ELEMENTARY SCHOOL NO. 221 AND THE SURROUNDING AREA — THE HISTORY OF A SMALL PART OF WARSAW (PART 1/4)

School badges — Two school names — Hungarian communist Ferenc Münnich — The school store and the emergency staircase — The bomb shelter — The school custodian and buying beer — Alcohol and me.

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When I began writing down a few memories connected not only with my elementary school but also with the surrounding area, I thought the whole thing would amount to two, perhaps three pages at most. As it turned out, however, many more memories surfaced, and I eventually had to divide them into four parts. So there will be stories about the school, my "technical" abilities, the Communist Party of Poland, and the Jews and Poles murdered during the Warsaw Uprising.

*****

In elementary school—at least during the first few grades—school badges, much like school uniforms, were compulsory. The badges had to be sewn onto one's clothing rather than pinned on with a safety pin, as some students did. Velcro was virtually unknown in Poland at that time.

I do not recall, however, that students at our school were particularly chased after or reprimanded for not wearing their badge. I have read that some schools required students to wear their badges even after classes, attached to their "civilian" clothes, which I considered excessive even back then. I do not remember such a requirement existing at our school. I would be interested to hear how it worked in other schools.

The academic high school that I attended later did not have school badges at all—or at least I do not remember any.

Elementary School No. 221 in Warsaw. First grade, class "I-A", 1969/1970. All of us wear school uniforms and have our school badges attached to them
*
Each time I look at this photo, I recall this "black humor" joke:
A teacher is trying to encourage the children to buy a copy of a class photo.
"Just think how nice it will be to look at this photograph forty years from now. You'll open the album and say, 'Oh, that's Kate—she's a doctor now,' or 'That's Tom—he became an engineer.'"
At that moment, a voice from the back of the classroom pipes up:
"And that's our teacher... she's been dead for years!" 😄

From 1969 to 1977, I attended Elementary School No. 221 in Warsaw, located at 42/44 Ogrodowa Street (52°14'19.4"N 20°59'11.1"E / 52.238722, 20.986417). The school was literally just a few metres from my apartment building. When I heard the short warning bell at 7:55 a.m. through the window of my room overlooking the school building, I could set off entirely carefree and still arrive in my classroom before 8:00 without the slightest problem.

This photo was taken from my apartment window, probably between 1972 and 1975. It shows the main entrance to School No. 221, as well as the dug-up lawn. Interestingly, the building I lived in was completed in 1969, and after only three to six years, the pipes needed replacing.

On January 14, 1977, the school was officially named after the Fifth Kołobrzeg Infantry Regiment. A major ceremony was held on that occasion, and a brief report even appeared on television. Rumours circulated that a well-known military officer who had once served in that regiment—one Wojciech Jaruzelski (at that time Minister of National Defence and later the First Secretary of the Polish United Workers' Party, Prime Minister, the Chairman of the Council of State and President of Poland)—would attend the ceremony, but in the end he never honoured the event with his presence.

Paradoxically, the regiment bore the adjective "Kołobrzeg" in its name even though it had not taken part in the Battle of Kołobrzeg. Nevertheless, it was awarded this honorary title in May 1945 by order of the Supreme Commander of the Soviet Army, Joseph Stalin, and so this historical oddity eventually became untouchable.

And here are two more interesting details. In 1956, Ryszard Kukliński served in the Fifth Kołobrzeg Infantry Regiment. I actually met him personally at a wedding reception in the early 1970s. According to my father, there was even a photograph showing the two of us standing side by side.

Ryszard Kukliński later became one of the most controversial figures in modern Polish history. As a senior officer in the Polish Army, he secretly passed thousands of Warsaw Pact documents to the CIA during the Cold War. Many Poles regard him as a hero who helped weaken Soviet domination; others once considered him a traitor.

I found this newspaper clipping, probably from Życie Warszawy, dated July, 1974. It shows the Elementary School No. 221.

In 2010, on the fiftieth anniversary of the school's founding, its patron was changed. During the jubilee celebrations, the school was named after Barbara Bronisława Czarnowska—a heroine of the November Uprising (1830-1831) and the first female officer in Polish military history.

This older logo was replaced several years ago with the one below:

The new logo--wchich I do not like

Interestingly, in the early 1970s there were plans to name the school after Ferenc Münnich (1886–1967), a hard-line Hungarian communist and Stalinist who played a key role in crushing the Hungarian Revolution of 1956 and later served as Prime Minister of Hungary from 1958 to 1961. In Hungarian historical memory, many regard him as a traitor because of his actions.

During the 1969/70 school year, a Hungarian delegation visited our school. Among its members was an elderly woman—possibly Münnich's widow. The older brother of one of my classmates received a commemorative badge from the delegation during a gathering in the school gymnasium. For some time, a display devoted to Münnich also hung in the school, and eventually the school Scout troop was named after him.

Perhaps, however, after Edward Gierek came to power, Münnich began to be seen as too dogmatically Stalinist and no longer suited the new image the authorities of Communist Poland were trying to project.

Edward Gierek became the leader of Communist Poland in 1970. His rule was marked by a somewhat more pragmatic and consumer-oriented approach than that of his predecessor, Władysław Gomułka, although Poland remained firmly within the Soviet bloc.

In 1970, a small school store was opened on the first floor (it was called either "Żak" or "Żaczek"). Students could buy various school supplies there, as well as sell or purchase used textbooks. Occasionally, cookies and doughnuts would appear, and these were snapped up almost immediately by the students—for two złotys apiece.

Naturally, prices in the school store were identical to those in ordinary shops, because in Communist Poland most products had centrally fixed and printed prices.

Once, I accompanied a teacher to a wholesale stationery warehouse to buy "merchandise" for the store, and it turned out that the school received a small discount. That difference constituted the only "profit" the store generated.

