by Ken Walsh
Just after 8:00 AM I caught a bus from Białowieża to Hajnówka. The bus was mostly filled by girls on their way to high school, including one working on a geography report about London in English. I would’ve helped her with her English pronunciations, but it was too noisy at the back of the bus.
The bus ride from Hajnówka to Białystok was enjoyable. There were several babushkas to be seen on and off the bus. It’s easy to see who the Soviet crones (babas) in old storybooks are based on. These women generally have the bulbous nose, surrounded by wrinkles with inset eyes. Their hunched backs and hearty frames attest that they never stop working.
The houses I saw along the bus ride were usually wooden (except the concrete apartments of the cities), unpainted, with tin roofs. The wood probably all comes from the local forests. Amidst the old houses, there were often newer homes that look like the bungalows built in the USA in the 1950’s.
Kim had laughed when she saw that I carry a compass around my neck. However, I have used it already numerous times to navigate: to find my lodging, the way to the train station, the trail to Royal Oaks, and the confirmation that I boarded a train going in the proper direction.
My Polish still needs much work, but I did luck out and find the bus to Biała Piska. The bus station information booth attendant wrote down 14:65 as the time the bus left the station. The local bus is beige-orange with a driver in his mid-twenties. He’s relaxing right now on the front seat with his long legs kicked up near the dash. His hands are folded over his generous stomach, exposed beneath his grey striped shirt. His hair is cut too short, much like mine, but parted in the center. The bus interior is marked by beer decals, a Castrol Oil sticker, some skull decals, a plethora of car deodorizers, collectible basketball cards in the visor, and a CD, heart, mouse, and tiger hanging from the mirror. This bus is half-filled by teenagers of both sexes, apparently leaving high school for home.
The
hunches in the old women’s backs come from their gardening habit of leaning
over. Pisz has some incredible dziali that leave Oakwood gardens
to shame. What am I doing in Pisz?
Despite questions to an elderly woman, a teacher, a priest, and a doctor,
I could find no lodging in Biała Piska. They sent me to Pisz for
a place to stay. The first hotel in Pisz was too ritzy, the pension
house did not answer the door, and the boat house looked deserted.
Despite the deserted look and the funny smell (like humus), the boathouse
hotel was open and gave me a reasonable rate ($10/night). I probably
would’ve paid much more because my pack was getting heavy late in the afternoon.
Okay, so my homecoming to Biała Piska wasn’t exactly the same as John Wayne’s in the “The Quiet Man.” But the town and countryside were similar. Except when I reached the opposite side (western side of town), I saw more of the Communist concrete apartment buildings. New individual concrete homes also are being constructed on that side of town, but I think downtown will retain its old world charm.
The
boathouse hotel has more than just a deserted look; I think I’m the only
person here. The people of Pisz speak Polish and sometimes German
as a second language. No one would understand me if I yelled “Help”
out my door, except maybe the storks. According to Maria Semeniuk,
the Polish storks winter in Greece, Italy, and the USA. Right now
the birds are chirping up a storm. Speaking of which, the weather
cleared up nicely, so I hope for a good day tomorrow.
Only two things to note about dinner tonight:
(1) misspell a word and you can trick me into eating something I detest.
Flacki wołowe was billed as a soup. It had a flavor not unlike Old
Bay seasoning, which is probably why I thought that the stuff floating
in the broth had the texture of crab gills. From now on, I will always
carry a book to translate menus and never eat tripe again. (2) The
salad served tomatoes between lettuce and cucumbers all in a nice dill
sauce.
May 15, 2001
Today’s visit to Biała Piska was completely different. I rented a rower (bicycle) to visit the town. I saw so much more of the countryside on bicycle (17 kilometers od Pisz do Biała Piska) than I could from the bus. A lot of trucks travel the course, but then they’re always considerate of bicyclists.
I
first stopped to meet Anna Oleksy, my third cousin twice removed, in Kaliszka.
She lives at 20 Kaliszka, the absolute last number in the village.
Most of the houses there could’ve easily been built over 100 years ago.
