The Replaced Roses: Belarus


The Replaced Roses: Belarus

by Klaudyna Szewczyk

I stood far high up above the ground. At least higher than I previously thought. The

distance from the last step off the train to the grass in the ditch below appeared to be at least

3 feet. When the train slowed down, I jumped and suddenly everything stopped. My heavy

backpack hampered my movements. As I hit the ground I dispersed the force of the impact

by collapsing into a crouch: one knee on the ground and my hands touching the cool grass.

I slowly looked up. I could smell the characteristic and familiar smell of the train tracks, a

mixture of rust and steel carried by the wind. A gust of wind swirled around me, carrying a

greeting from this unfamiliar country. I was ready to explore. Silently I accepted the invitation

from Belarus.

Behind me, I heard anxious voices. The train had stopped before arriving at the

platform of the train station. During trips to the East such things cause concern. I also felt that

something was not quite right. I wondered to myself why, without any warning, were we told

to leave the train in such an unorthodox fashion? I looked at the outskirts of the city with its

towering grim buildings surrounded by small clusters of trees. A tingle of fear ran down my

spine. During World War II most of the professors and academics in Poland were captured

and sent to East to work in labor camps or to be executed. Despite my resolve, I could not

help wondering how those who had come here before felt as they were transported to the

labor camps?

The train finally came to a complete stop and I reached out and helped other travelers

down off the train. We trudged to the only bus stop where the bus took us to the center of

the city. The frightened voices of the group flooded over me like a mounting wave. The

sound drilled into my ears until they reached my stomach and fear set in. A thought sprang

up unbidden in my mind, “All important feelings have their origin in the belly.” At the time,

I did not remember whether they were the words of Winnie the Pooh, Garfield, or Snoopy.

However, if they were true then the dinner which I consumed later should have silenced my

fears instead of keeping them and me awake.

The tension continued to grow later as I sat with a group of educators from my

university in a restaurant within the city. The decor of the room gave the a strong impression

of the essence of the works of Jules Verne. The walls were covered with maps, sketches, and

pictures of models of many strange devices such as flying machines and submarines. The

dinner itself felt more like a play in a theater than a meal. The waiters appeared like actors on

the stage. They played their roles well suggesting dishes as if they were mere props. It was

difficult to decide if this was a great performance or Tea with the Mad Hatter? Certainly, the

design of this place was beautiful but the tension in the pit of my stomach still grew.

Later as we walked through the strange city we passed several dozen groups of

gardeners planting fresh flowers in the city’s public flower beds. Just like in “Alice in

Wonderland” roses were being replaced: red for white or white for red, it was difficult to tell.

The streets, monuments, museums, fortresses… everything was perfect like a set designed

expressly for the ceremony accompanying our visit. Involuntarily I looked around expecting

to meet the Queen of Hearts. We had to take a bus to go visit the city’s ancient fortress which

is usually closed to the public. Suddenly the thoughtful silence of the group was shattered by

softly uttered words, “Do you remember how many Polish intellectuals were murdered here

during World War II?” Panicking, I had not realized that I had spoken my thoughts aloud and

in the shocked silence I could almost hear the roar: “Off with her head!” I looked around to

see how others had reacted to this statement. However, no one looked at me. All eyes in the

room stared at the mousy student sitting dejectedly in the corner seat. With a sigh of relief, I

realized that it was he, not I who had actually spoken the words we had all been thinking

since crossing the border into this country. Do you remember November 6th,

at the mercy of a tyrant much worse than the Queen of Hearts.

A few days later, I stepped out of the train station in my hometown and my brother

took my heavy backpack away from me. As I stood there, surrounded by the familiar and

precious sound of free and uninhibited conversations, the hidden fear I felt during my days in

Brest allowed me to see something that was as natural for me as the air I was breathing. I

finally took a deep breath and the knot of anxiety disappeared from my stomach.

I suddenly felt that until that moment I had never understood the true meaning and price of

strenght and freedom.

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