Poland: Following the Czestochowa (Black Madonna)

It was a breezy, March day when I left Radom to visit Czestochowa, the pilgrimage site in Poland where it is said that five million pilgrims travel to visit Jasna Gora (Bright Mountain). It is the site of the 14th Century Paulite monastery, a monstrous cathedral, and, its highlight is the chapel that houses the icon of the Black Madonna. Hoping for a spiritual experience similar to one I had had in Turkey, I was eager to visit the crowded Polish site. For eight months before, I took a trip with three Turkish friends to Seljuk, just east of Kusadasi. Rich in its historical importance, Seljuk is the city surrounded by the famous ruins of Efes, the Cathedral of St. Paul (also ruins), and Meryemana - the House of the Virgin Mary -- where it is said the Holy Mother was led by St. Luke to spend her last days. The Muslims also believe in the Virgin and she is the only woman mentioned in the Koran (some five or more times). Five million pilgrims also come to Meryemana to pay their respects, leave wishes and prayers, and tokens of gratitude for the miracles they claim she helped make happen.

Meryemana is unpretentious in every way. There is an old well and pool where believers are said to have been baptised and there is a small chapel-museum housing a variety of icons. The simplicity was most fitting and I was touched at how the surrounding natural environment was utilized to make the whole place feel more spiritual. Natural well-springs ran with water (it is a very strong belief among the Muslims that water always be available and for free to whomever is passing by); small stone edifices from the ruins were converted into places for leaving tokens and wishes; and, even the church services were held outdoors near a grove of dwarf trees. Inside the house-turned-chapel, I remember one small icon depicting the ascension of the Virgin. She is dressed for burial and Christ is standing over her. In His arms He is cradling a baby, also dressed in white. It took my breath away because I realized the significance of that child in his arms. In most icons, the Virgin is seen holding the Christ Child in her arms, and there - in that beautiful painting - it was Christ who was tenderly carrying The Virgin Mary to heaven. Overall, Meryemana was a worthwhile and beautiful journey for me.

So, I expected something similar in Czestochowa. The history of the monastery is that it was founded in 1382 and that same year, Prince Wladyslaw II of Opole gave the Paulite monks the icon that has become known as the Black Madonna. According to legend, it is said that St. Luke painted the icon in Nazareth, though historians have dated it to as recent as the 6th-7th century Byzantium. How it was acquired by the Polish prince, I am not certain. Most remarkable about the painting are the two scars on the Virgin’s right cheek. The story is that during its journey to Poland, the picture fell into the hands of thieves. Tired of carrying the heavy icon, they slashed at it in frustration with their knives, immediately causing the image to bleed pools of blood. The legend and power of the icon grew when, in 1655 and 1705, Swedish invasions failed to conquer the monastery while the rest of the country was overrun. Eager to see this with my own eyes, I took the train from Radom and arrived in Czestochowa about three and half hours later.

My first impressions were darkened by the sight of Nazi, fascist, and racist slogans splattered along every street leading to Jasna Gora. I even saw one for the Ku Klux Klan which had been painted over by the building’s owners several times, but the hooligans, who seem to run this country, managed to rewrite it each time. Do they even know what the Ku Klux Klan is all about? Isn’t it all a bit too ironic, then, in the city of this holy Christian site? I get enough of these wicked signs in Radom as it is, and to see it so much more in Czestochowa only drowned my hopes.

As I wandered down some back alleys, I heard music and singing from loudspeakers and coming from the direction of the hill and monastery. I was reminded of Turkey and how one can always hear the prayers that float over the air five times a day. I started to relax and, as if pulled by the service being conducted on the hill, made a straight beeline up the main road called the Avenue of Our Lady (but in Polish, of course). My spirits rose just a little. During my stay here, I have become extremely cautious in expecting too much from Poland.

Although the monastery is the site in Czestochowa, the walk up the hill is not at all strenuous. I stopped at the gift shop first, hoping to get more information about the sights I was about to encounter and that was when I first noticed the scars on the Virgin’s face as depicted in the numerous icons for sale. The shop was as kitschy as you can get, but I wasn’t there to shop. I was there for information and I asked a nun in Pidgin Polish about the scars. She replied sharply, “That’s the Virgin Mary! Don’t you know the Virgin Mary?” That’s not what I was asking. I again, patiently, pointed out the scars on the plastic icon and asked again. “Jesu Christi,” she cried, “What language do you need?” Quite stunned by her non-Christian manner, I told her I prefer English. She tossed me a guidebook in English, told me it would be $12.00 and that I could read about it in there. I thanked her quietly and left.

