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There are still Jews in Poland? [Back to the Old World]

Wednesday, November 30th, 2011

by Alexandria Fanjoy

If Poland to Jews around the world represents one big Jewish cemetery, it goes without saying that for them, Jewish life in Poland is dead.   Then, how can there still be Jews in Poland?  After the Holocaust, after the 1946 Kielce Pogrom,  and after the 1968 Jewish purges?  It follows, that there must not be any Jews left in Poland, it only makes sense.

Yet, one thing I discovered in Poland- there are Jews, and even more, it’s not just an old survivor based community- there are young Jews, there are Jewish communities, there are secular Jews and there are religious Jews.  There is a rich Jewish community and culture developing in Poland today, something that is incredibly admirable.  I was at the Nozyk synagogue in Warsaw for my second Shabbat in Poland, and me and my friend Alexandria were standing in the hallway, when we heard a group of girls behind us, looking like very religious Jews, speaking in Polish together.  Polish! They should be talking English, Hebrew, Yiddish, but Polish?

The current Jewish community is carving out their own space within Poland, they are creating a new Jewish culture, that combines elements from the past, but has the mark of a new generation.  They are creating Judaism in Poland, a place where even after the darkest chapter in Jewish history, being a Jew was dangerous, and unstable.

Interwar Poland saw the outburst of the Jewish question, and even more than this, the development of the Jewish identity.  Jews were playing with concepts of nationality, some that saw Poland as their future, or those whose nationalist feelings turned to Zionism and Palestine.  But there were others, Jews who defined themselves purely religiously, those that assimilated, those that wanted to acquire autonomy based on culture.  The Jewish question in Poland allowed for incredible Jewish creativity, such creativity that spilled over into America, and now Israel.   Yet, the Holocaust decisively killed this Jewish creativity in Poland, and then communism froze any hope of a continuation of the debate.  But, in the 70′s when underground independent intellectual groups began to pop up in Poland, a Jewish one started to flourish.  Calling themselves the “Jewish flying university“, a mixed group of Poles met.  At first, it was awkward, none of them had ever discussed Jewishness in public, some not even admitting their own Jewishness.  Many were from assimilated or mixed backgrounds, who knew almost nothing about their Judaism as a religion or culture.   But slowely, they began to piece together Jewish past in Poland, and discover who they were, and what kind of future could be for Jews in Poland.

Since the fall of communism, there has been a slow Jewish revival in Poland.  On a Friday night dinner, I sat listening to the Chief Rabbi of Poland Michael Shudrich explain at a community dinner at Nozyk, about the community.  He addressed the locals, and also visitors, like myself, who needed a place to eat for Shabbat.  He told us of people who were returning to Judaism, who had pretended to be Catholic after the war, because it was safer, but discovered they were Jewish, many through weird customs or a Jewish artifact. He told us of a female who lit candles on Friday night, not knowing why.  Someone who never ate milk and meat together.  Someone who found books in weird writing in their attic.  Jews were slowly discovering Jewish roots, and once discovered, flourished within this identity.

My group visited the JCC in Krakow, and they too boast a Friday night dinner every week.  As we sat in the large JCC, in the middle of the historical neighborhood of Kazimierz, we were told that everyday the JCC signs up new members.  People who have discovered that someone in their family was Jewish and who want to be involved with the Jewish community.   When we were in Bialystok, we met with the head of the Jewish community, and as she served as coffee and cookies, she explained that her Jewish community regularly meet, and hold  cultural events.   When we were in Warsaw, we met at “Tel Aviv“, one of the hip kosher restaurants, with a Jewish community leader that told us about Jewish daycare, Jewish trips to Israel, and Jewish cultural groups that meet.  She insisted that antisemitism was low, and that for the first time in a long time, Jews were proud to be Jews, and walk proudly on the streets as such.  All these people would laugh, if someone were to insist that there are no Jews in Poland, or more that Jewish culture was over in Poland.  For them, it’s thriving.

It’s true that the Jewish community in Poland today is small in comparison to what it used to be, however this should not allow us to ignore what is developing there.  Perhaps it will never be what it was, but I think that’s ok.  It makes me happy to know that there are Jews in Poland.  They are carrying on the legacy of the past, and adding something new and special.  They may live in a country with concentration and death camps, but they don’t allow this to define who they are, and where they are going.  They represent life, and they are following in the Jewish tradition that has defined Jews throughout Jewish history: we can continue, and we can go on; to create and grow.

