Bunny Tales (3 page)

Although the trips abroad were a blessing, they were often marred with some Soviet encounter. Waiting to pass through the Polish-Soviet border usually took hours. Once at the border they searched the car, intimidated everyone, and made sure it was as unbearable as it could be. Often the return trips were even worse because they questioned what you were bringing back, often subjecting people to body and cavity searches to make sure they weren’t bringing in gold. If they found gold on you, they would take apart your entire car, and I mean into pieces. Going through the Soviet border was like going through the gates of hell. I remember being terribly scared as a little child and just trying to sit as still as I could.

Martial law was imposed in Poland by the Communist government on December 13, 1981, to prevent democratic movements such as Solidarity from gaining popularity. Many democratic leaders were imprisoned. The borders were sealed, airports were closed, and access to major cities was restricted. Travel between cities required permission. Curfew was imposed between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. Telephone lines were disconnected. Mail was subject to censorship. All TV and radio transmissions were suspended (except one government TV channel and one government radio station). Classes in schools and at universities were suspended. Once, after we passed the Soviet border, we were stopped by the police, who berated my parents for going on a holiday; they screamed that my parents should get back to their jobs instead of going on a vacation. My parents were scared, and I just sat curled up in the backseat as quiet as I could, praying that these people would go away.

I suppose the idea of escaping Poland was born out of a desire to change the status quo. Although my parents had good jobs, they were pretty much at the top of where they could go in their careers without having to join the Communist Party. In reality, only the minority of Polish people were members of the Communist Party, though they held almost every important government post and enjoyed many privileges such as better housing and special access to western consumer goods. Most Polish people, however, had no choice but to conform to life under Communism. My mom had other ideas; she had dreams of a better, different life. I don’t think she knows just how much I admire and respect her for making that decision, for taking that risk. She was my first hero, and she is still my greatest hero.

Things got worse in the mid-1980s; people were scared that the Soviet Union would send its army to invade Poland and the country would become another Soviet satellite. Life was uncertain from day to day, and my parents were scared. Under the Communist system, the “collective interest” of the people, as determined by the Communist party, overcame any claims to individual rights. The government harshly suppressed freedom of speech, press, and assembly. The government licensed newspapers, other media, and even churches in order to control them. The practice of religion was discouraged. The courts vigorously prosecuted anyone dissenting against Communist-Party rule. At my father’s work, when anti-Communist messages were written on the walls, my father was pressured to find out and reveal the names of the perpetrators. My dad was threatened with losing his job and his freedom if he did not collaborate with the Communists. But my father was not only an honorable man, but he also could not betray anyone. He was also a member of the Solidarity movement.

Even though travel to western Europe was restricted, it was possible to get a visa if you knew someone with connections. Luckily, my mom was a resourceful person and had such connections. We were able to get permission to go on a bus trip to Greece. My parents planned that we would go to Greece, and when we got to Athens, we would stay behind and apply for a visa to immigrate to North America. We could tell no one except our closest family. We couldn’t sell any of our possessions before the trip because it would raise suspicion. Our extended family was present the day we left, and they were instructed to share the possessions we had to leave behind. Our car, our furniture, our souvenirs, and all our mementos were given away for free. We weren’t able to bring very much money with us because if had it been discovered by the border patrol, it would indicate our plan to leave the country.

I was eleven years old, and I do not remember the planning of the trip or packing for it, but I vividly remember leaving my apartment, and in particular, saying good-bye to my beloved dog Nuka. As we were stepping out of our home, she followed me, happily wagging her tail. I turned around and held her in my arms one last time. With tears pouring down my cheeks, I grabbed some of her fur in my hand in a desperate attempt to take a piece of her with me. She was the first dog I ever had. My father took me to a local farmer’s market one cold morning, and I spotted a small box with a few puppies in it. They were so little and cold that I needed to do something. I noticed a tiny black fur ball looking at me and trying to get out. I picked her up and never put her back in. I immediately put her inside my winter coat, and she made herself comfortable somewhere in my sleeve. My dad bought her for me and I named her Nuka, after a small black orphaned bear from a popular Japanese cartoon at the time. I waited anxiously all day until my mom came home from work to see if I could keep her. Once my mom saw her, she fell in love, and Nuka quickly became a loved member of our family.