Feeling more than disheartened, I wandered in through the gates, encountering signs warning me that this was a holy place and begging for silence in six languages. However, the areas were all crowded and nobody was paying attention to the any of the warnings in any language. I saw the ugly radio tower of Radio Jasna Gora first. Trying to turn a blind eye to it, I followed signs and wandered from place to place, but nothing drew me until I reached the armory. My guidebook - a year-old, torn-up volume - had stated that there would be a lot of weapons from World War II there and I thought I could do a little research for my book. Although the armory was more than fascinating (and I’m not being facetious), I saw mostly 17th and 18th-century sabers and treasures acquired in the war against the Turks in Vienna (which Poland helped win). So, unless the Poles fought with these in World War II… well, that may explain some things… there was not a lot to see from the 1930s and 1940s. I will, however, add that having already been in Turkey, it was fascinating to see these treasures in Poland and how intricately woven the tapestry of history is.

Moving along, I finally decided to head into the main sites: the cathedral and the chapels. It was time to see what I had come to see, though I had only been on the hill for less than half an hour. I entered the packed chapel just toward the end of a service and was once again surprised to see how many young people were in church. It was Saturday afternoon, after all. Then, I wondered, how many of these same kids are the ones who are spray-painting graffiti in the streets of this country? Many. I can tell you that from my experiences in Radom.

As soon as the service ended, I joined the crowd that was pushing in for the next service, which happens every hour. Everyone was making their way to the front of the altar where, behind barred, iron gates, hung the large icon of the Virgin. It was at least six-feet tall and four-feet wide, so I could understand why the thieves got frustrated. It’s not exactly the kind of treasure you can just run off with without drawing a lot of attention. Around the altar and the surrounding sacristy were thousands of amber prayer beads, hung from every possible place along the walls and facades and creating a warm, autumn glow in the chamber. Except for the murmurs - often impatient at that - of people excusing themselves and the sound of pressed bodies shuffling forward, the chapel was quiet. I was trapped into the crowd before I could change my mind, and I started to pray fervently as soon as I saw the icon looming closer. I wasn’t praying for anything, however, except to survive the attack of claustrophobia that I was having at that moment. My head started to swim and I saw curtains of gray threatening to close off my line of vision. I thought if I collapse there, the crowd would just trample over me. About five rows before getting to the bars (and imagining myself smashed up against the iron with still no breathing room), the loud speakers suddenly started to blare Radio Jasna Gora. Now, mind you, there are still a million signs demanding Silence! and reminding us that this is a Holy Place! A little music wouldn’t have destroyed the atmosphere, had it been the right music. This was not the right music. It was some sort of enthusiastic advertisement for a CD compilation of what I could only fathom to be alternative Christian rock bands. The whole place had turned into a poor excuse for a circus and I frantically tried to get out.

Bruised and emotionally wounded, but finally able to breathe, I headed straight for the outer ring of the monastery and walked in the fresh air. My search for a spiritual uplifting lasted a whole hour. I was ready to go and wanted to leave fast. I headed, instead, for another 3-1/2 hour train ride to Krakow, the real sanctuary for me in this country. In a coffee shop, tucked away in a back alley, is an exhibition of photos from Turkey. I knew that I could reflect on the better pilgrimage I’d made eight months before.

(It is worth mentioning that Czestochowa, solely dedicated to the Virgin Mary, is the only pilgrimage site of its size where there has NEVER been a recorded sighting of the Holy Mother.)

Christmas in Krakow: A Reflection on Traditions

Every culture has its own Christmas traditions, and I am not ashamed to say that I am wholly and partially biased toward the Ukrainian rituals. Though, while I’m in Poland, the Polish is more than good enough and that’s what I was seeking out when I decided to catch an early-morning train to Krakow.

Krakow has all the positive vibes Radom - a tough, industrial, idle city -- does not. Krakow’s academics, artists, mixed in with the folksy people who come to sell their wares from outlying villages at Rynek Glowny (the Central Market), create a lively, inspiring atmosphere. Having escaped annihilation in World War II, Krakow is one of the few cities in Eastern Europe that still stands in its original architectural glory. It’s a quintessential European town sought out by visitors from abroad and when I arrived there the weekend before Christmas, my spirits were more than uplifted; they soared the whole day.

