A Dream of a Soul Among the Stars

Being born in Poland in the 70s—could there be anything more beautiful? For a child, censorship doesn’t exist. There’s nothing to hinder their exploration of the world. A world that had come back to life after the war. The wounds had healed. They were still felt, but not so much that a little person could be aware of them.

They were present in the rough behavior of my father, in my grandparents’ whispers, in the stories my aunts told. But they didn’t hurt. So, life could be enjoyed to the fullest. And that’s exactly what my childhood was like. Carefree. Just as every child’s should be.

We lived in a small apartment. We had a large living room—large for me, huge. It was in that living room where I witnessed my first plane crash. A beautiful white model of a passenger airplane kept going in circles. It was battery-powered, controlled with some kind of wired remote. I couldn’t understand why Dad didn’t want the plane to finally take off. Then came the moment when my brother and I could decide together. Dad was out somewhere. With our help, the plane veered off the edge of the table. And that was its end.

Besides the living room, there was a bedroom in the attic and a kitchen. The bathroom—or rather a bucket for our needs—was in the hallway behind a curtain. And then there was a second attic, where the TREASURES were. That second attic was always locked with a padlock. Almost always… One time, I noticed someone hadn’t locked the door. With joy, I discovered that’s where the toys that sometimes disappeared ended up. I carried them all back to the bedroom. I have no idea how I was allowed to run around the hallway at that age. There were stairs there. It was high. Maybe Mom was asleep?

My world was the bedroom. When I close my eyes, I can still imagine it. I remember the living room from photos. Birthdays and other family gatherings were perfect opportunities to capture us all surrounded by PRL-era wall units and a table laden with treats, and most importantly, bottles of orange soda—a delicacy reserved for such occasions.

The bedroom didn’t make it into any photos. So, I had to remember it well. Almost as if I knew back then that no one would capture it on film.

It was dark and cozy. It had one tiny window that didn’t let in much light. One side was filled with furniture, the other with couches. There were three couches in total—two under the slanted ceiling, the third by the window.

All the toys ended up on that third couch, which I carefully loaded into my bed before sleep. I had to fall asleep with all my toys. I felt sorry for any toy that couldn’t sleep with me. They all had to be there. And since I didn’t have many, even the building blocks made it into bed, which Mom would pry out from under her during the night, muttering something under her breath. Maybe that’s why they eventually ended up in the locked attic?

I slept on the couch with Mom. My brother slept with Dad. The bedroom witnessed nighttime stories from the Ania projector. I can still vividly recall the black-and-white version of the poem The Cat Was Sick. In the bedroom, I’d hide under one of the couches to take care of certain needs, the smell of which would always alert Mom that once again… In the bedroom, I fell asleep snuggled up to soft, warm Mom. In the bedroom, I played with my first figurines of Native Americans. In the bedroom, my stuffed rabbit lost an eye.

I was two years old then. And I fell asleep surrounded by stars. I’d close my eyes, and the stars would appear. Always. There were so many of them. They pulsed in a peculiar way. More and more. And I’d drift off to sleep.

The least enchanting part of this story was the yard. We lived above a butcher shop. The entire space for running around was a few meters long and a meter wide. It was paved with concrete and ended with a garbage bin full of animal bones. That bin was our main attraction. You could climb it and jump off. The stench of decomposing meat scraps was natural. Not particularly pleasant, but I don’t remember it as unbearable. It was part of my yard. And Mrs. J., who worked in the butcher shop, always had something for us. Sometimes even ice cream. On a stick. Bambino. Wrapped in pink, shiny paper. Tasting like cheap cream, the most delicious ice cream I’ve ever had. I was friends with all the shopkeepers in town. But that’s a story for another time.

I don’t remember a single sad moment from that time. It was a good childhood. And it didn’t end with the cramped concrete yard behind the butcher shop. One day (I was three years old), Dad took us to show us a house. A house with a big, green yard, shaded by blooming pear trees. A house with a gentle slope, dotted with colorful stones, leading to a stream. A stream where crayfish, frogs, and fish lived. A house that became my Home.

I remember the empty apartment. The furniture was gone, and I, irritated by Dad’s carelessness, gathered a few toy soldiers that hadn’t been packed. I couldn’t leave them behind. I remember going downstairs for the last time, holding Mom’s hand. I threw the soldiers onto the bed of the Żuk truck. Mom helped me climb in. We got in and drove away. Five hundred meters of difference. Twenty years of time. And my small corner of the world expanded from a tiny, smelly room to the whole world.

Even years later, when I searched for myself in big cities, in work, in love, hitting rock bottom and bouncing back time and again—every time I returned to this place, I returned to Home. Six months ago, I came back. I discovered it’s no longer my Home. Back then, in the spring, long ago, it became that special place. Who I am today, I owe to blooming meadows, orchards bending under the weight of fruit, fields filled with labor, and the murmuring stream washing over my bare feet. Without it, I’d be somewhere else. Someone else. A stranger.

It turns out that you can cultivate strangeness within yourself at any point in your life’s journey. You can wake up one morning and realize you don’t recognize the person looking sadly at you from the mirror. You shudder, rinse your face, and forget. You forget that you’ve turned gray. You grow grayer. You forget about colors, and eventually, shades of gray become your rainbow. You begin to see the world as an endless winter morning. Sometimes, from the depths of memory, a color, a ray of light flashes. Like in Plato’s cave. Deep in your consciousness, that spark, that fragment of you, flickers. And it waits. How many people have had the chance to turn their heads and see the Sun again? What a great Gift life has given me!

I left the cave! Or rather, I was pushed out. It all blinds me. I’m trying, somewhat clumsily, to rediscover the world. Every intensity, every beautiful story feels like those rays of sunshine. Still a bit dazzling. But I no longer look away. Sunglasses are unnecessary…