He survived two winters in a concentration camp in Siberia after leaving home at the age of 15 to fight for his country.
He was passionate and laughed constantly.
He walked out of a concentration camp across Europe to freedom and to join the enemies of his oppressors (sounds a bit melodramatic, but better than walking across Europe to join the Allies)
He avoided execution for his ideals close to his home town when his German mother came to beg for his life.
After 40 years of exile from his home country, he took his wife and his grandson back to communist Poland to reunite with his family.
He raced pigeons (against other pigeons).
His ears were large to start with, and they never stopped growing.
He survived unanaestheticized operations for gangrene on his frost-bitten legs.
He married by grandmother in somewhat unusual circumstances.
He sang while he cleaned the dishes.
He was the perfect host and would entice you to eat more kabanos and drink more vodka than you had ever anticipated.
He could teach any political candidate about charm while maintaining a thoroughly Eastern European accent.
He was the epitome of love and understanding to his family. He was strict a first, and then generous to a fault.
A beautiful warmth shone from him. You could not help but be affected by his smile.
He turned his hand to anything practical. He made things work.
He knew how to extract every ounce of nutrients from a chicken bone.
His love and devotion to my grandma and stubborn resistance to accept any form of help were an amazing sight. He would insist on carrying all of the cups of tea to the lounge from the kitchen, limping on an artificial hip and a cane between rooms, ushering everyone to sit down and relax.
He was a fantastic father figure in addition to my own father.
He is loved.
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