It’s Good Friday today. That might or might not mean anything to you. To be honest, it’s never meant much to me — despite my many attempts over the years to feel the solemnity of the day.
But today, it does mean something. Today, the weight and permanence of death — and the hope of some kind of reconnection, however sinewy — sits heavily on my shoulders.
A dear friend of mine, Wiesław Ogiński, who was also my business partner at the British International School of Cracow for the last thirty years, has gone. Wiesiek, known to all of us.
Only three days have passed since his death, yet thirty years of memories have been cascading through my head ever since. They’re still tumbling, as a way of keeping Wiesiek close. Keeping him alive. At times like this, it’s memories that keep us going.
The first time I met Wiesiek was in August 1992. Andy and I, with our two young children, had just arrived in Kraków to begin our new life: teaching English at Paweł Zalewski’s recently opened WORLD school – one of the city’s first private schools after the fall of communism. We were the native English speakers (a rarity then ) and Wiesiek was the Head. (Three years later, the same four of us would open BISC – the British International School of Cracow.)
Andy and I met a lot of people that first day: Paweł, his lovely wife Asia, their gorgeous daughter Ania, and Wiesiek’s vibrant wife Iza, who uncannily reminded me of Julia Ormond. But I remember Wiesiek most of all. His ironic, twinkly-eyed smile. His strong handshake. His humour. Slight of build, but large of character.
Over the coming weeks, I discovered more of his sharp intellect, his love of poetry (he was a poet himself), and his astonishing knowledge of… well, just about everything.
‘Wiesiek, is there anything you don’t know?’ I once asked.
He chuckled in his usual irony: ‘Oh, I’m sure there must be one or two things.’
I remember our first visit to the flat Wiesiek and Iza used to live in, tucked way out in the Stalinist suburb of Nowa Huta. There, we also met their son Tomek— just eighteen and already a remarkably gifted artist.
‘Wow,’ I said, staring at the teenager’s beautiful works. ‘You actually painted these yourself?’ (And now, Tomek… what are your thoughts, in the silence your beloved father has left behind?)
And oh, what a flat it was! Small but intellectually dense, every inch crammed with books, as though the flat embodied Wiesiek and Iza themselves. Inherited antique furniture stood in strange contrast to the communist walls. And Iza’s dinner — what a feast she created! (Ah, Iza… what are your thoughts now, in the space left behind by the man you loved?)
As the years rolled on, I learned more and more about Wiesiek. Sometimes I found myself wondering: is there truly no end to this man’s intellect, diplomacy, kindness, humour, and just about everything that’s good in life? No wonder I always so loved spending time with him.
Wiesiek was also a great raconteur, as well as mimic and actor. I loved listening to his anecdotes.
For instance, I remember him telling me the first time he saw Iza. He was a mature student of Philosophy at the Jagiellonian University (having already obtained a degree in Mathematics), and she was on the same course, though younger.
‘She was wearing a miniskirt,’ he said, ‘and she was by far the loveliest girl in the lecture hall. Beautiful legs! I couldn’t take my eyes off her.’
He told me stories about his father, who risked his life during the war to smuggle food into the Jewish ghetto for a girl he’d fallen in love with. He also talked about his own post-war childhood, when he and his friends used to play in the ruins and rubble of a capital city still 85% destroyed.
Then there was the school trip to Denmark with his lyceum students, during the communist years. It was his first glimpse of the ‘glorious West,’ where everything truly did glitter like gold. Years later, when I complained about the shopping malls popping up all over Kraków like mushrooms after rain, he surprised me by saying he rather liked them.
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘An intellectual who likes shopping malls?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Because the Church hates them, so I don’t. And because they remind me of that Denmark trip, when I first tasted the seductive pull of freedom and possibility.’
There are so many more memories. My trips to Wiesiek and Iza’s stunning mountain retreat in Zawoja, where the woods and hills were so close, you felt like they’d swallow you up if you blinked just for one moment. The school winter and spring camps that Wiesiek and I often joined for the first couple of days. Then all those long car journeys to Wrocław, when we opened our second school. Staying in the school flat. Endless conversations: Polish politics, literature, staffing issues, school strategy. The work we shared, the bond we built. Wiesiek was the true diplomat, the skilled mediator, the bridge between generations and cultures.
So many memories. So much love, joy, and loss — all evoked by a powerful, exceptional, yet gentle man. A man who is now gone.
But is he?
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
Wiesiek, kochany — you are the victory. You, and the unforgettable life you lived, and gave to so many.
Wendy Skorupski 