Niedrunger Villages

by Annegret Krause - translated by Paul Work

We left our car at their farm and made our way. Our feet were already wet, and our trousers were getting wetter and wetter also, but we didn't mind. We passed a lonely cow tethered to a stake, and we learned later that this was the only cow that the family owned.

The small wooden house had been repaired several times and a garden surrounded it on the hill. An older woman who apparently lived there by herself beckoned us to come around the house, and when we approached, we explained to her why we had come. She showed us the entrance to the cemetery and explained that the building had once been a school and had also served as a chapel. We asked if we could take some pictures and she shrugged her shoulders. So we went ahead. (Note: In the mean time I learned that my great-great-grandfather Johann Friedrich Gruening was the schoolteacher in Sady. That would have been around 1840. Could this have been the very school where he taught?)

In the cemetery we didn't find as many gravestones as we had in Wionczemin, but there were several that interested us. Two Dobslaws, although not direct ancestors (they were much too young), they're probably related. One Gleske, that would make H. happy, as well as some Rahn, Klatt, and Kühlmann graves.

When we returned to our car, the women and their family were waiting for us, and they invited us to have tea with them. We gladly accepted. And now we learned all over again what Polish hospitality is like.

They led us into the living room and gave us the seats of honor. The room was full of children and young people who watched us with friendly and curious glances. The older woman pointed to them proudly: She had ten children and one grandson. And now we learned what it means to have "tea". We were served bread, sausage, and warm Kasza (which is another kind of sausage) on the side. Our protests were swept aside; we had to eat. To do anything else would have been very impolite and disrespectful. We were impressed with the friendship that these people showed us. One could see that they weren't the richest of people. We thought about the one and only cow.

We conversed as well as we could, and we occasionally reached for the German-Polish dictionary to help get our ideas across. Finally we took everyone's picture and promised to send a copy in a letter as soon as we got home.

Our farewell was heartfelt, but we had to hurry now. We wanted to return to Wionczemin one more time to try and find the Krause farm and then go on to Borki.

As we drove along I began to regret not having taken a picture of the house from the outside. We felt it would be disrespectful and we decided not to. Who knows, we could have eaten dinner in the living room of my great great grandparents, and just maybe Aunt Amanda would recognize it. It could be, but then again, it might not.

The weather was still bad when we got to Wionczemin. The dreariness weighed us down: the bare land underneath a gray sky, the missing old-growth trees and orchards. No, this was no longer a nice place to live, at least that's the impression we got. For those who once lived here and left it all behind in 1945/46, it must be a bitter picture. But we of the next generation have a different perspective: We were glad, after almost 60 years, to find so much that was recognizable.

We drove down the "Kaiserstrasse" once more and carefully photographed every house and building that was still there. They lay somewhat distant from the road, and we weren't sure how well the pictures would turn out, but perhaps Aunt Amanda's memory will help us out. It looked like some of the houses had been torn down. The mounds were still recognizable, but no structures could be seen on some of them. It looked like this part of the village had fallen victim to the collective. Whatever got in the way was cleared out.

Sadly, we were unable to figure out with any degree of certainty, which one corresponded to the fifth lot from Aunt Amanda's house.

So we traveled on to Borki, the birthplace of D.'s mother. I wanted to take a few pictures of the village for him. Here too, an old cemetery was depicted on the map. We located the cemetery quickly and found a few gravestones with familiar names.

But time pressed on. We had arranged to eat lunch in Secymin. In Poland, they ate their main meal at 3:00 PM. That meant we would have to forgo visiting Gąbin, the religious seat of these villages.

M. had prepared a wonderful mushroom dish after the Polish style, very filling, with lots of cream, mainly consisting of the smaller mushrooms that one finds in the fields. Apparently they are so numerous they can be mowed with a scythe. And of course, potatoes, salad and a special Polish kind of fresh vegetables as side dishes.

Today was dedicated to cemeteries, and that's how we wanted to spend the rest of the day also. Still missing from our "collection of cemeteries" were those in Sladów and Piaski Duchowne. I only knew that my grandmother's parents came from a village called Piaski, but I didn't know if this was the right one. But it was nearby, so I hoped that the old cemetery there would give us some information, perhaps even a "nugget" in our search for "gold".

With the map in hand, we found the Sladów cemetery right away. It lies in the middle of a veritable forest of tall trees. On the ground, a thick carpet of groundcover (Vinca minor), the typical flora for cemeteries, covered the area. We found a few gravestones, but almost all the names were unfamiliar. Plastic flowers and candles adorned some of the graves. Astounding. We tried to take some pictures, but the light was so dim that getting a good shot was difficult. The gravestones were glistening wet, and the glare of the flash was reflected back. We hope in spite of this that the pictures will turn out reasonably well.

And now on the way back, we came to the last place: Piaski. Again, we couldn't find anything at first. We wandered around near an old, dilapidated wooden shed and found a broken gravestone in a pile of rubbish. This refreshed our somewhat diminished zeal. The landscape behind us fell off into wetlands, and we had also learned in the mean time that the cemeteries were located on hills here in the floodplain to reduce the possibility of high water ruining the graves. Therefore it couldn't be here.

