The artist Marek Zulawski, translation & Polish-British culture

Hi,

What with the opening of the Hanna and Jacek Żuławski exhibition next week, I thought I'd translate another story from my father's memoirs featuring his cousin Jacek. It's about mountaineering, but Jacek did like art too - the new exhibition opens on 20th Februrary at BWA Bydgoszcz and is on until 29th March.

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Falling Off a Mountain

Świnica by Jarek from Pixabay

When I was a teenage boy, Jacek and I were doing the northern wall of Świnica. It's a massive exposure — all brittle rock. And wet.

Halfway up the wall, going first, I encounter a smooth overhanging boulder blocking my path. I try to get around it. There's no way. I have to go straight.

The moment I hug it to climb over it, the boulder suddenly shifts forward on top of me.

Directly below me, Jacek starts quickly belaying me with a hook.

I know with complete clarity that I'm about to collapse onto his head with this boulder and that we're both going to die.

Jacek Żuławski later in life

Through some superhuman effort, I manage to push the boulder away from me, which, in a flurry of smaller stones, flies just past Jacek's head. I meanwhile, deprived of anywhere to grip thanks to the push, simply fall off the wall.

Falling through the air, I pass the pale stubborn face of my companion and see him quickly twisting the rope around his hand. He clearly doesn't want to risk passing it through the climbing clip.

My mind is racing. I fell when I was about fifteen metres above him, so if I go another fifteen the rope will snap or the hook won't hold. I can already see in my imagination the two of us, tied to the two ends of our thirty-metre rope, dropping through the air only to crash into the boulders several hundred metres below.

All the days of my short life begin to flash before my eyes. As if a film in which I had the leading role was being played at a crazy pace.

Suddenly, there's a yank at my waist — the rope loop slips under my arms. Stop.

The rope didn't break. I've stopped on a ledge in a seated position — my legs are dangling in the air over a vertical drop, but the rope is holding me tight. I sit and stare.

"Are you alive?". It's my companion's voice.

"I'm alive," I reply, "and that makes me very happy. But come down and get me out of this armchair."

"I'll be down in a moment, but I have to get the second hook in," comes the voice from above. "Can you wait there?"

"I can. Perfectly," I answer. "I'm very comfortable."

I start shaking with laughter. I can hear Jacek looking for a place for the hook. Now the clips are jangling — and now he's hitting it in. Good for us.

A grey rock sparrow jumps out from under me and falls to the lower reaches of the massif like a stone. But soon I can't see anything below, because a cloud covers the scree and starts churning around my feet.

Eventually, Jacek comes down. I hear his cautious shuffling directly above me. It must be very difficult, I suddenly think, I hope he won't let some stone loose on me...

Finally, looking up I see Jacek right above me.

“I'm putting in a third hook,” he informs me. And then, slowly, he pulls me into a standing position.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

“I feel nice,” I reply. And then all of a sudden, with genuine surprise, I notice I'm covered in something red. My palms have had the skin torn off them, blood is trickling down my calves. My backpack is torn, the sleeves of my sweater are hanging out of it — also peeking out of the hole is a loaf of bread, crumpled to a pulp.

"That bread saved you," says Jacek. "It must've slipped under your head when you hit your back against the wall... Can you walk?"

"I can," I say. "Nothing is hurting me..."

"We've got to hurry before it starts to."

Jacek ends the discussion.

We began an extremely difficult descent.

After fifteen minutes, the pain started.

After half an hour, every part of my body, every bone, all of it hurt... Most of all, I was just completely bruised.

But somehow we got down.

Back in the shelter, the old alderman Bustrycki smeared me with pig fat.

I lay in a fever for several days, and it took about a week before I could walk again. The skin grew back, the wounds healed — apparently I didn't break anything, even though I fell at least 20 metres.

The view down from Świnica by Jarek from Pixabay

Other than making me think "Holy crap, that loaf of bread is the reason I exist 😮", that story makes me wonder if the new Hanna and Jacek Żuławski exhibition will also feature any mountains. Again, the exhibition about them is on from next week in Bydgoszcz (a popular Ryanair destination 😁) and you can find the details here.

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Photo of the week

Trawling the Internet for content is always fun. I was pleased to find this excellent photo of a slightly intense Polish American with a small reproduction of one of my father's posters on his shelves.

In case you're wondering, I found the photo on Reddit here.

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That's all for this week. Many thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy the last few weeks of winter.

Adam

p.s. If anybody you know is looking for a Polish-to-English translator for family memoirs, please do put them in touch with me.

Adam Zulawski

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