Letter From Polandnby James H. BowdennGraveyard VigilnProbably the most moving event of mynyear in Poland so far was my visit to thenPow<|zki Cemetery on the evening ofnAll Saints. It is an old cemetery, withnnothing like it that I know of in America.nIndeed, the most similar I cannrecall is found in Maple Grove, thenold cemetery in Russellville, Kentuckyn(north of Nashville), where I stoppednoff a few years ago to pay my respects tonthe small anthology of ancestors ofnmine that were there. Doing so alwaysnbrings to mind my first visit there, withna maiden great-aunt who was inncharge of such things: my father wasn’tnthere then, nor my grandmother, butnother people I should meet were, and Inwas introduced. I, young and gauche,nnoticed her stone was in place, thoughnthere she stood beside me. It wasnshortly after June 3rd, ConfederatenMemorial Day in Kentucky, and therenwere small flags stuck around here andnthere, exciting my child’s eyes, asnthough there were massed and waitingnarmies, diminutive, in the grass.nThere were no such flags on our setnof graves, since the Bowdens were thenVillage Republicans. (My greatgrandfathernwent to France to avoidnhaving to fight his relatives, then onnreturning rode overland to San Francisconand back again, so no one couldnrightly accuse him of cowardice.) Hisnin-laws, the Mortons, were all Democratsnand pro-slavery, and they werennearby. One of them I often mentionnwhen trying to explain in classes whynAmericans don’t believe in OriginalnSin: Here was a fellow of modestnmeans, at least to begin with, whonbefore he died came to own over 60nslaves, and, they say, “never whippedna one.” How, I ask, when someonencan so obviously rise from littie tonmuch, can we possibly believe that wenare Innately Depraved?nIn 20 years of telling the story, InCORRESPONDENCEnhave yet to find a student who smilednat or even discerned the irony. Wensimply don’t believe in sin.nAs for my maiden great-aunt, whosenstone was set there with her name andnbirth but no death date—like a latenpoet in the Norton Anthology — Inasked of her why hers was there. Shenanswered not at all, frogs jumped intonhidden pools, birds turned their headsnand coughed. I was, I suppose, tryingnto be polite, and though I haventhought on it many times, I cannotnconceive of her silence as anything butnrude. We don’t believe much in deathneither.nPoles aren’t like that. Our newncemeteries—probably even the one innRussellville, though I’ve not seennit—are Disneyland-for-the-Dead, andnthe newer Polish ones look a bit thatnway now, but it’s only because therenhasn’t been yet added the patina ofntime. Ours deny death; theirs don’t.nAnd they are proud of their dead,nputting their most famous along ancertain wall they’ve built just to set offntheir graves. Of course, the very mostnfamous Polish tend to die in exile—nthere was no Poland from the late 18thncentury until Woodrow Wilson insistednthere be another one in 1918—butnthe best they can find are here. Thenones they seem to like best are thenartists, the actors, the writers, with annoccasional aviator or other idiosyncraticnthrown in. I think the biggest tombnin Cave Hill, in Louisville, is ColonelnSanders’.nCave Hill isn’t a bad place—quitennice, in fact—but no one, I think,nputs candles on the grave of the Colonelnon All Saints and All Souls, nor onnany other graves there. This is not thencase in Poland. Half of Warszawanseemed to be out there at Powgzki on InNovember, with special buses routednthere, with candle concessionaires andnscouts (mostiy male) in conspicuousnnumbers.nEvery grave had candles on it, nonenwith only one, as if the Poles knew thatnrelatives of each one would have beennnnthere if they could, so they set out ancandle on behalf of anyone whoncouldn’t do it himself Respect for thendead, prayers for the dead—that sortnof thing. Most of these candles werenset in littie white boxes, affording themnextra dignity, more stability, and somenprotection against a gusting wind,nthough the candles seemed tough,nable to gutter and flare again againstnthe Eastern chill.nEven, I was told, did the graves ofnthe Soviet soldiers have at least onencandle on each, though a Universitynfriend of my son—he’s with me for thenacademic year—suggested that theyndidn’t need any since Russians had nonsouls. Aleks was smiling when he saidnit, though, and he held that Russiansnwere people too, only the System thatnowned them was depraved. I didn’t seenthe Russian graves, they being somewhatnapart. I suppose Party membersnsaw to the candles being there. (AtnMaple Grove, slaves were buried onnthe other side of a road dividing thencemetery.)nIt was a cold night, just above freezing,nwith mists tangling in the trees litnby the candles at their feet. Poe wouldnhave loved it, and I was warmed by itnmyself, except that my feet were cold.nOr were till I got to the grave ofnGrzegorz Przemyk, a student beaten tondeath by the Milicja. (Milicja meansn”Police,” but the Communistsndropped that bourgeois term whennthey seized control.) Or rather that isnwhat Poles believe, though the officialninquiry decided that the ambulancenattendants did it. I suppose ambulancenattendants are pretty much the sameneverywhere, like Communist courts.nGrzegorz was guilty of partying afternpassing his high school examinationnand being accepted into the university,nsomething that means more here thannat home. He was rowdy, and died ofnthe beating. A grave was found for himnalong one of the main walks at Pow-n§zki and on All Saints 1985 manynpeople paused there to pay their respectsnand, I suppose, to pray. I did so.nSEPTEMBER 19861 45n