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| A wanton, knowing and rather experienced Amor (detail) from the superb Baroque collection at the Augustinermuseum in Freiburg, Germany visited in the summer |
At Christmas time the importance of the Polish family is ever-present - a force that holds this society together with affection and love. On Christmas Eve a wafer is broken by each member of the family and wishes made. The apalling history of loss meant the family was often the sole refuge from oppression. Here in Poland the family at Christmas is to be warmly embraced not fled in anguish.
At Christmas time the importance of the Polish family is ever-present - a force that holds this society together with affection and love. On Christmas Eve a wafer is broken by each member of the family and wishes made. The apalling history of loss meant the family was often the sole refuge from oppression. Here in Poland the family at Christmas is to be warmly embraced not fled in anguish.
I quote Chapter 27 of my book A Country in the Moon for a nostalgic account of Christmas and New Year in Poland at the turn of the millennium.
CHAPTER 27
A Yellow Sleigh for the
Departing Guests
Zosia drew me back to Poland many times over the years that followed.
But no visit was more moving and memorable than that at
the turn of the millennium. We spent Christmas Eve in Warsaw
under a heavy blanket of snow, the heaviest for many years. The
Vistula lay half-frozen under a crusted blanket of white ice. A group
of nuns were gathered around the swings in the park, giggling and
laughing in arcs of joy, their habits like the wings of bluebirds
against the snow.
Preparations for the last Christmas of an epoch were complete.
Zosia and her mother seemed to have been cooking for hours, days,
weeks. The tree was dressed and lit, piles of presents placed under
the branches and the traditional empty place laid at the table should
an unexpected wanderer call. The pets had begun to speak in
tongues (different languages) – well, that is the folk tale anyway.
Twelve dishes are served, symbolizing the twelve apostles. Red
barszcz (beetroot soup), carp in jelly, mushroom and cabbage
pierogi (similar to ravioli) and other dishes too numerous to list. The
blessed opłatek (Christmas wafer) embossed with a Nativity scene
was broken and shared among the family with good wishes for the
future. Presents were opened and carols sung.
‘Put some fish scales in your wallet, Michałku! It will bring you
luck and money!’
For that special New Year’s Eve we headed into the High Tatra
mountains in the south to stay at the great Renaissance castle of
Niedzica. This mysterious frontier castle, perched on its limestone
crag above a frozen lake had lured me to the region. The eyrie had
originally been built by the noble Polish–Hungarian Berzeviczy
family above the gorge of the wild Dunajec river early in the fourteenth
century.
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| The Castle of Niedzica in the Pieniny region of Poland in the south-east. The 'Ghost Room' is in the front pepper-pot tower on the right |
Zosia and I spent the previous night listening to odd noises in our
room, the Komnata ‘z duchami’ or Ghost Room, located in one of
the corner towers of the castle, formerly a chapel. The irrational was
soon forgotten as the New Year’s Eve ball began with a sumptuous
feast. Opulent jewellery, bright in the flickering candles, rose and fell
on the low-cut gowns of women breathless with dancing and
amorous laughter. Polish mazurkas and polonaises together with
Hungarian gypsy music accompanied flurries of snow whispering
past the icy windows. A fierce fire burned in the fireplace below the
ballroom, the walls covered in antlers and artless Polish family portraits.
By midnight it had begun to snow heavily as we climbed the
castle keep with a bottle of champagne and sparklers. The spotlights
illuminating the turrets created remarkable effects on the clouds of
rushing snow. Champagne toasts were drunk and impossible Slavic
promises were made for another thousand years. I pulled my sheepskin
jacket over my dinner suit, made a brief excuse to Zosia, my
Polish princess, and wandered alone into the snowy courtyard
beneath the golden clock to smoke a celebratory cigar. At 2.00am
the heavy tapestry curtains of the entrance hall were suddenly flung
wide and three flaming piglets were wheeled in on silver trolleys.
Cheers filled the vault as carafes of vodka glowed once more on the
tables. Portions of the succulent meat were carved with a flourish.
The scintillating ball was meandering to its close as we emerged
into the night. A yellow sleigh was drawn up waiting for departing
guests, its curved sides decorated in crimson banding. A horse covered
in a rustic blanket munched some hay carelessly thrown on the
ice. Torches burned on either side of the driver, who appeared to be
asleep. Flames glittered off the steel runners as I leaned against it and
loosened my bow tie.
‘Have you seen the ghost of Umina walking by the lake?’ A disembodied
voice emerged from the recess of the driver’s fur-lined
hood. I could scarcely reply from the surprise of hearing a human
voice cracking the silence.
‘No. Umina? Who was she?’
‘Ah, a visitor who comes to the castle and does not know the
story of the haunting. Shall I tell you some of it? I used to be a guide
here. But now my legs . . . the steps to the dungeon . . . too old now.’
He pushed back the cape to reveal a weathered face, the face of a
mountain dweller. His Pieniny dialect was difficult to understand at
times, but the tale he told me on that millennium eve has fascinated
me ever since.
It was a confused account, as he delivered it, involving an impoverished
eighteenth-century Polish–Hungarian nobleman, his voyage
to Peru and marriage to the last princess of the Incas. The narrative
was rudely interrupted by the arrival of some fifteen sanie (sleighs)
with flaming torches for the kulig (sleigh ride) and bonfire in the
forest which would conclude that magical evening. Pale blue light
reflected off the moonlit snow, limestone crags and wooden cottages
as we bowled along, each sleigh a pool of warm light, the occupants
laughing and chattering as sparks from the bitumen torches flew
onto their clothing and lodged in their hair or fur caps. The torches
blew wildly in the wind and suddenly we were racing. Passing and
re-passing on the narrow icy road, the faces of the occupants bathed
in light were gleeful, urging the driver on to even greater efforts, the
excited horses’ hooves slipping, sparks from the torches speeding in
long trails now.
It was 5.00am when we finally passed under the stone cross and
crawled into bed in the ghost room of the castle. It was noon when
I awoke with Zosia in my arms and decided to move to Poland for
good. I could not have known then it would take another six years.
http://www.michael-moran.net/poland.htm
