A Polish war hero
“Stanley has agreed to meet you,” Jack says as he motions for the waiter so he can order bacon, eggs, and coffee for two. We sit side-by-side, French café style in a banquette at the diner down the street from my condo.
“Really?” My heart swells a little with acceptance. In our year-plus of dating, Jack speaks often and proudly about his uncle and how, despite our political differences, Stanley and I are similar - we both have the same strong sense of right and wrong and the confidence to share our views. But there’s been resistance to meeting me. With Jack’s two marriages behind him, Stanley’s reportedly skeptical about the chances of Jack meeting someone worth investment of his - Stanley’s - time. “Why do you think he’s finally said yes?”
“I’ve told him enough about you he realizes this could be serious,” he grins and squeezes my hand on the bench between us. “Stanley was in Warsaw’s uprising you know.”
My turn to grin. “You’ve mentioned that.” Jack told me all about Stanley on our first date: Stanisław, as he then was, at age 16 helped the Polish resistance try to reclaim his city - Warsaw - for 63 days in 1944. I nodded and smiled the first time Jack told me. By the 3rd, 4th, and 98th time he bragged about Stanley’s wartime role, I had done some googling so was better prepared for the stories. I am not a student of history and my understanding of WWII is through my parents’ eyes. The same age as Stanley but in England, they were not old enough to be involved other than enjoying the dancing with soldiers (mom) and being evacuated from London (dad). Imagining the war in the way this mythical Uncle Stanley had experienced it was another matter entirely. Jack was privileged to read Stanley’s account of his wartime experience, written in 1945 and of course, in Polish, making it out of reach for me.
“I can’t wait to meet him and Brigitte. When are we going?”
“They asked us for dinner tonight at their place in Barrie. I forgot to tell you.” So like Jack to omit a major detail like meeting these very important members of his family, the kind of thing that would have upset my perfectly ordered life until Jack threw it all into chaos.
“Sure! What time and what should we take?”
***
That first meeting with Stanley and Brigitte, nearly 11 years ago, was a success. It was a big deal for Jack to get his uncle’s approval on all topics, including life partner. He was a father figure to Jack who’d immigrated to Canada in his 30s, leaving his own parents behind. It was a big deal to me too, not least of which because as the patriarch of the Canadian branch, Stanley’s approval was likely to lead to acceptance by the rest of the family. Since that first meeting, Stanley and Brigitte were with us at countless life events but most significantly they witnessed our elopement nearly six years ago; they spent time with Jack in the final few weeks of his life; and Stanley was one of a handful in the room with Jack when he died with medical assistance in 2018.
There are no guarantees in life that relationships will continue through major upheaval and with Jack’s death, came the question - who of his people would remain a part of my life. I am very happy that Stanley, Brigitte and I have kept each other in the “yes” column. Not long after Jack died, Stanley asked me if I would read and provide comments on his uprising story. Stanley had wound up in London after the war, subsequently came to Canada and has lived his life in English with his German wife, Brigit. His English, therefore, is excellent but nonetheless not his first language. He wanted a native speaker to give his translation an edit. I was honoured to be his choice.
His story is moving, horrifying, and endlessly fascinating. Reading parts of it was a bit like being told you have to slow and look for highway carnage when passing an accident. I was gutted by one point in the narrative where, after pages of difficult material, he acknowledged that what happened next was simply too painful to report. Knowing Stanley’s indomitable spirit was forged by the experience he recounts is also like seeing the passengers from the car accident standing by the wreckage wrapped in blankets and looking grateful and undefeated. His is a gripping account of doing dangerous things for the greater good that no-one - certainly not a teenager - should have to do.
I was thrilled when Stanley told me the original Polish version of his story has been recently published by the Polish military and is being read in schools in Poland. Efforts are underway to have the English version published too and I can’t wait to one day get a copy. He’s one of only a few left from that period in Polish history and it’s important his story is not lost when he dies.
***
When we woke to the news of the Russian invasion of Ukraine a few weeks ago, it seemed like we found common ground again in Canada. It was good timing after the rough round of internal debates we had about the Ottawa occupation. I haven’t looked for it, but I’ve not heard or read on Twitter any Canadian who seriously supports Putin running roughshod over his neighbour. Watching Ukrainians take refuge in subway systems and their basements brought into sharp focus what losing freedom actually means. I hope we can all agree wearing a mask and being vaccinated for the greater good is not an infringement of the same magnitude.
I have also been thinking of the fortune of generations of Europeans and the diaspora who have lived without threat of military incursion, generations of children who have not had to fear bombing or participate, as Stanley did, in defending their cities. Now Ukrainians have been taken back in time to Europe of the 40s. The images we have all watched of young people arming themselves to defeat the Russian army have made me think of Stanley’s account. Like him, they’re knowing atrocities no-one should experience.
Accompanying this piece is a photo of Stanley as a youth taken around the time of the uprising; a photo of Jack with Stanley just a month before Jack died, with Jack wearing his Polish mining uniform; and a third photo of Stanley, Brigit, my friend Barb, Jack, and me at our elopement.
