Wrocław. Transmissions of memory


Piotr Siemion

For decades, everything in Wrocław was temporary. Unreal, like the place itself.

'When you say “river”, I hear “Oder”…'
Rafał Wojaczek, “To nie fraszka”

We take a right past IKEA. Three-lane blacktop. On a road like that, you can drive all you want. The next border crossing awaits us only in Gibraltar. Wrocław is not only a city with a population of half a million people. It’s also a home, and as any home eventually is, this one is also rich in stories. After leaving the city limits, all we can do is put on a local station on the radio. A show about literature is on. The recording, made available by the BBC, was made two decades ago. It’s been in the archives, the static hasn’t been removed yet. The person recorded speaks with a specific accent, the “l” sounds especially peculiar. We pass columns of 18-wheelers and come upon a fork, one way leads to the Alps, the other to Amsterdam. Europe is wide open. We’re bored. But it was different. Let’s listen to the radio, while we’re still in range of the local stations.

Low Meadows

“’Niskie Łąki’ (which translates loosely to “Low Meadows”), is the name of a street in a not-so-distant, yet strange and forgotten country. However strange it may be, it is not imaginary; only hidden from Western eyes. The street, originating somewhere in a clump of six-story tenement houses built by the Kaiser’s men is also real. Their courtyards have no roofs and their walls are pockmarked: forty years ago, metal fragments traveling at high speeds tore gashes in the brickwork. The windowpanes are covered with soot, the city is an industrial center. Walking down this street towards the river, you pass cobblestone courtyards, breathing in wafts of urine and coal. The sidewalks are empty. Further down, where the tributary joins the river, there is a football field, a few garages and a steel bridge behind them. A few suburban villas in grave disrepair, pretty gardens overran with weeds and bushes. A broken fence around the park, empty save for a pair of bums. A few hundred meters further, the street disappears in the vast meadows growing by the river. There is a footbridge hanging over the muddy waters. On the other side is the wall of the zoological garden, where, on warm summer night, you can smell the lions. You can catch a tram by the zoo and, riding through boulevards and bridges with an uneven rhythm of square-tenement house-empty-square, reach the remains of the city center. We can always stop by the river and gaze from the footbridge upon the vast meadows, reaching beyond the woods, beyond the turrets, as far as Holland and the shallows of the North Sea. They are true to their name, “low meadows”, a drain of rivers in the hole where the heart of Old Europe once was. Marshes with cities of red brick glinting on the horizon. A land of exiles, bombarded and unsure of both its future and its past. Not pure, crystalline Tibet, but a land after an immense flood.”

Another fork in the highway. Vans with plates from the Baltic countries turn towards Prague. The other road leads West. Towards Belgium and Paris. The vineyards of Porto. To Polish colonies in Ireland and England. A long journey, without end. One like ours, really. The voice in the radio goes on. The recording’s supposedly 25 years old. A quarter of a century, that’s quite a long time.

You don’t have to explain what it means to live in the scar tissue of the continent to people born here, in the city of squares devoid even of ruins, a city of feral parks.

For a long period of almost fifty years, this city found itself nowhere, really. It was too close to the nuclear demarcation line and minefields dividing Europe. Too close for life to be something more than temporary, unreal. There is no one left from the old inhabitants, thus nobody can tell us about the terror of Russian tanks closing in through the winter haze, about the bloody three month long siege, the desperate Totentanz of the city’s defenders and their final surrender. The reality of newcomers consisted of billions of bricks, strewn across the streets and ruins. It was a time of agonizing transformation. Everyday, westward bound trains left packed with Germans, while trains from the east brought people ripped from their homes, away from their identities, transplanted to the city. History textbooks talk about forced resettlement but make no mention of ubiquitous brick dust, the fetid stench of flooded underground hospitals or the fate of the tiger from the local zoo – the same one you can reach via the footbridge by the meadows – some say that the tiger was eaten by starving Germans during the siege, while others claim that it lived out its days in its cage, in an independent Poland, dying only in 1960. We could ask our parents about it, them who entered the ruins, the burned out shell of a paradise which was their waiting room.”

cardboard suitcases

The radio changes frequency as traffic announcements come on. There’s a traffic jam on the Berlin beltway due to a bus crash. We advise drivers to avoid that area. Next batch of announcements in half an hour. The old recording comes back on.

