15 Minutes to Leave Poland Again

Jacek Michalak: At Atlas Sztuki, we have so far had the pleasure of encountering your work on two occasions. In 2012, Professor Józef Robakowski included your works in the group exhibition Eastern Front, while on 1 March 2013 you spoke about your artistic path during a meeting at which we also presented your films and music videos (Orchestra, Capriccio No. 24, Why Should I Cry?, Keep Your Eye on Me, Imagine), as well as Dorota Zgłobicka’s documentary about the creation of the film studio at the Audiovisual Technology Centre in Wrocław, where you were then artistic director. Your lecture, films and music videos were received enthusiastically by the crowd of viewers gathered at Atlas Sztuki. The invitation to that meeting featured a sketch for Tango that you made in Vienna in 1978, while the meeting itself was entitled Łódź – Vienna – New York – Tokyo – Berlin – Cologne – Los Angeles – Wrocław – Łódź. You have achieved enormous professional success and given many interviews in which you have spoken about your artistic path. I would like to persuade you to talk about your life before you emigrated from Poland for many years. In the title of the Atlas Sztuki meeting I mentioned, that period is marked by the names of only two cities, Łódź and Vienna, yet it covers twenty-eight years of your life. Besides, you lived in Warsaw for many years. Let us therefore begin at the beginning.

Zbigniew Rybczyński: I was born in Łódź in 1949, where my parents had found themselves as a consequence of events connected with the Second World War. Before the war, they lived on Śliska Street in Warsaw. A few days before the outbreak of the Warsaw Uprising, they went to Ożarów to collect beetroot; when they returned, smoke was already visible above the city. Although my father was active in the underground, he did not know that the Warsaw Uprising was about to begin. The buildings on Śliska Street, like the whole of Warsaw, were severely damaged during the war; in the 1950s, the Palace of Culture and Science was built on the site where my parents had lived. My father, a surveying engineer, was assigned to work in Łódź after the war and was allocated a flat in a tenement building at 48 Kilińskiego Street, close to the junction with Narutowicza Street and near Łódź Fabryczna railway station. My two elder brothers and I were born in that flat. As a representative of ‘private enterprise’, my mother was not entitled to give birth in a state hospital. During her early years in Łódź she tried to run a small button shop, after which she devoted herself to raising the three of us.

J.M.: You stayed in Łódź until…?
Z.R.: In 1955, we moved to Warsaw. My father worked at the Central Office of Geodesy and Cartography on Jasna Street and was also connected with Warsaw University of Technology. He spent a great deal of time away from home, conducting geodetic surveys of the Białowieża Forest, the Puck–Wejherowo–Lake Żarnowieckie–Dębki area and the Hel Peninsula. Every year my brothers and I went to stay with our father during the holidays, and those holidays were always extraordinary. From the Białowieża Forest, through which I rode sitting on the crossbar of my father’s bicycle, I remember mushrooms—entire carpets of them. It was impossible to pick mushrooms without destroying some of them. In the Białowieża Forest, we stayed in the settlement of Topiło. I remember the beautiful pictures there, naïve paintings hanging on the walls of a house without electricity. One of the sons of the peasants who lived there was very talented, and my father helped him with his education, taking him to Warsaw and our two-room flat, where my parents and the three of us lived. My father taught him and encouraged him to go to university. When he was admitted to Warsaw University of Technology, he moved into a hall of residence. The holidays spent with my father by the sea were equally fascinating. In everyday life in Warsaw, our mother was with us.

J.M.: Like your father, both of your elder brothers became surveyors. You were the only one not to follow in his footsteps. Didn’t your father expect you to become a surveying engineer too?

Z.R.: No, my parents were very open and tolerant. My eldest brother was interested in roaming, yachts and mountains; my other brother was fascinated by model-making and interested in sport. Today I think my brothers were not particularly decisive in their choices, and my father persuaded them to become surveyors. I was not interested in sport or model-making, but I drew and painted. My parents supported my interests. When I was in the third or fourth year of primary school, my mother took me to an art centre in Żoliborz, where I encountered Mr Możejko and Mr Kowalski, who taught there. It was the place of my first serious conversations about art. At that time I also began playing truant—which was a peculiar act of courage given my age—to visit the National Museum, the Historical Museum of the Capital City of Warsaw in the Old Town, Wilanów and the Camaldolese monastery in Bielany. I drew and painted a great deal.

