Dad
He came into the world as the sixth of seven brothers. Their mother, my Grandma Marianna, raised the seven alone, because their father quickly succumbed to the seduction of vodka, with which he romanced until the end of his days. She was an exceptionally brave woman. She cultivated the fields, sewed the boys' clothes and fed them with products from the farm she ran.
My Dad left his family home in Węgrów after completing the then seven-year primary school. He began studying at a papermaking technical school, and immediately after that he started working at a paper mill in Mirków. Shortly afterwards he met my Mom, which resulted in my birthday, and three years later my brother's birthday.
He often took us to Węgrów. My brother and I would climb up the ladder to the highest point of the barn to jump into the freshly harvested hay, steal potatoes from the pigs that were still hot, cooked by Grandma, catch white mushrooms to trap them in a spider's web and watch the garden crosses wrap them in a cocoon, eat alder mushrooms fried by Grandma in butter with curdled milk cut with a knife, and black pudding a few moments after the pig slaughter, which Dad forbade us to watch. There was no sewage system in Grandma's house. Water was drawn from the well using a crane. We went to the outhouse behind the barn. We slept under a thick goose down duvet, covered during the day with a lace coverlet knitted by Grandma. In the main room there was a tiled stove with a place for a cat and a kitchen with stoves, and a small door led to a cold larder filled with jars and pots of preserved vegetables, mushrooms, meat and fruit.
His entire professional life was connected with the paper factory in Mirków. He loved this work. In exchange for a red ID, the factory gave him the apartment where I grew up. Thanks to the factory, we had no shortage of toilet paper and notebooks for school in the most difficult years. He brought us books that were to be sent to the pulp mill, and I even managed to complete a thirteen-volume encyclopedia from recycling.
I remember how proud he was when, somewhere in the middle of martial law, Ekspres Wieczorny published an article about the middle management staff of Polish factories with his photo signed with the text: "Our rank is constantly growing. Marian Biernat, manager at the Warsaw Paper Mill."
Neither I nor my brother went to kindergarten. Our parents worked shifts. Dad had to learn to cook. I remember him sitting me on the fridge and teaching me how to make tomato soup. For himself, he usually made a pan of onion in lard, which he ate with a slice of bread and never offered to the rest of the family, realizing that it wasn't healthy. He also ate potato soup brought from home, which was a soup made of potatoes, carrots and cracklings, but Mom wouldn't let us eat it.
He was an honorary blood donor. He donated blood regularly throughout his life. For a single 400 milliliters, he received a day off and chocolate, which he always gave to his sons.
His life was the allotment garden. Three hundred square meters, three kilometers from our apartment. He built a small gazebo there and grew all the vegetables and fruits that nature could think of. Black, red and white currants, Hungarian plums and greengages, Antonovkas, pumpkins, squashes, watermelons and raspberry tomatoes, always on the cowberry. The gazebo, where he organized drinking cards, was overgrown with grapes, from which he made homemade wine every year.
His other passion was bridge. The four of them would meet after work and play for money, "for a newspaper" - the stake was the equivalent of the price of the newspaper. I would often cheer Dad on until late at night, and when I woke up in the morning, they were still playing. Mom would bring them snacks, and alcohol would help them stay awake for up to two days. After years of silently watching the game, I somehow figured out the rules and started playing myself.
He was the life of the party, and he and Mom took turns. They both loved meetings, dances, and dancing. He didn't let up on any woman on the dance floor, always starting with Mom.
We spent all our holidays in Łeba, in the paper mill holiday resort. All the factory workers went there with their families. Our whole estate in Konstancin Grapa moved to Łeba for two weeks every holiday. They took us there in Jelcz trucks – cucumbers, and Dad would get the party started on the bus.
He never went to the doctor. He believed that only the sick should go to the doctor, and he never felt sick.
In February 1987, right after my prom, in the middle of the night, he came into my room, sat on my bed, and started delirious. I ran to my mother, who called an ambulance. They took him to the hospital, and seven days later he died without regaining consciousness. He was 44 years old.
A lot of people came to the funeral. No wonder. He was well-liked and a good person.
In every moment of his short life he showed that it is much more important than having, to be able to enjoy what you have. This is the most important thing I learned from him.
