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“Quiet!” Wojtek silences me as I trail behind him on a hilltop, finding twigs of trees crackle in each step. “You see that?” Wojtek stabs his finger to a silhouette of the tree against the sun. I pause. I squint hardly noticing a life flapping around. Past that tree is Krakow’s urban scene - organized, concrete, uniform. The other side is showing off medieval times - lush, shrubby, red-bricked. The old and the new civilizations are painted in a typical European juxtaposition. “No,” I reply. I bite my lip, a gush of guilt washing over me. Apparently, my mind wanders to thousands of Jews that have settled since 13th century but have left in five year-long Nazi occupation. Such a short time that equally razed thousands of both Polish and Jewish memories to the ground. I am alone in my silence, feeling the earth under me. Although unscathed unlike other Polish cities, Krakow to me still looks pleasantly dark sans the rubbles. “That’s a yellow woodpecker! You don’t see them often. They rarely stay here,” he coyly says. Wojtek is my guide from Biketrip company with his backpack carrying the weight of his life. His eyes focus on the tree. He does not look away. His bubble of wonder stands relentless and perhaps more of nostalgia to a friend coming home without a memo. The same tree lends us its silhouette in contrast to the white of clear skies. Finally, I see it. My eyes pixilate from the universe of lines and curves to a tiny being punching its beak on a tree trunk as if foraging a meal. The subtle eagerness I thought. “Or probably they start to come back,” I mumble, regardless he hears me. I refuse to disturb him in his ruminations. Although, a part of me is disappointed when he barely exchanges a word. I follow him when he starts to call me out. The Krakus Mound emerges as a distant hill, boasting its tranquility above the chaos of Krakow. To the left, the Zakopane alps lurk from far away while the Zakrzowek quarry underneath lulls in the pause of human activity. It gets me to think these enormous structures which lived the same skies as in the World War, have seen the city’s mayhem. I saunter to the ragged edge of the hill opposite Zakrzówek. Peering to another space, I see another excavation. Its depths cascade further towards meeting a different shade of colours that is Old Town. “That’s supposedly another Zakrzowek,” emerges Wojtek’s voice. He means another quarry from the World War. Another birth of a tale about hardworking Poles that dug the soil, mined limestones to the indefinite depth and dripped some blood to stale. I shiver with the thought more than that cold slap of random wind from this altitude. He inches his way towards me. He probably notices the curiosity on my face. I might still have emotional loads from Auschwitz visit yesterday, like many things too dark to underwhelm. I look away. “Poland is geographically central. They loved to invade this country,” he starts. I sense Polish point of view brewing. Words I know he undoubtedly knows well for he grew from this soil and his roots deeply gnarled in it. “The King allowed Jews settlement long way before. They were allowed to build synagogues,” he continues. My attention wanes in mid-sentence, taken over by my own voice and pictures in my head. “The Holocaust. The Poles including my grandparents can’t forget. Their survival made us here,” he adds. I cast him a look more sympathetic than plain wonder. “And I’m happy I’ve seen many Jewish people back,” I say. His smile curves at one corner. I return it. An understandable gesture that speaks volumes and drown the ghastly winds passing us. I hastily wade my legs through the grass back to the tree. Surprisingly, the woodpecker did not budge from the same spot. It still picks on the trunk. Likened to Poles and Jews, it came back with that subtle eagerness to somewhere it thrives. He waves his hand to the other side of the hill. I presume we have to continue cycling towards Tyniec Abbey, the tour’s last point.