“The resettled peoples didn’t bring very much with them in their cardboard suitcases. The former inhabitants left them shot up blue trains, police barracks that looked like a red neo-gothic castle, complete with a moat, and, of course, bricks. It’s a weird detail, but they were simply everywhere, the modern red ones, and the medieval black ones, all mixed up in piles and stacks. Germany was far away and under occupation, Poland was not that close, either. Warsaw and Krakow were proper Poland. Wrocław was a no-man’s city. That’s what they called it. Despite the propaganda efforts to the contrary, Khrushchev tried trading these lands off in return for reuniting German zones.

The loss of their homeland in the east was a fact for the resettled, and the future did not look bright and their present consisted of cobblestone streets slowly overtaken with weeds, burned out gothic cathedrals, market squares, where Poles, Russians, Jews and even a few thousand Greeks tried their hand at trade;

markets filled with two decades of German clothes, contents of UNRRA aid packages, Singer sewing machines, books printed in Schwabacher, penicillin, fur coats, Iron Crosses, porcelain figurines, live pigeons, leeches, meat grinders, unexploded ordnance and Art Nouveau clocks. Even Soviet soldiers from bases outside the city came here to trade. But even that gold rush finally died down, replaced by the dreadful routine of “real socialism”. The vast wound inflicted on the continent finally started to heal. Children of the resettled, born in this new old city, took for granted both their Polish identity and the fact that the patched up architecture of Wrocław was not built by their grandparents. Ruins were gradually taken apart, and the debris formed a ring of hills that surrounds the city even today. New schools were built, the white plaster darkening with each passing school year. Another world war was always just around the corner. In the woods west of the city, splotches of rust began to bloom on hundreds of tanks, crouched and ready to lay death and destruction to anything at a moment’s notice. Not much happened here. After a while, big air-conditioned buses full of Germans hailing from these parts started coming around. They did not recognize their city in this new Wrocław. Nobody really felt at home here.

The kids grew up, went to school. They did their homework in tiny apartments in big Plattenbaus, built in the hundreds wherever the debris was cleared. There were forgotten tram tracks running through their courtyards. Kids shot at each other with guns made of sticks while the adults listened to broadcasts about mobilization. After a while, construction workers stopped building fallout shelters under every new apartment block. Children turned into adults, went to college, marched with the communists or with the anti-government protesters, watched “Bonanza” and “Dynasty” on TV and went to punk shows at the same venues where their elder siblings discovered jazz a decade earlier. They stood in food lines, had kids of their own. If it wasn’t for the hundreds of empty lots, the nomadic atmosphere of ten-story apartment blocks built on ruins, the tram lines to nowhere, or other remnants of the continental scar tissue, one could almost think life was back to normal. Continuity was a rare commodity in Central Europe. Blank walls, giant squares dotted with two or three rusty cars, embankments in disrepair, old cemeteries ripped apart by heavy machinery. No continuity, no tradition, no family graves. Instead, we had specters of Wrocław’s German past, rickety blocks of flats, crumbling, overcrowded tenement houses which somehow survived the city’s destruction. Eastern-flavored madness in an emptiness once filled with grand sounds of military bands and Germans dipping their moustaches in steins overflowing with beer. Discontinuity. Gaps between the buildings, the wind, the weeds and the fetid mist wafting in from the river.

A city without apurpose

I’m guessing that in relatively new countries, like the United States for example, cities don’t need this sort of continuity, typical for elder organisms. Centuries of neighborly existence mean little in the territories west of New England. Americans like this peculiar homelessness. The rest of the world will probably follow them in this regard, and this should not be entirely surprising. Well, isn’t this life between airports a sort of freedom? Europe had different customs – and we’re talking about the Europe from long ago, when it still had a center and peripheries. Now the center has moved to the peripheries, to Brussels and London, leaving a dead zone, devoid of memory, where the center once was. A dry Atlantis of amnesia, where concrete husks of burned out shopping centers are still standing thirty years after the great war ended.

