for the last time just before you were born and after that there was no way for him to return. Heâs probably still alive. After all, itâs only been six years and he was a vigorous, elegant man, who seemed years younger than his age.
âHe was your grandfatherâs younger brother, always eager to travel and to experience life beyond the family circle. He decided to emigrate to the United States. His parents wept and argued and mourned for him as if he had contracted a fatal illness. In the end when they realized he would not be swayed, they equipped him with money and letters of introduction, and he promised to return and visit them often. But in America, he was too restless to remain in one place. He kept on travelling across the country until he reached California, and after a few months he resumed his journey. I was only a child then, but I remember the excitement in our house whenever a postcard arrived from him. After everyone had read it I was allowed to save it, and your uncle got the postage stamp for his collection.
âEventually he settled in Louisiana, probably because it was as different as could be from his native region. To everyoneâs surprise he became in time a very prosperous cotton mill owner. He still wrote often, and even after his parents were dead he continued to come to Dobryd once a year. During these visits he behaved like the proverbial rich uncle from America, showering everyone with extravagant presents and leaving us children with our mouths open while he told us of his adventures. We adored him of course. At the end of his stay he would always try to persuade one of us to visit with him for a while. We would have gone readily, but of course your grandmother wouldnât hear of it. To her, America was a land of savages, paupers and criminals, and she wouldnât let her children have anything to do with such people.
âIn 1938 he visited Dobryd for the last time, bringing with him tickets and visas for our entire family. He was deeply worried about what the Germans might do under Hitler. Yet he couldnât convince any of us to leave. Now, of course, our attitude seems insane. But then, you see, we had our families, our involvements, friends, positions, land that we valued. Mostly, I suppose, we felt safe. After all, ours was by no means a peaceful region. There had been wars before and we had survived. We were so much a part of Poland it was impossible to imagine the kind of betrayal that was being prepared all around us.
âUncle Louis left alone, with his useless visas, and the last letter we received from him urged us one final time to get away from Dobryd. By then it was already too late.
âWell, letâs not talk about those sad times. I want to tell you about Dobryd as it was before the war.
âThe one place that symbolized Dobryd for me was the Café Imperiale. Everybody went there. It was the townâs most fashionable meeting place, the heart of its social life, located on the promenade that led from the public gardens to the townâs main square.
âYou and I have walked that street many times together, but of course nothing remains of its former splendour. Do you remember the tree stumps that we passed every ten yards or so? These were once tall chestnut trees. Beneath them children played, parents exchanged greetings with friends, young people courted and fell in love. The trees were as old as the town. The Germans cut them down to use as firewood.
âOn a Sunday afternoon everyone was to be found along the promenade. People came to see and to be seen. The ladies examined each other with great care. They dressed in their best clothes and there were costumes there that would not have been out of place in Paris or Berlin. The ladies of Dobryd subscribed to fashion magazines from the big cities and as soon as they arrived, dressmakers would be set to work, copying the photographs. In another week or so these accurate and
âHe was your grandfatherâs younger brother, always eager to travel and to experience life beyond the family circle. He decided to emigrate to the United States. His parents wept and argued and mourned for him as if he had contracted a fatal illness. In the end when they realized he would not be swayed, they equipped him with money and letters of introduction, and he promised to return and visit them often. But in America, he was too restless to remain in one place. He kept on travelling across the country until he reached California, and after a few months he resumed his journey. I was only a child then, but I remember the excitement in our house whenever a postcard arrived from him. After everyone had read it I was allowed to save it, and your uncle got the postage stamp for his collection.
âEventually he settled in Louisiana, probably because it was as different as could be from his native region. To everyoneâs surprise he became in time a very prosperous cotton mill owner. He still wrote often, and even after his parents were dead he continued to come to Dobryd once a year. During these visits he behaved like the proverbial rich uncle from America, showering everyone with extravagant presents and leaving us children with our mouths open while he told us of his adventures. We adored him of course. At the end of his stay he would always try to persuade one of us to visit with him for a while. We would have gone readily, but of course your grandmother wouldnât hear of it. To her, America was a land of savages, paupers and criminals, and she wouldnât let her children have anything to do with such people.
âIn 1938 he visited Dobryd for the last time, bringing with him tickets and visas for our entire family. He was deeply worried about what the Germans might do under Hitler. Yet he couldnât convince any of us to leave. Now, of course, our attitude seems insane. But then, you see, we had our families, our involvements, friends, positions, land that we valued. Mostly, I suppose, we felt safe. After all, ours was by no means a peaceful region. There had been wars before and we had survived. We were so much a part of Poland it was impossible to imagine the kind of betrayal that was being prepared all around us.
âUncle Louis left alone, with his useless visas, and the last letter we received from him urged us one final time to get away from Dobryd. By then it was already too late.
âWell, letâs not talk about those sad times. I want to tell you about Dobryd as it was before the war.
âThe one place that symbolized Dobryd for me was the Café Imperiale. Everybody went there. It was the townâs most fashionable meeting place, the heart of its social life, located on the promenade that led from the public gardens to the townâs main square.
âYou and I have walked that street many times together, but of course nothing remains of its former splendour. Do you remember the tree stumps that we passed every ten yards or so? These were once tall chestnut trees. Beneath them children played, parents exchanged greetings with friends, young people courted and fell in love. The trees were as old as the town. The Germans cut them down to use as firewood.
âOn a Sunday afternoon everyone was to be found along the promenade. People came to see and to be seen. The ladies examined each other with great care. They dressed in their best clothes and there were costumes there that would not have been out of place in Paris or Berlin. The ladies of Dobryd subscribed to fashion magazines from the big cities and as soon as they arrived, dressmakers would be set to work, copying the photographs. In another week or so these accurate and
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