Kasia in Kazimierz

Some Thoughts From Melbourne

2008-07-09T01:30:00.000-07:00

4.7.08

It’s interesting to think that when the March of the Living first began to operate in Australia as a medium for teenagers to visit Poland there was a general uproar from the Jewish community. It’s strange to think that Survivors from all across the country rose up together in disgust and anger that their grandchildren would dare to step foot back in the country which they had fled fifty years previously. I say this is peculiar because of the overwhelming swell of local support which greeted me upon my return from my four month stint in Krakow.

Since I have returned from Krakow people have stopped me in the street to tell me how jealous they are of my trip and what a great idea they think it was. Survivors approach me with awe – ‘Dis is de gel choo vent to Krakow!’ (translated as ‘This is the girl who went to Krakow!’). I had no idea that my visit to Poland would be so beneficial for my self-confidence!
So what has changed in our community? Why has visiting Poland now become such an honourable venture? Why are Poland tours all the rage?

I believe that one of the answers to these questions lies in the problem we face in attempting to meaningfully commemorate the Holocaust, particularly as we come face to face with an ever shrinking population of Holocaust Survivors. We are terrified of having no meaningful avenue to remember those who perished. People are visiting Poland in an effort to pay homage and to remember. Visiting Poland has now become a ritual, a pilgrimage– and it often even becomes a religious experience.

That is all very well – visiting Poland may well be a useful and successful way to learn more about the Holocaust and to spend a cocooned few days remembering those who were killed and the culture which was lost, but perhaps there are also other ways we can pay our respects to those whom were murdered without physically being in Poland:

Let us not speak in clichés about ‘Never again’ – because its happening all around us.

Let us not oppress any other peoples who live amongst us, whether in our Diaspora communities or in Israel.

Let us not forget the vibrant and inspiring Jewish communities who lived in Poland before the war and who still live and are reviving the traditions of the past.

And let us now move forward from anger and sadness to fight discrimination and persecution wherever it rears its ugly face.

I have now left Poland. I may have found some of the answers regarding my Polish identity (including an answer as to why I am such a hypochondriac – there are more pharmacies in Poland than Jews in Caulfield!) but I am now faced with a strange challenge I never pre-empted would bother me. Have I become Holocaust obsessed? Have I begun to base my Jewish identity on the Holocaust?

I staunchly believe that one must be Jewish for positive reasons: because one loves keeping the mitzvot, because one meaningfully connects with the traditions and culture of the Jewish people, because one enjoys being a member of the Jewish community. Not because someone once tried to kill the Jewish people. Feeling Jewish should not be a reaction, but rather a positive choice.

My time in Poland has led me to a new decision. I believe that sometimes, the best way to appropriately remember the Holocaust is to temporarily let it go – to not let it completely engulf my identity and being as a Jew. Not to forget its occurrence, but to forget it as a factor in my connectedness to the Jewish people. I want to celebrate the fact that I am Jewish and I want to feel Jewish not because I feel some sense of guilt because so many of my ancestors were killed for that reason. I think this is an important lesson which could be taken up by Jewish individuals and institutions alike.

So here I am. New challenges now face me. I have taken onboard the responsibility to carry on the lessons of the Holocaust into the next generations, but I have also resolved to not allow the Holocaust to overwhelm my sense of Jewish pride. It is indeed strangely complex to be a Jew today. Wish me luck...

Please, don’t be mad.

2008-06-05T08:48:00.002-07:00

4.6.08

Amongst some of Jewish tourists who come 'back' to Poland lurk a terrible bunch - 'the angry ones'. There are many 'angry ones' coming ‘back’ to Poland. I don’t have a number, but I know – I meet them.

I hear them in their noisy groups when they flood the small peaceful streets of Kazimierz talking as if they forgot to pack any sense of volume control and singing like drunk football fans returning from a soccer match.

I see them obnoxiously draped in Israeli flags which appear as essential to their outfit as their underwear.

Each group who comes 'back' come for their own reasons. Last Friday I met a group who, in my opinion, did not come for the right ones.

This group came in order to vent their anger. They came to be angry. One of them suggested that the Jewish community here has unfairly been making money off the tourists which visit. She further complained (to me and several non-Jewish members of the museum’s staff) of her disappointment and disgust that none of their guides had been Jewish. She then continued, when a young member of the Polish Jewish community had joined the discussion, that she knew how the Jewish community here should be organised and was dumbfounded to hear that the regular Jewish organisations which existed in her community had not been installed here:

‘But why don’t the young Jews of Poland join the lone-soldiers’ program in Israel?!’ She asked in shock ‘Their parents will be provided with a free ticket to visit their children at the end of the course!’ She added, as if this incentive alone should be enough to convince these young Poles that their only option in life is to join the Israeli army.

It is most definitely important for those Jews who feel the interest to visit Poland to do so. I urge them to come and see the traces of the vibrant pre-war Jewish life in Poland which can still be found. I wholly support that they visit as a means to pay respect to those who were murdered in the shoah. But I beg that each traveller asks himself first – why am I coming?

Please don’t come as a way of releasing your anger on the Polish population. Yes, the vast majority of Jews who were killed in the shoah were done so on Polish soil. But it was the Nazi’s who perpetrated this act, and even if some Poles supported their actions, it was not the Poles who committed the Holocaust.

Please don’t come to draw inappropriate levels of attention toward yourself as a way of proving to the Poles that the Jewish nation is still alive. It is unfair on today’s Poles, the vast majority of which are completely innocent. It is also an inappropriate expression of nationalism in a foreign country.

