Biography of Polanskoy Book

It is a translation of fragments from the book: Polanski R. Ny, the author of the translation is Maria Terakopyan. I needed to live a significant part of my life in order to understand: this is where the key to my fate lies. That is precisely why my share fell more than others, experiences and disagreements, misfortunes and disappointments. But therefore, the doors opened in front of me, which would have remained locked differently.

To me, a little boy who grew up in communist Poland, the world of art, poetry, imagination always seemed more real than the suffocating atmosphere that surrounded me. I realized early that I did not look like the rest: I lived in my own imaginary world. As soon as I saw the bicycle races in Krakow, I already imagined myself as a champion. It was worth going to the cinema, I immediately saw himself as a star, or even the director, standing behind the camera.

Once on a good performance in the theater, I had no doubt that sooner or later I myself would go to the Warsaw or Moscow scene, or maybe - why not? Every child once dreams of something like that. But, unlike the majority, which soon resigned to the fact that I could not achieve what I wanted, I never doubted that my dreams would come true. As a naive simpleton, I was convinced that this is not only possible, but also inevitable.

Relatives and friends, who often chuckled over my wild fantasies, looked at me like a clown. I was not offended, because I liked to entertain and amuse others. My first memories belong to the four -year age when I lived in Krakow on Komorovsky Street. Above each door was an animal in the style of Art Nouveau - an elephant, a bison, and a hedgehog. House number 9 was decorated with an ugly hybrid - it was half a dragon, half an eagle.

The house was built recently, and it still smelled of fresh paint. On the fourth floor there were two apartments. Our, on the right, is small, but sunny, in a modern style, except for the traditional stoves finished with tiles. The windows of two rooms took to the quiet street of Komorovsky, where people of medium wealth lived. On the back of the building was a noisy market.

In those days, peasant women still came to the doors with butter and eggs, and the village smell emanated from them mixed with the aroma of fresh bread, which was delivered by the growing boys. My mother adored order. Everything with us shone with cleanliness. The mess reigned only in the pantry located in the side wall of the balcony, where we kept all kinds of unnecessary things, including one mysterious device.

Father said that with his help he could always find out when I was lying. Since I myself half believed in the possibility of the existence of such a device, I was haunted by what it also had. A home -made lies detector was driven every time I suspicious that I was lying. Only much later did I realize that it was a broken nightlight of an unusual shape.

Although my father could not be called the rich, I did not need anything. And yet I was a capricious baby. Maybe I was angry with long blond hair, because of which adults took me for a girl. Or maybe it was a reaction to the fact that they laughed at me, mimicing my French pronunciation of the sound “P”. I was born in Paris, just when Hitler came to power, and in the first three years of his life, which I do not remember anything, acquired a French accent.

And I also had an unusual name. In an effort to call my son in a French manner, my parents registered me under the name Reimon, mistakenly taking him for the equivalent of the Polish name Roman. Unfortunately, a simple Pole is not in a state of pronounce Reimon. This foreign name infuriated and annoyed me, and everyone except my parents and malicious classmates who adored me called either a novel or a diminutive romek.

I wanted to do everything in my own way. Later, my father said that I was furious if he took my hand in the subway on the escalator. I stomped with my feet and frowned with anger. The same thing happened if he tried to take away my priceless camera, which I drove by the rope as a toy car. I was easily offended. On my birthday August 18, when I turned five, Aunt Theophilus gave me an incomparable raspberry fire engine with rubber tires, extending stairs and firefighters, which could be removed.

When my parents and their friends - and the celebration was arranged more likely for them than for me - were carried away by a conversation, I was left without attention and decided to better consider the gift. Having taken out the whole team, I tried to remove the driver from the seat. A miniature figure broke in my hand. In horror, I hid the wreckage in the nearest stove.

When adults finally paid attention to me again, they noticed that the driver disappeared from the fire engine. I pretended to have nothing to do with it, but my mother found the loss. The condescending laughter of adults was much more offensive than any reprimand. All these rather incoherent memories are remarkable for their clarity and clarity. The children's brain, devoid of bias, absorbs impressions randomly and eclectic.My father often offended me in trifles, but never beat me, even when I violated the only ban on the house: to touch the massive writing machine Underwood, on which he printed business letters with amazing speed.

I was allowed to stand nearby and watch, he encouraged me when I tried to look for letters on the keyboard. So I learned literacy. I had to pick me up from the kindergarten after the first day, because I said: “Pocaluj mnie w dupe” to one girl, or even the teacher. ” I probably heard these words from my uncle. They mean "kiss me in the ass." After this incident, I had to spend a lot of time at home alone, except for Annette and our maid.

Annett is my eldest sister, mother’s daughter from her first marriage.

She adored the cinema, and we spent a lot of evenings in the half -empty Krakow cinemas, where we watched films in which I did not understand anything. My first cinematic impressions are associated with the American musical, in which Junet Mc Donald in an air white robe descended the stairs to the music of Sweathearts. I clearly remember this, because I wanted to urinate to death.

Annett, who did not want to tear himself away from the screen for a second, said that I would write under a chair.