Lviv and Lwów, a European Palimpsest pt 1

Sitting across the table from me at the Kumpel’ gastropub and microbrewery near the center of Lviv was my host, Ivan. He was young, fit, and precocious, but often held his clenched fist hard against his left cheek, trying to hide the fact that he was cross-eyed. Ivan came from a Russian speaking family, and it was hard to get out of him whether he identified more as a Ukrainian or a Russian, but he explained to me that it would be wise not to use Russian in Lviv. 

With his fist still pressed against his cheek he told me, “Last week I hosted someone from Russia, and nobody would help her in the streets, because she was speaking only Russian. The opposite happened when I hosted a woman from Germany. She spoke English and everyone helped her.” I responded that despite knowing Russian I wouldn’t attempt to speak it in Lviv. Instead I would try my luck with bad Polish and some English.

***

There was a sign that pointed me the direction that I was intending to go, and I turned right down a sinuous cobblestone road. The sun is low on the blue horizon, even though it was midday. Its beams were cutting through the air around me making the weather crisp and invigorating. Suddenly the 19^th century building façade to the left disappeared and opened up to a vast empty contemplative square that evoked a feeling of the eternal. Across the square I saw a small stone wall, and the vibrant blue and yellow Ukrainian flag flying high next to a war memorial with bright bouquets of plastic flowers. Peeking out just beyond the low stone wall were the headstones of the Lychakiv cemetery.

I paid the few hryvna to enter, and the extra in order to take some photographs, then I grabbed a map and eagerly started my little expedition. Lychakiv is one of the oldest cemeteries in Europe, being founded in 1786. The great Pere Lachaise in Paris was first opened 18 years later in 1804. I spent most of my time looking for people that I might recognize, or trying to find the headstones that the map I bought recommended to me.  When I saw a unique sculpture I took a picture and tried to decipher who that person was and what he or she did to deserve such enchanting recognition after death.

There’s something humbling about wandering around such a cemetery, surrounded by the beauty, the inspiration and the expression of death. In a place like this it’s impossible not to put things into perspective. Every sculpture, every headstone represents the life of someone. From their resting place there evolved a new form, an immutable shape chiseled by a local artist to keep the memory of the withered body’s life alive forever. The most remarkable thing about walking here among the dead is the intense appreciation one begins to feel for life. The sound of the birds chirping becomes more pronounced, and the deep colors of brown, green and gray create a subtle longing. It is easy to contemplate love and poetry. Each individual stone is megalomaniacal yet at the same time admirable, and indubitably the eclectic pieces of art that you stumble upon in the great cemeteries of the world are always extraordinary.

My camera suddenly notified me that it could no longer read my memory card. This prompted me to take a more observant stroll, without being preoccupied with photography, listening to the rustling of the ivy on the trees and silence permeating from the stone graves. The beauty of this part of the world, the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, struck me hard.

I headed towards the sub-cemetery within Lychakiv that is dedicated to Polish war heroes who fought for Poland against the Soviets, as well as in other battles, during the years of the Republic between the two World Wars. This drives home the fact that this city does not have a linear past. There are layers upon layers of influence, and there is not one singular identity that exists in its history. Controlled initially by the Kingdom of Ruthenia, then the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, as well as by the Habsburgs, the Republic of Poland, the Soviet Union, and Ukraine; there is much diversity to be admired. In the cemetery you can see headstones from every epoch, with names like Franz von Hauer, the governor of the Kingdom of Galicia during the rule of the Austro-Hungarian empire; Ivan Franko, one of the most prominent writers in Ukrainian and a great reformer of the language; Artur Grottger, a great Polish painter known for painting epic battles; Viktor Chukarin, one of the first of the abundant and talented Soviet gymnasts.

Sectioned off with its own wall, I entered the monotone Cemetery of Eaglets, as it’s known in Polish. There were rows of diminutive white stone crosses with slim red and white bands wrapped around the top of the cross, each with a name of one of the men, and if possible some relevant information.  I read some of the names. Jerzy Sieradzki, age 19, student at the polytechnic university; Bolesław Wizimierski, age 47, second lieutenant in the Polish Army; Rozwadowski, age unkown, occupation unknown.  There were hundreds more.

This part of the cemetery was bulldozed by the Soviets in 1971 to make way for new apartments, a good statement about the attitude of the Soviet empire towards local and national identity. But luckily the buildings were never realized, and in 2005 renovation  was completed by the Ukrainian government (how it looked in 1997) and it was reopened (how it looks now), showing goodwill to their Polish neighbor. It’s a beautiful and quiet place, and it shows the profound importance that this city still has in Polish history, being once the third largest city in the nation, behind Warsaw and Łódź. Polish citizens make the trip often to Lviv to see a city that they often associate as a symbol of Poland’s historical glory.

