Letter to Melania

To my dearest sister Melania,

You will be very shocked to read such a letter as this. I'm sorry. It is so very hard to accept. I will already be gone before you read this. Impossible. How can such a thing be so? But please, let me explain first, before you make your judgments as you must. Don’t shed a tear, at least until you reach the end. I feel no regret for what I’ve done. I take it like a man.

You remember the construction that began last spring? That’s when it all started for me. Thousands of them shipped in from their western cess-pools, their decrepit economies finally broken. In a way, I do pity them. The harsh conditions of our acid winter must really be difficult. No more chocolate sponge cake for them.

They have baby feet, you know. Funny, that’s what I always think of when I think of them. I don’t know why. Silly old me, hey sister? Sponge cake, warm milk and stories before bed time in their snug beds. That's all they are to me. Am I being old fashioned? I know how they turn out, just prefer to dream, like you. Yes, they really deserve no pity. Brawling and spitting, drunk. In our streets. But I’ve always had a soft spot for chocolate. Well, the idea of chocolate anyway. You know all about that...

I think our land looks a bit like chocolate sponge cake now, don’t you? Now that is has been so burnt in the ovens of this “global cooking”. Sometimes I see our parks and rivers where they really shouldn’t be, in the pictures of faraway places they show in geography class. African deserts, Arabian river beds. You remember? Why do teachers always miss the obvious so? And those places don’t even look so bad. They’re very clean, at least. No pesky weeds to smother the cocoa plants. If we gave them enough love and water, who knows? Please forgive me this silliness.

Perhaps you can understand a little about how I feel. Is that asking too much? Or perhaps you can’t, but give me a little space in your pity at least. I’ve always dreamed of tasting it, sister. Maybe you’ll get the chance one day. If you dream hard enough. You are a good dreamer, my sister.

But now I should get a little serious, the time is limited. They didn’t tell us what they were doing at first. Or maybe it was just our parents who kept us in the dark. It’s hard to be left out when you’re so nearly a man. I couldn’t take it any more. And anyway, by now, I think I have a right to call myself a man. 17 is a man, of course. If I can get one of you pregnant and be a father, then yes I am one of the adults. Who knows, maybe I am more than that even.

So anyway, it was on the first day those men all came with their big trucks and their yellow overalls. I went down with Fryderyk and Petr to find out what was going on. They said “get out of our way, we have important business here”, and we laughed at them like they were idiots from the southern valleys. We meant no offense, but we didn’t like being pushed around in our own places. “What business can you have here that is so important?” we said, growing bold like lions, “This little village has never been more than a stopover for your drunken whoremongers, don’t insult us with your foreign idiocy.” And then they just laughed even harder, I remember because one of them slapped young Fryderyk on the nose and told him to shut his mouth, that we were the foreigners now. We were angry, surely you can see why. So that's when it started.

But he was wrong, that fat English man, and he was drunk. Why do they always have such red cheeks? Perhaps you can find that out one day sister. We weren't going to listen to them, of course not. Yes, I knew what he meant; now we are numerically inferior, that is the correct way of saying it. That is probably true, there are hundreds of these destitute Westerners now. No, I should probably say thousands, because I’ve heard the truth on street corners and in the bread cues. They make camps in the foothills of the western mountains. You remember where we used to roll down like chocolate logs? My apologies again, dear sister, I know it is not funny. It is no time to joke.

Those are our livestock feeding grounds that they build their tent seas on, dropping all their rubbish and trampling over the beautiful roses in the summer, so few and so precious. Truly, they are the foreigners here, not us, and they know nothing. When our people went over to the West, to the English island, did we act in this way? No. We worked hard and took low pay, politely doing the jobs none of them wanted. I have heard it from the old folks. It was mutually beneficial. That is the phrase they always use.

It is funny, dear sister, is it not? The way history tramples on our country. We have always been carved out of the wastelands. And then we go and show them that we are a free and independent people, that we are clever and industrious in all conditions, and that we are strong enough to grow vegetables in our dust, and they just come back to take it all away again. All over again. But we should stay proud. History is nothing but an evil bitch.

Excuse my language, but please don’t listen to them, sister, I beg you. I too have heard their reasons, but I don’t accept them.

