The Enchanting Enclave - ebook

INTRODUCTION

In December 1946, the sixth issue of a weekly magazine “Stolica” (the Capital) published an article “I live in a Finnish Cottage.” It read: “It has been the second time that snow covered the Estate of the Finnish Houses with a thin layer of the white fluff, and it appears that twelve months is a long enough period to grade the new wooden houses. We can honestly say that the estate deserves the top assessment “superior.”

Last year, the inhabitants of the cottages were a bit wary because of the houses’ thin walls. They were not convinced by so-called, heat-insulating properties the cottages had. More cautious people preferred to stay within their own, well-proven walls, even if it meant living far from Warsaw. However, the risk-takers were lucky. Firstly, because the winter was mild; secondly, because the heat-insulation system was good.

It is true to say that during the first months, the inhabitants used to have some minor problems. The keys would not match the locks, the rainwater would leak from the ceilings, the windows would not shut, tap water would splash all around, and smoke would snaffle from the doors and windows.

As weeks and months went by, various flaws which resulted from the hurry to complete the project were eliminated.

The ninety-cottage housing estate in Upper Ujazdow has an ideal location. Old, beautiful trees and blossom-covered bushes which survived the blaze of fires and heavy bombardments of Warsaw, cast a shadow and protect from the dust. During May, you can hear sweet nightingale trill all around. What is most important, kids have enough space to play in the gardens full of flowers and fruit trees.

The cottages located in Mokotowskie Fields and Lower Ujazdow are less lucky than Upper Ujazdow. They lack greenery, and in the spring and fall, they are full of mud.

Shall we look inside one of the wooden houses?

The walls are covered with grey cardboard, whereas the ceiling, the floor, window frames, and the doors are made of light, pine boards. In some windows, flower-patterned curtains add color to the interior of the cottage, in the others, cheap chintz or even paper protect the dwellers from the curious glances of inquisitive passers-by who might like to see their next-door friends in their negligee or catch a glimpse of their tableware.

Some say that such close neighborliness helps develop social bonds. These ties are strengthened by, say, a new bathtub you can borrow from somebody who lives several houses from you, or a spade, a kettle, or a rake. The inhabitants get to know each other and make new friends in the club room, the little shop, or the kindergarten.

In Ujazdow, there are two types of cottages: a two-room design, and a three-chamber one. Both the designs are practical and well-planned. Each house has an attic. You can get there climbing a ladder placed in the toilet, but mind you, the hatch is narrow, and you must be slim to squeeze upstairs. If your hip measurement is more than 100cm, the challenge is not for you. There is also a small cellar below the corridor where the tenants store coal or the food.

The cottages accommodate families; single people are a very rare sight.

The Finnish houses in Warsaw were designed and erected as temporary buildings with a life of ten years. Some tenants worry that they have only a little bit more than eight years left to live in them.

I think, however, that taking into the account the disastrous situation of the building construction in Warsaw, they may have a longer life ahead of them. If you ask me, let them survive as long as it is possible.”

K.W.K.KIDS AND ADULTS

The 40-ties and the 50-ties…

My parents before I was born. Warsaw, 1946

It all started quite unexpectedly, during a casual telephone conversation about nothing important.

TELEPHONE CHAT ONE: ORANGES IN A CHIMNEY

My mobile kept playing the tune of ‘Sweet Dreams” for about ten seconds, and I was afraid I would not manage to answer it, but somehow, I did. I saw Maryla, my friend since forever, on its large display.

“Hi,” she said, “I had a dream about Ujazdow again. It’s been the third time this month. I wonder what it can mean.”

“And what exactly was it about?”

“That chimney behind the kindergarten. The one which had oranges.”

“And were they there? Did you see them?”

“Yes. You know, it was a great dream. The sky was blue, and the chimney was so CLEAN!”

Oranges in the chimney were a story we had made up for the sake of our school mates. We used to re-tell it so often that with the passage of time, we started to believe in the myth ourselves.

The legend was born on St. Nicholas’ day when in the school, all the pupils were treated to oranges. Each of us got a wonderfully juicy, orange sphere, an object of dreams. All the fruits emitted a lovely fragrance and were wrapped in a delicately rustling piece of tissue paper with a colorful pattern.