I could not stop crying as we made our way to the bus. My mom told me I could not cry because my sorrowful behavior would imply something more than going on a holiday. But when I looked back at our house, I could see my family on the balcony and I could see my dog’s little head between the balcony railings; she was looking in my direction. It broke my heart, and I still cannot get through this memory without crying. She knew we were leaving her, and it killed me inside. My mom told me and I truly believed that we could come back soon and get the dog. The first time we returned to Poland was in 1990, and no one knew where the dog was. She was supposed to stay with my uncle, but he gave her to someone else because she chased his chickens. It was the first time in my life that I felt I failed someone. I could not find her, but I had to believe in my heart that wherever she was, she was loved and taken care of; who could deny such a beautiful, sweet, and loving dog? As for our belongings, they seemed to have disappeared. Some of the souvenirs had been scattered among family members, and I was able to retrieve a few mementos of my childhood. My vast collection of toys, which remained in a perfect state over all the years I had them, was gone without a trace. It does hurt me that my family never thought of putting aside and preserving a couple of dolls or teddy bears, or the countless handmade cards I had made for my parents over the years. It’s a very sad feeling to know that the first eleven years of your life did not leave a trace.

The year we spent living in Athens was both fantastic and difficult. The only money we were able to bring with us from Poland quickly ran out and my parents had to find jobs. After living in a hotel for about a month, we moved into a very shabby apartment with a few pieces of furniture. There were many times my father wanted to go back to Poland, because running out of money and working in positions well below his qualifications was very difficult for him. My mom believed it was worth the sacrifice. She was the rock that carried us through. I, on the other hand, was having a blast.

I attended school, where I learned Greek and a few words in English. I met new friends, both Greek and other immigrant children from all over the world. My parents worked, and I had to fend for myself. After school I explored the city with my friends. At eleven years old, I was taking the buses by myself, going to new neighborhoods, and often getting lost but always finding my way home. I would buy myself a souvlaki for lunch and go on adventures every day; Mount Likavitos, the zoo, and I never tired of watching the change of guard at the Parliament building. I learned Greek mythology and went to the Acropolis whenever I could. I was fluent in Greek in no time. I loved the spirit of Greece and really enjoyed living there. I appreciate the people and the culture and fondly remember that time.

I had a paradoxical childhood; I was a happy and loved child who lived in a country suffocated by Communism and longed for a different life. My mother showed me not to be afraid to take life into my own hands. Throughout the years, when I have found myself unsatisfied with the status quo, I have drawn on my childhood for strength to make changes. My mom also taught me about taking chances in life. My parents sacrificed everything; they gave up their careers, the support and love of their families, and left all of their material possessions. They did that so that I could have opportunities they did not have or those that I would not have had, had we remained in Poland.

I am sure the last thing my parents expected was for me to move into the Playboy Mansion; I did not expect that of myself. But that was what fate brought my way, and I responded to the invitation the same way I had to other new experiences—I was intrigued. I welcomed the experience. I always feel that if I am not receptive to life and all that it has to offer, I am not taking advantage of the gift of freedom my parents gave me.

2: Canada, Eh .

“I’m not a lumberjack, or a fur trader. I don’t live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled. And I don’t know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, although I’m certain they’re really, really nice.”

—Molson Canadian Campaign

A
fter about a year in Greece, our application to immigrate to Canada was approved. We were informed that they were sending us to British Columbia. If it seems surprising to you that we would move to a place someone else chose for us, it seems just as astounding to me as I write this. We didn’t have a choice as to where in Canada we were going; I think the Canadian government sends people to areas that need to be populated. My parents had heard that British Columbia was very beautiful, and so we were excited. After a flight that seemed to last for an eternity, we finally arrived in Prince George, in interior British Columbia. We were greeted by some Polish people who lived there, and then we were taken to a hotel. After a few days, they helped us find an apartment. Arriving in Prince George was a major culture shock for us. In Poland we lived in a beautiful historic city, then we lived in ancient Athens bustling with life, and now we had found ourselves in a small lumber town in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. Undeterred, my parents began taking English lessons, and I was sent to school. Mind you I only knew about ten words in English, such as “orange” and “pencil,” and I knew the days of the week, but I had learned to say them with a heavy British accent, so people in Prince George had no idea what I was saying. But again, I adapted. I made friends and learned English, my third language, quickly and even won the spelling bee in my school; I may not have know what those words meant, but I sure could spell them!