Neighbors [Back to the Old World]

Tuesday, November 15th, 2011

A German official at the Jedwabne memorial | by Alexandria Fanjoy

My group traveled to Jedwabne on July 11, 2011.  We were not meant to go to Jedwabne; it was not on our original itinerary.  We left Warsaw early in the morning, and by the time we pulled into Jedwabne, it was a beautiful day — the first nice day after a week of rain.  The sun was shinning hard and the weather was hot.  As we all got off the bus, we were silent.  For us budding historians, Jedwabne was not just another Polish town.  It was a symbol.  It was a tragic memory.  It was a point of contention.  It was an event  that challenged collective memory.  It was bitterness.

We walked into Jedwabne’s town center, and saw some locals hanging around a bench behind us drinking beer.  You could feel the tension as they stared at us.  They knew why we were there.  Why else would we come?  One man came up to our tour leader, and explained in Polish, that the people living here now were good, they had nothing to do with what happened and we shouldn’t judge them.

We were in Jedwabne for the 70th anniversary ceremony of the 1941 pogram.  Upon realizing that our trip coincided with the 70th anniversary, we got the opportunity to attend the event.   The Germans occupied Jedwabne on June 23, 1941, taking it from Soviet hands.  On the morning of July 1oth, 1941, the Polish residents of Jedwabne, violently rounded up the Jews of the town, and after brutally killing some in the streets, trapped the rest in a barn and burned it down.  Jedwabne had a Jewish population of 1,600 before the war.  7 Jews survived.  Only one lady, Antonina Wyrzykowska saved Jews.  Two weeks after liberation, March 1945, locals raided her home and beat her and her family for saving Jews.  As a result the Wyrzykowskas left Jedwabne.

The Nazis did not kill Jedwabne’s Jews, although they had their part in encouraging and approving the attack.  It was the locals, the residents of the town.  It was neighbors.  Neighbors killing neighbors.  And this is what makes Jedwabne so important, so critical.  This is why, as we stood in Jedwabne’s town square on July 11, 2011, the residents glared us, and why we felt so uneasy, unsafe almost.  Yes, we were there for the anniversary ceremony, but we were also there to judge.  By standing there, we were saying, “How could you?”

In May 2000, Polish-American historian Jan Gross published his controversial book “Neighbors“, a book which described the massacre.  Information about the Pogram was available before this, but  his book brought the subject to the forefront of Polish dialogue. It spurred a Polish-wide discussion and soul searching.  Previous beliefs that Poles were only victims during the Nazi war were dissolved.  Neighbors showed that Poles were also perpetrators.

The following year, in July 2001, the first commemoration ceremony was conducted in Jedwabne, marking 60 years since the tragedy.  Polish President Aleksander Kwasniewski stood in front of a crowd, of Jews and Poles, and apologized on behalf of Poland.  He said, “We know with all the certainty that Poles were among the oppressors and assassins.  We cannot have any doubts – here in Jedwabne citizens of the Republic of Poland died from the hands of other citizens of the Republic of Poland. It is people to people, neighbors to neighbors who forged such destiny…We are here to make a collective self examination. We are paying tribute to the victims and we are saying – never again… For this crime we should beg the souls of the dead and their families for forgiveness. This is why today, the President of the Republic of Poland, I beg pardon. I beg pardon in my own name and in the name of those Poles whose conscience is shattered by that crime.”

The apology and attendance of many Polish officials was significant.  Poles were taking responsibility for the memory, even 60 years after the event.  However, the residents of Jedwabne boycotted the event.  No one came to the ceremony.

Ten years later, the residents of Jedwabne did not come to the ceremony.  As my group moved from the center of town, to the site of the memorial, the atmosphere changed considerably.  Attending the ceremony were many government officials, important members of the Catholic clergy, lots of media outlets, the chief Rabbi of Poland, Michael Shudrich and the Israeli ambassador to Poland, Zvi Rav-Ner.  Former Prime Minister, Tadeusz Mazowieck read an apology given by current President Bronsilaw Komorowski, following Kwasniewski’s apology from 2001.  The event was positive, albeit sad.