Link to part 2

Photo taken by the author

Poland and Mushrooms pt 1

I was standing in the middle of my kitchen, five stories up from Kaukaska Street in the monotonous Stegny neighborhood of Warsaw. I opened up the jar and held it up to my eye, examining the gooey maślaki mushrooms inside. A sour earthy smell came out and invigorated my senses with its pungent punch. I stuck my spoon inside and slid the slimy morsels out one by one into a small glass. Each one dripped out, splashed onto the enameled glass, and then sat there entombed in the transparent slime. I looked closely again at the alien looking creatures that had alternating smooth brown and porous cream-colored surfaces. The longer I looked, the more my fascination grew. But they were there for me to eat, and not to admire, and soon they exited from there interim resting place and into my mouth, and finally into my gut, where maybe they would sprout again.

100 kilometers north of Warsaw, on the cusp of autumn, I found myself in a small village near a town called Pułtusk. Here I was going to do something very Polish, very Slavic for that matter, in nature with my companion and life partner, Kasia. We were walking along the river Narew, a river that flows into the Wisła, which in turn then flows through the home of Kopernik’s Toruń, and out the mouth of Günter Grass’ Gdańsk into the Baltic Sea. We were on our way to pick some mushrooms, specifically kurki. Soon we broke off from the river and headed towards the wooded flatland. The idea was that later we would fry these mushrooms and eat them alone with spices, or mix them with scrambled eggs, and in my impressionable eyes this was a truly Slavic meal.  

While on this adventure, I remembered a scene that never left me from a Russian film named The Cuckoo. Two soldiers, a Finn and a Russian, have been betrayed by their countries; one left to die, and the other being taken to his trial. When things go wrong they’re both saved by an endearing Sami woman in the wilderness of northern Finland. The problem is that all three of them speak completely different languages, and so in communication there is no common understanding. This especially isn’t good when you're staring into the eyes of the enemy you’ve been fighting for the past 3 years. Things are tense, but they manage not to kill each other, mostly due to the pacifism of the Finn.

The scene I was thinking about happens when they're all doing different things, and you see the Russian picking something in the woods. He comes back home with a bucket full of gigantic dirt-encrusted mushrooms.

When the Sami woman sees him she says,

 “Don’t eat mushrooms or you’ll go loony.”

He responds,

“Don’t worry. I’ll cook them. The sergeant in my battalion cooked them wonderfully!”

Later he runs up to her with a boiling pot in his hand.

“Ma’am I need salt. Salt. Where is it?”

“I’m not mad enough to eat mushrooms” She waves her hand in a suggestion to go throw them out.

He thinks she’s pointing to the direction of the salt,

“In the house,” he says. “Ok I’ll go get it.”

Later they are speaking together.

“The mushrooms will be ready soon. We can eat. But we need some salt.”

“Yes,” she looks at him warily. “Mushrooms are bad. They can be poisonous.”

The next day he wakes up to find her standing over him. She looks worried and says,

“Do you feel bad? It must be the mushrooms. I’ll feed you some infusion and flush it out of you.”

He is completely expressionless and looks fine. She brings him some infusion soup that acts as a laxative, and he politely accepts her offer, thinking it’s just plain soup. Soon after he is ejecting everything from his rear end, and cursing the Sami woman to hell. The Finn walks outside, watches this spectacle and says,

“That’s what happens when you eat too many mushrooms.”

Despite its humor, this can be seen as a good example for understanding the relationship that Slavs have to their mushrooms. Through their utter lack of communication we find that what stands out in the Russian's mind is his mushroom culture, and what stands out in the others is their traditional misconceptions. 

I thought about this scene in Poland, far away (but not too far) from its Slavic cousin Russia. Would our fate be similar to that of the Russian? No, we had a common language and therefore there would be no misunderstanding. I asked Kasia cautiously,

“Do you know which ones are poisonous?”  

Her curt sardonic answer came reassuringly, “Of course!”

We circled the forest and scoured the soil, spying for the effervescent yellow prince’s crowns, but after an hour of not finding a sign of existence we went back home empty-handed. Apparently the weather had been too dry lately. All was not lost though, because as soon as we arrived at the cabin we were greeted by a whole clan of bulbous opieńki waiting patiently on a cut tree by the fence that wrapped around the corner of the house. Unfortunately though these wouldn’t be fried, and instead they would be pickled and kept in a jar, like the alien maślaki that sprouted up into their second life in my stomach.


Read part two here