The Holiday (Part 2)

Please read Part 1 first (see below).  Thanks.

From there we headed off to Krakow, and quite possibly the most famous cemetery in all of Poland.  Rakowicki Cemetary (Rako-vitskee) is the final resting place for many Polish celebrities, including singers, poets, boxers, and the parents of Pope John Paul II (there were literally thousands of candles surrounding their graves, giving you an idea of the sort of reverence the Poles have for the only Polish Pope.)  People join waiting lists at birth to have the opportunity to have their bodies laid to rest here.  And who wouldn’t?  The towering elms, gothic tombstones and sheer size of the cemetery easily make it the most impressive I have ever seen.
 
But the most salient aspect of this cemetery (aside from its size) was the hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers’ graves scattered around the cemetery.  And not just graves for Polish soldiers: British, Australian, South African, New Zealander, and Russian graves memorialized the names of those who made the ultimate sacrifice..  I was told that there were some American graves as well, but we didn’t chance upon any of these.  At the center of the soldiers’ area was a large monument, depicting soldiers in battle.  It was especially poignant.

In need of a break from the day’s activities, we ventured into Krakow proper for an amazing dinner at a French/Polish restaurant housed in the cellar of some seemingly-ancient building.  I will never forget my meal, because I will likely never have anything like it again: Cutlets of venison, wild boar and veal (sorry Laura) stuffed with cranberry, apple, and raspberry, respectively.  Given my meal choice (and the fact my friend’s dad was paying) I was going to play it fiscally conservative on the wine, but recollections of their backyard tennis court (coupled with my friend’s less-than-modest order) convinced me that the authentic French Bordeaux was the best bet.  Impoliteness never tasted so good.

Krakow itself is an amazing city- and one that I will most certainly check out more thoroughly.  It is one of the few cities in Poland that was left virtually unscathed after WWII, and as such, much of its architecture is perfectly preserved.  Krakow’s rynek (main square) is the largest in Europe.  There is a large wall protecting the rynek and the rest of the Stare Miasto (Old City) that was built in some absurd time like 1270.  This is what I’ve come to expect from Poland…gazing up at things and thinking “Wow, this ridiculously resilient arrangement of ancient stone is literally older than dirt (top soil, at least).”  Again, you just don’t find this sort of thing in America.

We returned to Katowice for the remainder of the weekend, where I enjoyed some much-needed R&R.  Elemental to this R&R was the fantastic cooking of my friend’s mom.  Whether it was breakfast or dinner (a formal lunch doesn’t really exist in Poland…think of it more like snack) no effort was spared.  Fresh sausage for breakfast, along with various cheeses, spreads and other sliced meats (if you can’t deal with a large, savory breakfast, go to Paris you weenie).  Dinner featured such polish stalwarts as Golabki (gowaup-kee: stuffed cabbage), Pierogi (potato pasta stuffed with meat, cheese, vegetables or berries), and a delicious mushroom and dumpling soup.  I could go on, but Polish food deserves, and will receive, its very own entry at some point in the near future.

The rest of the weekend was filled with some great runs, visits with my friend’s extended family, and some unbelievable conversations with her parents.  We talked a lot about life in Poland under communism (a mere 20 years ago): about waiting for hours in line for butter, cheese or milk; about blowing a tire and having to wait 3 months (while walking 5 miles to work each day) for a new one; about old folks who wish communism would come back so they can sit on their ass and get paid.  Perhaps most emphatically, I was told a story about the family's last name.  Apparently, under German occupation the family's name was changed to make it compatible with the German language.  Even after the war, the communist government did not allow the family to change their name back.  Only in the waning years of the communist regime, were they allowed to reclaim their family name.  As a result, my friend (born in 1985) has a slightly different last name than her brother, born several years prior.  The story struck me as the epitome of government control: when you can’t even have your own name.

On All Saints Day, we woke up early and headed to church for mass.  The primary church in the area was being renovated, so a smaller, temporary chapel had been erected just in front of the old one.  I was told we had to leave early or we wouldn’t get a seat.  I had never heard of a church being filled to capacity, so naturally I lallygagged (is my family the only one who uses this word?) and we left for the chapel about 15 minutes before the mass was scheduled to start.

Apparently my friend had informed her family about my inability to get anywhere on time, as they had built in a time buffer to accommodate my tardiness.  It took about 2 minutes to drive to the chapel.  Still, when we arrived, not only did we not get a seat, WE WEREN’T EVEN IN THE BUILDING.  And its not like we were alone out there: about 60 others joined us in the 30 degree weather as speakers piped the priests words to those with similarly inconsiderate friends and/or family members.  I couldn’t even believe it.  Maybe my experience was not normal…but has anyone else ever- EVER- had to wait for a seat at an American church?  I mean, back in my day the priests were practically paying people on the street to come in.  I think they gave out jelly beans and stuff.  Hell, my church even had a special room encased with sound-proof glass for families with small children so all the “normal” churchgoers could glare in (silent) horror as those of us in the “cage” dealt with my brother Ben ripping 1^st Corinthians out of the bible to throw at Adam who proceeded to bite Ben, leading to Ben’s decision to push Adam’s snot-ridden little face onto the aforementioned sound-proof glass.  Oh yea, people we’re breaking down the doors to get into that church.