Jedwabne does not prove that all Poles are antisemitic, or were all perpetrators in the Holocaust.  What it does is complicate history.  It turns collective memory from black and white, to multicolour.  It’s another chapter in the arduous history of Jews and Poles in Poland.  While I stood in front of the monument, that stands on the grave of over 1000 Jews, who were burned to death alive, 70 years ago, I was happy that there was a ceremony for them, that they were remembered.  That Poles, once again were apologizing.  The Poles today in Poland are not responsible for what their parents or grandparents did during the war.  But responsibility still exists- in the  memory of the past that is passed down generation to generation.  We are all responsible for how memory is remembered and  and commemorated.

Israeli ambassador, Rav-Ner reminded the crowd that while we were commemorating the lives of Jews that were killed by their neighbors, there were also diffirent kinds of neighbors in Poland, and that we can’t forget these neighbors either.  Neighbors like Wyrzykowska, that saved Jews.  Neighbors that risked their own life and the life of their family to save Jews: Ya’ad Vashem has awarded 6, 266 Poles with the title of Righteous among the Nations for risking their own life to save their neighbor, and in many cases, a Jew they didn’t even know.  Poles were heroes too.

On September 1, 2011, after I had already returned home to Jerusalem, I read in the news that the memorial had been vandalized.  There were swastikas and the words, “they were flammable” and “I don’t apologize”  written on it.   President Komorowski was quick to condemn the graffiti, and an investigation was quickly set up to investigate the hate crime.

I’m still not sure how to feel about Jedwabne.  When I stood in the center square of town, I did judge the residents.  I know that many of them were young, and that they are probably good people.  I don’t blame them for what happened, but I do blame them for not being at the ceremony.  I do judge them for not being beside the President, when he says that Poles are sorry.  I understand that they have to live with the weight of the memory on their backs, that they will forever be perceived by outsiders as murderers, and barbaric, even though many of their hands are clean of actual murder.  But, at the end of the day, the land is tormented, and only when we can look into the eyes of the darkest chapter of our past, can we truly come out with clean hands.  I hope that in the future, the brave actions of those that attend the memorial, will be passed to the younger generation of Poles, in Jedwabne and all over Poland.

Judgement and memory in the shadow of the skeleton of a synagogue | Back to the Old World

Thursday, November 3rd, 2011
A great synagogue that became a great skeleton | Photo by Alexandra Fanjoy

A great synagogue that became a great skeleton | Photo by Alexandria Fanjoy

Dilman x 150On my first day in Poland, as I sat jet-lagged in the only Kosher restaurant in Krakow, the Olive Tree, my group leader told us each that we would be taking a day trip in a few days to small, formerly Jewish towns around Krakow. Only half-aware of what was happening, my friend Alexandria and I were given a huge booklet of information, of which we were told we were going to be presenting on a town called Dzialoszyce. My first reaction: how do you even pronounce that?

As Alexandria and I got together to prepare our presentation, we began to leaf through the pages and piece together the past of Dzialoszyce. In 1939, on the eve of the Second World War, Dzialoszyce’s population totaled about 8,000, 80% of that number Jewish. Today, there are about 1, 100 people who live there. As we delved into the past, we both noticed that Dzialoszyce was not an unusual town. In fact, it was quite what you might imagine an old Jewish town to be. There was the great synagogue, the house of study, Jewish homes and smaller shuls. There were many religious Hasidim, but there were also a few Zionist groups as well.

During the Holocaust, the Nazis set up a ghetto. Some Jews escaped, fighting with the partisans in the forest. The Jews were deported to Belzac and Plaszow and the city was proclaimed to be “Judenrein,” “Free of Jews.” After the war some Jews returned, however, there was a flareup of anti-Jewish violence after the war, and these Jews eventually left as well. Today there are no Jews in Dzialoszyce, the population one eighth of what it used to be.

The day we set out for Dzialoszyce it was raining–as usual. We set out and I was excited to see a place that I had researched, to understand it by being there. What did I expect? I’m not sure. As our bus drove closer, and I started to see the signs for Dzialoszyce, I was getting closer, paying attention to the surrounding. And then, the bus drove into Dziaoszyce, and the first thing that we all see, because there is no way to miss it, is an enormous skeleton: the skeleton of the great synagogue. There it was. Empty, naked and incredibly large, just sitting in the middle of the small city. Our bus stopped in the parking lot adjacent to it. As we all got out, we took it in the scene. The city was small–really just a street–and here was the elephant in the room, this big Jewish structure in a tiny Polish city.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. I was taken aback at first. Jews lived here, thousands of Jews. How can I even imagine that? I thought, as I looked on at the tiny population of the current city. And as people went about their business that day, I thought about them. Did they know any Jews? Did they help their Jewish neighbors by giving them food in the ghetto, or providing them with information? Who here hid a Jew? Who cried, as their friends were discriminated against, as their friends were taken away? Who here closed their drapes as the Nazi vans dragged away the Jewish elders to the cemetery, where they shot them, one by one into a mass grave. Who here betrayed a Jew? Who here collaborated? I couldn’t help it. I was standing in front of a skeleton, but every time I closed my eyes, the past was illuminated before me and I judged everyone for what they did–and for what they didn’t.

