Saving the art of letter writing from oblivion – this was the idea behind the organizers of the “Letter” literary competition. The theme of this year’s edition was “Thank you... I’m sorry” – its interpretation was left to the participants. The event was held under the patronage of the Szczecin branch of the Polish Writers’ Association. The letters were assessed by a competition committee consisting of: Róża Czerniawska-Karcz, poet and head of the Szczecin PWA, Barbara T. Dominiczak, poet, and Rafał Podraza, poet and journalist.
The first prize in the 10–13 age category went to Laura Przydróżna from Kruszyna. The second prize was awarded jointly to: Alicja Kucharska from Szczecin and Michael Ziembikiewicz from Nowa Wieś. Third place went to Dominika Kulczycka from Brzeźnik. Distinctions went to: Joanna Walczyńska and Kamil Drzastwa (both from Szczecin).
Among those aged 14–15, the best letter was written by Roksana Salwerowicz from Bolesławiec. The judges awarded the second prize jointly to: Martyna Stasiak from Bolesławiec, Magdalena Batkowska from Gryfice and Kinga Rudy from Szczecin. Distinctions went to: Szczecin resident Roksana Siwek and Katarzyna Marciniszyn from Dębno Lubuskie.
In the 16-and-over category, first prize went to Bolesławiec resident Elżbieta Erban. Second place went to Danuta Buryło from Tomisław, while third place went to Czesława Knafel from Bolesławiec. The jury also awarded three distinctions. They went to: Adam Szewczyk from Szczecin, Bolesławiec resident Anna Guzik and Szczecin resident Joanna Żurawska-Fleming.
Below we present the competition committee’s comments:
The jury, appreciating the idea of promoting the art of letter writing, which is disappearing in the age of text messages and emails, selected the winners—the senders of letters in three categories—from dozens of entries during a lively discussion. Some works received equal awards.
In the category of letters written by primary-school students, we appreciated the aesthetics and even the creativity in decorating the letter (chosen stationery, careful handwriting, authenticity of the content).
In the other age categories, this care was missing. Only a few letters were written on stationery; many were downright careless (torn, not even trimmed pages, deletions in the text, illegible writing). [...]
The judges considered Elżbieta Erban’s letter from Bolesławiec a model example of epistolary writing because it met all its criteria: beautiful, correct Polish, fluent expression, multifaceted content and legible handwriting. Therefore, the judges unanimously awarded the author the President’s Prize of the Polish Writers’ Association, Szczecin Branch [podkreślenie – red.].
Some letters did not meet the criteria of this genre. The submitted works included stories, fairy tales, reviews and reports that lacked the elements characteristic of forms identifying them as letters. A letter should be written on an attractive sheet of paper, in correct Polish and without spelling mistakes!
We note with concern that many guardians and parents of younger letter writers allowed them to send in unchecked works full of spelling, grammatical, inflectional, punctuation and stylistic errors.
The jury congratulates the prize winners and those receiving distinctions. We also commend the originators and organizers of this valuable and much-needed competition, which helps preserve the tradition of communicating beautiful words with a pen.
One would even like to repeat the words of the Poet—Maria Pawlikowska-Jasnorzewska, who would have turned 120 on November 24:
“When you write to me
Don’t type everything on a machine
Add one line in your own hand
It really is nothing great.”
The awards ceremony took place on Friday, November 25, at the Kruszyna restaurant in Kruszyna. Istotne.pl was the event’s media patron.
Below we present the best entries:
Elżbieta Erban’s letter
Bolesławiec, 2 October 2011
Darling!
How nice that you called. At last we had a chance to talk longer and reminisce about the old days. We talked for a full two hours, and if it hadn’t been for your discount, the bill would have been enormous. I’m returning the favor with an equally long letter and hope you won’t fall asleep while reading it.
It’s evening, but I turned off the television, upset by the mindless TV programming. On one hand, silly and shallow Polish soap operas alternating with American films about cops chasing criminals. Kalashnikovs rattle, blood drips onto the carpet, and actresses show everything they have—except talent.
As children, we went to the Orzeł cinema to see Soviet films because there were no others then. Years passed, and now cinemas once again show only American films, except that they are less didactic than those from the USSR while carrying a similar message: the USA saves the world from destruction. Thank God they haven’t managed it so far!
The only comic element on TV is the election broadcasts. Politicians pretend to promise things, voters pretend to believe them, and as a result they score an own goal.
