Finding Myself in Fashion Read Online Free

life—one that would allow me to realize all the dreams they never could, and then some.
    My mother often spoke about her longing to return to Poland, and maybe even visit Kozowa, now in Ukraine. But it was hard for her to get up the nerve to confront her past. After my father died, my mother said she would consider going back only if my sister and I accompanied her. The opportunity never arose. And frankly, I was afraid that a trip to Poland might be too emotionally exhausting for my mother. But fate has a funny way of delivering things that are meant to be.
    In 1995, thanks to the LINK Group, a fashion promotion agency that had bought the rights to Fashion Television for satellite broadcast in Poland, I was given the opportunity to travel to Warsaw. Apparently, our show had been pirated across the Eastern European airwaves for years, and I was a well-known entity there—a mini-celeb, if you will. Now that FT was going to be delivered to Poland legitimately, the broadcast execs wanted to celebrate by bringing me over. It was too good an opportunity to pass up, especially because I knew the perfect roommate and translator—I asked my mother to accompany me. My supervising producer, Marcia Martin, and the Toronto exec who had made the deal were also on board for this first-class trip.
    Days before we were to leave, my mother expressed concern as we filled out our visa applications. “It’s asking what my father’s name was,” she said apprehensively. “I don’t want to write ‘Moses.’”
    â€œWhy not? That was his name, wasn’t it?”
    â€œBecause then they’ll know we’re Jewish,” she explained.
    â€œMum, you don’t have to be afraid anymore,” I told her. “You’re a Canadian citizen now. And the war is over.”
    The next day my mother phoned to tell me how excited she was about our impending trip. “But please try to understand,” she said. “I was so scared for so long.”
    Our welcome at the Warsaw airport was ultra glam: four gorgeous models dressed in prim grey suits, each carrying a huge bouquet of roses, marched towards us upon our arrival. It was 8:30 in the morning, and there was a posse of Polish TV crews and newspaper photographers there to capture the excitement. My mother turned to me in disbelief. We felt like rock stars.
    Our host in Warsaw was Jack Orlowski, an affable fellow who headed up the LINK Group. He had known my mother was coming, and he offered to drive her directly to the Natan Rappaport Memorial, which commemorates the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising of April 19, 1943. The massive monument depicts Mordecai Anielewicz and other members of the community who barricaded the gates of the walled ghetto against the Nazis. (By the time the uprising ended, on May 16, 1943, at least seven thousand people had been killed, and tens of thousands more had been captured and transported to concentration camps.) In the trunk of Jack’s Mercedes was a glorious wreath he had thoughtfully brought for my mother to place at the monument.
    We arrived at the Umschlagplatz, the centre of the infamous ghetto, and stepped out of the car onto the cobblestone square. Jack carried the flowers. My mother’s eyes were misty. She turned to me, incredulous that she had made it this far. “If you live long enough,” she observed, “you live to see everything.” She gingerly climbed the stairs and rested the wreath at the base of the monument. I was overwhelmed by disparate emotions—joy, sorrow, peace, loss, and a sense of profound reverence. In a strange way, I felt as though I had come home. I closedmy eyes and sensed those thousands of tormented souls, screaming out to be remembered. When I opened my eyes, my mother hugged me and, wiping away her tears, thanked me for bringing her on this amazing trip. As frivolous as I’ve sometimes found the fashion arena to be, I silently thanked it for making all