After our presentation, we walked up and down the small road of Dzialoszyce to check it out. I’m pretty sure that this small little city doesn’t get many visitors, so the 11 of us kind of stuck out. People stopped to look at us, especially the older residents. We smiled back politely. But I couldn’t stop thinking to myself: Can they recognize me? Do they know me? This was my first time in Poland. I’d never been to Dzialoszyce. My family is not from Dzialosyce either. It’s not that I thought they’d recognize me as Hailey, but rather as a Jew. Although I do hate stereotypes, I really can’t deny the fact that I look really Jewish: and they knew it, they had to know it.

For me, Dzialoszyce was one of the most interesting places I visited. It is one of the clearest example of Jewish space within Polish land, an intersection and a meeting point. Many of the small villages we visited that day were the same. An empty synagogue, and no Jews. It’s one of the clearest examples of the Jewish footprint, of what we left behind when we went away.

Hailey Dilman lives in Jerusalem, where she is earning her master’s at the Hebrew University in Jewish history. Originally hailing from Toronto she made Aliyah a year ago and loves living in Israel, apart from missing snow to snowboard on. Her column, Back to the Old Country, appears here on alternating Wednesdays.

Contemporary Jewish Poland: celebration or denigration? | Back to the Old Country

Wednesday, October 5th, 2011
Jewish dolls sold across Poland | Photo by Hailey Dilman

Jewish dolls sold across Poland | Photo by Hailey Dilman

My three-week academic study trip to Poland withnine other graduate students set off  on Thursday, June 30.  We were going, as students of history and the Holocaust, to look at modern issues concerning Jewish-Polish relations.  We arrived in Krakow,  smack in the middle of the Jewish Culture Festival, which as we learned pretty quickly, is sort of a big deal in Poland.  On our ride from the airport to our hotel, situated in the old city in Krakow, we caught glimpses of Jewish stars labeled with information for the festival- but it wasn’t just a few signs, there were signs everywhere.

Dilman x 150

The Jewish Culture Festival in Krakow consists of tours of Jewish Kazimierz, Yiddish and Hebrew Language workshops, movies, lectures concerning history and present culture, Klezmer concerts (including a final “Jewish Woodstock” concert), Genealogist appointments, Shabbat dinner and services, open admission to Jewish museums, Jewish dance, Yiddish singing and more.  Most events were offered in Polish and English, but there were a few in Yiddish and Hebrew (including a “Romeo and Juliet adaptation… in Yiddish).  The festival itself, was widely attended, mostly by Poles, but also by Jews from Israel and the Diaspora.  Poles, non Jewish Poles, were coming out in droves, to celebrate Jewish culture and religion.  It was philosemitism at its best.

The Jewish Culture Festival is organized and was established by a non-Jewish Pole, Janusz Makuch.   Most of the organizers are not Jewish.  Most of the participants are not Jewish.  It is in light of this, many criticize the festival as being unauthentic, or virtual: it lacks Jews.  Ruth Gruber, in her book “Virutally Jewish” describes the festival, and also the renewed Jewish quarter Kazimierz, which now boasts Jewish restaurants, Klezmer music, and Jewish symbols.  She describes the quarter virtual, because in some senses, it is just that: a Jewish area, devoid of Jews.  One restaurant I passed by, called Ariel,  has a big Jewish star accompanying the sign, and lists Jewish favorites on the menu, like “Chulent”- a slow cooked beef stew traditionally made on Shabbat, and also sweet fish- also known by Jews as gefilte fish. As you eat, a Klezmer band plays in the background.  Yet, there are no Jews sitting inside: the restaurant is not Kosher.   Similarly, the Jewish cultural festival, isn’t completely “kosher” either: the final Woodstock Klezmer concert began much before Shabbat ended- so while all my non-Jewish friends were able to go to the show, me and my other religious friend, Alexandria, had to sit inside our  hotel room waiting for it to get dark before we could wander out.  I turned to Alexandria and asked, “How is it that only the Jews cannot attend the Jewish culture festival?”

