My Polish Street: The Ballad of Pani Basia

I don’t remember the first time I saw Pani Basia, but I do remember the last. She was sitting on a battered chair on the pavement outside my building. Blue lights and paramedics were standing by, hands on hips. It looked like she’d fallen again. I didn’t see her fall, but then I didn’t see her fall the first time. We just found her on her back, struggling, for all the world like a cartoon turtle, except the splash of blood from her head wasn’t funny.