The art handlers and curator Julian Heynen arrive to dismantle the show and we leave and drive straight east into the hot sun: Hannover, Helmstedt, Berlin, and the small border town of Frankfurt. The German highways are clogged with trucks which are prohibited from travel on the autobahns on weekends; the four-lane highway, rough-surfaced for better traction at high speeds, makes the Volkswagen vibrate.
Around pm we pass the old checkpoint on the highway to Berlin. A new fiberglass wall has been constructed; this one to hide from the traveler the militaristic complex with its legion of lights and decaying gray docks and offices—a reminder of the recent past. At we cross the German border into Poland without so much as a passport examination. The road—a major international route between Berlin and Warsaw—drops off to two lanes. The earth along the roadside is a mix of sand and ash, the buildings ramshackle.
Handsome tall white birches line the roads and stand out against blonde fields awaiting harvest. Nowhere do I see mechanized farm equipment. Men and women swing scythes in the late afternoon sun. Wooden wagons heaped with hay are drawn by horses down the highway, bringing cars to a screeching halt. Gray and black storks stand in pairs on chimney top nests, on the tops of poles, and in tall trees along the road. Miroslaw relaxes. We stop for lunch at at one of the few roadside restaurants to be seen on our 1, kilometer drive.
We arrive exhausted in Warsaw shortly after midnight, a trip of almost sixteen hours. Their house on the outskirts of town is surrounded by a metal fence with barbed wire running along the top.
The driveway gate locks by key, and two black dogs quickly appear from behind the house. Crime is on the rise in Poland. I feel privileged to be a guest in their house, and sleep soundly on the sofa bed in their living room. Susanna and Miroslaw must go to the city offices to get a marriage license and secure a date.
