August 04, 2008
Kosher Poland
Four months. Its has been four months since I first sat in my living room, imbued with trepidation, silently scolding myself for not having the courage to do something uncourageous. It seems a bit silly, in retrospect, to think of the ratio of how scared I was versus how scared I told people I was. But perhaps it was simply some Bokonistic homage, a bravery that is a complete and utter lie and yet more real than bravery in is truest form.
In reality, however, my former self deserves a good mocking, not to mention and good kick in the ass. I still am unsure of what in the world really sent me to Poland. What was I thinking? Was I so desperate for excitement that I’d literally try anything? I recall a sort of gut instinct, a general inclination that Warsaw seemed like the right place at the right time. But gut instincts have left us with five years in a hopeless war and trillion dollar deficits and an America that once was rather than what is. What sort of arrogant fool would I be to assume that my gut instincts are superior to those supported by 51% of the electorate? I guess I’ll have to look in the mirror. But I digress.
Throughout these pages, throughout these months, I have been searching for something, something I neither knew nor understood. Perhaps it is simply a longing for adolesence, a quarter life crisis that is scared shitless of the next three. I feel myself grasping, reaching, and yet I have no idea if I have won or lost or even if I’ve ever played at all.
Since I was little, I have always been taught the value of questions. I believe I got this from my father, whose sermons are created to provoke rather than to preach, to set you on your own path to realization rather than him giving you his own. So, in this sea of questions, there should be one that serves as my answer. Isn’t that it? Have I hit the mark?
What memories stick with me? What, in sixty-three years, can I hope to recall. Is there an order to this chaos, a method to the madness I always hoped to create?
On our first full day in Warsaw, my group and I were given an extensive tour of the city. Konrad, our tour guide, was certainly an interesting individual. First off, he seemed to have developed an especially close relationship with us all right off the bat, beginning every sentence with the affectionate term, “my dear friends.” More important, however, was that Konrad mentioned World War II about three times per minute. Our group director, Bogdan, even asked Konrad to try and focus on some other things, on some better, more uplifting, non-war related bright points. But what we failed to realize then is that Bogdan is a true exception to the Polish people. For on the whole, Poles are obsessed with their past, an addiction that they deal with through either intense focus or portended ignorance.
As we traveled through the city on that frigid and cold and gray Sunday in January, some of us were shocked by how much we DIDN’T hate Warsaw. It actually seemed like this place might have something to offer, like maybe I didn’t make a mistake, like maybe we weren’t all wrong. For those members of the group, Sean, Dave, and Elise in particular, who chose Poland rather on a whim, we developed a slogan, a rallying cry that drifted away but permeated our every thought: “Warsaw: it could be worse.”
I happenstanced into the Jewish community, and the Pawlak home, by a set of convenient accidents. Originally, I was planning on attending services a few times, getting myself acquainted, learning a thing or two here and there, making connections with Jews in far off places. Never did I imagine my streak, or my involvement, or my genuine care for this community that I thought was a tale of days past.
The first time I had any interest at all in Poland was a little over a year ago when I took a class on Eastern European Politics with Professor Zvi Gitelman. Professor Gitelman was by far one of the greatest teachers I have ever had. He spoke in a language I could understand, in a matter-of-fact lighthearted tone that seemed kind yet firm. His intellect is evident for all to see, his grasp of his subject matter expansive.
Praise aside, however, (although he would probably remark that this is, in turn, further praise) Professor Gitelman was one of the hardest teachers I have ever had. After receiving a C on the midterm, I became determined to do better, to write for him the best paper I had ever written, partially to prove I could and partially for my GPA.
I had recalled a story I had heard, during my first trip to Poland to visit Holocaust sites three years prior, a story regarding a Pogrom, or an anti-Jewish riot, that occurred in Poland after the War. In Kielce. In 1946. Weeks of research and 25 pages later, I had my finished product, a mournful manifesto lamenting the death of Polish Jewry. Jews had returned to their homes after witnessing the destruction of their people, only to be faced with further destruction. And this time, the hand was a Polish one, and no Nazis were around to be blamed. My conclusion was sure, my logic infallible, my case made: The Poles were anti-Semites who allowed the Holocaust to happen, and the best thing the Jews of Poland could do was leave.
It is funny how quickly opinions change, and I am not spared the hilarity of the overwhelming irony of a meeting between my current and former self. Their views would be divergent, their emotions at polar extremes.
Now I find myself sad to have Poland in my past, longing for a place that became like a second home. I am missing new friends who are quickly becoming old friends, missing Lazienki Park in full bloom, and the crazy Polish kids next door. I sorely hope I will sorely hope I will have the chance to pray in Nozyk synagogue one last time, many last times, infinite last times.