J.M.: After finishing primary school, did you continue your education at a secondary school of fine arts?
Z.R.: Yes, I began studying at a secondary school of fine arts, then housed in the former Cadet School building in the Royal Łazienki Park. Once I was at that school, I became interested in music and girls. We lived in Bielany and I travelled to school on buses 132 and 107, changing in front of the ruins of the Royal Castle. The journey took more than an hour and was exhausting. After school I often went to friends’ homes in Mokotów and stayed the night; we frequently held parties, and I was interested in music. My parents did not like this and there were arguments. I remember bringing home a Rolling Stones LP with a gatefold sleeve; inside was a photograph of the long-haired band members. I stood the record on the television, which was in an enormous cabinet. My father came home and did not like it; he asked what the record was doing in such a place and we exchanged words. Of course, the record was not the most important issue—the problem was that I was rarely at home, my results at school were not very good and my father expected different behaviour from me. After that incident, I ran away from home and slept in cellars. After a fortnight or so, my father found me and warmly invited me home. Slowly, however, I was drifting away from home. Although I did not apply myself to my studies, was absent frequently and received four failing grades in my second year, which I had to repeat, the teachers knew that I painted well and was interested in art history, and they gave me a chance. I became interested in music. Together with friends, we formed a band called Facing the Sun; I played guitar for ‘special effects’, although I wasn’t very good at it, and we even performed at another school. Halfway through secondary school, my period of idling, wine and cigarettes gradually passed.

J.M.: Did art history continue to interest you throughout that time?
Z.R.: Yes. On every school excursion and trip, I always stayed close to the guides. I carried my inseparable little spade, with which I always tried to dig something up. I remember that while visiting the castle at Krzysztopór—today Krzyżtopór, J.M.’s note—I dug up half a late-Renaissance tile with a parrot beneath the moat, and I was proud of my discovery. I began collecting prints; I bought the first one when I was fourteen. They fascinate me to this day, and I have a sizeable collection.
Out of love for art, I committed unworthy acts. On a school trip, we visited Szydłów in the Świętokrzyskie region, today a village but formerly a town. In the Gothic church there, on a table to the left beside the pier separating the aisles, I noticed two vases of wilted lilies and, in the middle, a chalice resting on a cushion. My first thought about the chalice was: a fake—the base Gothic, the upper part a pansy pattern. I looked around; at that moment there was no one else in the church, and my collecting impulse got the better of me. I simply packed the chalice into the bread bag I was carrying.

J.M.: What did you do with the chalice?
Z.R.: I had it for almost three years. I kept pencils in it. Sometimes it served other purposes; if there was a party, it could be filled with beer or wine. The chalice was made of gilded silver, its layers were screwed together, and an iron threaded rod ran from the main bowl, binding the chalice together, while underneath it was secured with a piece of wood and a crude nut. At the time, it did not occur to me that such things could have been made in the fifteenth or sixteenth century. On the upper part of the chalice, around its rim, were two assay marks, like those stamped on gold or silver objects today. According to my knowledge at the time, the bottom of the chalice looked like Gothic design, but the upper part was strange. In the final year of secondary art school, I became very close friends with a schoolmate who collected porcelain. I continued collecting prints and all kinds of objects. Together with my collector friend, I became friendly with one of the teachers of art history. We travelled on various excursions with him. He also worked at the National Museum, where he was curator of decorative arts. We brought our objects to meetings with him: I brought prints, while my friend brought porcelain. Once, I brought my chalice. I was slightly ashamed to show it, but I overcame my reluctance. When he saw the chalice, he became extremely interested. It turned out that my teacher’s degree work had concerned the decorative arts of such objects. He told me that, in his opinion, it had to be an original from the fifteenth or sixteenth century, while the marks that had looked dubious to me were Napoleonic contribution marks. Of course, he asked me where I had obtained it. I did not have the courage to say that I had pinched the chalice from a church. I said that I had bought it at the flea market. He told me it was an object of great importance. I was tremendously excited by the discovery and did not know what to do. After a few days, I decided to tell my father about it, still claiming that I had bought the chalice at the flea market. My father concluded that, because of its great value, we had to secure the object. He suggested that I give it to him for safekeeping. About two weeks later, my art-history teacher from secondary school asked to meet me. His very first words were that the National Museum had received an anonymous parcel containing the chalice. He informed me that, because of the object’s importance and because it had been handed over anonymously, he had felt obliged to notify the Citizens’ Militia. He again began pressing me about the source of the object, encouraging me to reveal the truth and explaining that, as the donor, I would receive free admission to the museum and free catalogues for life. I was afraid to confess. The whole situation was difficult. After some time, I understood that I had to disclose to the militia that the chalice had been in my possession. I was therefore summoned for questioning at the Warsaw Metropolitan Headquarters of the Citizens’ Militia in Mostowski Palace. From the reception desk I was directed to a room, but I made a mistake and entered another room, where a group of militiamen were listening to a colleague who had his back to the entrance and was telling either a joke or an amusing story. When I entered, the storyteller turned towards me. It was my art-history teacher from secondary school.
During the interrogations, I was shown files containing many photographs of the chalice and its details, together with meticulous descriptions. I admitted that I had possessed the chalice. I also said that my father had handed it over to the museum. Above all, however, they wanted to know where I had obtained it.

