Today my grandmother and my took a bus into Łomża, a city a few miles north of Łódź, so that she could visit her family, and so that I could meet them. My grandmother was born and raised in this city, or rather on a farm in a little town right outside of it. I went to visit her old home today, at the request of my mother to take pictures, but also out of curiosity. The family still owns all of the land that they had once farmed, but no one lives there today. My grandmother’s brother, as one of the closer residents, is it’s main caretaker, but he relies a lot on the neighbors to keep unwanted guests away. My grandmother had moved out when she was twelve years old, to pursue an education that could only be found in a big city, and over the years all her siblings had followed suit for different reasons. Before today, no one had opened the house for five years.
The property was the closest one to the main road, so the limits of what the family owns were easily pointed out to me. The section where the family lived was closed off, but when we pulled up we opted out of using the gate, and instead went for a hole in the fence.
As we walked, my grandmother pointed out her memories to me there.
There were the apple trees that always produced tons of fruit every year. During this annum, no one had been around to gather the apples. The trees were bare, and the fruits lay on the ground, brown and decayed.
These were the bushes were her father was shot in the leg while running away. A group of the town’s men had been gathered at her house when Germans came through, and such meetings weren’t allowed.
Over there was the basement she had hid amongst the potatoes that had been stored there, when, again, German’s had come through.
This was the loft where the hay was stored, and where she would climb up to throw the bundles down to the barn floor. One time a little more than expected hit the ground; she had fallen down as well.
Over there in the field, where a dip could be seen, was where the bombs has fallen and torn holes in the ground. Soon after half the town had burned, along with cows, horses, and a number of other farm animals which could not be saved. They were all buried in the graves that had been ready-made by the bombs.
This barn, which had housed three horses, was set alight one night. Her father ran in, threw covers over the horses’ eyes and brought them out, only to have the beautiful gray shot down from an airplane.
And I heard all of these stories before we even stepped into the house. At first I thought that this wouldn’t be at all possible, as the sturdy, steel padlock had rusted through, and didn’t give way so easily. My grandmother had already turned away when the lock popped open and the door creaked ajar. The house was small and made of cement but, in testament to it’s sturdiness, still mostly whole in spite of disuse. The only bit that had completely fallen apart was the one section of wooden floor in the house. This part had given into moisture and rot, and fallen into the basement below. The house was cluttered up with an odd assortment of things, but wasn’t packed away or organized in any specific way. It actually looked like someone had gotten up from the couch one day and decided that they weren’t going to live there anymore. A pot and a kettle still stood on the stove; a basket lay abandoned in the doorway; the wardrobe stood half open, complete with old clothes on hangers. And the stories continued.
That wardrobe was the first one that my grandfather and grandmother bought together when they got married, and the burn on the bottom was from when my uncle’s diaper set on fire (no, he does not have atomic gas. It had been of the reusable cloth type, and had caught on fire while drying). It had since been given to my great grandparents, and the clothes that hang inside are theirs.
This is the room where classes were held, when there was still no school in the town. In the next room over the younger kids had lessons as well.
There were many more. I won’t share all of them here.
As we were leaving, a beautiful pair of old radios caught my eye. I hope that my family doesn’t ever decide to throw them out. They might not be expensive or rare, but they’re a well preserved reminder of the lives and history that, once upon a time, happened here.
We same outside to see the neighbor skinning a rabbit, which hung from a gate frame leading to their garden. I asked if I could take his picture, and not only did he agree, but he seemed to take a liking to me. He offered to show me more of his rabbits, especially since he had to go kill another one. He has planned to give both to various members of my family, so we had to stick around until he was done anyway. I had no idea what to expect; I’ve never even read about how rabbits are killed, let alone seen it in person. It turns out that it’s done with a swift blow to the back of the neck whilst being held upside down, which I suppose not only makes it easier, but improves accuracy. It was over in seconds which meant that I, even as an avid animal lover, took it remarkably well. Skinning as also quick, done in a matter of minutes, and with no blood spilt at all. It as quite impressive, overall.
I also got to see their milk chickens, their dog, their milk cows, and the mother cat with kittens that lives in the barn with then.
I got to hug a kitten today. Paired with seeing a sizeable chunk of family history made today a wonderful day.
Though there could have been less food. My stomach hurts quite a bit right now. Believe me, though, it was too good to pass up.
Here’s to another good day tomorrow. Cheers.
Wandering Owl 