So….where to start. I haven’t been able to blog as much lately because I’ve been so busy trying to finish the edits for “Knit Vintage.” Also, my research has left me absolutely exhausted each evening, able to do little more than eat, make a few phone calls, and then sleep.
But, here I am again. And I guess I’ll start with Thursday.
Liz and I woke up quite early so we could meet with Jerzy and Hala. Jerzy had promised to take us to the Warsaw Rising Museum. It’s interesting to me that it’s called the “Warsaw Rising” Museum rather than the “Warsaw Uprising” Museum. “Rising” makes me think of the myth of the Phoenix rising from its own ashes, while “Uprising” has such a viscerally warlike feel. It’s funny how little changes in language can give a moment such a different texture.
We arrived at Jerzy and Hala’s around 9 a.m. Hala was very, very pleased to see that I had finally cut my hair. The last time I saw her, she was telling my mother that she was so worried about me – that I was so nervous, that I smoked too much, that I was too skinny, that I wasn’t eating enough. She said I needed to be optimistic. Find a good man. Cut my hair and show Patrick what he was missing. I tried to explain that it was just part of the process of a broken heart, but the concept seemed so alien to her. After all, she’s been with the man she has loved for over 50 years. Her first and only love. How could she possibly understand? I tried not to take it personally. Instead, I found it wonderful and miraculous that someone had figured out how to make it work.
She kissed Liz all over and, in German, commented how much happier I looked. She told Liz how sad I’d been and that this was the first time she’d seen me glow. Then we sat down for some cake and coffee and Jerzy and I discussed my grandmother’s book, “The Wall Between Us.” A bit of background…
Since I was about twelve years old – maybe even younger – my grandmother has been working on a book about her life story – a story that I’ve been absolutely obsessed with but unable to fully grasp. The war was something she seldom talked about. And when she did, it was always in a very cryptic way. She never let any of us – meaning my mom or I or any of her family – read her book until a year ago, after her stroke, when she was worried that it would never see the light of day.
My mother started working on the first bit of fact checking and edits. That is how she came to discover our true identity as Jews and my grandmother’s real name. I then began skimming through the book to clean up the prose and adjust the chronology, which was a complete mess. Through doing our edits, we culled even more information out of my grandmother – information that startled us, intrigued us, and gave us even more respect for all that she had endured.
When I got to Poland, I arrived with a printed manuscript of the book as my sort of travel guide. My grandmother had asked me not to share it with Jerzy. And I didn’t. But, as Jerzy and I toured the city and he realized how much I knew, he kept commenting that I should help her write it all down. Not being a very great keeper of secrets, I said, “She has written it all down.”
I told him about the book and said he could see it if he got her permission. He called her immediately and she said yes, he could look at the book, and make any comments he wanted.
From the time I first met with Jerzy, I knew that there were already slight differences in his and my grandmother’s story that would make this a difficult process of real fact finding. Often their stories would jive, but here and there, the dates or details would change, and that gave me pause. My mother and I approached my grandmother about these differences and she would only say “well, that is my version, and I prefer it that way.” We did not argue. Instead, I chocked it up to the nature of human memory. I looked at the differences in their stories as ways in which they have both decided to cope with an unbearable experience. They have each found ways of understanding their past that make it possible for them to live with it. And that is just fine. In fact, the differences in their stories reveal the most about who they really are as people. Their fiction is the most truthful—or at least illuminating—part of their personalities, in many ways.
As we sat there, going over the details, this is what I realized. I simply shook my head as Jerzy corrected her story. We then finished our cake and coffee and left for the museum.
The Warsaw Rising Museum is huge, frenetic, hyper, and imposing. It is built to look like an old bunker – to overwhelm the visitor with a sense of what it would have been like to be in the Uprising. And it does a pretty decent job of that.
Inside, Jerzy dragged us quickly through a maze of videos, images, dates, documents, artifacts, and interactive displays, pointing out what he thought was the most important – mostly dates that he thought verified his story and negated my grandmother’s. After about 30 minutes, he dropped us off at the front of the museum and said “now, you can go through as you like. I will leave you.” He left and Liz and I attempted to make our way through all of the information, but it was impossible. It was so overwhelming and hectic that it was hard to concentrate on any one distinct narrative. There were so many perspectives, forms, etc. So, after about an hour, we left, and headed back to Mokotowska on the tram.
Before heading home, however, we decided to mark the Milk Bar off of our list of things to do. Milk Bars are quite an incredible cultural affair. They are the Polish/Communist equivalent to the American diner, in a way – full of cheap, comfort food and casual service. We went to “Bambino Bar,” just around the corner from me – one of the nicer versions of these places. It is super, super 60s inside – from the décor down to the women who prepare the food behind the pick-up window. We immediately got in the long line at the register, where you order off a huge menu hanging from the wall. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to bring my phrase book, so we had no idea what anything meant. As we got closer to the cashier, I noticed a set menu for only 11 zloty ($3.75 or so) and decided that would be the safest bet. But when we ordered, the cashier simply looked at us like we were crazy. “You can’t have it,” he said.