The spine of this place has been broken. The new authorities didn’t even try to build palaces of culture or other monuments of its hubris here. They just moved into German offices that happened to survive the siege and that was it. Cities are delicate creatures. If you break their backs, they might die and never come back to life. Once destroyed, the balance of life is a hard thing to restore. Maybe that’s why 19 years after the war ended, Central European metropolises hadn’t rebuilt their populations to numbers comparable to those registered in statistical yearbooks from 1936. Vienna was one of these cities, Berlin and the burned out shell of Dresden were another. All of them German. And also Wrocław, German no more. No man’s city, really, where propaganda replaced history, for history was killed by incendiary shells and bombs, sent away in trains packed with people and their belongings.

A city that suddenly lost its owners. A city without a purpose. You could plunder it, tear down the ruins, rebuild it even, but believing in it was impossible.

The past, the memory of the fortress where the war was still going on on May 10, 1945 is hazy but not really lost. In the 1970s you could’ve feigned normalcy, the factories were back to life, the trams were running again, but somehow, the unreality persisted. The land around the city became the most distant province of the country. The borders were still closed, protected by landmines and barbed wire. But as soon as the door was cracked slightly open in the 1980s, the population disappearance mechanism once again went into full effect. Kids born among the ruins on the Oder started leaving. Where did they go? They didn’t leave for the Asiatic, steppe-like capital with its social realism, 300 kilometers to the east. They went as far as they could go, through unguarded stretches of borderlands and refugee camps, left for America, Canada, South Africa and Australia. Students, construction workers, housemakers. The fact that their parents were also uprooted peoples resettled to postwar Wrocław made the exodus even easier.  The émigrés said they wanted a better life, but you could see how they hate the provisional nature of the city, the leukemia eating away the granite cobblestones. When they went to Montreal, Hanau or Johannesburg, they didn’t leave behind a dank provincial hole; they left a nightmare that pretended to be a city. They didn’t leave Wrocław for the center of the new, beautiful world because it had none. Their peers who stayed behind chose to escape the severe realities of the city. In the twilight years of the fake empire they went underground, chose countercultural action that ridiculed the unwanted authorities as much as strikes in the train car factory did. But eventually, both types disappeared from Wrocław.

How can we really describe that exodus of the children? Well, examples have been set in the years gone by. We need to remember that most of the institutions in Wrocław were transplanted here from the east, Lviv especially, which in the 19th century was a provincial capital in the Austro-Hungarian empire. It was in Lviv that an expeditionary corps was formed from Polish and Austrian troops to fight in Serbia in the First Balkan War in 1912. That lilting accent can still be heard in the western Polish lowlands. The Kaiser’s soldiers, the lilt clearly audible, sang as they climbed into the train cars:

„On this cold and gloomy day, the children of Lviv

are leaving the Citadel to forever roam the world...“

Even though many military traditions were lost in the demise of the Austro-Hungarian empire, I’m sure many children of Wrocław hummed this tune when they strapped themselves in jet airliner seats, bound for Australia or Canada. And just like the soldiers wondering whether they’re ever going to see Lviv again, we might wonder whether the exodus might one day be reversed. Will the children of Wrocław return to the ruins that bore them? As of right now, nobody has. There’s nothing to see. The old heart of Europe is nowadays just an empty space. The ancient order did not survive even in a museum. A withered kingdom is all that is left of that old order, and more of its precious life is leaving it with each passing day. Is there something more? Only stories, tragic and funny, born in the short period between the end of the brick apocalypse and the final necrotic moments of the new order. For the time being, all we have left are these stories from the Low Meadows. That is, until the children of Wrocław return…“

