Poland’s shock, as seen by a Varese woman.

Elisa Leone (see photo) is a 27-year-old reader of ours, who, for one year and a few months, has been “our woman in Poland”; she has a degree in language mediation and intercultural communication, and during her studies she learnt the Polish language and about the Polish culture.

She writes, “After a year of European Voluntary Service in Bydgoszcs, in the north-east of Poland, I decided to move here, leaving my lakes and my mountains, although I still keep in touch via the Web.

“Today, in light of the dramatic events of this morning, I would like to present my perspective of this important occurrence, in part, to show my Polish friends how much I share their sorrow, and in part, to explain to you, in Italy, how we view this situation.” This is her story.

Poland sits down and cries, in disbelief, over her dead – Saturday morning promised to be like so many others. I remained under the covers, knowing I had the housework waiting for me, the “fine work”, as we say in Italy.

At 9 am, my flatmate took her first sleepy steps around the house, it was time to get up and to give her a hand. We chatted about the lovely dinner the previous night (I so wished that some of my Italian friends had been there with me), the milk was warming beside her whistling tea-pot. It was a normal, relaxed Saturday, in an Italian-Polish house. Then came the call. “Have you seen what’s happened? Turn the TV on,” and from that moment on, there was only chaos. Asia put the phone down and, in disbelief, her eyes staring into space, she told me, in the simple and straightforward manner typical of the Polish, what had happened. “The President is dead. His plane has crashed.”

In the morning, my Polish is a bit weak, so I wasn’t sure I had understood correctly; I chased her around the house, as she went to turn the television on. From then on, there was a non-stop whirl of news that became increasingly excited, increasingly confused, at least for me. The latest news scrolled too quickly at the bottom of the screen, and behind was a group of people praying in the middle of what looked to me to be a forest. A string of phone calls, people in disbelief, somewhat bewildered by the number of dead, by the importance of the victims’ names. One thing was immediately certain: the accident had been caused by the fog. Let’s not get lost in 9/11-type suppositions, please! I started searching the Internet for news in Italian to understand better what on earth was happening, but there, too, it was too vague, and too confused. There were both brothers, no, only one, Minister so-and-so, 87 dead, no, 130 …

At 1030 am, I put up my first, very vague, link on Facebook. We’re Italian and everyone knows that we always have to find the light and spirited side (if you will) of the news, drawing on our blackest, most macabre and cynical irony. And all of the Polish people understand this. And I am sorry. For both sides.

By 1 pm, I had become accustomed to the subdued sound of prayer on the TV, but, all of a sudden, as I was passing by an open window, I noticed that all of my neighbours were listening to the same channel. I looked out from my balcony, and heard the same sounds from the two buildings nearby. I looked out on the other side; along the whole street, there was the requiem for the unfortunate event.

The whole of Poland was in disbelief, in front of the TVs – The whole of Poland was sitting, in disbelief, in front of the TV, wondering what would happen in the future, who would replace these people, who represented not only the political class, but also the Polish culture and faith. At this moment, all of Poland felt for the families, and remembered back seventy years, when, in Katyn, where this delegation had been heading, 22,000 Polish soldiers were slaughtered by the red army. Asia was sitting beside me, and I saw a sad smile on her face, broken for a moment by a whisper. “Maybe Katyn is no place for Polish people … It has never brought us good.”

At 3 pm, as we ate lunch, the payers on TV gave way to a wonderful (excuse this adjective, but it was) commemorative report about the victims. Asia was absent, worried, she pretended to me that nothing was wrong, but I could tell from her movements that she was upset. I let her speak freely, I asked her only the questions I knew she wanted to answer. On the screen, the names of the victims scrolled by, including Ryszard Kaczorowski, the last President of the government in exile in London. I’d studied him at university and forgotten him, but there he was, in a photo, in front of me.

The phone rang, yet again, but it was for me this time; the cultural event planned for the following day in the association where I work had been cancelled, like all of the parties and worldly events of the week.

On the Internet, the logo of the town of Bydgoszcs was “in mourning”, and people waited to hear how the day of national mourning would be organised.

It was 5 pm, and from Krakòw, we received images of the solemn commemorative mass held in Wawel, the Cathedral of the great kings and leaders. Throughout the state, there was not a dry eye or cheek. In Warszawa, a huge crowd of people moved slowly towards the gates of the government building, to light a candle, to leave flowers in front of the gate, in order not to be alone in this most surreal of moments.

Poland was sitting, still in disbelief and astonishment, in front of the TV, crying for her dead. As an “adopted Pole”, there was nothing for me to do but sit beside her and hold her hand, as a friend, one she knows she can count on, one from whom she knows she won’t hear the words of detached, useless condolence. Empathy is shown by deeds, so now, my good sirs, let’s get down to work, there’s a government to rebuild, we mustn’t allow ourselves to be carried away by our feelings and by the instability of the moment.

Rise Poland, and look ahead, as you have always done, proud of your past, fearless and sure of your people and of your future.