From the train station, I took the Royal Way and passed Florian’s Gate, turning onto the cobbled, slush-covered street that suddenly opens onto the enormous square of Rynek Glowny. Kids toted wooden sleds and huddled together on corners, dressed in the fashionable puffy jackets of this season and comic, woolen hats with tassels and pom-poms. As they laughed, the balls of yarn bobbed and bounced in rhythm. Stalls were set up outside of the covered market building and I was greeted by carols sung from somewhere and everywhere. The sun pretended to offer some warmth, and a slight breeze blew down powdered snow from the crevices and crags of the buildings around the square. I was in a real-life crystal snowball. As the bells of the cathedral announced twelve o’clock, people passed me with brown, plastic cups of steaming liquid. I smelled cinnamon and cloves and followed it to the barrel-shaped stands selling real mulled wine. For the converted price of $1.25, I was a cheap date. It’s not often that I have alcohol these days (bardzo expensive), so it went, I’m afraid, straight to my head and I became doubly giddy, practically skipping through the market.

I wound through the Christmas-tree pathways and among crowds of foreigners and locals, passing stalls with beautifully handmade Christmas decorations, as well as necessary, kitschy things (so you could really appreciate the former). A stage was set up just under the clock tower, and I vaguely heard an announcer’s voice over the microphone. By that time I was eyeing a matinee movie when I was yanked out of my reverie by music. It was so familiar that I was forced to float back to the stage and the festival. There they were: young girls, boys, women and men, dressed in the native costume of Halychynna (the area of Ukraine where my family comes from), and singing Ukrainian Christmas carols. I whipped out my camera, trying not to fog the lens with my uncontrollable tears. Home sweet home! The boy on the end was even holding a staff upon which rested the Christmas star. One of the girls recited a poem of Christmas greetings. The crowd laughed and cheered. I got another mulled wine to choke down the tears and read the sign that said, “Bridges Across Borders” in Polish. I had come on the day when the group from Lviv (Lvov) was performing.

Ukrainians love Christmas and I, personally, have a hard time deciding whether Easter or Christmas is my more favorite holiday. Both religious celebrations are performed with such beautiful and happy rituals, that it’s difficult to say which one makes me feel more fuzzy and warm inside. On the other hand, Christmas is such a time of enchantment, of making dreams come true. It’s a fire that warms your heart in chilly surroundings.

In Ukraine, traditions stem from the old pagan rites. The decorating of the tree, for instance, was not something that was introduced with Christianity. Throughout Europe you will find that people do not put up their trees until - at earliest - the 22nd of December. More commonly, it is done on the day of Christmas Eve and is a family event. Candles are placed in the windows to light the way for ancestral ghosts and real, live visitors passing by. In the villages of Ukraine, groups of carolers go from door to door with Shchedryks - carol songs for the Epiphany, and also meaning, “bountiful and generous.” The host of the house prepares mulled wine, or other spirits to warm their wandering guests. The hostess prepares a meal of at least twelve dishes to represent the twelve Apostles that would later serve the Lord. (However, on Christmas Eve a fast is mandated: no meat or dairy products are allowed until after the midnight Liturgy.)

The carolers are bundled up in colorful scarves and carry the staff with the eight-pointed star, representing the star that led believers to Bethlehem to worship the new-born King. After the carolers leave, the family sits down to the feast. Kutia is the first and main dish: a mixture of boiled wheat, honey, poppy seeds and nuts, it’s a thick and warming gruel. The host takes a spoonful, says a prayer before the supper and then flicks the spoonful up onto the ceiling. If the kutia has been well prepared, it will stick to the ceiling and bring luck and prosperity to all those around the table. If it isn’t thick enough - duck! (We did this at our house every year, and my American friends would often comment on the little black specks on the ceiling. Every so often, we would paint over it. The big clumps, not many, were easily removed on Christmas Day.)

After kutia comes the red beet soup, borscht, with small dumplings named after the shape: ears. Inside the dumplings is an onion and mushroom filling. One dumpling will contain only black pepper. The lucky person (or unlucky, depending on your ability to down spices) who gets this dumpling will also have a year’s worth of luck. So even if you are pulling kutia from your hair, you’ve got another chance.

The soup course is followed by a fish cooked with onion and tomatoes (believed to have come to us from the Greeks and, in Poland, retains its name of Greek haddock). Fish, by the way, is not considered “meat” by the Catholic church.

