A story about some cards from near and far journeys

After the events of March 1968, the topic of the Holocaust was repressed from Polish culture. If it did reappear, it was in the form of afterimages, allusive historical metaphors (Has's adaptation of Schulz's prose in "Sanatorium pod Klepsydrą" ), distant references to places associated with that " dry pogrom "—such as platforms full of friends departing from Gdańsk Station, or the symbolic scene of farewell to the past at the Jewish cemetery in Tadeusz Konwicki's "Jak mojego zdą, jak mojego blisko" (How Far From Here, How Near) . Jewish characters appeared episodically—somewhat shamefully portrayed—in popular Polish TV series (Columbus in " Kolumbas" and Sommer in " Polski Drogi" —both directed by Janusz Morgenstern ). However, it was during the saddest decade of the communist era—the 80s—that Polish film returned to the subject of the Holocaust.

Several factors contributed to this state of affairs. The most important were political decisions. Isolated after the imposition of martial law and the wave of repression, Jaruzelski's team desperately sought international legitimacy – a chance was seen in the 40th anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising , which fell on April 19, 1983. The lavish celebrations ended in a public relations disaster. Marek Edelman was offered a seat on the Honorary Commemoration Committee , but he declined, expressing his moral opposition in an article in "Tygodnik Mazowsze." In it, he categorically opposed the symbolic appropriation of the uprising's memory by the Hunweibins of martial law. The embarrassment was further compounded by the invited delegation from the Palestine Liberation Organization, which, in the presence of Israeli government representatives, compared the Israeli occupation to the one whose round anniversary of its tragic chapter was being commemorated.

However, the government's belief in film as an art form with the greatest influence on shaping social historical perceptions resulted in four films about the Holocaust being put into production during martial law, including two about the Warsaw Ghetto from different perspectives: a view from the outside ( Stefan Szlachtycz's intimate television film "Tragarz puchu" ) and Waldemar Dziki's debut film set in the ghetto - "Kartka z podróży" (A Postcard from a Journey).

Dziki's film possesses the power of a debuting talent, one that isn't always as spectacularly revealed in his later work. Produced within the liberal milieu of the Karol Irzykowski Studio, the film was an adaptation of Ladislav Fuks's debut novel , "Mr. Teodor Mundstock ," written in 1963 (Polish edition 1966). Set in Prague, Czechoslovakia, the film tells the story of a nearly sixty-year-old single man whose uninspiring yet stable life (he works as a legal advisor in a rope factory) is brutally interrupted by the arrival of the Germans. Jews are forced to wear a yellow star, and over time, they begin to be displaced. The oppressive terror intensifies, and the titular character decides to "prepare" himself for death—this is his method of overcoming fear. The exercises take place in the imagination and consider possible scenarios of humiliation, torture, and pain. And when the day of deportation arrives, Mr. Teodor finds within himself a strange peace and acceptance of death.

Fuks was a trained psychologist and had no family history of the Holocaust. He views his Jewish protagonist like a lab technician staring into a Petri dish, noting the progressive stages of decay. Terror is affirmed at the level of language: dense, metaphor-laden, the narrative simulates delirium, the racing thoughts—typhus fantasies.

This is what fascinated Dziki, and for his debut he chose a book that had captivated him in his early youth (his mother had sent him a copy from Zakopane as a gift). This stuffiness of claustrophobic waiting had something of the atmosphere of hopelessness during martial law, but a novel based primarily on internal monologue required a masterful adaptation – the debutant was aided by the excellent screenwriter associated with the "Tor" Film Studio, Witold Zalewski . The action was transplanted to a Polish setting, but the topography of the location was not specified. It is some kind of ghetto in occupied Poland. Most likely the Warsaw one (symbols of Fighting Poland appear on the wall), but someone mentions a Kraków synagogue, and the Jews have yellow stars sewn on – so perhaps Łódź?… The unspecified film location becomes a kind of synecdoche – totum pro parte – representing the state of imprisonment in the ghetto. The finished script is to be shot at the Studio im. Karol Irzykowski – the youngest of the existing ones and therefore the least rigid, the most progressive. But martial law is in effect. There's a television boycott, actors refuse to act, work on a film about the ghetto is dragging on, and the subject seems too controversial. Dziki is determined to make it happen: " Paradoxically, martial law makes me understand more and more of what Fuks is writing about," he said in an interview with Marek Hendrykowski.

He receives a modest budget of ten and a half million złoty (below the average for a television film). He begins talks with actors. Despite the boycott, they agree to star in the young debutant's studio, which produced the dissident " Colonel and" films: Leszek Wosiewicz's "Wigilia '81," Robert Gliński's "Niedzielne igraszki," and Wiesław Saniewski's "Nadzór" (Surveillance). Halina Mikołajska , recently released from internment and recovering in Małe Cichy, agrees to star ; Maja Komorowska, an open supporter of the opposition; and alongside them: Władysław Kowalski (Mundstock in the novel, Rosenberg in the film), Janusz Michałowski , Sława Kwaśniewska , Jerzy Trela , and Henryk Bista.

The film was shot in the very heart of Łódź – on Kościuszki Street. A ZOMO (Motorized Reserves) unit is stationed in the hotel across the street. Demonstrations are underway in the city, and the streets are filled with acrid gas. The crew doesn't yet have official permission to begin filming, but they decide to proceed. Years later, the director recalls that the gas levels prevent them from working even in hotel rooms: "At the table sat Maja (Komorowska – note by BK), who had just returned from sending packages to people imprisoned, and Halina (Mikołajska – note by BK), who had been released from " boarding school " seven weeks earlier. The crew decides to hold reading rehearsals at night, when the air isn't choking the actors. With modest funds, Andrzej Przedworski manages to create an incredibly evocative, expressionistic set. Łódź at the time is full of empty buildings. The city's genius loci can be defined by the sight of ruins, abandoned courtyards, and the overwhelming ugliness that looms whenever we leave the cityscape of Piotrkowska Street's palaces. The production designer finds an abandoned tenement house on Targowa Street, where moments earlier the ZOMO (Circuit-Bending Militia) had its base. Filming lasted twenty-nine days. Work on the set intertwined with the reality of martial law – as if, for that moment, this fictional and real story had merged: " Three streets away, demonstrations were taking place in front of churches while we were filming an outdoor scene of a roundup with a handheld camera (...) We had two motorcycles leaving with six soldiers, a roundup here, and a few hundred meters away, ZOMO (Circuit-Bending Militia) were dispersing the demonstration with batons and water. The crowd flees across the street and courtyards, suddenly bursting into our headlights. Witek Dąbal (cinematographer – BK) shouts to get the camera, and people run straight towards those motorcycles," the director recalls of the set.

The debut was a success. It premiered on March 5, 1984 , after martial law had been lifted. Despite excellent reviews, the film failed to achieve box office success. It is too intellectual, difficult to watch, and filled with sadness. Despite this obscurity, it remains one of the most beautiful and original Polish films about the Holocaust. Perhaps it wasn't the right time for its premiere—the despair, misery, and inevitability of death present on screen were too tragic for a weary Polish audience, deprived of any illusions of freedom. But this may be the only moment in the history of Polish cinema when a sliver of memory from that despair intertwined with the sad reality of the early 1980s.