Tatuś (Polish for dad)

My father called minutes ago. This blog never hears about there still being a father which, I suppose, is because I rarely hear about there being a father either. He lives in Poland and he makes no use of computers, little use of writing implements and certainly even less use of the phone (international phone rates from Poland are, I believe, the highest in the world: when last I stayed in a hotel in Krakow and called Madison for about ten minutes, I was amazed to see at checkout time that the phone call cost me more than the room for the night).

It’s easy to lump my father into the UN fold and refer to him as that UN guy, since he played such an important part in the life of the organization (from its inception almost 60 years ago up until he retired at the end of the 1970s). But has the organization really shaped him substantially as well? I didn’t see that it had. Up until this year I had regarded him as being the quintessential Pole – shaped, more than anything, by the war years and the political transformation that ensued.

But during my last visit to Poland, I talked about this with him – about his Polishness, about his feeling of belonging there (when he finished his tour of duty at the UN he was asked if he would like to stay in the US: no thank you, was his answer). It seems, however, that my images haven’t been that accurate all these years. He told me he prides himself in having little allegiance to feelings of nationalism of any sort. Poles typically swell with pride when they speak of their deeply wounded country, torn apart by neighboring states over the centuries. He, on the other hand, said to me “I’ve always actually wanted to be born to a Nordic father and an Italian mother – I’d have both the height and the good looks on my side!” He is a pretty short guy (not helped by the fact that my mother is tall and for a long time wore high heels. Maybe that’s why they eventually separated!).

Anyway, he called today and he even remembered to inquire about other members of the family, though I’m not sure my answers registered much. I’m going to fault the bad phone connection for that. Today, I just prefer to have this image of him--sitting by the phone, dialing, wondering whether I’d be home, then singing a song befitting the day.