Significantly, despite living in a communist country and being very young, I had already become interested in the concept of profit from a purely theoretical standpoint, even though it was a rather abstract—and indeed somewhat anti-socialist—subject at the time.

In Communist Poland, profit and private enterprise were often viewed with suspicion, at least officially, since Marxist ideology emphasized collective ownership and a centrally planned economy rather than market mechanisms.

New school emblem

In the school building there were two staircases. One of them, an emergency staircase, was undoubtedly intended for use in the event of a fire. The problem was that it was enclosed by metal bars—the word "stairwell cage" was exceptionally appropriate in this case—and it was almost always locked. Perhaps this was done so that the janitors would not have to clean it? Even then, I wondered what the point of having an additional staircase was if, in the event of a fire or some other emergency, access to it might prove impossible.

Elementary School No. 221 in Warsaw, Class VII A, School Year 1975-1976. Twenty-one (out of thirty-four) of these people also appear in the previous group photo of the first class from the 1969/70 school year

The school also had its own bomb shelter. The entrance was located in the basement area, where the cloakrooms were situated, but the shelter remained permanently locked, and I never managed to get inside.

On one part of the school playground there were two small brick structures resembling giant mushrooms. One of them most likely served as both an air vent and an emergency entrance or exit, while the smaller one functioned solely as a ventilation shaft.

Incidentally, I still wonder what the inside of that shelter looked like. Beds? Chairs? Toilets? Water supplies? Food? During classes, several hundred people were usually present in the school, and it is difficult for me to imagine that all of them could have fit inside and remained there for any extended period of time. I suspect, however, that by the 1970s the authorities considered the likelihood of war sufficiently low that regular inspections of shelters, replenishing emergency supplies, or conducting air-raid drills for children were no longer a priority.

During the Cold War, many schools and public buildings in communist Poland were equipped with bomb shelters, reflecting the ever-present fear of a potential conflict between NATO and the Warsaw Pact. In practice, however, many of these shelters were rarely used and gradually fell into neglect.

Throughout all my years at the school, the same caretaker, Ryszard M., worked there—a typical Warsaw native. He was probably the person who unlocked the building every morning, and one could almost always spot him somewhere on the school grounds.

One morning, I watched from my apartment window as students and teachers were unable to enter the school because all the entrances were locked. Before long, a crowd of several hundred people had gathered outside the building. Eventually, someone managed to open one of the ground-floor windows and unbolt the main door from the inside. It later turned out that, due to his wife's serious illness—she died not long afterwards—the caretaker had been unable to come to work on time.

Naturally, as befitted a true school caretaker, he was also responsible for ringing the school bell. The bell was electric, but there was also a hand-operated one in case of a power outage.

A poster from the communist era: "Beer is the best refreshment and invigoration after work. Drink the nourishing beer from state-owned breweries. A liter of beer contains 250 calories. A working person needs 3,000 calories a day." Apparently our janitor probably took it to heart!  And by the way, you'd have to drink 12 liters of beer to meet the daily caloric needs of a working person. I wonder if some people achieved such records?

This brings me to an amusing story. On several occasions, Mr. Ryszard M. sent me during recess to a nearby store to buy him... a few bottles of beer! I was only between nine and eleven years old at the time, yet no one ever refused to sell me alcohol.

Back then, beer was generally either light or dark, sold in nearly identical, characteristic bottles. If there was a line in the store, the caretaker would simply wait with the bell, extending recess, and would announce the end of the break only after I had returned with his purchases.

However, I do not remember any of my classmates regularly drinking beer or any other alcohol. Personally, I did not like beer at all.

I remember that during one train journey, a man was walking through the carriages selling beer—of course illegally. It was an unbearably hot day. Nobody even dreamed of air conditioning back then, and the very word itself was completely unfamiliar to me. Unsurprisingly, many passengers took advantage of his offer.

My mother bought a bottle as well and handed it to me because we were both terribly thirsty. I was about twelve or thirteen years old at the time. Some passengers looked on disapprovingly, apparently believing that she was "turning me into an alcoholic." In reality, I drank that beer with enormous difficulty. I hated its bitter taste, and on top of that, it was warm. It turned out to be a remarkably effective method of discouraging me from drinking alcohol.

Besides, alcohol was practically never consumed in our home. I do not even remember seeing bottles of liquor around the house. If there were any, they were probably gathering dust somewhere in a cupboard for years.

Polish ration cards for November, 1982. Alcohol entitlement was 0.5 liter of vodka per person per month. For hard-core alcoholics it was literally nothing! That was why alcohol was a very valuable commodity.

The situation changed only when alcohol began to be rationed and distributed using ration coupons. Every member of our family then bought the maximum allotment of vodka. The bottles stood lined up against the wall like soldiers on parade.

            "Aha, looks like someone's planning a huge party!" my friends used to joke.

Of course, the alcohol was not intended for consumption. Along with cigarettes, it became an excellent barter currency, which could be exchanged for goods worth far more than their official retail price.

During the economic crises of the late communist period in Poland, many consumer goods became scarce. As a result, vodka and cigarettes often served as an unofficial currency in everyday transactions.

Incidentally, I first tasted alcohol when I was only two or three years old. My parents told this story many times afterward.

We were staying in the seaside town of Rewal on the Baltic coast. On my birthday, my parents took me to a seaside café for cake and tea. When they left me alone for a moment and returned a minute later, they were greeted by an astonishing sight: I was enthusiastically finishing off the remnants of alcoholic drinks left in glasses on other customers' tables!

My horrified mother shouted that I must stop immediately and that such behaviour was unacceptable.

            "But it's very good!",  I calmly replied, continuing my libation.

