“At the end of the summer of 2016, when it became clear, that I would spend more time in Poland than I had originally intended, I visited Ania in her new apartment. It was my first time in Wrocław. I had already heard a short history of the city as told by our friend Marcin. After the war all the Germans had to leave. New inhabitants moved in. They came mainly from the East, from the former Ukrainian part of Poland. Many years after the war the city still had not been rebuilt. It was a city of potholes and empty lots, of gaps and abandonments, with planning on paper, but not on the ground. I thought that I could see this, when I looked at the inner courtyard from the kitchen window. It was a massive courtyard, bigger than a football pitch, no trees, hardly some grass. Storage places stood in long lines, all of them with a different coloured door, that would open by lifting the handle and sliding it back under the ceiling. Cars could park on the grid; children played football on an artificial court. Gypsies sat in the shade of their little garage, had a drink or a talk. The men would occasionally walk a couple of meters away and piss against a wall. It was relatively silent, no shouting, no arguing, no fights. I was looking at life in a central European town. The town itself felt very open, as if the sea was near. Time seemed to pass in slow motion, yes, sometimes I thought that it came to a halt. I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know anything at all. It was the year 2016, but it easily could have been 1972 as well. And yet, to Ania it seemed all very natural. She was happy that she had found her blender, put the lid on it and filled the kitchen with the grinding noise of the machine. She prepared almond milk.”
The ePub Deep Poland is available at the staaltape shop
Each one of the card-players could have told us how to get to Via Garibaldi in their village. I am afraid that asked about Domenico Lopresti maybe a few of them would have answered that Domenico had a shop in Palmi where he sold fruit and vegetables. Lopresti has a number of first-hand experiences of how the construction of the South as a barbaric land to be tamed and civilised on the part of the Northern ‘conquerors’ is providing the North with a justification for endless acts of violence and abuse. I am even more afraid that almost all the card-players would know about Lopresti’s food and vegetable shop, and probably also about the Calabrian nobleman, because it needs just one engaged teacher to plant the seed of knowledge, but when asked, they would have remained silent. Knowing both Loprestis could lead to secondary questions and information about their movements and relations. Family ties and the lines they drew inside a contemporary web just as across generations, had created an impenetrable network. Would one walk back through the decades, be welcomed by one grandfather after another, he might arrive in Garibaldi’s time, and a young man who sat on a rock, resting from a long day’s march, could have looked up to the visitor. This young man might have been one of the deported ones, who ended his life in a detention camp way up north. He might have been a wanted man, who had to flee from the King’s agents, hide in the mountains and join the brigands. He might have joined others who emigrated to the Americas. His story would have travelled through generations. It would have become part of the identity, not only of his family, but also of the town and the region. And one thing each of the descendants would have learned was to not speak with strangers about personal matters. I think that is how the complete region became a personal matter.
Excerpt From: “Deep Poland.”
You can order the ePub here
My impression of Poland changed. I was no longer a complete foreigner. I was now a bystander, someone who needed a bit of encouragement, an invitation perhaps, or a simple question of a more personal nature. I was at a few steps from a Polish reality. In the first months we spent a lot of time in a Polski Bus. We travelled between Warsaw, Wroclaw and Kraków. (It took me almost a year to realise that the colours red and white of the bus were the colours of the Polish flag. I always thought that choosing colours was a matter of taste. Nationalism of this order was new to me.) I like to watch out of the window when I’m on the road. This pleasure diminished in Poland. I saw the same fields everywhere; a kind of Monsanto’s dream come true. The houses along the road were of a simple middle class nature, most of them white with a classic red roof. They would look good in advertisement leaflets for a company that sold garden tools. The only thing new for me were the extreme dimensions of the billboards. People couldn’t be bothered less with having them in their garden or on their acres. It was a matter of taste. Maybe it was also a matter of nationalism. It showed that Poland was a country of free enterprise. A billboard, many times the size of a Polish flag, showed that a company had paid money for the use of a piece of land, a private piece of land.
From way up above my movements must have looked absurd, always drawing the same lines on the maps. Poland was the strangest country I had ever lived in. It looked like a giant stretch of land, without any notion of a border, a country acting out a sur place, inhabited by accidental people. Speaking to them was like trying to catch fairies. They all escaped. They returned to their language. It was the only thing that had kept the population alive all through the previous centuries, when the country was forever lost in history.
But then we arrived in Deep Poland.
You can buy the ePub for 3.45€ here
You can order the epub here, for a mere 3.45€