...in Krakow

Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Krakow

After an initial concern that we might be a little late, we arrived at Gatwick and were soon aboard the flight to Krakow.

On landing, we came off the plane into an unexpected heat. Our plan had been to catch a bus from the airport to the city centre. However, this proved to be slightly more complicated than anticipated. Furthermore, the road our hotel was in was quite long and we had no idea at what point along said road the hotel was. So we decided that on this occasion we would get a taxi, and joined the queue in the warm sun.

We drove through lush rural landscape and then into the outskirts of the city where there were tall Eastern block buildings and high rise flats. But unlike those in England, these were neat and tidy with no strings of washing lining the balconies. The wide roads had tramlines running down the middle – along which hurtled trams at alarming regularity. All the drivers needed to keep a certain awareness about them to ensure they moved off the parts of road which were also tram routes before the tram came along.

As we approached the old town a beautiful city started to unfold, very much like Italy in appearance. The streets were lined with discoloured plaster coated buildings where the plaster had chipped to reveal red bricks beneath. Scars of red brick were also visible on buildings that were apparently stone fronted. Most of the buildings had blackened exteriors and vast numbers of old cars scurried through the streets. We moved into narrower streets where the tall buildings were crammed in together. It was incredibly hot. Poland seemed a country of surprises. We hadn’t expected the heat and we hadn’t expected the city to look the way it did. But whilst it wasn’t what we expected, neither of us was able to say what it was that we had expected.

Everyone seemed to be very friendly and their grasp of English was generally very good – which was helpful given that Polish is a completely impossible language. However, we had learnt how to ask for two beers, and after having checked in to the hotel and dumped luggage we walked to the main square, settled beneath a sun shading umbrella and confidently requested ‘poproshei dva piwo’. What’s more, we were understood. It all came asunder when the waiter asked if we wanted 'duzy' and he then had to ask in English – did we want large ones, to which the answer was undoubtedly 'tak'. Husband wanted to ask for another in Polish but we were unsure how to pronounce 'jeszcze jeden'.

While people watching I noticed that generally the Polish women were very pretty and very very thin. What’s more, they wore very short skirts.

The former capital of Poland, Krakow is still the country’s cultural and intellectual centre. The layout of the town in broadly unchanged from 1257 when the main market square, cloth hall and city walls were established. The Italian feel of the city is largely due to the marriage of the King to an Italian princess in 1518, following which there was a large influx of Italian architects.

Poland has spent most of its history at the mercy of its neighbouring countries. Russia, Prussia and Austro-Hungary partitioned the county twice in the 18^th century and for a while Poland ceased to exist. After the defeat of Napoleon the map of Europe was re-drawn but Poland didn’t finally win its independence until 1918. This was then quickly removed again in 1939 after the invasion by the Nazis. The Red Army ‘liberated’ the city in 1945, initiating a repressive regime and Communist government. Following the collapse of Eastern bloc communism in 1989 the subsequent privatisation and democracy has been particularly beneficial in Krakow which is now a thriving city.

The main square was filled with pigeons that seemed remarkably tame. They didn’t fly away when you walked through them and a young boy held bread in each hand whereupon the pigeons sat on his arms to eat it.

The square was filled with a never ending stream of people and an abundance of cafes. Restaurants, shops, flower stalls and street performers formed a colourful and engaging atmosphere. The square itself is huge, and along one side, between the cafes and the square is a long line of tall trees.

While we were having our beer, from the tower of St Mary’s Church next to us came the sound of a trumpet. The heynal is played every hour, a tradition originated in the time when a watchman seeing the Tartars prepare to scale the city walls at dawn blew his trumpet to raise the alarm. The Tartars fired at him and after a few notes he was hit in the throat. It took some moments before a replacement took over, and for this reason there is a pause in the middle of the tune. We saw the trumpet poking out of an upper window, and the plaintive tune which would become familiar during our stay.