Please don’t come to patronise the Jewish community which still exists here. They are strong and have the right to make their own decisions.

Rather, come to learn about the past and perhaps about your family’s heritage. Come to learn from Poland’s diverse Jewish community, a community who really understands what it means to look after one another. Come to meet with non-Jewish Poles who really do care about restoring the memory of the Jewish community which was wiped off their map. Come to understand the true complexities of Polish-Jewish relations.

But please do not come to be angry – we must now move past that.

Not Today

2008-05-22T08:04:00.000-07:00

21.5.08

I don’t feel very Polish today. I may say with pride that all four of my grandparents are Polish but the fact is that I still can’t string a sentence of Polish together (excepting Ja chce chleb prosze pan? – May I have some bread please, sir? – a most useless sentence my Dad taught me years ago) and my inability to at least drink like a Pole was long ago declared.

I am tired of answering questions about kangaroos and I cannot believe that whilst I have been living in a Polish speaking society my English has improved ten-fold due to my frequent role as scribe for any English text which is produced at my place of work. I am embarrassed by my inability to answer some of the many halachic questions thrown my way on a daily basis and I am thoroughly passed bemused that I am the person to whom all museum staff members turn when in need of a proof-reader for Hebrew texts.

I am seen as an Australian, a Jew, an English and Hebrew speaker. I am the intern, the foreigner, the volunteer, the temporary guide. I am a vegetarian (almost a sin here!) and a Zionist. In Melbourne, I drive a car and I live with my parents. I am many things - none of which make me feel very Polish today.

I came here seeking a sense of belonging to the Polish nation, a passion to understand what it means to be a Pole, but today I just feel like an outsider. Perhaps it is because I feel that my time here is rolling to an end? Perhaps I am now recognising that I did not, and will not be able to achieve some of the aims which I came here with? Perhaps it is because I have just returned from a short trip to Israel where I finally felt comfortable with a second language and culture that I had struggled with for so long? To be catapulted back into a society where I still cannot order my lunch like a civilised adult – politely and assuredly – makes me cringe with humiliation.

But is it just the language? As i have mentioned, I am not known to be a particularly chutzpadik girl, but my regular level of assertiveness here qualifies as the height of rudeness compared to the politeness demanded in Polish culture. And I previously had no inkling as to my (Australian) universally optimistic attitude until I noticed that only I respond to the question ‘Jak sie masz?’ (How are you?) with ‘Swietne’ (Great) where as a standard (and indeed, maybe more honest) Polish response is far more likely to be the more pessimistic ‘Tak sobie’ (Not bad).

As I said, I am not feeling very Polish today, maybe I will tomorrow?

Books and Company

2008-05-07T01:54:00.000-07:00

I could sense that something was coming. I had already ditched my goose down jacket for my ‘spring coat.’ I had begun to notice a marked increase in the number of tourist buses parked outside the museum. I had also spotted a rise in the kosher-labelled trash littering the cobble-stoned streets of Kazimierz. The ‘March’ was coming.

This meant very little to the Jewish community of Krakow and even less to the citizens of Krakow, but it meant two things to me: books and company.

I will begin with the company.

I have this inexplicable fascination for Jewish tourists coming to Poland. I often find myself stalling around Szeroka Street (the Jewish square) on my way back to the museum after lunch, spying on the groups of tourists admiring the Old Shul. I want to know why they have come. I have to know what they are thinking. I physically hold myself back from pouncing on them with lists of questions. I linger around them until their security guards begin shifting nervously towards the suspicious ‘Polish girl’ hanging too close to their clients.

Understandably then, I was most excited for the increase in Jewish tourism which the March would bring. But the most important group, of course, would be the Australian March of the Living. This group would not only bring my sister, cousin and several friends and familiar faces, but an opportunity to affect the way the participants understood and viewed Polish-Jewish history and relations. It was important to me that they appreciated not just the horrors of Poland but also its beauty. It was important for me that they could see that it was possible for a Jewish Australian girl to stay in Poland for longer than one week. To my delight, someone from the group even commented on how good my English was after I had guided them around the museum.

The first time I came to Poland I promised I would never return. This promise was the icing on my misconceived understanding of Poland and its relationship with Jews. I now understand that Poland is a beautiful country – a country in which Jews loved to live for hundreds of years before the Shoah.

With the help of some friends here, I had arranged for the Australians to be given a tour of Krakow with Polish students. They were taken to Wawel, and toured around the Rynek Glowny (old market square) on Poland’s most bustling day of the year – Constitution Day. I heard many of them comment on how beautiful the city was and some even said that they wanted to come again!

Now to the books. Wow – The books!

One day, roughly two months ago, I sent out a short email explaining who I was, the fact that there was a small Jewish library in this city run by Jewish students and that they needed books. I sent it to roughly 15 people in Melbourne with the hope that I would collect enough books for every Australian March of the Living participant to bring one book each in their luggage to Poland.

Soon after, an article about the project was published in the Australian Jewish News, and my father was zooming around Melbourne collecting boxes of books. These books are now sitting at my home in Melbourne awaiting sponsors for their shipping (if you can help please let me know!)
It didn’t stop there. A few days before the March I received an email. Before I could get to the text of the email, I scrolled through the longest ‘To’ and ‘CC’ list I had ever encountered. I could see by the addresses that those on the list were from all around the world – most of them directors and organisers of various March of the Living groups. I scrolled and scrolled until I reached the text. The text seemed rather familiar – I quickly recognised it as the original email I sent asking for the Australians to bring books! It had now been sent out across the world!

