I wanted to see this square in Radom, located at Bożnicza and Podwalna streets, as it is where the city’s main synagogue once stood. Apologies for the quality of the photographs, as the lighting wasn’t particularly helpful, but I wanted to record the location and its history. Before the Second World War, Radom had a substantial Jewish community of around 30,000 people, representing approximately one-third of the city’s population. Jewish residents played an important role in local commerce, manufacturing and cultural life, with their own schools, religious institutions, political organisations and charitable societies. The synagogue, built in 1844, was at the centre of this community, serving as a place of worship and religious education. It was a substantial brick building with a central prayer hall, supported by four wooden columns beneath a raised roof structure. By the late 1930s, however, Jewish residents were also facing growing antisemitism and economic difficulties, even before the catastrophe that would follow the German invasion.

German forces occupied Radom on 8 September 1939, and persecution of the Jewish population began almost immediately. Jewish businesses and property were confiscated, residents were subjected to violence and forced labour, with restrictions being imposed on everyday life. In April 1941, the German authorities established two ghettos, one in the city centre and a smaller one in the Glinice district, confining approximately 32,000 Jewish people in overcrowded and increasingly desperate conditions. Food shortages, disease and violence became part of daily life. In August 1942, the Germans began liquidating the ghettos, deporting thousands of residents to the Treblinka extermination camp, where they were murdered. Others were killed during the deportations or forced into labour camps, with some subsequently transferred to concentration camps elsewhere in occupied Europe. By the end of the war, the Jewish community that had been such an important part of Radom for generations had been almost entirely destroyed.

The synagogue itself was another casualty of the occupation. Following the German takeover of the city in 1939, it was closed and its interior was destroyed. During the occupation, the building was also used as a quarantine facility for people who had been exposed to typhus in the ghetto. The structure was left in ruins and demolished after the war, with the site remaining an open space rather than being redeveloped. In 1950, a memorial to Radom’s murdered Jewish population was erected here, designed by Jakub Zajdensznir, a local Jewish artist. The monument incorporates material associated with the destruction of Jewish heritage and carries an inscription commemorating the victims of Nazi crimes. It stands where the synagogue once served a thriving community, although little of the original building or the surrounding Jewish neighbourhood remains visible today.

The end of the war did not bring an uncomplicated return to normality for Radom’s surviving Jews. Some returned to the city, while others arrived after surviving concentration camps or spending the war elsewhere. During 1945, a Jewish committee was established, along with a prayer house and facilities to support those attempting to rebuild their lives. However, antisemitism and violence continued, including attacks on Jewish residents in Radom itself. The murder of four Jews in the city in August 1945, followed by the Kielce pogrom in July 1946, contributed to a growing sense that remaining in Poland was unsafe. Many survivors emigrated or moved elsewhere, and the Jewish population of Radom declined rapidly. By 1947, fewer than 100 Jewish residents remained, a remarkable and tragic change from the tens of thousands who had lived here only a decade earlier.

The memorial was unveiled in August 1950, with members of the remaining Jewish community attending what became one of their last significant public gatherings in Radom. The square today is a relatively ordinary urban space, surrounded by residential buildings, parked cars and streets that continue to serve the modern city. Without knowing its history, it would be easy to walk past without appreciating what once stood here or the scale of the loss it represents. I found it particularly striking that a community which had accounted for around a third of Radom’s population could disappear so comprehensively within such a short period.

I was pleased to have made time to visit this memorial, which I thought was sensitively designed. It was particularly interesting to see the four surviving column bases from the synagogue, while the monument itself incorporates rubble from the demolished building. I’m glad that the site has been left undeveloped, preserving a space in the city to remember the thousands of Jewish residents who once lived here and the community that was almost entirely destroyed.

After a stay of only one night, although I think that I’ve dragged enough blog posts out of it, the next part of my journey was a train from Lublin to Radom. I had selected Radom as it meant that I could get into Warsaw early on the following morning and it was also a location that I hadn’t visited before.

Lublin Główny railway station opened on 30 August 1877 as part of the Vistula Railway, which connected Warsaw with Kovel, now in Ukraine. Its construction was an important moment in the city’s development, providing improved transport links and encouraging industrial growth in the surrounding area. The original station building was designed by Witold Lanci, although it underwent substantial alterations during the 1920s, following Poland’s restoration of independence, when its architecture was given a more distinctly Polish appearance.