We always follow our emotions and lack cool reason. At our age, we can already afford words of criticism. Have you noticed that the older a person gets, the more eagerly they return to the years of their youth? I may not remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I see images and recall conversations held many years ago. For example, I watch a poor Polish “war” series with contrived adventures and immediately return in my thoughts to the time of the real occupation. We were returning from a walk with Mother and crossing a bridge. Suddenly, “trucks” with gendarmes and Gestapo men drove up from both sides. The bridge was closed, and the people on it were searched. Shouting, screaming, beating. Pale with terror, we stood with our hands raised, not understanding what was happening. Only after returning home did it turn out that there had been an attack on an informer, while our AK boys stood a few steps away, holding their caps aloft with pistols hidden inside. If the Germans had noticed them, every one of us would have been shot. Death followed us step by step then.
That is why I turn off the television when they broadcast a war series filmed nowadays, in which some snot-nosed director makes his characters parade through the clean, elegant streets of Warsaw in fashionable leather jackets. The fool apparently doesn’t know that the capital was bombed and devastated in 1939, and that only Germans wore leather clothing. A Pole caught wearing a jacket would literally have been stripped of his skin!
We, the children of war, are marked by it—as if by a stigma. Whatever happens, our memories return to those days and those people: our wonderful boys and marvelous girls, so different from today’s youth, who are psychologically weak, vulgar and—worst of all—without ideals.
I often catch myself, disgusted by the times I have had to live in, returning in my thoughts to beloved places. Our house stood on a high bank, surrounded by a garden, and a river flowed below. Never afterward did I eat fruit as delicious as ours. From the upstairs balcony, in 1944, we watched thousands of colorful shells streaking across the dark sky. In the evenings, Grandmother sat at the piano and played salon dances from her youth or Chopin, but with the windows closed because his music was forbidden. On Sundays, guests and extended family came. Older ladies in black ankle-length dresses and lace jabots fastened with cameos, and gentlemen in prewar gabardine suits and gray gaiters over well-worn patent-leather shoes. Everyone settled on sofas and armchairs. Grandmother served occupation-era “delicacies”: bread with some kind of margarine and her own cherry liqueur. I would curtsy politely and kiss every great-aunt and great-uncle on the hand. That was the custom. Oh, how I hated it, and whenever I could, I would run from the house to the river to blow soap bubbles.
When the guests had left, Grandmother would sigh with relief: At last! I remember August ’44 as if it were yesterday. The boom of cannons announced the approaching offensive. From a hidden radio came the desperate sounds of “Z dymem pożarów”; the BBC was broadcasting a report on the Warsaw Uprising. All the women sewed white-and-red armbands because the uprising was expected to engulf the whole country any day. Paweł, the son of my godfather, brought us more and more news and sang “Serce w plecaku” loudly.
My God, Paweł. He had an athletic build, the face of a Greek ephebe and a mane of golden-red hair. Incredibly brave, constantly attending underground Mass after church, he came through dangerous operations unharmed. An excellent swimmer, he liked being in the river. Once he caught the flu and decided to drown it in the water. He didn’t drown the flu, but contracted typhus and was dead within a few days. Perhaps it was for the best, because in 1945, a few months after his death, men from the UB came looking for him.
When I went to the city of my childhood for the first time in years a few years ago, I was stunned. Where charming wooden manor houses once stood amid gardens, skyscrapers now rose. The river had been confined to a concrete channel, and old historic streets had become expressways. Perhaps it is modern, but the city’s entire charm has been irretrievably destroyed.
I decided to record my memories on a computer because sometimes I can hardly believe that the years in which I grew up are merely boring history to today’s youth, often unfortunately distorted. Today people live hurriedly, for the present day, and modern young people differ radically from their peers of those years and are even ashamed of patriotism.
Recently I heard something quite bizarre on TV. There are young people who declare that they feel European, not Polish. Can you imagine that? Darling, I would be grateful if you reminded me which idiot came up with the slogan “The Road to Europe,” as if Poland had not always lain in this part of the world.