She invited me in for coffee, and I gave her boys beanie babies as gifts.
Three-year-old Mateusz did not want to be in the same room with me, but
he let me hold him up when the logging train ran behind the house.
The coffee was unfiltered and very strong, but the conversation was quite
limited. I had very little I could say to Anna, she said little that
I could understand, and her mother-in-law was talking about her husband’s
side of the family. When Adrian was ready for a nap, I left.
Anna was pleasant on both the ears and the eyes, so I really cannot see
how she is related to my family.
I then traveled to Biała Piska where Anna told
me her father was buried. I circled the town a few times, taking
photographs of the houses, church, and town hall. The church celebrated
its 500th birthday in 1981, although the current building dates only to
1786 with considerable renovations inside. There are about three
priests, and all of the elementary schoolchildren attend the Catholic school
attached to the rectory.
Pretty strong on Catholicism? Unquestionably.
On my ride back around 4:30 PM, I saw twelve women kneeling beside the
road at one of the monuments to Jesus or Mary. These roadside shrines
all seem to be decorated by streamers and fresh cut flowers, as well as
flowers planted around the shrine. Many are also protected by a low
fence, probably to keep out the farm animals.
I looked at my detailed map and saw one of those symbols unidentified in the map legend. It looked like a gravestone by the symbol but turned out to be some kind of Soviet monument. As women who looked like Aunt Stella and Aunt Theresa passed by me, I realized that something was wrong with my bike. A nut must’ve come off one pedal and left me without a right footpad. “Proszę Pania gdzie jest cmentarz?” I asked a babushka who wandered up to me. She didn’t answer. I knew that a 500-year-old village must have a cemetery if I just looked around.
But first I took the bike into town to the gas station. My English-Polish dictionary covered translations for thunderbolts and walnuts but not the mechanical kinds. The gas attendant went digging into the spare parts box in his car and found a wing nut. No fee. Lucky I had the problem in town.
As
I spiraled out of town on the streets away from the town center, I crossed
over the water from Biała Piska’s spring. Here I found a cemetery
to beat all others. Every grave was decorated by growing flowers,
most would be incredibly expensive in the USA (for all of the stonework),
about four people were out there planting and cleaning gravestones, and
many stones featured a photograph of the deceased. I found the gravestone
of Anna’s father Kazimierz but no other Salachowski’s (though there were
numerous Rakowski’s). Many of the older graves were simpler with
an iron cross to mark them but often no indicator of the deceased’s identity
(though still well maintained).
As I got to the back of the cemetery, I noticed
an older cemetery across the street. When I went to explore it, I
discovered why so many people in Biała Piska and Pisz speak fluent German
(it’s not just from the tourists). Apparently the area was settled
by German Catholics in the 1800’s because most of the gravesites were dedicated
in German. The sites also held very German names, including the one
for the family Brocjio. Since Joanneis Salachowski and Justinar Brocki
were Grandma’s mother’s parents, there’s a chance that Helena Salachowska-Weber
spoke some German. Maybe that’s how she communicated with her husband
Frank Weber when she first arrived in America. The second graveyard
was completely overgrown in all but a few places, with rusty iron gates
being the most well defined feature. I found nothing legible suggesting
Salachowski’s in the region, but maybe they moved on when the children
moved to America. The people working in the first graveyard just
smiled when I couldn’t respond to their questions, but I explained “Prababcia
emigrowałem do USA.”
After the graveyard shift, I went back to the town center in search of lunch. I found a bar that served bigos, hot dogs, hamburgers, etc. Given a choice of sides (with bread or without), I was confused by the good-looking bartender. Then Marion, sitting on the barstool beside me, spelled it out with a picture. Marion and Roman are unemployed, so they inhabit the bar all afternoon. I thanked them for their help and sat down to eat my bigos. After that I went up to the bar to join them. I offered to buy them a beer, but they bought me one instead. We played a complicated Polish/mime/Pictionary game in which I described my musical tastes (not Nashville), where I was from, how I enjoyed the freedom of single life, how my great-grandmother emigrated to the USA but her brother returned to Poland, and how Ricky Martin might be from Puerto Rico but Jennifer Lopez cannot sing. We all agreed that Polish music was better than the American pop. Roman and Marion told me that my Polish was good for mostly book-learning (thanks Irek); I must’ve declined my speech properly.
