Crossing the Polish-Czech Border (Part IV of IV)

I was starving and really needed to use the loo. The village of Stříbrnice looked like a ghost town, its houses following my every move as I walked down the only street. I looked left and right but couldn't find a spot to relieve myself. A word on a wooden house suddenly caught my attention. I stopped in the middle of the road and read it again: 'Piwo.' That's the Polish word for beer. I took out my Czech phrasebook and looked under the 'Eating and Drinking' section. Sure enough, it's the same word in Czech for beer. I made for the door in long strides. My fingers were inches away from the door-knob when my body just stopped: slumped on the deck  beneath me was a massive saint-bernard. The dog stared at me in a disturbing way, like it was taunting me. I almost considered running for my life, but then thought better of it - I would probably not have gotten very far before the dog would jump me, bite my ankle off and run away with it. Instead I took a deep breath, gathered myself and reminded myself that saint-bernards typically save lives and don't bite off human ankles. Under the dog's disturbing stare I reached for the door-knob, carefully opened the door, slid inside the house and quietly closed the door behind me. 

The place seemed to be a rustic restaurant/grocery store: there was a counter on my left, food supplies were stored on shelves behind the counter and a cooler packed with all sorts of drinks stood nearby. An elderly lady sat at the table nearest the door, on my right, and a married couple sat one table down. They looked at me in confusion, perhaps wondering how I managed to walk past the saint-bernard unscathed. I broke the silence by greeting everyone in Czech: 'Dober-Dan.' The elderly lady stood up and walked past me to the counter. I set my gear on the ground, took a seat by a wooden table and leafed through the menu she handed me. As expected: it was all in Czech. What's more (and as expected): the woman didn't speak a word of English, French or Arabic. I took out my Czech phrasebook and looked under 'Typical Local Dishes' section. While I studied my phrasebook she spoke to the married couple. All of a sudden I hear a man's voice address me in perfect American English, "do you speak English?" 

That was completely unexpected. Stříbrnice is a village with only a handful of houses, one grocery/restaurant and one church. A disabled person walking with a cane can walk from one end of town to the other in 10 minutes. I figured there'd be no English speakers in the village. At best, someone would know a word or two. Yet, here was someone that addressed me in fluent English. It turns out that this man is a manager in a metal factory in the city of Ostrava, in eastern Moravia. He worked for some time in the United States, has numerous friends and business associates from the United States and travels quite often on business trips to different corners of the world. On weekends he leaves the city with his family to his cottage home where he, his wife and child take things easy: like go out for walks in nature, breathe in the mountain air and enjoy a good lunch at the one restaurant in the nearby village of Stříbrnice. I just happened to be at the same place on a weekend and as they were having lunch.

Naturally, I told him and his wife about my hike and gave them a brief summary of my life. Right away the man related everything to the elderly woman who turned out to be the owner of the establishment. "This is a huge event!" he said, "Here in Stříbrnice they never get to meet anyone as cosmopolitan as you!" He ordered a traditional Czech meal for me: goulash with bread dumpling and beer. After we talked for a while he said I must try a traditional Czech liqueur and ordered two shots of Slivovice - plum brandy. We chugged them down, talked about America, city life, country life, travelling... He mentioned wanting, at one point in his life, to travel just as I'm travelling: "when I was younger I wanted to drop everything and travel - to see the world." He shrugged and gestured with his chin at his wife and child who were in another room, "but now I can't. At least, not like how you're travelling..." We talked some more as I ate. During our conversation I remember covering the left-side of my head with my left hand to keep my hair down because, after being confined in a ski hat for so long, it stuck out to the side like a wing. Half-way through my meal he ordered another two shots of Slivovice. He raised his glass and said: "you will sleep very well after this." We cried out "Nasdroviye!" (cheers!) and chugged them down. 

Eventually came the time when he and his family had to leave. We shook hands at the front door. I wished him and his wife well, they wished me good luck on my journey and walked out. I sat back down in the now quiet restaurant. As I finished up my meal, it suddenly dawned on me that I don't know the man's name. During the one or two hours we spent talking to each other never once did we ask for the other's name.