J.M.: And what did you tell them?
Z.R.: Eventually, the truth. Fortunately, I escaped criminal liability. What mattered was that the chalice ended up in the right place. It turned out that twelve such chalices had been commissioned by the castellan for every church in his castellany, which also included Szydłów. Of the twelve chalices, two had survived and returned to Poland with treasures returned from Canada, while mine was the third from the series. My chalice was a discovery because inventories previously prepared by conservators in the church from which I had nicked it had not revealed its existence.

J.M.: To sum up this story, one could say that even then you had rendered significant service to Polish culture.
Z.R.: Yes; fortunately, thanks to my father, who sensed the situation immediately and did the right thing, I avoided trouble.

J.M.: Yet after finishing secondary art school, you did not begin studying at the Academy of Fine Arts. When did your interest in film begin?
Z.R.: While studying at secondary art school, I realised that painting had its natural continuation in film. I concluded that painting already belonged to the past. I decided that nothing revolutionary could be achieved in that field. In my final years at secondary art school, I played truant and went to the cinema. I began at ten in the morning and watched three films a day. I remember having around one hundred days of absence in a school year. The cinema of the 1960s was extraordinary. I believe the most important films were made then—Bergman, Kurosawa, Godard, Buñuel, Fellini and American cinema. At that time, all of this was shown in Poland’s arthouse cinemas. I had a reverential attitude towards painting and towards the films I saw. I concluded that it would be difficult to achieve anything new and original in painting or film.

J.M.: Yet you decided to apply to the Film School. Why did you choose cinematography rather than directing?
Z.R.: Initially, I intended to apply for directing. I changed my mind under the influence of a conversation with the father of Ksawery Piwocki—a graduate of the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw and later a professor and rector there, J.M.’s note—who was a classmate of mine. His father, Franciszek Ksawery Piwocki, an art historian and professor at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw, asked me what I intended to study.

Unlike my classmates, I planned to begin studying directing. When I told him, he said that film was technology and that, if I wanted to understand film, I had to study in the Cinematography Department. That single conversation persuaded me to change my plans. I had a problem, however: during the entrance examination for the Cinematography Department, one had to present photographs, and I had never taken any. In this situation, I decided to take the paintings I had made. Because of the events of 1968, however, there was no admission to the Łódź Film School. I had to wait a year.

J.M.: How did you spend that year after taking your school-leaving examinations?
Z.R.: I drew well and managed to find work at the Studio of Miniature Films in Warsaw, where I was employed as an animator. For a year I drew Koziołek Matołek, whom I hated; I suffered unimaginably. Everyone was assigned shots to complete, and I found it difficult. Unlike the other animators, I almost always fell behind with my work and regularly took it home, sitting up at night on Saturdays and Sundays to draw. Everyone labels me a specialist in animated film, but I have never liked animated film. Fortunately, a year later I was admitted to the PWSFTviT in Łódź.

J.M.: During that year between finishing secondary school and beginning your studies in Łódź, did you start taking photographs?
Z.R.: No. When I applied to the Cinematography Department, I took my paintings, which I made into an enormous roll. Because of the roll’s size, I had trouble reaching the examination. I unrolled it in front of the panel. Fortunately for me, the panel included Professor Jerzy Mierzejewski, a painter and graduate of the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw. When I applied to the PWSFTviT in Łódź, he was dean of the Directing Department; previously he had been dean of Cinematography, and in 1974–75 he served as the School’s deputy rector. During the entrance examination, when I had unrolled my roll halfway, he told me to roll it up and clear off. And that was how, in 1969, at the age of twenty, I was admitted to the Łódź Film School. Years later, Professor Jerzy Mierzejewski told me that during the entrance examinations he had never seen a madman and enthusiast like me, and that cinematography needed people of that kind.

