Aldek's Bestiary

Author’s Foreword

As a youth, I climbed steep, rocky mountains, participated in street demonstrations, and attempted to read Immanuel Kant. I boasted that thirty years of intensive life were preferable to a long life of tedium. I was vocal, but aimless. I was also quite unhappy.

Five decades have passed. My youth is gone. I no longer climb, hike, and ski to absorb an overabundance of youthful exuberance. Now I amble along the creek in a local state park. I chat with passersby and their dogs. They recognize me as the walking Pole with Nordic poles.

I care deeply about American political life, but… with moderation. Never could I burn the flag, throw stones, or destroy statues. No, those are passions of youth. My brain—no longer willing to follow Kant’s rambling, incoherent-to-me logic—rebels. No, philosophy should be a balm for the wounds of life, not cause anxiety. This morning I listened to a Roman sage during my walk. Destructive passion, he tells me, must be moderated with reason. Accept mortality; face death with equanimity. Be willing to practice poverty; use wealth properly, he says, and he speaks of the importance of friendship, the need to care for others, and the need to accept adversity without resentment.

Such thoughts are indeed balm for my soul. They harmonize with the breeze in majestic trees towering above the walkway and with the faint gurgle of the creek below. When I hear a bird’s song, I turn my iPhone off and listen to the bird. When a dog I am acquainted with approaches me to say hello, even a senator will have to wait his turn.

And no longer do I try to convince anybody of my truths and opinions. I doubt they ever had value. In fact, I no longer have strong opinions at all. No more arguing! I’d rather give people entertainment by telling a story—a story that brings a smile or a moment of reflection, or both.

That’s my role in life. Let me serve others by giving a brief respite from routine thoughts. I lack the material wealth to build a hospital or library, but if my animal stories make you relax and chuckle instead of worrying about problems, then I will have succeeded far beyond Jeff Bezos, for he has only his billions, but I have made a new friend.

Why do I write light, entertaining stories? I’m now a happy man.

How did this happen? Is my second motherland, the U.S.A., a better mother to me than my first motherland? Or maybe, with age, I now accept life as it is instead of trying to change things or make things better?

Whatever the reason, I understand now what I am and where I am: a small bubble of consciousness floating haphazardly around the material realm. What a relief! Instead of fighting to prove I am somebody, I enjoy every hour of who I truly am.

This work—in truth, ’twas but idle play—I dedicate to my wife, my children, and all the beasts in our hearts.

Editor’s Introduction

Aldek’s Bestiary is a collection of short fiction centered on human connections with animals. This is the first appearance of Romuald Roman’s fiction in English. Known to his friends as Aldek, this unique writer has published two novels and four collections of stories in Polish.¹

Troubadours once engaged listeners night after night with continual plot twists in long, passionate romances. We have centuries of fairy tales filled with vivid imagery, told to children for their moral education. Along these lines, Romuald Roman tells his classic stories. But these tales touch on deeper truths about our psyches and our species.

Barack Obama holds that literature and art are good at reminding us of our own folly… and shortsightedness. What books and art and stories can also do is remind you of the joys and hope and beauty that we share.² How did Barack Obama know exactly how to describe Aldek’s Bestiary?

Each of these twenty-one stories features an animal in a Polish family’s life. Six occur in Poland. To understand Polish life under Communist rule, the Solidarity movement, and post-Solidarity crackdown—in a most enjoyable manner—read the Poland Stories. Oskar Weasel and Bureck the Heartless Cat are both situated in the narrator’s childhood in Zakopane, a spa town at the foot of the Tatra Mountains. Chamois Leoś and Otto the Sparrow Hawk are also situated in Zakopane, headquarters of Tatra National Park.

Among the Roxy Stories, Such a Good Dog! stands out, with a broad sweep from 1940s Poland to present-day Philadelphia. Recent Polish history comes alive, as do complicated dynamics of a family spanning two cultures and three generations. It’s all delivered with humor and grace.

Marta of the Marta Stories is the wife, mother, and boss of the family, the narrator’s she who must be obeyed. Mikimoto oysters, frigatebirds, and an African gray parrot represent the animal kingdom here—all in humorous tales of marital relations.

The Philadelphia Stories relate a generational chasm between parents who emigrated from Poland in their mid thirties and children who’ve grown up American. Two cultures in one family make for a rich stew of conflict, misunderstanding, and affection.

