The schedule, in Polish, was a little confusing, so we went looking for the bus and driver the afternoon before, just to be sure. The bus station was next to the train station, so that was easy. Finding the bus itself was a little more complicated. We knew it was the PKS iS Oświęcim SA line, and maybe it had a number, maybe not, but since it was a local bus, and Auschwitz was but one destination, we had trouble finding it on the route board, which was filled with those five syllable Polish town names.
Wandering around the parking lot we found a bus that matched the description though it was not exactly parked where it was supposed to be parked. It was close. Close and a little crooked. Close, a little crooked and somewhat on the sidewalk, but what the hell? The driver was sitting on the steps of the bus, so we were in the money. Except, he did not speak any English. No French or Italian, or German (thinking back, he might have spoken German, but the slurring sounds he threw in made it sound like Polish). He did however speak the universal code; pantomime sign language.
He seemed nice enough, kind of short, a little balding, dirty blue coveralls and a red face… come to think of it, a very red face… anyway he seemed to grasp what we had in mind, fished around in his pockets then stumbled back up the steps into the bus, rearranged the mess of papers on the dash, fell into the mess around his seat and reemerged with a little scrap of paper. The bus schedule. One side was departures, Krakow to Oświęcim, the other side return times. Auschwitz was not listed on the schedule, but we were sure he understood where we were going, at least as well as we could understand his slurred Polish. (The Polish language is full of sh and tsch and ch and zsch sounds, thus my difficulty in learning it. He seemed a little more “Polish” than others, as he really slurred his speech.) He circled some times, added a few more, crossed a couple off, then we shook hands, I cried “dziękuję!” and he sat back down on the steps to contemplate the parking lot as we wandered back home.
Up early, coffee on the main square, then of through the downpour to catch the 9:15 bus. It wasn’t where it was last night. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be last night. It wasn’t anywhere in the lot… wait! Around the corner, there it was. We climbed on, I murdered the Polish language once more trying to say “cześć” but the driver either didn’t recognize me, or didn’t hear me as he stared somewhat morosly through bloodshot eyes out the front windshield at the rain. Promptly at 9:37 we were off! A slow, not very exciting, but interesting hour and a half ride, winding through small towns, dropping people off and picking up, sometimes in the middle of nowhere (just stopping dead on the road...where is the bus stop?) brought us to:
Auschwitz.
Suffice it to say it was a rainy day at the Concentration Camp memorial, which fit the mood. We toured the camp with a dry, dour guide. The thing that really hit me was how huge it is. You cannot get a sense of the scale and scope of this tragedy unless you see it. I have read books, but this really put one million plus Jews in perspective. It was a sad, sobering day.
We waited by the little blue PKS sign, and sure enough our driver pulled up a little crookedly, promptly at 16:45 for the 16:00 trip back to Krakow. He seemed more animated, more alive and red faced than he had in the morning, and I noticed he was even happy. We all climbed on; mostly Polish commuters, another American couple, some German, Japanese, Italian, French and assorted other tourists. Standing room only.
The first little town we came to we dropped maybe ten people, picked up five. It was a tight squeeze going around the circle drive after the bus stop, and we were only going about ten kilometers per hour when WHAM! The bus slammed to a stop. We had run smack into the back corner of a heavy duty municipal truck, kind of like a garbage truck in size. Our driver threw open the door, stomped down the steps, swearing loudly as he grabbed some chrome trim thing and wrested it off the front of the bus. He threw it down in disgust, climbed up the steps, backed up and then forward and we were off, barely scraping the truck again on our way by. The “parked” municipal truck was so heavy duty it didn’t even have a scratch, and as we passed I noticed the driver and helper in the front seat, calmly eating a sandwich and drinking a bottle of vodka.
The next few stops we all calmed down as we managed to barely miss the bus shelters, climb a few curbs and pick up or drop passengers more or less safely.
Finally we seemed to leave the Polish countryside and get on one of the main roads through the Krakow suburbs. Maybe ten, fifteen kilometers outside of Krakow, we started following a big, blue city bus. The bus lumbered along, and as it pulled over to the right to drop some passengers, we pulled out a little to the left to pass.
KAPOW!!!
I ducked, but not in time as glass and plastic shards flew in through my open window. It sounded like a bomb had gone off next to my ear.
Our driver slowed, swore, looked at his now useless right side mirror hanging off the bus and pulled to a stop in the middle of the lane. He climbed down the stairs, and after some animated gestures at the bus behind us, got back in, slammed the door shut and drove up and around the next corner into a little bus stop.
The blue city bus followed.
We all sat there, perfectly still.