We went into the brick built church from where the trumpet playing occurred, the interior of which was completely painted in sombre colours. It helped ensure that the inside was curiously dark and it took a few minutes for our eyes to adjust. Visitors needed to pay a few zloti to get in. However, there was another door with no charge which was clearly signed for prayer only. Sadly this was also used by visitors, unwilling the pay the pittance required.

 

We also went into the tiny church of St Adalbert which only had room for a few pews and in which a nun busily dusted the altar. This is the oldest building in the square and the foundations of the original 10^th century building can still be seen.

Churches done, we went into the Cloth Hall. Originally a covered market with stalls, shops and warehouses, the 13^th century building was almost destroyed by fire. In the 16^th century Renaissance facades were added and the ground floor retains its commercial role. The long paved corridor through the Hall, with low lanterns is lined with stalls selling art and crafts, amber and silver jewellery, leather goods and souvenirs. The arcades added on either side of the building in the 19^th century house a multitude of cafes and restaurants. While we were there much of the paving around the Cloth Hall was being dug up in what looked like some sort of excavation activity.

We ambled through some of the streets around the square, seeing many signs advertising live jazz, and remembered that Krakow is famed for its cellar jazz clubs. Alleyways running through the buildings along the main streets lead down to restaurants and cafes, hidden away at the end, some given away by the fantastic aromas streaming out of them. In our wanderings we had noticed an abundance of underwear shops – by and large the window displays had brown undies, but there were some very nice items available.

Spoilt for choice for somewhere to have dinner we settled on a dimly lit old building. The interior was plushly decorated in dark wood with red velvet seats, and the tables were separated from each other by glass topped wooden screens. A saxophone stood on the bar in honour of the jazz culture and red phone box was in the corner. All the waitresses were impossibly thin and wore dangerously short skirts – which Husband didn’t seem to mind at all.

 
I ordered a Zupa Polski (traditional Polish sour soup) which was absolutely delicious. I had no idea of any of the ingredients until a few days later – when I found that it is made by adding warm water to rye flour, put a cheese cloth over the top then leave for 5 days to ferment. Husband had an equally scrumptious mushroom soup.

Due to our early start we opted for an early night and walked back through the still buzzing square, gently lit from surrounding lamp posts. There was a queue of horse and carriages, waiting to take tourists around the city. Street musicians played on every corner, and the sound of jazz filtered gently out of the restaurants and clubs.

Even during the night we heard the trumpeter playing at which point Husband rather suspected that it was a recording.

The following morning we tucked into breakfast which was a curious mix of boiled eggs covered in mayonnaise, cheese, ham, pate, something akin to Greek salad, egg mayonnaise with vegetables, bread, scrambled egg and sausages – or a combination thereof.

Our plan for the day was to visit the salt mines at Wieliczka. We knew that you could get there by bus and, armed with our map, we walked towards the bus station. A thin strip of park land had been cultivated around the city along the line of the old city walls and we walked through this. On every bench slept homeless people. Initially doing well, we came to an underpass. On the other side we wanted to turn left up the street. This exit had been blocked off, so we decided to re-trace our steps and walk up the other side of the street. The whole junction was being dug up – as was the road that we were now walking up. Husband doubted that the bus station was still at the end of it. In complete absence of anything resembling European Health & Safety Regulations people walked across the building site which had once been a road, covered in dusty mud, uneven and with occasional drops into man holes which had no protective covering. It was both exciting and unbelievable. There was a distinct absence of signposting to inform people how to circumnavigate the very extreme road works. Even local people were wandering around confused, pushing prams through the destroyed road. We decided instead to head for the train station in the hope that things would become clearer.

When we did eventually find our way to the station, nothing was clear. We asked at the information desk where the bus station was and were told that there were no buses. We then asked what time trains left for Auschwitz and were given a completely different time to that provided by the hotel. Coming to the conclusion that using public transport was quite possibly going to be beyond our abilities due to the hugely conflicting information we decided to take a taxi to the salt mines and approach the question of Auschwitz another time.

