Sergiusz Piasecki - Living in Exile

Living in Exile

After the war, Piasecki hid from the secret police for a year inside Poland. In April 1946, he escaped to Italy, where he spotted the Italian translation of his own Kochanek Wielkiej Niedzwiedzicy. Soon, he got in touch with Polish writers living in exile, including Jerzy Giedroyc. In 1947, Piasecki moved to England, his name can be found on a resolution of Union of Polish Writers in Exile, which urged all concerned to stop publishing in the Communist-occupied country. He once publicly declared that he would gladly take any job that would result in erasing Communism.

Living abroad, Piasecki did not stop writing. In late 1940s he came to the conclusion that humor is the best weapon to fight the Communists. So, he wrote a satire The memoirs of a Red Army officer, which presents a made-up diary of Mishka Zubov - an officer of the Red Army, who, together with his unit enters Poland on September 17, 1939. Zubov claims in his "diary" that his only purpose is to kill all the bourgeoisie who possess watches and bicycles. Piasecki became fluent in Polish as an adult. Sergiusz Piasecki died in 1964 in London at the age of 65. On his tomb, located in Hastings, England, it is said that he was born on June 1, 1899.

Read more about this topic:  Sergiusz Piasecki

Famous quotes containing the words living in, living and/or exile:

    One thing about living in Santa Carla I never could stomach. All the damn vampires.
    Jeffrey Boam (b. 1949)

    One of the most significant effects of age-segregation in our society has been the isolation of children from the world of work. Whereas in the past children not only saw what their parents did for a living but even shared substantially in the task, many children nowadays have only a vague notion of the nature of the parent’s job, and have had little or no opportunity to observe the parent, or for that matter any other adult, when he is fully engaged in his work.
    Urie Bronfenbrenner (b. 1917)

    No exile at the South Pole or on the summit of Mont Blanc separates us more effectively from others than the practice of a hidden vice.
    Marcel Proust (1871–1922)