The Begining

Klodzko is forever etched in my memory as a delightful, pristine small town with a history that weaved through centuries. 

Post-war upheavals brought a significant change as the Klodzko Basin, a historical part of the Czech Republic, became a part of Poland. 

It was in 1946, by sheer chance, that my family—parents, and relatives—found themselves settling in this town, still adorned with remnants of its Sudetenland infrastructure.

Wanda 5, our street, was not just an address; it was a portal to several enchanting neighborhoods. A stone's throw away lay a splendid sports field where my father engaged in spirited soccer matches. 

Walking in the opposite direction led to Kosciuszko Street, the main artery that seamlessly guided to the park. The park, with its timeless beauty and elegance, became a haven for childhood adventures—strolls with cousins, bike rides, and laughter-filled games with friends.

Born on June 19, 1951, I spent my earliest years in Klodzko, surrounded by the architectural whispers of a Czech and German past. 

The town had seamlessly embraced its Polish identity, yet echoes of its heritage lingered in the facades and inscriptions. Life unfolded against the backdrop of a soccer stadium and the meandering Nysa Klodzka River, both sparking a child's vivid imagination.

A modest hill nearby, though small, offered the thrill of sledding and skiing, providing a substitute for the snowy pleasures. The river, reachable via this hill, became a playground of its own. 

However, a daring trip awaited those who wished to cross it, as the suspension bridge, now a skeleton of metal tracks, hung perilously. 

My mother and aunt, filled with fear, warned against playing on this dangerous bridge, but for us children, it became an irresistible attraction—a walk on the edge, sliding on rails that threatened a fall into the Nysa Klodzko's flowing waters.

In 1959, at the age of eight, my family relocated to Wroclaw, but Klodzko remained an indelible part of my heart. 

Despite the dramatic events that unfolded in the final year of my stay, the town continued to be a cherished memory. The soccer stadium, the river, the hill, and the perilous bridge—all woven into a tapestry of nostalgia that I often revisit, reflecting on the enchanting, formative years spent in Klodzko.

Our house in Klodzko had more than just walls; it held stories of ambition and sporting dreams.

Right next door stood a sports hall, a canvas that my dad, with his vision, transformed over time. Equipped with top-notch gear and guided by professional coaches, it became a hub for aspiring athletes. 

The echoes of their efforts lingered in the air, and some, like Tadeusz Walasek, carved their names into the town's sporting history, starting their journey in the boxing section of Nysa Klodzko in 1949.

Klodzko, to me, was a haven of childhood joy.

Beyond the soccer field that echoed with the cheers of games, there was a square that transformed into an enchanting ice rink when winter draped the town in frost. 

Whether it was simply flooded or nature had crafted a shallow lake that froze over, I'm not entirely sure. What I do know is that we laced up our skates and glided across that frozen wonderland countless times.

Childhood companions added color to those years. My cousins, especially Michael (affectionately known as Milk) Gilzenrat, and occasionally his brother Gustav (Gus), were constant playmates. 

Our adventures were fueled by youthful exuberance and the shared spaces we inhabited. 

In those early years, my uncle Michal (Misha) Szlam and his wife Sabina lived in the same building, on the same floor as us. 

Their son, Alexander (fondly called Alek the big one), was born in Klodzko, while Roman came into the world in Wroclaw. Despite having separate apartments, our lives were intertwined by a common hallway. 

Our apartment, on the right side, mirrored theirs on the left—comfortable and snug with a bathroom, kitchen, and two rooms each. 

The only quirk was the shared challenge of a toilet located outside, on the mezzanine floor, a quirky detail we navigated with humor and camaraderie.

Klodzko, the stage for my early years, was a canvas painted with family ties and the pulse of a tumultuous history. 

My mother Sala's sister, Donia, lived just around the corner on Szkolna Street. Their abode, a bustling hub with Grandma Berta at the helm, was a larger apartment where family dynamics danced to their unique rhythm. 

Unlike my grandmother, who seldom slept under our roof, Grandma Berta often orchestrated the Gilzenrat family affairs, making their home a frequent destination for us.

The Gilzenrats, in turn, made their presence felt in our lives on various occasions. 

One visit stands out vividly in my memory, not for joyous reasons, but for a dramatic and tragic event that unfolded, leaving an indelible mark on my heart. It was an ordeal that we somehow survived, yet it cast a heavy shadow, fostering a lingering dream to one day escape the injustice and anti-Semitism that tainted Poland.