*   

My head felt really light. I was merry by the time I finished my meal. Before he left, the man with whom I drank two shots of Slivovice helped me book a private room for the night in the grocery/restaurant. Dinner and breakfast were also pre-ordered. I showed the elderly lady the sentence in my phrasebook for the bill so I could pay for lunch. She replied in Czech, paused then walked to her counter and waved at me to come over. I slowly followed. Behind the counter she pointed to her computer monitor. I was expecting to see an electronic bill but instead I recognized the Skype user interface. And the monitor suddenly talked to me: "Hi, this is .... I'm talking to you from Los Angeles. Let me know what you want to say and I'll translate it to Czech." What with my light-headed state of mind, I seriously thought I was trippin'. I gave in to my delusional thoughts, sat down on a stool and chatted with the monitor. 

The woman I spoke with is the sister-in-law of the lady that runs the grocery/restaurant. Again I talked about myself and again she remarked that me staying at her sister-in-law's is quite an event as they're not used to receiving cosmopolitan people. She talked about her family, her brother and his daughter who will soon get married. I asked her to convey to her brother and sister-in-law my congratulations. She duly translated my message for them while they stood next to me around the monitor.

            

Crossing the Polish-Czech Border (Part III of IV)

The room at the chalet was thin and rectangular. Two single beds following each other were set against a wall, in front of two large windows without curtains looking out on endless snow. I had goulash for dinner and went to bed with my clothes on. The heater warmed up the room some, but it was still uncomfortably cold. Besides, I didn't want to lose any time the next day - I wanted to get up and start the hike to Śnieżnik, the peak of the massif, then, from there, onto to the village of Stříbrnice in the Czech Republic.

The sunlight woke me up in the early morning on day 2 of the hiking odyssey. For a second I didn't know where I was, my mind expected to see the breezy pictures of bamboo leaves that lined the bedroom of the apartment I rented in Wroclaw, but instead it saw the interior of a dingy coffin with cut-out windows on the side. Then everything came back to me - the pain in my traps reminded me of my lunatic plan. I wondered if someone could give me a ride to the village of Stříbrnice, but remembered I hardly had any cash on me to pay for the ride. Besides, the peak is only 500 m away - yes, I'll have to walk up an incline to get there but, afterwards, it should all be downhill. I pushed away my blanket, swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat down for a while, thinking.  

I felt hungry. I reached for the plastic bag in which I kept the food supplies for my hike, grabbed a snickers bar and tore off a piece with my mouth. A vile smell suddenly wafted up from the bag. I looked inside and found my bananas have gone rotten. They were in a small plastic bag inside the larger one with my food supplies. On one of my breaks the day before I had a banana and put the peel back in the bag - I forgot to throw it away. Shoving the rancid smelling supplies bag away from me, I faced the wall and chewed furiously on my snickers. 

The chilled air outside cleaned any leftover trace of sleep or laziness. My body shuddered - I felt instantly alert and ready to go. In the distance I could see a mist that hid the peaks of mountains. Icicles clung all over the chalet like Christmas decorations on a pine tree. After taking a few pics I saddled my gear on me, took one last look at the chalet before giving it my back and walked through the steam from my breath, towards the thick of trees that hid the peak.

*

It took me about an hour to walk the 500 m and finally reach Śnieżnik. The summit was barren of trees and was thrashed mercilessly by a furious wind. On my right was a row of tall sticks firmly planted in the ground and that ran down one side of the hill. it was so windy on the peak that the icicles formed on top of those sticks pointed horizontally. To my left was a viewing point. A person in a red jacket stood there alone, looking through binoculars at the panoramic scenery around him. I set my gear down and took in the view, staring at the horizon and other mountain peaks in the eye. 

According to my hiking plan, I had to follow a green marker for a trail that runs on the mountain range. A few hundred meters away this trail should connect to another that leads down the mountain into the Czech Republic. However, everything on the peak was buried under snow! I took out my compass, found the direction the trail should head towards and walked there to look for a sign. Buried in snow was something like a distance-marker that had a hint of green on it. I brushed off the snow and saw the full green hiking trail marker. Beyond that were rolling hills and thick snow. There were no footprints or other signs to show a used path. I walked on the snow for a while, just to test it out. The snow reached almost up to my ankles and there was no other marker to confirm I was on the right trail. 

