I am also covered in 21 mosquito bites/war wounds, 16 of which I got on my legs this evening while listening to a Jewish cantor in Kazimierz while the others were won in southern Poland. One of the latter, located on the back of my right thigh, swelled to three inches in diameter at its peak, which may be a record even for me. Considering that bite was made through jeans, this testifies to the toughness of Polish mosquitoes and that they, like the Polish people are survivors. This is the lesson that has been drilled into me by reading Michener’s Poland on Kathryn’s recommendation; because of Michener, I picture Tatars and Swedes and Germans sacking and rampaging every time we go through a village. Considering how often invaders seem to have engaged in killing sprees, I am amazed Poland has any population remaining.
Kathryn Paul and Rosemary Davidson are my father’s cousins on his mother’s side, and they constitute my very tall travel companions for this trip. Kathryn has done most of the research and relative-discovering and has been here several times before, and she is learning Polish. I get by on Polish for please, thank you, and a series of random words I am picking up (including paint—“farby”—and some slang word for tiny), and Rose does very well with charades.
We rented a car on Friday to give us mobility. I pack the car and pump gas, Kathryn holds the map, and Rose drives with proper European verve. All roads from Kraków also seem to lead back into Kraków, but we did eventually make it out of the city and were then able to figure out where we were and which road we should take south to Nowy Sacz, the largest town near our tiny ancestral villages. On a map, this is a very short drive, but considering the nature of Polish roads, the journey stretched over much of the day. It was a beautiful trip through what I am told (and what I believe) is the most beautiful area of Poland—undulating hills covered in forests and long strips of farmland, with villages and red-roofed houses sprinkled everywhere. The hills faded into the mist that day, making the view beautiful but impossible to capture in a photograph.
We stopped in Nowy Sacz for lunch (delicious pierogi and Tokay for me!) and to see the ethnographic museum. This took a bit of determination to accomplish, as the usual route Kathryn takes to the entrance was closed for construction and the secondary entrance was blocked by flood damage, but luckily I saw a construction worker giving another ethnographic-seeker directions, and we managed to interpret his pointing left then left again correctly. The museum is not one in the typical sense but rather a collection of period houses (perhaps 60) that have been moved from their original locations and arranged on a large piece of land in villages. They are furnished with authentic artifacts, the fields around them are farmed, and there are several churches that have been transplanted as well. Docents stand at certain houses to tell you how the inhabitants of each lived—mostly in Polish. Kathryn pointed out the smallest, meanest house of the Cracovian Mountaineers’ group, saying, “Remember that one.”
We drove on to visit our ancestral villages: Olszanka, Gołkowice, and Podegrodzie, just to the west of Stary Sacz. Kathryn pointed out our ancestral homes, and two of them looked much like the Cracovian mountaineer’s house, only with a shingled roof rather than thatched hay and quite well-maintained. The Olszanka house, however, looks as if it is barely held together by the cardboard, aluminum, and tiles fastened to its sides to keep out leaks. It was apparently a very desirable house in its heyday—an evil stepmother schemed for her son to inherit it rather than my ancestor. Its current inhabitants have not seemed to keep up with the rest of the village. We could see the well-managed Szabla farm behind it stretching up to the hilltop, a beautiful swath of land. I surveyed it as so many of my ancestors must have before me and felt quite proud…We took furtive photographs then drove away.
Despite its disrepair, the Olszanka house—the Szabla home—had the most interestingstory associated with it. The ancestor who immigrated to America, Lawrence Szabla, was four when his mother died in 1870 while pregnant with what would have been her 11th (at least living) child. It was during the time of a pogrom, and a Jewish family of six from the area came and asked Lawrence’s father to hide them. They kept the family in the attic, hiding them in the haystacks when soldiers came checking—and somehow the Jews evaded the stabbing pitchforks. My great-great-great-grandfather had to go hunting at night to get enough food to feed all 18 people. One day, as his wife—nine months pregnant—climbed the stairs to the attic to feed the family, she slipped, fell backwards, and bled to death.
Szabla means “saber” in Polish, so I have decided some ancestor must have distinguished himself in battle against the Turks. This seems at odds with the definite peasant status of our family, but I have a perfectly plausible story to explain the name if anyone ever asks.
We then found the nearby Olszanka house of Andrzej and Marysia Twardowki, our very distant relatives through Andrjez’s mother’s side whom a priest introduced to Kathryn on her very first visit to the area and who have adopted her into their family whenever she visits because they are unflaggingly friendly and hospitable. Andrjez’s parents (a perfectly aged Polish couple with bright, bright blue eyes and warm faces) live on the same piece of land, across the driveway, so they came over for dinner as well. As we all sat on the couch and armchairs, smiling and grasping hands and trying to convey wordless feelings, I felt very lucky and my eyes clouded with tears. We got by in a broken mixture of Polish, German, and English. Marysia is trying to learn English because of Katherine, but Andrzej refuses “because he is a true Polish patriot,” as he says accompanied by much chest-beating and a devilish wink. (Not really, though, because he loves to learn English phrases—we fear we have unleashed havoc upon the world by teaching him “just kidding.”) So the dictionaries were passed quickly and I often had to turn to Kathryn for translation, and everyone enjoyed themselves fully. I was so happy to be there that I ate every bite of the fish and some kind of liver bread that Marysia served us.
