It was way back in 1969, I think, that this particular episode took place. I had been working in Sweden for about four years by then, had married and was the father of two children, first a girl, then a boy. I had started writing language textbooks that had become instantaneously popular and promised to provide us with a stable, considerable income for many years to come. Every day was an inspiration. The air was full of heady, intoxicating success. Sweden, because of its policy of neutrality between the nations that belonged to NATO or the Warsaw Pact, was ideally placed to trade with both sides. In addition, our education system was the envy of the whole world, so it was quite understandable that countries in both camps turned to us for help and advice. For almost a decade Lars and I conducted in-service training courses for teachers in several countries behind the Iron Curtain each summer.
In those days, Poland was still a Communist dictatorship. This was long before Lech Walesa, the electrician turned trade-union activist, co-founded the Soviet Bloc’s first independent trade union called Solidarity. He went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 1983 before becoming President of Poland from 1990 to 1995. When we knew him he was being persecuted and jailed for his activities at the shipyard in Gdansk. Way back then there was no whiff of the corruption that later marred his final days as a national leader. I guess it’s true, as they say, that power corrupts even the best of us.
Poland, in Central Europe, has a population of around 40 million people. Warsaw is its capital. Despite its Communist history, Poland is ostensibly one of the most religious countries in Europe—88 % of people belong to the Catholic Church. Poland is the motherland of Pope John Paul II. Famous Poles include Frederic Chopin in classical music, Joseph Conrad in literature, Roman Polanski in film making and Madame Curie in physics and chemistry. Polish belongs to the West Slavic language group and is quite different from other western European languages.
Our official interpreter for the workshop this particular year was called Agnieszka, a Polish variant of Agnes from the Greek, meaning “sacred, chaste”. Saint Agnes is the patron saint of chastity, engaged couples and virgins, none of which was appropriate for this particular lady. We called her, fondly, ‘our spy’ because that was what she was. It was her task to keep check on us and make sure that we did not engage in any subversive activities, which was somewhat ironic as she was the one who informed us that she was going to flee the country with us after the workshop.
Naturally, we were a little sceptical and taken aback at this news. Gradually, through the years, we had begun to help people escape their homelands and we were quite suspicious that Agnieszka was setting a trap for us. Our workshop was being held in ?ód?is almost in the centre of the country. ?ód?is pronounced “woodge”—well almost anyway—and Agnieszka intended to travel with us in Lars’s car and on the ferry back to Sweden. Somehow, being a State Security employee, she had managed to get an exit visa for a two-week vacation; lord knows how!
We decided to risk it but became quite alarmed when we went to pick her up from her parents’ small apartment and saw the gigantic trunk full of all her belongings on the pavement outside. We had no idea how we would get it into the car. Our disquiet grew even more when a total stranger to us, but someone who apparently knew Agnieszka, sidled up and pointedly told her that if she took such a big trunk they would never let her out of the country. She finally left with us clutching a small suitcase with enough clothes for two weeks.
I sat in the back of the car with her. Lars drove. It was dark by the time we arrived at the ferry station. The line of cars was long. The checks were rigorous. The closer the armed guards came with their flashlights, the more Agnieszka began to panic. She was shaking violently. “Put your hand inside my jacket,” she whispered. “Fondle my breast. Let the guard see what you are doing. Kiss me!” I did as I was told while Agnieszka’s fingers roamed around my nether regions. The soldier rapped on the window and Lars handed him all our papers, but the young border guard seemed more interested in following our frenetic fondling in the back seat. “Have a good night,” he said as he poked me gently with his weapon. Even on the ferry Agnieszka was still paranoid; it was a Polish ship and she was afraid the security services would arrest her on the nine-hour trip and force her to return. I shared a cabin with her while Lars slept on a bench outside. But in the end Agnieszka had the last laugh on us. Her Polish boyfriend, who had fled some years before, was waiting for her after immigration. They had planned her escape for months, waiting for the right opportunity. They later married, had kids and became Swedish citizens. Agnieszka became a dentist. And that was that!