People need simple stories that touch the heart. That’s what attracted me to these charming yet profound narratives. You can learn much about storytelling from Aldek’s Bestiary—how to lie, how to tell the truth, how to have a friendly conversation, how to weave the absurd into reality, and much more. However, the greatest reward of reading these compelling tales is to meet their humorous, perceptive, animal-loving, animal-hating narrator Aldek, one the most likable characters of modern fiction. In this book, you can get to know him, too. I think you will find he’s a great friend.

1 Novels: Ośrodek Zero: Tajemnica Doliny Syrokiej Wody (The Zero Resort: A Mystery of the Syroka Woda Valley, Warsaw, 2014) and Powrot (Return, Warsaw, 2019). Short stories: Przystanek Idaho (Idaho Station), Warsaw, 2000); Kierunek: Filadelfia! (Direction: Philadelphia! Warsaw, 2005); Zakopiański Dom Wariatów (Zakopane Madhouse, Warsaw, 2015); and Amerykański Dom Wariatów (American Madhouse, Warsaw, 2017).

2 Michiko Kakutani, NY Times Book Review, "Barack Obama Opens Up About Writing A Promised Land," 12/09/20.

Wise Thoughts on Beasts

What are human beings? Are we beasts? I won’t answer this question. You must decide for yourself. History’s great sages may help you form your opinion. You can peruse this sampling of thoughts on humans and beasts as a warm-up before you read on, or come back to these pages later for inspiration. May the stories that follow stir your emotions and awaken your imagination!

Humankind differs from the animals only by a little, and most people throw that away.

―Confucius

Man… is a tame or civilized animal;

with proper instruction and a fortunate nature,

then of all animals he becomes

the most divine and most civilized;

but if he be insufficiently or ill-educated

he is the most savage of earthly creatures.

―Plato

I fear animals regard man as a creature of their own kind which has in a highly dangerous fashion lost its healthy animal reason—as the mad animal, as the laughing animal, as the weeping animal, as the unhappy animal.

—Nietzsche

Wild animals run from the dangers they actually see, and once they have escaped them worry no more. We however are tormented alike by what is past and what is to come. A number of our blessings do us harm, for memory brings back the agony of fear while foresight brings it on prematurely. No one confines his unhappiness to the present.

—Seneca

Man is the only animal whose desires increase as they are fed; the only animal that is never satisfied.

—Laozi

How does man know, by the strength of his understanding, the secret and internal motions of animals? From what comparison betwixt them and us does he conclude the stupidity he attributes to them? When I play with my cat, who knows whether I do not make her more sport than she makes me?

—Montaigne

Man is by nature a social animal.

—Aristotle

When a man has pity on all living creatures, then only is he noble.

—Buddha

Poland Stories

Paw, a Zakopane Dog

I saw, deep in the eyes of the animals,

the human soul look out upon me.

—Thoreau

August of 1984 was a warm month in Zakopane. In its second half, there was no inkling that summer was ending. The sky was an intense blue. Thin mountain air cleansed the lungs of city dust and dirt, filling the heart with the will to live.

Among the yellowing ash trees planted by Tomek’s father along Tetmajera Street, above the tops of the firs in Scherer’s Woods, where eight-year-old Tomek had shot at crows long ago with his slingshot before Mrs. Sokołowska caught him at it, you could see the bluish wavy line of Giewont and Czerwony Wierch peaks. The afternoon mountains lost their morning intensity of color and sharpness. Warm summer air blurred the edges of gullies. The Church of Mother of God looked like a watercolor painting.

Mother did not sense the August heat. She stood at the gate in a brown woolen dress and a homemade sweater, wrapped in an old black shawl. She had to continually brush back her wind-swept hair. She had cried all night, and her face seemed older and more tired.

She looked at her grown son, her grandchild, and her daughter-in-law for the last time, as they were about to leave Poland, and she was staying. She knew that any conversation now, any word, would cause a new stream of tears. She was silent.

Next to Mother sat the five-year-old dog, Paw. She was small, black and white, quivering with excitement at the sight of people getting ready to depart. Her doggie instinct told Paw that this time she would not be going along. She wagged her tail every so often, watching every move made by Tomek and Marta, wrestling their baggage into a Fiat 600.

They tried to make fast work of it to shorten the interval for good-byes. The car, which normally could barely fit two adults and a child, now had to take a whole family and bits from an accumulation of 30 years of living: four pictures of Mother, nineteen books, fifteen records, clothing for every season, documents, family mementos. And provisions for the journey.