You haven’t been to Bolesławiec in a long time; it has become very beautiful lately. It is no longer the city of mines and ruins we found in 1945. In September there was a festival in the park. I felt very unwell and didn’t go, although I heard everything perfectly from my apartment through the balcony. I expected the screams of local “thrushes,” as the late Jerzy Waldorff called them, but I was pleasantly surprised because, among others, a men’s choir performed songs from the January Uprising and legionary songs. I could hardly believe my ears when I heard “Hey, riflemen, together, above us the White Eagle,” from the 1863 uprising, so often played and sung in our home. After all, Grandfather was the son of an insurgent and was proud of that fact. The words to the song were written by the Galician poet Władysław Anczyc for young people eager to fight. In 2013, 150 years will have passed since the outbreak of the uprising, but who cares about that today?
Thank you, Darling, for caring about my health. Well, it isn’t the best, but that is already the fault of age and the genes passed down to us by our ancestors. In autumn, loneliness is particularly bothersome and unpleasant; darkness falls early outside the window, rain drizzles and gusty wind blows. I try not to think about illnesses and to live life to the full, not to shut myself away at home with my thoughts, but to be among people and do something. During the year I learned to use a computer, bought myself a mobile phone and a new hairstyle—in short, I’m “on trend.” But sometimes I regret that we pass so quickly and will soon fade into the shadow of oblivion like other generations gone by.
I work a great deal at the computer, entering everything I remember from my parents’ and grandparents’ memories. This too is history worthy of remembrance. I’m hurrying because none of us knows the day or the hour.
You were upset that I had not been in touch for so long; I promise I will let you know about myself more often. Oh, I’m terribly sorry that I raised my voice during our telephone discussion and shouted at you a little. Damn politics, capable of dividing even a family. But I take back not a word of what I said. Remember? Grandmother always lamented that I was as stubborn as a young donkey. I won’t ask about your health because we talked about it a lot, but please, take care of yourself, because trouble never sleeps.
Thank you once again for the call, and I’m very sorry that you suffer from “pen phobia,” so I won’t urge you to write. Let the telephone be enough!
I’m giving you a heartfelt hug
always loving, Ela
Danuta Buryło’s letter
Tomisław, 5 October 2011
Dear Mrs Eleonora!
It’s me, Danusia, a student of Russian studies. Do you remember me? Yes, I know. It has been so many years! I left, and you long ago departed to where peace and eternal joy reign. I didn’t manage to apologize and say so many things...
From the first days we knew each other, I knew you were close to me. Despite the age difference, we understood each other wonderfully. I loved listening to your stories about wartime experiences, the place where you were born, fulfilled and unfulfilled hopes. I was delighted by your pronunciation, eloquence and manner. You were a true lady. Do you remember when we went to the theater to see “Eugene Onegin”? You wore a violet dress made of genuine cashmere. With black beads as well—very beautiful. I felt honored. We giggled on the way to the tram about “Как дойти до тротуара”. Do you remember?
Dear Mrs Eleonora! This year I am turning fifty. Good heavens, what a terribly long numeral that is. I cannot accept the fact, but I must. I still feel young, although so much has happened. I have a husband (the same one you met) and five wonderful children. I work and have my own home.
All this happened over the course of thirty years. It has been so long since we saw each other. I know you would like to know how I am. Yes. I am happy. I live among my own people, with my beloved parents close at hand; they have never left me in need. Perhaps that is why I feel young—because to my parents I am always their beloved little daughter.
Sometimes I tell my family about you. I tell them how much you went through and how strong and determined you were in fighting to keep your Family together. You lost your beloved husband, your own factory and your home. You came from beyond the Bug alone, with three small children, and threw yourself into work. You said that work helped you forget the tragedy that befell you in the final year of the war. In Wrocław you met kind and wise people. I admire you for not finding any man. After all, you were a beautiful young woman!! Adored!
Dear Eleonora, may I address you informally? You are as close to me as a mother, as a grandmother.
Yes, yes. You must have loved your husband very much. For forty years you kept his pipe on your desk. I remember. Your apartment in Sępolno was full of things—memories. Your diary (once, in your absence, I read a fragment—a thing worth publishing!!), photographs, paintings, and the old classical guitar on which you played beautifully. Who would have expected that of an old lady? You constantly surprised me. You never let me solve the crossword in your beloved “Przekrój.” You liked to make an effort.
I remember your etiquette lessons (they helped me in life). I was only a nineteen-year-old young woman then. Your recipes for pears in cream, Ukrainian borscht (I have that recipe, written in your hand) and cottage cheese with chives are still used by me and passed on. Chestnuts lie by my bed as they did by yours. But I do not carry mustard in a little bag.