As soon as I had closed the email I had already received several new emails from people wanting to bring books with them whilst they were in Poland for the March.

Over 200 books made their way to Poland last week! I am still receiving emails from people who want to send more.

It was truly an overwhelming and inspiring week.

Berlin

2008-04-29T03:42:00.000-07:00

I am in danger of completely crossing the line. Of becoming obsessed. Of losing the plot. And I had no idea until I stepped out of my Poland reality and into, of all places, Germany. Last weekend I went to Berlin. I met up with two of my old roommates from the Hebrew University dorms – Flo, from Germany and Maayan from Israel.

I always thought that going to Germany would be very difficult - more difficult than being in Poland. It seems my standards of difficulty have been inverted. Something is only difficult if you want it to be. I have been living in Poland now for two months. Every day I wake up in my beautiful Ikean apartment in Kazimierz, the old Jewish quarter. I walk through the once completely Jewish streets and stroll into the Jewish museum where I am surrounded by pictures of the remaining vestiges of Jewish heritage in Galicia. Each day I meet tourists on their heritage trail. Almost all day, every day I am thinking, reading or teaching about the Holocaust. I had no idea how much it had taken over my every thought - until I got to Berlin.

Maayan warned me to take a break. I knew she was right. I consciously intended not to make my entire trip to Germany Jewish related. I insisted that we look at the non-Jewish related sites first. As soon as that was over, I felt my legs pull me toward any Jewish site available - there was always one more 'Jewish' place I wanted to visit: the new Holocaust memorial; the Berlin Jewish Museum; the Central Shul.

On the second day I heard that there was going to be a rally to fight the German train company's decision not to allow an exhibition about a transport of French children during the Holocaust to station itself in the central station of Berlin. Of course I felt I had to be there.

We structured our whole day around it - we stayed out walking for far too many hours around Berlin. Eventually Flo and I arrived at Brandenburg Tor. This wasn’t just a straggly collection of upset people - this was a super well prepared demonstration. There was a large stage erected directly in front of the Brandenburg Tor. There were musicians giving recitals. There were several high ranking politicians reading speeches against the company's decision. I am bad with estimating numbers but the crowd was swelling onto the nearby road!

I sat and listened. I watched. I tried to understand. Instead of feeling excitement over the fuss being made for this train, I felt rather confused. Why such a fuss? It’s just an exhibition. The train would arrive nonetheless – the demonstration was to fight the planned location of this train. I asked Flo if these sorts of demonstrations happen often. Apparently the week before it was a different company which was targeted for its profit due to Nazi affiliation during the war.

How vigilant could the Germans now be? Now it’s the trains, next it would be the cars, then the computers. And it seems to be that they make a noise for all of it. Surely there is a limit. A time when one must stop thinking about the Shoah and demonstrating for post Shoah justice? If everything deserves a demonstration then nothing remains sacred. One can shout and scream forever – but I don’t want to be overcome by grief and depression forever.

It was surely enough for me. Before we had a chance to follow the hundreds of people from the Brandenburg Tor to the head offices of the train company carrying a candle and a name of one of the 11,000 children deported from France, Flo and I left. How much more could we do?

I had no idea I would react this way in Germany. I thought I would feel the opposite – that nothing would be too much. Perhaps I have become desensitized by being so involved in this world of the Shoah in Poland? Perhaps I am already taking Maayan's advice and taking a step back?

Breakfast at Oswiencim

2008-04-08T10:08:00.000-07:00

(Me in front of the building now on the site of Bubba Mala's former house)

A night in Oswiencim. I don’t know anyone who has stayed a night in Oswiencim – except my Bubba, my name sake, who regrettably, I never had the chance to meet. This was the main reason why I agreed to the ridiculous plan for me to go to Auschwitz on Thursday, spend the night in Oswiencim alone and then have a tour of Jewish Oswiencim the next day. Instead of organising not to stay the night, I put myself up to the challenge. I wanted to stay a night for my Bubba Mala.

After my shameful 1½ hour stay at Auschwitz, I took a taxi to the centre of Oswiencim. The taxi pulled up outside a looming church. This is it – the taxi driver proclaimed. This is it?

Pacing up and down the street, I hopefully looked for a more appropriate entrance to what was supposed to me my night’s accommodation. Finally, I heaved open the three meter high arched doors which appeared to be the entrance to the building. A gang of sweaty school boys jogged passed me as I moved forward towards what looked like the janitors office. I had entered some sort of school. A conversation of ‘Nie Rozumiems’ (I don’t understand) ensued between myself and the janitor until I understood that I was indeed, in the right place. This church-cum-school was indeed my accommodation. This is where I was to spend my night in Oswiencim.

Despite a small Christian cross which quietly hung on the opposite wall to my dormitory style bed, the room itself was fine. It was my breakfast reception which proved most dramatic.

After being ushered through a series of dark, musty corridors, I was taken through an industrial kitchen into a gigantic dining hall already empty of all its patrons. I had missed breakfast, but was treated as the foreign guest of honour in this overly ornate room. Two trays spilling over with bread, yogurt, pickles (what is a Polish meal without polski ogorki?), three types of cheeses, coffee, two types of tea, a lemon (for the tea, of course!) and three neatly rolled slices of ham were proudly presented to me. My company – several larger than life sized paintings of Jesus and Mary.

