HALINA ROBINSON, our guest blogger, became a writer at the tender young age of 80. Three books later, it has been a remarkable journey.
I never had any ambition to write a book. I learned to read before going
to school from the subtitles of the films I attended. They were mostly
American, but sometimes French. No one in those pre-World War II years was
making films for children in my native tongue, Polish.
Once I was able to read, I did so voraciously. When I was in the first
grades of primary school my doctor father used to lock my books up during the
week. I could read for pleasure only during weekends, he told me. On other days
I should concentrate on homework and reading that was part of the school
curriculum.
I turned to the books Dad had stacked on his bedside table. The most
popular books for adults of this era were so-called ‘novel rivers’ totally
unsuitable for someone my age. Some sophisticated expressions borrowed from
these must have crept into my school compositions, but since they were spelled
correctly no teacher ever commented.
Other than school assignments I was made to write monthly letters to my
grandmother who lived a long way from our home. If initially I rebelled against
yet another writing chore, I gradually came to enjoy reporting on my everyday
life to this lady, the person I loved best in the world. I often added fancy
phrases so that she would find my letters more interesting to read.
The outbreak of War turned my peaceful comfortable life upside down. I
was swept from place to place like a cork on turbulent waters. I didn’t know
what would happen to me from day to day, let alone in the future. I write about
these years in my first book,
A Cork on
the Waves. When the War ended, I was alone, the sole survivor in Europe of
the Holocaust of my large multi-generational family. All my school friends and
my teachers had also vanished. Everything that had been familiar to me, a whole
world with its structures, customs and institutions had gone as if it had never
existed. There was not a trace of the community into which I had been born and
where I lived for my first 14 years, nothing for me to cling to for support.
My survival was due to many interconnected miracles. I was lucky that I
didn’t actually have to witness the cruel deaths of any of my loved ones.
I had to rebuild my life on my own. No one could do it for me. There was
no point trying to search for another survivor who might recognise my pre-War
self. During the War I had been given a false name to disguise who I really
was. I had to become this make-believe person and believe that it was the real
me. A few months after it ended, I was asked to become the governess to three
daughters of a doctor in a small town not far from our destroyed capital,
Warsaw. I had to make sure the girls used French at meal-times and that each of
them practised the piano every day. In this happy home it was fairly easy for
me to block out my painful Wartime experiences.
Within months I became a member of the family. ‘Daddy Doctor’ would
introduce me to strangers as the orphaned daughter of a colleague, a surgeon
like my real father killed during the War. ‘Mama Anna’ taught me to cook dinner
and help her in the running of the household. We moved to Wroclaw, a big town
in the ‘recovered territories’. ‘Daddy Doctor’ became a professor at the
medical school and I enrolled as a student. These happy days were cut short by
the sudden death of ‘Daddy Doctor’ and my own illness which made it impossible
to finish my studies.
During the following 10 years I was washed from place to place, working,
taking courses, and meeting my husband, Edek. We had two children together. The
Communist rulers of Poland, initially announcing themselves as liberators
bringing peace and normality, gradually became more and more oppressive. My
husband found himself in serious trouble due to rumours about his sister who
was allegedly living in Australia. During the War he had been involved with the
leftist resistance movement and hence he was now approached to join the
oppressors. To resolve a difficult situation we made the decision to leave the
country. The new state of Israel was thriving, and I remembered attending
Jewish school as a child and dreaming of going to Palestine to help build a
Jewish state.
In 1957, my favourite cousin, Janek, one of two overseas survivors of
our family, was living in Israel. We went to join him. But migration is never
easy. We arrived unprepared for conditions very different from those imagined
by the schoolgirl, daughter of a committed Zionist who was no longer by my side
to guide me. Our years in Israel, which I write about in Treading Water in the Promised Land, were difficult, but with
hindsight I consider we were lucky to have had this experience.
We moved on to Australia which, in 1961, was a very different country
from the one we know today. Our first days here, described in my book Upstream, were not easy. It was,
however, our family’s second migration and even when we felt like packing up
and going ‘home’, we knew that this was now our home, and that there was no
other to which we could return.
Even with my qualifications and experience in different jobs in two
countries, knowing only a couple of words of English meant that my Australian
employment prospects were not very bright. I started out as a nursing aide.
After many challenges I made a real effort to prepare for the tests gaining me
initial library qualifications. Later my children went on to tertiary
education. We have now fully integrated into the life of this strange but
wonderful country. Along the way, Australians often offered a helping hand
without being asked. The Polish community here also provided social contacts.
Acquaintances in Israel suggested we look up their friends, but I was cautious.
Australian Jews might have felt that we had ‘deserted the cause’ by leaving
Israel after such a short time.
In 1976 my beloved husband Edek died of cancer. I was devastated. I
didn’t want to continue living without him, my strength and support. My
children’s love and their insistence that I continue to live a full life, saved
me. I could now do things I hadn’t been courageous enough to try during my
first 15 years in Australia. I left my safe job in TAFE library services and
embarked on a Masters degree in Library Science. This opened up new worlds for
me. I could attend professional conferences and do research. I also became
involved in one of the most exciting developments in my new country:
multiculturalism.
My son Vitek and daughter Joanna both married and provided me with much-loved
grandchildren. I began to look for an Anglo-Australian soulmate for a grandpa.
When I found Leslie Robinson, he helped me truly understand how to be
Australian. I belonged at last.
In 2003 he died and I became a widow for the second time. But this time
I knew I had to do something completely different if I wanted to keep myself on
an even keel. Four days after Leslie passed away I started to write my first
autobiographical book. It was splendid therapy. I was writing about times,
people and places that Leslie never knew. Since he couldn’t have been there,
his absence wasn’t so painful. At last I was telling anyone who was interested
about the heroism of those who risked their lives and the safety of their own
families during the War by saving a complete stranger: me.
A Cork on the Waves
was
received with an enthusiasm I could never have imagined. It was published by
the Sydney Jewish Museum in their excellent Community Stories series, nearly 50
survivors’ stories. It has been called ‘an invaluable archive of the social
history of the community for future generations’ by author Diane Armstrong. Then
my book was taken up by a commercial publisher. Copies were taken to a book
fair in Taiwan; seminars and talks were held about it; and it was presented at
a function organised by the Polish and
Israeli embassies in Canberra, their first joint event.
Readers asked me what had happened in later years to many of Cork’s characters, including me and my
family. I began writing Treading Water in
the Promised Land. It was followed by Upstream:
belonging at last. This is how in my 80th year I became a
writer.