But thanks to my fine catholic rearing, I had no problem recollecting the catholic mass tradition, despite the fact that the entire thing was conducted in Polish.  I kneeled in what I assumed was the general direction of the altar before we got to our grass ‘pew’.  I ‘amen-ed’ when I was supposed to ‘amen’.  I was ‘peace be with you’-ing with the best of ‘em.  All in polish of course (luckily amen is the same).  Though when it came time to take communion I was somewhat worried because a couple years ago I had decided to no longer take it.  My friends and her parents are fairly devout and I didn’t want them to look down at me as some godless heathen (not that they would, but you never know).  But when it came time, not one of the individuals in my party moved.  In fact, only about 1/5^th of those present took communion.  I asked my friend later why so few people took communion.  She said that it is a sin to take communion before you had gone to confession.  Apparently I had missed that part in Sunday School.  And apparently so had just about everyone else who went to my church, who took communion almost every Sunday.  But this is how it is in America…its about keeping up with the Jones’s.  If Mr. Jones takes communion, you can bet the farm I’m gonna take communion too, regardless of whether or not I have already confessed, lest I create the assumption that Mr. Jones is holier than myself.

While church was certainly an experience, my personal highlight of the weekend came that evening when we went to the local cemetery for yet another round of grave cleaning.  But this time was special.  And it was not about the size of the graveyard, or the architecture, or even who was buried there.  It was about the light….

We went at night, but you could see the graveyard glowing in the distance as we approached.  It lit up the whole block.  Hundreds, thousands of candles.  Ten, twenty, thirty to every gravestone.  All flickering silently as families moved quietly down the rows; some praying others chatting with neighbors, friends.  Even some light laughter in some cases.  But the most shocking thing was that there were no tears.  Over the course of the entire weekend I didn’t see a single tear.  Not one.

In fact, as we walked to each grave, my friend’s father would tell me a bit about the person beneath the stone we were looking at.  He’d say some things about his or her life, and he would also say some things about their death.  And as uncomfortable as this sounds, it was not uncomfortable at all.  It was…dare I say...somewhat reassuring.

Let me explain: there is no way we could do this holiday in the US.  I mean, we could probably do it, but it wouldn’t be pretty.  Total sob-fest.  Mascara and tissue companies would make a fortune.  It would be miserable.

But in Poland, there was none of this.  As my friends father explained the life and death of the various departed, he did it very matter-of-factly.  It wasn’t that he didn’t miss the person.  In contrast, as he described specific characteristics of the individual before us, it was clear that he missed them deeply.  But it was as if he had already cried his tears, and had decided that it was time to move on.  And it wasn’t just him…I looked around, and everyone was acting the same way.  No wavering voices.  Just simple, declarative tones.  “And that’s the way it is.”

I suppose you can look at a country like Poland and come to your own conclusions as to why this is true.  There is a generation in Poland, still living today, that has seen two world wars come to its soil.  This generation has endured the loss of 6 million of its citizens, and 300,000 of its soldiers.  They’ve been occupied by three different foreign forces, forced to move from their homes, change their names.  Forced to stand in line for 3 months to buy a tire.  Generations prior dealt with similar issues.  Suffering is a stark reality in the consciousness of Poland.

But I don’t think it’s a numbness to pain that allowed my friend’s dad to calmly walk me through the life and death of his family.  No, I think it’s an ingrained resilience; a well-developed ability to take some lumps, admit some defeats, yet emerge better despite the wound.  There’s a lot of pride in this.  Poland could have been wiped off the map, yet here it stands today as the most prosperous nation in Eastern Europe.

The symbolism of the light dancing around the cemetery was not lost on me as I considered this thought.  We walked slowly and quietly out of the cemetery and back to their home.      

The Holiday (Part 1)

Authors Note: Hello.  For those who didn't see me during my holiday trip to the US, please take this return to the blog-sphere as evidence that I am still among the breathing.  For those who did see me during my visit, read the following as proof that I did safely and successfully reenter Poland, despite the fact that I may have illegally transported excessive amounts of alcohol out of their country.  For those Polish law enforcement officials who may be reading this blog please ignore the last sentence (and the part below in which I trash on Katowice).  Props on your English, by the way.


Finally, please note that the passage below details a trip I took in late October/ early November.  Much of the post below was written directly after the trip, but not finished until this moment.  Due to length, I have split the post up into two parts for easier reading.  Please enjoy.  