The situation didn't look good - I could go off of my compass and educated assumptions, but I didn't want to take any risks. I looked at my map again. There's another hiking trail that heads down the mountain from Śnieżnik on an Easterly direction. I returned to where I set down my backpacks and took out my compass for another reading. East happens to point in the same direction where the tall sticks planted in the ground head towards. But there was no marker on those sticks. 

So I climbed up the viewing point to ask the man in the red jacket for advice. I greeted him in Polish, spread out the map in front of him on a sheet of snow, pointed to Stříbrnice and to where the tall sticks run down the hill. The man looked in his mid to late 50's, his mouth twisted in a grimace that showed discoloured and crooked teeth. A stubble covered his thin face and a water-drop hung on his nose. He asked if I spoke German. Even when I told him I didn't he went off in a long-winded monologue and pointed to different peaks on the horizon with his gloved hand then pointed at the medals that hung on his chest. One of the medals had the insignia of the Russian flag while another medal had that of the Chinese flag. I couldn't recognize the rest and didn't understand what they represented. After his long monologue died down I pointed again to Stříbrnice on the map and to the tall sticks. He nodded. I thanked him and hurriedly walked off to my gear. 

Looking back over my shoulder one last time before walking down the hill, I noticed the man in the red jacket went back to his binoculars, surveying the world around him as if watching over his land.

*            

I couldn't be any happier - there was a proper sign that indicated the direction to Stříbrnice and the trail was all downhill. What's more, people were hiking up in the opposite direction. Each time we greeted the other with 'Dobry Dan' (hello in Czech). At one point I spoke with a hiker - he confirmed that I was heading in the right direction and, out of curiosity, asked where I came from. I answered by pointing a finger up to the Śnieżnik peak.

It got warmer the further downhill I went . The sun brightly lit the villages scattered in the valley below me. The gravel road changed to a windy street I shared with cars, squeezed between a tree-covered hill on one side and a drop to a stream on the other. There were no hiking markers to check whether I'm on the right trail but I kept on walking, happy to be going downhill and in such wonderful weather. 

After a while I saw small houses and a sign that I couldn't make out posted by the road. Aside from the few people busy in front of a barn there was not a soul around. The sign by the road became legible: it read Stříbrnice. Euphoria lifted me off the ground: I made it - I hiked to the Czech Republic from Poland. I instinctively pumped the air with my fist. And when I walked past the village sign, I did so with my fist held up high in the air.                

Crossing the Polish-Czech Border (Part II of IV)

As challenging as it must sound, crossing the border on foot was quite straightforward. It's not like I had to figure out my way in the wilderness, at the mercy of the elements and predators wanting to gnaw at my bones. There are hiking trails that run across most (if not all) of Europe, going over plain country and through inhabited areas. These can also cross borders into other countries. More so, on the trails are chalets for pit-stops or longer stays. All I had to do was follow the colour-coded sign for the correct hiking trail.

 The town of Międzygórze is at an elevated altitude on the Sudetes mountain. A stream rushes down past small gable-roofed lodges and waves of trees run up hills and cliffs that surround the area. The bus drove through town and stopped at the far end, where nature seemed more wild and crowded out most of the sunlight. At the bus station I took out my hiking map of the area and my compass to orient myself. There was a sign nearby indicating the direction to the Śnieżnik peak. The weather was sunny but cool. It was around noon - I had about 5 to 6 hours to go before sunset. I strapped my large backpack on me, hooked my smaller day-pack to the front and made my way.

   

The hiking path started off as asphalt road and later changed to gravel, always heading upwards in an incline. On the gravel path I walked near the same stream that runs through town and noticed a light white sheet that covered trees and shrubs on the other bank. The same sheet was also on my side of the river. This caught me off guard: I completely forgot that there usually is snow on a mountain! Fortunately, though, I was dressed properly: I had on hiking shoes, hiking pants, enough layers to keep my upper-body warm and a ski hat to cover my head and ears. Not having seen snow in such a long time, I stopped to take pictures...