Dear Eleonora! When I left Wrocław, you were not at home. I know you were looking after Kasia then. Oh, how I regret that you had to be away from home at that exact moment. We never met again. I reproach myself for not visiting you later. You wrote to me in a letter that you felt I would abandon my studies. You knew I would follow my love. After all, you too loved Someone more than life itself. You said that after losing him you also wanted to leave, but there were the children.
My choice was the right one. I was not mistaken. I know you cared about my happiness.
Dear Eleonora! When I finally came to you, I found the door locked. Mr Siemaszko invited me in for tea and told me everything. I learned that you had lost your second son, Zbyszek. My God, how you must have suffered! At last you yourself fell ill. You passed away alone.
But now you are surely well. You have your beloved husband and your two boys. You were very proud of them. An astronomer, a writer. You raised them wonderfully.
If you look down on this world from above, as I fervently believe, you can see a brighter point on earth. It is the aura you left behind. Good thoughts, good things. Life does have meaning.
I am happy that I met you on my journey through life, but I am sorry I didn’t make it in time. I’m sorry.
Danusia, a Russian-studies student from 1981
P.S. Maybe Kasia will publish your diary? I will read it breathlessly.
Czesława Knafel’s letter
London, 7 May 2011
Dear Mum and Dad!
You are probably surprised by my letter after several years of silence. Yes, it is true that I tore the letters I received from you to shreds without even reading them and simply threw them away. I assumed their contents in advance. I didn’t want any lectures. My skin crawled at the memory of your pleas, Mum: “think it over, sonny, it isn’t worth abandoning everything important for money.”
How I hated you, Mum, for those words! I thought you were standing in the way of my happiness and success. The world lay open before me, and you talked to me about family, values and traditions!
After driving a few kilometers from home, I gratefully got rid of the dangling key ring with St. Christopher, removed Kaśka and Dad’s number from my contacts, and was finally free and happy!
For a long, long time I was convinced of that. And for the last year I merely kept telling myself so. But I no longer want to or can live like that. Today I am a different person. I sobered up and saw the light. No, I did not go bankrupt; quite the opposite—I am a wealthy man. The worst thing is that I do not even have anyone with whom to share the joy of what I possess. I miss all of you terribly.
My dear ones! Forgive me. Now I know what the prodigal son may have felt when deciding to return to his father. Do you know that Kasia forgave me? I have a wonderful wife after all. I also spoke with the children. They are waiting for me. I am very happy and believe we will manage to rebuild the family.
I know that it was thanks to you that enlightenment came. I realize that what I so desperately wanted to forget years ago saved me. I will repeat after you, Mum: “a person can go astray, but if he has a true backbone...” Thank you, Dear Parents, for all the truths, for your steadfastness, for Dad’s activities during martial law, for all the conversations with our parish priest. It came back to me like a boomerang. The fact is, very late.
My dear ones! I cannot find words to express what I feel now. I know that the ordinary word “sorry” will always be too small. Remember, Mum, how you told me in childhood that it was a magic word? Today I want to believe in its effective magic.
Mum! Dad! I would very much like to see you. God knows now, and I can only hope it will be possible. Please convey your decision to Kasia.
My best wishes and a warm kiss
Your son Jan
P.S. Yesterday I noticed my first gray hair. Maybe it is proof that I have truly matured.
Roksana Salwerowicz’s letter
Bolesławiec, 11 October 2011
Dear Mr. Poe!
At the beginning of my letter I would like to warmly welcome you. I know I am a complete stranger, so I will tell you a few words about myself. My name is Roksana. I look ordinary: straight brown shoulder-length hair, blue eyes and average height. I would rather not write about myself, although that is what the form of a letter should be. I am not the most important person. You, Mr. Poe, are today’s hero.
Some time ago I read a story entitled “The Black Cat.” Its main character was a man addicted to alcohol. The man killed his wife and their cat. The police found the woman’s body, which was indicated by the ghost of the dead animal. I am not a fan of horror stories, but this one gave me chills. Nowadays the genre is written in a different language and is very popular. I admit, Dear Author, that I have read more than one contemporary horror novel. They do not match the atmosphere of terror in Edgar Allan Poe’s work.
Today I know that life must have been very difficult for you. Many addictions, poverty, unexplained illnesses, unhealthy rivalry and unhappy love were part of your life and often the main themes of your works.
