The cemetery of Ieud

Dan Dinescu: The upper church in Ieud (click for the full image)
From the album The Wooden Architecture of Maramureș, 1997

The upper church of Ieud is considered the oldest wooden church in Maramureș, with the year of construction of 1364. The present building, however, is only as original as the ax, whose head was replaced twice and its handle three times. Due to the recurring Tatar invasions, it burnt down several times, and each time it was rebuilt, for the last time in the late 17th century. Nevertheless, it still retains the Gothic shape characteristic of the wooden churches of Maramureș, which markedly differ from the Rusyn wooden churches with squat towers and central domes, to the north of the upper reaches of the Tisza. Inside it is adorned by naive folk murals with the fanciful depiction of the Last Judgement, and outside it is embraced with the no less fanciful old cemetery of the village.

Every cemetery has its own unique motifs, copied from generation to generation and from tomb to tomb by the members of the local community; motifs, which distinguish the graveyard even from that of the next village. In Ieud these are the photographs in folk costume inserted in the legs of the crucifixes, and the multitude of tin Christs, the aesthetics of redundancy, which is characteristic also for the inside of the wooden churches, nevertheless the sight of a million little Christs puzzle the unsuspecting visitor.

The cemetery also has a separate geniza corner, where the crucifixes left without a tomb – as they bear the image of Christ, so cannot be destroyed – wait in silence for the end of times.

In another corner of the cemetery a new grave is being digged. “Hello, hello!” calls the gravedigger’s sister the tourist roaming among the crucifixes, like a naively painted siren, but fortunately she does not offer us the grave, but rather țuică, plum brandy for twenty-five lei, and necklines made of glass beads. Although a peasant woman, she easily switches from Romanian to French and Italian. “Where did you learn it so well?” “Well, I took my language book in the evening, and I crammed it.” She carefully re-ties her scarf for the photo, then she gives me the address where we can bring it the next time, and at the same time buy some more țuică. When I ask her about the Jewish cemetery, she pops up: “Sure, I’ll take you there.” But this will be already the next story.

The long voyage

“Tour of Europe”. Table game. Paris, Musée national des Arts et Traditions Populaires

“C’est de Paris la ville incomparable… From Paris, the incomparable city sets out the long voyage, which passes through all the great cities of Europe.”

The Central European player, of course, immediately looks at the middle of the map… where something went awfully confused. Hungary seems to be shaped with a chopping-ax, its northern neighbor’s name is Austria instead of Czechoslovakia, while its southern neighbor is a large noname country, with a small Serbia and Montenegro in its lower corner.


It takes time to realize that this large unnamed country, with the Slavonian horses, the Bosnian vine, the Transylvanian Gypsy musicians, the Austrian and Galician pines and the Carpathian wolf is one and the same empire.

The original thin borders and colored countries of the map, published by Léon Saussine, the leading Parisian game producer at the turn of the century, represented pre-WWI Europe, sometimes between 1908 (Bosnia is already part of Austria) and 1913 (the Sandžak is still part of Turkey). The game, however, seems to have been not quite sold, obviously because the players began massive state-financed real-life long voyages throughout Europe. And when the time of table games returned again, the French, as in real life, had to redraw the map.

“If the player steps on a capital city, he must remain there until all the other players throw once more again, because time must be devoted to the visit of such important cities.”

The doubled number of capital cities thus perceivably slowed down progress on the map, just as in the reality.

“Three extra points are given to the player who can tell to which country the given capital belongs. For example, when entering on number 3: London is the capital of the British Isles, and so on, about all the capital cities.”

The inhabitants of Paris, the incomparable city have thus set a difficult lesson to themselves by retayloring Europe and multiplying the Eastern European small states. No wonder if in this happier western half of the continent, which conspicuously lacks the colorful thick new frontiers, dialogues of this kind were noted even ten years later:

“And where do those Hungarians live? In Hungary. Between Austria, Romania, Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia. Come on please… These countries were invented by Shakespeare.” Antal Szerb: The Pendragon Legend, 1934

“The voyage can be covered as desired, by bike or automobile.”

The Central European player thinks with nostalgia about the happier western half of the continent, where after the great cataclysm they did not have to start everything from zero, to change homeland or language, to live in wagons for years, but they only took out the pre-war table games, painted the new borders on them, and then everything went on in its own way, by bike or automobile.

“The winner is he who completes this large circle by returning the first to Paris. The winner takes it all.”

Le grand voyage

« Voyages à travers de l’Europe ». Jeu de table. Paris, Musée national des Arts et Traditions Populaires

« C’est de Paris la ville incomparable, qu’a lieu le départ du grand voyage qui va nous faire parcourir toutes les grandes villes de l’Europe. »

Le joueur d’Europe centrale, bien sûr, regarde immédiatement au milieu de la carte … où les choses se sont terriblement embrouillées. La Hongrie semble avoir été tranchée au couperet, le nom de son voisin au nord est Autriche au lieu de Tchécoslovaquie, tandis que son voisin du sud est un grand pays sans nom, avec une petite Serbie-Monténégro dans le coin inférieur.


