I always loved my parents' closet. Probably because it was so spacious, held so many things, and, above all, because I could fit in it too, while still having plenty of room for things. There was a bed and countless toys and technical equipment (though I didn't discover my penchant for crafts until later in life). The closet also intrigued me immensely because it was the only one in our house. The remaining furniture consisted of various desks, shelves, tables, chests, and beds. There weren't any other closets, however.
However, I wasn't one of those poor children who sees nothing beyond their closet. No. I wasn't abnormal. I was a normal child who spent a lot of time with friends in the yard, but my parents' closet was always an oasis of peace and security for me.
I also remember very well that Mom would always hide me in the closet when Dad returned from a business trip. I must mention here that my esteemed Father (wherever he is) was a high-ranking activist and frequently had to participate in business trips. My mother would then insist that she needed to have a serious talk with my Father, and that an argument might even break out, so it was best I didn't see it. And she was right. Each time my Father returned, there would be a short conversation, then a scuffle, then I could hear my Mother repeating to my Father that she agreed to his terms. She would practically shout that one word, which made my Father stop: "yes, yes, yes..." "yeah!"
I was always very puzzled why my Mother gave in so easily, but I concluded that my Father must be using forms of physical violence against my Mother. One afternoon, during a quarrel between my parents, I pulled myself together and decided to help my mother defend her (I was about 13 years old at the time), but it turned out my parents had installed a lock on the closet door, so I couldn't get out on my own, only if someone lifted the heavy bolt that held it.
On that fateful day, however, things were different. My father returned from a business trip, as always, and found me hiding in the closet (which had become a habit of mine, regardless of who came home). This time, however, there was no outrageous argument between my parents. Something unexpected happened. They stood in front of the closet and called to me.
"Reksio! Come out of that closet! We need to talk!" Dad called in his bass voice.
"Reksio! Come over! We need to discuss certain things!" My mother was always eloquent.
Why did they call me Reksio? True. It's not a typical name for a boy, but it's not for me to judge. My parents named me Rekinuchodonozor, but at home they used the affectionate form Reksio to address me.
When I emerged from my place of happiness, my oasis of joy, my temple of beauty, my parents—or rather, my Dad, Mom, simply nodding her head—announced the shocking news.
"Son!" Dad's powerful voice boomed. "As you well know, our country is going through very difficult times. Huge fluctuations in supply and demand, excessive inflation, bureaucracy, democracy, illegal and legal emigration, as well as highly variable biometeorological factors, the ever-widening ozone hole, global warming, and, most importantly, the unabated population growth, have called for an extraordinary meeting of the Commission, of which I am the chairman." Dad paused briefly, wishing to add dignity and glory to his position and the speech he was delivering.
"Son!" he continued. "This meeting was intended to determine the future economic and social policy of our country." My fellow Commissioners and I, after hours of debate and argument, finally reached a consensus. I must add that my colleagues were very inspired by my ideas for solving economic and social problems. "Dad must have been very proud of his ideas.
" "Son!" he continued. "The Commission I chair has determined that the only good way to increase economic development is to reduce the rapid birth rate. Unfortunately, as you know, son, we can't do anything about pregnant women, who we still need for housework, so we decided..." There was another, slightly longer pause, this time to clearly emphasize the most important information. Dad knew how to talk to people!
"...so we decided we had to get rid of the children. We support this decision with arguments known only to us, which, unfortunately, we cannot reveal under threat of cultural, scientific, and, worse yet, economic sanctions.
" "But Dad!" I burst into tears.
"Don't cry, son. Tears won't help." Remember, we're fighting for the good of all of us here!!!
My mother couldn't stand the pressure either and burst into tears.
But our laments were in vain. By decree § 27856757/23/56789/12, all children living in our country over the age of five but not yet adulthood were forced to leave their homes. A small island in the South Seas was chosen as the destination.
My father, as a model citizen and a responsible state figure, decided that I should be transported first, as an example and so that I could choose the most pleasant place to put down roots. He also allowed me to take with me my treasured possession: my parents' wardrobe.
Less than a week later, I was the first citizen of the nameless island of outcasts. The wardrobe proved very useful, and in fact, it helped me maintain a bit of a homely atmosphere in the middle of the nameless, empty island.
After a while, it turned out that the Polish community decided that every child sent to a lifelong stay on the island should have a similar wardrobe. So more and more arrived. And in each wardrobe, a new child arrived.
I greeted each one individually, praised the beauty of the wardrobe, then wrote down the newcomer's name in a notebook and directed them to available spaces where they could find their "new home." Apparently, I had inherited my father's incredible penchant for social activism.
After a few months, it became clear that we needed to somehow organize groups of newcomers based on various criteria, establish norms of behavior, determine the level of fines and taxes, identify the island's authorities, the Sejm, the Senate, the National Council, the plenary committees, and, most importantly, come up with a name for our island.
The last task seemed the most difficult. Various suggestions were floated around, but none of them were apt. Finally, I came up with the idea of naming the island SZAFISKO. Everyone liked the name. Apparently, I inherited my father's talent for brilliant ideas.
As a reward for such apt naming for our island, I was chosen as the smartest boy on the island and shortly thereafter was proclaimed His Royal Majesty, King of Szafisko, Sharkhodon-Donoszor I.
I immediately got to work. I divided Szafisko into four districts: Szafisko Kamienna, Szafisko Białe Pod Laskiem, Szafisko Stołeczne, and Szafisko Nowe. I established tax rates appropriate for each district based on the wealth of its residents, and also decreed a day off for the King immediately afterward.
The next day, I eliminated the seedlings of trade unions and the opposition that had formed for the strange purpose of balancing the political and economic situation. I formed a citizen's militia to help control the happiness of my subjects. Thanks to successfully establishing trade contacts with Africa, I imported three new, hand-carved ebony cabinets.
And so the days, weeks, months, and years passed, issuing decrees and signing documents.
Today marks thirty-seven years since I was appointed His Royal Majesty, King Sharkhodonosor I of Szafisko
. Szafisko is developing steadily, both economically and socially. Any form of rebellion is quickly detected and suppressed by the militia. My decrees are met with the approval of my subjects. Every year, during the first days of the most beautiful month of the year, parades are organized in honor of the Reigning King.
My subjects have the same everything, are equal in every respect, and untainted harmony reigns.
Everyone is happy.
If only my dad could see me...
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