It didn't take very long for the "Oh shit - what did I get myself into" moment to happen. I reckon it was about the time when I stood in front of a very steep cliff that rose to the sky. There was no way around it - I had to hike up. About an hour passed from when I left the bus station and already I had taken a couple of short breaks to give my back a rest. Hiking up that incline with over 20 kg of weight on me felt like a stunt waiting to go wrong. But rather than waste valuable time analysing the situation I looked for a good foothold and pushed myself up. 

I took it slow - real slow. I synchronized my breathing to the beats of my heart and maintained a pace that allowed me to keep on moving forwards consistently, carefully and without exhausting myself. The method worked: as long as I maintained my pace and took a break whenever I felt the straps eating into my shoulders then I made consistent progress. Sure enough, the further up I went the more snow there was. A curtain of tall trees on my right blocked the view, but when there was small gap I could clearly see the horizon and the mountains surging over the land. There were other hikers going up and down the same trail carrying very light gear if anything at all. Most gave quick glances my way as they walked passed me. Once, while I took a break, an elderly couple going the opposite direction tried talking to me. Sadly, they didn't speak any English. The man smiled, pointed at my heavy bag and said: "Śnieżnik?" I nodded. He gave me a thumbs-up and walked away. 

Hours later, and after climbing a gruelling steep hill, I reached a chalet that's 500 m away from the Śnieżnik peak. I couldn't go any further. My shoulders screamed in pain and my left arm trembled badly. I set my backpacks down on the snow and breathed heavily. Two men were shovelling snow outside the chalet. One of them walked up to me - a tall, big guy in a yellow jacket and yellow ski hat - and asked me a question. Out of breath, I asked (in Polish) if he speaks English. The big man in the yellow jacket called his colleague over. This fellow looked younger and, in quite good English, asked: "are you looking for a room?". I was shocked at finding someone that spoke English at this altitude in Poland. It turns out that he worked in the US for seven years, doing odd jobs in different states. When the economy started to dive he returned to Poland and continued doing odd jobs. He's in his forties - said that after two weeks he'll be heading to Northern Europe to look for a job, but his dream is to go back to the US. Eventually we returned back to the question of whether I wanted a room. I was too exhausted to go on and, in any case, the sun was going to set in a couple of hours - better call it a day. The English-speaking fellow helped me carry my backpack. He slung it over his shoulder and nearly fell over as he screamed: "shit - this is heavy!"             

        

     

Crossing the Polish-Czech Border (Part I of IV)

If it wasn't for the city of Wroclaw (pronounced Vroost-Wahf) then my journey across Poland would have been a let-down. Warsaw has no charm and Krakow is so-beautiful-it's-plastic, not to mention that it's completely overrun by tourists. Wroclaw, however, seemed more personable and more genuine. It's a college town that offers culture and history, but also highlights its 'alternative' character. Right behind the city's main square lined with baroque-style buildings and elegant restaurants is a maze of narrow streets where, between tired buildings scarred with graffiti, hide cafes and pubs with an artsy atmosphere. Late one afternoon I took a stroll in the city's large botanical garden, walked between towering gothic cathedrals made from red bricks then caught a live jazz show in a smoky pub. While there I also got to watch a couple of films that were a part of an American Film Festival. The films in the festival were all screened in English with Polish sub-titles and ranged from black and white classics like Citizen Kane and Casablanca to contemporary independent and art films. 

Wroclaw was my last stop in Poland. Next on the itinerary was the city of Olomouc (pronounced Olo-moats), in the Moravian region of the Czech Republic. The Lonely Plant guidebook reckons it to be the second most beautiful city in the Czech Republic after Prague - quite a considerable statement to make, so I thought I'd check it out for myself. Another reason why I chose to make that city my starting point in the Czech Republic is its geographic location: roughly south of Wroclaw. However, problem is there's no easy way to get there. I had two options: (1) ride the train from Wroclaw and change trains three to four times or (2) ride the train back to Krakow - a 5 hour trip - then to Olomouc - an additional 4 to 5 hours.