Later I read more stories. Oh, “The Masque of the Red Death” made a huge impression on me. Thanks to it I saw that death can reach everyone, even those who possess the most money. It is surprising and unpredictable. It can be ugly, but in disguise, with a red mask on its face.
Those sleepless nights with a lamp beside me and the book “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque” in my hand, that momentary fear and the silence of the night surrounding me made me fall in love with your work. And that is why I thank you.
You, Dear Author, made me begin pouring my emotions into a diary, except that it is hidden from the entire world. There is much less horror, suffering and incomprehension in it, but I hide it because it is therapy for my soul, to which only I have access.
It is an honor for me to be able to write to you. Letters are no longer fashionable. Now exceptional people write them. People like me and you, Mr. Poe.
Master, I know you will not be able to write back to me, but thanks to your work I can imagine it. I hope that when we meet in the heavens, you will answer all my questions.
Yours sincerely
Roksana
Martyna Stasiak’s letter
Zawiłków, 26 September 2011
Dear God!
At the beginning of every letter I always send greetings, but I don’t know whether it is appropriate to write that to You. I am writing because I want to give thanks.
I am Michał and I am 9 years old. I live with my parents, older sister and grandmother in a small town. Not much happens here. We caused quite a stir and people talked about us for a long time when Grandma fell down the stairs and broke both her legs. Mum told us to pray a lot and fortunately Grandma is better now. And that is what I thank You for, because I know it is thanks to You. I should put something on the collection plate; I even had money saved because I was collecting for roller skates, but we had to buy Grandma a wheelchair and all the money was spent. It wasn’t much, but in a few years I would have saved enough.
At first I was furious, because I really wanted those roller skates, and Grandma is old anyway, but my mother got so angry with me that she turned red as a beetroot. I would like to apologize to You for that, but as Grandma put it, “the younger generation has different priorities.” I made Grandma a card and she is no longer angry.
I didn’t know how to thank You, so I asked the catechism teacher. She said I was still too young for confession, that is, talking to You through a priest, but I can always pray or write a letter. I don’t know how to pray in thanks, so I am writing a letter, although I am not good at that either. I hope You will forgive me.
As I wrote earlier, I would like to thank You that Grandma is better and that, thanks to the accident, she has a great wheelchair. Because I lost my chance to get roller skates, Grandma lets me ride it around the neighborhood. It turned out to be a gold mine for me, because for a small fee I let the boys ride down the hill, and by the end of next year I should have saved the entire amount for the equipment I dream of.
I know Grandma often talks with You, but she does not know Your address. The catechism teacher could not really answer me either, so I will put this letter on the collection plate on Sunday. You are, after all, the priest’s superior, so he will probably pass it on to You.
Warm greetings and a kiss
Your Michał
Magdalena Batkowska’s letter
Gryfice, 19 September 2011
Dear Ala!
I would like to thank you for the wonderful book entitled “Dina’s Extraordinary Gift” by Lene Kaaberbol, which you sent me. It is very interesting and pleasant to read because it provides so many experiences.
I was intrigued by the girl who possesses an extraordinary gift that enables her to see in people’s eyes what they are ashamed of and what they would like to hide. This gift causes her many problems, but when she has to solve the mystery of a double murder and face cruel dragons in an old castle, it proves extraordinarily valuable.
Armed knights, alchemists and dragons fill the pages of this amazing novel. The hours I spent reading this extraordinary book transported me to a magical world.
I thank you once again from the bottom of my heart for the wonderful experiences I had while reading this fascinating novel. I have not read such an absorbing masterpiece in a long time. If you come across an equally captivating book in the near future, let me know, and I will gladly lose myself in reading it again. In the meantime, as a thank-you, I invite you for pizza next Friday.
Warm regards
Madzia
Kinga Rudy’s letter
15 December 1941, Semoziersk, Siberia
My dearest Daddy!
At the beginning of my letter I would like to reassure you and assure you that Mother, Jurek, Wiesio and I are healthy and, by Siberian standards, doing well. However, we miss you terribly; we need you.
Christmas Eve is coming soon. Another one in a foreign land, in the Inhuman Land. I struggled to hold back tears when our last Christmas Eve together in Sarny came to mind yesterday—a wonderful Polish Christmas Eve with a fragrant Christmas tree, a lavishly set table and the whole family together. I wish so much that you could be with us now.