My educational journey found its roots in Klodzko, where I embarked on the first grade of elementary school. 

Those early days remain etched in fond recollections, blessed with good classmates and a teacher whose friendly demeanor charmed me. 

Though the chapter was short-lived, the echoes of that teacher's influence linger in my memory.

The school itself was situated along the road to Kudowa and Polanica Zdrój, nestled in a historically rich locale. 

Nearby loomed the fortress, a mystical treasure trove that symbolized and breathed life into the city. Conversations buzzed about its labyrinthine depths, sheltering Germans during the war and becoming a hub for intriguing experiments. 

As a curious toddler, I overheard tales of hidden gold and valuable artifacts within its walls. Fueled by this lore, armed with a flashlight, I ventured into the fortress to explore its less-traveled corridors. 

To my amazement, I stumbled upon ancient coins whose origin eluded my young understanding. Taking my find to a jeweler in Klodzko, I exchanged a handful for what, to me, felt like a princely sum. 

Those coins, with their unknown past, carried a value far beyond their currency—they became tokens of adventure and an unexpected brush with history in the heart of Klodzko.

The memories of my early education in Klodzko are a patchwork of farewells and budding interests. 

I can't distinctly recall whether I started second grade there, for after the initial year, our family journeyed to Wroclaw. 

I was eight at the time, the age when Polish children embarked on their educational voyage. Yet, what stays crystal clear is bidding adieu to my cherished first-grade teacher. 

She gifted me a booklet adorned with a heartfelt dedication and shared her home address: 1 Kwiatowa St. 

She even extended an invitation to visit, an offer tempered by the geographical distance between her abode and both the school and our dwelling. In those times, cars were a luxury, and commuting was a testament to resourcefulness.

Klodzko was the crucible where my love for music found its roots. The seed was sown at home, nurtured by a mother whose passion for music knew no bounds. She wielded the guitar and piano with finesse, her melodic voice echoing in multiple languages—an impressive feat that left an indelible mark on us. 

A piano graced our living room, the heart of our modest two-room abode where my sister Melita and I shared a sleeping space. 

From the tender age of five or six, I would clamber onto a stool, fingers exploring the piano keys, attempting to coax out a melody.

It's a peculiar affliction, but I've always heard music in my head—an internal symphony that occasionally makes concentration a daunting task in conversations, discussions, and reading. 

Yet, this internal melody spurred me to experiment and create, although my attempts never quite met my satisfaction. 

While music coursed through my veins, my formal musical education remained confined to a year and a half of private piano lessons, a tale waiting to unfold in subsequent chapters.

June 19, 1959, marked a poignant juncture in our Klodzko narrative—a day eternally etched in memory. 

It coincided with the celebration of my and my sister Melita's birthdays (mine on June 19, hers on June 20). 

The house pulsated with familial warmth as we gathered to mark the occasion, a moment when Milek, Gusiek, their mother, and our beloved grandmother, Baba Berta, graced our home. 

Little did we know that this gathering, steeped in celebration, would cast its shadow over the culmination of our Klodzko chapter.

The fabric of my understanding of humanity was woven with threads of kindness, empathy, and mutual support. 

I've always struggled to comprehend those who choose a path of cruelty, heartlessness, and above all, selfishness. 

Such qualities have always seemed foreign and unsettling to me.

One incident, etched in my memory, encapsulates the darker side of human nature. 

I was about five years old at the time, a period preceding the arrest of my father. A friend lived a floor below, and we shared countless moments of childhood play—outdoors when the weather was fair, and indoors during rainy days. 

On this particular occasion, he invited me into his home, and we settled down to play on the floor. 

His mother, occupied with cooking and frying something in the pan, glanced at me and uttered words that have lingered in my mind like an unwelcome echo: 

"Alek, you, as a Jew, remember well that your heart will one day fry in hell, just like that meat in the frying pan."

At five, the weight of those words was too much for me to bear. 

I didn't comprehend why such a fate was predicted for me or what I had done to deserve it. 

My mother, in her attempt to explain and comfort me, faced a monumental task with a young child who had just encountered his first profound shock. 

The imagery of a person burning in a fire, let alone having their heart fried, was beyond my grasp. 

Yet, the realization dawned that whatever it was, it must be something unimaginably terrible.

Until that moment, at five years old, I had traversed the world without a hint of anti-Semitism directed my way. 