Fortunately, I never repeated such experiments, and alcohol never became my constant companion. In later years, however, I did enjoy drinking a good cold beer during the summer or savouring a glass of dry red wine around a campfire.

Interestingly, in the second half of 2024, I gave up alcohol completely. This decision, made primarily for health reasons, turned out to be surprisingly easy. Well, next to my desk there is a wine rack, with about 40 bottles of wine and vodka, waiting for guests! Even one year ago I stopped drinking alcohol-free beer. I only drink Polish non-alcoholic vodka every day, about 2 liters.

[Since 40% vodka consists mainly of two ingredients: 40% pure ethyl alcohol (ethanol) of agricultural origin and 60% water, this means that when I drink regular or mineral water, I am actually consuming dealcoholized vodka. And I like the Polish mineral water called Muszynianka the best!]

Last, but not least: it is said that drinking vodka will not solve our problems, but I am 100% sure that alcohol IS a solution!

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PART TWO 

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In the next installment:

• Practical and Technical Classes—and my outstanding "technical and manual talents"
• Technical magazines, Adam Słodowy, and a 100-złoty banknote
• The buzzer and the school principal's unexpected intervention
• My contribution to a group technical project in high school

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Blogi są również dostępne w języku polskim/blogs are also available in the Polish language

*****

More from the author

This entry is part of a broader collection of personal research and historical documentation across multiple blogs:

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SCOUTING AND DIVING — THE WANDA DIVING CLUB (PART 2/2)

A diving camp on Szeroki Ostrów Island — Olsztyn: a brief stay and a few memories of the city — A nighttime march from Pisz to Szeroki Ostrów — The falling flag on July 22, 1979: an omen of the beginning of the end of Communist Poland — A cartoon by Szymon Kobyliński in Polityka — A neglected Masurian cemetery — An unexpectedly deep sleep — Questioning the Katyń Massacre — More than 50 years of "Wanda"

This is part two. You can read part one HERE.

Naturally, I remember my "diving years" very fondly, and I am extremely happy that I had the opportunity to experience this rather uncommon hobby. In July 1979, I spent several weeks at a training camp on Szeroki Ostrów Island on Lake Śniardwy. Although this was technically a Scouting club, there was no requirement whatsoever to belong to the Polish Scouting Association (ZHP), and simply being a member of the club did not automatically make me a Scout.

Scouting Cross

There actually was a Scout sailing camp on the island, probably organized by the Warsaw Youth Palace, consisting of "real" Scouts wearing official Scout uniforms. We only had to wear blue shirts with a Scout cord. Their camp was located several hundred yards (meters) away from ours. Every day we walked there for our meals, and from time to time we joined them around the campfire for evening gatherings.

I still have a dozen or so photographs from the diving camp on Szeroki Ostrów Island, including color ones. It was the first time in my life that I bought color film. Unfortunately, the colors turned out rather poor—I have no idea whether that was my fault or the fault of the photo lab. In any case, I still prefer black-and-white photographs, even in the age of digital photography!

We traveled from Warsaw to Olsztyn by train. While waiting for our connecting train, we walked around the city and even stopped at an EMPiK (International Press and Book Club), where we attended a rather interesting talk about Poland's importance in the world. During the communist era, EMPiK was much more than a bookstore. It served as one of the few places where people could browse foreign newspapers and magazines, buy books and records, attend lectures, and gain limited access to Western culture.

Olsztyn's coat of arms is a figure of Saint James the Greater, the Apostle, in white robes on a blue field. The saint holds a pilgrim's staff and a shell, traditional attributes of the Camino de Santiago.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I had been to Olsztyn at least once before, in August 1977, and on several occasions went fishing in nearby lakes.

One day while fishing, we met an older, friendly gentleman who had also come to the lake, and we struck up a conversation. He told us that after the joint German-Soviet invasion of Poland in 1939, he found himself in territory occupied by the Soviet Union and ended up serving in the Red Army, eventually attaining the rank of captain.

After the "liberation," he came to Olsztyn, where he witnessed events that he described to us. I have remembered several of his stories remarkably well.

• When the Red Army entered Olsztyn, the city itself had suffered relatively little war damage. Soviet soldiers, realizing that Olsztyn would become part of postwar Poland, were reportedly jealous that such a beautiful city would belong to Poland. According to him, they walked through the streets throwing grenades into buildings that had survived the war, starting numerous fires. (I recommend a short article "Spooky in the city! The Soviets brought hell to the inhabitants of Warmia and Mazury in 1945. They do not deserve our gratitude, let alone a monument in the center of Olsztyn" by Dr. Karol Nawrocki, then president of the Institute of National Remembrance and the 7th president of Poland since 2025).

• Soviet soldiers also enjoyed fishing—but they did not need fishing rods. They simply threw grenades into lakes and collected the stunned fish floating to the surface.

• Many newly arrived Polish settlers were allowed to occupy the finest houses, and some families reportedly took possession of several properties. He claimed that many of those houses remain in the hands of their descendants to this day. As a captain in the Red Army, he himself could have received the finest house in town, complete with the most modern furnishings available.

• I no longer remember exactly why, but he eventually joined the armed anti-communist underground resistance. After some time, he ceased his activities and took advantage of an amnesty by voluntarily surrendering to the authorities. He spent some time in prison but was eventually released. Because of his political past, however, he remained under the watchful eye of the Security Office (Urząd Bezpieczeństwa, commonly known as the UB) for the rest of his life and never had an easy existence.

The UB (Security Office) was Communist Poland's political secret police in the years following World War II. It was responsible for suppressing political opposition, conducting surveillance, imprisoning dissidents, and persecuting members of the anti-communist resistance.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I remember several episodes from our stay on Szeroki Ostrów that I would like to mention.