J.M.: What were your beginnings at the School in Łódź like?
Z.R.: At first, the studio was black magic to me. How to position the spotlights so that there were no shadows, the enormous camera—all of it seemed very difficult. I quickly mastered the technology, however, and began making films. At the School in those days, directors paired up with cinematographers. I quickly began working with Andrzej Barański. In 1970, we shot our first film together, Winding Paths. Andrzej and I then made A Day’s Work and The Application together. Our relationship was very close and we held wonderful discussions about art. There was, however, a difference between our approaches to art and the image. We parted professional ways amicably. In private, we remain friends to this day. The screenplay for The Moon—Andrzej’s graduation film—is brilliant. Andrzej has exceptional literary talent; his screenplays were fantastic. I owe him a great deal.

J.M.: In retrospect, who else was important to you at the PWSFTviT in Łódź, apart from the aforementioned Jerzy Mierzejewski and Andrzej Barański?
Z.R.: Józef Robakowski. From the beginning, when I met him while I was still a student, I was convinced that he was a serious artist, with clearly defined views and an uncompromising attitude. All this was additionally reinforced by his physique: Robakowski is a large, strong man. I saw no one else like him at the School. He impressed me. I was delighted when, after I made my films Square and Take Five, Robakowski invited me to join the Workshop of the Film Form; I was honoured to participate in that artistic group. Yet the Workshop of the Film Form’s meetings at the time disappointed me. I expected serious conversations about art, but they simply did not take place. Besides, I had no time; I was busy making my own films and serving as cinematographer for others.

J.M.: Who else do you remember from the School in Łódź?
Z.R.: Professor Leon Wohl, who taught photosensitive materials. A member of the old staff who took his subject seriously. We had to learn the history of photosensitive materials and make our own developers from chemicals. The classes in photosensitive materials also featured the wonderful Tadzio Ryszka. Many years later I blessed those classes—when I was at Kodak in Rochester, I knew everything. I warmly remember the storekeeper Władysław Szaliński, Henryk Ryszka, the female editors, the sound and lighting people, the so-called staff. These were people who, when they saw that someone had passion, helped tremendously: in summer they gave us keys to the editing rooms and supplied old film stock. All those people who were important to me appear in my films, including in one of my films. I must also mention the rector, Jerzy Kotowski, who even gave me keys to the School when it was closed during the summer holidays. While I was a student there, I tried to shoot as much as I could. From my perspective, the PWSFTviT in Łódź was a very friendly school, although there was still the fear of examinations; people were expelled from the School, and I remember the moment Krystian Lupa was expelled. I also remember Hieronim Neumann, a director of animated films who now teaches at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw and the University of the Arts in Poznań, being struck off the student register. I studied at a School where Jerzy Toeplitz was no longer present, but his spirit remained, as did quite a few good lecturers. I graduated on time, in 1973, and received an award for my degree—5,000 złoty.

J.M.: Yet you still do not have the original of your diploma.
Z.R.: That’s right. I have only a copy. For the diploma, I had my photograph taken in a red scarf. The rector of the PWSFTviT at the time, Stanisław Kuszewski, said that the photograph had to show me in a shirt and tie. In 1999, when my star was unveiled on the Łódź Walk of Fame, I visited the School with Ryszard Horowitz and met its rector, Professor Henryk Kluba, whom I had never met before. During the conversation, I joked that, with Rysio in Łódź, it was a good opportunity to give him a diploma from the institution. Professor Kluba replied in deadly earnest that such things were not done there. I then said that, although I was a graduate, I did not have a diploma. Professor Kluba ordered my records to be brought in and, when he received them, told me with a serious expression that I would receive my diploma if I supplied a photograph in a shirt and tie. I made no comment, although I wanted to ask whether I should bring a current photograph; I was exactly fifty years old at the time. And so I still do not have the original diploma.

