 |
| A magnificent old structure--and two chained watchdogs (click on graphic to enlarge) |
Anybody with half a brain can see that Pomerania—once the eastern extreme of Germany; since 1945 the northwestern section of Poland—is haunted.
Today, we took an excursion from the seaside resort town of Kolobrzeg along the coast to Wolin, a small town at the south end of the island by that name.
My mother’s mother was from Wolin. Little is known about her. She died tragically in 1934, when my mother was a year old, in Stettin, south of Wolin. Her husband, my mother’s father, himself died tragically five years later, also in Stettin.
This morning, on our way west in our Opel, we came across a small town with a magnificent church. I walked clear around the enormous building, attempting to keep a low profile, for dozens of parishioners surrounded it, owing to some sort of ceremony. I walked about the town, too. It was beautiful; evidently, the buildings were untouched by the war and the notorious Russian advance/German retreat of 1945.
 |
| A path near the beach: Kolobrzeg, on the Baltic |
 |
| My dad on the Baltic shore, earlier today |
 |
| Spectacular countryside; beautiful roads |
 |
| Small town, magnificent church |
Owing to an error on one of our maps, we at first went to a town way up on the Baltic coast. There, we met an old Pole near a graveyard who explained our error and directed us south to the real Wolin. We thanked him, and off we went. (He had family in Chicago, he said. But he had lost track of them.)
On our way south, I happened upon a remarkable old building that seemed to serve as a farmhouse. (See top photo; click on it.) Oddly, it was guarded by two tied-up dogs, though only one of them barked. “Hello Pup,” I kept saying to the barking dog, who didn't seem angry. I took some pictures.
After a few seconds, a young man of perhaps seventeen bolted from the nearby farmhouse (the building at left). He ran straight up to me. I said, “I was just admiring your beautiful building.”
But he did not listen. In broken English, he said something like, “You must not take pictures.”
“I mustn’t take pictures?”
“No, you must not take pictures of this. You must stop now. Now go.”
“OK,” I said.
* * *
 |
| Wolin's Catholic cemetery |
About a half hour later, we were in Wolin, which is a small town with a large church. We drove about. The town is situated next to some wonderful forested hills. I drove toward them. We were looking for the “old graveyard,” hoping to see gravestones of my grandmother or of any of her family, the Sternkes.
I spoke with one man who spoke neither German nor English. I gestured, using a digging motion, and he seemed to grasp what we were looking for. He headed us toward a hill in the beautiful forested area, but that turned out to be an archeological dig for medieval tombs. No one was around.
Eventually, I happened upon a marvelous cemetery surrounded by an old fence. It was open. Once inside, we looked for older gravestones, but, though some seemed very old, those were illegible. All of the others dated to burials after 1945. The names were all Polish, none German. It was, of course, a Catholic cemetery (virtually all Poles are Catholic; most of the earlier Germans were Lutheran).
I tried to find someone who could answer my questions: were there any pre-45 gravestones? Was there an old Jewish cemetery? (It has been suggested—but perhaps it has also been debunked—that my grandmother was Jewish. Not sure.) But no one we met spoke good enough English or German to communicate with us, and time was running out.
We headed back to Kolobrzeg.
The countryside of old West Pomerania is spectacularly beautiful. It is very green, sparsely populated, and peppered with thick, beautiful forests. Spectacular forests, full of light and shadow.
It is impossible to look at them and not think of spirits.
 |
| Endless tree-enshrouded roads: somehow eerie |
 |
| A bleak Soviet-era structure amid the beauty of Pomeranian hills and farms |
 |
| Pomeranian driftwood |
