My first rainy day in Kraków—before we travelled down to the south of Poland for the ancestral visit, if you remember—was rather tiring, between hardly sleeping the night before for fear I would miss my plane, running through yet another major European airport as I had to switch terminals during my layover in Berlin which required going back through security, and the blister my soaking wet shoes gave me. But I made it to Kraków after all, and I resourcefully stuffed a napkin in my shoe to keep it from rubbing, so in reality it was a very good day. Despite the downpour, I could see that Kraków is a beautiful city. Although Hitler despised Poland, he was very fond of Kraków and planned to make it his home once he had conquered the world and so on, so it escaped most of the bombing of WWII. Nearly all its old and lovely buildings are still intact.
This means, of course, that Kraków’s medieval street system is also still intact. There is one major boulevard that rings the old city where the city walls used to be, a maze of streets and pedestrian zones in the downtown, and a spreading web of roads leading out into its many suburbs. Therefore, Kraków is a complete mystery to drive in, especially when summer road construction is factored. Every single taxi we took to our hotel drove a different route, and these were usually only five minute trips—so you can just imagine.
We visited the main square and a long market hall of stands selling furs, amber jewelry, and Polish souvenirs. After poking our heads into a few more woodcarving shops, we trudged through the rain to Wawel Castle where Kathryn and I wanted to see the exhibit of Turkish tents. They were left behind by the hurriedly retreating Turks in 1683 when their two-month siege of Vienna was ended by troops under the command of the Pole Jan Sobieski, and the troops hauled them all the way back to Poland as booty. Most were undergoing renovation, but the ones we saw were incredibly ornate. To think that people waged battle in such luxurious circumstances…
At dinner, I tried borsch and stained my teeth red and also discovered the deliciousness that is pierogi. I haven’t had those delightful dumplings since I left Poland, and oh how I miss them!
When we returned to Kraków several days later after our tour of the Nowy Sacz area, the weather had changed entirely. The heavy downpour was replaced by the beginnings of a heat wave that I think is still ongoing here in Germany, and everyone was happy to see the ground finally begin to dry out after the torrential rains of the spring. We stayed in a bed-and-breakfast north of the train station whose owner was French and spoke very little English, so it was my turn to serve as translator. Apparently once during the night, Kathryn overheard me talking in my sleep in French.
Rosemary’s leg was hurting horribly, so she recuperated that evening while Kathryn and I went to Kazimierz, the old Jewish quarter of Kraków where Schindler’s List is partially set. The annual Jewish cultural festival was occurring, and a Jewish cantor from the US—Benzai Miller—sang from the steps of the Isaak Synagogue. Not chanting at all, as Kathryn and I had expected, but beautiful soaring Hebrew songs composed by a Kraków native. Some were joyful and everyone clapped along; some were very sweet and mournful. The audience stood it the courtyard below and spilled out into the street around, almost blocking it to traffic. (Thus I got my 21 mosquito bites. My total is now up to 48, if you are curious.) Of all places in all the world to hear such music, the Jewish quarter of Kraków must be one of the most poignant. I felt very lucky.
The next day, Kathryn and I toured the Wieliczka salt mines. The mines were very deep and cool, which I don’t think I appreciated fully at the time. One of the largest caverns had been hollowed out into a cathedral (of course, because this is Poland and this is what is done!) over 25 years. I never thought of salt as being beautiful, but that underground salt cathedral was perhaps one of the loveliest I have ever seen. (And because I am at this point quite blasé about cathedrals, you can believe me.) No stained glass windows—instead, everything glimmered softly because of the salt.
That afternoon, we had the grand adventure of trying to find a certain medical clinic to have Rose’s leg examined. What would have taken 15 minutes if we mere mortals had understood how to drive in Kraków instead took over 1.5 hours, but luckily we were prepared and had given ourselves so much time to find the place that we arrived an hour early. The doctor diagnosed Rosemary with tendonitis from all the walking she had been doing but did an x-ray to make sure there were no bone problems. Rose came marching down the hall after this, cane in one hand and x-ray victoriously held aloft in the other, very excited because she got to touch her x-ray and take it back to the US—plus it only cost $15! She declared that she is coming back to Poland if she ever wants a facelift.
After thus deeming the Polish medical system a rousing success, we ate a delicious dinner then spent an hour sitting in the main square and people-watching. Rose taught me the game of looking for the first naturally beautiful person to walk by, which will probably entertain me for the rest of my life. We watched a concert in the Peter and Paul Cathedral—I liked the A minor Corelli piece and the rendition of “Over the Rainbow,” but they took the “Theme from Schindler’s List” twice as fast as I like it, which was a pity.
Taxis don’t drive down in front of the cathedral usually; it seems to be mainly a pedestrian zone. I walked two blocks to find a taxi once the concert ended, and when I did, the driver didn’t speak any English. Thus, explaining that my second-cousin-once-removed (if that is the relationship?) couldn’t walk well and needed to be picked up in front of the cathedral and then taken elsewhere was not going well. Thinking I just wanted to go to the cathedral, he kept shaking his head and making walking motions with his fingers. I thought for a second then desperately said, “Babcia,” the Polish word for “grandmother” that I had felicitously picked up. Comprehension spread across his face immediately, and he got into the taxi—no more questions asked!
The next day, I caught a bus to Oświęcim, a town 1.5 hours away from Kraków which bears the name Auschwitz to the rest of the world. It was a heavy experience, but I am glad I went. It is so very, very significant, and it felt like my chance to pay my respects to the Holocaust dead. The most difficult thing to see was the piles of suitcases because each one had a name painted on its side. The most moving thing was seeing the German boy on my tour—young, strong, blond-haired, blue-eyed—wiping tears from his eyes when we stood in a gas chamber. The most horrifying part was seeing the vast field of chimneys (the remnants of burned barracks) as Auschwitz-Birkenau that stretch so, so far into the distance, because nothing else conveyed the scope of the Holocaust as vividly.
In the movies, Auschwitz is always freezing and misty, but that day it was blisteringly hot, and as that weather is my personal hell, I was glad to escape back to Kraków and another evening in the city square. I heard the trumpeter of Kraków several times; the melody he plays is haunting.
We trained to Warszawa the following day—it was instantly modern and huge, a bit of a shock after the glowing charm of Kraków. The main Kraków train station still uses numbers on cards on the main list of train times by the ticket office, and Warszawa’s Centralny station is made of glass and steel and reminded me of Zurich. Walking around the city, I felt like I could be in any major US city due to the width of the streets and the style of the buildings. This is, of course, because the Nazis practically leveled the city after the 1944 Warsaw Uprising, and the Soviet bombing on their sweep through probably finished the job.
Kathryn and I spent the afternoon at the Warsaw Uprising Museum. Fascinating and inspiring, the way an entire city joined together in planning an uprising for years and then managed to fight off the Nazis for two months. It is an awe-inspiring heritage.
The Soviets did a beautiful job of restoring the old town, for which I must give them credit, as all of it but one wall was destroyed after the uprising. It was definitely a place for young couples to wander at night…And that was the end of my tour of Poland.
I think Poland is a captivating country. (It has handsome men, the best-dressed women I’ve seen in all of Europe, and they drink hot white chocolate—it’s practically heaven.) Obviously I loved it; I keep writing endlessly long blog entries about it. But I finished Michener’s Poland a few days ago, and the phrase near the end about the sound of hobnailed boots is haunting me.
Photos.
Photos.
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