Wisdom From Warsaw

by Clayton Callahan, Washington County Democrats Communications Committee Member

It was a long time ago, maybe 1988 or ‘89? And I was just old enough to drink beer without anybody asking serious questions. The guy I was drinking with was perhaps in his late fifties and a Polish defector. Mr Sherepa escaped communist Poland in the mid-1960s by using a twig to probe his way through a mine field and ended up the father of two of my college friends, Jan and Diane. In fact, we were drinking on the porch of Jan’s dumpy Dayton, Ohio apartment on a summer night as he stopped by on his way through town.

Mr Sherepa drained two cans of suds to my one, but he wasn’t drunk by a long shot. And as we chatted by the railing overlooking the street, his voice suddenly dropped an octave. I don’t know why he chose that moment, but he had something important to tell me. Something from his youth, when he too was finally old enough to drink whatever young men knocked back in Poland on summer nights. He told me of the time a mob screamed for blood, and how he’d come a hair’s breadth from committing cold-blooded murder.

It was 1956, and Hungary was rebelling against Soviet oppression. The Hungarian Uprising was an armed rebellion against the communist government and the policies of subordination to the Soviet Union. It lasted for fifteen bloody days before being brutally crushed by Soviet tanks. Thousands died. And in Poland, well, similar situations had led to similar sentiments. 

Young Mr Sherepa lived in Warsaw during the Hungarian revolt and the Polish city was on fire with political fever. He attended a rally in the city’s central square where impassioned speakers of renown cried for the end of dictatorship and a rebirth of Polish freedom! Young heart beating with fervent patriotism, Mr Sherepa listened to every stirring word and felt a newfound camaraderie with his fellow rally attendees. And as he listened to the speakers, the passion of the crowd soon became the passion of his soul. This was truth! This was justice! This was right! Down with the Soviet dictators!

And that’s when two dumb Soviet soldiers happened to take a wrong turn and entered the damn square.

Who were these two stupid schmucks? Probably just some unlucky draftees on their day off looking for a place to have lunch. But it didn’t matter, they were actual Soviet troops. The black boots of oppression were upon their feet and the red star of dictatorship glinted from their uniform caps. 

And the mob surged.

Screaming Polish curses that would make Saint Adalbert blush, the throng charged at the two lost troopers. And my friend, Mr Sherepa, was among that mob, having no other intention than to rip these two Russian soldiers limb from bloody limb!

And then, something unexpected.

Some random Pole detached himself from the mob. Not one of the rally’s famous speakers—no. Rather, the Pole was just some random schlub who’d chosen to stand apart. Showing insane courage, the stranger put his body between the soldiers and the mob and shouted reason at the top of his lungs. He implored them to remember that they were human beings, not stampeding cattle. He pointed out to them that murdering these two Russian kids would do nothing to bring down the Soviet empire. And he also reminded them that the guilt of such a killing would haunt them for the rest of their days on Earth.

And the spell was broken.

Mr Sherepa sipped his beer as the downtown traffic of Dayton, Ohio honked below his son’s porch. And then he looked at me, and said, “I never knew who that man was, but he saved me.” He shook his head before he continued, “I’ve always felt guilty about how I behaved that day, but also glad… very glad… that I never killed anybody.  Now, listen to me, boy, never give yourself over to a mob. You understand? Don’t you ever stop thinking for yourself.”

I nodded, but to this day, I confess that I don’t totally understand. Not as well as Mr Sherepa did anyhow. Oh sure, I’ve gone to protests and I’ve yelled and cried for justice. I’ve felt the passion of crowds and kinship with strangers who are standing up together for what’s right. But I’ve never been there when things got ugly, and I’m glad for that. But perhaps it’s not luck. Perhaps it’s wisdom. But I must confess, if it is wisdom… the wisdom is not mine. It belongs to an elderly Polish defector who I haven’t seen in over thirty years now. 

But to this day I must say, thank you, Mr Sherepa. And I hope you liked the beer.