Life and Death in the Shadow of the El – Part II

The pigeon struggled for a bit, then settled down. The three laughing girls approached. He must have been a sight, swaying slightly on his heels, black overcoat unbuttoned over a tux, bow-tie undone around his neck, white scarf hanging down, grey fedora pushed up high, shock of light-brown hair tumbling over his forehead, a face damp with sweat and rain; in his hands a pigeon that he was stroking gently. The girls paid him momentary attention. "Hello bird boy!" Laughter. He was thinking hard of something witty to say but he was distracted by the sound of an automobile splashing its way through some deep puddles up behind. It was a taxi. The girls flagged down the yellow Checker Model A which pulled up by the side of the road; they ran across to pile in the back. As the taxi pulled away, James was left alone.

A wave of nausea hit him, which he struggled to keep down. He closed his eyes momentarily and felt the world reeling, so he opened them again and concentrated on staying upright. He counted slowly to ten; the nausea passed.

He gave some more thought as to what he should do with the pigeon. Leave it on the sidewalk and the alley cats will get to it; they'll play with it for a while before despatching it with a bite to the neck. A distressing way for the poor bird to die, conscious of what was happening to it right up to the end, unable to escape its fate.

There was only one solution. Only one. He placed the bird back on the sidewalk. It was still fluttering as he laid it down, making another futile attempt to get away from him. He pulled a paper serviette from out of his coat pocket and laid it over the pigeon. In a while, the bird became less agitated, just lying there under the napkin.

Then in one swift decisive move, he brought his heel down of his right shoe sharply on the bird's head. Without enmity. It was over in less than a tenth of a second. The life snuffed out, though with the minimum of pain and distress. Ideal way to go; like the guys at Tarawa who caught a bullet in the head – clean, over before you knew it. Not the lingering, agonizing end of a massive stomach wound or losing a limb or something, conscious of your life-blood draining away. The pigeon's soul was free, he thought, free to be whatever it had wanted to be. James resolved to be a better man. He roared out his resolution unto the empty street. "I – WILL – BE – A – BETTER – MAN!" The El had long stopped running, not enough in his pocket for the cab fare, he'd have to walk the nine blocks home.

As he did, he thought about Tarawa. He'd felt guilt about mentioning it. He landed there long after the fighting was over, but did not hesitate to drop that name in bars. James got back to his tenement on E.157th St, made it up to the fourth floor, along the corridor, fumbled to get the key in the lock, he'd sobered up a lot, but is head still wasn't great. As he pushed open the door to his room, he saw a small envelope on the floor. It was a hand-written note from Evelyn. "Sorry James", it said, "I had to work late at the office, my boss made me get some urgent papers typed up. Let's meet tomorrow night – Brophie's at eight."

This time last year:
Skiing in the Beskid Wyspowy

This time two years ago:
Warsaw's unmade roads: what's to be done?

This time three years ago:
Jeziorki in the fog

Life and Death in the Shadow of the El – a short story – Part I

James Martin stared down at the ground and looked at his lacquered black patent leather shoes; a flash of white sock and his black tuxedo pants. He was standing in a puddle reflecting neon lights from the bars and shops across the road; above him New York's elevated railway. It was a wet and cold Friday night, February 1947; rain and sleet were falling on the few people still hurrying home as the city's bars, restaurants and theaters approached closing time. James, 27 years old, still unable to find his feet after being demobilized at the end of the Pacific War, was feeling sorry for himself. He'd meant to have been seeing Evelyn that night, but she'd stood him up. 

Eight o'clock at Brophie's on 166th Street – they'd agreed it. He remembered her smile as she waved goodbye to him last night – yup, they'd agreed it; Brophie's at eight. "Yeah. Tomorrow. That's today," he muttered to himself yet again. 

At half past eight there was still no sign of her, so he called Evelyn from a phone booth outside, but she was not in, nor was her roommate Jenny. So instead of going out on the town with Evelyn, taking in a show, having a big fine meal, he just sat there alone at the bar, all dressed up, tux, black tie, until he met this girl. 