On this day, grown-up Tomek did not cry. He felt the sight of his Mother and the empty house being etched into his memory, to last for the rest of his life: not a photograph that, over time, would lose its sharpness and color, but an image carved, as by chisel on granite, into every brain cell, making permanent every sharpened contour. Mother’s face as she stood by the fence, his daughter Kasia swallowing tears, his wife Marta’s trance-like movements. Pack, stuff, don’t cry ...… pack, stuff, don’t cry, he kept thinking. Nothing this sad will ever happen to me again. Let’s get it over with.

Farewell, then, Mother. A last kiss, the slam of a car door, and… on the way. Behind us, Mother and the dog stay at the gate. Thirty-five years of life left behind with them.

Farewell, my Zakopane. Farewell, Poland. You were a cruel stepmother to me.

It took me fifteen years to write these words about leaving my mother. Because it was supposed to be fiction, I changed my name from Aldek to Tomek. Now another fifteen years have passed. For a long time it was too painful to return to that time—a mother, a home, a dog. Within a few years, nothing remained. Before looking back, I had to wait until memories of faces, voices, and smells became foggy and unreal. Time—the great doctor. Time, the healer of nostalgia and bitterness.

Finally, I can now recall those pieces of my life without pain. Even more, I smile at those memories as if they were from somebody else’s life, or on TV.

I sort through random memories as if they were a cache of old photos never sorted into an album, photos neglected in a shoebox. For decades, silent and still, such a shoebox might wait until an unknown somebody tosses all it contains into the trash.

But I still exist, and each salvaged photo moves my thoughts to times when blood was vigorous in my veins, when my brain was sharp and my heart inspired. Difficult times, but times when I had energy, hope, and young dreams.

Now, when I reread those words I wrote about one of the saddest moments of my life, I remember my mother’s tears. I see this trembling dog Paw sitting at her feet.

My mind moves to a different memory, a story about a different Paw. Not Paw the sad dog abandoned by family leaving home without her, but a young and vigorous Paw—the smartest thief on Tetmajera Street. Paw, who loved her mistress so much that she tried to feed her. Who somehow knew her human family did not have enough food on the table.

What year was it? 1984.

In 1984 the local Communist authorities in Zakopane, Poland, concluded the easiest way to get rid of my family (You ask why they wanted to get rid of us? Because we owned a big house they coveted.) would be to modernize our house into a high-quality hotel, and give us a choice of staying during the seven years of construction without electricity, water, and heat, or… go away.

The invitation to go away included the issuance of passports for the entire family, which would allow us to emigrate to the West. They thought we would leave Poland and leave our home for them. Nobody expected that we would attempt to survive in this place, suffering severe mountain winters in a shell of a building. It would be almost suicidal for my sick mother, and unthinkable for my pregnant wife. But my mom, in her late sixties, refused to go away.

I would rather die in my own house than in some shelter for refugees abroad, she declared. The government had announced martial law. Martial law allows Communist officials to create order quickly without following the law. Instead, they created new laws. General Jaruzelski, the Communist dictator, decided all the laws and rules of everyday life.

So what? my mother thought. She was from that generation of Poles who survived five years of Nazi occupation. She’d seen soldiers, even a tank, in front of our house and had not fled. What threat were these Polish Communists compared to a Nazi tank? It only refreshed her memories of times when she was young and brave. Why not be brave again now, when she has nothing to lose? Nothing but to die of cold.

I, on the other hand, reluctantly agreed with my wife that we must abandon our homeland—abandon the beautiful Tatra Mountains, our friends, our jobs—and start a new life, in a new country. Where? Maybe Austria? Or Australia? Canada? The U.S.? Somewhere that lies and injustice are not concealed by governmental slogans.

I was young, Marta even younger. We could emigrate and move from country to country, seeking an opportunity to settle down. But my mother was too old and too fragile. I hadn’t even tried to convince her to go with us. It was her decision; she was left alone with Paw.

A few days before we left, I noticed that the dog took responsibility to care for my mother. Paw must have sensed we were leaving, catching the sadness in our voices and seeing all the packing and preparation.

A few days before our departure, when Marta and I were sitting in Mother’s room talking about our unknown future, Paw entered from the veranda door. She used to come and go, walk on the street, visit dogs and people whenever she wanted. Always silent, shy and polite, never barking or showing aggression, like a friendly shadow. Good dog.

