Warsaw is a strange town. For a European, at least. It seems absurd that I stayed in buildings in the US this summer that were older. But, there we are. I wanted to visit the Polish Jewish Museum and the Warsaw Uprising Museum, but as luck would have it, those two museums — and only those two — are closed on Tuesdays.
So I do one of my usual make-it-up-as-you-go walking tours instead. Not far from the city centre stands a miniature statue atop a plinth, just outside the city walls. It depicts a child soldier, an anonymous victim of the Warsaw Uprising. It is a stark reminder of just how young the rebels were: the average age of the insurgents was only seventeen. Nothing remains of the Jewish ghetto, which was considerable. There are nods to what once was: a metal plaque cuts across the road in places, marking where the perimeter walls once stood.
In a park nearby, a woman in a fur coat walks her dog. I arrive one minute too late to catch the start of the changing of the guard, but I do see the new sentries move into position beside the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
A fire burns steadily in an iron grate between them. The chosen shelter for the tomb is the last remaining piece of a former palace complex, of which only three arches survived the destruction of war. A short wall on either side of the square bars access to what looks like an excavation site.
Beyond that, the yellow squares of ceiling lights gleam from behind the glass of the office buildings. Night falls. Warsaw puts her Christmas clothes on. I consider going without supper, but one of the restaurants in the old town does flaki and I can never say no to offal. This time I can savour it in peace, without the tutting and sermonising of the vegetarian globetrotter who was so judgemental of my taste before.
