At the entrance to the cemetery was a small rundown brick building, not an outbuilding, but perhaps a building for religious meetings. From the road it appeared unused to Maria. Limp sheets of paper hung in the windows. The steps leading to the door, itself boarded across with unpainted bowing planks, were split and crumbling, rent disparate no doubt by successive seasons.
The trees rose high out above the graves, the walls and even the tall buildings nearby. In reaching towards the clouds, towards the inevitable grey pallor of a Krakowian day, they seemed not to expand but to enclose the cemetery, securing it against the city so that inside seems a very still and protected place.