On Track.

Do widzenia, Kraków; I enjoyed you.

Kraków, Poland – Steel shutters suddenly fall from the ceiling, causing travellers to scatter like ants in the rain.

They slide under the gates as police officers wave them along.

Confused, I stand watching the departures board at Kraków Główny, the city's main rail station. The screen only holds slots for a dozen trains, so it'll be a while before the EuroNight Chopin to Prague appears.

I lunge for an elevator to platform three, where I've been told my train will be. There are 10 tracks per platform and I still don't know which will be mine.

As I reach the top, the glass elevator doors don't open, even as a woman tries frantically to get in from the other side. We're locked down.

I'm 20 minutes to departure.

Well-trained.

Heading back downstairs, I ask a police officer if he speaks English and tell him I'm trying to get to platform three. "Then go," he says with a dismissive wave in the direction of the ticket desk.

It finally occurs to me we're not under attack, and that the station closes unneeded areas at night. I make it to platform three, but can only access the first two tracks. Both are full.

But not with my train.

The display blinks and Chopin finally shows platform three, track one; but the trains aren't moving. It updates again to two. The track is still full.

I suddenly remember reading that Polish train stations sometimes use the words for track ("tor") and platform ("peron") interchangeably. It must now be platform two, not track. Or is it?

Down to four minutes.

Again, I run at full sprint through crowds equally panicked about their trains. Someone tells me the train to Prague doesn't leave from platform two, as they hurry to Budapest. But I have to try.

Sure enough, on platform two: Chopin, idling lazily.

Having done my research, I know I'm in the second car and make the last dash.

Naturally, I'm at the wrong end of the train.

Settling into my sleeper cabin, I exhale. We begin rolling through the night and an illuminated Basilica of St. Anthony in Rybnik makes a punctuation mark on the day.

I'm loving this.

Whispers.

Ramp from main guard tower, Birkenau.

Oświeçim, Poland – A whisper. A comment.

(Withheld.)

I've long read the stories, seen the movies and imagined the terror in my mind. For once, the movies haven't exaggerated.

The pages of history books I studied in university unfold before me in full colour and in three dimensions. But here, the pages are so massive, so physically real. Five hundred acres real and scarred by seemingly endless brick foundations, left hollow.

Like I'm feeling.

Over five years, more than 1.3 million people were sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau, 85 per cent of whom were murdered with incomprehensible brutality. Our tour lasts longer than most victims spent here. The hollows remain as a physical black mark on history, whispering to us to remember.

Inside, a display case holds two tonnes of human hair. Two tonnes.

Pathway to the crematoria, Birkenau.

The whispers grow louder with each crunch of gravel as we move past the unloading ramp, still stitched together by miles of railroad track and barbed wire. An eerie peace is found in groves of mature trees swaying around a small pond.

It's shattered when we're told this is where ash from Crematoria IV was unceremoniously dumped – graves, rather than groves. More whispers.

We fall even further into silence as a man rocks on his heels, breaking into a heartbreaking song of prayer in Yiddish over the haunting, shattered rubble of the former Crematoria II. Blown up in 1945 by the fleeing Nazis, it's a contorted mound of jagged steel and concrete: destruction, destroyed. 

Otherwise, it's the silence that whispers of the horrors that took place here.

Right under our feet.

Interlude.

Auschwitz-Birkenau.

visitation stones  – oświeçim, poland

I step onto the same white stones
into which you’ve tucked
small notes of reminder:
despair in 21 languages.

Even with time, I’m cautious
to not turn right,
although, for many,
memory has already calcified.

I want to chip away at each
so recollection doesn’t become
just another stone
kicked down the road.

But there are too many
for one to pick up. 

A Front Seat to History.

Kraków, Poland – The city's history reaches back much farther than the past 80 years.

And much has happened since.

Yet, its prominent role in the Second World War remains front and centre for many, and I find myself visiting the Oskar Schindler Enamel Factory museum and wandering through Ghetto Heroes Square, where 70 iron and bronze chairs stand as stark monuments to those who never came home from the Holocaust.

The chairs convey the lack of humanity and conjure images of people being separated from their worldly possessions and sent to their deaths, which took place in this square.

Gate 3 in background (March 1943).

To this day, Podgórze, the district on the bank of the Vistula River that became the Kraków Ghetto, is noticeably different than much of the rest of the city: blackened by soot and by history.

Some buildings, long abandoned, still lean into the darkness.

Two sections of the original ghetto wall remain, rounded at the top and intended to remind inhabitants of being in a cemetery. Some sections had been constructed of actual pillaged headstones.

In an additional act of cruelty, the wall wasn't built when the ghetto was established, but on Pesach, the Jewish holiday of freedom.

Location of former Gate 3 (July 2023).

Podgórze is a remarkable, living time capsule. Most of the 320 buildings that comprised the former ghetto still stand and, apart from some cosmetic upgrades, look the very same as they do in history books.

Recognizing the anachronism, I hold up historical photographs on my phone to match my surroundings. Rounded balconies? Check. V-shaped building at a split intersection? Check.

As the backdrops have not changed, I'm easily able to identify key landmarks and the locations of the four former gates. A choppy black-and-white reel plays in my mind.

And ghosts whisper a chill into my veins.

All Squared Up.

Don't let the pigeon drive the bus.

Kraków, Poland – I'm greeted by a thunder clap of pigeon wings as I step for the first time into Rynek Główny. 

A young girl giggles with glee as she chases the twitchy birds.

This evening — as with most — the continent's largest medieval square dances with activity. I'm immediately reminded I'm in Europe in a way more visceral than the obvious.

The bustling centre dates back to the 13th century and houses a church that predates it by 200 years. It's stunning in a way words don't do justice.

Today, a flash mob of students begins singing by the Adam Mickiewicz Monument. A hum rises from patrons ringing the square, tipping litres of beer as horse carriages clop past. St. Mary's Trumpet Call rings out across stone walls, sounding more than a little like taps.

In awe, I exhale, absorbing a thousand years of history.

No matter the culture, give me dumplings.

My feet glide along smooth cobblestones as I dart down alleys lined by countless restaurants and shops filled with paschke, souvenirs and other tourist trappings.

I may have just been in Reykjavik, but this feels more like 'old' Europe, with stone that has withstood centuries: squares where people have congregated, celebrated and protested since time prior to memory.

After a long day of travel, I'm here to make new memories tonight.

Visiting Kluska Na Placu, I dive in to sour mushroom soup and a beef stew with dumplings that is accompanied by a full plate of sliced dill pickles.

A cold, crisp beer closes the deal. 

Again, I exhale.

I can't help but think this is what I've been missing.

Pole Position.

A journey cobbled together.

Kraków, Poland – Advancing with mild hesitation, the flickering bar on the ticket machine says "Processing."

Same, machine; same.

I've been up for 30 straight hours and attempted various origami folds to tuck myself into the tight airplane seats found on discount airlines. It turns out I'm not as pliable as I may have once been.

It doesn't help the seats on Eurowings are as thin as cafeteria trays.

For being the primary mode of transport into the city centre, the train is less well advertised than other options. A sign is tucked into the corner, almost an afterthought. When I ask for help, the woman at the information desk looks up from her phone just long enough to offer a dismissive wave in its direction.

The platform is a stew of languages, all seemingly asking the same questions. All seemingly in the same sort of haze.

The machine may be slow, but it’s relatively intuitive.

For 17 Zloty ($5.60 CAD), we have a comfortable 20-minute, five-stop run into the old town and, unlike most transport tickets in the city, this one doesn't need to be validated.

This time, I have plenty of room to stretch out.