October 9, 2023

Dateline – Krakow, Poland

There is no rest for the wicked or the weary – or for those booked on European tours. Up early this morning for a walking tour of the old city with an experienced guide who actually knew the stories and the history. My knowledge of Polish history, is hazy at best at baseline, consisting of vaguely knowing of various kings with unpronounceable names and that the country has been somewhat of the piñata of Europe, having been bludgeoned and marched across by various invading powers for a millennia – to the point where it ceased to exist for most of modern European history, having been partitioned between Prussia/Germany, Russia, and the Austrian-Hungarian Empire for most of the 18th and 19th centuries, only coming into being again after World War I. What I did learn today is that Krakow was part of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire during this partitioning, and was freer than the rest as the Hapsburgs new they had to allow a certain degree of autonomy to keep such a disparate peoples as the Austrians, the Hungarians, and most of the Slavic states together in a single coalition. I also learned that the city was spared the bombings that ravaged so much of the rest of Mittlel Europa during World War II and that all of the Medieval architecture was indeed original and that the old city still adheres to the plan drawn up after the Mongol Horde sacked the city in the 13th century.

We started out with a short walk along the Vistula to castle hill where Wawel Castle, the royal castle for most of the Polish monarchy sits. It’s a limestone hill with a large cave beneath which was the lair of a legendary dragon (the myth being born out by the discovery of enormous bones in its depths. Modern techniques have shown them to be from mammoths, cave bears, and even a whale rib, dragged there by Neolithic peoples for who knows what purpose. The castle and its attendant cathedral are a mishmash of styles from gothic to renaissance to baroque due to its continuous changing of hands and need for subsequent powers that be to leave their mark. The cathedral is small, as far as gothic edifices go, but richly decorated, mainly with cenotaphs to various important personages and with some rather peculiar baroque chapels grafted on to the main building. The day was cold, gray, and dreary, and it started to rain about half way through our time up the hill so I was letting my mind wander.

Then down the other side of the hill, up the Royal Road into the center of town and a stop at the basilica of the Blessed Virgin. The trumpet of Krakow still sounds hourly from the higher tower, special members of the fire brigade being chosen to play the melody from a window facing each of the four directions every hour on the hour, a sort of medieval smoke alarm continued for tadition’s sake. The melody cuts short of the end; legend being that this is where the watchman, playing the song to warn the town of the impending Mongol invasion, was felled by a Mongol arrow. (Given that this church tower wasn’t built till several centuries after the Mongols, I’m not sure how historically accurate this all is, but it’s a nice tradition.)

After an hour of putting my feet up, it was time to get on the bus to make a visit to Auschwitz. I feel you cannot visit this part of the world without paying witness to the unspeakable for which that word has become synonymous. I know a little about Holocaust history, having done some reading starting at a young age. World War II and its aftermath were the formative years of my parents and I was allowed to look at and read the large Time-Life books about World War II at a very young age and taught to understand what had happened and why. Auschwitz is about an hour and a half out of town in the middle of the Polish countryside, chosen because of its easy rail access and the availability of ready made barracks confiscated from the Polish army. It was grey, wet, the camp streets were full of mud, and it couldn’t have been a more fitting atmosphere in which to walk under the infamous gate inscribed Arbeit Macht Frei.

We spent about an hour and a half at the original Auschwitz camp and then another hour at the nearby Birkenau which was constructed to add significantly more space for prisoners and to function as a death camp for the Jews of Europe. It was dusk when we arrived at Birkenau (we’re relatively far north so dark is coming early) and looking down the tracks through shadows and for to where the selection platform stood was disquieting. My mind was turning another tour group at the far end into a group of SS. I am young enough to have no personal memories of the Holocaust but old enough to have met survivors, to have friends who lost family, to care for veterans were part of the liberation forces and who were tasked with documenting the horrors, and in general feel that it remains part of my formation and life experience. Looking at the exhibits regarding the rise of Nazism and its antisemitism, it is impossible for me not to see the parallels to some of what is happening in modern American politics. The Nazis didn’t start with the Final Solution. It’s where they ended. I wonder sometimes what may happen if certain strains of fascistic American thought continue to grow unchecked. Where will we end up?

One thing I noticed, but I doubt anyone else in the tour group did, was that there was not anywhere in the complex one word or exhibit about those sent to the camps with pink triangles. (In all honesty, I didn’t see everything so maybe there was something I missed). Given the relative conservatism of Polish society (and it seems to be moving in general in the direction of Orban’s Hungary) I wasn’t overly surprised but if the story can’t be told at the foremost site of the Holocaust, where and when can it be told?

After the bus ride back to town, I hot footed it across Old Town in record time to join my church choir director and an old acquaintance for dinner at a very good Polish restaurant. It was a complete coincidence that we happened to be in Krakow at the same time and thought it would be fun to get together. I suggested our next dinner out should be at The Great Wall Chinese place. It’s about 5500 miles closer to the church. Good food and good conversation. And then another trip back across Old Town on foot to my hotel (my pedometer is happy). It was a bit later than I had been on the streets previously and about every 50 yards some young person would sidle up to me and whisper something in my ear as I walked past. Whether they were offering drugs, sex, a combination, or self sharpening Ginsu knives I don’t know as they all assumed I was fluent in Polish. I have no Polish genetics to my knowledge. I’m pretty much 100% British Isles but the locals seem to think I’m a native every time I go into a shop or other establishment. I guess I don’t exude American tourist.