Wigelia

Jenny Campbell

Christmas in Poland during the 1970s was not exactly a season of comfort and joy. People were still queuing for meat at four o'clock in the morning, supermarket shelves were full of jam and vinegar and not much else, antibiotics could only be bought with American dollars and shopkeepers seemed to take a particular delight in saying 'nie ma' (no more) just as you reached the counter.

Conditions were aggravated by cramped living accommodation with up to three generations of a family having to live together in small, cheerless apartments. And, as the cold war entered a new, more dangerous phase, fear and suspicion were almost palpable on the streets of Warsaw.

Christmas 1978 was different, though. A few weeks before, Cardinal Karol Woytyla from Krakow had been elected pope; and a stunned nation - about eighty percent of which was Catholic - could hardly believe their luck. Suddenly, Poland was to be on the world stage and a sense of quiet optimism began to fill the air as the underground movement of Solidarity grew stronger, brave Catholic priests voiced their criticism of the State more openly, from the pulpit, and the night of Wigelia drew near.

My husband, our ten-year old daughter, Fiona, and I had been invited to spend it with local friends: Jan, an opera singer, and his wife Maria who was a pianist. They lived not far from the Opera House, and within minutes of arriving at their tiny flat, our host was pouring a celebratory vodka while his small son, Marek, grabbed Fiona's hand and led her over to the window. There, like every child in Poland that night, they stood and waited for the first star to appear in the sky. Not until that magical moment could Wigelia truly begin. And it was not long before we heard an excited little voice call out, 'Co to jest! Co to jest, Mamusz!' There it is, Mummy!

Now, the presents could be opened and the dinner served, starting with Maria's delicious barscz topped with sour cream and fresh dill and ending with traditional raisin cheesecake. In the sparsely furnished sitting-cum-dining room where Marek's bed also served as a sofa, there were not enough chairs for everyone so we ate buffet style. But, as tradition demanded, a place had been set at the table for the unexpected guest. Though this particular custom had undergone a subtle change to one of remembrance, since the Second World War, I have to say it felt decidedly spooky when the doorbell rang about halfway through the soup.

But it was only Maria's father who had been to visit his ex-wife in hospital, and then there were more toasts in Wybora vodka before tucking into the fried carp without which no Polish Christmas dinner would be complete, the potato salad, pickled beets and ersatz caviar.

During the lively conversation that followed, Maria told us that she had joined the queue for the carp (which must always be fresh) at seven that morning and only had to wait two hours for her fish. 'But I could not get the oranges,' she said. 'By the time I reached the counter they had all gone.'

An hour or so later, the table bereft of all but flickering candles stubs and the remains of the cheesecake, Maria sat down at the grand piano dominating the room. She played a selection of carols, which we all helped to sing, and ended with a solo rendition of the most magnificent 'Gloria!' I have ever heard.

'Casta Diva! Casta Diva, Maria!' called out her father when we had all finished clapping.

'Oh, Tatusz,' chided his daughter, 'you only want me to play so that you can cry!'

But she did play, and sang the Bellini aria wonderfully. And Tatusz cried as always. Then, when the last note on the piano had died away, our tall, bearded host picked up a tankard, settled himself on a stool in the middle of the room, threw back his head and, in fine baritone voice, delighted us with a dramatic rendering of The Drinking Song. In quick succession, the sounds of Beethoven, Chopin and German lieder filled the candle-lit room where one sensed something truly God-given in the combined talents of those two young people. Something magical that rose above the everyday drabness of eastern Europe and the cold, iron fist of the Soviet Union.

Outside, it was snowing as we finally took our leave and said 'Wesolwych Swiat!' Happy Christmas! In a nearby street, people were walking to midnight mass and, in that moment, I prayed hard for Poland.

Two years down the line, on Sunday the thirteenth December, 1981, the rumble of military vehicles down the city's main street of Marszalkowska would signal Moscow's growing impatience with Solidarity and the introduction of martial law. But on my last Christmas eve in Warsaw, driving home across an expectant, snowbound city, all I could hear was the whisper of freedom and a resounding 'Gloria!' echoing long into the night.