I wondered what Bubba Mala was thinking...

One Hour and Forty Minutes from the Sun

2008-04-08T10:04:00.000-07:00

5.4.08

For all my bravado, I am, after all, just a twenty-three year old Jewish girl. I don’t know actually that age, gender or religion have anything to do with it – but after 1½ hours of walking around Auschwitz by myself, I left. I couldn’t bring myself to enter the barrack of hair and shoes, my legs wouldn’t walk me into barrack 11 with its notorious ‘wall’ and I certainly did not pass through the gas chamber. After 1½ hours I decided I could not go on – not alone.

Many people I know could not conceive of living in Poland for four months. Many people I know will not visit here at all. I, however, feel mostly very comfortable here. There have been very few moments when my obvious sensitivities to the Holocaust have precluded me from doing something here. One was a refusal to live in Podgorze – the district of the former ghetto (which was a very viable option when I was looking for an apartment), another was passing up the offer to attend the annual Easter market where one can purchase a ‘lucky-Jew’ figurine which is traditionally bought on Easter to ensure good fortune for the following year.

But generally speaking I live a typical life of a twenty-something girl. I am here not only to commemorate those who died in the Shoah, but to really learn more about what it means to be a Polish Jew – what it means to be Polish. That means that my stay here isn’t exclusively filled with visits to death camps and former Jewish cemeteries.

Last week, however, the museum had planned a visit to Auschwitz for me as part of my internship program. Additionally, they arrange for a guide to meet me at the Auschwitz Jewish Centre for a tour of the museum and of Jewish Oswiencim. I was thrilled – my father’s mother was born in Oswiencim!

The truth is that I was so excited for my tour of Oswiencim that I forgot to prepare myself for Auschwitz. I packed a bag and got on a bus – there I was. Auschwitz, by myself.

How does one prepare for Auschwitz? Each time I had previously been there (three times before) I was participating in some sort of program or journey which was focused on the shoah. Perhaps my mind was already assembled to enter such a painful location. Perhaps I had already constructed some defence inside of me to shield me from feeling too great a sadness upon walking under the ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ gates.

This time I had spent a lovely morning walking around the Sukiennice in the first few hours of Krakow spring sun before I climbed aboard the bus to Auschwitz. I travelled from light to dark (and it only took one hour and forty minutes!).

Whatever the reason for my disrespectfully short stay at Auschwitz I think it showed me something which I couldn’t have understood on my three previous week-long tours of Poland. Jews lived in Poland for thousands of years before the Holocaust. They too enjoyed the sun at the Sukiennice before they were violently transported to Auschwitz. My previous Poland trips had not given me the opportunity to fully appreciate this contrast.

What we are Looking for: A Visit to Wloszczowa (For Zaida Ben)

2008-03-31T02:48:00.000-07:00

28.3.08

I have once before visited Wloszczowa, the home town of my Zaida Ben, my father’s father. We all went together in 2003: my father, mother, two sisters and my nanna, my mother’s mother. Our rattly van rocked up in the main square and we filed out. What we were looking for, I was not quite sure.

Our translator soon began accosting ‘old looking’ people on the street. Did you know any Jews? Who did know Jews? Did you know a Rosenberg? Who might have known a Rosenberg? Their response was overwhelming disinterested. I remember me and my sisters growing bored. It was pesach and we didn’t even have the luxury of sampling the cakes from the small patisserie which faced the main square. After a few snaps of a house we believed to be the place my grandfather was raised, we filed back into the van and drove away...

Usually in order to succeed at something one must attain a goal which has been previously set. We had set no goal for our visit to Wloszczowa, and we had discovered nothing new about my grandfather upon visiting. The visit was an abysmal failure. We drove away.

One hour later the van swerved around on the narrow road and returned to Wloszczowa. We were only going to be here once, my mother said, and therefore, we must try our luck again. Us kids were pretty hungry and couldn’t for the life of us understand why the car had just been turned around.

We returned to the small town, back to the main square. My father revealed a photo taken by his brother on one of his previous visits to Wloszczowa. My uncle had spoken to this man and he had recalled my grandfather – perhaps somebody would recognise this man and bring us to him? Once again our translator awkwardly began approaching ‘old looking’ people in the main square. Sure enough, one man amazingly recognized the man in the photo! He explained that the man in the photo was a Jew who was hidden during the war in Wloszczowa by his own father. ‘Could we be taken to him?’ My father asked hopefully. ‘No,’ he explained, ‘He passed away last year.’

It seemed that whenever we looked for information about my Zaida Ben, we were just a little too late.

***

When I tell Poles that my Zaida was from Wloszczowa, they laugh. At first I misunderstood their laughter for rudeness. Surely, it couldn’t be that funny?! But then they explained: Recently Wloszczowa has been the lucky recipient of a new train station. This station acts as the only stop in the Krakow-Warsaw express, the most popular train route in Poland. Of all towns in Poland, it was the tiny insignificant ‘shlepper’ town of Wloszczowa to be endowed with such a useless stop. No one leaves the train on this stop, and the express ride itself is too expensive for any Wloszczowians to use. To tell a Pole you are from Wloszczowa is now the punchline of a joke.

I spent Easter weekend in the hometown of my roommate who had embarrassingly revealed to me that she herself had been born in Wloszczowa. She had grown up in a town close Wloszczowa and her mother was not prepared to give birth in its local hospital – hence, she and her sister have now too become the butt of many a joke. She will forever have Wloszczowa inscribed as her place of birth on her identity card.

