A Souvenir for the Pani

;A suave cameraman from Warsaw Television—who had been brought in to train the interns, making everything feel very grown-up—shoved a long boom pole with a furry windscreen into my hands. He showed me the proper way to hold it: directly above the speaker’s head, as close to the sound source as possible, but just outside the frame so I wouldn't go poking it into the subject’s face. (That was it? And to think I had traveled all the way from Siberia to Europe just for this?)
;In our camera crew, roles distributed themselves naturally: Lesya-Ukrainka unequivocally assumed the mantle of lead journalist. A textbook overachiever, Lesya loudly intellectualized everything without letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, which instantly killed any desire I had to be proactive. Besides, I didn't speak Polish, whereas Lesya, being from Western Ukraine, was completely fluent. She was pushy, ambitious, and self-assured; so, fine—let her do the heavy lifting if she wanted it that bad. I was just along for the ride, content to stay in the background.
;“Honestly, what are you whining about?” I checked myself. “You’re in Poland, wearing a short skirt, and you’ll be heading to a restaurant in a red car soon enough! What's so bad about that?”
;Our first shoot was at some local Polish vocational school. Through its example, Pani Walevska wanted to find out how colleges were handling the Word of God; we were investigating the topic: "The Role of Religious Education in Polish Schools."
;“Oh, what a world of difference,” I thought ironically. “In Russia, a subject like that doesn't even exist.”
;To me, the whole issue seemed contrived—a classic case of first-world problems, a "struggle between the good and the better."
;And so, we barged into a classroom packed with teenage boys. It was quite a spectacle: the elegant Pani Walevska, radiant with her noble silver hair; our aging but ponytailed cameraman clad in a professional cargo vest with dozens of pockets, hoisting a massive video camera; the proud Lesya, making a statement in her traditional Ukrainian vyshyvanka; and me, in my faux-Chanel suit, black tights, high heels, and headphones, gripping a long pole with a gray, fluffy thing dangling from the end like some strange, unknown creature.
;I can only imagine how bizarre and comical I must have looked...
;A low, appreciative murmur rippled through the classroom, followed by scattered chuckles. Lesya turned around in bewilderment, took one look at me in my miniskirt, waving the boom pole around like a fishing rod, and couldn't help but smirk.
;That was how we worked: Pani Walevska directed, Lesya fired off questions, the cameraman aimed his lens from one youth to another, and I paced around the room with my bulky audio gear, inadvertently stealing a massive share of the attention.
;“...The moment Lelya walked in, looking like a total model—haha!—they all just stared at her. No one was thinking about religion after that,” Lesya joked later during lunch at an upscale restaurant.
;“Well, well, did you manage to shoot anything besides more 'talking heads'?” quipped one of the course instructors, a well-known film director sitting at the next table.
;“Pretty much,” I nodded.
;(And it was true. That’s all we did. Damian and Wojciech would have killed us for such sloppy work).
;“Any journalist can zrobi; a movie, but not every director can zrobi; a reportage,” Pani Walevska shot back, without a hint of a smile, before turning away.
;From there, our entire crew headed to a general education lyceum to check how they were faring with the Word of God.
;As fate would have it, the religion teacher at this school—the katechetka—happened to be an old acquaintance of mine, Maria Penkovska. Or just Marysia, for short.
;What a small world!
;...About five years prior, Brother Damian had brought my husband, Shurik, and me to Poland for an internship.
;We spent an entire month hanging out at the television studios in Warsaw. We met countless industry professionals with whom Brother Damian and Father Wojciech had once worked. Only then did we truly realize the caliber of the Polish powerhouses who had founded our Siberian Catholic film studio where we were lucky enough to work. Especially Wojciech.
;The popularity of the children’s show Ziarno ("The Seed"), which he hosted, was absolutely off the charts—a rare feat for a religious program. Its weekly Sunday broadcasts were eagerly awaited not just by kids, but by adults too, so captivating were the children's incredible adventures. Furthermore, Wojciech would invite major celebrities to answer "children's questions," and they happily took part in what seemed, on the surface, like a mere kids' show.
;Once, the guest of honor was Pope John Paul II himself.
;It was obvious that the Holy Father derived immense pleasure from chatting with his tiny compatriots, who swarmed all over him. He answered their questions with such warmth, simplicity, and humor:
;“Holy Father, do you like brushing your teeth?”
“No, not particularly.”
“Holy Father, did you get into fights with boys when you were a kid?”
“With girls, too.”
“Holy Father, do you like chewing gum?”
“I've never tried it. For some reason, they never give it to me.”
;The children were astonishingly uninhibited and natural on camera.