My last week in Warsaw was especially sad and nostalgic. The 21st birthday is something of an American rite of passage, the death of the fake ID and the birth of being legally allowed to destroy your liver. In Poland, its impact was somewhat dulled, with the legal drinking age being 18 and the actual drinking age being able to see over the counter. Yet my birthday was to come all the same, the flow of the years not inhibited my current geographical location. My friends, however, whom I love and miss dearly, made sure to make my birthday a night I would always (or, as the case sometimes is, never) remember.
The night was an absolute blast. My friend Amy came from Prague. Sean decked out the room. The Polish students removed themselves from a night of studying to party with the Americans, serenading me with a rousing rendition of “Sto Lat,” the Polish Happy Birthday, at midnight. Agnieska, my non-English speaking friend from down the hall, wrote me a beautiful card, mostly in Polish but with a phrase or two in English that, although they clearly came straight out of the dictionary, were extremely meaningful.
The highlight of the night, by far, however, was when, right before I went to sleep, all of the night’s party-goers gathered in the hall, brought me outside, and threw me in the air 21 times, once for every year, once for every birthday and memory and moment. These people whom I barely knew just a short time before, and whom I may never see again, giving me one last memory of pure ecstacy before I left, just to make sure I left Poland on a happy note.
On my last Friday night in Warsaw, I again attended Shabbat dinner with the Chavurah, the young, secular Jews of the community. I had really begun to develop relationships with some of the people, began to see them as friends rather than strangers. Yet to be truthful, I felt this sense of overwhelming guilt: What had I given them? I would leave Warsaw and, although I hope to return, what if I don’t? In the back of my mind, I always thought they felt this, as well. Was I just an intruder to them? Was I an impediment? Would they even notice I was gone?
As the dinner came to a close Friday night, I began to notice something was awry. I felt as if everyone in the room was looking at me or talking about me. Glares abound, secrets galore, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin, slowly plotting my getaway down the stairs. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and candles shone brightly from the doorway, adorning an absolutely gigantic chocolate cake. “Sto Lat, Sto Lat, Jech zie zie znam…Sto Lat, Sto Lat, Jech zie zie znam…jesche raz, jesche raz jech zie zie znam….jechhhhh zieeeeeee znammmmmm.” They were singing to me, singing for me, celebrating my departure and my existence all at once, say goodbye but more so asking me to come back. I will, I told them, I will.
The next morning was my final Shabbat service at the Nozyk Synagogue. Likely enough, it also happened to be the anniversary of my Bar Mizvah, Parshat Behar, and so I volunteered to read Torah at services. The Rabbi was thrilled, but he had one request: Walk to services. Make it the real thing.
My walk to services is not exactly a piece of cake. It is 50 minutes straight through the center of Warsaw, heeding crosswalks and cars and pedestrians alike. But I awoke at 7:30 sharp, put on my best Shabbat garb, and placed my Kippah on my head, the same Kippah I had worn every week, the emblem of my streak.
And I walked. Few people were out on Warsaw on a Saturday morning at 8:15, so it was relatively pleasant, gave me a chance for some last minute review of the Torah portion. It was uneventful, easy. Before I knew it I had arrived at the synagogue, before I knew it the service had begun and the Torahs were removed and I was up to bat.
I’m not sure if my nervousness was as evident as it felt, if people were able to see my naked self as I did. Don’t screw up, Jeremy. Crap, I should have studied more, gone over that last Aliyah one more time. But I took a deep breath and I dove right in and I tried to let the momentum of the moment carry me through.
About fifteen minutes and seven Aliyot later, I was home free, receiving a thunderous bombardment of “Ya’asher Koach,” the traditional congratulatory phrase, from every corner of the room. Many of my friends from the synagogue came up to shake my hand. But what was even more meaningful was those whom I didn’t really know coming up to give praise, to give thanks.
There was one man, who must have been pushing 90, whom I saw every week at services. He trembled when he walked, the pain of standing was evident in his eyes, numbers of horror imbedded in his skin. We had never spoken a word to one another although we had seen each other every week, cursory glances and nods the full extent of our relationship. And yet after I read from the Torah, he edged his way towards me, extending his hand. When I went out to shake it, he closed his second hand over mine. His tremors became my tremors, as the words emitted from his lips. “Dzienkuje Bardzo.” Thank you very much. I saw it in his eyes, I felt it in his hands. He was glad I had come back, that Jews would still come back to this place, a place where he had witnessed untold horrors and yet continued to call home, insisted on calling home. Was this the contribution I was waiting for?