Then it hit me. “Oh!” I said. “That’s for old people!”
“Yes,” said the cashier stoically.
So Liz and I did our best, picking out various items from the menu without a real clue. All we knew was that there would be some form of pierogies, fish, salad, and potatoes. We quickly grabbed our trays and waited at the window for our special surprises.
Luckily, we didn’t end up with anything too terrifying. The pierogies were perfect. The “salad” I ordered made me realize that coleslaw is, in fact, an appropriation of Polish food, and Liz’s fish looked decent enough. We ate and then dragged our cement-lined stomachs back home for a long nap.
Later that evening, we had plans with Dorota and Pola. A girl’s night out. Dorota promised to take us to Praga – the eastern part of Warsaw, just across the Vistula River, once considered a bedlam of crime and small time mafia folk. The cool thing about Praga is that it was virtually untouched during the war. It’s prewar buildings managed to escape the burning of Warsaw and you can still see bullet holes in the edifices that line the main streets. In recent years, many artists have migrated to this area, rehabbing old factories with art galleries and clubs. It is now much safer, but it still remains largely ungentrified, packed to the hilt with old communist block-style apartment buildings and Polish thugs. In fact, it reminded me a lot of east Akron or Youngstown. There was even a club we visited that reminded me so much of Speak In Tongues – one of my favorite former venues in Cleveland.
Unfortunately, it was Thursday, so almost everything was closed, except for a few café-bars that sat within a sort of compound of old factories covered in amazing graffiti. People lounged at tables in a makeshift courtyard, but it was bit too chilly for us, so we ducked inside a quite, old bar, grabbed a table, some drinks and grilled cheese sandwiches and talked for hours. I feel so fortunate to have met Dorota and Pola – it feels like they are long lost relatives or friends I haven’t seen in years. How perfectly it all worked out.
We left at around one and headed back to Dorota’s car. Then things got weird.
A thuggish Polish dude and his friend stood under a street lamp on a corner, looking incredibly sketchy. We all sort of moved away, clutching our bags, until we realized that the thuggish looking guy had a cat hidden beneath his coat. Suddenly he started shouting, “Attack! Attack! Attack!” and thrusting the cat towards us like a machine gun. We all burst into laughter as he smiled at us with self-satisfaction.
Then, back at the car, we sat for a moment to collect ourselves, when we noticed another man standing in the doorway of an apartment building. I adjusted my eyes to make sure that I was really seeing what I was seeing. And I was. “Oh my God!” I shouted. “That man is naked! That man is naked!”
Dorota, Pola, and Liz all turned to see an overweight man, standing on the street in little more than bikini briefs and the car exploded with shrieks. We grabbed our cameras and giggled and screamed in disbelief. The man just stood there – his hands casually folded behind his back, his potbelly hanging out, and his banana hammock his only protection from the elements. Finally, after about five minutes of convulsive laughter, he went inside and we headed home. And I decided that I absolutely love, love, love Praga.
Oh! Before I go, one last note. While we ate our grilled cheeses at the bar, we were also served some of the most amazing pickles I’ve ever had. Let me tell you – I love pickles. Absolutely love them, can’t live without them. My mother even says that when she was pregnant with me, all she craved were pickles and sauerkraut. She would eat jars and jars. And I still do. As I freaked out about how good the pickles were, Pola mentioned that most Polish people make their own pickles at home. And she promised to send me her mother’s recipe, which she did. Liz and I are going to try and make them this week. In the meantime, I leave you with the Dwurnik pickle recipe:
1 kg small cucumbers
3-4 cm of horseradish
several dills (the whole, with the seeds sitting in the plant)
5-6 parts of garlic
2-3 bay leaves
a few small spicy peppers (not necessary)
3-4 spoons of a sea salt (the one with minerals)
circa 1,5 boiling water
Put the salt into the boiling water (the water must be very salty, but not bitter, which would mean that it has too much salt).
Wash the cucumbers and then put them very tidily into the ceramic pot or several glass jars. Add the other ingredients.
Add the salted water and close the jars. If you do it in a ceramic pot, you put a plate on top and something heavy on it (like a clean, boiled stone).
The cucumbers will be ready after a few days if you do them in a ceramic pot. If you do them in jars, after closing them, you have to wait until the water is dull (not transparent) and the jars are hermetically closed (it happens by itself during a few days - it is a chemical process). After that you can put the jars into the fridge or any cool place. You can also keep them in a cupboard. You can eat them after a few months.
Important: You don't add vinegar or lemon to the cucumbers.
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