THE PUNISHMENT

This time though, the injury my unacceptable behaviour had inflicted on my father had gone deeper than any other. My exile would be much more distant and longer. My last evening at home, my mother tucked me in as usual with the melody of her voice and her stories told in Spanish.

"You're going to spend some time with my mum in Cuba. You'll see sweetheart, you'll love her. You both met when you were just a baby. You don't remember anymore, but she can't wait to see you again... You're going to take the plane!"

"Without saying goodbye to grandma?" I said gloomily. 

My mother didn't answer and just smiled at me sadly. My father had never punished my two sisters like that, not to my knowledge anyway. Maybe the wounds they inflicted on him didn't go as deep as mine or maybe he didn't want to break his two precious porcelain princesses. Me on the other hand, he wanted me to be unbreakable. The only raison d'être of my father consisted of making me a strong, tough man, able to survive in the worst conditions. Even if the little boy I was then didn't need to be tough or survive the worst conditions, according to my father, the best and the worst were always to come in the men's world. Maybe a women's world would be more compassionate, but the men's world certainly had to be ruthless.

"And when will I be able to come back?" My frail little voice asked my mother in Polish.

It was often like this in our family. We went from one side of the border to the other, from one language to another without having to ask permission. My mother spoke Polish very badly, but she understood it perfectly well after almost ten years in the country of her husband and children. As for me, I refused to speak Spanish as if to establish more firmly my belonging to the land where I was born.

"We'll see," she answered simply in Spanish. "It's your father who decides," she added, her throat tight, a thin smile on her lips while a small tear escaped from one eye.

This is how like my father had decided, the following day, my parents put me on the first plane to Havana in Cuba, a small plastic pocket hanging around my neck with my passport inside, my flight number and my name written on it: Borys Leszczyński.