After Us, The Deluge

The "G-Damn" Cross

The Goddamn Cross

Love is the last fairytale we choose to believe. I ended up in Europe in a dream. Swept up in the atlantic tides and landing in London devastatingly in love with a handsome solicitor I had met briefly. Michal presented me with trite promises of eternity. In innocence I handed myself over to him naked and in entirety. I was already defeated by the time I had flown into Warsaw. I had been able to convince my fiancé to turn down a job in Bangkok and eternity seemed so much shorter. I was leaving to stay with his family while he was on an interview in Madrid. When the plane landed in Warsaw everyone clapped, the physics of flight were apparently viewed as sorcery in Poland and I began to see how far I was from home.

Sylvia and Piotr, Michal's parents were waiting for me just past customs. When I tried to hug Sylvia she lurched away as if burnt by fire. I toned down my optimism and kissed their cheeks the customary three times. "We have never met American before, so this is different lesson for us." Piotr said. Sylvia and I could barely communicate. I learned early how to listen to her sighs and arm movements.

We went straight from the airport to Powzaki cemetery. Hidden behind bullet riddled walls on the outskirts of city. It was endless. A gray mist hung low, dark and dense. White moths fluttered between ornate and looming figures stood watch over stone coffins. No one was underground. I saw thinning sandstone boxes eroding beyond recognition. "Emi, eternity costs money. The more you spend the longer your memory lives on. This is important, yes?" We took a silent drive home. I grasped for conversations but could never get past a simple, "Yes, very pretty."

I felt an instant bond with Warsaw. I had grown up in a decomposing city that had also been destroyed by war. Warsaw had been devastated in a few short days once Hitler realized he was about to be defeated. In a tantrum he leveled it, killing millions. Communism and now capitalism had rebuilt it, but it looked like plaid patches sewn onto a paisley shirt.

The summer was total. Perfection. There should have been an overwhelming beauty to it, but I rejected that. Everyone celebrated the days while I was slapped by the suns reflection bouncing off steel and glass. The sky sweated in bursts of breif rain showers. Primary colored trains carried people making dinner plans and making out. I understood nothing. They talked through me. My accent marked me. No one laughed when I asked for jogurt. The only word I knew was "przeprazam", I'm sorry.

In the center of these moments stood the "Goddamn Cross." My host would snap his newspaper in disgust as his portly wife chopped, cooked, stirred and served. 'Emi, this goddamn cross is going to be the death of my country." I gathered bits and pieces before I became a witness. A few months before almost every single head of state had been killed in a plane accident. The President had been aligned to the goddamn Catholic's party. He was beloved by peasants and hated by anyone with brains in their head. Catholicism was prevalent in Poland since the days of WW2 when the priests and churches helped the broken country and nursed it back to health and into their power. The presidents twin brother was now running for the open seat and was an avid proponent for the goddamn cross.

Supporters had erected it in the presidents memory in the hectic aftermath. Members of parliament wanted it removed, but little old ladies had adopted the symbol and wouldn't budge. They tied themselves to it and guarded it. Parliament offered to erect a proper monument and relocate the goddamn cross to a local church. It didn't matter. They stayed to protect it, grasping tighter as the president's brother lost favor in the polls. I gathered this from photos and fragments. This information was tarnished by an incredible ability to ignore my hosts and the general apathy of youth to anything that didn't directly involve myself.