We wanted to eat them and still have them because, in those days, only very few of our parents were able to afford the citrus luxury like that. Oranges, lemons, figs, nuts and other delicatessen products were only for the rich who were able to pay a king’s ransom to get them. They were available in two places: in Rozycki Bazaar in Praga district and in Polna Street in the city centre.

“I often have dreams about Ujazdow,” I said truthfully, “However, they are not pleasant. I’d say they are quite worrying. It is always night, or late in the evening. It’s dark in the Main Alley, and I need to feel my way. I feel pangs of conscience because I haven’t been there for a long time. Suddenly, it appears that our houses are still there and that I can enter mine. On one occasion, in such a dream, I saw Fuki, do you remember her?”

“Sure. Your Pekingese. And what happened?”

“She was waiting for me. Scrawny and half-blind. Another time, I spotted some traces of someone else’s presence, looters perhaps, but I didn’t meet anybody.”

Maryla took a short break to make some tea. After a minute or two, she carried on:

“Quite recently, I took Agatha for a walk to Ujazdow to show her the birch tree I had planted. Next, we headed for Ujazdowski Park. When we were approaching Dark Alley, I saw Stefan Szczerbinski in his garden.”

“You’re kidding! Is he still living there?”

“Yes. He says that the Finns have supported the Mayor’s idea of the Outdoor-Museum status for the cottages.”

“I’ve read that it’s a very hectic place, with many ongoing projects.” Maryla sighed and continued.

“Do you know that on the old school’s fence there are boards with the interviews with the former tenants and the old photos? However, there’s nothing about us. It’s sad. Andrzej said that nobody would ever know how happy we were in Ujazdow in those days.” Maryla’s brother had always been a pessimist, but his remark was too much for me.

It was then that the thought of writing about us struck me. Why NOT try? Why not write while there is still time?

I decided to dig out the memories of the world which no longer exists, but which is still present in our hearts, echoes in our dreams, and for many of us means the best time of our lives.

THE PLACE AND THE FACTS

At the beginning of 1946, my Dad, Mieczyslaw Bieganski, got a place to live in a Finnish cottage, in a new housing estate in Upper Ujazdow. It was one of the first three post-war housing estates in Warsaw. The city authorities decided to give ninety-five Finnish-style wooden cottages to the employees of BOS (Capital City Reconstruction Bureau). Our address was House 4, Colony IV. The cottages were meant to offer their tenants temporary accommodation for about five to ten years at the most. They have, however, survived for more than seventy years now, despite many scheduled demolition deadlines.

There are still twenty-nine houses out of the ninety-five built in 1945, but what is most unusual and unique in Europe is their location in a two-million city. What was once a bright beam of sunshine in the never-ending flood of ruins, is now an open-air Museum situated right in the heart of the capital of Poland.

It is three hundred meters away from the Sejm (Parliament), and in the close vicinity of the French, German, Canadian, American, and Swiss Embassies. The famous and popular with foreign tourists parks (Ujazdowski, Lazienki and Botany Garden) are within a ten-minute walking distance. The Open-Air Museum Jazdow, full of greenery and the spirit of the past is part of the Centrum of Warsaw, with its Royal Route stretching from the Castle Square in the Old City to the Royal Palace in Wilanow.

Some cottages are still inhabited, although only a few tenants have lived in the housing estate since the beginning. Others are “newcomers” who moved in later. Our Colony no longer exists, but there are still some trees we had planted, and some other traces of the bygone past which are visible only to us, the oldest inhabitants of the place.

We can still see the gardens, with all the flowers, fruit trees, and vegetables in them, and we remember a delicate scent of violets or the sweet smell of lilac flowers. We know which “territory” belongs to our Colony; we can still see all the paths we used to walk up when we were playing paper chases, leaving chalk arrows on stones or pieces of bricks. The most important of all, however, is the fact that the Main Alley we used to play in, is still busy and open for dog-walkers, tourists on the way to the Ujazdowski Castle Museum, people looking for some rest under tall chestnut trees, and for the tenants, of course. You can also park your car free of charge there if you wish.

As far as the article in “Stolica” I mentioned in the Introduction goes, it is highly likely, that “the kids,” its author wrote about in 1946, were our elder brothers and sisters. The children I am writing about are my childhood friends, and myself. Thus, here we go - Maryla, Mary, Ricky, Joan, Johnny, and me, Sophie.