As the rest of my group made their way back to the hotel after the concert, they encountered a telling scene: a group of religious Jews, were making Havdallah near their hotel window.  They were dressed traditionally: black suits, black hat, women covering their hair and wearing long skirts.  Across from the window, outside, were a group of Poles, with cameras, taking pictures of the Jews making Havdallah.  The participants in my group were taken aback:  The real Jews were being treated either like old relics in a museum, behind a plane of glass.  So while crowds flocked out to a crazy final concert, Jews were stuck in their hotel rooms, or being stared at while they performed religious ceremonies.  We were the museum pieces, and left out of the Jewish fun.  Was it ignorance? Was it antisemitism?  It reminded me of the little Jewish dolls you can buy in almost any tourist shop around Poland: traditionally dressed Haredi Jewish men holding coins or bags of money.  We were relics you buy and place on your fireplace mantel- stereotypes, virtual.

And here all the contradictions came flying in my face: on the one hand, the Poles are philosemites, celebrating the best of Jewish culture.  On the other hand, it’s unauthentic, pushing the Jews to the sidelines.  Why are they even interested in Jews in the first place?  Why do they care about Yiddish, and Jewish dancing and songs?  Why are there tours informing Poles of long history of Jewish synogogues in Poland? And art, made by non-Jews expressing Jewish issues?    Weren’t the Poles antisemites, an image that is often held by many Jews?  Didn’t they want us gone?  Weren’t these the same Poles who instigated pogroms, even after Hitler’s war was over?  And the ones who purged out the last of the Jews in 1968?  Yet, the more I stayed in Poland, the more I began to learn, that despite the lack of Jews, the history of the Jews does not exclusively belong to Jews.

The truth is that Poles do care about Jews, Judaism and a Jewish piece of their past, that isn’t only Jewish, but also Polish.  The Jews of the past, the ones that made up 10% of Polish population, weren’t a separate part of the culture and country- they were part of it.  Jewish culture was Polish culture, and the the Jewish culture festival, isn’t only about celebrating Jews, but celebrating Poles, and Poland itself.  I think that this concept is sometimes hard to grasp, especially considering that the younger generation of Poles never really knew a Jewish Poland.  The Jews left over 60 years ago, and the growing Jewish community today in Poland, does not even hold a candle to the past.  Yet, they are the generation that grew up in a place where the ghosts of the past could be seen everywhere.  A foreign language, peaking out behind layers of paint, indentations of Mezuzah on their homes, and old decaying buildings, laden with Stars of David.  The Jewish footprint exists in Poland- it is everywhere.

In Poland,  contradictions are part of the past, they are part of the present and they are part of the future.  True, the Jewish Culture Festival has virtual and unauthentic aspects, just like the “Jewish” restaurants in Kazimerez,  but what could they be based on?  Poles are trying to put the pieces of the past together.  On the other hand, antisemitism still exists in Poland as well.   Just a few weeks ago, the memorial in Jedwabne commemorating  Jewish victims, who were killed by their Polish neighbors during the Holocaust, was desecrated with Nazi slogans, and unforgiving statements.   This action came in the wake of similar acts of hatred against Jewish memorials.  But a few days later, in Bialystock, Poles marched in protest against antisemitism.  They were protesting this wave of hatred.  Clearly, the answer is not simple: Poles are neither Philosemites nor Antisemites.  They are dealing with a past that is still present.  A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon the following quote from Janusz Makuch, who established the Krakow culture festival.  In it, he expounds on the contradiction that define Poland Jewish relations today.

