Rodziny - Polish Genealogical Society of America

famous artists and writers, I sought thecaretaker’s office. Along the quiet pathbetween the rows of elaborate verticalmonuments, my muffled footsteps allowedthe crispness of the chickadee’s“bee-bee-bee” to sound out.The birds flitted from pine branchto tombstone and back again, escortingme, a lone visitor on a weekdaymorning, through this still place. Onelanded atop a tall stone, and I thoughtto photograph it, a small form of life inthis silent gray stone yard. But the birdwould not stay still long enough for meto dig through my pack and adjust thecamera. I walked on.Scanning each marker in the nextrow for names carved into the granite,I stopped abruptly at letteringwhich, surprisingly, spelled out JerzyKędzierski. How startling to see thevery name I was looking for, right thereafter the chickadee’s antics. Now, was itthe correct Jerzy Kędzierski? After all, thatsurname is extremely common. A quickreview of the dates, since the other Polishwords were too hard to decipher, showedthat I had indeed found the grave of Łucja’shusband. The stone letters had been filledin by shaky hand with black paint, perhapsto aid the visually impaired. I adjusted thecamera and took a few shots from differentangles and a close-up.After repacking my bag and putting mygloves back on, I bid farewell to this manwhom I had only met once, whose storieswere kept secret since World War II. Perhapsto be contemplated later, since I hadyet another cemetery to travel to. The daysare shorter in winter.Three buses and two hours later, I wasover the river and past the zoo. The mapshowed that this bus should turn left soon,unless it’s the wrong bus. After the auto repairshops and stone quarry, my stop wouldbe just ahead, where clusters of fat candlesand plastic flowers were sold outside thegate of Bródno Cemetery. People were eagerto earn even a few złoty from sales such asthis. Yet they would only brave the cold ifthe sun was shining.The cemetery office staff attempted tohelp, but the language barrier was too high.My poor pronunciation of the surname wasridiculed as one worker mimicked to anothermy exaggerated vowels in the namePółtorak. Without the exact year of death,A Wa r s a w Ce m e t e r y Ad v e n t u r e10 Rodziny, Spring 2008Above: A photo of Bródno Cemetery on All Saints’ Day. Theoriginal is available at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Br%C3%B3dno_Cemetery?uselang=pl.they were unable to look up the grave’slocation on their computer. I did not wantthis long trip to be wasted; after all, whoknew when I might be able to return?So I decided to call Łucja. By myself,using my trusty Berlitz book. But where tofind a phone? And how to obtain the coinsor token needed? At least I had her numberand some paper złoty with me. It was wortha try. The office worker politely waited asI mangled the Polish for, “Where is a payphone?” She used the ever popular internationalgestures to accompany her words,letting me know that a post office was downthe block, with a phone inside.Off I went, Berlitz book in hand, pastthe candle sellers, briskly now, as I wouldnot wish to remain in this neighborhoodafter dusk. In line at the post office, eyeingthe gruff unshaven man behind the counter,I waited uncertainly. My goal was toconvey a need not for stamps, but for theuse of a pay phone. Only for a local call—or does one have to dial a certain prefix? Asmile came to me as I realized the people inline behind me were in for quite an event.Here’s a woman who can’t speak Polish,trying to buy a phone token, taking toolong to make her request, and even if she issuccessful in procuring the desired phonetoken, the biggest question becomes: Whoon earth would she be trying to call sinceshe doesn’t speak Polish?So, I was next, and I used every politephrase I could. The sweat trickled along my