We spied an older man who came up the street towards the nearby bus stop and asked him. It's obvious that the bus would take a while to arrive, and he had a bit of spare time also, and how!

Naturally he knew the way to the place we were searching for. He was overjoyed to learn of our search and the fact that he could practice his German language skills, which he picked up during a visit to Germany 30 years ago. He bent over backward to express himself in the old formalities of Polish hospitality with their flowery language and bowing to the women. He insisted on personally helping with the research, asking what names we were looking for and our address. He promised to send us more information later. We'll see I guess.

He engaged us for with his chatting for so long that it grew dark and we had to postpone our intentions to the next day. But we enjoyed the old courtesy; it was very nice.

Sunday, 6 October 2002

This was now our last day. After breakfast the sun was shining again and the landscape was glowing in autumn colors. We straddled our bikes and departed on a longer trip through Kampinoski National Park. In the park we found extensive pine forests, wetlands, sand dunes, and richness in both flora and fauna. It's said that elk, beavers and lynxes were native to this area. At the southwest corner, in Zelazowa Wola, the house where Chopin was born, is still standing. Today it's a museum and in the summer season piano concerts were held every Sunday morning until the end of September. Unfortunately, we are too late in the year. It would be too far by bicycle anyway, so we decided against it.

The path through the forest made up for this disappointment. We rode through the pine trees, and found oak trees growing up among the junipers. In the mossy carpet we saw a wide variety of mushrooms and we also saw people out collecting them. Actually, collecting mushrooms was forbidden on weekends, but it seemed that no one paid attention to that rule.

Near a forestry house we came to a barrier with a sign: No through traffic! I wondered if that applied to bicycles too. Probably yes. But we saw some tire tracks, and decided to go forward. We simply lifted our bikes over the barrier and rode on. We were well behaved, quiet, and we didn't stray from the path….

Now we were in the restricted area of the park. It was a primeval forest. All was left undisturbed; dead trees were left where they fell, overgrown with moss. Here one could imagine meeting an elk. But we weren't interested in meeting one, and they probably weren't interested in meeting us either.

Kampinoski National Park has a second, more gruesome claim to fame. In the early months of WW II, many of the Polish leaders, members of the intelligentsia and the resistance movement were murdered by the Nazis and buried in mass graves in these inaccessible woods. Approximately 2000 sets of bones are said to lie in the ground here. We passed two markers (in the form of crucifixes) bearing memorial tablets, which reminded visitors of these horrible events.

And that's the contrast we often experienced in Poland: It's as if the surroundings were viewed through a pair of oppositely polarized lenses. Simultaneously you see past and present, good and bad, beautiful and sad, inspiring and depressing, harmless and dramatic. It all depends on one's perspective. And it's important that we experience as many of these facets as possible.

When we at last exited the woods, the rain had started again – and we still had at least 15 kilometers to go. In spite of our best efforts, raincoats and all, we got thoroughly soaked. It was a great relief to find a small grocery store that was open, and we replenished our energy reserves with chocolate. After that the last part of the journey was much easier.

After eating a proper Sunday dinner and taking a short nap in our cozy den, we again set off in our car.

Piaski proved to be a flop. We had to make our way through thorny sloe bushes. I was worried about my favorite Gore-Tex jacket, but it survived the experience without scars – and I did too. It's soon clear, that although the graves were there, there were no gravestones or tablets. Unfortunately, we found no "nuggets" here.

We moved quickly on, passing through Sladów, where we took some photos for B. (what a pity that it was still raining and everything was looking very gray). We crossed over to the other side of the Vistula once more and arrived at Czerwińsk nad Wisła, which we had seen shining in the distance all the while.

On the bridge we stopped one more time. We didn't want to let this view of the river slip away. When it's gray and foggy like this the landscape has its own melancholic charm.

Dusk had arrived when we came to our destination. In the foregrounds of the basilica we came to a stop, astounded. We had no idea it would be so massive and huge. Built in the 12^th century, it was unmistakable with its Romanesque style, massive walls and Gothic filigree sections.

Beside the cathedral, a large monastery stretched over a wide area. The entire complex was situated on a prime site high on the steep bank of the Vistula with wonderful views of the river and the countryside south of the river. Visiting hours were now over, so we concluded this chapter of our journey.

Monday, 7 October 2002

We packed our luggage, enjoyed our last breakfast, bid a heartfelt farewell to our hosts, and got on our way. We planned to drive all the way back in one day and therefore chose another route: via Płock, passing Torun and Bydgoszcz, through Piła, and crossing the border near Kostrzyn / Kuestrin. This decision proved to be fortuitous: better roads, fewer trucks, and the landscape was more beautiful. We drove relatively relaxed, and arrived home after twelve and a half hours, safe and sound.

And what did we take with us? The true richness of new experiences, impressions, and the determination, that this will not be our last journey to Poland.