Poles, queers, and the pope: visiting Poland with his acclaimed queer play I Am My Own Wife, playwright Doug Wright is caught up in homophobic history with the death of John Paul II.

When I arrive in Krakow, the city is still in mourning for the pope. His hunched, wrinkled face is in shop windows everywhere: He peers out from behind shoe displays, from apothecary shelves lined with bromides and analgesics, and from newsstands, where he dominates every magazine cover. It's impossible to escape his gaze.

But his is not the only poster in town. There's another one too, and it's a tad more provocative. On it, a nude male body hovers on a field of tiny red polka dots. Superimposed over it, a translucent pink dress. In black boldface type, the title of my play: I AM MY OWN WIFE.

It's true; in the wake of John Paul II's passing, I've come to this predominantly Roman Catholic country for the local premiere of my work about Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, the celebrated East German who defied both the Nazis and the Communists as an openly gay transvestite. Obviously, the two events are hardly correlative in scope--the death of a pontiff and the opening night of a play. Nevertheless, they're both citywide events, and they're being touted everywhere, in city guides and on kiosks. It's a strange juxtaposition, to say the least.

Sixteen years after the fall of Communism, Poland is still reluctant to acknowledge its gay population. Last year in Krakow, Poland's largest gay group, the Campaign Against Homophobia, staged its March for Tolerance, the first such march in the city. In spite of death threats, almost 1,500 people turned out for the event. But as soon as it reached the landmark Wawel Castle, the parade was attacked by 300 members of a rightwing group called the League of Polish Families, armed with stones, bottles, and bags of acid. The march planned for neighboring Warsaw was canceled soon after. The late, great pope only exacerbated the situation with inflammatory statements that labeled homosexuality "an intrinsic moral evil." I can't help but wonder how my play will be received in this environment.

I get my first unnerving clue when I check into my hotel. "My partner, David, will be arriving later this week," I tell the clerk. She frowns. "Ask him to check in here at the desk when he does," she requests sternly. "Why is that necessary?" I ask. "So we can put an extra folding bed in the room," she answers. When I say, "That won't be necessary," she admonishes me: "We would prefer it."

My forays into Polish gay clubs aren't much more encouraging. One bar touted as "gay" features photo montages of bare-breasted women on the wall and a decidedly mixed crowd. When I do stumble upon a watering hole that seems to cater exclusively to gay men, it's in a dark, crowded basement without a sign, accessible only by knocking insistently on the door. I ask a few locals about the scene, and they tell me--with admirable optimism--that it's growing. But when I press them further about their personal lives, most of them confess that they aren't even out at work, and fewer still have confided in their families.

En route to opening night, I'm a cacophony of nerves. On the street, David and I are reluctant to hold hands, something we routinely do back home in New York. I'm wearing a favorite sweater, unabashedly loud, with oversize red silk cuffs. The glances it gets on these rustic streets are more murderous than any it might garner from the fashionistas in Milan.

The theater, however, is packed. Is it because Broadway imports are a rarity in Krakow, or is it because the subject matter of the play itself is exerting some forbidden, hungry thrall? Maybe--just maybe--a closed subject will be cracked open tonight. Audience members are squirming in their seats, fingering their programs in anticipation.

When our star, Jefferson Mays, takes the stage, he's greeted by an expectant hush. He begins his first speech, speaking in Charlotte's measured, hypnotic tones as his words are translated in supertitles overhead. His comic lines are greeted with unnaturally loud laughter, we never got guffaws like this back home! Is it amusement or pent-up anxiety, released? I'm not sure.

When Jefferson reaches the scene in which Charlotte discovers her transvestism--alone in her aunt's dressing room, she slips into a frock for the first time--the reaction is far less ambiguous. It's pin-drop time. There's palpable unease in the air, but that's not all. With it, a kind of stunned reverence; the dawning awareness that a new kind of truth is being told, one contrary to John Paul II's dehumanizing rhetoric. Charlotte's experience suggests that homosexuality can be innate and even natural, a source of singularity and grace. Her words--spoken by a straight American actor in a 300-seat theater--are hardly an antidote to centuries of vitriolic church teaching, but they are something. It's rewarding to me that they've been voiced at all.

At the play's curtain, Jefferson invites director Moises Kaufman and me to join him onstage. The audience stands and flatters us with eight curtain calls. It's an exhilarating, giddy moment; the play's been running in various venues for the past three years, and this is its most rousing reception to date. I'm temporarily heartened.

A few nights later, David and I are invited to a nightspot called Seven to see drag queen Gorgeous Rim (a hometown favorite) perform. We've suddenly become Krakow celebrities, and so we're granted a premium table. In a leather bustier and with blood-red lips, Rita vamps her way through familiar lip-synch standards from Chicago and Victor/Victoria. The crowd hoots, whistles, and applauds.

Rita takes a break between sets, and the DJ supplants her show tunes with Europop. A lesbian in a Nina Hagen blouse gets up to dance, her gestures loose and unfettered. Her lanky blond friend joins her, the two women project a kind of insouciant confidence. But then some strangers enter the dance floor, four men with military haircuts. David glances at me: "Are those guys even gay?" We're not sure. Other patrons are noticing them too, and a spirit of apprehension fills the air. The crew cuts start dancing with the two gals. It's friendly at first, but then it turns aggressive. One yanks off his leather belt, and starts swinging it around wildly; it snaps over our heads, a menacing gesture. The women, chastened, sit down. On the periphery of the floor, gay men regard each other anxiously; is this a prelude to disaster? When Rita takes the stage again for her signature parody of Celine Dion, the stakes rise. Will she be heckled or worse? Instead, the interlopers smirk insolently, unsure how to react. Finally they recede into the shadows. To the swains of "My Heart Will Go On," an uneasy peace prevails. David and I opt to leave. As we exit, I think of the courage of the Krakow marchers and the arduous, possibly violent journey that lies ahead of them.

Later that night on television, there's a profile of the newly elected pope, Joseph Ratzinger of Germany. Much to the consternation of liberal Catholics the world over, he's a staunch conservative in his predecessor's mold. Even more outrageous, he's a former member of the Hitler Youth. (Only a few nights before, Ratzinger warned against moral relativism--an interesting point in light of his own past.)

Of course, reports of Iris involvement in Hitler's indoctrination cult are tempered. Journalists are quick to point out that his father was vehemently anti-Nazi. They note that tittle Joseph was an unenthusiastic scout and that membership in the organization was compulsory. In other words, he had no choice.

I can't help thinking that Charlotte faced the same dilemma. Her father happened to be an ardent Nazi, and when she begged him to excuse her from serving in the Hitler Youth, he staunchly refused her request. But Charlotte was persistent. She complained to an erapathetic gay uncle instead. He obliged by pulling her from the neighborhood school and finding an alternative institution. There, thanks to a liberal faculty, her refusal to participate was honored. No more Hitler Youth for the effeminate little boy with the blond curls and file dainty shoes.

Perhaps Pope Benedict XVI could learn something from Charlotte too.

Author of plays and screenplays including Quills, Wright is a Tony award winner I Am My Own Wife.

To find when the national tour of I Pan My Own Wife plays Los Angeles and other cities, go to www.advocate.com.