As with seemingly every railway station I’ve visited in Poland recently, some money has been spent on refurbishing the building. It’s all looking rather smart, another reminder of how much investment has gone into the country’s railway infrastructure.

The train started at Lublin and was heading to Kraków, which meant that getting my reserved seat was an easy process as I was one of the first to board.

I had the aisle seat, which suited me perfectly, although the recline was a bit excessive. I was concerned that I might break the seat trying to correct it, so I just left it. I’ve already got an engineer visiting my flat tomorrow to deal with a light bulb I tried to change and a smoke alarm that keeps bleeping. He’s long since told me not to attempt fixing anything myself, as it only makes his job harder.

Clean, organised and with plenty of space. The fare was also reasonable at around £8, particularly as I’d only booked the ticket the day before.

The train had a power outlet at every seat and there was also Wi-Fi available. The service got busier, but I was delighted to see that no-one put their feet on seats and there was no music playing from phones.

Safely at Radom Główny railway station and the yellow sheets that I would quite like introducing into the UK. For those who read carefully, these ones are future railway timetables to add some anticipation into the whole arrangement.

Radom Główny railway station opened on 25 January 1885 as part of the Ivangorod–Dąbrowa Railway, which connected Dęblin with the industrial region of southern Poland. In June 2025, the station was named in honour of Jan Bloch, the Radom-born industrialist and railway pioneer who helped develop Poland’s nineteenth-century railway network.

As a little bonus, I hadn’t checked the exact location of my hotel until shortly before arriving in the city centre, but I was pleased to discover that it was just a one-minute walk from the station. Even my friend Richard could manage that, although he might have had a little sit down en route.

Of the several churches I wandered into during my time in Lublin, this was probably my favourite. The Church of St Peter and St Paul (Kościół św. Piotra i Pawła) stands on Krakowskie Przedmieście, close to Plac Litewski, and felt rather more homely than some of the grander churches in the city. I’ve never been particularly keen on religious bling, so the relatively restrained interior suited me nicely, particularly the extensive use of wood.

The church was built between 1726 and 1733 for the Capuchin order, with funding from Prince Paweł Karol Sanguszko and his wife Marianna Lubomirska. The white walls, barrel-vaulted ceiling, wooden pews and black and white tiled floor give the building a pleasing simplicity, although the main altar is rather more elaborate. The church suffered a serious fire in 1768, which destroyed the roof and much of the original interior, before being restored whilst keeping the traditions of the original.

I rather liked this substantial wooden pulpit, with its carved crosses and enormous sounding board above. It contrasts nicely with the white walls and looks suitably imposing. Observant readers of the blog might notice the element that caught my eye.

The pulpit also has this rather peculiar carved arm emerging from its side, holding a small crucifix. I’ve seen plenty of elaborate church pulpits over the years, but I don’t recall encountering anything quite like this before. It’s an interesting arrangement, although I can’t quite decide whether it’s rather charming or just a little peculiar.

The exterior is rather more colourful than the interior, with its red and cream Baroque façade facing the open space beside Plac Litewski. The church is attributed to the architect Karol Bay, with a relatively simple frontage featuring pilasters, a triangular pediment and statues of St Peter and St Paul. The adjoining monastery buildings extend along the right-hand side of the photograph. The Capuchins were expelled from Lublin in 1864, when the Russian authorities suppressed the monastery, although the order returned in 1919. I rather liked the contrast between the colourful exterior and the much more restrained interior. It might not be the grandest church in Lublin, but it was certainly the one where I felt most comfortable.

This substantial mosaic sits above the ground floor premises at 13 Aleja Józefa Piłsudskiego in Lublin. There’s a financial services office underneath it, although I suspect the artwork wasn’t commissioned to celebrate the availability of a competitive mortgage.

The composition is divided into three scenes, with volleyball players on the left, a group of figures in front of white buildings in the centre and adults with children on the right. The limited palette of brown, ochre, white and muted red ties the sections together, giving it something of the feel of a Soviet mosaic. There’s quite a lot happening within what initially seems a fairly simple design and I rather liked the whole arrangement.

