Waldemar

He promised me a walk. We would look for the birch crosses he once mentioned. They were placed in the forest by people who likely knew the victims of the wind. We met at the Mound on a frosty morning.

We step off the path and enter deep into the remains. Waldemar walks ahead of me, it is a cold November morning; he takes steps decisively and nervously. I sense that he cannot fully identify the place we are searching for. In his steps, I feel both uncertainty and determination. With his body, Waldemar somehow cuts through the established silence, the membrane stretched between the four pines left after the storm. I observe his dia-logue with the trees, which points him in the right direction. He disap-pears for a moment behind one of them, and I quicken my pace so as not to lose him. When we arrive at the spot, I notice tears running down his face. He wipes them with his hand.

Did I tell you, ma’am, that the grandparents of those children came to us? They came to the forest district, we talked for a long time… It was very difficult. You know they were lighting candles on those birch graves. I told them they couldn’t do that. At first, they refused; they considered it heartless. I explained that in pe-riods of drought, which are now unpredictable, this could lead to another tragedy. I had to threaten that otherwise the graves would disappear, and I very, very much did not want that. Then they admitted that their pain had overshadowed their rationality and imagination. They did not realise they could cause further misfor-tunes. After some time, the candles disappeared.

Waldemar, Rytel, 2025