Our taxi driver drove out of the city through small rustic towns, passed poster of party leaders – serious, suited men with just enough grey to make them look distinguished. On the journey the driver told us that he could take us to the salt mines and also to Auschwitz for 400 zlotis. We decided to take him up on the offer and thus save ourselves the inevitable difficulties in taking the train.

At the salt mine our driver’s star qualities came through when he went straight to the front of the queue to buy our tickets. He found out when the next English tour was and made sure we were in the right place.

The salt mine is among the oldest working salt mines in the world. The labyrinth of chambers and tunnels extend to nearly 100 miles. In our 2 hour tour we would see approximately 1% of the whole mine – but apparently the best part which was conveniently all close together. Or at least that's what they told us.

 

We started off by descending down 380 steps down into the mine. Soon the walls, floor and ceiling were all made of black rock salt. There were lakes which no longer posed a danger as they were as saturated with salt as they could be, so salty in fact that apparently you couldn’t submerge yourself in them. By all accounts, if you jumped in, you wouldn’t get your hair wet. Many other areas of the mine had convoluted drainage systems to prevent the water destroying the mine.

 

We also saw some chapels with elaborate rock salt carvings and chandeliers made entirely from salt crystals in huge man made caves. One of the largest chapels had a smooth salt floor that had been carved to look like tiles. Around the walls were carved reliefs telling the story of Jesus. Again, enormous rock salt chandeliers hung from the ceiling. You could in fact get married here as the chapel held a licence. The chapel had been built by 2 men – one taking over after the death of the first – and had taken 67 years to complete. It was amazing, not only in its size, decoration and splendour but also in the sheer concept of it being entirely man made.

 

 

One of the final chambers we saw was linked to another by a low tunnel. As both chambers were filled with water you could only cross between them by boat. However, the boat trips ended some time ago after a party of soldiers, who were drunk, tipped their boat over. They didn’t drown – you can’t drown because you can’t sink. But the upturned boat was on top of them, and as they couldn’t submerge themselves so as to escape, died, utterly unable to push themselves below the water line to escape from their suffocating tomb.

 

Continuing on through salt encrusted tunnels, 135m below the surface, we finally joined the queue for the lift back up. Crammed into the tiny lift, which could carry about 4 people at a push – the door rather inconveniently opening inwards – we started the ascent. There were no lights in the lift and no lights along the shaft. Now and then as we passed other floors surrounding light would come into the tiny container. But by and large we were hauled back to the surface in complete darkness in what must be the worker’s lift.

 

Stepping blinking into the sunlight we located our driver and set off for the long drive to Oswiecim, forever now known as Auschwitz. We drove passed narrow farmed strips in the surrounding fields, each family owning a small patch, and many old fashioned tractors. The houses were all pretty and well tended. Certainly this area didn’t look poor. We passed a coal mine which reminded me of the many Polish miners who have been laid off work and now make a living risking their live by stealing coal from moving freight trains.

On arrival, our driver again established exactly what we needed to do and fortunately we were just in time for the English tour. It was a sombre place and had once been army barrack for the Polish forces. The red bricked buildings and tree lined mud avenues between actually looked faintly attractive in the bright afternoon sun. But the surrounding double layer of barbed wire and regular watch towers served as a constant reminder of the horrors that had taken place here.

The buildings had been converted into museums and the walls were lined with various photos. This included pictures taken after liberation which showed rooms lined with bunks, and filled with expressionless people who didn’t seem eager to move. It was as though every hope had been taken from them and they believed nothing they were told, as though the soldiers’ telling them they were free was some sort of cruel joke.