That was the end of the recording. It was as ridiculous as tractors in the old communist propaganda pieces. We talk about it for a while. Later, in Zgorzelec, after we refuel and buy some hot dogs, we talk about it some more. We agree that history is behind us, separated from the present by the smooth concrete surface of the beltway circling the city. The recording is a bit unfair, as is all history. There was no mention of these new times, somehow real and normal. No mention of the 1997 flood, when the people working at the levees spoke for the first time about their will to rescue „their city“. No mention of open borders, „For Sale“ plaques on hundreds of buildings, of deserted bunkers and guardhouses. No mention that the children of Wrocław now have grandkids, that Silesia no longer is the sister of vampiric Transylvania. No mention of the fact, that the torn out heart of Europe is slowly coming back to its former shape, like a river, returning color to the meadows tired with winter. We have a fight about the meaning of the recording. It’s 25 years old. It sounds like a transmission from planet Phantasmagoria. Have we returned to the Low Meadows somehow, without us even noticing? Maybe we hadn’t left them in the first place.


Translated by Jan Szelągiewicz


"Street fighting" - courtesy of Isound Labels, the Polish distributor of Igor Boxx's album "Breslau".

listen to the content print version

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    W.A.M. pisze:Czyli oswiecona dytatkura jest naszym zbawieniem :)Coz, elity (nomenklatury) byly i beda.Pewnie o koncu historii czegos Pan nie zrozumial, mysle. Dawno czytalem, i nie sadze, by zielona demokracja byla systemem spolecznym, ktory umknal Fukuyamie. Tak dla rozrywki, warto przejrzec jego nowa ksiazke.Pan uwaza, ze biznes jak zwykle A przeciez wcale w gospodarce i w systemach spolecznych nie ma statyzmu. Pojawiaja sie nowe technologie, na przyklad, zmieniaja zycie. Pan wie jak wygladaly Slask czy Zaglebie Ruhry w latach 70.tych? I jak sie zmienily, bo ludzi zaczelo byc stac na ochrone srodowiska?Prosze Pana, Malthus prawdopodobnie tak bardzo sie nie mylil przy braku postepu technicznego i braku innowacyjnosci ludziom zaczyna brakowac zywnosci, i latwiej jest zabrac sasiadowi, czy tez wprowadzic kartki. Postep technologiczny (i spoleczny) chroni nas na szczescie przed glodem i chorobami. Prosze popatrzyc na Egipt i kraje Afryki Pln. stagnacja w rozwoju ekonomicznym sprowadza biede, ktora wypycha mlodziez, nie widzaca perspektyw i warunkow do zycia, na ulice.Prosze Pana, napisalem o SKALI roznego rodzaju rozwiazan. Nie wiem w jakim budynku Pan mieszka. Moj ma 10 pieter, 75 mieszkan. Mysli Pan, ze tam mozna zywnosc dla tych 200+ ludzi wyhodowac, na caly rok???? Prosze Pana, ogrodki przydomowe w miastach to widzialem na filmach pokazujacych glod w Korei Pln.Kto Panu kaze kupowa zywnosc czy inne towary w supermarketach? Jesli wielu ludzi zdecyduje sie na sklepy osiedlowe, to bedzie OK. I widze nawet, ze sieci handlowe wykupuja owe sklepy. Zakazac tego? Dofinansowac mum&pap?Pan tak wiele wyrzuca na smietnik? Tak wiele Pan kupuje? Ja i moi znajomi raczej jestesmy ostrozni (co ie jest zbyt dobre dla producentow i ich pracownikow).Mijam polki z truskawkami, nie kupuje. Pewnie gdyby mnie dziecko prosilo, to kupilbym (jesli by nas jeszcze bylo stac).Ale podkreslam jeszcze raz, tania zywnosc jest mozliwa dzieki nowoczesnym