I played among different groups of children, attended school, and rode my bicycle with a carefree spirit. 

Across Wanda Street, there stood a modest one-story house—a humble abode occupied by a Russian family with two or three daughters. One of them, Ala, became a frequent playmate. 

Until that unfortunate encounter with the neighbor and her hurtful words, the concept of anti-Semitism had been alien to me.

It's worth noting that in our home, we often extended our hospitality to a diverse array of people. 

My mother, driven by an innate sense of compassion, was always ready to assist anyone in need. 

That incident with the neighbor, marked by prejudice and ignorance, served as a poignant awakening to a reality I had been shielded from until then.

Ah, the tapestry of our lives in Klodzko unfolded with frequent connections to a myriad of people. 

There was this vibrant spot, the TSKZ at 5/6 Jagiello Square, etched in my memories like a cherished melody. 

Initially, our parents guided us to the various events organized for children, and after our father went missing, our uncle stepped in. 

A mere 10–15 minute stroll from our house, it was a haven where something fascinating always seemed to be afoot, especially for kids like us.

In that welcoming space, ping pong battles unfolded, and a large room witnessed parties, meetings, and shared games like checkers and chess. 

Movie screenings added an extra layer of excitement. Our hearts found solace in the Klodzko Jewish community, drawn not just for religious reasons but for the rich cultural tapestry it offered. Even amidst the trials and tribulations that unfolded later, we never felt isolated.

The break with the Klodzko community unfolded in the shadow of dramatic circumstances, as I've recounted before. 

Whether my father returned to Klodzko from prison or directly to Wroclaw is a hazy memory. 

The Wroclaw chapter of our lives becomes clearer in my mind's eye. Łukasińskiego Street 10, an apartment that made a lasting impression, stands vividly in my memory. 

I suspect Uncle Misha, ever the supportive figure, arranged that living space for us.

Post our move to Wroclaw, my cousins and I found ourselves in the same school, the Electro-Mechanical Technical School. 

We often hopped onto the same streetcar, weaving our way through the city's streets. Amidst the hum of technical education, music emerged as our chief passion. 

The "Lotuses," a band we formed at the technical school, became the heartbeat of our shared experiences. In cousin Gilzenrats’ apartment, where rehearsals echoed through the walls, we fine-tuned our music. 

The apartment served as our creative haven for both school and extracurricular performances. Music became not just a pastime but the primary thread of our meetings and conversations. 

In those days, the air was thick with the melodies of popular singers, musicians, and youth bands, both in Poland and beyond. Those were the days when music, like a universal language, spoke to the rhythm of our lives.

Embarking on a journey with music was never a calculated choice for my future. I never envisioned myself as a virtuoso, acutely aware of my limitations as a musician. 

Despite this, a fervent love for composing, crafting music and lyrics from the heart, and the joy of singing and playing enveloped me. 

Healthy competition held a magnetic allure, and the thrill of performing on stage became the beating heart of my passion. Initially known as "Lotos," in our final year of activity in Poland, we rebranded ourselves as "Efekt."

In the years 1968-1969, we inked a contract with the Inter-company Poligraf Club in Wroclaw, committing to entertain audiences every weekend. It was an unexpected phenomenon; we were young, yet adults frequented our shows, immersing themselves in our songs, dancing, and reveling in the atmosphere. 

Some would even request specific tunes. 

Our journey reached a crescendo in 1968 when we participated in a youth band competition in Wroclaw. After navigating several elimination rounds, we clinched third place as a band, and I was honored with first place for composition and vocals.

An unforgettable chapter unfolded when we were invited to Bulgaria, where we performed for a massive audience in a grand theater hall adorned with four balconies. 

The resonance of applause, screams, and even tears from the young spectators echoed in the air. Music was my passion, a flame that burned brightly until it encountered a dissonant note.

The dissonance came in the form of my piano teacher in Wroclaw, whose influence turned out to be profoundly detrimental. 

She stifled my creative impulses, insisting on playing only from sheet music and disapproving of my musical explorations. 

She believed these endeavors distracted me from proper piano technique, relentlessly pushing me to focus on endless practice. 

Worse still, she resorted to physically striking my hands. 

This oppressive environment severed my connection to music as a serious, professional pursuit. 

Although I possess an innate ability to play by ear, my proficiency in reading notes dwindled, almost to the point of oblivion. If not for the influence of that teacher, one can only speculate on the course my life and music would have taken.

