Six degrees of separation

by Oleksandr Boichenko

The most optimistic year I can remember was 2005. Aside from various socio-political illusions, which, unfortunately, were smashed to orange smithereens very quickly, that year, fortunately, brought me a couple of more lasting presents. For example, a blue and yellow edition of the oldest Polish literary journal Twórczość entirely dedicated to Ukraine, mentioned by probably the oldest Polish literary critic at the time, Henryk Bereza, in an interview where he confessed, “I was deeply impressed and moved by an essay, a sketch – I’m not sure what to call it – about the new Ukrainian literature”. He then explained in detail what exactly he was moved by.

Innate modesty does not allow me to tell you who the author of that essay or sketch was, but it does allow me to confess with the same sincerity that I, too, was deeply moved. I had just read Beautiful Twentysomethings by Marek Hlasko, which contains the following sentence: “I still didn’t have a place to live, and my friend Bereza and I used to sleep at the Central Railroad Station. Frequently we were ‘put up’ at certain police stations and drunk tanks.” This was the beginning of the 1950s, when Henryk Bereza did everything in and beyond his power to ensure the name of the beautiful twentysomething Marek Hlasko sounded loud and clear in Polish literature. And it finally happened.

More than five decades went by, and it turned out that unlike the writer who was dead before I was even born, the much older critic was very much alive and, based on his reaction to the Ukrainian edition of Twórczość led by Bohdan Zadura, completely lucid. So, could I not be moved? Could I not buy a bottle of whiskey and not go with Bohdan over to Henryk’s house and have a bruderschaft drink with him and ask him all about Marek Hlasko, who I eventually decided to translate, as well as about his inner and outer circle and everything else on this planet? No, I could not.

Meanwhile Marek Hlasko, having achieved undeniable literary and scandalous personal fame in his homeland, moved to the West in 1958 and, taking advantage of Jerzy Giedroyc’s hospitality, settled in Maisons-Laffitte, a small town not far from Paris, managing to fall in love – reciprocally – with Agnieszka Osiecka right before leaving. Not all of us have read Osiecka’s books, but those who have lived a little might have heard at least a few of her two thousand songs, such as Nie spoczniemy performed by a Polish band Czerwone Gitary or Czy musimy być na ty performed in its Russian version by Bulat Okudzhava. Rumor has it, after his protégé’s departure, loyal Henryk occasionally served as a messenger between Marek and Agnieszka – even though he was also in love with Marek, as such were his preferences.

Meanwhile Agnieszka Osiecka, having found out about Marek Hlasko’s marriage to a German movie star Sonja Ziemann and lost all hope of his return to Poland, married Wojciech Frykowski, who was starting out as a film producer and, like Hlasko, was a long-time acquaintance of film director Roman Polanski. Agnieszka kept two gifts from Marek as mementos: a white fur coat and a typewriter. She wore the fur coat to the reburial of the writer’s remains from Wiesbaden in Warsaw, and the typewriter remained on her desk until her death. 

Meanwhile Wojciech Frykowski, having withstood around a year of marital life with Agnieszka Osiecka, got a divorce, gave up on Polish film production and took up dreams of a literary career, which, in his opinion, was best achieved in the US, where he moved shortly after. Frykowski’s literary fantasies never came to life, but in the US he met – through mediation by suicidal mystificator Jerzy Kosiński – his fate, represented by Abigail Folger, a millionaire, philanthropist, activist, and friend of Sharon Tate.

Meanwhile actress Sharon Tate, having declined a marriage proposal of a Hollywood hair stylist Jay Sebring but allowing him to forever remain a platonic admirer, received a role in Roman Polanski’s English film The Fearless Vampire Killers. After the shooting was completed, Tate moved into Polanski’s apartment in London, an on January 20th, 1968, they were married. Despite her reputation as a ‘bimbo’, caused by her appearance, Sharon, it seems, was a person with a curious mind and a kind soul; in any case, she did stunts by herself and took martial arts lessons from Bruce Lee to have convincing posture during on-screen fights.

Meanwhile Roman Polanski, having achieved success in Poland and Europe, decided to conquer Hollywood and relocated to California together with Sharon Tate that same year. There, in Los Angeles and around, had already been living Marek Hlasko and Wojciech Frykowski with Abigail Folger. With a purpose of writing a soundtrack for his Satanic thriller Rosemary’s Baby, Polanski invited to the same place his favorite jazz composer and pianist Krzysztof Komeda, who he had collaborated with many a time during his Polish period, including on the masterpiece Knife in the Water.

Long story short, 1968 was setting out to be perhaps the happiest year in the lives of all these extra-ordinary people, and the next one promised to be even better. However, one October night, having hung out at a dinner table in Slavic style, Komeda and Hlasko decided to take a walk around Beverly Hills. Nobody knows what exactly transpired that night; there was no one around. According to Hlasko’s fumbled testimony, he jokingly pushed Komeda in the shoulder and he suddenly disappeared in the darkness. The darkness was hiding a not so deep but steep and rocky cliff, which the friends had not noticed. In the hospital, the doctors examined Komeda’s slightly bloody head and, not having found anything threatening, let him go. However, in December, the composer’s health rapidly deteriorated, he went into a coma, and only then did the doctors notice a subdural hematoma. Called in from Warsaw, his wife Zofia, also known as the legendary Crazy Girl, moved Krzysztof Komeda to Warsaw, where he died on April 23rd, 1969. Less than two months after, in Wiesbaden, having mixed too much alcohol with too many sleeping pills, Marek Hlasko passed away, too.

Meanwhile hereditary criminal and psychopath Charles Manson once again left prison, founded a commune called “The Family” on a rancho nearby Los Angeles, and got into the hermeneutics of the lyrics of Helter Skelter from the Beatles’ White Album. As of the evening of August 8th, 1969, its hidden meaning had become obvious to him. At the same time, Roman Polanski, who had miraculously survived as a young man in Poland, having gotten through not only the general Holocaust but a personal attack of a serial killer, had to stay in London longer than expected to take care of some errands even though he was planning to return to Beverly Hills in a day in order to be there for the birth of his child with Sharon Tate, who was just changing to go to bed at the villa rented by the couple, where Wojciech Frykowski, Abigail Folger, and Jay Sebring frequently spent their nights. 

Thus, to the unasked question of the audience as to whether I enjoyed Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, I confidently answer: there was not a chance in the world I would not have enjoyed it. Although, to be fair, except for the rancho and Bruce Lee, none of the things I have blabbered about here are shown by Tarantino. And for this, I am especially grateful.

Translated from the Ukrainian by Oleksandra Boychenko
Excerpt from Marek Hlasko’s Beautiful Twentysomethings translated by Ross Ufberg. Northern Illinois University Press, 2013