After a short yelling session between the two drivers, our driver marched back up the steps, shouted something at us all in his slurred Polish, waved his arm and jumped off. There was an immediate rush off the bus by about half the passengers, while the rest of us just sat there, staring at him, looking around. One German asked if anyone knew what was going on, and that question must have been repeated in five or six languages. I heard the other American couple asking if anyone spoke English, but there was no reply.
About a minute later one thin, brown haired woman, wearing a blue North Face coat, glasses and an unsmiling expression poked her head in the door, looked at me and said simply, “He say you get off.” She popped back out the door.
I sat frozen a moment, then turned around to see everyone looking at me curiously. So I thought a moment and said, “Wir müssen ausgehen nun!” and then “Uscita ora!” and finally, “We have to get off.”
Instant reaction! The Germans passed the word to the French, the Italians to the Spanish, and everyone in between just followed us as we scrambled off. So there we were, about 15 KM from our home, two groups milling around the side of the road. One group of Poles, the other of about 30 multinational tourists and only one person could bridge the gap. I went to find the Brown Haired Lady.
Meanwhile our distraught driver was arguing loudly with the other driver, kicking his bus, and it looked like a fight might break out. Walking calmly right into the middle of them was our friend, the Brown Haired Lady. I watched as she stood between them and started arguing with both. They backed off, and though their answers were more like shouts, she seemed to gain the upper hand. When she was finished, the two drivers parted; ours to pace back and forth morosely in front of his bus, occasionally kicking it, the other driver stomping back to his bus to get on the radio.
I went over to the Lady, our one link between the Polish world and tourist world, and asked her, “Are they sending another bus?” She just looked at me, so I slowed down, cut out words, pantomimed,”Bus? We go?”
She shook her head no. “Krakow, no” she said pointing at the bus stop.
The tourist half of the crowd was watching us. As I was thinking this over, a small van type mini bus slowed to pass the scene. One or two of the Polish crowd stepped out in front of the fully loaded bus and stopped it. The door opened, a loud argument ensued, and as we watched amazed, the entire Polish group stormed the bus, pushing and grunting their way on. Before any of us could even react, the door mostly closed, and the mini-bus, sagging on its springs, groaned and staggered on down the road.
I looked right at the Brown Haired Lady, smiled sweetly, held out my hand and introduced myself. Hand on chest, “I am Ed.” For good measure I also said, “Je’ taime Ed, Mi chiamo Ed and Ich Bin Ed.” But this was the precise moment when the Polish phrases I had so diligently practiced flew right out of my head, like smoke out the window.
She smiled, squeezed my hand back and said simply, “Yulia (Julia).”
I pointed at the left over crowd, now all looking at us, and said, “We go?”
She nodded.
I went over to one of the Germans and said, “Wir mussen mit Julia gehen.”
And as the word passed everyone gathered around to see what to do next.
Julia went over to the (more reliable? Less drunk?) blue bus driver and spoke with him. She returned, pointed at the bus, “No go.”
Another bus pulled up, and Julia got on so we all followed, She went up front and spoke, then argued with the driver, finally reaching some sort of agreement. She motioned to us all and we followed off the bus, and across the street.
Two fingers up, walking and pointing… we had to walk two stops over.
Waiting there several of us tried reading the bus routes, but it was useless. Just like you take the bus to Oświęcim to get to Auschwitz, you do not take the bus to Krakow to get to Krakow. We just knew it was somewhere out there.
The first bus along, Julia got on, and her fan club followed. After another argument with the driver in which she somehow made it clear to me that A. we were going to ride the bus and B. we were NOT going to pay, she came to me and motioned two stops. I let the Germans know, “zwei halten” and word was once again passed around.
We were developing a pretty efficient way of communicating.
After two stops we got off, walked over and around to another stop where we soon repeated the entire scene. Once we got on a tram and once we walked almost a half kilometer. Within an hour, on the last bus, I could see Wawel Castle in the distance.
When we got off this time I pointed and made a walking motion with my fingers to Julia, and told the Germans, “Wir konnen wanderen” and pointed.
There was just one barrier to our progress: Krakow is circled by a main arterial ring road, kind of like a highway. Unfortunately we were also on a main road, and where the two met there was no crosswalk, with none in sight. Our destination, within sight, seemed to be inaccessible. This is when my American training kicked in. I climbed the barrier onto the main road, and walked out into traffic. The rest of the group stood frozen. Sure there was a lot of honking, screeching brakes and swearing, but it did open up a quick, 30 second window of opportunity for everyone in our group to scramble across.
Safely on the other side, we all smiled, hugged and shook hands, then broke up into little groups of four or five and walked the last kilometer back into town.
That night to celebrate and remember, we bought our own bottle of Bison Grass Wodka, and discovered what all the fuss is about!
Cześć, Bison Grass! Pożegnanie, Krakow.