We will spend Christmas Eve together with an elderly Russian couple who agreed to take us into their hut. The hut is small and we can barely all fit inside, but it has several advantages. The first is that it stands right by a lake, and Mr Pietrowicz fishes there from time to time; the second is that there are shops nearby.
There are tempting hams, sausages, fish, cheese and bread in the shop windows, but unfortunately they are wooden. The shops are empty. Everything is confiscated by the Red Army for the soldiers’ needs. Mother, Jurek and I often stand all night to buy microscopic portions of rationed bread and flour. One day Jurek brought meat home. You can imagine Mum’s expression, Dad... At first she could not believe her eyes, but when she learned that Jurek had stolen the meat from the slaughterhouse where he worked, she was terrified. She was afraid that if the NKVD found out, they would shoot her son. Fortunately nothing like that happened, and we shared the meat with our neighbors. It tasted very good! We are only worried about what Christmas Eve will be like this year and what we will eat...
Dad! It has been more than two years since we last saw you. At night I often hear Mother’s muffled sobbing when she thinks everyone is asleep, and then my heart breaks with despair and helplessness. The worst thing is that we do not know when this war will end or whether we will return to our beloved country. Yesterday Wiesio secretly went fishing with Mr Pietrowicz, and apparently he told him that no one leaves the Soviet Union alive because the Soviets are afraid the world will learn how people live here.
Besides dull despair and dejection, I feel hatred and disgust toward the NKVD officers who keep visiting us and making sure we say nothing about life in Poland, as well as terror and fear about what will happen next. All the more because Jurek was offered the chance to join the Red Army. When we found out, we were devastated.
Fortunately, Jurek refused. I think it is thanks to you and your lessons in patriotism, Dad. I am very proud to have a father like you. Thank you for the lessons in patriotism you gave us.
Finally, a few words about Wiesio. He is very brave despite being eight years old. He helps us as best he can. He chops wood, clears snow, fishes with Mr Pietrowicz, thanks to which we have something to eat, and also goes for wood with Jurek. Although it is very dangerous—on one side there are very hungry wolves, and on the other the threat of being shot—he is afraid of nothing. It is thanks to you, Daddy; you taught him so many useful things.
I am ending this sad letter, in which I wanted to send you some of my thoughts and a sign that we are somehow surviving, and assure you that every day we all think of you and dream of meeting you. We hope things are not even worse for you than for us. You can be proud of your children and Mother. She tries very hard to ensure that we have food and clothes. She keeps our spirits up and believes that in the end we will return to our country—Poland. I deeply believe that too.
Thank you for everything—for your love, care and wisdom.
Your loving daughter
Zosia
P.S. We thank you, Daddy, for everything you did for us and taught us. Every day we pray, asking God to let you be with us now. We ask you, God, let this war end! We long to be together.
We miss you on Christmas Eve. I am very sorry for the scraps of paper on which I am writing. Unfortunately, none of the deportees here ever sees normal paper. Even at school, Soviet children write between the lines of old books.
Laura Przydróżna’s letter
Bolesławiec, 2 September
Dear Dominika!
Thank you warmly for your letter. I’m sorry I am only replying now, but I have a great deal of studying at school and had no time to write back. I will devote this letter to answering your question—how such a dramatic situation arose during the regatta...
In July, as you know, I took part in a sailing camp, and immediately after the course ended, a regatta took place in which we both competed. The aim was to sail around the lake five times as quickly as possible. Our boat had a six-person crew. Its name was Omega. I was chosen as captain because I am the only one who is a yacht helmsman. The boat had a mainsail and a jib. Unfortunately, it later turned out that the boat was not fully operational.
At the very beginning we could not manage to hoist the sail onto the mast because the rope was tangled. However, after many attempts and considerable physical effort, we succeeded. Our crew consisted of Agata, Martyna, Paula, Mikołaj and Piotrek. I was the helmsman. Agata and Martyna were responsible for the oars, keeping the lines tidy and sometimes taking over the sheets, which the boys handled. Paulina made sure the mainsail was properly set. When everything was ready, we sailed to the starting line. We heard a shot and set off.
Suddenly something made a pistol-shot sound. For a while we did not know what it was. After about fifty meters we realized that a shroud had broken. We tried to keep our heads. I began looking for a spare shackle but found none. In the meantime, Paula took over the helm.