At this particular moment, however, Paw was walking with difficulty. She was carrying in her mouth a one-pound piece of fresh steak. For a small dog, it was a heavy load, and Paw walked in a strange way, holding her head upright to keep balance. Once inside the room, Paw left the steak on the floor in front of my mother, proudly wagging her tail in expectation of thanks from her mistress. Mother was so surprised and, for a while, had no idea what to do.

Oh, Paw! Paw! You have stolen something again! From whom? And what I am going to do with it?

Paw moved her tail faster and mischievously smiled at Mother.

Yes, dogs smile. Not all dogs. For some—golden retrievers, for example—it is natural. For others, especially mistreated dogs, it is almost impossible. But people who love dogs immediately notice a dog’s smile. And our Paw definitely could smile.

Looking at her mischievous smile, I had an idea of what to do with this beautiful steak.

I looked at Mother. Likely she had the same idea I had.

Then I looked at Marta. She wasn’t smiling. Her face was frozen—in fear? in anger?—staring at the dog, our dog, who stole somebody’s steak and brought it home. In broad daylight. Probably all the neighbors were witnesses to the crime. Now, these neighbors would think we trained Paw to be a thief, to steal steaks from poor, hungry people. They would get sick and die. It would be our responsibility.

Marta’s mind wandered this long tunnel of gloomy thoughts, but I never entered it. I saw a light at the tunnel’s end but not the tunnel itself, and I am sure my mother thought the same. I salivated, imagining how we’d prepare the meat. Chop it into small pieces to sear in butter; coarsely dice a yellow onion and two potatoes; throw it all into a pot with a cup of heavy cream, add more butter for flavor and add flour to thicken. Pop the pot into the oven for three or four hours. Tonight, we would feast!

Marta knew me well. She reacted immediately.

You do not dare to think… she whispered to me in a firm tone that made me ashamed of my intentions.

Of course not. How could you suspect me to… .But now that you mention it…

Seeing her glare, I changed course. No, no, of course not. I do not think. I am looking at this steak, I am only looking at this steak, but I do not think at all.

He doesn’t think. Nobody’s thinking. My mother came to my defense.

Marta picked the steak up from the floor and plonked it onto the kitchen table. With gusto, she cut it into small pieces. Then she gave this huge pile of red meat to the dog.

Surprised, Paw politely looked at Mama.

And nothing for you, my beloved mistress? asked the dog’s eyes.

Eat, Paw, eat. It’s all for you, responded my mother, as if she never had other ideas about dispatching the steak.

We watched our obedient dog eat, and eat, then take a break, exhausted by eating, then eat again, then take a longer break, and continue. Paw was like a python, methodically swallowing a horse.

You could see her belly stretch and grow round, but Paw could not stop eating, because never in her dog’s life had she had such a wonderful meal. And she ate it all. When it was over, exhausted Paw could not move. She rested next to the empty bowl. She was too heavy to walk.

And all evidence of the crime had vanished.

This will be a great lesson for her, said Marta. We did not scold her for stealing, but she will suffer terrible stomach pains, and she will remember never to steal again.

Maybe, I said, doubting the efficacy of this method to train dogs, envious that my dog had a steak for lunch, and I am going to have Oscypek cheese sandwiches and tea. The thought of the smoky tang of the sheep’s milk cheese against my palate helped me forget how the steak might have tasted.

I would like to know who she stole the steak from, I whispered, more to myself than to Mother and Marta. But I was overheard.

Don’t tell me that you want her to steal another steak from the same place! Marta exclaimed.

Of course not! How dare you think this terrible thing!

I know you. I know what to expect, she whispered as if to herself. She knew me very well.

This friendly exchange of opinion about my character was interrupted by a knock on the door. Our neighbor, doctor Ala Tatar, appeared. Ala was a young cardiologist, living nearby in a nice villa, where she owned a small apartment on the first floor. We’d known each other since we were children. Ala treated my mother like her second mother and visited often. Whenever something bad happened to her, she shared the sorrows of her busy, lonely life with my mother.

This was such a day. Ala was in tears.

I sacrifice my entire life for other people. I work double shifts, I stay at the hospital at night when patients need me, and after several exhausting days, finally, I had a weekend I dreamed about, and… —tears stopped her speech for a moment—and I planned that, instead of those terrible hospital sandwiches I would make for myself a tasty steak, and—more tears—when I was just about to start grilling it in the garden, somebody—during those few seconds I needed to get the salt and pepper from the kitchen—stole my steak! People are terrible! Oh, how terrible they are!

With complete conviction, Mother reaffirmed this dim view of mankind. "Yes, Ala. People are