It was last Easter weekend that I returned to Wloszczowa. This time, I did not go with my family. I went with a Polish family. My roommate, her sister and her mother and I all went on an afternoon trip together to this small town.

We rocked up in the main square and filed out of the car. After taking several snaps of the location we now knew to be the house in which my Zaida was raised, I was willing to go back home. It was this Polish family’s Easter weekend. They had already been so giving of themselves to come out to Wloszczowa just for me. I wasn’t willing to push my luck in asking to search further, even though I knew of the existence of a Jewish cemetery.

They looked at me and asked, ‘what next?’

‘I think that’s it,’ I said.

‘Well there must be a Jewish cemetery,’ my roommate’s mother stated, ‘of course we must go and see it.’

She then proceeded to approach a collection of old men, asking them of the location of the cemetery. Unprompted, unasked, unnecessarily. I wondered how these men perceived her. Was she embarrassed to ask these questions?

We began driving in the direction of the cemetery and along the way my roommate’s mother stopped several times to ask where the Jewish cemetery was. Each time I heard her loudly pronounce the word ‘Zydowska’ (Jew) I looked for a response in the stranger and I looked for a reaction in her. How did she feel hunting for Jewish roots in this town? How did the stranger feel meeting such a strange group of travellers? I was silent in the back of the car. It was no longer I who was the Jew, and they my helpers, but in their asking the questions, they too became Jewish in the eyes of the Wloszczowian citizens.

We arrived at the ‘field’ which was said to be the Jewish cemetery. We filed out of the car once again and began wading through the overgrowth. We wiggled our way through the bushes one by one. Up a hill, down a hill. The four of us split up in an effort to cover more area and find something. The four of us were like detectives. I was ready to give up – I wasn’t willing to take up anymore of this family’s time. But they pushed on. Around the side and through the trees. Finally I heard a shout through the dense shrubs and garbage: ‘Kate! I think I have found something!’ I followed the voice through the bushes towards my roommate. There she stood pointing at two lone matzevot. Just two.

Amongst the bushes and the shrubs, the garbage and the mud, the four of us stood there knowing there would be nothing else to find. But what I had found was proof. I found proof of the existence of the former cemetery represented by two matzevot. I had found proof of the existence of goodness amongst Poles represented by this one small family.

My family may not know what we are looking for each time we return to Poland, or indeed, to Wloszowa, but each time we have found something truly great.

The March

2008-03-19T03:28:00.000-07:00

On Sunday I marched. I sang no songs, I wore no flag, I did not cry (because now I don’t). This march was so very different to the march I was used to. This was the March of Remembrance – not the March of the Living.

Every year, for several years now, there is a march which takes place in Krakow to commemorate the liquidation of the Krakow ghetto. It begins in what was once known as Plac Zgody and ends at Plaszow.

Plac Zgody (now Heroes of the Ghetto Square) features heavily in much of the literature written about the Krakow ghetto. It was one of the only open spaces left inside the ghetto which transformed it into a place for socialisation and gatherings for the ghetto inhabitants. It was the square on which the now famous Pharmacy ‘Under the Eagle’ is located. It was the collection point for the various deportations made from Krakow ghetto. It was also where Janina lived whilst she was in the ghetto. Number 4 – she showed me.

Plaszow was a labour camp close to Krakow, but not many people are so well aware of its existence. In fact, it is perhaps one of the most filmed sites of the Holocaust. It was the location of Spielberg’s Schindler’s List. In reality, the movie was filmed in a quarry elsewhere. Plaszow was often the first camp in which survivors of the Nazis initial selections inside Krakow ghetto were sent.

This year was the 65th anniversary of the liquidation of Krakow ghetto. There was a large crowd. I had attached myself to Janina. Or rather, Janina had gripped herself to me. Janina is a beautiful woman. A strong, eloquently spoken, ‘well turned out’ former Krakowian Jew. She hated mess. When she saw something unclean she would inch even closer to me in an effort to stay clean. She is a survivor. After she had muscularly clasped my hand and walked me over to her former house, she also insisted on showing me something else – something far more miraculous. I walked hand in hand with Janina. I was her crutch, she was my guide. She said she remembered the ghetto like the back of her hand. We had walked one street parallel away from the square. At some point she wandered off the pavement and onto the street, and stopped.

‘Well that’s it. Rather unassuming don’t you think?’ She pointed.

It was the sewer drain from which my clean, immaculately dressed Janina had escaped.

***
That evening the museum was host to a very special occasion. It was a ceremony for ten new recipients of Righteous Among the Nations awards. Rather, it was a ceremony for their families – each of these recipients had already passed on. Several generations were represented from each family who arrived. There was a collection of small children whom I got to know well as they continued to approach the bar to buy chocolates.

The Israeli embassy has been given the authority to bestow these awards upon the Poles whose war-time deeds are still being registered. Apparently the office dealing with these claims in Poland is kept constantly busy processing the many people whose stories are only now being revealed. In one instance a grandchild accepted his grandparents award, in another, an Israeli spoke – in a newly learnt, raw Polish – on behalf of her father in law, who had been saved by one of the recipients. The Mayor of Krakow was even present.

It was inexplicably uplifting to be present at such a momentous occasion. It was so encouraging to see all the people who had been affected by one person’s courageous deeds.

