Texts for Translation 2011:
  Nick Beake

Hanging in the Freezing Air
Nick Beake

Some words are
written phonetically: The village
of Dąbrówka Malborska is
where Monika Suchocka
came from.

Hanging in the Freezing Air
Nick Beake

Their singing is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever
heard. Soaring up to the brilliant white, high ceiling
of the 15th century nave. Hanging in the freezing air
before evaporating in an instant. The semi circle of
ten singers is illuminated by light streaming through
the stained glass window. They’re dressed in
traditional northern Polish choral robes: some
scarlet, others deepest green, two a cool blue. In
appearance, these choristers are a kaleidoscopic
collection. In song, they are as one.
But a voice is missing. “We performed this lament
at Monika’s funeral mass,” BORG-ZJEN-A, the
conductor, later explains. “It felt as though she was
with us. She was so talented, devoted to her singing
– a fantastic person.”
In July 2005, 23 year old Monika SUE-HOT-SKA
had been in London just two months. An
accountancy firm had taken her on as a trainee; she
was relishing the opportunity of exploring a city
she’d read so much about, and speaking the
language she’d learned enthusiastically for the past
7 years. Then one drizzly Thursday morning, on the
London Underground, she found herself in the same
crammed carriage as teenage suicide bomber
Germaine Lyndsay. She was one of 26 murdered on
that train. Another 26 (commuters) were killed in
three other explosions across the city.
The tiny village of DON-BROOF-KA Malborska in
northern Poland seems very far from the energysapping
commotion of central London. It’s perched
on gently undulating fields (and) just 310 people
call it home. In front of their modest bungalows lie
vegetable gardens. When I visited, the ground was
covered with snow -- the only splash of colour
amidst a blanket of white that of the blue village
phone box.
It’s hard to comprehend how events half a continent
away in London - almost 6 years ago, could have
such a profound effect on this distant place. But
they do.
“This is Monika’s room – it’s exactly how she left
it”. The words are ELA SUE-HOT-SKA’s. She
smiles gently with maternal pride at the neatness of
the university assignments organised on the desk.
The wardrobe creaks open to reveal thick woollen
jumpers carefully folded and stacked. “At first I
wanted to throw all this away – to forget,” she tells
me. “But then I realised I couldn’t. Now, every
month or so, I come in here, look round, sit down on
Monika’s bed. And then I cry.”
Mrs SUE-HOT-SKA, a primary school head
teacher, is a smiling, effervescent, bustling and
strong woman in her fifties. (She has the friendliest
of conspiratorial winks) One by one, she carefully
takes from a cupboard, numbered photo albums
which chronicle Monika’s all too short life: here is
the joyful scene of her 23rd – and last – birthday;
one of cake, candles, university friends, and
remnants of a celebratory meal.
(She pulls out a pristine copy of the London
Evening Standard newspaper marking the first
anniversary of the 7/7 attacks.)
Then comes one of the posters Monika’s friends in
London created and distributed in the days after the
attack. “Missing” it says. The photo, of Monika’s
smiling face, her shoulder-length brown hair, is a
copy of one which takes pride of place on the
mantelpiece.
What she produced next is something I know I will
never be able to forget. “This – really - is all I have
left,” she whispers. It’s a plastic wallet –
UNOPENED, but still the smell – the smell of the
burnt out tube carriage and all its horror – is
overwhelming.
There’s a white sticker on it embossed with the
Metropolitan Police logo. “Personal possessions
identifying Monika SUE-HOT-SKA,” it
RECORDS. There are emails printed on yellow
paper - the ink faded, charred at the edges.
Crumpled envelopes. And two, creased five pound
notes. Here in this small bedroom in northern
Poland is a glimpse of the horror of that summer
morning in London six years ago.
No-one can say why fate conspired to place this
young Polish woman at the centre of the worst
terrorist atrocity ever committed on English soil, but
this is no community wallowing in pity. “We don’t
ask why you took her, we only thank you for the gift
of her life” reads the inscription on her grave in the
cemetery just 300 metres from the family home.
Here, they cannot forget. But they can forgive.
ANYA KUL-ET-SKA went to high school with
Monika. She sat next to her in class. She’s now a
psychiatrist helping young people overcome drink
and drug problems. She TELLS me that when she
found out some of the bombers had trained in
Pakistan she decided to go there. She thought it
might help her better comprehend what they had
done.
“Monika’s mother gave me one of Monika’s scarves
so I could leave it in Pakistan,” she SAYS. “She
wanted a memory of her daughter to be there in the
hills forever.”
Anna pulls her own scarf closer to her neck –
protection from the icy wind. “And for me,” she
adds, quietly, “well … I wanted to try to forgive
them”
‘And did you?’ I ask. “Yes, I did,” she replies. “We
are nothing if we do not forgive.”

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