J.M.: After graduating from the PWSFTviT, you became professionally associated with the Se-Ma-For Studio of Small Film Forms.
Z.R.: I became associated with Se-Ma-For while still a student. I made my graduation film, Plamuz, there. It all began with the directors of SMFF Se-Ma-For at the time, Ryszard Brudzyński and, later, Janusz Galewicz, who visited the School looking for someone capable of operating the Krass system owned by Se-Ma-For. It was a camera with a reprojection unit that the studio had received, instead of payment in cash, in settlement for services provided to a German partner. I was asked to commission the equipment and work with it. After completing my degree, I was offered a director’s post at SMFF Se-Ma-For. In addition to making my own films there, I also made many films with colleagues, including cinematography for films by Wadim Berestowski (The Iron Pot—J.M.’s note), Piotr Andrejew (Conversation, Grand Prix at the International Short Film Festival in Oberhausen—J.M.’s note), Wojciech Wiszniewski (Wanda Gościmińska: A Textile Worker—J.M.’s note), Władysław Wasilewski (A Horse Would Laugh —J.M.’s note), as well as Filip Bajon’s debut, Hunting Accident. To this day, I have a good deal of faience decorated by Salomea Zajkowska—one of the finest painters of Włocławek faience—which came into my possession while I was shooting Andrzej Papuziński’s documentary Chronicle of a Faience Factory, made at Oświatówka in 1974, a film about an old factory producing painted faience. At WFF on Łąkowa Street, I shot Grzegorz Królikiewicz’s film Dancing Hawk—my feature-length debut as a cinematographer. I made one film after another; the first interruption in my professional activity did not come until martial law. Later, after leaving for the United States, I also made film after film. Many people say that I have not shot films for a long time. That is not true. I am constantly working on a new film; I am at the stage of developing tools for my next one. I have had only two breaks in my professional life—martial law and emigration.

J.M.: While you were working at Se-Ma-For, you left for Austria. Why there?
Z.R.: Before leaving, I had never thought about working abroad. I should add that I did not learn foreign languages. When I was at primary school, my parents enrolled my brothers and me in language courses. I was not interested, however, and skipped the classes. During my studies at the PWSFTviT, I wanted to learn English, but the teacher assigned so much work and such difficult material—the group included people who already knew the language well—that I quickly became discouraged and learnt little. While I was working at Se-Ma-For, an Austrian came to Łódź looking for a specialist in operating the Krass system, and he was referred to me. Initially I was not interested, but many friends encouraged me to go. It was 1977; I had completed the cinematography for Grzegorz Królikiewicz’s film and had a wife and son. I decided to leave and take my family with me.

J.M.: Was that your first trip abroad?

Z.R.: No. I had previously been to the GDR once, with Wadim Berestowski. We were invited to a cultural centre in Karl-Marx-Stadt—Chemnitz since 1990, J.M.’s note—with our films. We travelled to Germany in Wadim’s car. It was a unique trip. The very juxtaposition of my films with Wadim’s children’s films was extraordinary. Several people came to the screening. We had a second film screening in Jena, at a club for troubled young people run by the German militia. To this day, I cannot understand the purpose of our presentation, recalling the screening of my abstract film Plamuz, with jazz music, beside a children’s film by Wadim. I left for Austria for a year in the autumn of 1977. It was my second departure from Poland, but my first to the real West. It was also the first time in my life that I had flown. I was frightened during the flight; the plane creaked, and it was an enormous, unforgettable experience. Before I flew out of Warsaw, however, I underwent my first personal search. A female customs officer at the airport asked what I was carrying. I replied that I had nothing. She told me, however, that she was a good judge of people and that I was not going to tell her such fairy tales. She decided that I would be subjected to a personal search. A soldier from the Border Protection Troops came for me, and we went to a room. On the way, we passed an open door to another room where a man sat on a chair in his underpants, with small gold crosses taped all over his body. When the soldier and I were alone in a different room or booth where I was to be searched, I said that I felt uncomfortable and had to tell him that my underpants had a hole in them, because for some time I had been unable to buy new ones. He replied: ‘Sir, am I supposed to undress and show you my holes?’ A car was waiting for me at Vienna airport and took me to a restaurant in the city centre for a meeting with the owner of the studio where I was to begin work. The conversation was conducted in German; I spoke isolated words of German and English and tried as best I could, as did Manfred Haspel, who was my assistant at the new workplace and looked after me. After dinner, I was taken to the flat that had been rented for my stay in Vienna and given an envelope containing money, an advance on my future salary. The flat was wonderful; the fridge contained some juice and a little cheese, and nothing else. I had arrived in the Austrian capital on a Friday and had to survive the weekend. I was afraid to go out into the city, and it was cold outside. When I became hungry, I went out, but I was afraid to enter a restaurant. Fortunately, I found an open kiosk where Turkish people sold food. I knew the German word for ham and the word for a bread roll, and I bought larger quantities of those items. At work, however, I had to speak. I was highly motivated and began learning the language intensively. My wife and son joined me. I lived well there. I nevertheless planned to return to Poland. During my first stay in Austria, I met Gerald Kargl, and together with him and Bodzio Dziworski we planned to shoot a film as an Austrian-Polish co-production. I flew to Poland in connection with those plans.

