Poland in October is gray buildings and pink skies and wet maple leaves skidding across the pavement. Me and my two buddies, Arlen and J, went there just for fun. We spent a couple days in Warsaw, long walks through the Old City. We drank a lot of tea. Then we got on a train for Krakow. There were no seats.
J chatted up three girls. The train lurched. He plunged over to where Arlen and I stood, holding on.
“Hey, I told them that you two were trouble makers and had both been to prison,” he whispered loudly. Then he went back and talked to the girls some more, telling them more lies.
In Krakow we got off the train. The three girls waved at us and wished us well. They liked that fact that we had been to prison.
Straight away, we went to a bar and began to drink.
Arlen wanted to go to Auschwitz so we went: wrought iron fence and a grid of two story brick buildings nestled among the trees. The maple trees were turning a deep red and the oaks, still green, were dropping their leaves when the wind blew in gusts. Clouds gathered and it began to rain. The rain turned to hail. We hunched our coats tighter around us and began to stroll slowly through the camp.
“Hey! Are you guys Americans?” said a girl in a blue raincoat. We were standing at the door to the crematorium. Her voice echoed inside. “God,” she said, peering inside. “It’s so morbid."
The girl recounted how she'd been working as an English teacher for two months in a small Polish village and had nobody to talk to. It was so good to run into some Americans, she said.
Arlen walked off so he wouldn't have to talk to her. He disappeared behind the chimneys of the crematorium. Then I walked off so I wouldn't have to talk to her either. I looked at the room full of shoes for a while.
In Block 11, adjacent to the shooting range, I walked down the stairs into the basement. Down the hall at the far end of the building there was a little room with "standing cells." Prisoners had to crawl through a tiny door to get inside then stand up in the darkness. The cells were three feet by three feet, so they couldn't sit down, sometimes for days or weeks.
There were bars across the opening to keep the tourists out. But the chain was unlatched so I nudged the door with my toe. There was nobody around. I worked up my guts. I knelt down and squeezed inside.
I stood up into the darkness and touched the walls with my hands. Stood there for five seconds, six seconds, six and a half, then crouched back down to my haunches, ducked my head and backed out the door, finger tips dusty on the floor.
I wandered around the camp until someone in a uniform came and told me the camp was closed.
Back outside, Arlen and J stood there, waiting for me. We walked to the bus stop.
J chatted up three girls. The train lurched. He plunged over to where Arlen and I stood, holding on.
“Hey, I told them that you two were trouble makers and had both been to prison,” he whispered loudly. Then he went back and talked to the girls some more, telling them more lies.
In Krakow we got off the train. The three girls waved at us and wished us well. They liked that fact that we had been to prison.
Straight away, we went to a bar and began to drink.
Arlen wanted to go to Auschwitz so we went: wrought iron fence and a grid of two story brick buildings nestled among the trees. The maple trees were turning a deep red and the oaks, still green, were dropping their leaves when the wind blew in gusts. Clouds gathered and it began to rain. The rain turned to hail. We hunched our coats tighter around us and began to stroll slowly through the camp.
“Hey! Are you guys Americans?” said a girl in a blue raincoat. We were standing at the door to the crematorium. Her voice echoed inside. “God,” she said, peering inside. “It’s so morbid."
The girl recounted how she'd been working as an English teacher for two months in a small Polish village and had nobody to talk to. It was so good to run into some Americans, she said.
Arlen walked off so he wouldn't have to talk to her. He disappeared behind the chimneys of the crematorium. Then I walked off so I wouldn't have to talk to her either. I looked at the room full of shoes for a while.
In Block 11, adjacent to the shooting range, I walked down the stairs into the basement. Down the hall at the far end of the building there was a little room with "standing cells." Prisoners had to crawl through a tiny door to get inside then stand up in the darkness. The cells were three feet by three feet, so they couldn't sit down, sometimes for days or weeks.
There were bars across the opening to keep the tourists out. But the chain was unlatched so I nudged the door with my toe. There was nobody around. I worked up my guts. I knelt down and squeezed inside.
I stood up into the darkness and touched the walls with my hands. Stood there for five seconds, six seconds, six and a half, then crouched back down to my haunches, ducked my head and backed out the door, finger tips dusty on the floor.
I wandered around the camp until someone in a uniform came and told me the camp was closed.
Back outside, Arlen and J stood there, waiting for me. We walked to the bus stop.
No comments:
Post a Comment