metodom produkcji, transportu, przetwarzania i przechowywania. Zas ostatni etap dystrybucji supermarkety czasami przyczyniaja sie do obnizki cen, czasami nie. Ale mam wrazenie, ze jest tam taniej (prawdopodobnie jest wyzysk pracownikow, i dostawcow ale tutajk mozemy glosowac portfelem, a istnieje tez cos takiego jak system prawny i pewne rzeczy powinny byc bezlitosnie egzekwowane tzn. lamanie praw pracowniczych).Mysle, ze wiele rzeczy mozna produkowac lokalnie, uslugi tez mozna realizowac lokalnie. Ale moim punktem bylo co da sie zrobic bez wprowadzenia czy utrzymanoa wysokiej organizacji spoleczenstwa i specjalizacji. Ktore kosztuja. Pan nie za bardzo odpowiedzial, raczej wymienil szczytne hasla i idee. A tak realnie myslal Pan o tych technokratycznych wymaganiach?Co do dlugu i systemu finansowego zgadzam sie z Panem. Banki sa za duze, zeby upasc. System jest poza kontrola, zabawa naszym zyciem, w zasadzie. Ale, bez udzialu w tej grze nie bedzie zielonych subsydiow, niestety. Pan ma swiadomosc tego? Pan laskawie zwroci uwage, jakie instytucje finansowe wspieraja zielona energie. I zarabiaja na subsydiach niezle pieniadze. W USA dofinansowanie kukurydzy (na bioetanol) to minimum 6bln $$$ rocznie. Wielkie banki inwestycyjne tez maja niezle udzialy w tych technologiach Jesli wyjdziemy z petli dlugu, co z tymi inwestycjami? Ale wiekszosc pieniedzy i tak jest gdzie indziej lokowana/relokowana. Prawdziwe pieniadze splywaja na konta klasy politycznej I czesc (czasami nie takie znow ochlapy) trafiaja do konsultantow, grup nacisku, badaczy produkujacych zamowione raporty :). Pracuje w konsultingu (tez), wiec wiem, o czym pisze.Mam nieco inna opinie o paliwach kopalnych, i o feasibility tzw. green energy. Ale to spojrzenie inzyniera, nie speca od SocialEngineering. Pan sie zapyta siebie samego, dlaczego UE nie popycha jedynej czystej technologii nuklearnej thermonuclear fussion. Przy nakladach 50bln-100bln euro i 50% szans na sukces strata to 25-50bln. Zysk energia prawie za darmo i bez CO2 ( :) ) na ile to oszacujemy (roczny rynek energii to 5 trylionow USD) 1000bln*50% = 500bln. Rachunek ryzyka pokazuje Panu, jakie powinny byc decyzje w stosunku do projektu ITER (Pan popatrzy, ile kosztuje nas kryzys finansowy i droga energia).Co do inwestycji w edukacje i badania medyczne mowimy o SKALI, znowu. calego systemu edukacyjnego, badan medycznych, produkcji aparatury medycznej. I tak jestesmy lokalni w stosunku do szpitali w USA :) . Czy Niemiec. Do jakiego stopnia i jak chcialby Pan to zlokalizowac ?Pan podaje przyklad Kuby czy Pan uwaza, ze tam jest tak przyjemnie? To moze powinnismy wrocic gdzies tak do roku 1970 i glebokiego PRL? To chyba porownywalne sytuacje, jesli chodzi o poziom zycia, o wyzywienie, i nie tylko. Koledzy opowiadali o glodnych Wietnamczykach, plynacych do polskich statkow na redzie Hajfongu, w 1986. Sprzedawali wszystko, lacznie z corkami, za jedzenie. Koledzy doktoranci wysylali z Polski rodzinom jedzenie, podstawowe leki, witaminy. A mieli lekarzy, niezly klimat Nie stawiam tezy o anarchii. Stawiam teze o mysleniu zyczeniowym i chciejstwie. O jedynie slusznych ideach, ktore moga byc realizowane za kazda cene, bo grozi nam katastrofa, i tuz za rogiem jest raj.I nie jestem zadnym liberalem oszalalym. Libertynem, moze. Na PoliticalCompass.org mialem wynik (-7,-8). Pan sie tam testowal, dla ciekawosci?

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