;Of course, Wojciech had his own secret formula for building the perfect team: he would cast half "angels"—obedient, well-behaved kids—and half "little devils"—the mischievous, troublemaking types.
;But there was one non-negotiable requirement for both: a vivid imagination.
;Wojciech would test the toddlers like this: he’d grab a handful of colored clay and hurl it against a wall. “What is this?” he’d ask, pointing at the resulting splatter. Anyone who couldn't see anything—a butterfly, a puppy, a bear cub’s head—didn't make the cut for the shoot.
;And year after year, it was Maria, a wonderful teacher and the kindest soul, who supplied him with those children.
;When our entourage of hotshot TV professionals showed up at her classroom door with all our gear, my face among them caught Maria completely off guard. In fact, I was so startled myself that I nearly dropped my long pole.
;Marysia rushed toward me to embrace me, but Lesya coldly cut her off. Everyone had to get back to business and start filming.
;I looked around. Sadly, there were more people in the production crew than there were students in the desks.
;The only ones who had shown up for class were the so-called misfits: a heavy, plain-looking girl with slicked-back hair, and two or three short, bespectacled boys. It seemed that all of fortune's favorites—the fashionably dressed beauties and the athletic boys in tight jeans—had collectively boycotted a subject as "uncool" as religion.
;As the school's principal, a majestic Jewish lady, had just told us: "In the pursuit of academic success, parents do not want to waste school hours on a subject that promises no visible advancement in life."
;“Marysia is going to lose her job at this rate,” I worried.
;Lesya, however, interpreted the low turnout differently—as a personal failure on the part of the teacher. Adopting a haughty demeanor, she began grilling Marysia right in front of the kids: Had she done everything she could to attract students? What was her methodology? And so on.
;Standing there, holding that ridiculous pole over Marysia’s head, I felt like a traitor. I couldn't even stand up for a teacher who was being publicly and undeservedly torn to shreds right before my eyes.
;Marysia began breaking out in flushed spots, stuttering and making excuses. Why is it that Christians so rarely stand up for themselves? Meanwhile, journalists seem to think that the ultimate hallmark of professionalism is the ability to be blatantly rude to someone's face during an interview.
;My heart ached for Marysia.
;During our previous trip to Poland, Marysia had generously taken Shurik and me into her enormous, old-fashioned apartment that she had inherited. It featured soaring ceilings and antique furniture.
;On our very first day, we noticed an elderly woman peering at us through the cracked door of one of the rooms. She showed no desire to greet us. On the contrary, whenever we walked past, she would hastily slam the door shut.
;The senile grandmother clearly viewed our arrival with hostility—who knew what we were up to.
;“She doesn’t bite,” Marysia would say with a laugh, trying to soothe her.
;We initially assumed she was Marysia’s relative. But she turned out to be a complete stranger—sick, frail, and entirely alone. Marysia had simply taken her in.
;Apparently, what the old woman feared most in the world was being thrown out of a house that wasn't hers. But her fears were groundless: as a devout Christian, Marysia had made the choice to care for her until the very end.
;The moment Lesya finally left Marysia alone, the teacher quietly slipped out of the classroom.
;As soon as I unburdened myself of the microphone and headphones, I bolted for my bag, where I always carried a small stash of Russian souvenirs, just in case.
;My hand found a small icon of the Iveron Mother of God. Surely Marysia had plenty of her own icons, but still—it’s the thought that counts. Besides, I didn't have anything else on me.
;At the far end of the hallway, I spotted her retreating figure. Marysia was walking with a heavy slouch. Indeed, in this pretentious lyceum, she looked rather plain in her modest, subtly colored dress—undoubtedly bought from a second-hand shop, knowing how much she disliked spending money on herself.
;Just by looking at her back, I could feel how deeply wounded she was. Oh, Lesya, to hurt such a gentle soul...
;Was it really Marysia’s fault that people were drifting away from Christianity in droves? Choosing instead to chase careers, make money, and dream of material wealth to live solely for their own pleasure—and raising their children to do the exact same thing?
;Catching up to Marysia, I threw one arm around her shoulder while using the other to extend my souvenir.
;Before she could even turn around to see me, the familiar Holy Image appeared before her eyes.
;“Oh, Mary,” she whispered, freezing in her tracks, on the verge of tears, her hands clasping together in prayer.
;Heavens, the way she looked at the Virgin and Child! She reached out, tenderly took the icon, and pressed it tightly to her chest. Then she threw her arms around me. Her face transformed into an expression of pure, unadulterated happiness.
;And suddenly, it hit me—this wasn't a gift from me at all. This was a message from Heaven meant specifically for Marysia, filled with solace and love. It was exactly what needed to happen, right at that moment.
;How incredibly grateful I am that it was my hands used to deliver it.
;Koh Samui, 2024