Chapter 4: Hołówki Street
I was sat in the back of the cab. Shuttling through the streets of Warsaw. It was the first time I’d seen Marta in 10+ years — and yet, immediately the same smile, warmth, and endless encouragement.
We debated our historical connection. Me, convinced completely that I took her very first official photograph for her badge at Apple. Her, steadfast someone else did. Whatever the truth, our paths had crossed for pleasantries and one social encounter, but not much more all those years earlier.
Yet here, in the back of a cab together, we were starting a whole new chapter as collaborators. Amateur historians. Documentarians. Excited fans of the fantastical.
I still don’t know for certain the name of the street we went to. I know how it’s written (I asked Marta to check for me), but not how it sounds. Hollow-key? Howls-ki? Hov-ki? As a Brit, I’ve always felt embarrassed of our poor linguistic performance. Through work, I was forever struck by how many people I met from all over the world — for whom this may be their third or fourth country of residence. And they all certainly spoke two, if not three+ languages.
As I began my first trip to Poland, my first exploration of its culture, language, and people, I realised I had much to learn. To my eye, little sounded the way it looked on the page. And I should like to be a better student in time, and come to understand more of its language.
As it was, Hołówki Street was our first stop on a quest with an unknown duration, course, or destination at that point.
It was around 2017 that Marta and her husband Ark, relocated once more. This time — after stops in Australia, Ireland, London, the Netherlands, and Dubai — they were headed home.
And so it was they landed, along with their young daughter, at Hołówki Street, slightly south of central Warsaw. By Marta’s own explaining, it was a reasonably typical gated community of apartments. Nothing of great age or historical significance — a modern development for modern living.
As Marta recalls it, she rarely ventured into the basement of her particular block. A dark, sometimes spooky space where waste was collected, and a few personal items were haphazardly stored. It was here, however, one fateful morning where the discovery was first made.
A furore was unfolding. A move. Someone clearing old possessions maybe? The organising of a deceased relative’s apartment? Or a move, from here to a new home for the resident?
Marta skipped down the stairs, simply to drop some rubbish into the waste collection bin. And there, she spotted it. A stack of papers. Another discarded item, on top of other waste-bound items.
And yet it wasn’t just discarded. It was a domino. About to tumble. The first of a chain of dominoes that would soon engulf not just Marta but, me, our families, our friends, and chunks of our life that were otherwise likely to have been dedicated to other pursuits.
Without that moment? I’d never have known Hołówki Street existed.
We wandered the surroundings streets as Marta relayed the story to me again in person. The block she lived in, the floor of her apartment, the entrance to the basement.
And not for the first time I saw it. Marta’s tenacity. And an uncanny ability to twist the arms of total strangers.
I’d arrived content to merely gaze at the block through the gates. To hear Marta tell the story just outside the space where our adventure began. To capture some shots of her walking and talking, of the building, the surrounding space. Nothing more. There was, after all, no way we could gain access to the inner gardens behind the large metal gates.
I've never been the kind to push boundaries. To over-step my place. To gain access to a space I'm simply not supposed to be in would feel a stretch too far for me. For Marta? One quick conversation with a passerby, and suddenly the gate was opened for us to enter.
“That one there!” she pointed. It was her old flat. And then, the basement where the discovery had been made.
Since our first conversation, so many obvious questions had occurred to us both. Who was it that had been in possession of this manuscript? Why had it been discarded? Did they know its history? Were they a family member? Was this one of many editions of the manuscript?
We had none of the answers.
Marta had absolutely no clue even from which apartment number this manuscript must have come from. And, in the years that had passed since her first discovering it, any chance to connect back these dots had evaporated.
But not all was lost. And so we hatched a plan. We'd compose a letter together, and then Marta would hand write it, and post it to every single apartment in the complex. We'd explain our position, the adventure we were on, and our wish to find out more about this strange manuscript.
We hoped to connect with someone there who might be able to shed light on previous residents who might have lived in the block around the time that it had been discarded.
Surely somebody would remember an old neighbour? Maybe remember hearing tales of someone's friend, aunt, nan, sister, whatever — a writer.
Surely?
Hołówki Street then, was the beginning of our journey.
And so we wrote.
And we waited.
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