In the small town of Grodzisk Mazowiecki, Northeast Poland, resides a haunting remnant of history – a car graveyard, a junkyard of rotting metal carcasses reclaimed by nature. It was said that a high grading Nazi general in the time of WWII owned an important collection of vehicles that had been left to decay.
The road to get there had been a long one. Bickering voices and rock music had accompanied my travel companion and me through the slow ascent of the country. As motivation, we had only the idea of seeing this remnant of history.
I had dragged us there with no more than the name of the town and the need to become part of this derelict scenery. The details of the abandoned and the dramatic were a fascination of mine. Hence, we found ourselves driving in circles and through every street, him patiently eyeing my growing anxiety until we came upon a semi-torn down metal fence, green grass alight by the orange glow of a dying sun.
As we found an opening through the side alleyway, I prepared to photograph the scene. The withering sunlight cast shadows on the overgrown, decomposing bodies. Theatre set of a fading era. I bounced delicately around the cars, afraid to disturb their resting place.
I felt my steps resonate with voyeurism, as obscurity stretched its lazy coat around us. In all its eeriness, the scenery remained beautiful yet haunted.
Feeling that our time in the cemetery was coming to an end, I willed myself to move towards the abandoned house, but no courage would make me past the doorway. Cars could be seen through the broken yellow windows of the garage. A presence felt through the shivers climbing up my arms. I stood in front of the unhinged door and took a photo that was as blurry as I was trembling. A useless photograph of fear. The shadows inside contrasted with the last rays of sunshine at my back. I felt my back moisten and I moved away from the scene of ravaged cars.