While I had always known that the Germans took everything from the prisoners in the camps I was not prepared for the contents of the next building. Floor to ceiling displays – one filled with suitcases and baskets which still had the owners names painted on them. Another was piled high with 70,000 pairs of shoes while another contained the shoes taken from children. There were piles of spectacles, pots and pans and even a considerable display of children’s clothes – tiny outfits that were still dirty from their last fall, torn and scuffed in all the places that you expect children’s clothing to be damaged. Clothes belonging to children who were probably never even given the opportunity to try and survive the camps. On one display case someone had left rosary beads. In another room was the sight that knocked my breath out of me – 2 tonnes of hair. 5 tonnes had been found when the camp was liberated. Human hair was used by Germany’s textile industry. To see long plaits that had been cut off and never unplaited was shocking beyond belief, thin plaits that had belonged to children, still with bows attached.

Auschwitz was a slave labour camp reserved for political prisoners and members of the resistance, while neighbouring Birkenau was an extermination camp. An estimated 1.5 million prisoners from 28 nations lost their lives here. At its peak the gas chambers killed 20,000 a day – many of whom were Jews.

 

Originally all prisoners were photographed. This was for purposes of identification in the event of escape. As the war progressed, and the number of prisoners grew, fewer pictures were taken. The Jews ceased to be photographed at all. One of the buildings at Auschwitz has hundreds of these pictures lining the walls, detailing name, date of birth, date of admission to the camp and – not long after – the date of death. Pictures of men and women with shaven heads and wearing the thin stripped clothing that was their only protection all year round. But every single person stared directly at you with a look of utter defiance, and a determination that in the end was not enough to save their lives. In another room were pictures of children. Again, every boy and girl stared straight into the camera with a fixed look. But all the girls’ eyes glistened brightly with tears.

We saw the death wall where executions were carried out. To ensure that the other prisoners inside the buildings on either side didn’t realise what was happening (as if the sound of gunfire was not enough of a clue), the windows had been boarded up on one block and partially bricked up on the other.

Block 11 has been maintained in the way it was found. The ground floor contained a room where mock trials were conducted and in the basement were a series of tiny cells, barely big enough to stand in, too small to lie down. Prisoners sentenced to death by starvation were locked up here. This was also the sight of the very first gas death. However, it took too long for the area to ventilate afterwards and therefore more efficient venues were arranged.

One cell had a small air vent which had been covered outside by a metal box. It was not uncommon for some of the many prisoners crammed into this cell to suffocate to death. The standing cells were the most horrific of all. About the size of a phone box, and completely bricked up except for a small opening at the base, 5 prisoners would be put inside. There was no possibility of sitting down, and many suffocated to death. If they needed the toilet there was no alternative but to go where you stood. Prisoners were subjected to 10 nights, as well as hard work during the day – assuming they survived long enough.

Gallows were lined up at the front of the area where roll calls were conducted, and any offending prisoner was publicly hanged.

We went to the gas chamber – the first one used for mass killings. It was a small, unassuming, one storey building, with a tall chimney rising from it – in the war this must have smoked all day. On the walls you could still see the shower fittings that had been installed to make the victims believe they were being washed.

And on the ceiling were the holes through which the canisters of poisonous gas were dropped. Anyone standing directly beneath these holes would have died instantly while the last survivor would take up to 20 minutes. There were still scratch marks on the wall from those desperately trying to survive. In an adjoining room was the crematorium. 4 ovens into which 3 bodies at a time were piled – after they had been stripped of any jewellery and fillings. Inmates of the camp were given the job of burning the bodies. The walls and ceiling of the crematorium were blackened with soot.

 

Thoroughly subdued, we went a mile or so down the road to Birkenau. This was built on land stolen from the Poles. The buildings were destroyed and the bricks used to build the camp. It covered a massive area, and was filled with low level brick and wood huts. The barbed wire and watch towers stretched for miles into the distance. The wooden buildings had originally been used for stables but were soon used to house prisoners. Providing no protection from the cold, and limited protection from rain, they were filled with wooden bunks on which the lucky inmates might have had straw.

 

The bathroom hut consisted of a washing area that no longer existed and a long trough with on which was a board with holes cut into it which served as the lavatory. The holes were only inches apart. There was no opportunity for dignity and the troughs were cleaned out by the prisoners themselves.