We were sailing very fast—as you can probably imagine—“butterflying,” with the centerboard raised, which increased our speed even more. The command immediately came: “Lower the centerboard slowly.” We also changed the sail trim. We slowed down at once and tried to maintain that speed.
When the situation was more or less under control, we heard a second shot. The next shroud was loose. Then I thought that if this continued, the boat would capsize. Agata called for help from the boats passing near us. Every boat that passed us was our small chance. Unfortunately, each time it was the same—first great hope, then even greater disappointment. Until suddenly we heard your voice and your offer of help. We came very close to one another, and you handed me our “life ring.” You gave us your only spare shackle.
One shroud repaired—one problem solved. One more shackle remained, or rather, was missing. Suddenly I remembered that I had a hairpin in my hair, and Mikołaj found another fastener for the metal line holding the mast; together we repaired the yacht. Thanks to you we could continue the regatta, but as some of the last competitors.
I really do not know how to thank you; you probably saved us. Just after we reached the lake shore, a storm broke out on the water, preceded moments earlier by a calm. If it had not been for you and that light gust of wind, we would have been alone in the middle of the lake with a broken shroud. The storm would have caught us, and I do not want to know what might have happened. You saved us. I thank you very, very, very much. At the same time, I am sorry that because of us you finished thirty-first instead of second or even first. You were one lap ahead, only five minutes from victory. Yet you gave up your position to help us. I’m sorry. I feel terrible about it. After all, this was a competition for the Polish Cup. Thank you, because without you we would not have managed.
Only recently did I realize what I am thanking you for. Of course, for your help, but thanks to you I also learned the attitude of a true sailor and how to behave toward other people. Today’s “thank you” contains more than gratitude for a shackle. It includes thanks for teaching me the attitude of an athlete. I learned something from you that will always stay with me. THANK YOU!
Best wishes
Laura Przydróżna
P.S. Say hello from me to everyone in your crew.
Alicja Kucharska’s letter
Szczecin, 2 October 2011
Dear Mruczek!
I wish you could read this letter, in which I want to thank you for everything you do for me and apologize for not appreciating it. You are so good and forgive my improper behavior. I really have a lot to tell you.
There are so many things I would like to thank you for. When I am ill, you always lie beside my bed and hardly leave my side. I also know that I can trust you and entrust you with the deepest secrets of my heart, and no one will learn them. Thank you for purring so beautifully in the evenings, filling my soul with that soothing music; for always being with me, no matter how far apart we both are, because you are always in my heart. Thank you for helping me gain the best friend I could dream of.
I would like to apologize for quite a few things, seemingly trivial but truly important. I’m sorry I do not always pet you when you ask me to. Sometimes I even chase you away... I will not appreciate the next mouse you bring me, although you took so much trouble to catch it especially for me. When you sleep on your favorite chair and mine, I chase you away, when I should simply sit in another one and not disturb your sleep. I’m sorry that sometimes I cannot be bothered to feed you and do so only after your many attempts to attract my attention.
I hope you will forgive me, because I will try to improve. I am grateful that one October day you appeared on my terrace, stayed with me and became my best friend. Thank you for... simply being there.
Warm regards
Alicja Joanna Kucharska
Michael Ziembikiewicz’s letter
Nowa Wieś, 1 October 2011
Dear Professor!
Now that you have stopped teaching at our school and moved to another city, I am especially sorry about my behavior toward you in your lessons. In fact, I do not know why I behaved that way. I do not want to offer any absurd explanations. I am simply ashamed of myself; I certainly was not mature enough for the partnership you offered our class.
With several months’ distance, I can clearly conclude that all the blame lies with me, and my childish antics were not so much funny as pathetic. I still feel guilty about it, and that is precisely why I decided to write to you.
I am very sorry for everything bad I did. Please accept my apology and do not keep an unequivocally negative image of me in your memory. At the same time, I would like to thank you—for your steadfast faith in me, for the knowledge you passed on and for your efforts to lead an unruly group of youngsters onto the straight path toward wisdom.
Once again, please forgive me.
Yours respectfully
Michael
Dominika Kulczycka’s letter
Brzeźnik, 8 October 2011
Dear residents of Brzeźnik!
My name is Dominika. I am in fifth grade of primary school. I love animals, especially dogs and cats. No animal in trouble escapes my attention.