*

            We traveled from Olsztyn to Pisz by train. Because of delays, we arrived only after midnight. The truck that was supposed to pick us up at the station and take us to the campsite had waited for several hours but had left less than an hour before our arrival.

So, whether we liked it or not, we marched about 8½ miles (14 km) through the night carrying heavy backpacks, finally reaching the island at dawn, where our tents had already been pitched. Exhausted, we quickly went to sleep.

Our campground was located roughly opposite today's (2026) campground, on the other side of the road, in a small forest clearing very close to the water (53°43'57.9"N 21°44'38.0"E / 53.732750, 21.743889). The central gathering area was covered by a parachute canopy. A primitive little dock for mooring boats had also been built.

Our camp, "under the parachute"

I should also add that the island was connected to the mainland by a drivable causeway constructed around 1943 by forced laborers from the camp at Zdory. Before that, transportation to the island had been provided by a small ferry. Technically speaking, from that point onward it became a peninsula.

*

            It was the last full year of the rule of Edward Gierek (nicknamed by some "Edward the Debtor" because Poland's enormous foreign loans were becoming an increasingly heavy burden on the country's economy) and his colleague, Prime Minister Piotr Jaroszewicz. Store shelves were becoming increasingly empty, and Poland's economic situation continued to deteriorate.

We lived in military tents, and every day there was a flag-raising ceremony during morning assembly. Being chosen to raise the flag was considered an honor. I was given that privilege myself—already on the very first day—in recognition of my brave nighttime march.

On that memorable day—July 22, 1979 (the National Day of the Rebirth of Poland, the most important state holiday in Communist Poland between 1944 and 1989, commemorating the Soviet-backed PKWN Manifesto issued in 1944)—which also happened to mark the 35th anniversary of Communist Poland, one of the campers began raising the national flag.

As the white-and-red flag slowly reached the very top of the flagpole, it suddenly came loose and fluttered all the way back down to the ground!

We talked about that incident many times afterward, treating it as an ominous sign—and, as it turned out, we were not wrong. Just one year later, the nationwide strikes began, the “Solidarity” movement was born shortly afterward, Gierek was driven into political exile, condemned by his own Communist Party, and even expelled from it.

Even so, he received nothing more than a proverbial slap on the wrist, whereas he deserved a solid kick—and not just one—just like the rest of his communist gangster gang. Ten years later, communism itself came to an end in Poland.

*

In the issue of Polityka—a major socio-political weekly published in Warsaw that served as one of the official publications of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers' Party—released for the National Day of the Rebirth of Poland, the front page, as usual, featured a cartoon by the well-known illustrator, caricaturist, and satirist Szymon Kobyliński.

Although he illustrated a communist magazine, Kobyliński himself never had any affection for the communists. In an interview published in Trybuna on September 2–3, 1991, he said:

"In 1947, after the rigged elections under Bierut (President of Poland at the time) the cannons were roaring, and I swore then that I would be giving those commies hell for the rest of my life. And indeed—I was never on their side in the sense of approving of them..."

The cartoon showed a grandfather, a father, and a son.

The father says to his son:

"Grandpa is as old as independent Poland, I'm as old as People's Poland, and you're nine years old."

Everyone immediately understood the allusion—Edward Gierek had been in power since 1970, almost exactly nine years.

*

            Near the road on Szeroki Ostrów Island, close to our campsite, there was an old, neglected, overgrown cemetery with Gothic inscriptions on the gravestones that were almost impossible to read. One of the camp participants decided to clean it up a little and even fenced it off with a barrier made of tree branches because, as he put it:

"I wouldn't want anyone littering and walking over my remains."

Only relatively recently did I learn that it had been a Protestant cemetery and that the people buried there had been the island's original inhabitants. According to the website www.mazury24.eu:

"At the turn of 1944/1945, Szeroki Ostrów consisted of six homesteads owned by: Michael Adamy, Auguste Dudda, Kayka, Max Prystawik, and August Sbresny."

Most of them were Masurians, descendants of settlers from Mazovia who spoke a local dialect and were subjected to strong Germanization. They often referred to themselves as Masuren (Masurians). Their culture combined Polish roots with Prussian state organization. Most were farmers and fishermen, closely connected with the natural environment of Masuria. After 1945, the majority either left the region voluntarily or were expelled.

*

            One of the tents served as a storage area for our diving equipment, and every night someone had to sleep there alone to "guard" it. One night it was my turn.

I was actually pleased because, in my regular tent, the adjacent cot belonged to a musician. Every morning the sentry woke him up, and while still half asleep he would grab his trumpet and play reveille—straight into my ear! So I was undoubtedly always the first person forced out of bed.

But returning to that solitary night—I can only say that I have NEVER slept so deeply in my entire life.

I fell asleep almost instantly, and in the morning they had great difficulty waking me up. For quite a while I remained half-conscious. Had anyone wanted to steal the diving equipment that night, they could have done so without the slightest difficulty. They could even have taken the tent and carried away my cot—with me still lying on it!

To this day I still wonder what caused it. Was there some underground water vein beneath me or some other geological phenomenon? Or was it simply a coincidence...

*

One evening we were talking about various subjects. Someone mentioned Stanisław Grzesiuk's book Five Years in a Concentration Camp (Pięć Lat Kacetu), and our conversation turned to the war, concentration camps, and eventually the Katyń Massacre.

Discussion at our camp

Here I would like to add that, in Poland, I never met anyone in a private conversation who questioned who had committed this massacre. The question of "who did it?" practically didn't exist because everyone knew who the real perpetrators were: The Soviet NKVD.

We began discussing the massacre and exchanging various pieces of information.