If there is a great threat from the East, are they talking about the Russians? No, the Russians are broken now, they are no longer a threat to us, the great weather storm has killed their land and there is no way they could walk the huge distances. Just think of walking to our capital in winter. Just a hundred miles, and it cannot be done. Believe me, if they are coming, they are dying in the cold right now. The poor bastards.

And there is no way the Asians could be on their way, as they also say. It is too far to survive, we all know this, yet the builders are counting on our simple fear. They think we are afraid of such people; the slanty eyed and the dark skinned. But ask yourself sister, do our people fear such types, or do we welcome them with open arms? Just look around at our cities, and you see the harmony of co-existing multitudes. Truly, it is just like in the Bible. We even embrace the Jew.

Of course, it is true. There are many more foreigners here than ever before. The Asians and the Africans. They are so different to us, I know, but we are a helpful people, and we understand their problems. We have experienced enough hardships in our history, so now I believe we are comrades. We can build relationships, for the future. And truly, we love them; we love their difference, their ways, their beauty. And I believe too dear sister, that they love us. I dispute the Westerners arguments here. As always, they lie.

What other reason could they have for building such a monstrosity through our land? Just think it through, dear sister, and I know you will see it through my eyes. We have to trust them about everything, yet they have no respect for us. Think about it. If it is true that a great weather storm has grown in the Pacific oceans, then why does our land remain untouched? And even if this is somehow true, I am still don't understand why they build this giant wall. They say it will stretch from the northern seas down to the Mediterranean, keeping us safe from the Easterners. They call them hordes now. Again, I wonder why we should be so callous to the Easterners? Is it their fault?

Unfortunately, dear sister, it is very clear whose fault everything is, and what their plans are. They admit as much; these global warmings and storms themselves are rooted in their histories, not ours. That is why I acted the way I did, dear sister. They are two faced, totally guilty, and should never be trusted. They build this wall as a pretext. Why not have our workers build it? Why bring in their poor and disaffected? It is just a pre-amble. This wall is but a ruse, it is but a smoke screen for something much worse.

Aside from all these troubles, one thing is most important, sister. Very, very crucial. If you take nothing else from this letter, please take this; do not believe them when they tell you of my blood thirst. I am no sick murderer. I took no pleasure in killing, how could I? And I am not the only one. It is a movement, a new way dear sister. One day, we believe it will be called a war of independence. One day. That is my hope, anyway. And believe me when I say we are vibrant, we represent the youth of the land, the roots that will never die in our poisoned soils. We will stop this wall, one way or another. We will burn it down at the last.

Time is really short now, dear sister. My pen grows almost empty, and it is difficult for me to express myself without crying. But I can't do that. I must finish this letter.

I am sorry, dear sister, at my last. Please forgive me my sins. I can only say that I acted for our people. For the Poles. We thought the world had moved on, we signed all their papers and took all their oaths in good faith. We were fools. As if the 21st Century could shield us from the old times. Eternal times. We will always be a door mat. Believe me, dear sister, they still think of themselves as the Great Powers. Unless we bite them in their feet, we will be crushed. I too wish it weren't so.

“Europe” is a fiction, dear sister. It is a dictatorship, a tyranny. Now I know it. And you should too. This wall only proves that. And think what they will do to me. What has already been done. I cannot be helped, but you must help yourself, help our people. Don't them destroy us so easily, dear sister, you know I am right. And if you can manage it, don’t let my death pain you too much. You will feel remorse, but let that be the heat that runs through your veins. Use it. Fight them, dear sister. Use your gift, your words are so much better than mine. You are the true writer, I am so proud to be your brother. And we will meet again in the heavens when you are old and accomplished. Amongst the stars. I believe. Dream with me, please, and it will be so. It will be beautiful.

This is it now, dear sister. All I have to say. I hope it is enough. With deepest love, I can promise you only one thing. It's my decision, my last decision, and the darkness can have no say in it. Before it falls, it shall have no power over me. So I promise, dear sister, your face will be the last thing I think of. Your name will be the last word that I speak. I promise

Melania. It is I. Your brother. Your little potato.

Jan