The Auschwitz Debacle

One of the primary attractions for folks coming from the States to Krakow, Poland is Auschwitz. During World War II the Nazis maintained a large concentration and extermination camp at Auschwitz. The location has been quite well preserved and now serves to remind those who visit of one of the twentieth century’s greatest human failures, lest something like it be repeated by our descendants. It’s hard to say that we “wanted” to go to Auschwitz; but since we were so close we thought it important to see the remnants of this piece of history.

Auschwitz is a ninety-minute bus ride from Krakow. There is a bus that leaves from the main Krakow station and runs several times a day, making it very easy to access the museum. Sara and I had train tickets to Vienna Sunday night and no plans for Sunday afternoon, so we thought taking a few hours at the Auschwitz museum would be good. On Saturday we purchased our bus tickets (at no small emotional cost, as the ticket agent did not speak English and seemed to have had a rough day of it before we got there). Sunday we showed up at the appointed time and boarded the bus in space D5 marked for Auschwitz.

Now before I continue let me remind you that this is Poland. Signs are written in Polish; towns are named in Polish. Polish is quite a different language from German, the language in which Auschwitz is named. (German is Germanic; Polish is Slavic, like Czech and Russian.) So when you’re in the Krakow bus station looking for the signs to the Auschwitz bus, you’re actually looking for “Oswiece” (pronounced OS-vee-ets-eh). Sure enough, the bus in parking spot D5 had “Oswiece” printed on the side. We hopped on board, waving good-bye to Geo and Krissy, waving our little white receipts at the bus driver.

Therein lay our mistake. Always ask the bus driver if his bus is destined for the place you want to end up.

Two and a half hours into our ninety-minute bus ride to Auschwitz the driver pulls over at a stop in the middle of Nowhere, Poland. The territory reminded me of what I’ve seen in films featuring Fargo, North Dakota, although without the snow. I ran up to the front of the bus and showed the driver my ticket, which clearly labeled our destination as “Oswiec Muzeum.” The driver scrunched up his face and shook his head. He didn’t speak any English, but he didn’t have to. He wasn’t going to the museum today—or perhaps any day for that matter.

So we get off the bus and catch the next bus back to Krakow. By God’s mercy alone the next bus was only ten minutes away. The earlier driver had written in definitive script “Krakow” on our receipt, as if to say, “You have to go back to Krakow to get to Auschwitz.” You can’t get there from here.

So we hopped on another bus and retraced our rubber tracks two and a half hours to Krakow.

(I might also add that in a fit of hydration I had acquired quite a payload in my bladder by the time we boarded the returning bus. I stood—not sat, mind you, for the ride was way too bumpy—in the bus for an hour before we reached a toilet stop. Never before have my kidneys hurt; never before have I actually thought up contingency plans for wetting myself in a vehicle of public transportation.)

When we arrived again in Krakow the Auschwitz Museum was closed and we had a train to catch. It looks like that experience will have to wait until our next trip to Krakow. (It has become one in a growing queue of things that will have to wait until “Next time.”)

By the way, I went back and checked: the bus was parked in the space that should have taken us to the Museum. Sadly for us, “Oswiec” is also a region of Poland near Krakow after which is named a bus company. The name on the side of the bus was the company name, not the destination. Lesson: always check with the driver (or conductor) to make sure the vehicle you’re boarding is the one you want. You never know how far away the next toilet will be.

~emrys