Be human first

To my best friend,

who inspired me

with this watercolor of Charles Bridge.

I dedicate this work to...

***

This strange world...

Czesław Niemen

It was a long time ago... Long before your memory reaches. I remember everything else as if through a fog, everything except this one. These memories are sharper than a razor, indelible by the eraser of time, because they live within me. Everything has changed... Nothing is the same anymore... My memory reaches back to places that modern people cannot comprehend. And yet, I will tell you this story, of a great and extraordinary man. It's impossible to tell his story without mentioning mine... And if his story is essentially a confession, then mine is too. Years ago, a strong bond of friendship bound our paths. And today...

In the distance, the sunset touched Prague Castle. Gold bathed Charles Bridge and was reflected in the Vltava River. Seagulls, seemingly oblivious to the approaching night, let out increasingly louder squawks. The cafes on both sides of the river almost immediately glowed with the soft light of candles and lanterns and swarmed with people. Every language could be heard. From every direction, a polite "Merci Madame" and "Thanks" were uttered, and if you listened closely, you could even hear Polish, though not necessarily so polite. The entire bridge hummed. Crowds of tourists took photos of the beautiful views of Prague. The crowd moved from sculpture to sculpture. Many, though made of bronze, gleamed with the luster of gold, worn from being touched "for good luck."

Everything was beautiful and perfectly organized. He thought so too when he first arrived. He was young, handsome, well-dressed, and well-mannered. Every evening, he sat at the small café "Fin de sciecle" to watch the sunset, then the smiling faces of the young ladies... He always fed the pigeons, giving them whatever he had on him. Usually it was ordinary bread, but he often bought a little wheat, just to observe their behavior up close. Truly interesting animals, these pigeons. Chosen as a symbol of peace. His observations led him to surprising conclusions. No one was more mistaken than the one who started calling these animals "peaceful." They should have been chosen as symbols of murderers, or mindlessness. Sometimes, while sitting at his favorite café in winter, he would observe their behavior on the roof of a tenement house dating back to the Hus era. Often, the "most peaceful" animal in the world would, on its own whim, kill its companion. Surprisingly, he never shared details, at least not about matters of minor importance. An eccentric gentleman, he always dressed similarly: hat, black coat, cane in hand, and pipe in mouth. Those who knew him well claimed that he matched the color of his shirt to the color of the clouds, unless they were black, in which case he always wore a polo shirt. Back then, I didn't know him well and couldn't have known. He didn't go to work. He had a servant and a cleaning lady. He lived off what his parents left him before they died. They died young, during World War II, while he was still a student. He graduated from Charles University just before the end of the war. He wanted to return to Poland, but he couldn't for fear of reprisals. Only occasionally would he pay a quiet visit to the cemetery in Krakow. He took over the tenement house from its former owners, who had also fled westward for fear of reprisals. After the war, his possessions suffered little damage. He could still walk his favorite paths, sit in his favorite café. He was rarely seen abroad. Even if someone had been so fortunate, they never said "hello" to him a second time. Suddenly, overnight, everything changed. He began to notice other people, to laugh, to help. He lived, it's hard to say modestly, but he lived to make others better off. He supported a shelter for the poor, if only one. Nobody knew what had changed him so much. No one knew, though many wondered why. Since then, no one left his house empty-handed. No place to stay? No food? You always heard the same advice: "Go to Leszczyński's." Always. No matter who you were, what you were wearing, what you believed in, why you came... There was always one name mentioned. He never asked for anything, and yet many people started a conversation. They talked about everything. They weren't shy about any topic. They were always listened to and never ridiculed.

That's how I began. Before I met him, I was no different from those from whom the war had robbed everything, including their parents, and forced them to do evil. I had trouble with the law, and he took me in, gave me clothes, and started teaching. With him, I changed. I opened myself to the world, began working, and truly lived.