After services, I went to the Pawlaks for one last lunch. I am not sure if I have ever mentioned this before, but Hadassah Pawlak makes absolutely the best egg salad I have ever tasted. I am not sure what ingredients make it quite so irresistible, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was comprised of the same ingredients of some unknown Class D narcotic. Hadassah knows how I feel about her egg salad, and she made a huge bowl just for me, ensuring my slow but inevitable regression to the weighty (read: fat) days of my youth.
It was, as always an absolutely fantastic lunch. The food was delicious, the company was better. Time and time again Hadassah and Maciej Pawlak welcomed me into their home. I had sat at this table nearly a dozen times, been given a place to go when I needed a place to go, a family to be with when I needed a family. In Judaism there is a custom known as Hachnasat Orchim, or the welcoming of strangers into your home. The Pawlaks went above and beyond the tour of duty, doing their best to ensure that this silly American boy would leave Poland a happy man, a better man, or at the very least a man all the same.
As I readied myself to depart the Pawlaks, Hadassah held me up for just one more second. She handed me a bag. A departing gift, she told me. For how much we enjoyed having you be a part of our lives. It was a Kiddush cup with the Polish emblem, along with a card from their daughter, Doreen. It didn’t matter that the card consisted of randomly drawn crayon marks, or that I had a Kiddush cup I used back home. As I held these gifts in my hand, I felt an overwhelming sadness. How could I leave this place? How could I leave these people who really seemed to care, this newfound family, this newfound home? My heart ached. What if I never came back?
It was then that I made my resolve, my promise, my spoken word that I would one day return to this place. That I would come back to Poland and I would come back to the Pawlaks and that I would do all I could to thank these people for their kindness, their hospitality, and the truly priceless gift of showing me I belonged. And at the least, I could get some phenomenal egg salad.
The walk back to the dorm from the Pawlaks was long. Over an hour. And walking around with a Kippah on your head in the middle of the day in Poland isn’t exactly what people do for kicks. I could have removed the head covering, I could have taken the bus. But I stayed as I was and I walked, a walk that was so much longer then the walk there, a walk where I kept on walking and I didn’t know exactly where I was going but my destination was in mind and I walked all the same.
I passed many people, I garnered many stares. From the young, who had never seen a Jew so bold or never seen a Jew at all. From the old, memories of generations past and generations destroyed haunting their glares. From people all around, trying not to stare, trying to go against their Polish nature out of guilt or fear or something else that I cant quite put my finger on and, truthfully, they probably cant either.
In Judaism, the most important prayer we have is the Shema, which is, in short, an affirmation of our inclusion in the Jewish people and as a child of God. There I walked and walked and walked, in Warsaw, Poland, where my ancestors lay beneath my feet. This was my Shema. This was my affirmation. Yes, I’m still here. Yes, we’re still here. Our staying power is unmatched, our ability to survive a historical anomaly. Yes, that is me walking. And I’m not going to stop until I get there, not for you, so just go ahead and keep on staring like you always do.
And as I walked, all those fears I had with the suitcases in my living room seemed silly, all my insecurities a part of some past life that no longer existed. I was a changed man. How? I wasn’t quite sure. But I wasn’t scared. Not of the future and not of the past and not of the stares and glares and possibility of failure or probability of pain. I was just walking, walking for Abraham Borowicz and walking for Bogdan and walking for the Pawlaks and for Sean and Elise and Zbigniew Romaniuk and for my parents and for Jeff and for Andrew and for my friends in Warsaw and for my friends back home. I was walking for the man they helped me become, I was walking for the man this place had helped me become, I was walking because I was a man, a Jewish man, and this is what Jewish men do.
It was while walking that I truly realized what this was all about, what Warsaw really meant above the clichés and fancy words and trite coming-of-age stories. Its about taking that dive into the Baltic, its about taking a 3 hour car ride to see where you came from, its about that leap and that roll of the die that might not work out. Its about putting it all on the line because big risks yield big rewards and even bigger smiles and make you bigger, too. Go to Warsaw or to Africa or to Tulsa, Oklahoma or wherever it is you think you should go, but you are afraid to go. Go alone. Be brave. Its okay to be scared. But get on the plane or hop in that car and just keep on walking, walking, walking, until you find where it is your going. Fear will come and go, home will seem far when you want it to be close. Remember who you are, stay true to what you believe, and the questions will start flowing and the answers will be glowing and even if they aren’t well at least you will still be walking, because that’s a whole lot better than staying in the same place, a whole lot more exciting than a life spent standing still. Just always make sure to keep that dose of home; always, always, always remember to leave the pork on the side.
Posted by borovitz at 02:21 AM | Comments (0)
