The artist Marek Zulawski, translation & Polish-British culture

Hi,

This week, I've translated an episode from my father's memoirs about a visit to the Tatra Mountains. He spent most of his pre-pubescence in this region but this was about a visit just after he had turned 70.

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Nothing has changed here over the course of my entire life

A lake in the High Tatras, photo by György Lakatos on Pexels

It's the year 1978. May. In the Valley of the Five Lakes, there's still a lot of snow on the ground. Beneath Miedziane, I am trying — without much success — to ski. The boots are borrowed and too tight, and the skis — though my own, found by Jędrek Krzeptowski in an attic after many, many years — are wooden and unwaxed. Nowadays, everyone has 'metalki', which don’t need waxing. But here the snow is uneven — strips of firn interrupted by plaster-like patches that stop me as if I'd run into bare earth. It's all a bit hopeless. My legs no longer have their old spring. I get thrown around.

But you, Maria, don’t see that. To you, this is a great adventure. It’s your first time in the High Tatras. You’re taking photos with Agnieszka and the kids on sunburnt red rocks. You’ve never worn skis before. But you do look sporty…

Above you, there’s a gully still filled with snow. Its base narrows as it goes up. Halfway up lies a solitary boulder, from which I used to schuss down just twenty years ago. And higher, much higher, the gully splits into two narrow, devilishly steep channels, lined not with boulder debris but with shattered stone. Both lead to a mountain pass.

I used to ski down from there when I was young. I can still hear the hard swish of the skis on icy snow and feel the iron strength of my lower back with each christie turn. And that thought: don’t let yourself be carried away by speed, don’t be tempted by the straight descent — because it’ll tear me to pieces before I even smash my head on the rocks at the bottom and shatter all of my bones.

The fact I don’t even think about climbing up to that pass now — that astonishes me. Clearly, my self-preservation instincts are still functioning.

But when we hike without skis up the southern slope of Kozi Wierch, I regain my old confidence. This is still within my reach. And when you and Zośka lie back in the sun on the wide ridge, I eagerly cross the snowy ledge and climb the warm rocks all the way to the summit. I feel like it’s my birthday.

From there, I gaze out in pure delight at all that stone world of mine, jagged with sharp ridges, sliced with valleys where ponds shine green and thread-like streams gleam white. I know this view from my childhood. Below lie the forests. Their rustling blends with the sound of mountain streams and fills the air. Clouds boil beneath me. They roll in from afar and rebound off the northern cliffs of the peaks. My heart fills with quiet joy, that I am once again allowed to breathe this vast air, that I once more stand above the clouds.

The mountains, Maria — they are not a physical matter. They're not a sport. They're a way of life.

Above the Black Lake of Gąsienica, all three of us just stood there. I stared. I know every outline of the panorama here, every bend in that stone-paved path that echoes underfoot as it loops around the lake toward Zawrat.

Nothing has changed here over the course of my entire life — while so many other things have undergone a total metamorphosis or vanished and been lost. I hear, just as I did long ago, the whisper of little waves wrinkling the surface and caressing the shore-side boulders. I hear a stone fall into the water on the far bank, splashing like a fish. Somewhere in the rocks, a marmot cries out. The echo carries over the peaks until it dies away and turns into an even deeper silence, dissolving into an even greater vastness…

Suddenly, the summits darken. From the direction of Świnica, a squall rushes in and lashes the lake like a whip. Oh, that glassy chime of raindrops striking water in absolute silence. Oh, that sound, like a magical harp I’ve known since childhood… Will I ever hear it again?

I stood there, enchanted, listening — while you two were already walking down the path to the meadow, your heads covered by hoods. Then I heard your concerned voice:

“Why's he still standing there in the rain?”

“Let him be, girl, let him be,” the highlander woman replied. “Marek is saying goodbye to the lake…”

Yes. I said goodbye to the lake — and perhaps to the mountains altogether. That’s not out of the question. Because on the way up, I noticed — with a certain dose of sorrow — that both of you climbed with much less effort than I did.

The heart’s the biggest problem... As for the other organs, I don’t have anything to blame on them just yet.

Maria in the Tatra Mountains, 1978

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Poland at EXPO 2025 in Osaka

I'm attending EXPO 2025 in Osaka this October because we are putting on a new version of the Quarks, Elephants & Pierogi exhibition. In case you're unaware, I co-wrote a book back in 2018 called Quarks, Elephants & Pierogi: Poland in 100 Words that spawned a travelling exhibition that has appeared in Basel, London, Tokyo and Dubai, as well as Legnica and Tarnów in Poland. I'm especially excited about this one as there's been a break of three years, and I really enjoyed the exhibition we put on in Dubai for EXPO 2020. 

The Osaka exhibition will feature some additional Polish-Japanese connections, including a mention of my cousins the Umeda family. There's an article about them on Culture.pl (the website associated with the book).

There's also an interview on there with Yasuko Shibata, the brilliant translator (and sociology professor) who helped us create the Japanese version of the book. I'm not sure if there will be any more articles loosely or directly promoting the exhibition, but I'll be sure to post them here, as you can imagine.

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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

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