Conversing with Memorials

I was dragging my heavy suitcases through the crooked cobblestones. When I lifted my head from the weighty burden I could see grotesque masks on arched porticos in art nouveau villas looking at me. The gaze was interrupted by my friend telling us to stop for a short rest and to greet Kazimiera. Who was the lady?

I saw a dark and dusty plaque with carved en face portrait of elderly woman with deep set eyes and aquiline nose. She was a poetess and translator. Memorium marked her former apartment where she had spent decades of her life until she joined the majority. Working ceaselessly, even when the sight abandoned her.

I could hear the hum of trams in the distance. Jezyce was still – no streetcars were going on the tracks which lead to old tram depot in front of the museum. They used to be filled with people and here I found another memorial with lines from Kazimiera’s poem inspired by 1956 workers’ strike which ended in bloody encounter.

Museum keeper greets us warmly into the high ceiling hallway with the books stacked under the glass: oldish covers of ‘Anna Karenina’, ‘Don Carlos’, ‘Egmont’ and other creations of German and Russian classics, already turning yellow from time.

Then we proceed to the spacious room where I can see many pictures of the same lady from the plaque. B&W pictures from Kazimiera's life where she is elegant, wearing wide-brim hats. Looking straight from the pictures with her honest eyes, wide open to the world and to others. Her unusual ways and strong character filled neighbors with careful awe.

In the furtherer corner of the room I see her small wooden bed. A tiny cross hanging besides. She spent her days here desolated, looking at the facades of fin de siècle villas. Posen was an inspiring city for XIX century intellectuals and writers in the periphery of German empire. 

But she lived in less poetic times of cold ward and had to constantly fear for her life as her creation might had been unfavoured by the party. She had no children, no family to feel attached to. Only her writing and strong individuality. Sadly, her persona is still slightly forgotten. I notice it when I share my wonderment with others.

When I walk alone in any city, overwhelmed by admiration I still feel like a stranger, a godless hermit wondering in the crowds. It is a part of the freedom one chooses to follow. I think of her when I start feeling lonely. Every time I come back to visit the city, I pass Kazimiera just to say hello.