The Family Tree

2008-03-11T02:29:00.001-07:00

10.3.08

Every week the Jewish community of Krakow are invited to a Shabbat dinner held in the Izaaka Shul and organised by Czulent, the Jewish students organisation of Poland. Last week, I attended. So did my new friend, Anna*.

At first, Anna was reluctant to explain what she was doing with this group of people. She told me she was originally from Wraclaw but currently at high school in Warsaw but spending time in Krakow for a while. Confused? I was. I tried to probe (but chutzpah is not something for which I am famous):

‘Did your whole family move to Warsaw?’ this can’t be too much of a personal question, surely?

‘No, I live by myself,’ was the intriguing response. She must be so lonely, I thought. But I didn’t want to push it – it seemed I was treading on an uncomfortable topic.

‘Have you been to Israel before?’ always a good conversation starter. (Actually, this has often been a great conversation starer. I have become the resident ‘Israeli’ to any Pole who is interested in all things Israel (and there are plenty of them). I have recently been asked to play the role of tour guide, for a Pole on her way to Israel; an Aliyah shlicha, for a Pole interested in participating in a kibbutz ulpan program; and a Hebrew teacher, for a Pole who is desperately searching for someone to have conversational Hebrew coffee sessions.)

‘Yes, I went on Taglit – it changed my life!’

‘Israel can have that affect...’ I understandingly respond

‘Well, I only found out two years ago that I was Jewish...’

This is Anna’s story:
Two years ago, Anna was rummaging through some of her parents files when she stumbled across a document which literally, changed her very identity. This document, signed by her maternal grandfather’s brother in Israel (of whom she never knew existed), in 1968, legally verified that his brother, in Poland, had changed his name. This change of name signified a complete change in character. It absolved Anna’s grandfather of any vestiges of Judaism which was left of him. In 1968, Anna’s grandfather ceased to be Jewish.

1968 was a year of severe antisemitic attacks in Poland as the communist bloc responded to the Six Day War and ‘supported’ their new allegiance towards the Arab Legion. Simultaneously, Polish students were rallying against the banning of a play by Mickiewicz, one of Poland’s beloved authors. The provocateurs of the demonstrations, some of whom were of Jewish origins, were soon labelled ‘Zionists’ and the term became an all-embracing slogan to defame not only those of Jewish heritage, but also any non-conforming activist. Newspaper articles blasting ‘Israeli aggression’ were sprawled across Poland’s print media as anti-Zionism was distorted into antisemitism. A purge of all Jews in official educational, governmental or military positions began. A ban on emigration was lifted for any Jews ‘willing’ to leave the country. Roughly 15,000 Jews of Poland’s remaining Jewish community emigrated during this period.

Anna’s grandfather may not have emigrated, but perhaps he may as well have. In a simple name change and re-location he was no longer Jewish and no longer under threat.

Anna’s mother did not react very well to the emergence of this document and information. In fact, she was petrified. In her mind, it simply is not safe to be a Jew. That’s how she had been taught. Anna, however, marched off to the local Rabbi in an effort to find the man who signed the document. A simple call to Israel’s directory services connected her with family she never knew existed.

Not long after, Anna was lucky enough to be taken on a Taglit trip to Israel. Never before had she seen so many Jews than at the birthright mega-event. Never before did she understand that there were other Poles who, like herself, had only recently discovered their Jewish identity. They too were struggling with their families and to understand what this all meant. (What an advertisement for Birthright/ Taglit!)

She described to me a special moment when her family from Israel came to visit her at her hotel. They brought with them a large family tree which her uncle had once made. They knew of the existence of her mother, but not of her. I watched as she gestured the way they added her name to the family tree – signing her name in the air – as if she herself did not know of her own existence, until her name had been added to that tree.

Anna’s mother was no more pleased with her daughter’s discovery upon her return to Poland but Anna has now learnt to read Hebrew and now keeps Shabbat. Because of the differences between herself and her family, Anna now lives in Warsaw by herself. I now understand the full extent of loneliness which this move signifies for this brave seventeen-year-old girl.

We most often think of the Holocaust when we think of Polish Jews - we must also add the events of March 1968 to our history of Polish Jewry.

*I have changed her name for privacy reasons

Small Fish

2008-03-11T02:25:00.001-07:00

27.2.08

It’s good to be a small fish in a big pond. That’s what a friend of mine here said to me the other day. It seems that so many people here are that small fish – and it’s such an exciting position to be in. I will describe some of these ‘small fish’ I have so far met:

A 20 something girl from Warsaw who has began a small NGO to help encourage Polish culture amongst the recent Polish Diaspora living primarily in London and Dublin. Since Poland has been admitted into the EU, thousands of young Poles have left the country in order to work and save money in wealthier European countries. When I asked her if she resented this ‘brain drain’ she explained to me that this movement was a good thing. By living in multicultural societies such as London, she hoped that these Poles were leaving Poland for a short while but returning as much more worldly and accepting people. She is involved in supporting events and organisations which help to keep those overseas connected to Polish culture and life– a tie which will hopefully and eventually bring them back to Poland. She herself has no such interest in travelling abroad – ‘There is so much happening here and so much that needs to happen. Whatever I want to do here I can –it’s so exciting to be the first to do it!’

A young guy from Krakow who helped to establish a Jewish student organisation in Poland, called Czulent. This organisation holds events and meetings for Jewish students and helps to support the rights of other minority groups in Poland. He told me that Israelis jokingly discourage him from making Aliyah as his job here is too important and they had invested too much in him as a young leader of Poland’s fledgling Jewish community. Another small fish!

