Later, when we enter the vast concrete Hala Targowa, the market hall, near the Odra River, Andre sucks in his breath. The building is the same as it was when he was young, but now it is packed, bountiful, with mounds of Italian walnuts and lettuces from Frisia. "This is the first time I have ever seen such abundance!" he says. "Before, it was so limited." Boxes of tissue-wrapped oranges and grapefruit from Spain are piled high. "Even ten years ago, we would have oranges only for Christmas." Stalls are stacked with sausages, hams, cold cuts, and wheels of cheese. Poles, unlike Russians in the Soviet Union who farmed on government communes, were allowed to hold land and farm privately—but the government set the market prices, and it just didn't pay to grow crops to sell. So people grew produce for themselves or the black market, and this market hall stood empty. "We pretended to work, and they pretended to pay us," Andre comments wryly. But since 1989, the open market has brought a new prosperity. Now, there is plenty to buy. We walk back to the square, passing cafes with tables and chairs spilling out onto the sidewalk. There seems to be a thriving restaurant scene. We have lunch at the Lwowska, a restaurant that specializes in food from Lwow—the food of Andre's family. Delicate bowls of clear, red borsch, with a few big white beans floating just under the surface, arrive at the table. I smell the clovey perfume of allspice in the steam that rises from the soup. "All the restaurants in town were government-run", Andre says. "The food was super-lousy, and there was so little of it they would run out by 3 p.m. My mother refused to eat in any of those restaurants, because she was convinced she'd be poisoned."