One of the club and camp leaders was with us—a very pleasant, well-educated, intelligent, and genuinely likeable man who was a fairly senior scout (Instructor or Scoutmaster) as well as a teacher. He listened silently to our discussion and eventually interrupted:

             — Are you sure that the Katyń massacre was not committed by the Germans?

I have to admit that such a question was completely out of place.

An awkward silence followed, and that was the end of our discussion.

He was the only Pole I have ever encountered who questioned the perpetrators of the massacre during a "private" conversation.

It was disappointing because I never expected anything like that from him. Unfortunately, as I have observed many times in life, intelligence and education do not always go hand in hand with an open mind or with the ability to think independently, critically analyze facts, and draw one's own conclusions regardless of officially imposed interpretations and ideology.

Even our teachers at school either avoided the subject altogether or subtly suggested that the perpetrators had come from the East as one possible theory—but they NEVER bluntly claimed that the Germans had committed the crime. In fact, even the secret police officers with whom I had a "friendly" meeting expressed the assumption that this crime was not committed by the Germans (although, of course, they could have done it for strategic purposes).

I also read that the reason why the four-volume Universal Encyclopedia of PWN, published during the 1970s, contained no entry for "Katyń" was that its editors refused to write a false account of the massacre. Instead, they chose the neutral solution of omitting the entry entirely—which, in itself, gave thoughtful readers plenty to think about regarding this act of genocide.

Throughout the existence of Communist Poland, official propaganda blamed the Katyn Massacre on Nazi Germany. It was only shortly before the collapse of communism that the Soviet authorities officially acknowledged that the massacre had been carried out by the NKVD, the Soviet secret police, which murdered thousands of Polish officers in 1940.

In Canada, however, I encountered immigrants from the Soviet Union, and some of them still insisted that the Germans had committed the massacre, stubbornly adhering to the official Soviet version of history.

But in their case one should probably feel sorry for them. Perhaps it's simply in their genes and DNA, and because of that they have suffered the most (and continue to suffer the most) under the very system they effectively support. Unfortunately, there is no cure for national masochism and an ingrained mentality of submission.

My grandfather, Jerzy Kismanowski (1894-1940)

I would also like to add that Katyń has a very personal meaning for me. My grandfather (my mother's father), Jerzy Kismanowski, was murdered there, and for many decades my mother and grandmother had to live surrounded by this enormous lie. On top of that, they were persecuted by the communist authorities (and I myself was also affected by it, albeit to a lesser extent, in 1981).

I think the gentleman on the right was a scuba diving instructor

Turning back to the club itself, it has remained active ever since 1975, continuously organizing numerous training courses and expeditions.

Its founder, Piotr Kowalski, only recently, in 2025, stepped down as president after 50 (yes, fifty!) years, passing the baton (or rather 🤿 the snorkel 😁) to someone younger.

I truly admire that kind of passion, dedication, and commitment, and I wish both him and the club every success over the next 50 years!

And finally, something amusing.

One of my friends, after seeing the club's badge, suggested that I should add the letter "L" to its name. It would then become the WANDAL Underwater Club!

(This is a bilingual pun. "Wanda" is the club's name, while "wandal" means "vandal" in Polish.)

*****

Blogi są również dostępne w języku polskim/blogs are also available in the Polish language

*****

More from the author

This entry is part of a broader collection of personal research and historical documentation across multiple blogs:

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1976: PRZEHYBA, GIŻYCKO, PRICE HIKES, PROTESTS, AND SUGAR RATION CARDS

The announcement of price increases in 1976 — Prime Minister Jaroszewicz withdraws the increases — Toxic words from First Secretary of the Communist Party, Edward Gierek and severe reprisals of arrested workers — The yacht Orion in Giżycko — Meeting with an epee fencer and an Olympian — Melchior Wańkowicz and Na Tropach Smętka — A gift for an indomitable windsurfer — The introduction of sugar ration cards — Sailing on Lakes Kisajno, Dargin, Mamry, and Sztynorckie — A visit to the village of Sztynort — Cracking folding bicycles made by “Romet” — Communist-era life jackets — Towing a yacht through the canal to Węgorzewo — The shocking news in Wiadomości Wędkarskie

In June 1976, we were hiking in the Beskid Sądecki Mountains in southern Poland. It was precisely June 25, 1976. We were walking from Szczawnica to Przehyba (49°27'58.2"N 20°33'21.2"E / 49.466167, 20.555889). That day we bought a newspaper containing the full text of a speech delivered the previous day by Prime Minister Piotr Jaroszewicz. The speech concerned planned food price increases. Meat was to become approximately 69% more expensive, butter and dairy products about 50% more expensive, and sugar a staggering 100% more expensive.

Prime Minster Piotr Jaroszewicz
Source: Narodowe Archiwum Cyfrowe

My mother, who naturally handled all household shopping, was outraged by these announcements. Throughout the hike she carefully studied every article and piece of information in the newspaper. It was easy to understand her concern. In Communist Poland (the Polish People's Republic, commonly known as the PRL), even relatively modest increases in the prices of basic food products could have a major impact on family budgets.

When we reached the mountain shelter (refuge/hostel/hut) on Przehyba, located at an elevation of 1,138 metres (3,734 ft), where we planned to spend the night, the proposed price increases dominated nearly every conversation. Hikers and tourists discussed the situation intensely and wondered what the consequences might be.

That evening, together with many other guests, we gathered in a large common room to watch television. Suddenly Prime Minister Piotr Jaroszewicz appeared on the screen and announced that the government was withdrawing the planned food price increases.

Applause broke out throughout the room. Some people clapped spontaneously, while others quietly commented on the astonishing development.

Stamps and envelope commemorating the June '76 protests. "We want bread!" "Stop the train!" "Down with the price hikes!"