While considering my options a random idea suddenly popped in my head: I'm not very far away from the border, so why not cross over to the Czech Republic on foot then find transportation to Olomouc from the first town I come across? On one fine morning I walked into the Wroclaw information centre to voice my idea. The young lad sitting behind the desk looked confused when I asked him for details on crossing the border on foot. After realizing I wasn't joking, he replied: 'this is the first time anyone asked me this question.' His colleague, a man around my age, jumped in and said that it was possible, adding that he has done it several times before. He took out a map of the region and started outlining a plan. 

It sounded outrageous: I start in the small town of Międzygórze, hike up the Sudetes mountain range to Śnieżnik - the highest peak of the Śnieżnik massif (1424 m above sea level) - then back down on the other side, into the Czech Republic, to the village of Stříbrnice where I catch a bus to the nearest town. All this while carrying a big backpack and a smaller day-pack packed with belongings for a year's travel: over 20 kg of weight. The plan sounded completely insane, but I couldn't resist. I went for it.                               

Barbara

Paris - November of 2007. My mother was ill and interned in a hospital while I was in the city on a two-week holiday from work to arrange her flight back home. The first week of my vacation passed and there was little progress: I've been dealing on a daily basis with doctors and nurses, insurance companies and commercial airline companies, yet there still were too many pending issues. So many that it looked doubtful they could all be resolved in a week. 

I met Barbara on one of those cloudy and cold winter days, on a day when I felt especially weary and in want of company to chat with, to talk and laugh about things light and insignificant. She arrived around noon. I let her in my apartment, we briefly introduced each other at the door then she went straight to the kitchen. I grabbed my jacket from the dining room and was about to say goodbye when, through the open door connecting the dining room to the kitchen, I heard her ask: "have you eaten?"

Her question threw me off guard. It sounded more like it was meant to fill the silence rather than to find out about my state of hunger. From what I heard at the time, Eastern Europeans are not known for their sociability - especially when they're communicating in a foreign language that's not very familiar to them. As Barbara is Polish and communicated in broken French I decided to humour her question: "Yes," I replied. "Bread and cheese."      

She shook her head disapprovingly as she took out cleaning products from different cupboards and set them down noisily on the kitchen table. "That's not good. You should eat more."    

I didn't know what to say. She moved quick and with very little grace to all corners of the kitchen, her busy hands opening drawers, taking out a sponge, a towel and other items she needs to clean the apartment. Barbara has been working for my mother for two years, she could clean the place blindfolded. Her shoulder-length blonde hair looked unusually bright in the grey light. I thought we were done talking, so I told her I was heading out and asked if she has all she needs.

"Yes," She answered. 

Somehow, that answer lead to a conversation. That conversation led to another, then another, and another.... Tangents opened up at every word and we made good on them - exploring them enthusiastically until we were lost in a maze of tangents. Poland, France, our lives, food, literature, toilet paper - we touched on as many random topics as we fancied. Barbara is paid to work two hours. We ended up talking for an hour and a half. She literally had to put an end to our conversation and ask me to leave so she could work. 

Walking out into the cold winter day I remember feeling my steps lighter and my spirit lifted. A week later I resolved all pending issues and left for home with my mother. 

*

Last I heard, Barbara left Paris and returned to Poland, her home, to be by her ill mother. While planning my journey across Eastern/Central Europe I thought of looking her up. A neighbour of mine in Paris managed to get the address for me. After I got a hold of her we scheduled a meet for when I visit Krakow.  

We met in Rzesow, her hometown - less than two hours by train from Krakow. The day was cold and grey, somewhat similar to when we first met in Paris. I arrived at the main train station on time, at around 11 am. I couldn't see her anywhere around. In front of me were big grey block-buildings, unkempt middle-aged people shuffled about like it was their full time job. In the parking lot nearby a group of people huddled on the side of a dirty white bus to remove their luggage from the trunk.  A young lady with short red hair ran around the station's entrance as if looking for someone. She ran in one direction behind me, retraced her steps, crossed the street to a dingy hotel then back to where I stood. Her ungraceful gait was strangely familiar. At one point the red-headed woman and I looked at each other. She wore tennis shoes, jeans and a faded green jacket. I recognized Barbara from her eyes: they were very clear and very round, with the distinction of being those of a person ready for a laugh or to jump into a fight.    