We spent the next day making pilgrimages to the graves of various Szablas, Krzaks, Gromalas, Łatkas, Twardowskis, Kolasas, and Wójciks in the village cemeteries. There was one at every turn; someone Kathryn once met said, “Krzaks grow in Gołkewice like mushrooms in a moist forest.” I am related to everyone we saw in the graveyards but not descended from any of them; they were all too recent. I like the Polish cemetery traditions—they keep little bristling forests of candles every grave at all times, ready to be lit on the Day of the Dead and other important days, and nearly every grave had several sets of flowers. Some even had built-in flower boxes in which plants could grow. On the most recent graves, every flower from the funeral had been piled on top so that you could barely see the granite slabs; they seemed to be buried in a tomb of flowers rather than earth.
Last time Kathryn visited, Marysia and Andrzej made her promise to return on a weekend so they could host a bonfire, and the long-awaited bonfire was finally held on Saturday evening. Eryka, their lovely sixteen-year-old daughter, arrived home from a friend’s wedding shortly after we did, and she took on the task of translating EVERYTHING. They took us outside to the lawn where Andrzej was building essentially a teepee of stocky, three-foot-long logs with a pile of twigs and brush inside. Once he lit it, we all sat around the fire (after moving the table once and teaching them the phrase “smoke follows beauty”) and watched evening fall over the spectacular view of the rolling hills from our vantage point on the ridge over Olszanka. Andrzej’s brother Kazimierz and his wife plus their sister soon arrived, and then the parents from next door while Marysia and Eryka set out the feast to come. Once the fire-teepee collapsed (a bit shocking without warning!), we roasted kielbasa over the fire on skewers freshly cut by Andrzej. There were also wild mushrooms from their forest and host of other delectable dishes to sample.
At her father’s insistence, Eryka called her boyfriend Stanisław to come over and help translate EVERYTHING. Of course, he showed up wearing a suit jacket. He was very charming and helpful. (Kathryn asked Andrzej if he liked Stanisław, and the answer was a conspiratorial smile and a nod.) The twelve of us sat up long past sunset, eating and drinking and sharing. I learned many Polish words, perhaps a third of which I remember. As purely Polish people, they were amazed that my ancestry is Polish/Native-American/French-Canadian/German/Swedish/Norwegian/Scottish/English/etc and we spent half an hour trying to explain how Rose and Kathryn weren’t Scandinavian but were Czech. Andrzej refused to believe it all until I had drawn three progressively larger family trees.
It was an ineffably perfect evening of the kind that you remember all your life. They are such very, very kind and hospitable people to make us feel immediately at home. I felt as if I belonged in that place—partly because of my ancestry, but so much because of them. The way Andrzej’s mother clasped my hand tight…They are a beautiful, welcoming family, and you could not ask for better people to discover as distant relatives. We all would have lived happily had we never met, but by a stroke of fate all our lives have overlapped a bit, and each one of us is richer for it. Visiting the graves was interesting, but living relatives are so much better than cold stones for making one feel connected.
They gave us their own beds to sleep in that night. We appreciated that gesture so much. As I lay in Eryka’s bed, I heard the breeze blowing through trees the same way all the Szablas must have as they fell asleep (definitely, because their windows didn’t have glass for a very long time) and thought of how I was only a minute away from our family’s land. Rarely have I ever had such a sense of place and connection. I felt as if I might open my eyes and have slipped back in time to the 1700s.
On Sunday, we breakfasted outdoors and then went to Mass (msza) in Podegrodzie in the church which Kazimierz (who is actually an artist of some renown) has painted. After the service, he showed us all around. The ceiling is a series of historic Polish saints, the walls have angels and murals, and the altar he designed himself. He does very good work, and I would hire him myself if I had a cathedral to paint. Paintings in cathedrals are always beautiful, but to know the artist personally and have such a connection makes them much more interesting!
We spent all afternoon with the same company and another fantastic meal. As it was Andrzej’s father’s name day, we sang “Sto lat” and I remembered the tune, if not the words. I hope the wish comes true for him and all of us so that we might all meet again. It was very hard to say goodbye. To be so warmly received as a near-perfect stranger is a beautiful thing.
Beautiful!!!
ReplyDeleteSo fun to read and remember.
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