Picture perfect
I miss them, you know.
I’ve come to learn and understand that loss is multifaceted. When losing significant others, you can miss and yearn for the person you were to them as much as the person themselves. However, with these two… I swear I just miss them. They were blue-chippers, solid gold, 100 percent themselves, through and through. My Babcia (BAB-cha) and Dziadzio (ZHAD-zee-oh). These curious sounding words are Polish, and they mean Gran and Grandpa.
These two were almighty impressive people. They overcame the unimaginable as child refugees from war-torn Poland in 1939, he just 14, she just 17. Surviving the Gulag was just one leg of an incredible picture-perfect journey that would span the globe: from middle Europe, across the ‘stans to the Middle East, down to Africa, then back up to Europe.
Yet this isn’t necessarily the most astounding part of their story. They went on to become examples of everything society expected from people after the war.
They were staples of the Polish communities found in Ealing & Balham in London. They were decades-long company men and women in the years that followed. They were doting and dedicated parents and guardians. Proudly married for 45 years. These were the kind of people that rebuilt the world. “The Greatest Generation” may not be hyperbole.
My relationship to them? Hard to begin to quantify.
Babcia, Dziadzio, the moon, and I
But I’ll do my best. So… I would face orphandom as a teenager. I share this not to underscore how much closer, tighter, or in need I was of them. No, quite the opposite. In circumstances where the moon had fallen out of the sky, where all was off and nothing made sense anymore – they did. My Babcia and Dziadzio stayed right as they were. The world changed and they didn’t. They were who they’d always been to me and I was all the better for it.
I’d always be met with his boisterous warmth and her curious concern.
My Dziadzio would rattle off an engaged recounting of current affairs from his favorite paper, wanting to hear my take, then onto football for much the same. This was laced with a healthy sprinkling of the most corny Christmas cracker-tier jokes (look it up) and the latest action films he’d caught on terrestrial television (shout out to Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jean-Claude Van Damme, with honorable mentions to Steven Segal’s later work and early-career Jason Statham).
My Babcia always wanted to know how I was doing. She wanted the latest updates on anything and everything with a tone balancing curiosity and concern. Not a single detail was unimportant to her. Even when entirely uninteresting to me. She was rare to give advice or instruction; she always just listened, cared, and celebrated the little wins that I couldn’t even see. I remember bringing them a pizza I had made in Home-Ec. Nothing more than a flatbread with tomato and cheese on top, it was celebrated like a Michelin star masterpiece. Otherwise, she’d update me on the latest happenings of the Royal Family and her Columbo reruns, and throw casual sprinklings of shade at my Grandpa, something only a decades-long marriage can earn.
Eat!
A copious feeding was entirely non-negotiable. Even when I’d started slimming down, attempting to watch what I eat, it didn’t stop. I was trying to make myself into an unstoppable force while the feeding was an immovable object. They nailed it, though. A pitch-perfect palate hit that I very much wanted and, sure, got a kick knowing they enjoyed me consuming it.
Irrespective of time of day or visit (or even if there was a meal to consume ahead), there was a given rollout:
- Pringles (I suspect these were stocked for their addictive capacities…)
- Kabanos (Polish garlic sausage — long, thin, at their best when left to dry in a cupboard for a few days)
- In time, a beer (Tyskie — Polish brand, crisp, light, not a bad lager at all)
- And a scotch (when I was old enough — my girlfriend at the time was served sherry, for ‘The ladies are served sherry’)
The lighthouse of light
I was always seated with two great talkers at a time when I could be struggling to find words. For sure, I took it for granted then. I could to a degree be ‘umming and ahhing’ about the necessity or frequency of weekly visits to them. Yet each visit, without fail, they were the most impeccable and genial of hosts. There was always energetic and warm conversation when I often didn’t know what to say, think, or even feel. A lighthouse in the storm.
My whole association with them is light, or like light. It’s clear, it’s warm, and profoundly positive. Every single fragment of memory figment. From the shape of clear frame spectacles or the pattern of floral blouses, to the upholstery of arm chairs and tablecloths. Anything Babcia-and-Dziadzio-related is ‘good times’ psychologically speaking. And, oh, the way they sounded… such thoroughly anglicized people with thick Polish accents till they parted. They were distinct, they were unique, they were them — just right.
Now to be clear, my Gran and Grandpa were… how to put this gently? Like, old when I was born. They were always old, definitely part of the charm. So it should come as no surprise by the time I’m north of about 21, they would begin to have their struggles. Her mobility was significantly affected, leaving her housebound for her last few years. He would suffer macular degeneration, in essence, gradually losing his sight. Their spirits simply didn’t budge, though.
He became something of her carer in their final years, despite sight leaving his grasp. She would find herself on more than one occasion expressing genuine surprise, even awe, that she had lived so long. He would lose his drivers license and long for driving his car when it was gone. However, the difficulty didn’t define them, they didn’t really know how to moan or complain, these two. From the outside looking in, we relatives could see how it wasn’t easy for them. We all shared a genuine wonder in how they continued as ever. My sister and I have since wondered, did they stay around, live longer for us? Until we’d reached adulthood? Cosmically or consciously, I don’t know. I never will, I’m not sure I’m meant to.
But, you know
She would go first. Initially — though this would inevitably fade before he would join her — he was given a new zest on life in months proceeding. We would be granted one of his great one-liners.
Sitting there in their flat, he would look out the window and mournfully declaim:
“I miss my car.”
He would then state in a much less deep and profound manner:
“I miss my wife, but, you know.”
Their difficulties, inner storms, were somewhat hidden in these later years. Certainly from myself and again, even in decline, they didn’t make demands or change up their roles. Babcia and Dziadzio stayed the same, even when the greatest confrontation was upon them. Their wisdom and perspective was never wielded at us, certainly not at me.
I have a clear memory that serves this up to a tee. There was a World Cup on, I believe 2018. I had trained out from London to visit them and had spent the best of a late afternoon at their flat. It was heading into the evening, so I was ready to train back. I came to the door to say goodbye, and my Dziadzio asked if I wanted to stay and watch one of the games with him. I declined, for I had an hour and half journey back, and had spent the afternoon there. When it came to the exit, looking back at their flat door, him closing it, I could see a slight resigned sadness to him.
A couple of years later it struck me like a brick — he likely knew that was our last chance to catch a World Cup together, which it was — and that went completely over my head at the time. As you can see, this was only handled with a quiet grace and wisdom; a selflessness.
I have their stories in recorded form and research from family members and writers of the Polish diaspora post WWII. It’s a daunting task, but I very much endeavor to write them. At the same time, as expressed here, child refugees of Poland form just a strand of a much greater tale. I’m daunted by it and believe it’s because I know even the best of writing would never capture their totality and all they gave and meant.
Maybe that’s just for me though, maybe that’s the legacy they’ve left me personally; their place in my heart and mind.
I miss them, you know.