There were eight houses in Colony IV which got demolished in the early 70-ties when Trasa Lazienkowska, one of the major routes of traffic in Warsaw was being built. A green area designed for strolling, with flower beds, benches and a pathway edging the Agrykola Scarp, had replaced our gardens; however, the trees are still the same. The imposing pine tree Joan’s father planted soon after she was born, the V-shape acacia tree which grew in front of our window, and the birch tree Maryla planted when she was five. Ricky’s house was situated in the place where today the footbridge over Trasa Lazienkowska leads to the Museum of Modern Art.

I remember that Ricky did not want to move and delayed the deadline day as long as he could. He said a final “yes” when he heard and felt an excavator scratch the wall of his room, and he saw a crane in his garden.

Time forced changes: Colonies I, II, IV, and many others had disappeared leaving behind a lot of vivid scenes in our memory.

I can still see the cottage where the grey-haired, ever in love married couple were lucky to spend their last years of life among valuable, antique furniture, miraculously saved from the bombardments. They had beautifully colored Art Deco porcelain figures displayed in hanging glass door cabinets dating back to the 19th century. Mrs. Maria used to invite all the children from the neighborhood to the raspberries with thick cream and sugar she served in quality vintage crystal saucer footed dessert bowls.

We also often recall the family who used to live next door to the elderly couple. There are two reasons why we were fascinated by them. One of them was because we used to have a lot of fun thanks to the father of the family. He was a photographer by profession and would take pictures of us now and then; however, the most important and memorable service he used to offer to all the kids, were winter car drives around the Estate. When there was enough snow, he would tie two, or three sledges arranged in a row to the rear bumper of his DKW F5 car and pull us up and down the Main Alley.

The other source of our admiration was the photographer’s daughter. She was a tall young woman whose eyes were green, and whose hair was long and red. I remember seeing her on a sunny and warm spring morning, sitting in the window and combing her locks in front of an oval mirror placed on the table in front of her. The movements of her arm were slow and dreamy. She seemed to be lost in thoughts, and the scene was enchanting and full of magic. The cottage survived and so did the house in which Johnny Issat, one of our closest friends, lived; even the swing hooks are still there.

Post-war documents called the cottages the Workers’ Housing Estate. Their original residents included the architects, designers and the personnel of Capital City Reconstruction Bureau, who were BOS employees.

The first house was ready on March 10, 1945; however, construction works had dragged on for months due to delivery problems: the unloading ramps of Wilenski Railway Station in Praga district on the other side of the river appeared to be too far from Ujazdow to ensure the adequate logistics.

All the ninety-five cottages had two or three rooms, with a living space of fifty square meters.

The Northern side of the Estate, extending to the corner of Piekna and Wiejska Street, was surrounded by a brick wall which we would often climb, especially during the International Cycling Peace Race, whose final stage led down Mysliwiecka Street, all the way to the stadium.

The wall had a gate which was protected by a rusty chain. Every morning, the elderly, fatty caretaker would unlock a big padlock to lower it or coil aside, to let the trucks in and out of the Main Alley. He lived in a tiny gatehouse on the right of the gate, and in his free time when he was not busy with the chain, he would sew clothes for the estate dwellers. He liked both his duties; however, when he started taking the measure for the ladies’ pants, he usually went red in the face and wished he were dead.

As for the Estate protection, I have to say that neither the chain, nor the wall on its front was able to protect its residents from possible dangers because in the South, there was a sea of ruins, and to the East, the wilderness of Agrykola Park.

West of the Estate, there was the 19th century Ujazdowski Park; however, its wire mesh fence was full of holes, so that anybody could get in and out unseen. It was hidden from view by thick bushes from our side and pine trees on the edge of the park.

The Upper Ujazdow Finnish Houses replaced the military hospital which was bombarded and destroyed in 1939. Its extensive ruins would make a rough area stretching from behind Ricky’s house to the romantic Agrykola Street.

The hospital was completed in 1809, and during the defense of Warsaw in 1939, it saved the lives of both soldiers and civilians. It was completely destroyed by the German Luftwaffe, despite being full of wounded 1944 Uprising young soldiers and the Red Cross flags on the roofs of its pavilions.

