APRIL 9, 2022 – From my first hour in Poland to the last, I met more people, had more substantive conversations than in any other country of my travels. The country was on fire politically. Everyone I met was engaged in the upheaval of the country and wanted to tell me about it. In no other country had I encountered such a broad cross-section of society—old people, young people, artists, actors, shop clerks, cafeteria workers, intelligentsia, peasants, soldiers, doctors, lawyers, teachers, factory workers, and political leaders. But the very first people with whom I enjoyed extended interaction were . . . coal miners.
After clearing border control and procuring rail passes (see yesterday’s post), I found the train to my first destination—Poznan (the German “Posen” before the westward shift of Polish borders after WW II), 300 miles to the southeast of Świnoujście. By the time I boarded, only standing room was available for the four and half-hour trip. I found a spot along the crowded corridor outside a row of fully occupied compartments and tried to make the best of it. I was easily distracted by everything I saw out the window—dilapidated East European vehicles, horse-drawn coal wagons, drab apartment blocks, public spaces gone to seed, and eventually, countryside—but in time I was diverted by chatter and laughter among two families stuffed into the compartment closest to my standing place. Over the commotion one of the men started whistling—whistling—a Chopin Nocturne. I seized upon it as an ice-breaker.
“Chopin!” I said, poking my end inside the compartment.
“You English?” the whistler asked.
“American. You speak English!”
Despite their cramped quarters, the occupants squeezed out some space and motioned for me to join them—and to share their bread, cheese, and vodka. They were two couples, each with an attractive, adult daughter. A weathered grandpa was in tow as well. The whistler had served in the Polish Squadron of the RAF in Lancaster during WW II. He explained that the two families had been on holiday on the Baltic coast and were heading home to Katowice, where he and his friend worked in the mines.
It took little time or effort to reach the subject of politics. The whistler told me emphatically that all of Poland “hated Russia, hated Premier Brezhnev; loved America, loved President Reagan.” The coal miners, of course, were in full support of Solidarity, the nation-wide union that had defied all odds against its survival over the past tumultuous year. The others in the compartment didn’t speak English, but they recognized “Russia,” “Brezhnev,” “America,” “President Reagan,” and “Solidarity,” and fired off their intense opinions.
One of the women shouted “Rosya [Russia]—Nie [No]!” as she used her finger to draw a big bold “X” on the window. “R-r-ed Stah-r-r-r,” she said in English, “—Nie!” followed by “Brezhnev—Nie!” with another two big “Xs.”
Our lively discussion took us all the way to Poznan, where my friends wished me well in Poland. I thanked them for their good company and expressed my hope for their country. I disembarked in the rain.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
