A distinctive touch was added to the drabness of school life by the so-called re-emigrants—Polish children returning literally from all over the world to the country of their fathers. Thus, in my class there were “Frenchmen,” “Bosnians,” “Russians,” “Germans,” and even two “Brazilians”—Stefan Hałada and Bruno Parejko. I was impressed by their exotic backgrounds and listened, flushed with excitement, to their stories about the distant countries where they had lived. The most elite group were the “Frenchmen,” because there were relatively many of them and they even occupied a separate “French” district near the sports stadium. The objects of my desire were the beautiful bicycles brought from France, ridden by nearly all the boys from that district.
The education authorities tried to address the problem of educational delays and differences in the children’s ages through an accelerated course of study. It happened that my grown-up classmate from fifth grade moved to sixth grade after just half a year of schooling, while I still had to “struggle through fifth grade.”
The first romances and first loves also began in sixth and seventh grade, so this romantic thread of school life cannot be omitted. I, too, had a sweetheart—Zosia, to whom I slipped love notes and for whom I diligently carved a heart with an arrow into a school desk or—horror of horrors!—a park tree. The class, of course, knew about this romance, and many times I had to erase crude inscriptions and rhymes written on the blackboard, in notebooks, or even on school walls. It must be admitted, however, that the class accepted our “love,” electing both of us as class representatives, the so-called monitors. I was disappointed to discover that I was not the only one “in love” with Zosia. I had a serious rival, for he could boast a piano, a handsome figure, and elegant clothes. I knew this because I had visited his home several times and had even “plunked away” on the instrument. What could I set against a piano? Surely not butter rolls!
I chose a solution involving force and, for that purpose, mobilized two well-built classmates. We lured the “dandy” under some pretext to the nearby allotment gardens. There, without warning, I threw a jacket over my rival’s head, and we beat him soundly, informing him, of course, of the reason for his punishment.
The tearful victim solemnly promised that he would “stay away from Zosia” once and for all—and he kept his word! Only Zosia—the vain little woman, unaware of what had happened—was disappointed by Januszek’s sudden loss of affection.
A certain adventure connected with those allotment gardens on the other side of Bielska Street compromised me in the eyes of my family. But let us take it one thing at a time! One summer day, during the long break, we went on a “cherry-picking expedition” to those very gardens and, going around behind them, jumped over the fence. Soon I was sitting at the top of a small tree, stuffing cherries under my shirt, when suddenly I heard a woman’s shrill voice… “Thieves… scoundrels…!” My companions, occupying the lower branches, immediately disappeared, while I, terrified at the sight of a woman running toward me with a rake, had no choice but to climb down to the ground… and then I heard: “Edziu, is that you?… How could you upset your aunt?… You should have asked… instead of stealing…” Unfortunately, I had simply mistaken one garden for another.
Long breaks (probably 25 minutes) were also an opportunity to play soldiers or cops and robbers, and the perfect place for this was the park (today’s Police Headquarters). There we pelted each other with stones, often returning to class with bruises and even torn clothes… and if we were supposed to have a history lesson, the break was very, very long, because we “rascals” were not afraid of the good-natured “Historian,” who was kind to us…