After the fish, unbuckle your belt because the rest just come marching out and onto your plate. Choose a little of everything, from holubtsi, which are cabbage rolls filled with either rice and mushrooms or kasha (barley) and potato, or - after church - with meat and a mixture of any of the above. Sometimes a tomato sauce is served with it, or a forest-mushroom sauce. There are also pyrohy - Eastern European-styled ravioli filled with potato, sauerkraut, or cheese, or fruits; crepes known as nalysnyky and filled with cheese or fruit; a sauerkraut and pea salad; and the list goes on and on. Some people might notice an extra setting on the table or somewhere nearby. Non-Slavic celebrators have often asked us whether we were expecting more guests. The answer is always yes. This setting is for the dukhy - the ghosts of our ancestors who are certain to visit us and will need to eat as well. So a little bit of each course should be left on your plate and added to the dukhy’s plate.

In Ukraine, if you live on a farm, or even in the cities where you have pets, it is customary to be especially kind to the animals on the night of Christmas Eve (which is, by the way, the primary day of celebration). It is said that the animals can speak at midnight, so many farmers would set up some hay under the table and allow their favorite animals to rest there - sheep, dogs, cats, goats -- which would normally be stuck in the stalls in the cold winter. At our house, our pets would just get extra portions of left-overs, be dressed up in ribbons and bows, and there would always be at least one present for them under the tree.

After we eat and help our digestive systems with a good 1:1 ratio of vodka:food, everyone waddles to more comfortable chairs around the tree. Slowly we start to unwrap presents (you must sing a Christmas carol to receive it; everyone joins in if you’ve picked the right key), making our way toward the time when we’ll have to don on our winter gear over our fancy dress and head out to church. Carols greet us in the church, and then - drowsily - we make our one-hour stand through the service. After mass, sweets (now heavily weighed down with butter, eggs, and so on), fruit compote and tortes are served. Sometimes, the odd pierogi is taken from a cooled dish to be nibbled on or, if we were lucky enough, dad is baking the ham for the next day and we get to taste.

The next day, we start all over again at around 2:00 and finish unwrapping presents and exchanging gifts. This time we wolf down turkey, ham, and all the other high-calorie, tasty stuff along with an equal amount of liquids and spirits. Carols are sung until late into the night. Often, when I was younger, we would go caroling with groups from our church and, for hours, one parent or another would drive us to people’s homes. As I got older, these visits often turned into full-blown parties where we’d come to an abrupt halt in the route and just stay on until the morning.

Ahh.. Christmas… I was thinking of all this, with a great happiness outweighing the sadness caused by distances between those you love. I knew that the purpose of my coming to Krakow was to get to Ukrainskyi Smak, a restaurant under the Wawel - Krakow’s crowning hill and castle. I wanted to get there slowly, to work up my appetite and to enjoy my memories. Like an old wine cellar, the Ukrainskyi Smak has high, brick and stone arches and the two chambers leading to the dining rooms are filled with long wooden tables and benches. Carpathian rugs hang on the walls and cushion the benches. My friends, Ivan and Volodia, two musicians from Lviv, were playing the violin and accordion and greeted me like their long-lost sister. I joined an older couple from Krakow at one of the enormous tables and we chatted away in a mixture of Polish (from them) and Ukrainian (from me), over dinners of borscht, and holubtsi and pyrohy. I was smiling. I could feel the cracks in my face. I could feel the lightness in my eyes where sadness has seemed to weigh them down.

After Ivan and Volodia caroled for me (which made me weep with homesickness), I headed back into the darkened streets. Christmas wreaths and lights were hung across the roads and I picked my way along the uneven cobbled streets back through the market (pausing at the cathedral to send up a prayer of thanks). It was time to head back to Radom. I was infused with the Christmas spirit; enough to get me back home to Austria, where I knew my other family and friends were waiting. As were the all-new traditions I would experience in that part of Europe.


P.S. Until the western part of the Ukraine was invaded and, then, ruled by Poland, the country was primarily of the Eastern Orthodox religion. The country is still split between Orthodox and Catholic calendars. Therefore, due to the ancient calendar, most Ukrainians celebrate Christmas on January 6 and 7, Christmas Eve being the primary day of celebration. This is still the case in the Ukraine as well as in the Diaspora. In my family, we had two Christmases, as my father is Byzantine Catholic, and my mother is Orthodox. At our house, we also celebrate Easter twice.