Colony IV was situated in the hospital garden area where convalescents used to take walks or meet their families and loved ones. In the middle of the lawn in our garden, there was an old hornbeam tree whose branches had formed an umbrella. I used to imagine that it was a romantic spot in which young lovers kissed and whispered love words on an old-style park bench.

The soldiers who had died of their wounds were buried in a temporary hospital cemetery in the Dark Alley. In the early fifties, the authorities exhumed the bodies and re-buried them in Powazki Military Cemetery. The Dark Alley is called John Lennon Street now.

OUR TINY HOME

Our house had a small entrance, a corridor, a loo, two rooms and a kitchen. You could walk around all its rooms if you kept turning right: from the kitchen to the small room, next to the big room, finally to the corridor, and back to the kitchen. The design was ideal to play _hide-and-seek_ or _stuck-in-the-mud_ on rainy days. It was also very convenient when you had to flee in order not to get caught red-handed after more serious mischief.

One of such occasions had brought us both the adrenaline and a portion of shame and embarrassment. We were in our early teens and considered ourselves to be nearly adult, thus too old to carry on as we had on that very day.

My parents had gone out to meet a friend in the city, and I did not expect them to come back soon. There were four of us: Ricky, Johnny, my sister Mary, and myself. We decided to hold a dressing-up party, and I gathered all the necessary accessories: white and black stage makeup shades to color our faces, the parents' clothes to put on, and three Panama hats. As soon as the two boys had hidden under one of the beds, and Mary was hiding deep behind Mum’s best dresses, we heard the parents walk up the five stairs leading to the front door.

I did my best to clear up the mess, hide the rubber boots, the mirror, and the mallet, but neither of us had managed to wash off the terrible make-up from our faces. The lady our parents had brought with them got quite a shock, and, for a couple of months, kept gossiping around the city about the terrible children who grow up in Ujazdow.

The three-room houses had the same surface in square meters as the twin-room ones; the third room was designed “ at the cost” of the kitchen. The layout of the cottage made it possible to move around the rooms the way it was possible to do in the house with two rooms, unless the residents had placed a wardrobe between the smallest chamber and the medium-sized one, thus covering the door between the two. Our gang, however, was lucky; the parents of the twin girls, Marta and Niusia, decided they wanted to have both: the wardrobe and the door. They had partly removed the “back” of the wardrobe, and you could get from one room to the other through the two doors and past the cupboard shelves. They had done it so that we could play our favorite games the way we liked best. “Artists,” other neighbors sometimes sighed, “You know, they are crazy people, those artists.”

All of us adored the wardrobe and the secret passage it had offered. Its shelves used to open countless possibilities. You could feel the softness of the silk dresses the girls’ mother used to wear every evening to go to the Philharmonic Hall to play the first violin in the orchestra. You could secretly try on her tiny black high-heeled shoes or cast your eye on the neatly folded seamed nylon stockings with black seam Cuban heel.

However, it was not the wardrobe shelves that always gave us a thrill. Our Moms’ tulle petticoats and delicate shawls had the same or even greater power to wake a desire to join the world of adult women.

TELEPHONE CHAT TWO: PETTICOATS AND FRIPPERY

“Maryla, do I remember correctly that your Mom’s petticoat was light pink? You know, the one from the daybed drawer.” I asked one day.

“It had three layers: the white one, the light pink one, and the pink one. Why?”

“What kind of fabrics was it that made it so full?”

“Tulle or chiffon. I’m not sure. I liked your Mom’s crinoline slip.”

“Yes, it was wonderful…it swayed on your hips when you moved. I remember feeling like a princess when I secretly tried this white miracle on.” I said in a dreamy voice.

“And you tiptoed in front of the open window to see your reflection in the glass,” Maryla added as if in a trance.

The window in the bedroom opened inside, and we used it instead of a full-length mirror. I am sure this detail would have triggered more of our memories if Colin, Maryla’s dog, had not put an end to our happy chatting. He started barking and demanded that my friend should take him for a walk immediately and with no objection. He must have seen Felek, his mongrel dog buddy, without whom he could not imagine his life.

“I must take him downstairs,’ Maryla murmured. ‘I’ll call you later.”