“My name is Janusz Makuch and I come from Poland. I come from a country of rabbis and tzaddikim, gaons and melameds, from a country of Jewish sages, writers, bankers, architects, painters, doctors, shoemakers and tailors, film directors and producers, physicians and politicians, scientists and Jewish soldiers, from a country of devout, good people. I come from a country of anti-Semites and goodhearted people, from a country of szmalcowniks (blackmailers and informers) and the greatest number of Righteous among the Nations, from the country of Father Rydzik and the country of John Paul II, from a country of anti-Jewish graffiti on synagogue walls, and a country where thousands of non-Jews study Jewish history, culture and religion, from the country of the German death camps and the country of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, from the country of Shmuel Zygelboim, Mordechai Anielewicz and Marek Edelman, and from the country of Jan Karski, Jan Nowak-Jezioranski and Wladyslaw Bartoszewski. I come from the country of the Vaad Arba Aratzot, the Jewish Parliament of the Four Lands, from a country of countless shtetls, yeshivas and Hassidic courts, from a country of Jewish autonomy and pluralism and I come from a country of the numerous clausus, ghetto benches, pogroms and murder. I come from a country whose greatness was co-created by Jews who were Polish citizens. And I come from a country that after the war kicked out Polish citizens who were Jews. I come from a country of anti-Semitic madness where they burned Jews in barns. And I come from a country of Christian mercy where they hid Jews in barns. My name is Janusz Makuch. I come from Poland and I am a goy, and at the same time for more than 20 years I have created and run the largest Jewish culture festival in the world. I’m a Jewish Pole – and I’m proud of it.”

Poland: The Other Holy Land | Back to The Old Country

Wednesday, September 21st, 2011

Back to The Old Country by Hailey DilmanThis summer, I received an opportunity to travel to Poland, to study Jewish-Polish relations before, during and after the Holocaust, with nine other graduate students. The trip was three weeks. When I was asked what my plans were for the summer and I replied, “Three weeks in Poland,” the response was generally the same. “Three weeks in Poland?! What can you do in Poland for three weeks? That is so depressing. You only go to Poland to see the camps. You need one week, tops.”

But I was excited to go to Poland, to return to the Old Land. I felt that feeling that Jews feel when they go to Israel for the first time, like they are going home. I am, after all, a Polish Jew, somewhere down the line–so it really was like going home. And so, in this column, “Back to the Old Land,” I would like to share with you an experience in Poland. Three weeks in Poland–with days that were depressing, that did make me want to take the next flight back to Israel, but also days that were fun and days that really challenged how Jews see and connect with both Poland and Poles.

One story I kept hearing in Poland was why the Jews settled there. The story is that as the Jews were wondering east through Europe, they arrived in Poland. However, after discovering the name, Polin in Polish, they knew they were destined to stay. In Hebrew, Po lin means ”Here we stay.” The land in Poland was once holy to Jews, and I wanted to find out, not only why, but if any of that remains.

It’s weird to think that only 100 years ago, the number of Jews in Israel was insignificant, especially compared to its population today. Yes, there were Zionists, but they were only the first dreamers, tilling a land that was still quite empty. 100 years ago, America was a growing Jewish center; it was the Goldene Medina (Golden Land), the New World for Jews.

The real core of Jewish life, just 100 years ago, was Europe. And straddling in eastern and central Europe was the core of the core: Poland. A country were 10 percent of the population was Jewish, a country with millions of Jews, living in both shtetls and Jews the major cities.  In Europe, there were Chasidic Jews, Orthodox Jews, Reform Jews, religion-hating Communist Jews, socialist Jews, Yiddish cultural Jews and more.

But today, it’s almost possible to forget this. Jews live in Israel, they live in America, they live scattered through Europe, but they don’t live in Poland anymore. Because Poland, for us Jews, is the land of death, the land of our ashes: Determined firmly by Nazi concentration camps that still grace the Polish landscape. And every year, Jews from around the world remember this. They travel, in groups to Poland for a week or two, touring the death camps and the concentration camps, reciting Kaddish at mass graves and proudly singing “Hatikva,” with Israeli flags hanging off their backs. Against all odds, they are reclaiming the continuity of the Jewish people. When we proclaim “never forget,” what we mean is that we will never forget that there was an attempt to exterminate us. We will never forget so that we can be assured it will never happen again.

Despite these trips, the hundred of years of Jewish life in Poland is sometimes forgotten. After all, we’ve transported that which was important to our new homes. We’ve rebuilt the Yeshivas in Bnei Brak, Mea Shearim and Brooklyn. Jews are still cooking cholent on Shabbos, and you can find knishes, pickled herring and matzah ball soup in the heart of Manhattan. Bubbies and Zaidies are still distributing Jewish guilt all over the world. And the politics and religion that developed in the old country are happily developing in new places.

And so, for us, Poland is the concentration camp. It is used as the symbol of what can never happen again. And along the way, we quickly sweep over the past, both the good and the bad of it.