APRIL 18, 2022 – From Gdansk I traveled to Warsaw, then to Krakow. This former capital of the Nazi’s General Government during WW II had largely avoided the crushing destruction that had befallen Gdansk and Warsaw. In Krakow, therefore, “old” meant “original”—not, “reconstructed after the war”—and in many places, “original” meant the 14th century (St. Mary’s Basilica) or even centuries earlier (e.g. the Church of St. Adalbert (11th century)). The Main Market Square in “Stare Miasto” (Old Town) dated back to the end of 13th century and was the largest in all of Europe. Nearby I found the Jagiellonian University, founded in 1364 and long serving as the Cambridge of Poland.*
I spent many hours strolling along streets and past structures of Krakow’s distant history. In the midst of the old I enjoyed the vibrancy of modern life—the fresh etchings and paintings of a thriving artistic community along 14th century fortifications; in ancient buildings, galleries featuring modern art next to jazz clubs harboring the avant garde; a famous coffee shop in a large space with thick wood paneling and carvings befitting a nobleman’s hunting lodge; and street cafes where I met people eager to talk about history, current politics, and what might happen next.
Among these people was a young couple—Mariusz, a student at the university, and Beata—who took me under their wings for two full days. We met early one morning over breakfast at a crowded café. Mariusz spoke English; Beata, French. When I inquired about buying posters, they took me to a nearby shop and insisted on paying. When Mariusz asked if I liked jazz and I answered in the affirmative, they took me to a record shop, where they selected three LP albums of Polish jazz and again, insisted on paying. When they asked if I was interested in history, they gave me a guided tour of Wavel Palace and a running lecture on Polish history.
Then came le piece de resistance. Mariusz asked if I’d like to accompany them to his grandmother’s peasant village. I couldn’t say “Yes!” fast enough.
My letter home summarized the experience:
“The village, near Podłeże, 100 km east of Kraków, was very isolated and relatively untouched by the 20th century. There I raked hay for several hours, right along with the peasants**. Later I was treated to a home-cooked dinner of eggs, potatoes, beetroot, and tea.”
If ever I’d found myself on a movie set—a Polish peasant village, circa 1830—that was the time and place. The grandmother was good-natured and generous in her hospitality. I observed mutual delight between her and Mariusz and Beata. After a wonderful day, the three of us caught a train back to Kraków.
My letter continued, “Mariusz and Beata were of very modest means, but they gave so much. They implored me to visit them again. When I asked ‘What would you like me to send you?’ Mariusz replied, ‘Nothing—just friendship.’”
Before parting ways, they gave me a small record of the Polish national anthem. They’d autographed the jacket, which featured the Polish white eagle, albeit without its crown.***
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*Decades later, I would become close friends with a Polish lawyer in my office building who was a graduate of that prestigious institution with a degree in history. (My own history degree from an old (by North American standards), small, reputable American liberal arts college pales many shades by comparison.)
**In the “Economics” section of the letter I reported more details about Poland’s primitive agricultural industry as it was in 1981: “Horse-drawn plows, harrows, rakes, and wagons are commonplace. Everywhere in Poland the farm industry is labor intensive. Scythe-swinging peasants cut the hay while others rake by hand. In the peasant village I visited, I got a firsthand, close-up view of Polish agriculture. Our rakes were all hand-made, and the pitchfork, fitted with a homemade handle, was missing two of its four tines. The scythes were museum pieces. In the potato fields, I watched small groups of women digging by hand.”
***The traditional national emblem sported a crown. After seizing power following WW II, the Communists “de-throned” the eagle by removing its crown. In February 1990, three short months after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Polish parliament voted to restore the crown to their eagle’s head.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