After arriving in Warsaw, I had mixed feelings. As I mentioned, I planned to return to Poland, but the months spent in Vienna had changed my view of the reality around me. As I rode in a taxi from Okęcie to my mother’s home in Warsaw, I was saddened by the sight of the uneven pavements, shoddy flowerbeds and ugly grass, the housing estates, mud and sand on the pavements. Warsaw’s Żwirki i Wigury Avenue, which I had liked before, looked terribly ugly after my return from abroad.

J.M.: You left for a year, but you stayed in Austria for two years.

Z.R.: Yes. I extended my stay by another year. During the second year, I made Skiing Scenes with Franz Klammer together with Bodzio Dziworski and Gerald Kargl. In my second year working in Vienna, I wrote scripts—twelve in all, including the script for Tango. I then decided to return to Poland. We returned in November 1979. A few months later, Solidarity was established; I became chair of its founding circle while also making Tango. In 1980, the situation became complicated. I saw no prospect of lasting change and slowly began thinking about leaving. To that end, I contacted Gerald Kargl. He was delighted by another opportunity to collaborate with me. We jointly came up with the idea of making a film about the Battle of Vienna for its 300th anniversary, which fell in 1983. But that was merely a pretext. In reality, Gerald very much wanted to make a feature film about a serial killer with me as cinematographer. I began arranging the formalities; unfortunately, martial law was declared. I wanted to leave with my wife and son, but they could not obtain passports. In the end, I left for Vienna alone in June 1982. Before leaving, I tried every possible way of securing passports. To that end, I tried to get to know everyone I could. In order to obtain the passports, I organised parties for secret-police officers and others. Food had to be served at these parties. I remember driving with my wife, Wanda, to the countryside outside Warsaw to buy meat. On the way back, we had a dead pig in the boot; we lived in Jelonki at the time. It turned out that, just before our block, a checkpoint with soldiers had been erected on our return route. We were stopped for inspection. I told my terrified wife to squeeze her legs together and pretend that she urgently needed the toilet; she was so convincing that the soldier fell for it. After parking the car, I carried the meat upstairs under cover of darkness. As I mentioned, I left without my wife and son. Before departing, I sent some of my belongings from Gdański Station. I left from the same station by train a day later, seen off by friends and colleagues; I was alone in the carriage and alone on the train. In Koluszki, acquaintances and friends from Łódź were waiting for me on the platform. After saying goodbye to them, I continued alone on the train. In Katowice, a beautiful girl joined me; she was a barmaid at a venue in Vienna, and the two of us travelled on to the Austrian capital. It was extraordinary—just two people on a train to freedom. My wife and son were still unable to obtain passports. My wife, a psychiatrist, did not take a job; she was very strong and, after each refusal, submitted another application. In Vienna without my family, I felt increasingly unwell and became depressed. I learnt that Mieczysław Rakowski had decided that my passport should be issued. The same group of people who received passports included Andrzej Wajda, Krystyna Janda and Krzysztof Kieślowski. Many strange things had happened and continued to happen around me and my family; I knew that our correspondence was being read. When I learnt of Mieczysław Rakowski’s role in granting me a passport, I wrote a letter to my wife, Wanda. I wrote that I was depressed because she and my son Paweł were not with me, and that this blocked me so completely that I was unable to work on the film marking the 300th anniversary of the Battle of Vienna. I therefore asked her to contact ‘Mietek’ about the passport. The letter reached my wife without an ‘inspected by the censor’ stamp, and not long afterwards my wife and son received passports. They joined me a year after I had left Poland.

J.M.: You left Poland for many years.
Z.R.: Yes. My son Paweł lives permanently in New York. My father died in 1985; unfortunately, I was still unable to return for his funeral. I did not visit Poland again until 1993. Then, in 1997, my wife Wanda died after a long and serious illness. In 2008, I began thinking about returning to Poland permanently; my mother died that same year. In 2009, I began working in Wrocław. I thought that the Audiovisual Technology Centre was the project of my life. It turned out, however, that I was wrong. My wife Dorota and I were given fifteen minutes to leave Poland.

Wrocław, 30 October 2013