“Sure. Just one more thing before you go. Do you remember that short woman with curly hair who used to sell second-hand American garments?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. What about her?”

“Nothing special. Call me when you get back.”

_The curly haired second-hand American garments vendor_ would bring her stuff every fortnight, in a shabby, old suitcase, which had, once upon a time, been dark green. I loved the days when she put it on the parents’ daybed, opened it with a little key, and displayed its contents wherever she could: on the grand piano, on the desk, chairs, and hangers on the swing hooks between the two rooms.

When she had arranged her store, she used to sit on the edge of the daybed and light a cigarette in a long glass cigarette holder. The smell of naphthalene filled the place, and the bargaining started.

However, when we had given each piece a closer look, it appeared that all the clothes had flaws: dresses were worn out, blouses had holes, and skirts lacked buttons, or hook and eyes. Only on one occasion did my mother manage to buy a red rose patterned blouse with a frilled neckline. Be that as it may, I adored her fripperies.

TELEPHONE CHAT THREE: A BOMB AND THE SEARCH FOR TREASURE

On Sunday, Maryla rang me up in the early afternoon. Just in case, I asked her where Colin was.

“I left him with my neighbor in the yard on the other side of our block of flats. She promised to take care of him for a while. I’m calling about your writing,” she began.

“I am glad you rang. I do need some memory refreshment from time to time.” I was wondering what she wanted to talk about this time.

“When you start describing our Colony, don’t forget to write about the Rubble.”

“And what makes you think I might forget about the Rubble. It is unforgettable,’ I said truthfully, “We used to go there every day in search of treasure. How can you ever forget a thing like that?”

I heard a shuffling sound: evidently, Maryla must have been moving something quite heavy. After a minute, she said:

“I’m going to sit by the window so that I can see when they are coming back. As for the treasure, I remember we had to keep our going there a secret, especially since they found a live bomb there. Remember?”

“Sure, I do. It was quite a bomb. It had stuck in the Agrykola escarpment, half-hidden in the ground. All of us rushed there immediately; Ricky and Johnny started kicking it as hard as they could. Had it gone off, we wouldn’t be talking now. I feel shivers down my spine even today.”

“Do you remember who told us about the bomb?” I asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t. I gather it must’ve been someone from our school.”

“And what a row we had at home!” I began to feel nostalgic at this flashback from the past. “All those military sappers running around, giving orders not to go out.”

THE RECREATIONAL RUBBLE

The military hospital rubble would always draw us like a magnet, and despite our parents’ strict ban on our visiting the site, nothing could stop us from going there during the day.

You could find a real treasure among the pieces of bricks: colored glass, broken medicine bottles, mess-tins, decorative tiles, or even a long-serving brass kettle with the name Pooh scratched in uneven letters just below its handle.

There were a lot of zig-zagging paths which crossed the rubble site in all directions. Those shortcuts would take you from the burnt walls of Ujazdowski Castle to the sports rooms behind its ruins. On your way there, you had to go through the piles of bricks, stones and pieces of concrete reinforcement. However, with the passage of time, they became overgrown with tall grass and wildflowers swaying in the wind. In one of the internal crossroads, or should I say, cross-paths, there was a wayside shrine with a figure of Our Lady in it. The figure was wearing a pale blue dress with a few bullet holes in it, and there were always jars with some flowers at its feet.

The sports rooms, the goal of our trips, would always pay off all the hardships of our getting there. In the sportsmen's off-training hours, our friend’s Eva’s mother would occasionally give in to our begging and let us in. It was Paradise. We could climb gym ladders, swing on thick ropes attached to the ceiling, or walk on our hands, and somersault on thick mattresses. They used to be sweaty and dirty, but we did not mind. Nothing on earth was able to compete with the feeling of bliss and satisfaction which we felt on our way back home.

Such were the days on the Rubble site, familiar and friendly, with the buzz of bees during the summer, and lead color slides down brick hills in the winter. And at night? You had to keep off the site then. Why? Nobody knew for sure, but people said that someone had heard yells for help, flashlights glints, and a shot fired. The day after those strange and frightening developments on the cursed site had taken place, a rumor would spread through all the houses. Word of mouth carried terrifying stories about murders, bloodstained shirts and vague threats carved with a penknife on an old bench. The fear which used to cripple our imagination for a day or two, would soon fade away unless there was something new to stimulate it again.