They were getting on fine at first – invite-her-home fine – but then he must have said the wrong thing, or a few wrong things, or given a wrong impression or something; but whatever, she made her excuses and left, so he carried on drinking, feeling ever more sorry for himself as the night wore on – until he felt it was time to get on back to his dingy rented room on E. 157th St. Woozily he made his way to the door; as he stepped out onto the sidewalk the cold damp air hit his face. He walked unsteadily, betraying signs of overindulgence in whiskey and beer. He crossed the road and found himself standing in that puddle right under the 3rd Street El. And then, as he stood there in the cold wet night, wallowing in self-pity that came dangerously close to self-loathing, a bird fluttered down from the ironwork above and landed awkwardly in the puddle close to his feet. 

The bird was just a pigeon, gray, ordinary-looking, but clearly quite unwell. Its irregular twitching movements suggested to James that it was not long for this world. It swivelled its head round towards James and fixed him a stare with one beady eye, a stare that caught his attention. Suddenly he focused on the bird; he could sympathize with its plight, he felt sorry for it as it lay there on one side; its left wing attempting to push itself clear of the human being standing so near. In his tipsy state, James somehow felt overcome by compassion. He should do something to help this poor creature. Pick it up; tuck it into the inside pocket of his big black woolen overcoat, warm it up; maybe take it to a vet's... there's one a just few blocks away, he remembered... 

"Dumb idea – there's no vet open at this time of night, besides, even if there was, what would the vet say to some blotto guy in a tux holding a dying pigeon? And what's the point of spending good money on fixing a bird that's little more than a flying pest," he thought. The pigeon was showing less and less sign of life, it was still staring up at him, the left wing was still moving; James imagined it was begging him for help, for mercy. He swayed as his last bourbon and beer chaser hit his head; he took a deep breath and looked up at the iron superstructure supporting the overhead railway; he tried to get his eyes to focus on the massive steel girders as they crossed high above him. He looked down again; the pigeon was still there. 

Up ahead of him, crossing over from the other side of the road, came three office girls, arm-in-arm and obviously in high spirits. They were laughing and breaking into song – "I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night" – and heading his way. It occurred to him in his inebriated state that the pigeon could be a conversation opener, the sort of thing to show that he was a caring kinda guy, and heck, there were three of them... James picked up the pigeon and held it in his hand. 

Part Two here. 

This time last year: The Transwersalna in winter 

This time two years ago: 

Work underway on Węzeł Lotnisko 

This time three years ago: 

Crazy customised Skoda

Oldschool photochallenge: Response No. 1

First response to the Oldschool photo challenge comes from Student SGH.

Caption? "Zakłady Lniarskie Orzeł in Mysłakowice, powiat jeleniogórski. The linen plant, set up around 1839 by Germans, was still operational then, it was declared bankrupt on 16 July 2010, its shares were listed on Warsaw Stock Exchange until 14 January 2011."

Excellent! This could be 1965, or 1957 even... Indeed, if it wasn't for the mountain in the background, I'd swear this was the legendary iron filings factory.

First intimations of spring, 2011

Walking around Jeziorki today - signs that gladden the heart - signs that finally winter is beginning to release its grip, signs that nature is beginning to stir.


Left: hazel catkins make an appearance.

It will still be a long time before spring suddenly bursts forth in all its glory, and we can at last consign our heavy coats, winter hats and thick gloves to the wardrobe for the summer. Seven weeks until the clocks go forward, 10-11 weeks until those first days warm enough to venture outside in a t-shirt. The time will fly by; I am so looking forward to the returning sun.

The past three weeks have been permanently dull, whether the temperature has been below zero, or as now, there's been a thaw.

This time last year:
Beautiful Warsaw, beautiful Dobra

This time three years ago:
Unremitting February gloom

You moles had better learn not to do this

It rained all night and all day. The temperature rocketed up to +9C. The snows receded. And what should emerge from under the snow... mole hills. Thousands of 'em.

I have been prepared for this eventuality. Eddie and I removed the spoil from the lawn (120 litres of it!) and then we set to work. A certain fluid, known to discourage the moles, was carefully poured down each and every hole. And each hole has been capped with a glass jar screwed deep into the soil so that its bottom is flush with the lawn. And we shall continue doing so until the moles select somewhere else for their antisocial activities.

This time last year:
Beautiful winter in Jeziorki

This time two years ago:
Getting ready for Lent

This time three years ago:
Lent begins at midnight

Oldschool photochallenge

Left: A Trabant on ul. Fabryczna yesterday; note white-on-black numberplates and the Niewiadów N250 trailer behind the car.