Il faut du temps pour se rendre compte que ce grand pays sans nom, avec les chevaux de Slavonie, la vigne bosniaque, les musiciens tsiganes de Transylvanie, les pins de l’Autriche et de la Galicie et le loup des Carpates n’est qu’un seul et même empire.

Les fines frontières originelles et les pays colorés de la carte, publiée par Léon Saussine, producteur de jeux parisien de premier plan au tournant du siècle, représentaient l’Europe avant la Première Guerre mondiale — ici plutôt vers 1908 (la Bosnie fait déjà partie de l’Autriche), là en 1913 (le Sandjak fait toujours partie de la Turquie). Le jeu cependant ne semble pas s’être bien vendu, sans doute parce que les joueurs ont dû participer massivement à de longs voyages grandeur nature et financés par l’État à travers l’Europe. Et une fois l’heure paisible des jeux de table revenu, les Français, comme dans la vie réelle, ont dû redessiner la carte.

« Lorsque le sort sera fait tomber un joueur sur une capitale, il sera obligé d’y rester pendant que les autres joueurs jetteront chacun 3 fois le dé, car il faut bien prendre le temps de visiter de si importantes villes. »

Le nombre deux fois plus important de capitales a ainsi sensiblement ralenti le déplacement sur la carte, tout comme dans la vie réelle.

« Il aura de plus une amende de 3 jetons s’il oublie de dire à quel pays appartient cette capitale, par exemple au n. 3, il devra donc dire : Londres capitale des Iles Britanniques, et ainsi de suite pour toutes les capitales. »

Les habitants de Paris, la ville incomparable, se sont ainsi imposé une leçon difficile avec le remodelage de l’Europe et la multiplication des petits États de l’Europe orientale. Rien d’étonnant si dans cette bienheureuse moitié occidentale du continent, visiblement dépourvue des lignes épaisses et colorées des nouvelles frontières, des dialogues comme celui-ci étaient encore notés dix ans après :

« Et où vivent ces Hongrois? En Hongrie. Entre l’Autriche, la Roumanie, la Tchécoslovaquie et la Yougoslavie. Allons, s’il vous plaît … Ces pays ont été inventés par Shakespeare. » Antal Szerb: The Pendragon Legend, 1934

« On peut, si l’on veut, faire ce voyage sous forme de courses cyclistes, de courses d’automobiles. »

Le joueur d’Europe centrale pense avec nostalgie à la bienheureuse moitié occidentale du continent où, après le grand cataclysme, on n’a pas dû tout recommencer à zéro, ni changer de patrie ou de langue, ni vivre dans des wagons pendant des années, mais ils ont ressorti les jeux de table d’avant-guerre, ils y ont peint les nouvelles frontières, et puis tout est reparti à sa guise, à vélo ou en automobile.

« Le gagnant sera celui qui arrivera le premier à Paris, après avoir terminé ce grand circuit. Il recevra comme prix le montant de la Poule formée par le total des mises faites par les joueurs. »

My castle

From an authoritative source

In recent days, thousands of students throughout Hungary protested against the government’s amateurish and hasty actions, which, two months before the university applications, want to remove the last remnants of any tuition waiver. The government communication, as usual, speaks contemptuously of the students, considering them idiots and calling them “philosophers musing in trendy pubs”. The government spokesman and the president of the chamber of industry point out on the basis of unlawfully acquired data that the leaders of the students’ self-governments have enjoyed a student’s status for more than 8-12 years, and the government newspaper Magyar Nemzet has even published a list on its first page with their personal data from the same unlawful sources. But they are real amateurs. They do not know anything. We now present you from authoritative sources not only the data, but also the portraits of those frivolous over-age students, musing in trendy pubs, who – as the government accuses them – would flee abroad en masse, to benefit the West from the taxpayers’ money spent on them. Look at them: are these types capable of a revolution?

“Eternal students”

Philologist

Mathematician

Natural sciences. Practical zoology

Housing problem

The master of the postcards published between 1911 and 1915, Vladimir Fedorovich Kadulin enrolled in the Academy of Fine Arts in Moscow in 1902, at the age of 21. His studies were broken in 1905 due to “non-payment of tuition fees, and consecutive absences”. However, his designs signed as “Nayadin” still enjoyed great popularity. After 1917 there is no more trace of him.

Moving to the new flat

The glory of Ukraine

– Glory to Ukraine! – Glory to its heroes! – replies the guard armed with a machine gun from the other side of the peep hole. The reinforced door opens. The guest, who knew the password, can enter the restaurant, decorated with the photos of the UPA, the Ukrainian Insurgent Army, once collaborating with the Nazis, and with the posters glorifying its leaders, Stepan Bandera and Roman Shukevich, responsible for the death of one hundred thousand Poles and twice as many Jews in Volhynia and Eastern Galicia. We are in the Kryivka, that is, “Bunker” pub, in the main square of Lwów.