We laughed - neither of us believing the moment. Barbara walked me through the sleepy student town towards a restaurant for early lunch. She's now married, has a boy and works in a company as an accountant, her speciality by degree. I told her about my frustrations in life and how I decided to  leave everything behind for a year. At the restaurant, after we placed our order, Barbara confides in me that she's not happy. Her mother pressured her into marriage. She wed a friend she knew for five years, a friend that was all right back then but that has now 'changed.' About her job Barbara mentions: 'Poland has two types of jobs: the first works you like a slave and pays you an ok salary. Everything else pays you a low salary. Cleaning apartments in Paris was not great, but it paid enough and I had a private life..." Our pizza was served and she kept on unloading about how her life changed, how she wishes for the independence of her old life in Paris. More than once she looked me in the eyes and warned me to: "never get married. NEVER." At one point she ran out of words and voices from around us poured into the silence between us. She shrugged and asked what other countries I plan to visit.

There were light moments: at Costa Coffee, after lunch, she tried teaching me how to say 'hi' in Polish (unbelievably difficult) and I gave her some complicated Arabic words to chew on. I, of course, entertained her with a few interesting stories and observations from my travels. After Costa she took me to a bar popular with students and pensioners. There she had me try beer flavoured with strawberry or raspberry syrup - a sacrilege and an awful experience. But these moments were always overshadowed by the reality she had to return to. Eventually the time came when I had to leave. We said  farewell at the station - she gave me a hug, waved goodbye and walked away.

*

In the train, on the way back to Krakow, a text message interrupted my thoughts. It came from Barbara's number and was in Polish. Unfortunately I couldn't go to the apartment I rented to translate the message using Google Translate - I rushed off to a restaurant where I was to meet a Polish acquaintance and her Polish friends for dinner. The night was going well - the food was good and the company pleasant. After our main meal I felt comfortable enough to hand my phone to my acquaintance and ask her to translate the message for me. She let out a brief gasp after reading it and immediately handed the phone to her friend. He put on his glasses, read the message and let out an: 'Oh my God!' before handing the phone to his wife who read it and also gasped. Confused at their reaction I asked why they look so shocked. My acquaintance replied: "the message translates to: 'Stay away from my wife or I will kill you. Leave Poland and never return again.'"

I was expecting something in the lines of 'It was great seeing you again... I really enjoyed our meet...'. So, at first, the translation really confused me. But then I started to feel slightly 'high.' I was extremely flattered by this death threat. Furthermore, as an aspiring artist, such a threat is a rite of passage, a badge of honour. It's ironic: I always thought that one day I will receive death threats because of my creativity, a la Salman Rushdie. It never occurred to me that I could be threatened with my life because I am good company or a good friend. 

After my ego let out some steam my thoughts went to Barbara. I wanted to contact her, to find out if she's fine, but there was no way of doing so without causing more problems. I felt disgusted by the reaction of her husband, yet, at the same time, sadly understood his insecurity. Walking back to my apartment, the crowded streets of Krakow felt claustrophobic and oppressive. I thought of sending her an email, then decided against it. Later on, maybe - after a few months. For the mean time I'll turn off the lights, go to sleep, and, in the next day, keep on moving forwards.

       

       

  

               

Auschwitz-Birkenau

Auschwitz (1)

Auschwitz (2)

Auschwitz (3)

Birkenau (1)

Birkenau_Barracks (2)

Birkenau (3)

Typically, when people think of or hear the word 'concentration-camp' Auschwitz is what comes to mind. I myself thought that way until I read in the Lonely Planet guide that Auschwitz is one of two concentration-camps - the second being Birkenau. The latter is about twenty times greater in size than Auschwitz, it served as the train station to unload Jewish prisoners, it had two massive gas chambers and is the camp where the majority of Jewish prisoners were executed. 

