I left work early today. The flat was a mess, so I tidied up. Here it is beginning to grow cold, but it’s still mild for the season. In the mornings it’s best to wear a coat, but the midday sun is strong, and on the avenues of Midtown businessmen take off their suit jackets during lunchtime, their white shirts glistening in the winter light, their gym-trained asses pushing against the fabric of their trousers as they move purposefully down the street. Not like at home, where by now people must be wrapped in scarves and hats. I bet the air is already sharp, stings your face. I remember that cold, the merciless crisp cold of Warszawa in December. And for a moment it feels as if I am there among the smell of diesel and burning coal, the long broad avenues with the Palace of Culture looming over us, you beside me. Of course I still see them here, the Poles, in the streets of Greenpoint, buying their poppy-seed cakes and pierogi and twaróg cheese. I spot them a mile off. So easily. Like recognizing like. But the ones that come here are different—they have hope in their eyes, just as I did when I arrived. They are awake.

I switched on the TV at ten o’clock. A speech by Reagan, images of some space shuttle, Muhammad Ali falling to the ground in the ring. Then the image behind the presenter changed to a white-and-red flag and my insides turned weightless. “Martial law continues in Poland,” said the lady with her bleached teeth and wide-shouldered blazer.

“Despite the expulsion of foreign journalists, we have evidence that the Polish army has stationed tanks and thousands of troops in the five largest cities across the country in response to a wave of protests. Experts say this move shows the government’s desire to solve the crisis without the help of the Kremlin, in an attempt to avoid an escalation of violence. Despite this, the Soviets’ military bases in Poland remain on call.”

A photo filled the screen for a moment, showing a tank parked on a snowy square, a couple of soldiers climbing out of its hatch. Right behind them a building I recognized with a pang of nostalgia—the Moskwa, a cinema where Karolina and I used to go sometimes. But most remarkable: the poster that hung above the tank, “Apocalypse Now” in bloody red type, the new film by Coppola. For a moment the absurdity of it filled my throat, threatened to suffocate me. All these years they’d let us watch foreign films, allowing us glimpses of the world across the Wall, of freedoms we didn’t have. Did they really think we’d be still forever?