A young Polish student whose Yiddish is so fluent, she is flying to Israel next week in order to interview several Yiddish speaking Jewish Poles, now living in Israel. Her outstanding Yiddish, Polish and English have made her translating skills a rare commodity in Poland (even though, it is important to note, there are many such Poles studying Yiddish in the Department of Jewish Studies at the Jagiellonian University).

Numerous Poles I have met so far have commented on how sad it is that Poland has now become a homogenous society. Some staggering figure like 95% of Poland is of white Roman-Catholic of Polish heritage. The situation here can be seriously sad at times. Anti-Semitism, and Homophobia continue to materialise, thousands of young Poles are leaving the country to work elsewhere.

But there are young, hopeful Poles working to change this situation. These ‘small fish’ are so hopeful for the change they want to affect in their society; I can’t help but be infected by their excitement. Being a minority is a struggle – but watching the strength these people have to fight for their recognition is inspiring.

It’s good to be the small fish in the big pond.

The Chief Rabbi of Israel and Me

2008-03-01T05:02:00.000-08:00

24.2.08

Today, the Chief Rabbi of Israel, Rabi Metzler, visited Poland. The small hall of the Krakow Jewish community’s headquarters on Skarwinska Street was bursting at its newly painted walls with those from the Jewish community who had come to meet the prestigious Rabbi. The community has re-inhabited a floor of this building, which had always been a Jewish community centre of Kazimierz. There was an elderly man, sitting with his Grandson, awkwardly wearing a kippah. There was a young woman with a newborn. There was a 30-something yoga teacher and her boyfriend. There was Doctors from the Jewish Studies department of the Jagiellonian University. There was the Israeli press. There was me!

I listened to the Rabbi’s speech in Hebrew (before it was seamlessly translated into Polish). It was the first time he paid a visit to Poland not to visit the death camps, not to visit the former ghettos, but to visit for the Jewish life of Poland. Not to visit for the past, but to visit for the future.

The Chief Rabbi of Israel and me have something in common.

I Don't Cry in Poland. That's Kitch!

2008-02-21T12:02:00.000-08:00

The first time I came to Poland I cried. I cried before I had even left the airport. I cried when I heard the ‘clipity-clop’ of shoes on cobble stone. I cried when a young girl sat on a purpose-built ‘shtetl-roof,’ the feature piece in an overly decorated ‘Jewish style’ restaurant, and conveniently played ‘Sunrise, Sunset’ on her violin.

I cried because I was scared. I cried because I was revisiting the place where my grandparents had so greatly suffered and then fled. I cried because of projected un-realities. I cried because that was what the young girl playing the violin was paid to make me do. Some of it was truly from my guts. Some of it was forced. I just cried. I also said I would never come back.

That trip was with my family and now, three visits-to-Poland ago. Since then I have visited Poland with my Habonim friends on a tour with HaNoar HaOved VeHalomed (a socialist youth movement in Israel, sister to Australia’s Habonim Dror) and I have been as a madricha (youth counsellor) on March of the Living Australia. I keep coming back.

***

‘I am scared I won’t, like, feel anything. I am scared I won’t... like... you know, cry.’

Too often I heard a comment like this from my chanichim (students) before we left for Poland. I don’t know what they were more afraid of – seeing the places of death and torture, or seeing them and not spilling a tear. Of course, the places which they were to visit evoke deep spiritual and emotional pain and horror. These places open people, particularly youths, to the petrifying understanding of the evil of which man is capable. They should cause an emotional reaction, even tears. What I most fear, is that the tears are often not genuine.

The truth is, this prerequisite, this need to publically exhibit such intense emotion is something that has been stamped into these youths. They are told by previous participants how emotional the journey would be. They are explained that ‘even the boys cry!’ Crying appears to be the universal gauge to prove that one has fully ‘understood’ what was truly lost and the pain that so many people suffered. As if we could ever really understand.

But it’s not just the youths on their Poland journeys. So much of Poland itself is geared to tweak our emotions – to pinch our nostalgic nerves. The klezmer music, the ‘Jewish-styled’ food, the familiar Hebrew writing. It’s all shockingly familiar. We expect to see only death, but rather, we are faced with vibrant Hebrew signage and unashamedly loud Klezmer. When I first experienced it I was deeply moved. So moved that it triggered a memory at which I had never been present. I could see my Zaida, who had passed away seven year earlier singing ‘Sunrise, Sunset’ to my mother. How could my tears not gush after such a moment?

Since this realisation of mine, since I have understood how I have unfairly been convinced that the only correct way of expressing myself whilst I am in Poland is through tears, I have committed myself to a tear-free Polish lifestyle. None of this 'I am going to stare at that gravestone until tears come out.' Sure, I have felt overwhelming moments of sadness, anger and grief in my last two visits, but I now understand that I am under no obligation to cry about it. I have matured since the fake Fiddler on the Roof incident. If ever again I am in such a situation, I would sooner roll my eyes and say ‘How kitch!’ than reach for the tissues.

***

Last night I arrived in Krakow. It was cold. The air was wet. I waited alone in this cold wet for 20 minutes. A drunk woman stopped and swayed in front of me for a few minutes. She kindly left me an empty flask of Wodki. I felt lonely. Finally the owner of the apartment arrived. The building smelt of cat urine. There were young men standing on the lower floor drinking. They stared at me as, together with the apartment owner, I shlept my luggage up the stairs of the circa 1920s apartment building. I crawled into bed. I was alone. I knew no one. Why had I come here? Why was I staying for four months? As I fell asleep, I cried.