The day was foggy when I visited both camps. A hazy and gloomy canopy covered buildings, grounds and all living things. After watching an introductory film on the holocaust I was put in a group of about ten people. Our guide was a young Polish lady with blonde hair hidden under a big grey woollen bonnet. She spoke English with an Australian accent, in a tone that stayed solemn for most of the time. We started the tour at around 11:20 am along with a few other groups of roughly the same size as ours. Each tour lasts three hours, starting in Auschwitz and ending in Birkenau. During those hours we were shown ruins, buildings and exhibits as our knowledgeable guide imparted on us facts and details of what went on in the camps. Throughout the tour a few people in the group posed questions to our guide, but, for most of the time, everyone kept a respectful silence, like when visiting a cemetery. 

*

I must admit that after a couple of days I forgot most of what our guide said. What stayed with me is the emotional imprint of the gloomy mood and the respectful silence in the camps. However, the mind works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, information or a memory seems forgotten, but actually it is just in the dark. All it needs is a random trigger to bring it to light, and suddenly we remember. 

A few days ago I watched the film 'The Counterfeiters' - a true story about a Jewish counterfeiter working with a team in a concentration camp to counterfeit the British Pound and the American Dollar for the Nazis. In one scene one of the team-members mentions that he survived Auschwitz because of 'Kanada'. Even before the dialogue explained this detail I immediately knew what he was referring to. My mind unearthed it from somewhere: after the prisoners were unloaded from the train at Birkenau their luggage were confiscated, emptied for valuables, and dumped in a warehouse nick-named 'Kanada' - in reference to a distant and beautiful place. In another scene a counterfeiter almost goes into panic at having to take a shower with the rest of his team, screaming 'they're going to gas us!'. Again, my mind immediately dug up this information and threw it to the fore. Having just arrived at Birkenau, the prisoners, while still on the train platform, would line up in front of a Nazi that would assess whether they are fit for labour. With a gesture of his thumb the Nazi would create two lines: one to head to the barracks and the other to take a shower. The men and women heading to the shower are led to a dressing chamber where they would undress, then are crammed into an elongated shower room where, instead of water pouring down from the shower heads, a lethal gas is dropped on them from holes. A few minutes later, after the gas has done its job, fellow inmates wearing a gas mask would come in to the shower room and remove all jewellery from bodies, all gold or silver teeth and scalp the hair off women before taking the bodies to the crematorium.                      

*

I don't usually like to visit museums - they define information too rigidly and drily for me, giving my imagination no room to wander. It's either that or I cannot connect emotionally to what's exhibited. However, at the Auschwitz-Birkenau museum I did not have such problems. Among the exhibits I saw was a large mound of rusted and broken eye-glasses from prisoners that were executed. In one large room, rising to a height of about 5'8 or 6' and behind a glass window that spans the length of the room, is hair from the women that were gassed or killed otherwise. Near that exhibit is a small window where we can observe something that looks like a rug - our guide informed us the item was created from the women's hair. Another exhibit shows a mountain of worn out shoes that reaches the room's ceiling, stacked behind glass windows on both sides of a narrow corridor. These displays are suggestive and interpretation is left to the imagination - a powerful way to conceptualize the horror that happened as imagination has no boundaries.

A particular exhibit that stayed with me is a long corridor of black and white mug shots hanging on both walls. Under each photo is a date range indicating the person's life span in the camp. Some lasted years, others months while some lasted not even a day. The faces all look grim, some even carry bruises. A few pictures had flowers fastened behind their frame, put there by a relative or a friend. A mug shot of a young woman caught my attention. She had short hair, her face was round and, on the corner of her lips, there was a hint of a smile. I looked up at her round eyes and caught a soft beam of light in them. She looked smart and beautiful. I imagined her an optimist, a woman who is ready to smile, to enjoy the moment and every breath of air. I looked at her dates - she lived for a couple of days. My concentration got interrupted by people bumping into me. Our guide noticed I was missing. She looked in the corridor from outside and called out to me - the tour had to continue. 

