The weeks I spent in Copenhagen were as quiet and contemplative as getting there was exhausting. Everything on the Polish side of the Baltic was hours behind schedule. The night train to Świnoujście port was four hours late, no explanation given. By the time the ferry docked in Trelleborg, Sweden it was already past midnight. So it was just me and the seagulls circling the station in the darkness, waiting for the first morning train at five. Two days of traveling on precious little sleep meant I was in heaven when my head hit the pillow in Nørrebro, a hip neighborhood in the northern part of Copenhagen. I kept telling myself that this is what I wanted. An experience that would approximate our trying journey from thirty years ago. What I got was inevitably easier and more comfortable than before, and still it pushed me to my physical limits.
Soon the sore muscles faded into memory with each day of walking Copenhagen’s stone-paved streets. No matter where I wandered, a cozy coffee shop was not hard to find. With my efforts making connections and setting up appointments being met with many out-of-office replies, I was faced with something I hadn’t accounted for after years of living in America: vacation season. Journalists, friends, and friends of friends all seemed to be going away during most of July leaving me with an abundance of time on my hands. Not being one for the usual things tourists do, I began devoting myself to writing and drinking coffee. Preferably at the same time.
My preference is to write by hand in a Moleskine notebook and not because it associates me with a certain demographic but because I’ve grown up writing by hand. It’s also literally more comfortable for me as a left-handed writer to use this particular kind of journal. The binding doesn’t make me have to struggle to hold the notebook itself. So my ritual of coffee, pastry, with pen and paper continued almost daily. It made me feel different as the days turned into weeks without having to be anywhere or meet any deadlines except the ones I imposed on myself. Feelings and memories surfaced that I had not spent giving much thought before.
Most of all I was hit with a sadness I had not expected. It consumed me one day and no matter what I tried to do I couldn’t shake every little thing reminding me of my last relationship. That’s when I realized how the last six months of being so busy and overwhelmed with multiple moves, not to mention planning and making this trip happen, left no room for grief. It was only in the stillness and momentary lack of obligations that this grief found space in me to fill and occupy. I tried to talk to my mother about it. I even messaged some friends but it was patience and continuing to write it all down with pen scratching away on paper that helped me move through it. There were moments of eating one too many cheesecakes on days when the rains wouldn’t let up. But even then a rainbow appeared with the evening sun. I went walking through Assistens Cemetery, past graves of Hans Christian Andersen and Soren Kierkegaard, steam rising from the earth. Metaphors were in abundance.
The date of my visit to Sandholm Asylcenter grew closer and I more anxious with it. I didn’t know what to expect. This was the first critical moment of my current journey after all. The first return to a place of trauma in three decades. I struggled to make sense of the train system in the morning hours and buying a ticket proved to be less than straightforward. Realizing I had boarded the wrong train, I backtracked one stop and transferred only to be fined for purchasing my ticket incorrectly. Arriving at my last station I saw the hourly bus to Sandholm pull away and just had to laugh at the absurdity of one more thing going awry. Weighing my options for a moment it seemed best to take a leisurely walk through the countryside instead of waiting another hour for the next bus while contemplating the morning’s misadventure.
A balmy, overcast day followed me as I approached the camp. Its yellow-painted buildings stood before me with a much friendlier disposition than I remembered. Somehow I never registered the color, same as it ever was I’m told, when I was here in ‘85. Introducing myself to the gatekeeper I learned that word of my coming had spread among the staff. I was greeted by Nanja, my guide for the day, with enthusiasm as she led me towards the building where we used to live. It was all so much to absorb that I wasn’t sure what to feel other than some mixture of awe and amazement. I just tried to take it all in, knowing that it would take time to process.
Nanja introduced me to Erik who has been in charge of kitchen operations since the ‘90s. They kindly invited me for lunch and I am happy to report that the food has improved dramatically since 1985. With renewed energy, I conducted interviews with Erik and another Red Cross staff member named Agnieszka. She too came from Poland in the late ‘80s but ended up staying and eventually working at Sandholm. They were both incredibly forthcoming and willing to share their past and present experiences. Everyone there was kind to me and I am filled with gratitude for all the help I received. I walked through the camp again with Nanja to take photos and noted how much the place had changed. I remember it being more forested, overgrown, and dark. It felt imposing and even dangerous to me as a five year old child. I suppose much of life is at that age. Standing there now, with all trees gone, buildings bright and clean, Sandholm felt safe and even cheerful and made me wonder what kind of experience children were having there now. I suspect it is a very different one.
I gave thanks to my patient chaperone Nanja, and embarked on the return trip. With so much to process, I struggled to give words to what I felt in those moments. The most appropriate description would be gratitude for the incredible opportunity that I have been afforded here. Gratitude for being able to embark on this journey and to experience what felt like a surreal kind of homecoming, if that is even possible for a place that was never home.
I gave thanks to my patient chaperone Nanja, and embarked on the return trip. With so much to process, I struggled to give words to what I felt in those moments. The most appropriate description would be gratitude for the incredible opportunity that I have been afforded here. Gratitude for being able to embark on this journey and to experience what felt like a surreal kind of homecoming, if that is even possible for a place that was never home.