I couldn’t establish who created it or exactly when it was installed. Judging purely by its style and architectural setting, I’d tentatively place it in the 1960s or 1970s, although I’m not a mosaic historian, so I could be entirely wrong. It appears in a photograph of the building from 1993, so it was certainly there by then.

There are better photos online of Sovereign House being demolished, but here are a few I managed whilst walking past yesterday. Being away in Poland has meant that I’ve missed some of the more exciting parts, and the building is now coming down quickly. I hadn’t realised that being away would require quite so much catching up on the destruction of Norwich.

This tall, dark stone obelisk at Lublin’s Lipowa cemetery commemorates Adolf Frick, a brewer whose interests extended rather beyond producing beer. Alongside his brother Juliusz, he ran the A. i J. Frick brewery, but he also helped establish financial institutions and get a theatre built. Apparently running a brewery wasn’t considered quite enough to be getting on with, although it seems a very sensible place to start.

Born in 1846, Frick was one of the figures behind the establishment of the Lublin Industrialists’ Loan Fund in 1884. This provided credit to local businesses, helping finance the investment and everyday expenditure needed to keep them operating. His work formed part of the wider contribution made by Lublin’s Protestant business community to the city’s industrial development. Beer was involved, reassuringly, but so were mills, factories and the less immediately exciting business of making the finances work.

Adolf and Juliusz were also instrumental in the creation of the theatre now named after Juliusz Osterwa. It opened in 1886, giving Lublin a substantial new venue for performances. There’s something rather appealing about brewers helping to provide both the beer and the cultural facilities, although I imagine the financial arrangements were slightly more complicated than putting a collection tin on the bar.

Frick died in 1891, aged just 45, and the brewery also ceased operating that year. His memorial stands among the trees in the Protestant cemetery, its inscription recording his role in founding the loan fund. By 45, he had helped run a brewery, establish a loan fund and get a theatre built. I’m increasingly pleased if I complete a task without first needing a little sit down.

This grave at Lublin’s Lipowa cemetery occupies a gap in the brick wall separating the Catholic and Protestant burial grounds. That might seem an unusual place to put it, but the position was quite deliberate. It allowed people who had shared their lives to remain together in death, whilst technically staying on the correct side of the religious boundary.

The cemetery dates back to 1794, when a Roman Catholic burial ground was established outside the built up area of Lublin. A neighbouring Lutheran cemetery followed in 1826, with an Orthodox cemetery established in 1840 and a military and municipal cemetery added in 1916. What now feels like one large cemetery is therefore a collection of separate burial grounds, reflecting something of the city’s religious history. This is all rather lovely as a general arrangement, until people start marrying someone from another denomination.

From the middle of the nineteenth century, some married couples of different denominations were buried along the boundary between the Catholic and Protestant cemeteries. A shared monument stood in an opening in the wall, with each person buried on the side belonging to their own denomination.

There’s something rather touching about this practical compromise. The division remained, but space was made within it for a couple to share a burial plot. Here, beneath a tall stone cross and surrounded by autumn leaves, the result is a memorial which belongs to both sides of the wall. Marriage had brought them together, and a carefully positioned hole in the wall ensured that this didn’t become administratively inconvenient.

One of the political figures connected with Lublin’s rather complicated twentieth century history is Edward Osóbka-Morawski. He was just 34 when he became chairman of the Polish Committee of National Liberation in July 1944, placing him at the head of an administration which would help shape Poland’s postwar future. Within a few years, however, he had lost the premiership and was heading towards the political sidelines. There’s something striking perhaps about a career in which the most important chapter was largely over before its subject reached 40.

His connection with Lublin comes through that committee, usually known by its Polish initials, PKWN. Although closely associated with the city, it was actually formed in Moscow under Stalin’s patronage, before establishing its headquarters in Lublin in August 1944. It presented itself as an authority for territory emerging from German occupation, directly challenging the established Polish Government in exile in London.

That Government in exile maintained Poland’s legal continuity and had the allegiance of the Polish Underground State, but the committee had the backing of the Soviet Union and the army advancing across the country. These were competing claims to govern Poland, with military power increasingly determining which would prevail. It’s this element that I was most interested in as I hadn’t previously realised, although really should have done, that there were competing visions of who should govern Poland after the Second World War.