I’ve
discovered that many Poles don’t introduce themselves or ask who you are
until you’ve gotten to speaking to them personally. Roman and Marion
were only two and six years older than me, but I would’ve put them at least
ten years older (except they had reasonable music tastes) probably due
to excessive smoking and drinking. I think I’m lucky that they didn’t
have daughters to foist on me.
I also discovered that Poles sometimes flavor their beers (Regina) with Syrop Malinowy, a concoction that tastes like cherry cough medicine. They bought me another beer (a third for me), but I had to continuously decline. After all, the 0.02 blood alcohol limit applies to bicycles, too.
Into the bar came the English-speaking Pole who holds a job. When Roman and Marion introduced me to Marius, he turned his back to them and forced himself to be my only focus. Marius explained that he and his wife had worked for Pratt and Whitney in Manchester, Connecticut (a short hop from where I lived in Connecticut). P&W’s layoffs a few years ago are the most likely reason that they returned to Biała Piska.
Marius asked me how I liked the Polish country (I had already explained to Roman and Marion my propensity for Polish food and that I gave equal standing to Polish and English beers). I told him how wonderful it was, and he countered that it was terrible because so many people did not have jobs. He also made me move my bicycle for fear it would get stolen. He also explained to Roman and Marion that I could not drink another beer, or I could end up in jail (not a pleasant prospect in a town with few Polish-English translators).
Marius denied that anyone with the name Salachowski could have ever lived in the town. When I let him read Anna’s letter, he called it all bullshit. I should’ve taken him out to Kaszmierz’s grave to dig him up, but I was growing weary of his indignance. I begged my leave and headed on my way; I bicycled back to Pisz. Speaking Polish to the priests in Biała Piska about family would likely be a futile effort.
After resting up from the bicycle ride, I hoofed it out to one of Pisz’s cemeteries; maybe Pisz is where the family moved when they returned to Poland. Cmentarz jest bardzo duży, to find anyone there in the short time that I had. However, I did notice people lighting candles on the gravestones at dusk in this Catholic cemetery. When I had ridden by one in Hajnówka, I remember thinking how pretty it was. Zbish later added that you don’t even need to wear a jacket in cemeteries on All Soul’s Day because the candles are so warm.
May 16, 2001
This morning I woke up Hans, my nickname for the
German who helps run the hotel and boat launch, to rent a kayak at 7 AM.
The best two words to describe the kayaking experience were “serene” and
“exasperating.” I enjoyed being alone on a very big lake with the
wild swans as my only company. Kajak 2-osobowy jest bardzo cięszki
dla jedna osoba, a pogoda to nie jest przyjacielka. Wiatr byłem ku
moja twarz kiedy odjadzyłem i wrociłem. I returned just a half hour
late and still left plenty of time to catch the bus.
Good thing I didn’t take an earlier bus back to Biała Piska. It was a fair day there, but all I saw sold were round pretzels (four stands), cotton candy (one stand), and the cheap “Made-in-China” plastic toys and big name ripoffs (twenty stands). I would not have been able to get on the bus with my backpack in Biała Piska. Two older gentleman who did sit down behind me were talking about an Amerikanin and prababcia, but my backpack on my lap prevented me from turning around to introduce myself.
On the train from Ełk I shared the compartment for some time with Urik from Osowieć. He pulled out a bottle of spirits marked 95 percent alcohol. He coerced me to drink, and it went down hard. I was able to communicate with him on a very rudimentary level but had to decline when he kept offering his daughter to be my wife. Fortunately the alcohol put him to sleep before it got to me.
For lunch: knysza hamburger i francuszki (a tart).
Why do people stop me to ask directions?
The response “Mówię troche po polsku” now rolls off my tongue.