During that time, my benefactor severed most of the contacts that connected him to his former lifestyle. He fell in love with a different life. Alone, yet always with someone. My parents' fortune was dwindling before his eyes; everyone marveled at him, but he didn't stop helping. He knew someone needed the money more. I helped this man as much as I could. Because, in my eyes, he was a great man. Great and wise. If someone disagreed with me, I wouldn't argue with him. To me, he was great, period. In the evenings, he sat by the fireplace and read. He read only the masters. And he wrote. He wrote down his thoughts, stories, and sometimes, though rarely, poems. He didn't like it; whenever I talked to him about his work, he'd pause over his poems. He'd change the subject. I never pressed him. He was a fascinating man. I'll never forget that smiling face of his, when, amidst so many indifferent expressions, he found joy in what he was doing. When, amidst mocking laughter, he never denied himself. When others gave up, he stubbornly pressed forward.

I once spoke with him about a topic that arose, seemingly of its own accord. What does it mean to be human? We talked for a long time, but the answer wouldn't come any closer. It stood still, refusing to approach, to be tamed. I don't remember the details of the conversation, and besides, that wasn't the most important thing. The only sentence I remember clearly is one that became his life motto: "First, be a human being!" Someone wise had said it to him for the first time, just like me... I thought about it a lot, even though I didn't really know what to look for, but I did. I tried to imitate him to some extent, but I didn't always succeed. Sometimes I gave up. "No, no, no," I kept repeating, but somehow I always got up, got up, and started again. It didn't help much. I spent less and less time with him. No, not because of him. I was slowly drifting away... He probably saw it and suspected what was coming, but he never pointed it out to me... No, I'm not angry with him. I only have myself to blame. Things happened in such a way that I lost contact with him for a good year.

I landed in France and settled in a small town near Paris. I received letters every now and then. I never answered any of them. I met other people, and slowly forgot about him. The letters stopped coming. One night, I woke up with the feeling that something had just ended. I felt terribly stupid. For the first time in a long time, I felt wet tears on my cheeks. I decided to talk to him as soon as possible. I went to the place where I first learned that there were people who cared about other people. The same address, the same building, and... I couldn't believe it. Downstairs was now a restaurant, upstairs an exclusive hotel. There was a name on the sign. I don't remember it now, but it definitely wasn't his. No one inside had even heard of him...! Only when I delved into the past did someone remember. On and on... "No, I don't know where he is. He lost everything. His money, his tenement house... He helped as long as he could. Later, everyone turned their backs on him. Please look in the streets and in the shelters." I went looking for him, but I couldn't find him anywhere. The next day, the same thing, with the same result.

I stood on Charles Bridge, leaning against the railing. I looked, searched, waited, getting very nervous and reproaching myself for my stupidity. Suddenly, a homeless man approached me. Unshaven, in rags, with a mug for alms in his hand. I politely said to him, "I don't have anything," but he continued to stand there, staring at me. Filled with anger, I turned and angrily said in Polish, "Don't bother me, old man. I'm looking for someone very important to me, and you're just bothering me... Get out..." He turned and walked away. I waited a moment until he disappeared and continued looking for my friend. Suddenly, something struck me. I stand frozen, barely able to stand. I'm shaking all over... Thoughts fly through my head at lightning speed – It's impossible, it couldn't have been him. And yet, that voice, those eyes, only that beard... No, it's not him... How many poor people in Prague understand Polish?! Why did he approach me and no one else? Why me... - I still don't remember anything. I think I fainted, I felt faint. A large crowd had gathered next to me. Someone was pressing a wet cloth to my forehead. And a million questions were swirling in my head... Where? What? How? Where is he? Why?... WHY ME?

I never saw him again, even though I looked into the eyes of everyone like him and talked. I searched for a long time. Several years. I didn't find him.

Today I'm sitting in his favorite café, "Fin de sciecle." Drinking coffee and mindlessly feeding pigeons... I have one sentence in my head: "First, be a human being!" And in the distance the sunset touched Prague Castle...