“Life is unfair, don’t we all know that?”
The words of a woman clerk in a regional passport office in Poland summarize the prevailing mood in The Jew, a first novel by Dominik Poleski (the nom de plume of South Surrey resident Tadeusz Chmielewski).
The author’s precise and detailed descriptive style documents – like the unblinking eye of a camera – the reality of a particular time and place, a small town in Poland, bordering on the then-Soviet Union, in the late 1960’s.
There, ordinary people must endure – as best they can – life under a communist totalitarian state. It’s a grim environment in which corruption and decay are everyday facts of life. In a depressed – or rather, ideologically repressed, economy – alcoholism, violence, prejudice and spousal abuse are usual outlets for the population’s overwhelming sense of despair.
The local police commandant takes kickbacks and seems uninterested in solving crimes; the influential Catholic priest is rumoured to be stashing collection money in his sofa; everyone is party to a black market trading goods across the border with Russia and no one seems to care that a teenager has quit high school to walk the streets with the town’s only other prostitute.
But the town is not immune from radical changes occurring in the world – widespread students’ protests in both the West and East, the invasion of a liberal-leaning Czechoslovakia by the Soviet Union, the assassination of Robert Kennedy and the Vietnam War – as spun by the conflicting voices of the state-run media and the clandestinely-heard Radio Free Europe.
In the town, but isolated by the anti-Semitic discrimination of other residents, live the community’s only Jews: protagonist Alek Brodski, a high school student, and his doting mother Zofia.
Determined to secure the best life possible for her son, Zofia attempts several ways to break the chains of their deadlocked existence, including leaving their native Poland to emigrate to Israel, and, ultimately, a more drastic, unexpected solution.
The Jew is a work of disarming subtlety, in which Poleski’s calmly analytical prose – he counts as influences Dostoevsky, Henry David Thoreau, Polish author Henryk Sienkiewicz, Hemingway and Graham Greene – suggests multiple layers of meaning as he exposes onion-like layers of hypocrisy, and even absurdity, in Polish society.
“It’s a book stripped down to the bone,” said the author, who by day works overseeing draft plans for a structural steel company. “I wanted no redundancy, no useless conversations – everything is there for a purpose.”
It’s also an immensely personal work, he says.
The reader first encounters Alek as the victim of a harrowing beating at the hands of three racist thugs, witnessed by a kindly old lady, Pavloska – one of the Brodskis’ few allies in town – and a 13-year-old boy.