At that moment none of us knew that massive workers' protests had erupted earlier that day in Radom, Ursus, Płock, and several other Polish cities. Nevertheless, everyone sensed that something very serious must have happened for the government to reverse a major economic decision only one day after announcing it.

Only later did we learn that the workers' protests had been brutally suppressed by the militia and security services, and that many participants were subsequently subjected to reprisals.

Silver coin issued on in June, 2026, to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the June, 1976 protests

This was hardly surprising. On June 26, 1976, the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers' Party (PZPR), Edward Gierek, reacted to the events in Radom with fury. During a teleconference with the first secretaries of the provincial party committees, he demanded that the protesters be condemned and humiliated. He ordered that people be shown

"how much we hate them, what scoundrels they are, and how their actions are harming the country. I believe that the more words of condemnation are directed at them—and even if you demand that irresponsible elements be dismissed from their workplaces—the better it will be for the cause. [...] There must be an atmosphere in which they are pointed out as black sheep, as people who should be ashamed that they are Poles at all, that they even walk this earth."

First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers' Party (PZPR), Edward Gierek

The First Secretary also ordered that the inhabitants of Radom—the city where the most violent street clashes had taken place and where, among other things, the provincial party headquarters had been set on fire—be singled out for particular humiliation. Party activists from neighbouring provinces were to be brought to a rally in the city:

"the people of Radom must be gathered together and told how we judge them, how they raised their children, and how they are harming Poland. Simply put, comrades, the people of Radom should feel that all of Poland despises them, that all of Poland has grievances against them, and that all of Poland will remember this for a long time."

Gierek interrupted the head of the Radom party committee, who was reporting on the situation, saying: 

"Tell your Radom residents that I don't give a damn about them all, and I don't give a damn about all these actions either. You caused such a ruckus and you want to be treated gently? They're troublemakers, I won't forget that."

That same day, during the evening broadcast of the state television news program Dziennik Telewizyjny, the official position of the authorities was presented by Maciej Szczepański, Chairman of the Committee for Radio and Television. Without mincing words, he condemned those who had disrupted the alleged "consultations"—the deceitful term used by the authorities to describe the price increases:

"hooligan and criminal elements who vandalized state property and looted both public and private property, especially in Ursus and Radom."

At the same time, the events of June 1976 became one of the most important turning points in the history of Communist Poland.

Coin commemorating the 30th anniversary of the June, 1976 protests

In reality, the withdrawal of the price increases represented not merely a setback but a major political defeat for the government of Edward Gierek, the First Secretary of the Communist Party. The repression directed against protesting workers led directly to the creation of the Workers' Defense Committee (KOR), the first significant opposition organization to operate openly in Communist Poland.

In a broader sense, June 1976 marked the beginning of the end of the Gierek era—a process that eventually led to the birth of the Solidarity movement in August 1980 and, ultimately, to the collapse of Communist rule in Poland.

But on that June evening in 1976, sitting in a mountain hostel on Przehyba, we knew none of this. We only knew that the government had reversed course with such astonishing speed that something far more significant must have happened than the state-controlled television was willing to admit.

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More than a month later, on August 7, 1976, I travelled with a close family member, S.K., his wife K.K., and one of their friends to the Masurian Lake District, Poland's famous region of interconnected lakes in the northeast of the country. In the town of Giżycko, we were given a sailing yacht, "Orion" class, equipped with a cabin that accommodated a crew of five.

Yacht "Orion"
Source: Wikipedia Commons. Author: Bosek1313

For the first several days we remained moored at the Almatur marina on Lake Kisajno (54°02'14.1"N 21°43'58.0"E / 54.037250, 21.732778). There, enormous painted eyes constantly seemed to watch over us. These iconic eyes, known among sailors as the “Eyes of Masuria,” still exist today and remain famous among generations of Polish sailors.

Source: Gazeta Olsztyńska, https://gazetaolsztynska.pl/artykul/oczy-od-pol-wieku-patrza-n1845753

During our stay we became friends with several fellow boaters. They visited our yacht, and we visited theirs. One of them was an exceptionally friendly man who owned a motorboat. Together with his wife, he returned each day from fishing with the maximum number of fish allowed under Polish fishing regulations. On several occasions he generously shared part of his catch with us. If I remember correctly, some of the fish were even smoked.

S.K. and K.K. also invited him aboard our yacht several times.

He possessed excellent fishing equipment, which was hardly surprising because he was the president of Polsping, one of Poland's leading manufacturers of fishing tackle. I myself had frequently visited the company's store at 42 Krajowej Rady Narodowej Street in Warsaw (before the war and today known as Twarda Street).

*

The same building also housed the headquarters of the Polish Angling Association, where fishing permits were issued and renewed. Every year, enormous lines of people would form there to renew their permits. It was practically a textbook example of bureaucracy perfected.

The building also contained the “Delfin” cinema. From time to time, while visiting the building, I would encounter older gentlemen, usually dressed in suits and wearing various badges on their lapels. I was told that they were “officials” or “activists” of the Polish Angling Association.

Ever since then, the word “activist” has always brought to mind exactly those kinds of people—elderly gentlemen in suits, appearing to live rather comfortably, somewhat detached from everyday reality, and almost certainly enjoying certain privileges associated with their positions.

What I often wondered, however, was what their actual activity consisted of. Did they genuinely do useful work for anglers, or was their main occupation attending countless meetings, electing new committees, awarding badges and awards (to one another?), drafting reports, and delivering speeches that nobody really listened to?

In communist Poland, the word “activist” often carried a special meaning. It did not necessarily refer to someone performing practical work, but rather to a person involved in various organizations, associations, and committees, spending a considerable amount of time attending meetings, conferences, and administrative gatherings. To many ordinary citizens, however, it remained something of a mystery what tangible results this activity actually produced.