The empty railway line stretched out into the camp, towards where the gas chambers had once stood. One chamber was destroyed by the prisoners and the other by the Germans as they left.

 

After our harrowing afternoon we set off for the long drive back to Krakow and went in search of dinner, settling for an outside restaurant in the square as it was too hot to be inside. This time I opted for beetroot soup. It was a cold soup and again, thoroughly delicious. For pudding I had a Polish apple pie while Husband opted for Polish cheesecake – which was not good.

We found a cellar jazz club to finish off the evening, and went down the narrow steps in the vault ceiling, red brick cellar with narrow pathways and small smoke filled rooms. The jazz band was brilliant – and included a young pianist whose fingers moved across the keys with lightening speed so that they looked like a blur.

It was hard to imagine this vibrant, café culture city under communist oppression. And with that thought, we returned to the hotel, past the fantastic sounds coming from the piano jazz bar and the mournful music of the accordion players sitting on the streets.

On Sunday we got up late and after breakfast, consisting largely of egg, we ambled gently towards Wawel. It was another hot and sunny day, passed a church with a frontice piece of apostle statues

Wawel is a small fortress town, built on a hill and walled. It comprises a castle – which was used as a royal residence – a tower for malefactors called Thieves Tower and a cathedral. The cathedral was crammed with bustling tourists who removed any sense of religious awe and calm. It was quite different to St Mary’s church, being much lighter and airier. Or perhaps it just the absence of whispering mystery that had the greater effect. A large cupola stood over the alter, fantastically decorated.

 

Outside the main entrance hung three bones, suspended by large black chains. I knew already that one of them was a whale's jaw bone. Listening in to the English speaking tour guide next to me, I overheard him say that the bones were from a mammoth, rhinoceros and whale, the whale bone being a rib! Apparently they were washed up on the shore of the Vistula in the 15^th century and had been carbon dated to the prehistoric era. This I rather doubted – the whale bone quite simply didn’t look old enough. Furthermore, all reference to these bones in the many books we looked through varied in terms of what the bones were. Some failed to mention the presence of the whale bone at all, and many referred to it as a rib. It occurred to me that if you were going to the effort of dating the bones, surely you would also confirm what the bones were, and from what animal for the record.  The varying information about them implied that no definitive answer had been provided - or perhaps sought.

 

According to local legend and popular myth the bones belonged to the giants who used to populate the area. Or they belonged to the dragon slain in the days of King Krak. According to both, if the bones fell from their chains the end of the world would be very nigh indeed.

 From Wawel we went down a long spiral staircase into the Dragon’s Lair. As we descended it became colder and wetter until finally we emerged into the dimly lit line of fantastic natural caves. The walls were pitted in a lava like way and the caves were almost pre-historic in appearance with rough, uneven rock. A few steps led us from the first cave into the second and from there we emerged into the bright morning sun on the banks of the Vistula. We had stumbled across the Lair quite by chance due to minimal signposting. Poland has not yet familiarised itself with tourism and does not as yet make the most of the attractions it knows it has. I had simply been curious about why people were going into a small turret on the castle walls – and had then seen the pay machine for tickets into the Lair.

 

Outside, standing on a rock, was a large metal dragon who periodically breathed flames – thanks to the gas burner in his mouth.

 

We ambled back towards town with the intention of finding U Literati – a place recommended by our guide book for a quiet coffee. And sure enough, we did find it. There was an indoor café, but we went into the quiet courtyard at the back, surrounded by trees and ivy coated walls. On a table next to us were two English ladies who were a cross between Miss Marple and an old fashioned school ma’am. Deciding to have a small snack while we were there, we ordered some eggs in mayonnaise and ham and cheese along with a side order of bread We shared the food between us when it appeared – and it was delicious. For dessert I forced down some literacki cake and Husband opted for Viennese cheesecake. This was much like Polish cheesecake, whereas the literacki cake was a curious layer cake consisting of soft meringue, sponge and coffee flavoured mousse. I wasn’t completely sure if I liked it, but that didn’t matter as Husband did like it very much indeed.