A couple weeks ago a Polish friend asked if I'd be interested in traveling to her house for the upcoming holiday.

"What holiday?" I asked.
"All Saints Day."  she replied.

Like a good (former) Catholic (sorry Memere) I was quickly able to recall how we celebrated All Saints Day.  We went to Church.  I think the homily was longer than usual.  I wanted no part of this.

"How do you celebrate all Saints Day?" I asked with some hesitation.
"Traditionally, families go to the cemeteries where their loved ones are buried, and spend the weekend cleaning their graves, and decorating them with flowers and candles.  There is mass on the Holiday, and in the evening we visit the graves again to pay our respects."

And then you spend the next week taking anti-depressant medication, I thought.  I politely told her I'd consider her offer and began searching for more uplifting alternatives.

As it turns out, 90% of Poles are members of the Catholic Church, so there wasn't much in the form of alternative entertainment options that weekend.  So I sucked it up and decided that I'd chalk the weekend up to "cultural immersion" and hopped into a car bound for Katowice (Kat-to-veet-sa).  And to be honest, as we got closer to our destination, I was actually a little excited about what I was about to experience.  This would be my first trip to your standard Polish household, and I would also get the opportunity to visit nearby Krakow (Krack-ov), well-regarded as one of Europe's hidden gems.  Regardless of the death I was soon to be surrounded by, I was going to make the most out of this holiday.

But this optimism was quickly thwarted as we pulled into suburban Katowice, which isn't exactly a tourist hot spot.  I'd probably compare it to Newark, but then again I'm been lucky enough to avoid Newark so its only a hunch.  Katowice is the seat of the Upper Silesia region, most recently known as Poland's industrial base.  It has all the qualities I love to hate about suburban America: sprawl, traffic and pollution.  But this being Poland, they have their own take on the picket-fenced acrylic-sided mcmansions sprouting up on cul-de-sacs across America: wrought-ironed-enclosed post-communist cement boxes positioned around a labyrinth of dead-end streets.  Add to this the oppressive air pollution brought on by coal power plants sitting in a valley quickly approaching the dead of winter and you can come to see why vodka is so popular in this country.

But the picture I'm painting is too bleak: My friend's house was actually quite nice.  Both of her parents are building engineers and it showed. Vertical spiral staircases leading to wonderfully grained hardwood floor.  A well-arranged kitchen complete with refrigerator and oven disguised as cupboards.  And my personal favorite, a transparent glass door leading to the wrap-around bathroom complete with that most European of essentials: a bidet (I had actually never seen one before).  The backyard was large and featured flower and vegetables gardens, a pear tree, and a workshop, tennis court and pond (all currently under construction).  Later, when we hopped in the car, I was pleasantly surprised to find a built-in GPS, with capabilities in several languages.  (If this paragraph doesn't break some of your stereotypes of Poland, I don't know what will.) 

My friend's parents were absolutely fantastic.  In a country where the majority of over-40's speak little to no English, her parents were virtually fluent.  They were among the first adults (who knows when I'll start considering my peers and myself members of this special group) I had met whom I could speak with.  And with a long weekend ahead of us, there was a lot of speaking to be done.

On the first full day of the trip, we made a series of visits to the cemeteries.  We had to do the cemetery visits over several days, because my friend’s relatives are buried all over the Silesia and Lesser Poland provinces (not a typo, the English translation is Lesser Poland…could you imagine living in the state of Lesser America?).
 
When we arrived to the first cemetery, I realized that Polish people do not screw around with this holiday.  The first cemetery we went to was quite small (by Polish standards), and the place was packed.  Not only by the cars and people working their way through the parking lot, but especially by the commercial establishments that had set up shop outside the cemetery to sell any and every type of flower and candle that you could ever want on your great-grandmother’s tombstone.  This was big (and colorful) business, and was the first of many rich cultural experiences to follow.

But once you stepped foot in the actual cemetery, the hubbub of the parking lot quickly dissipated and gave way to a striking solemnity.  In Poland, graves are marked not by a simple tombstone, but by the entire tomb itself.  This makes each memorial upwards of 8 feet long and 4 feet wide, creating a stark awareness of the former human life you were now surrounded by.  It was especially powerful when passing the smaller tombs, with correspondingly small gaps between the numbers on the stones.

We visited several graves and spent some time sweeping and scrubbing each one.  Once they were up to snuff, we placed several lanterns on the tombs and lit them.  The candles were large and would most certainly burn for several days.  After the lighting, my friend and her parents took a few moments to pray and reflect before moving on the next grave.  This task was repeated at every grave we stopped at.
 
Without doubt, the most humbling moment of my entire experience in Poland to date occurred when I came across some pot-marked gravestones.
 
“Co to jest?” (What is this?)  I asked my friend’s dad.

“Bullet holes.” He replied.  “From the war.”

He need not elaborate.  You just don’t have to face that sort of thing in America.