*

But back to the excellent angler: As it turned out, Jerzy Strzałka—as that was his name—was also a distinguished athlete. He had been Polish national champion in épée fencing in 1962, a member of the famous CWKS Legia Warsaw sports club, a member of Poland's world-champion team in 1963, and an Olympian who competed at the 1960 Rome Olympics. I am glad we met him.

★★★

Most likely it was Jerzy Strzałka himself who told us a story about encountering the famous Polish writer and journalist Melchior Wańkowicz somewhere near Giżycko.

Perhaps the legendary writer, who had mentioned Giżycko in his famous reportage-travel book On the Trail of Smętek (Na tropach Smętka), had returned to the region to see how much it had changed since he had written it. By the way, Smętek (Kashubian: Smãtk) is a demonic devil maliciously tormenting people, appearing in Kashubian and Masurian folk legends and songs. Most likely a remnant of the cult of some deity or demon from pre-Christian times.

Melchior Wańkowicz (1892–1974) was one of Poland's most celebrated writers and journalists, often regarded as the father of modern Polish literary reportage. His book On the Trail of Smętek, published in 1936, described his journey through Masuria, then part of East Prussia in Germany. The book combined travel writing, reportage, history, and social commentary, and became an important document of the region in the years before World War II.

After the war, the borders of Poland shifted westward, East Prussia ceased to exist, and Giżycko became part of Poland. If Wańkowicz did indeed revisit the area decades later, he would have found a region transformed not only by war but also by profound political and demographic changes.

The success of On the Trail of Smętek (Na tropach Smętka) was remarkable. Within less than four years of its publication in 1936, the book went through nine editions—an extraordinary achievement for a work of reportage in pre-war Poland.

The ninth and final pre-war edition had an especially dramatic fate. In September 1939, during the German invasion of Poland, German forces seized copies directly from the printing presses in the city of Bydgoszcz before they could be distributed.

The book is widely regarded as one of the finest works of Polish literary reportage published during the interwar period. Its popularity stemmed not only from Wańkowicz's engaging style but also from the subject itself. Through his travels in East Prussia, he documented the lives of the Polish-speaking inhabitants of Masuria and described the growing pressure of Germanization in the region.

The reaction of the German authorities was predictably hostile. Because of what they considered the author's openly anti-German views, the Gestapo prohibited the publication and distribution of Wańkowicz's works in Nazi Germany.

After the outbreak of World War II in September 1939, Wańkowicz became a person of particular interest to the German authorities. Owing in large part to the publication of On the Trail of Smętek, he was actively sought by the Germans during the opening weeks of the war.

Fortunately, he managed to escape to Romania before he could be arrested. Later, he described the dramatic circumstances of his wartime flight and exile in his autobiographical book Green on the Crater (Ziele na kraterze).

Today, On the Trail of Smętek is valued not only as an outstanding travel narrative but also as an important historical document. It preserves a vivid picture of East Prussia and Masuria in the final years before World War II—a world that would be profoundly transformed by the conflict and would largely disappear after 1945.

I remember seeing Melchior Wańkowicz at one of the book fairs held near the Palace of Culture and Science in Warsaw. Unfortunately, I was too young at the time to know who he was or to appreciate his importance.

It was only when I was in my twenties that I began reading his books, and I found them absolutely fascinating. His works combined travel writing, reportage, history, and personal observation in a way that few other writers could match. (Information from Wikipedia).

As a result, I have often regretted not asking him for his autograph when I had the chance. At the time, he was simply another author at a book fair. Only years later did I realize that I had unknowingly stood just a few steps away from one of the greatest figures in Polish literature and reportage.

★★★

I'm ashamed to admit it, but the photo shows that I caught more fish back then than I do in Canada now...

One late afternoon a group of people appeared at the marina. One of the men was attempting to learn windsurfing for the very first time.

It was not an easy task.

Every few minutes he would fall into the water, but he refused to give up. He would climb back onto the board and try again.

After quite a long struggle, he finally managed to return to shore, greeted by enthusiastic applause from his friends. We heard that his name was Klemens.

At that point S.K. decided that such perseverance deserved recognition.

He sent me over to him like a waiter. I carried a diving fin that served as a tray, upon which stood a shot glass filled with vodka.

    “Mr. Klemens, I admire your determination! As a reward, please accept this modest gift from me!” shouted S.K. as I approached the exhausted windsurfer.

About fifteen minutes later, Mr. Klemens and several of his friends came aboard our yacht. We spent several pleasant hours chatting, enjoying snacks, and probably a few stronger beverages as well. Thanks to his outgoing personality, S.K. never had the slightest difficulty making new friends wherever he went.

At the same time, radio programs increasingly featured reporters interviewing people who complained about the shortage of sugar. Interestingly, many of those interviewed blamed other citizens, who had supposedly “bought up all the sugar.”

Five years later, in 1981, when stores very often had literally nothing on their shelves, I met a woman who also blamed society for the shortages. According to her, “there’s nothing in the stores because people buy everything.”

Indeed, what terrible people! Instead of politely coming to the stores, admiring the products, and appreciating their attractive packaging, they had the audacity to buy them—and then, to make matters even worse, actually consume them! No wonder the shelves were empty.

It reminded me of the story of a miserly cart driver who decided to teach his horse not to eat. After thirteen days of this “experiment,” the horse finally collapsed from exhaustion and died. The owner then complained to everyone around him that his plan had been on the verge of success:

“Just think—everything was going so well! Another day or two and the horse would have completely gotten used to not eating. But the stupid animal died and ruined everything!”

These are the fish I apparently caught from our sailboat. Jerzy Strzałka provided us with bigger fish, like pike, instead of the roach (płotki) that I caught.