I am writing this letter to tell you how abandoned animals suffer. I often see a homeless dog or cat. Some of them were given to children as rewards. Someone wanted a cute kitten. They got one and were very happy. But when the cat grew up, they became bored with it and it was abandoned. Then the animal wanders everywhere, hungry and cold. After all, it had an owner who first dreamed of it and then abandoned it to its fate.
Examples of improper and inappropriate behavior show the low culture of people who are unaware of their wrongdoing. They like an animal and buy it because it is pretty. They give it care, make it loyal and obedient, but when they go somewhere, they think that throwing it out will solve the problem. In reality, it does not. When there is nothing one can do with an animal, there are shelters; at least a kitten or dog will receive basic care there—food and water. It will not have a real home, but it has a chance of being adopted. It may get lucky and find a loving home, a home for life. Some people are heartless: they put a dog in a car and abandon it in the woods. Its fate does not concern them at all; after some time they can buy another one and do the same thing again.
Abandoned animals face many dangers, such as cars, lack of food and water, other predators and people. These creatures also have feelings and want to live in good conditions, not wander around the area. Beautiful and very intelligent animals are abandoned near my home. They are dogs or cats for which, unfortunately, there is no more room in my home. I would very much like to take them in and give them a new start, but I do not have the conditions. I give them as much as I can.
When I see such an animal, I immediately feel sorry. I live by a busy road, so I hear cars honking at these helpless creatures. I am afraid that a car will soon take an animal’s life. However, many of them find new homes. I look for people willing to take them in. I myself cared for two defenseless kittens. I found one in a ditch near the house, and the other walked into the garage by itself. Both stayed with us forever. Now they have a beautiful life: they sleep indoors, are fed every day, and I devote a lot of time to them and shower them with affection. These animals are truly very loyal. Every one of them deserves such a fate.
Now I will tell you a little about myself. I am 11 and know a great deal about animals. I love every one of them, from horses to frogs. I try to help them when necessary. My hobby is “collecting” animals; of course, each one has wonderful living conditions. I also ride horses. I started learning four years ago and so far I am doing quite well.
I do fairly well at school. During the day I do many different things, but I find time for everything: studying, playing with cats, walking the dog, letting the hamsters out and, of course, sleeping. Meet my small collection. I “own” two cats: Boruc, a five-year-old domestic shorthair, and a purebred Maine Coon. This breed is characterized by its size, fluffy tail, long fur, ear tufts and the letter “M” on its forehead. His name is Łoli and he is four years old. I also have Kruczek, a one-and-a-half-year-old husky. He is truly beautiful, with two-colored eyes: one blue and the other brown. At night, two red Djungarian hamsters, Albi and Dandi, play in my room. In the water swims Edek, a magnificent red betta fish. In addition, I have a great many snails in the garden—horned ramshorn snails—and small European toads.
Now I present my favorite, the cat Łoli. One evening, when I went outside the house, I saw a tiny, adorable, enchanting little ball that woke up and began looking at me with bright eyes. I was concerned and thought it was a young marten; I wanted to warm and feed it, but it turned out to be a kitten. A cold, defenseless little cat. I took him home, wrapped him up and fed him. I decided with my parents that he would stay with us. He is now four years old and has a wonderful character. He is gray and has a fluffy tail. He has large tufts on his ears. He looks like a lynx with a large tail. I love him very much and want him to accompany me for a very long time. I am glad he found me, because he was another homeless kitten.
I love animals, so abandoning them and leaving them to their fate is a major and serious problem for me. This problem is constantly growing because people increasingly make bad choices by deciding to buy animals. When they get bored with them, they do not know what to do, and beloved pets are left alone, without a roof over their heads, hungry and homeless. This is a huge and significant problem with no end in sight. But I know that one day it will end and animals will feel safe. They want and long for love and a home. They are not toys to be thrown away when one gets bored with them. They also need food, a home and love, just like us.
When I see such animals, I feel great sadness and bitterness because they are living creatures, not toys. They need homes and the love that bad owners do not give them. They really are wonderful and loyal, able to repay the affection shown to them, while we sometimes treat them so badly. Therefore, I ask you, dear residents, to think when you want to buy an animal. Respect them and give them love, and they will repay you with loyalty and attachment. I am an animal lover and want you to change your attitude toward them and surround them with love and affection. Please do not abandon them; they have feelings too and want to live in peace.
Love animals!
Yours respectfully
Dominika Kulczycka
(information: GOKiS in Bolesławiec/ii)