Beyond the realm of youth music, I found myself captivated by classical compositions, with Chopin standing out as a particular fascination. 

Classical melodies, often heard on the radio, especially operatic arias, held a mysterious allure for me. Caruso and Maria Callas, among others, became enchanting figures whose songs my parents often hummed, leaving an indelible imprint on my musical sensibilities. 

The dichotomy between the youthful exuberance of our band performances and the timeless elegance of classical compositions painted the symphony of my musical journey.

While navigating the corridors of technical school, an incident unfolded in a statistics lesson, etching another chapter of my school years. 

This institution, distinguished for its teachings in calculation techniques, technical drawing, and the unraveling of various technical quandaries, was my academic haven. 

On this particular day, as we awaited our mathematician instructor in class, a storm brewed—words of derision hurled in my direction for reasons that eluded understanding. I became the target of slurs—scabby, dirty Jew—unleashed by a fellow student.

Attempting to deter the verbal onslaught, I sternly requested him to cease and desist. 

However, my plea fell on deaf ears, and as frustration turned into determination, I found myself gripping a formidable ally—a large metal bench, a two-person table unique to our classroom. Intent on using it as a shield, my classmates rallied to my side, their combined efforts barely able to hoist its weight. 

In that moment, under the influence of an unwavering resolve, I became capable of feats beyond the ordinary. The potential consequences of my actions loomed large, but fate intervened, averting a more perilous outcome.

Amidst these challenges, a growing sense of alienation brewed within me. 

A tutor, tasked with shepherding us through the rigors of academia, took particular interest in steering me towards a more serious pursuit of science. Initially, 

I misconstrued his intentions as a form of anti-Semitism, an interpretation that time has softened. He persistently badgered me about academic responsibilities, cutting against the grain of my adolescent rebellion. 

The Beatles' hairstyle craze found me at odds with him; a clash that resulted in a haircut intervention. He was attempting to guide me toward a more diligent academic path, despite my resistance.

In retrospect, I recognize his genuine concern for my academic progress. My escapades with the band often led to missed lessons, and it was his way of ensuring I didn't veer too far off the educational track. 

Janusz Dygutowicz, my closest classmate, emerged as a lifeline during those tumultuous times. He became the architect of my academic survival, delivering homework assignments, rewriting lessons in my notebooks, and providing unwavering support. 

Our friendship was a rock-solid foundation, and Janusz was not just a comrade; he was the ally who stood by me through thick and thin.

The bond expanded to include Janusz Gatnicki, a patient listener to my grievances, and a companion in post-school visits to my dad's tailor shop. 

In the crucible of academic challenges and personal trials, these friendships—forged in the fires of shared struggles and mutual support—remain etched in my heart. 

I am forever grateful to Janusz Dygutowicz and Janusz Gatnicki for their unwavering camaraderie and the positive influence they wielded during those formative years.

Amid the technical intricacies of school life, a teacher emerged as our band's maestro, orchestrating performances, imparting musical wisdom, and weaving a harmonious tapestry of songs.

Under his guidance, two vocal sirens joined our ensemble, and the addition of Henry, a skilled organ player, enriched our musical symphony. 

The school's investment bore fruit as we graced numerous occasions, from sunlit outdoor assemblies to the hallowed halls of various auditoriums.

In the realm of personal exploits, success with the fairer sex was woven into my adolescent narrative. In the dance of affections, I often partnered with girls, drawn by the allure of intriguing conversations and the sheer delight of their company.

Amid the corridors of technical school, a fleeting affection named Barbara took center stage. With her roots in the electromechanical class, our connection ripened into close companionship. Invitations to her home and bedside visits during illness painted a picture of camaraderie. 

Our talks meandered through the landscape of academia, the nuances of teachers, and the mystique of the future. Yet, our connection, while warm, never ventured into the realms of profound commitment.

It wasn't until the later chapters of my musical journey that a more serious entanglement unfolded. 

In the cadence of our performance, I encountered Irena, now residing in Denmark. Friend to Oleg Feldgajer, the brother of Wienia, who later became my sister Melita's husband, Irena shared our passion for the guitar. 

An undercurrent of affection pulsed between us, although she also shared bonds with my cousin Milko Gilzenrat. Taking a leap, I slipped a note into her pocket during a performance, inviting her to the next concert. 