On the evening of August 12, 1976, I was alone aboard the yacht. While listening to the radio, I heard astonishing news: the government had decided to introduce ration cards for sugar, although officials carefully avoided using the word “ration cards.”

When S.K. and K.K. returned to the boat, I informed them that sugar would soon be rationed in Poland.

They could not believe it.

S.K. bluntly declared that I had “been watching too many movies and reading too many books about the German occupation.”

Soon enough, however, he had to admit that I was right.

Sugar coupons officially entered circulation in the Polish People's Republic on August 12, 1976. Although the first printed "goods tickets" were actually dated July 25, 1976, they began to be widely redeemed in stores only in mid-August. The authorities avoided the name "card" (kartka) due to negative associations with the German occupation (where ration cards were common), officially calling them "goods tickets."

These were the first food ration coupons introduced in Poland in decades. During the 1980s the rationing system expanded to cover numerous other products, including meat, butter, flour, gasoline, and many everyday necessities. Ration cards became one of the most recognizable symbols of life during the economic crisis of late Communist Poland and remained in use until 1989.

Źródło: OpenStreet Map

After leaving the Almatur marina, we headed north, sailing across Lakes Kisajno, Dargin, and Mamry. I particularly remember the strong winds on Lake Mamry. Our yacht was moving at remarkable speed, and for a young sailor it was an exhilarating experience, which I simply loved!

These days, I also enjoy canoeing in the open, endless waters of Georgian Bay in Ontario—it's a unique experience. However, I have to constantly monitor the weather, as it can change very quickly, and even slight winds and waves can be incredibly dangerous for such a tiny vessel.

In Sztynort. From left: a crew member (NN), K.K., and yours truly. I can’t believe how skinny I was back then! Mind you, we didn't have McDonald's and fast food around every corner...

We also entered Lake Sztynorckie and visited the village of Sztynort. In those days it was still a small and quiet settlement. I do not recall seeing many sailors there at all. It is difficult to compare it with today's bustling marina complex and one of the most popular sailing destinations in Masuria.

Around that time we became friendly with the crew of a somewhat larger yacht. Its 'skipper' told us about a dangerous storm he had encountered on Lake Mamry. His crew consisted of his wife and daughter (or perhaps daughters), none of whom had been prepared for such severe weather conditions.

It also turned out that he was either the president or a senior executive of the famous Romet bicycle factory in Bydgoszcz, which manufactured, among other things, Poland's popular folding bicycles.

I owned one of those bicycles myself and was generally quite satisfied with it.

However, I will never forget one particular incident.

While riding, I suddenly felt that something was very wrong. It seemed as if someone had shoved me from behind. A moment later I was lying on the ground.

Fortunately, I was not injured.

The head tube had broken. It completely broke — I was holding the handlebars and part of the frame in my hand, and the rest of the bike was about a meter away from me.

When I told him this story, he admitted without much surprise that the frames of those bicycles did indeed sometimes crack. Even more astonishingly, the tone of his voice suggested that he regarded this as little more than a minor inconvenience.

Thank goodness Romet did not manufacture airplanes...

I have always enjoyed swimming in open water lakes.

In the middle of one of the lakes, K.K. decided to go for a swim. For safety she put on a Communist-era life jacket, known in Poland as a kapok.

I do not know how many readers still remember those devices.

They consisted of two large buoyant “pillows,” one worn on the chest and the other on the back, covered with grayish-white fabric and connected by straps.

I never wore them because they were extraordinarily uncomfortable.

Today, when paddling a canoe in Canada, I almost always wear a modern personal flotation device. It is comfortable, does not restrict movement, and even provides some protection from cold and wind.

I also remember reading a newspaper article during the Communist era describing a youth sailing competition. When one of the boats capsized, the young sailors found themselves in the water and, to the horror of the spectators, began removing their life jackets--i.e., kapoks.

The reason was simple: the kapoks absorbed water like sponges and slowly sank!

But returning to K.K.'s experience—when she entered the water wearing her kapok, its buoyancy forced it upward so strongly that it pressed against her neck and throat. Breathing became difficult and normal swimming was nearly impossible.

Observing this, S.K. remarked that the purpose of the kapok seemed to be to strangle drowning people so that they would not have to suffer for too long.

And, frankly, he may have had a point...

From Lake Mamry we continued through the canal toward Węgorzewo. The weather was dreadful. It was raining, fog hung over the water, and because our yacht had no engine and there was virtually no wind, I spent much of the journey walking along the canal bank and towing the yacht with a rope.

After a while I gathered such momentum that when S.K. wandered off briefly and later returned, he could not find the yacht.

I had already pulled it several hundred metres farther down the canal.

Overall, it was a wonderful and unforgettable sailing adventure. To this day I remain deeply grateful to S.K. and K.K. for giving me the opportunity to participate in it.

In later years I attended several additional sailing camps in Masuria organized by the sailing club of the Polish Academy of Sciences. Perhaps one day I will write about those experiences in a separate blog post.

Several months later, while browsing an issue of Wiadomości Wędkarskie (Angling News), I came across an extensive photo report devoted to Jerzy Strzałka.

The reason for the article, however, was a very sad one.

Jerzy Strzałka had died only two months after our meeting, on October 13, 1976, at the age of just forty-three.

All of us were deeply shocked and saddened by the news.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

To conclude, I can add that not long afterward my contact with S.K. suddenly ended, for reasons I still cannot understand to this day 😯. However, in the late 1980s, K.K., following a change in her marital status (and surname 😉), emigrated to Canada, and over the years we met many times in my adopted homeland.

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Blogi są również dostępne w języku polskim/blogs are also available in the Polish language

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More from the author

This entry is part of a broader collection of personal research and historical documentation across multiple blogs:

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