I do not know how to describe this place, those matters. It is like in a picture album, like in historical books, and yet so completely different. I can hardly cope with this city, and thence with everything that I had felt, that I had known until I found myself encircled by those strange walls. It is like before the war, when my Father was alive, with that fossilized ammonite I found in the limestone rock by the road we took when the three of us traveled to Kazimierz for Whit Sunday, do you remember, Mummy?
“Fossilized, and yet it proves,” said Kaj, “that thousands of years ago a sea rolled here, where the Vistula proglacial valley is blossoming with flowers, encircled by limestone hills.” But there is yet something different about this town. Wherever you tread, a stone seems to move underfoot, pushed by the fists of history buried alive. They, they who were born here, do not feel it so much, but we, visitors from the Kingdom, do not always know how to act. Me, I tend to make a fool of myself. Perhaps because I am not adapted yet.