Władysław Raczkiewicz, the President of Poland in exile, found himself left in the UK after 1945, living in Ruthin in Wales until his death in 1947. There were elections in Poland in 1947 that were rigged to ensure victory for the communist led bloc. I’m not sure how I’ve missed this rigged election either, it’s not something that seems to be covered in the museums I’ve visited.

Osóbka-Morawski came from the socialist movement rather than the Communist Party, having joined the Polish Socialist Party in 1928. His presence helped give the new administration a broader political appearance, although he actively participated in establishing the Soviet backed order. He was also forceful in attacking the rival government in London, publicly dismissing its supporters as isolated political failures. At the end of December 1944, the committee became the Provisional Government, with Osóbka-Morawski as Prime Minister. In June 1945, he retained the premiership of the Provisional Government of National Unity, which brought in the former London based Prime Minister Stanisław Mikołajczyk.

His own decline was gradual rather than a single dramatic disappearance. Józef Cyrankiewicz replaced him as Prime Minister in February 1947, although Osóbka-Morawski remained Minister of Public Administration until 1949. He subsequently spent years directing the country’s central spa administration, a considerable change from leading a government during the reconstruction of Poland. He had helped establish the new political system, but his own position within it proved much less enduring.

He lived until 1997, surviving long enough to see Communist rule collapse and even attempting to revive a socialist party in 1990, without significant political success. For Lublin, his story belongs to that brief period when the city became the headquarters of an administration claiming the right to govern the country. The rival Polish Government remained in London, but Osóbka-Morawski’s administration could exercise authority on Polish soil under Soviet protection.

I find it difficult to imagine what it must have been like going from leading a government to running the country’s spa administration, then living for another half a century. He had helped establish a political system which pushed him aside, and eventually lived long enough to see that system collapse. Anyway, that’s another rabbit hole that I’ve ended up going down.

Unlike my friend Richard, who likes visiting anywhere with a word such as ‘bistro’ in its name, I usually prefer somewhere rather less decadent. However, Pelier was very well reviewed online and offered craft beer and pizza, so I was sold. It was quite busy when I entered, but the helpful team member at the door pointed me towards a table. My timing was good, as the remaining tables filled up shortly afterwards and it’s evident that this is a popular location. I noted that no-one was brave enough to sit outside and I certainly wasn’t going to start a trend.

Some of the menu offerings, including the Hot Honey pizzetta that I went for. I appreciated that the restaurant had English menus available, it makes matters easier for all concerned.

I went for the Nałęczowskie Ciemne from Browar Jagiełło, a slightly sweet dark lager which complemented the food well enough and was a change from the normally generic lagers.

When the team member brought over this rather delicious looking pizza arrangement, she mentioned that it was recommended to use the scissors to cut it. I’m not sure that I’ve been advised to cut food with scissors before, but it was a very sensible suggestion and astute readers will note that I’ve carefully cut the pizza into equal sections. This was a filling meal with the fluffy cheese making it look quite an impressive pizza. The hot honey added sweetness, the chorizo added a depth of taste and the ricotta added creaminess.

I very much liked this restaurant with the service being friendly, the surroundings clean, the prices reasonable and the food and drink certainly delighted me. And Richard would have been delighted with it.

This little golden coloured goat caught my eye whilst I was meandering around Lublin, leaning over a basin with a slightly quizzical expression. It’s a public drinking fountain at the junction of Krakowskie Przedmieście and Wróblewskiego, installed in 2001. The goat is one of Lublin’s symbols and appears on the city’s coat of arms, standing on its hind legs against a grapevine.

There’s a local legend involving a goat whose milk helped keep children alive after a Tatar raid, which seems a reasonable contribution to have recognised. The story then becomes a little more complicated, involving a drunken painter who muddled the design of the coat of arms. As explanations for municipal heraldry go, it’s rather more entertaining than a committee agreeing on a logo.

The initials on the front of the basin belong to MPWiK, the city’s water and sewerage company. It has also had a slightly more eventful life than might be expected of a stationary goat. In April 2023, it returned following repairs to a leg damaged when a car hit it. All rather sub-optimal.