Of course, the entry is not always so easy, especially for those who attempt for the first time to penetrate the lion’s den of the UPA. In the wet dusk in vain we knock on the door of the closed pub, nobody comes to open it for us. In the twilight two men pop up to ask us what we are looking for. “We would like to enter the pub”, I say. “It is closed”, says coarsely one of them, as if this were not obvious. “Why do you want to go there?” “We heard that it is a very good pub”, I say insinuatingly. They look at each other. “The entrance is from the courtyard”, they say. We enter the courtyard. At its doorpost a young man is standing and smoking. “Where from?” he asks in Polish. “Hungary”, “Really?” he cheers up. “Polak, Węgier, dwa bratanki!” and he shakes hand with each of us.

The courtyard entrance is also closed. Some six or seven persons are talking in front of it. “Is it closed?”, “No, full house”, they answer emphatically, to let me clearly know where our place is in the queue. Well, if it is there, then we won’t get in today. Dispirited, we turn back. The man is still smoking there at the doorpost. “You did not like it?” “We probably would have liked it, but we could not enter, there is full house.” He looks at us, pondering, he sips a last puff from the cigarette. “Polak, Węgier, dwa bratanki. If it is all right for you to join my group, I will take you in.”

He stops us in the middle of the courtyard. “I go ahead, and you come when I beckon for you.” The peep hole opens, a dialog starts. He looks back and beckons for us. The Ukrainians standing in the queue cast an evil look at us while we march into the inn in front of them.


A long, narrow room, patriotic photos and posters around, on the one side the counter and on the other, on the floor and on the gallery, roughly squared off and fully crowded tables and benches, and beer, lots of beer. Wojtek guides us to the group sitting at the floor, all Poles. A three-member Ukrainian band plays Polish songs for them, an accordionist, a drummer, and a violinist woman. “I’ve brought friends!” he exclaims proudly. “Hungarians!” Acclamation, they give us place on the crowded bench, they bring more chairs. A burly Pole tries to speak in Hungarian to us, he worked in Mohács. The idyll is completed by the the old Bandera’s photo filling the whole wall behind us, in Munich, gently leading his grandchildren in front of his Volkswagen, before the bullet of the KGB would have done away with him in 1957.




While the first beers come out, I look around in the back yard. Walls covered with camouflage patterns, chairs and tables made of ammunition chests. Later we also descend to the basement: a ceiling covered with camouflage, with the magnified photos of UPA soldiers on it.




There comes the well-worn menu, which, with its typography, photos, newspaper cutouts, figures representing weapons and bunkers looks much more like a brochure or a samizdat than a proper menu. As an appetizer we may request “the Hero’s first Communion”, which is red borsch prepared with beer, we can choose between the “Nachtigall’s smile” carp, named after the first Ukrainian SS corps, and the “from the San to the Don” trout, and we can accompany it with Forest Brothers or Muscovites’ Bowels cocktail. Finally we ask for the Gauleiter’s dinner (beef fried with goat cheese, onions and potatoes) and the Letter from the bunker (chicken baked in pastry with vegetables).


The plates also figure in English on the menu, whose design, together with that of the whole place, suggest that the UPA haunt is also offered as a thematic restaurant, such as the Marxim in Budapest or other similar pubs preserving the décor and air of Communism in a concentrated form. I do not even willingly go to these latter, I have no nostalgia for systems which surpassed by hundreds the cleansing activity of Shukevich and his men. Nevertheless, a large difference is that the post-communist nostalgia pubs recall a virtually toothless lion with a good amount of relief and irony, while the UPA pub glorifies a still vibrant nationalism which, as a state ideology, traces back the country’s independence to the Ukraine collaborating with the Nazis, and as a consequence, it condems to absolute silence the question of the Poles and the Jews, and later of the Germans and Hungarians exterminated and wiped out by the Ukrainians. And this jovial glaze smeared on the genocide makes even more dreadful the air of the place.


We invite Wojtek for a beer, he turns out to be a guide from Zamość just over the border, who often leads groups to Lwów. “What makes you bring Polish groups to such a place?” A long lecture follows on what a bogey the UPA is in Poland, and that one must bring Poles here for the sake of reconciliation, to let it see with their own eyes… And who with whom and for what reason has to reconcile. That his grandfather’s family was destroyed by the Nazis, but he also shot more than twenty Germans, and Wojtek had to ask for his personal permission to go for a German scholarship… And the other half of the family by the Ukrainians, but the Polish partisans also exterminated Ukrainians and both together the Russians… So there is plenty of work to do.



To promote the general reconciliation, and also to reciprocate the hospitality of the Poles, we decide to order them a Polish song. The small orchestra is just having a break, only the Ukrainian nationalist company is beating their hey-hey-hey-hey on the gallery. I approach the accordionist. “Would you please play the Tylko we Lwowie?” По-польськи не співаємо, we do not sing in Polish, he says, looking aside. “But this song also has an Ukrainian text!” I say. He looks at me, and in an articulated tone, so that I would finally clearly understand it, he replies: “We do not know that song.”




The teeth of the reality flash out from behind the tourist-teasing decoration. Lwów has to wait for the reconciliation for a while.


Emanuel Szlechter – Henryk Wars: Tylko we Lwowie! (Only in Lwów!), 1939. Performed by the legendary tango singer Albert Harris, and the Odeon orchestra