just through annual Christmas cards. But about 40 years after this episode, they became a bit closer when Janey became my godmother. 

Here is a photo of them at an exhibition, in (I think) the late 1960s:

And, just to say, if I were her, I would have married George too - he was an actor who starred in a lot of Hitchcock movies, so he was probably cooler than my dad. Here's one famous scene he's in which, despite the pioneering camerawork, would never get made today due to the make-up decisions...

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On The Silver Globe news

What with the ongoing 150th anniversary of my grandfather Jerzy Żuławski, I'll be adding at least something related to him every edition for the forseeable.

This week, a reader wrote in about a comic book project based on my grandfather's novel On The Silver Globe. The artist is called Adam Fyda and it looks great. I wonder if the whole thing might get published one day.

Also, there will be a screening next month of Andrzej Żuławski's film version of On The Silver Globe in Edmonton, Canada. I have agreed to record a two-minute introduction to be played in the cinema before the film starts. I am currently writing knock-knock jokes to fill the time.

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That's all for this week. Many thanks for reading.

Adam

Adam Zulawski

TranslatingMarek.com / TranslatePolishMemoirs.com / Other stuff

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