I say lies, for here on the flatlands of eastern Poland time sleeps. In the autumn of 1986, address in hand, I walked from the station along the railway embankment. A teenage boy idled by the tracks scanning the horizon. He picked up a handful of stones and cast them at the rails, one by one, delighting in the resonant ping when one hit its target. Like a hare detecting a movement, he cocked his head and stared into the distance. For a time the approaching train seemed to move slowly, then it was upon us, playing havoc with the silence. Passengers’ faces flitted by, leaving a yearning for distant places. I showed the boy the address and he led the way along a clay pathway. Coiled bales of hay were lined up in neat rows in recently cut paddocks. Birch and conifers fringed the farmlands. Peasants, bent over double, harvested potatoes and turnips. A farmer, rope tethered round his shoulders, worked a horse-drawn plough. The horse’s flanks were damp with sweat, its nostrils flaring.