We decided to use the facilities which was quite an involved business. They were downstairs, and you needed to get a key from the waitress. However, as the key had already been given out, she merely sent me downstairs. The woman in front of me tried to explain to me that I needed to lock it up and return the key upstairs. She told me this in Polish and then again in German. She could speak no English and I couldn’t speak either Polish or German. However, she adopted a method used by many English and spoke to me in Polish loudly and slowly. Rather embarrassingly, I did actually understand from her gestures of door looking and pointing upstairs what it was that I needed to do.

When I returned and Husband asked me what the process was I told him that it was quite involved and may involve an old lady.

We started walking back to the hotel. It had started to rain which was rather refreshing as the weather was still hot. On our way back we looked at the shop names. All places selling intoxicating liquor had signs stating Alkohole. There was a sports shoe shop rather imaginatively – if unpleasantly – called Athlete’s Foot. Next to this was a family run shop, proudly emblazoned with the owner’s name, Jozef Plonka. In the area there seemed to be a lot of police activity, and bodyguards were stationed outside McDonalds, as well as an ambulance outside the kebab shop which Husband thought was excellent forward planning. We passed more street bands, children playing violin, students formed a group of guitar and flute. Slow blues filtered out from the many venues which had neon signs outside advertising their live bands. As the evening progressed, the tempo upped and there were distant strains of jazz, punctuated every hour by the lone trumpeter from the tower. And in the back ground to this was the constant rumble of trams and clip clop of the horse and carts.

Our hotel was opposite a dance academy and the accompanying piano music played all day long. We wandered again through the cloth hall, looking at the amber stalls in search of gifts. There was a fascinating range of colours (and prices) from yellowy white through to a rich dark orange, which was the older amber.

Amber is the country’s national stone with colours ranging from yellow and white, to red and green. It is of course the fossilised resin of trees from thousands of years ago and is more interesting for the speck and flaws in it.

 

We walked past the horses that had been given nose bags. As one ate his way down, he kept throwing his head back to try and get the food which was at the bottom, until eventually he rested the bag on the bar of the trap he pulled, and continued eating more successfully.

After a restful afternoon in the hotel we set out for dinner. As it had cooled down, we opted for an indoor restaurant which was terribly grandly set out, with waitresses in long dresses – and yet you sat yourself rather than being shown to a  table. Naturally there was more soup on the menu which was again outstandingly good. I once again had the Polish sour soup and was surprised by the boiled egg lurking at the bottom, having forgotten the presence of this in the previous one. They certainly like their eggs in Poland. The menu had said 'soup in bread'. I initially thought it was a quaint translation error. But a thick bread urn, complete with bread lid, was brought over. Inside of this was the delicious soup. I assume the bread was thrown away afterwards, which seemed strange in a country whose recent past included times of severe starvation. Or perhaps that was the point - a demonstration of how much they had moved on since those times.

Our waitress had limited English and, like everyone else, appreciated our efforts at Polish. The restaurant was an old artist’s haunt and the walls were covered with old and very interesting artwork. Where pictures weren’t hung, paintings had been applied directly to the wall. One showed a street scene and rising above the picture was a balloon, held by a child. It wasn’t an especially good picture, but I liked the idea of the balloon leaving the scene.

We popped into the piano bar on the way back, and were served various alcoholic concoctions by the barman who had recently returned from Ireland. His English was brilliant, and occasional words had an Irish twang to them.

The following morning we got up and packed.

It was raining. Hard. And persistently. For the final time we popped into the main square, spending yet more money on souvenirs - including a rather nice amber rosary for Bro the Elder which included a small picture of Pope John Paul II. It was still raining when we returned to the hotel. Definitely the right day to go home - which shortly afterwards is exactly what we did.

NOTES

The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.