I enjoyed the novelty of living in a place where grizzly bears and moose frequented people’s backyards and where a person didn’t go buy a Christmas tree but went to chop it down himself, almost drowning in the snow on his quest for the perfect tree. But the one thing I was disappointed about was that I did not see American Indians with long hair riding horses everywhere. I had read novels about American Indians and fell in love with their culture and way of life. I had a romanticized notion that they still lived in tepees and wore traditional clothes and that I would fall in love with a chief ’s son—yes,
Dances with Wolves
is one of my favorite movies. My naiveté may seem silly to Americans, but I grew up in a country that was ninety-nine percent homogenous. Until we moved to Athens, I had seen only one African person. He was the only black man in our town, and when he walked by, I would stare at him in awe. He was married to a Polish woman, and they had the most gorgeous children. We called them mulatto, and for me, that word stood for beautiful skin and exotic features. I always wished I had their tan skin. I grew up without any concept or notion of racism. I had no idea that in other parts of the world, people judged each other based on the color of their skin. To me, anyone with a different color of skin was exotic and fascinating, and I longed to meet them and learn about their culture. I never knew what a tremendously different world awaited me.

Just when I was getting settled in my new life in Prince George, my parents announced that we were moving again. I was sad to leave my new friends and my beautiful, wild surroundings. But they saw no future for them in this charming, but sleepy, lumber town; there were few jobs and none of the opportunities they were looking for. They came to Canada to build a new life, to pursue a dream, and they could not stop until they had the opportunity. The plan was to move to Toronto in the province of Ontario, in eastern Canada, because it has a lot of industry, jobs, and growth. So with some money they saved from any odd jobs they could get, my parents bought a van. It was an old white van with only two seats, the driver and passenger. We packed the van with the few belongings we had acquired and embarked on a trip across Canada, the second largest country in the world. Through the natural beauty of British Columbia, the spectacular Rockies of Alberta, the never-ending prairies and plains of Saskatchewan and Manitoba, to the Great Lakes surrounding Ontario, it was an incredible trip—even though I had no seat and was squashed among the furniture in the back. We had never been to Toronto, nor did we have a place to stay there; we just went. This was the spirit that was passed on to me by my parents, this fearlessness, the ability to take a risk and pursue the unknown in hopes of bettering your life. That courageous spirit has been with me all of my life.

We eventually settled in Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario, about an hour southwest of Toronto. Kitchener is famous for having the largest Oktoberfest celebration outside of Germany. Each year tourists from all over Canada and the United States flock to the town to drink beer, eat sausages with sauerkraut, and sing. Another claim to fame for K—W, as we call it, was that former heavyweight champion Lennox Lewis grew up there (he was born in Jamaica and now lives in the United Kingdom) and attended a high school two minutes from my house. When I met him years later at the Playboy Mansion, the first thing I told him was that we had a Kitchener connection and he got a kick out of that. It was a wonderful place to spend my teenage years. A town made up of family-oriented suburbs and home to two good colleges, it was safe and friendly. My friends like to remind me that I was the new girl in school who showed up at Monsignor Haller Elementary School in the last grade, wearing a short jean skirt and a Garfield sweatshirt, and caught the attention of male classmates. All I remember was being conscious of the way I spoke English and wanting to make new friends—I didn’t care about the boys. I was also somewhat anxious about starting grade eight when I had never attended grade five, six or seven—the years I had missed when we were busy moving around the world. Luckily, the Communist-dictated school curriculum in Poland was so comprehensive and at such an advanced level that I was not behind at all despite the years I had missed. In addition, I had begun learning my fourth language, French. I hadn’t realized Canada had
two
official languages, but when you already speak three languages, what’s another one?