The first of November – All Saints Day – is an important feast in Poland. I hadn’t realised just how important until the day itself came round. This year the first fell on a Tuesday and preparations had started at the end of the week before. New route numbers had appeared on the bus stops along with new timetables and notices warning of delays, detours and reduced frequency on the regular services. Barriers suddenly sprang up at the side of many roads around the various cemeteries and by Bródno cemetery – close to where we live – a couple of buses were in place as impromptu cash desks for people to buy transport tickets and all along the road, stalls were being assembled ready for the big day. Inspecting the timetables and routes for the buses showed that it would be possible to commute from cemetery to cemetery throughout the hours of daylight by direct connection. In case of any queries, whole pages in the newspapers were devoted to maps of routes and cemetery opening times.
Monday, sandwiched between the weekend and the first itself, was quieter than normal on the going-to-work public transport, although the scenes around the cemetery were of bustling trade and frantic, last-minute flower-buying. Many people took the day off, making the weekend four days long. Most, however, were still at work and getting past any of the cemeteries proved to be a challenge, with buses doing huge unnecessary detours and taking twice as long to complete their usual journey. The stalls that had been slowly appearing along the side of the road multiplied over the weekend and some were even manned overnight, despite the gates of the cemetery being closed and the temperature hovering around zero.
Tuesday dawned bright and clear. The queue of traffic visible from the flat balcony made us glad that Bródno was close enough to walk to, and after breakfast we ambled along to the cemetery. Everything was in full swing. Chrysanthemums – the traditional flower for this feast day – were being sold by the hundred from every conceivable spot. The road was closed and allowed people to walk there as the path was full of flowers. Votive candles made up the other main thing for sale and then other stalls sold bread, pańska skórka (a pink or white sugary confection wrapped in twists of paper), sausages, barszcz (red beetroot soup, served with cabbage and mushroom croquettes), gloves, trinkets and Teletubby balloons. I still can’t see the relevance of a balloon although I do appreciate the need to sell food.
The street outside the gates was heaving. It was absolutely packed full of people, most of whom were clutching flowers, candles or a combination of both. The pushing and shoving never abated, as if people thought that it was a race to the graveside, in case the people they were visiting would no longer be waiting. At one point the crush was so bad the whole of the street was at a literal standstill as another fleet of buses emptied their passengers at the end of the street. We didn’t go into the cemetery, just shuffled past and then boarded a bus to go to Powązki Cemetery. This is where many famous Poles are buried and its importance was evident from the number of TV vans parked outside. Again, the crush of people was amazing, with queues to get in through the narrow gates to pay respects. Some were not paying any respect at all and at the risk of sounding like a middle class Tory – or moharowy berety as they’re called here – I was irritated to see people bellowing into mobile phones, racing around the paths, and generally ‘grave spotting’ those of the rich and famous. Some were, I must admit, meeting family and sitting peacefully by the graveside in contemplation, but many more were there for show with the biggest bunches of flowers and the brightest candles. It made me wonder if they ever gave a thought to the people buried there throughout the rest of the year or whether this feast day is a good reason to don one’s finest and put on a show. Maybe I’m too cynical, but it certainly looked like some were there to be seen and not to remember.
In the evening, after dark, we went back to Bródno. The crowds had thinned and the air was scented with the smoke of thousands of candles. A place that is so often eerie and creepy in the dark of night was made magical amid the combined glow of these votive lights, with almost every grave having at least one or two. There were no electric lamps to light the way but the glow was bright enough to make walking easy, even away from the main path where a monument to the dead of the war was fronted by hundreds of candles burning fiercely. A man played songs from Evita on a trumpet and there was a hushed reverence.
During the day there was an almost carnival atmosphere and the stalls added to this, their inappropriate merchandise turning the day from a remembrance of those we have lost into a party for those who still live. At night, in the weak candle light, among the headstones and tombs of the dead, the reason for the whole day became apparent and real and it was not without a tear that we left the graveyard, the candles flickering until they faded and, like the people whose graves they mark, died. To be forgotten until next year, a patch of cold earth topped by a slab of marble, un-remembered and unremarkable until the week before the first of November 2006.
On Wednesday almost every trace of any celebration had been removed. Some still tried to sell the flowers they had left, others had taken the pots and left the flowers by the wayside, to be taken by people of cleared away by the council. The buses were still full of old people, heading to the graveside in the hope of meeting old friends or of remembering loved ones. It seemed sad to me that for one week a year the living remember the dead when both sides are alive or dead for the rest of the year. Is this the way it will always be? Is this where we go from now on? You tell me.
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