A gesture, not to impose, but to test the waters, knowing that both Milek and Oleg harbored their own interests in her. Her response was a resounding "yes," and from then on, she graced our performances, forging shared walks, cinema outings, café rendezvous, and mutual exploration of the world of plays. 

My emotions were undeniably serious—I was deeply in love. 

To this day, her memory lingers, and I find solace in the hope that life has woven a tapestry of happiness for her.

Yet, the zenith of my affections, the grand crescendo of an unyielding love, was yet to unfold.

The specter of the anti-Jewish campaign loomed heavily, casting a shadow over the waning days in Poland. The once-muted prejudice now manifested in overt hostility, culminating in a distressing encounter with bullies who sought to confront Irena and me. 

Armed with a razor, a dubious companion in those times, I managed to fend them off, but the air was charged with the venom of intolerance. 

The vitriol, the accusations—Jews were unfairly blamed for every ill that befell society. The weight of the persecution became unbearable, and the decision to leave offered a respite.

Vienna, the initial stop on our journey, unfolded a surreal tableau as I stepped onto the platform and glimpsed Halina. A dormant connection, dormant for years, stirred to life in a bewildering encounter. 

For Irena and me, embroiled in a serious relationship marked by the complexities of life, her promise to join me once our destination was clear lingered in the air. 

It's noteworthy that our journey began against a backdrop of significant decisions, including Irena's poignant choice due to an unexpected pregnancy, where my mother's support became an invaluable anchor.

The encounter with Halina marked a turning point, and Rome, our next destination, unfurled a tapestry of new possibilities. 

Initially bound by friendship, the undercurrent of long-buried love surged forth, pulling us inexorably closer. The city, a symphony of history and romance, provided the perfect backdrop for our rekindled connection. 

Amid English lessons, we stole moments to explore the timeless beauty of Rome—cinemas with vintage allure, quaint coffee houses, and fragrant parks.

As the enchantment of Rome unfolded, Irena's letters waned. The once-frequent missives dwindled to a sporadic trickle, stoking concern. 

Still tethered to the love I harbored, I sought solace in the belief that distance and circumstances were the culprits. However, clues emerged through her letters, hinting at a budding romance. 

The revelation, though unexpected, held the promise of a rendezvous in Denmark, where she planned to reunite with her mother and sisters.

Hope persisted, but with each passing day in Rome, it flickered. 

Letters became infrequent, their contents less saturated with love. The threads that bound us frayed, and by the time my stay in Rome neared its end, hope dimmed further. 

The desire for our reunion clashed with the reality of fading affections. 

Letters, once a lifeline, arrived at increasingly longer intervals, painting a somber portrait of love slipping away.

As fate would have it, Halina and I found our path to the future increasingly paved with favor. 

We secured visas and permission to travel to the US simultaneously, and a stroke of luck ensured our families had tickets for the same flight to New York. 

On that plane, Halina and I sat side by side, embarking on a journey that felt like a dream, a journey into our shared destiny. 

The signs seemed to indicate that God intended us to be together for the rest of our lives. 

While I hadn't initially foreseen this outcome, my growing conviction by the end of our stay in Rome was that I wanted to be with Halina, and thoughts of marriage occasionally crossed my mind.

Despite living in different cities initially—her family in Pittsburgh and ours in Atlanta—Halina and I maintained our connection. We continued to write and call each other, nurturing the bond that had blossomed amidst the challenges of our past.

During the first phase in the US, I lived with my parents, who, after a year of renting, purchased their own house. However, communication with Irena became sparse; she wrote perhaps one or two letters before falling silent. 

I interpreted this as a signal that she no longer wanted our love to persist. It wasn't an easy moment, considering the promises we had made to each other. 

However, the prospects of her coming to the US seemed dim, and I had no intention of returning to Denmark or Europe.

Moreover, adaptation to life in the States presented challenges, and the work I initially found, in hot and filthy environments, left me dissatisfied. 

Similar sentiments were echoed by the cousins who had accompanied me to Atlanta. They, along with a drummer we had met in Rome, Józek Szczupak, persuaded me to revive a music band. 

Thus, we formed a remarkable band. 

Back in Rome, discussions had revolved around the idea of continuing our musical endeavors in the US. Initially skeptical, I questioned the future of playing at parties without a concrete profession. 

However, our limited proficiency in English led us to believe that music could be a gateway to integrating into the new environment. The fact that we played our compositions further fueled our confidence.