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Evidence

Sunday, December 2nd, 2007

My last day in Płock, I returned to the state archives one last time, looking for absolute evidence that I was in fact related to the strangers from Piączyn. The archivist seemed happy to see me back and tried to shake my hand, but I had misread and thought he was reaching for my pen. I ended up stabbing him in the hand with my pen. Such miscommunications transcend all language.

Sifting through the parish birth records one last time, I found another kind of miscommunication, this one over a century old. My great grandfather did have a brother Józef after all- his name had been misspelled in Cyrillic. So we were related, after all.

Before catching a bus to Warsaw, I celebrated the week’s findings the only way I knew how- with a return to my favorite restaurant, Tessa. I ordered a pork chop with surówka, a tasty salad based on red pepper and cabbage. Indecisive between a coffee and a beer, I chose both. Another meal alone, but this time I had the Polish version of MTV. This featured mostly American videos, but with Polish text messages submitted by lovers. For all Płock lacked in a jazz scene, it made up for in excellent food and televisions.

So, Did I Really Have Third Cousins in Poland?

Wednesday, November 28th, 2007

Walk to Piaczyn

Any time my alarm clock goes off at some ungodly hour when it is still dark, the first thing that comes to my mind is “what the hell was I thinking?” The same was true this day, only doubly so, because I was wandering off to an unknown village in the middle of a foreign country where I had little reason to expect anything more than frustrating miscommunication. But this was to be the culmination of months of family history research and a few weeks of Polish study, and at the very least I wanted to come back with a story.

The beginning of the trip was ominous. I waited at the freezing bus station for half an hour in the dark, wondering if I misunderstood the instructions for where to wait for my bus. But then the bus rolled in, late as it was, and I was on my way to Staroźreby. It was only then that I decided to look at my map, and noticed that my destination was some 7 miles from Staroźreby, and I would have to walk there. This was something I decided to do weeks ago, when it was still pretty nice outside. When I got to the Staroźreby station, which turned out to be little more than a concrete shelter, things seemed even more ominous. I double and triple checked the bus timetables to ensure I could in fact get back and not end up like the frosted plastic water bottles littering the side of the road. And then, my first steps through town were accompanied by a chorus of barking dogs.

The walk was beautiful; the sun was rising and a faint mist was rising from the icy road in the midst of pure farm country. Because there are few roads and many signs, I had little trouble finding my way to the village. Just as I had arrived in this tiny village, I walked by a woman with a shopping bag. “Do you know where this family lives?” “Yes, second house” Now that’s the kind of Polish communication I can handle.

I walked in front of this second house, which was a gated home with a vast farm for a backyard. I waited in front of the gate until the chorus of barking dogs and clucking chickens reached a crescendo. This is the rural Polish equivalent of a “doorbell.” Just then, an elderly but agile man shuffled out of a barn, yelling something I didn’t understand. I mentioned something about being a relative, and he said, yes, they had received a letter from me a week ago, and he directed me inside their home. Inside was an elderly woman, a bit younger and more agile. Above a coal-powered stove was a pot with two chicken feet sticking out.

Neither spoke a word of English, but apparently, they understood my letter, which my Polish teacher in Krakow had helped me to write in perfect Polish grammar. I tried to share with them my latest research, and the two of them began throwing out Polish dates and years as if they were brainstorming a connection. Yes, their relative Józef must be my great grandfather Ignacy’s brother. But, I wasn’t clear how, and couldn’t even figure out if my two hosts were married to each other or were brother and sister. Why was the woman’s phone number the one in the phone book? As we attempted communication, the matriarch insisted that I have some herbata (tea), some bread and bacon, another herbata, an apple, and a bowl of soup. And then some chocolate crackers. And then another apple (good for teeth!). And then another herbata and a donut.

There was some intermittent success with communication. And there was a whole lot more confusion. The matriarch was remarkably patient and seemingly very sharp. She insisted that I take my time and write my questions and comments in Polish, using my English dictionary. The man of the house seemed to be yelling at me the whole time, but I felt better when he explained that he was just hard of hearing. He was a farmer, grew potatoes and rye, and kept bees (i think)- different enough from me that I’d be proud to be related to him.

But it turned out I’m not related to him…

Just then, a much younger women came in the house. This was their granddaughter, my third cousin, apparently. And then later two more- a man with a mustache and a woman a bit older than me, and later a teenage boy. I was hopelessly confused after the initial introductions. However, although no one spoke a word of English, their daughter had a remarkable ability to communicate simply and clearly, which transcended language barriers. So this elderly couple were not my relatives, after all, they were live-in in-laws of my relatives! In the end it turns out I was directly to three of the other four. Two third cousins, and a third uncle. Now that’s cleared up- almost. I don’t have a birth record proving Ignacy and Jozef were brothers, but the village was too small for us not to be related…

I shared with them a motley collection of gifts- a bar of chocolate, a Chicago shot glass (to represent my home), and a Boston Red Sox hat (to represent my birth). And, I promised that if they came to Chicago I would make them drink five herbatas to get them back. They told me they wanted me to write again, and that next time I should visit them in the summer. Success?

Leave No Stone Undisturbed

Tuesday, November 27th, 2007
Searching for any clue I can find to my family history, I request several tomes of parish and civil records at a time. The search is seemingly endless, but it's still exciting trying to deciper patterns through incomprehensible cyrillic ... [Continue reading this entry]

A Day in the Archives

Monday, November 26th, 2007
Last night I walked by a "duchowne" building the night before, and forgetting to learn what a duchowne was, I didn't think anything of it. This morning I went to the historical society of the diocese, and asked the ... [Continue reading this entry]

Jazz in Northeastern Mazovia

Monday, November 26th, 2007
Still high from my discovery of the thriving and innovative jazz scene in Krakow, I was hoping to find at least a little of the same in downtown Płock (pronounced "Pwotsk"). I walked by the one reputed music club ... [Continue reading this entry]

Subterranean Jazz Club

Monday, November 12th, 2007
So I made it to Poland, and have time for a couple of nights out on the town before my Polish classes begin... The jazz scene in Krakow, apparently, is nothing to sneeze at. I didn't ... [Continue reading this entry]

An Army of Senior Citizens

Sunday, October 28th, 2007
Back when my brother and I made our first discovery about Ignacy, I guarded my ancestral "documents" with my life. After my brother and I went our separate ways, I found myself a cheap motel in Vermont, where the ... [Continue reading this entry]

Mamma Never Told Me She Was an “-owski”

Sunday, October 28th, 2007
My brother, who lives in Montana, doesn't have a telephone. But, every once in a while (I'm using the term "a while" very loosely here) he'll show up unannounced at my doorstep. When I'm lucky, I'm actually home ... [Continue reading this entry]

Genealogist’s Neck

Saturday, October 27th, 2007
Most of us have been told at some point in our lives, "never forget where you came from." The longer you’ve lived, the more eclectic the mix of hellos and goodbyes, chicken pot pies, black eyes, and alibis that ... [Continue reading this entry]

Overview

Friday, October 26th, 2007
There are three pages to this travelogue: Page 1 describes the world of genealogical research and my orientation to Poland. Page 2 describes the hardships of language barriers and the search for long-lost cousins. Page 3 describes my return home to Chicago and ... [Continue reading this entry]