POLISH ROOTS
 |
| My Dad at the head of his command in 1939. Brave or what? |
My Dad, Zbyszek Rymaszewski, was a ‘rotmistrz’ (captain) in the First Polish Lancers. One day in 1939, he happened to find himself charging armoured cars and tanks, armed only with a sabre. He had a good day and survived. He was awarded Poland’s equivalent of the Victoria Cross, the Virtuti Militaris, for rescuing his commanding officer from the carnage of No Man’s Land. He always told me he’d rather be dead than be decrepit enough to have a grandchild. He died three weeks before I met Janie, with whom I had a daughter, Ismay. He was a grand drinking companion.
 |
| My Mum on stage. Glam or what? |
My Mum, Olga Rymaszewska’s fifteenth birthday happened to coincide - unforgivably - with the day that the Second World War broke out. Since she was living in the west of Poland, she was removed from her home that day, spent six years in political prisons, and never saw her mother again until twenty-seven years later. Yes, she survived, and, after the War, she trained to be an opera singer. She contracted thyroid cancer and never sang again. She has been an unfailingly supportive mother.
My Dad and my Mum met in London after the War and, in the foolness of thyme, their only child, Marek Rymaszewski, was born. His parents separated when he was nine months old.
Marek Rymaszewski is Marek Black.