What struck me about this view is the total absense of any element in the picture that could place it any time later than 1991 (when Trabant production came to an end).

Time, I think, to fish out more photos, where car and background hark back to another age. Worldwide, the Trabant is probably the most iconic vehicle of the communist era, even though in Poland it was relatively rare compared to the Fiat 126P Maluch. Yet the Fiat 126's more modern design, and the fact that it was a familiar shape in western Europe, deprives it of icon status outside of Poland.

Right: another Trabant in Warsaw (photo from February 2008). This is ul. Rzymowskiego in lower Mokotów, not too far from Galeria Mokotów. Everything is right in this picture, down to the fetching shade of orange for the waste bin and the pre-MSI signage on the entrance to the flats, built of course using wielka płyta (pre-fabricated units).

Left: FSM Syrena 105 in Saska Kępa. The Syrena, an indigenous Polish design (both body and engine) was built in smaller numbers than the Trabant (half a million vs. three million) and was built mainly for the domestic market, so its communist cult car status is reserved for Poland; sadly the Syrena is not widely known abroad.

The 105, unlike its predecessors, had front-hinged doors. Nicknamed skarpeta ('sock') because, well, it looked like one. Or indeed, as some wags put it - because it smelled like one.

Above: Zielona Góra, January 2009. Another photo where nothing gives away modernity; this could be 1991 or even 1981. The Trabant is a late-model 1.1 Universal, or estate car (kombi). Like the Trabants above the 1.1 was powered by a VW Polo engine rather than the original wheezy and polluting two-stroke unit originally fitted to the Trabant 601 from 1963 to 1990.

Above: W-wa Zachodnia, 2009. Or 1989? Can you see any signs of modernity in this, Warsaw's (if not Poland's) worst railway station?

And so: a challenge to my fellow bloggers: Can you post a photo from present-day Poland that still reeks of the atmosphere of the communist era? Extra points if you can do so in Warsaw, rather than some miasto powiatowe in the middle of nowhere. Photos will be rigorously scrutinised for signs of modern advertising, signage, decoration, fashions, mobile telephony etc.

Original posts are here (Mokotów), here (Saska Kępa) and here (Zielona Góra).

This time last year:
Warsaw's wonderful nooks and crannies

This time three years ago:
Viaduct to the airport

My favourite bridge, from topside

I've written about the Most Poniatowskiego before (notably here); unquestionably my favourite bridge in Warsaw. A damp winter's afternoon, wet snow, just around sunset - a good time to catch some atmosphere on the deck of the bridge before continuing by tram to get to Moni's school meeting.

Below: looking across from Most Poniatowskiego to the railway bridge over the Vistula that runs almost parallel. Four railway tracks are carried across the river, taking trains out of the Tunel Średnicowy and over to Praga and the east.

Below: last tram stop on the west side of the Vistula. Looking towards Praga on the right bank; the lights of the Stadion Narodowy (national stadium) to the left of the picture; construction is moving ahead in good time to be ready for next year's football championships.

Most Poniatowskiego connects two roundabouts named after statesmen: Rondo De Gaulle'a on the left bank and Rondo Waszyngtona on the right bank. Alight at Rondo Wosh (where the row of lights converge) for Sophisticated Saska and Park Skaryszewski.

This time last year:
Illuminating snow from beneath

This time two years ago:
Poloneza drivetime, winter

This time three years ago:
Looking up over Jeziorki

Less well-known Old Town

Think of Warsaw's Old Town, and you'll think of the Rynek Starego Miasta (Old Town Market), the Barbakan, the Plac Zamkowy facing the Royal Castle. But there's more to the Old Town than that. This evening I was on ul. Jezuicka to pick up Eddie from the Teatr Staromiejski where he went with his class to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged) in Polish.

A good opportunity to take some photos of the less well-known parts of the Old Town. Above: looking from ul. Jezuicka (standing outside the theatre) towards ul. Kanonia.

Above: looking along ul. Kanonia towards ul. Jezuicka; in the background St. John's Cathedral (katedra św. Jana).

Above: ul. Kanonia, the archway to the right opens up to ul. Dziekania. And there's Eddie. Sadly, he wasn't impressed by the play, or theatre in general. It was a cold night; I was glad for the warmth of the big furry hood of my new M-65 parka.

This time two years ago:
Where the motorways will meet

This time three years ago:
Spring comes early to London