Katowice (KAT-oh-veet-seh) is a Polish town on the train route from Prague to Krakow, Poland. We left Prague yesterday at 2:00 pm, intending to arrive about 9:00pm. We had to change trains in Katowice, and as a result of an earlier problem with flooding in Vienna, our train arrived late and we hung out in the station for about an hour. As we wandered the station in search of cash and a good coffee, we saw a squad of Policja (that's the same in any language, praise God) passing through the station in full riot gear: helmets, plexiglas face shields, body armour, batons, and shotguns. Geo, being his usual chipper self, says, "Oh, boy! Wonder where they're going?"
"As long as they're not coming towards me," I replied, "It doesn't matter so much to me."
We retrieved the cash and went to sit down at a coffee shop where Geo and Krissy enjoyed some fine desserts, Starbucks style (no, it wasn't Starbucks, but it smelled like it in the place). Then we made the return journey to Platform 3, where our 9:26 train was to arrive in just a few minutes. (Missing the 9:26 train would mean waiting for the 9:45 train, and we were tired enough already.) Climbing the stairs to the platform revealed that the squadron of riot police, now accompanied by a second in similar get-up, stood at the ready on Platform 3.
"You remember what you said earlier?" said Geo.
The police checked us out with wary glances as we mounted the platform, but recognizing American garb (jeans, sandals, sneakers, large backpacks, and American English) they didn't say anything. We took our place in the middle of the platform, wondering aloud now for whom these police had come.
A train arrived on the opposite side of the platform. As it pulled up and squealed to a halt, the Policja stiffened and turned toward the slowing carriages. We four Americans inched away toward the opposite edge of the platform. The doors rolled open and a group of twenty or thirty young men piled out of the train into the midst of the police, who still stood, quiet but sharp and wary, with batons and shotguns at the ready.
They stopped a few of the disembarking passengers, their body language clearly investigative, serious, and almost defensive. The civilian men had countenances not unlike many freshman I've had to stop on the way back to the dorm from a raging party. Meanwhile, none of the young men is leaving the platform. They're just standing around. And many others are standing around as well, watching.
Then the police close their perimeter a little bit. The young men bunch up and some Polish is spoken in louder and more agressive tones. The air on the platform begins to electrify with tension. Our train has not yet arrived.
We are standing between two squads of riot police: behind the one that faces the group of young Poles and in front of the supporting squadron. As someone who doesn't understand a lick of Polish, I can testify that this is not an enjoyable position to occupy. There is a grave uncertainty that lingers in the air around riot police of any nation, but especially when they're carrying shotguns in a rather casual manner (barrels pointing up at a forty-five degree angle) and when you couldn't understand them if they said, "Everybody get down!"
Then the group of increasingly aggressive young men surged toward us. They pressed on the police in front of us, forcing the black armoured line to retreat and close the gap between them and their support, the gap in which we were standing.
"Maybe we should wait for the 9:45 train," says Geo.
Not a bad idea, if we could get off the platform. But that would mean pushing through a line of riot police who look very much against the idea of letting people through.
The young men surge again, yelling something in Polish. The police step back again. We're getting rather nervous at this point. I'm having thoughts of what tear gas feels like, recalling my "stop-drop-and-roll" training from elementary school, and struggling to remember how the rules of chivalry work for young men and their wives in such a situation: stand between beloved and rioters, or between beloved and stern-looking riot police? The four of us press up against a railing, the only firm anchor between these mobile lines of conflict. I'm starting to work out a path to the steps, but the police have doubled up so there's no chance.
Just then the police behind us signal Geo and make a path. Apparently the Policia figured out that we were a danger to no one but ourselves. So we yanked each other along through the black uniforms and armour and onto an open part of Platform 3, just as our train arrived. We jumped on it and into the relative safety of our compartment, away from the madness outside.
But you can't just leave a scene like that without wondering what was really going on (or what might happen). So Geo and I joined all the other boarded passengers at the window to look out and watch. We were two cars away, so our view wasn't very good, but the police held a sort of circular perimeter on the platform around this group of men. The train stayed put. Now we were freaked out and late.
As we looked on the group of young men started chanting something in Polish. The chant lasted about five rounds before the stolid complexion of the police drained it of energy. For fifteen more minutes we waited while some unknown process went on between the officials of the train and the police on Platform 3. Then, at last, as we resigned ourselves to mystery about the significance of this event in local Polish history, our train pulled away from Katowice. Trundling past the platform revealed only a small group of young men and two somewhat less interested squadrons of riot police watching the train roll out.
Then we were on our way to Krakow.
~emrys
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