Krakow,
Poland: Raining at Auschwitz
By Jolian Blevins
He was from Tulsa, Oklahoma and
said he was an opera singer. Clearly, this could not
be so; I would need some proof. And so he began to
sing, first an aria from Rigoletto, and then,
and more appropriate to our location, “March of the
Hebrew Slaves.” We were on an overnight train, Pavarotti
and I, traveling north, bound for Krakow, Poland.
The medieval capital of Poland, Krakow is filled with
grand castles and estates, cathedrals and a town square
to rival any in Western Europe. Spared from Nazi bombing
during the Second World War, the city retains much
of its ancient sights and charms. In the 20th century,
Krakow is historically remembered as the closest city
to the Nazi death camp of Auschwitz. I had come to
Poland for this reason, in search of a deeper understanding
of what happened there. And also, on the lighter side,
I had come to escape the throngs of American tourists
packed into every major capitol city in Europe.
The train screeched to a halt around 3:30 in the morning,
just as my companion, whom I had met upon boarding
the train in Prague, began the final crescendo in
his masterful rendition of all, it seemed, of Verdi’s
operas. We had reached the Polish border. A scruffy
looking gentleman wielding a large machine gun and
an even larger German Shepard entered our compartment
to inspect our papers. The man glanced at my crisp
American passport and handed it back with a grunt
of approval. In an impetuous and daring moment, I
thrust the little book back into his hands, gesturing
that I would please like the stamp. The other passengers
regarded this spectacle with a mixture of anxiety,
amusement and pity. I got the stamp though, and it
remains in a place of honor directly in the middle
of the page, straddling all four quadrants.
As we hurtled through the magnificent Polish countryside,
drinking 70 cent Czech beers, I listened in a daze
to my new friend’s life history, his hopes and dreams,
likes and dislikes, women he had loved, both past
and imagined. Pulling in to the station around 7 AM,
he inexplicably was met by a young Polish woman of
unmatched beauty and grace. I, on the other hand,
was met by a growing hangover, and a several mile
walk in awful heat to a closed guesthouse. 7 o’clock
Sunday morning is apparently a bad time to arrive
in Poland.
With little to do but wait, I went looking for a bite
to eat. Directly in front of the cathedral where the
Sunday mass was taking place, I found a small food
cart which served, to my amazement, exclusively fish
products, of varying shapes and sizes. So, that morning,
I celebrated the holy Eucharist by eating a nice fish
sandwich. After this very pious moment of repose and
nourishment, I heaved my 50-pound backpack, mostly
containing books and camera equipment, and set out
to find another probably closed guesthouse.
I spent the next few days exploring the alleyways,
cathedrals, castles, and public houses of Krakow.
I found the town enchanting, although the knowledge
of what had taken place there was too much to overlook.
On the third morning, I trekked back to the train
station and boarded a bus for the small town of Oswiecim
and Auschwitz.
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