My Poland Story

2008-01-30T22:25:00.000-08:00

So many Australian youths are raised acutely aware (and often embarrassed) of their immigrant cultural heritage. Dark-skinned Italians naively attempt to hide what they perceive to be their over-involved grandmothers and Greek children struggle to rid themselves of offensive WOG related taunts. Despite Australia’s claim as an all-inclusive multicultural society, these children are often made all-too aware of their differences and are therefore forced to fully comprehend the geographical origins of their family history.

Despite the fact that I was well-aware of my Jewish background, my geographic heritage was never revealed. When I looked in the mirror I was met with a dirty blonde, porcelain-pale faced young woman – my complexion easily allowed me to fade into the background of thousands of other ‘Australian’ girls I could see in the streets of Melbourne. But I felt I was different - and it wasn’t just because of my religion. One could be Jewish anywhere - It wasn’t restricted to being any one nationality.

Something was tugging at me. There was something restricting my family from adopting a thick ocker accent and elder generations in my family exhibited unfamiliar European habits.

First of all, my mother insisted on eating at dusty-wallpapered, dimmed restaurants like Sheherazade and displayed some strange nostalgic feelings towards gluggy soups consisting of vegetables which I never thought could be liquefied. My father, on the other hand, possessed a few stranger habits. He regularly broke out in strange guttural languages and his parents even made him learn the piano-accordion. As a child, the only benefit in this was the hiding spot created by the accordion’s larger than life sized box (the best place to hide from the deafening noise it made when Dad pulled it out on odd occasions to play his rendition of old Beatles’ classics).

There was definitely something very European going on in my family, something that can’t be explained by just being Jewish. My investigation continued. I looked up – to my grandparents.

Now here was something altogether bizarre. When I told other non-Jewish people I was going to visit my Nanna and Zaida, they screwed up their faces like they had eaten something sour and asked me 'What country is that in?' This was the first sign of something strange - we called our grandparents by foreign-sounding names that were never mentioned on Neighbours and Home-and-Away. Secondly, when I arrived at their house, there was always an intense smell of onions and stewing meat which could not possibly be the product of chicken casserole, rissole or any other Australian-role. But the biggest give-away was their accent. When I disocovered that not all of my Jewish friends had grandparents who rolled their r’s and pronounced their w’s as v’s I realised I had stumbled on something big.

One Friday night I innocently and curiously asked the question:
‘Nanna, where are you from?’
‘I am Jewish!’ she spat out at me.
‘I know you’re Jewish, but which country did you come from?’ I persisted.
‘Nowhere I would go back to, so it’s not important.’

Her response to these questions really sparked my interest. Upon approaching my parents, I noticed that they had begun to act even stranger than before. They had recently discovered the internet and had began spending more time than I did chatting to my friends on ICQ (back in the day) emailing people across the other side of the world with surnames which were similar to our own.

‘Where is Nanna from?’ I tried once again
‘Poland.’
‘And Zaida?’
‘Poland.’
‘And Bubba?’
‘Poland.’
And Zajda?’
‘Poland.’
‘You mean to tell me that all of my four grandparents are from Poland and no one ever thought to tell me?’
‘What does it matter – you’re not Polish, you’re Jewish.’

But it did matter. I was scared. All of a sudden when I looked in the mirror and saw dirty blonde hair and a porcelain-pale face I couldn’t see an Australian at all. All I could see was a young Polish girl staring back at me. It occurred to me that my grandparents could all have met each other in Poland, and my parents then could also have met each other in Poland and I could have been born in a small village where I had to milk cows and speak a language which forgot to insert vowels in the necessary places. What do you mean it doesn’t matter?

***

No one ever internalises the fact that to be Ashkenazi means to actually be Polish (or German, or Hungarian, etc...). In our community, to be Polish only has the connotation of cleaning houses and drinking vodka. I don’t know of any Jews who do much of either of these two things. Perhaps these perceptions are justified – after all, as my Nanna says ‘My neighbours just stood by and watched as we were murdered – mostly they even helped the Nazis to do it!’

It doesn’t erase the fact that I am of Polish blood. The idea began to take hold of me. I am Polish. I began to cross a reinforced-concrete taboo. I started feeling oddly proud of my new-found European heritage. I began seeking out Polish styled restaurants and I even found a Polish teacher to teach me the language. All of a sudden my lips began to produce over-consonantal words like ‘chsesz’ and the sounds felt familiar and somewhat comforting to my ears. This new discovery of my Polish heritage was creating an identity crisis within me that no Polish Jew in Australia was able (or willing) to help me with.

As a second-generation Australian I thought: ‘Does this make me any less Australian? (Even though in Australia, it is probably more common than not to be a descendant of an immigrant!)

As a granddaughter of Holocaust survivors I asked: ‘Is it disrespectful to all those who were killed in Poland to feel this way?’

As a Zionist I mused (in shock): ‘Is it anti-Zionist to feel this way!?’

***

Next week I am off to seek the answers to all these overwhelming questions. I will be doing something that very few Jews have been known to do in the past 60 years. I am going ‘back’ to live in Poland. Ok. That may be an exaggeration – I have assured my parents and Nanna that it will only be a few months. Something is calling me to Poland. Its language is becoming unexpectedly familiar and its heavy food is now what my taste buds are craving.