It was 1991 and communism had recently been overthrown in Poland. I longed to visit my grandmother’s homeland and decided it was time to take a Roots journey. Armed with my childhood knowledge of Polish I applied for a visa.
Poland is a Catholic country with ancient monasteries and convents scattered throughout the battered cities and picturesque countryside. With the help of Sister Regina, the Mother Superior of an orphanage in Warsaw, my itinerary snapped together… just like that! I would spend five weeks backpacking through the country staying at monasteries and abbeys.
Wearing my London Fog trench coat and my knapsack on my back, I hiked what must have been a thousand miles… give or take. Because phones were a rarity in the countryside, communications became muddled and I often found myself lost and abbey-less. At those times I slept in the back of churches on hard wooden pews with my trench coat as a blanket and my knapsack as a pillow.
I was the object of shy smiles and kindly nods as I picked my way through my version of Polish as I had learned from my babci. My childlike renditions of patriotic Polish songs brought tears to many eyes… but then again that always happens when I sing. I was greeted with hugs and happily fed versions of my grandmother’s soul food.
The dairy products were super fresh, the veggies incredibly tasty, and the meat was melt-in-your-mouth tender. Although meat was hard to come by for my hosts, word spread that the American lady was a meat-eater. I was often greeted with the words… “We have meat for you.”
I spent a few days at a lovely Cistercian monastery in Szczyrzyc – a seriously vowel-challenged location – in the mountains of southern Poland.The abbey was built in the 13th century. The simplicity of the architecture, the beauty of the floor-to-ceiling murals, and the rolling farmlands will remain in my heart forever.
The walls of the monastery proudly bore the mortar and bullet damage from the time when resistance fighters held the German army at bay. Later the monastery became a shelter for all refugees from different parts of Poland. The monks were honored for their bravery with the Virtuti Militari, Poland’s highest decoration for heroism and courage.
Poland was liberated by Solidarity in 1989 and the communists gradually released their grip on the property they had confiscated from the Poles. An old brewery sat on the grounds of this particular monastery. Since 1623, the facility was used by the monks to make a beverage out of roasted barley, hops, and chicory… the equivalent of our light beers. The communists had taken the brewery into their control a generation earlier. The current monks had no knowledge of brewing beer. The prior monks, long gone, had been the beer masters and the knowledge had died with them. The communists banned the monks from the brewery.
The monks were joyous, elderly men with twinkles in their eyes. They were thrilled to have an American visitor… especially a woman. They giggled as they shared jokes with me that I could not understand, but I laughed anyway.
On the third day of my visit the abbot came to me his eyebrows knit in a frown over his pale blue eyes. “Come look,” he said, and walked me to the brewery. The communist brewers had walked off that very morning abandoning the ancient brewery to the startled monks who had no experience in beer making. The brewery building was falling down on itself. Sunlight showed through gaping holes in the roof, pipes looped round in crumbling mazes leaking yeasty smelling water, and rats strolled along unchallenged.
“What are we to do?” the abbot said. “Our rules allow nothing to go to waste but we have no knowledge of how to run a brewery. We are afraid to seek someone from the cities as corruption is still very much with us.”
“Don’t worry. Leave it to me!” I heard myself say as if I had a little black book with the names of a dozen Polish-speaking brewmasters. What had I done? Made a promise I couldn’t keep?
The abbot looked relieved as I hobbled away with my foot firmly planted in my mouth.
Fast forward two weeks:
Back home in Florida I contacted our local newspaper. A reporter showed up on my doorstep and interviewed me… the call went out for a Polish brewmaster. The story ran the following day. My phone rang as I was downing my first cup of coffee.
The voice on the phone had a slight Polish accent. The caller was a retired brewmaster who lived three miles from my home. His wife was a former brewery bookkeeper. They were both fluent in Polish. What were the odds? Sometimes you just get lucky.
A month later I received a sweet vowel-less note from the abbot – roughly translated it said – Hly Mckrl!”
For those who wish to see a lovely album of photos of this tranquil enclave: http://www.szczyrzyc.cystersi.pl/history.php?lang=gb
About Barbara Silkstone
Barbara Silkstone is the best-selling author of the Wendy Darlin Tomb Raider series that includes: Wendy and the Lost Boys, London Broil, Cairo Caper. Wendy Darlin Tomb Raider Boxed Set, Her Criminally Funny Fables series includes: The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters; Wendy and the Lost Boys; Zo White and the Seven Morphs; Cold Case Morphs. For further giggles and a touch of true fiction try: The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men and One Woman. Silkstone’s writing has been described as “perfectly paced and pitched – shades of Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiaasen – without seeming remotely derivative. Fast moving action that shoots from the hip with bullet-proof characterization.”
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