Until 1954, the burnt walls of the Castle were a perfect place to play; however, Witaszewski, the General of the Polish People’s Army, had given the order to demolish the relic. He was planning to start one of the two projects: either an evening Marxism-Leninism Institute or the seat of the Polish Army Artistic Ensemble. NB: my Uncle Piotr was dismissed from the position of Historic Buildings Conservator for having stood up against the demolition.

In silence, the Estate tenants watched the workers loop thick ropes on to the Castle walls and pull them down on the count of three. After the Castle walls were demolished, nothing was left of the baroque style building except for the cellars.

At the end of the fifties, the city authorities decided to construct a pedestrian area on the Rubble site. All the wheel-ruts disappeared and gave place to vast open spaces you could ride your bicycle on or play ball. However, before it was possible to start a new life, horses had to remove tons of the debris loaded on the carts. Seeing those large, neglected and dirty animals, working like galley slaves, savagely whipped and often bleeding made our hearts ache, and sometimes made us shed a tear. None of us could bear looking at the hapless creatures, so one day, Maryla made up a test to see how deep our compassion was.

“If you want to help that horse,” she said to Ricky, “stand under the pussy willow and say: _Wizard, wizard, I want to be that horse_. Then, you will become the horse, and the horse will be you. In no time at all. Are you coming?”

“Will he get back?” Johnny asked breathlessly.

“I don’t know,” replied Maryla and gave us all an inscrutable look.

None of us dared a try, although we pretended not to believe her at all.

On Sundays, when there had been no demolition works going on, we used to go to the Rubble to look for new treasure pieces. We would find loads of beautiful items: big pieces of gypsum figures, female faces, tiles and other decorative elements.

The sculptures which had not been damaged during the demolition works were stored in a nearby shack, where they had been left to decay. Local hooligans and drunkards were the last thing needed. They kept destroying the remains of the art during frequent drinking bouts until they ruined everything.

In 1974, the authorities decided to rebuild the Castle. They erected the building on its original cellars and gave it its 18th-century design according to the project of Professor Piotr Bieganski, my godfather, who, twenty years before, had lost his job for being against the Castle’s demolition.

THE RUBBLE AND THE VIOLETS

The Rubble had accompanied the Estate for over ten years. We got used to walking up and down all its “shortcuts” in the summer and riding a sledge down the hills of bricks in the winter. It was there where Mary, my sister, and I posed with a pigeon for a magazine cover photo. I was holding the bird which worried me; I expected the worst. On the one hand, I was scared it might peck my fingers, or scratch my palms if I held it too hard. On the other hand, I did not want to hurt it. At last, the photo session which seemed to have taken ages finished. Mary, however, was delighted.

Frankly speaking, we loved the Rubble, and we felt at home there. We knew every stone, cellar and a utility hole there. The Site would give us a sign it was spring. It is hard to say why, but the first coltsfoot flowers would always bloom in that seemingly hostile place.

When the yellow-headed pioneers shed their blossom, it was a turn for the violets to show their pretty buds. They had a delightful scent and a fabulous color. In no time at all, you would come across a tiny, violet patch in places where you would never expect to see so many lovely flowers. I had found two such places: one of them was close to the Castle debris, and the other one, nearby Agrykola Park, next to the old amphitheater. Masses of fragrant flowers appeared there, in the space of one night only. There were so many of them that you could not see a single blade of grass around, but only a violet pond under an old birch tree. I felt as if I had found a treasure.

TELEPHONE CHAT FOUR: EARLIEST MEMORIES

This time, it was my turn to ring Maryla up. I had a query about the barracks near the Rubble.

“Have you walked Colin yet? Can we talk a minute?”

“Yes, I have. He’s sleeping now.”

Maryla’s dog gets jealous of her phone chats. When he thinks the chat lasts too long, he starts barking and tries to snatch the mobile from her hand. Sometimes, he goes as far as biting her on the vein, as she puts it. On other occasions, he hits her several times on her knee with his heavy paw and hard claws.

“I’m calling about those barracks, you know… In one of them, Basia lived with her parents, in another one, there was the Automobile Club at the end of the 50-ties, but what about the ones behind the wire mesh, guarded by the armed guards?”

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