Afterwards I felt as if I should have done something before leaving. Had I a flower then I would have fastened it behind her picture, but I didn't know where to get one. Besides, I didn't want to delay the tour anymore than I already have. So, today, using my words and imagination, I return to that busy corridor and stand again in front of that woman's picture. People are bumping into me as they move forwards and the guide calls out to me with a wave of her hand. I signal to my guide with a nod of my head. In my hand is a flower. I slip it behind the photo's frame to fasten it against the wall and walk away. The flower holds and gently leans over the woman's head, its petals bright and beautiful.

Warsaw (Part IV)

"Do you live in Warsaw?" I asked the man sitting next to me.

"No - home is in the US. I got business interests in Warsaw, so I fly in often." 

"Your business holding up to the financial crisis?"

"Better than ever. The banks here are very strict about lending money, so Poland came out much better off compared to the other European countries." He noticed the barman and called out his order: "a pint of beer."

I did the same: "double-shot of Jameson - neat." The barman nodded to both of us and went to work. 

We sat in silence for a few minutes and watched music videos from the '80s on the flat screen monitors behind the barman. The music poured down into the bar from above. Cigarette smoke drifted across my eyes from the person I was talking to. He was short, had long hair and wore a sports jacket and jeans. A mutual acquaintance introduced us a few hours ago. Tiring from the joy and kitsch of the videos I turned to look around me. It was the end of the working-day and young professionals started pouring into the bar. The barman placed a tumbler with my drink in front of me.   .             

"What you doing tomorrow?" Asked the man with long hair without looking away from the flat-screen monitor in front of him.

"I'm leaving to Wroclaw"

"Yeah, that's right. You mentioned that." He replied and drank his beer.

I took a sip from my drink. "Why Poland?" I asked. "What brought you over to Warsaw?"

He turned to look at me. It took a few seconds for him to answer: "The cheap high-life," He said. "Where else can I find women and lead a life of luxury for a fraction of the price back home?" He chuckled and turned his attention back to the extravagant music videos. "Things are changing, though - life is becoming more expensive here. But back in the early nineties..." he shook his head. "F***. Everything was easy. There were so many opportunities to make money. I got on the money train late, though, 'cause I was having too much fun f*** around." He smiled nostalgically at a thought, took a long drag from his cigarette and blew out the smoke towards the screen. Looking at the people around him, his eyes narrowed on a waitress serving a table at the other end of the room.     

"That waitress..." He started pensively. "I wonder if..." The waitress turned from the table she served and headed to the kitchen. "Shit! That's her!" He looked at me in amazement. "Last time I saw her was in the nineties." His eyes lit up, "We travelled to Prague together. At our hotel I said: 'listen, we're going out tonight. If you don't pick up a guy and I don't pick up a girl then I'm sleeping with you.'"

"What'd she say?" I asked

"'Sure!'" He replied. "Each of us picked up someone that night and went back to our hotel. She went to her room and I went to mine - we f*** all night like crazy. The next day, we woke up together in the same bed!" 

The air around us became bluish and hazy, thick with smoke. We both stared at the flat-screen television and drank without saying another word. I finished first and slung my backpack on my shoulder. "Already leaving?" Asked the man with long hair.

"Yeah, I'm calling it an early night. Good talking with you." I extended my arm. "All the best." We shook hands briefly and bid each other farewell. 

Outside, the cool air and open sky were a welcome relief from the air in the bar that sat on my shoulders like a heavy lid. Cars, trams and buses owned the streets. Crowds walked the side-walk under the bright glare of neon-signs and light pouring out of shopping stores. Beneath my feet, covering the street in a second skin, were leaflets - open-invitations for men not to spend the night alone or, for a change, with someone else. I steered away from the main street and walked back to my hotel on side-streets and alleys. The sound of traffic echoed in the background and shadows appeared around me - strange and ominous shapes that grew and faded, that ate each other or kept their distance, that lashed out at me with something or waved suspiciously, as if enacting scenes from a feverish nightmare.