This morning I went for a quick walk before we left and I went into a couple of churches. One was an enormously tall and thin building that was blackened with age on the outside and completely white on the inside. As I entered I noticed a small elderly woman muttering a prayer, rosary in hand, back hunched over as she knelt. She looked at me and yet continued to mumble her prayer. As I left a few minutes later she was still there. She took a moment to look at her watch but never stopped praying. I wonder how much of her motivation came simply from a sense of duty, how much of it came from sheer habit.
At another church a woman sat in rags with a small child in her arms and another in ragged, filthy clothes nearby. I gave her a zloty and some change. I really didn’t care whether it was a scam (as so many people think of such situations) – I doubt it. And it made me wonder what forces led her to that destitution. Where is she now? Where will she stay tonight? I wanted to take her picture, but I felt it would be inappropriate. She wasn’t a tourist attraction. Yet I wanted to remember her face.
I bought an antique postcard from 1911. There is a note on the back in meticulous Polish handwriting – something about a sick grandmother, Magda told me. It is so strange to hold something so personal. That person obviously never intended someone to be reading it eighty-five years later. Part of me wants to track the person down, find out all I can about this individual. it’s virtually impossible – and only a mild passing fancy. It’s a bizarre link to the past which is at best minimal. I don’t even know the individual’s name . . .
In two weeks I will be at my site. As I looked out the windows of the bus I found myself imagining that each small town was my site. It’s as unreal to me now as Poland was to me twelve weeks ago . . .