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April 22, 2008
Saying your sorry in the collective "we"
As Shimon Peres, President of Israel, walked by his gawking supporters at Nozyk Synagogue this past Monday, I couldn’t help but think that he looked every bit his age. Having served in the Israel parliament almost continuously since 1959, and having held 12 separate ministerial posts, his post as the largely ceremonial President is a sort of farewell tour for a devoted public servant. He has survived war and controversy, political disappointment and the untimely deaths of rivals and friends, often times both. Yet here he was, in Warsaw, Poland, back in the country of his birth.
65 years. 65 years since that fateful night in April, that Passover evening to trump all those since perhaps the first, when a young man stood up for standing up, choosing to die fighting rather than fighting off the inevitable death hovering over their existence. April 19, 1943, Mordechai Anilewiecz told his fellow remaining Jews of the Warsaw ghetto that the time had come to fight back. They had no illusions of victory; rather, this was a death stand, the chance to die with some honor and dignity rather than naked and burned, ashes scattered to the winds so they won’t linger in any one place or in anyone’s mind, either.
The Warsaw ghetto uprising is one of the few inspiring stories from a time that left us with little to be inspired about. Of the 400,000 Jews who initially lived in Warsaw before the war, and the hundreds of thousands shipped in from Poland and Germany and Belarus and Lithuania crammed into these small quarters, about 50,000 were still alive by April 1943. Although the numbers vary, somewhere around 1,000 of these brave souls armed themselves, a few with guns and grenades but most with sticks and knives and clubs and rocks. For three weeks this rag-tag fighting force stood up to the greatest army in the world. The entire country of Poland only lasted one week. But for three weeks they fought on to their deaths, sure it would come but praying that they would be ready to meet their maker when it did.
Most of the fighters in the Warsaw ghetto died. Of the few who survived, many went on to Israel, and founded the ghetto fighters Kibbutz. A memory to their friends and an homage to their comrades in arms, a legacy to all those who fight for the hopeless cause that they know is right, that they know is just.
Recently, I read the book “Mila 18,” by Leon Uris, a historically based fictional account of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. While it is at its heart a work of fiction, Uris himself acknowledges in the book’s dedication that he would be lying if he did not admit that these characters, and their actions, were based on real people and real experiences. He uses a literary license to tell a story that was meant to be told. Uris delves in to a variety of different issues involving the uprising, but one of the most prevalent, by far, relates to the actions taken by Poles (or lack thereof) during the horrors of this conflict.
Uris does not paint a very favorable picture of the Polish people. While there are instances of gentile bravery, individual acts of courage and daring, on the whole the Polish people turned a blind eye to the Jewish plight. In fact, many Poles relished the opportunities to abuse Jews, to turn them in for a reward or simply for the sake of turning them in. Uris’ novel portrays a Polish people acquiescent to evil, a population of self-proclaimed innocent and guilty bystanders. Perhaps even worse is that, when the characters were preparing themselves for the ghetto uprising, the Polish underground fighting units, in particular the AK (People’s Army) refused to aid the Jews with weapons or supplies. And so as the Polish people saw the smoke rising from the ghetto, saw the destruction and heard the screams of death, the silent majority sat and watched.
As I have been living in Poland, I have often struggled with some of these concepts. Every time I see an elderly person walking down the street, I cannot help but wonder: where were you? Every Pole I meet, every friend I make, in the back of the mind presses the question, “where were your parents? Your grandparents?”
The question is a difficult one, perhaps one of the most throughout history. What blame do you place on the Polish people for the eradication of the Jews of Poland? How much malice are we to hold against the bystanders, however innocent they may or may not be?
One of my professors in Poland, who teaches a literature course, recently stated something which I think very succinctly discusses Polish attitudes during the Nazi Holocaust. Some Poles, at great personal risk, aided Jews attempting to escape Nazi persecution. Some Poles, embracing evil in its purest form, either joined with the Nazis or simply took to murdering Jews on their own. Many, however, were most likely somewhere in between, and the real question that remains is this: how many of them were glad that the Nazis were taking care of their Jewish problem?
A few times in this literature class, as well as some of my other classes, the name of Jan Gross has come up in conversation. To many Poles, to mention this man’s name is pure anathema. Gross has recently written a book, “Fear,” that details existence of Polish anti-Semitism after World War II. Gross’ previous controversial book, “Neighbors,” discusses the massacre in the town of Jedwabne, Poland of nearly 1,600 Jews. Gross charged that it was a significant number of the town’s Polish inhabitants, rather than Germans, who committed the atrocities. While there was initially public outcry, it was later shown by a government inquiry that not only was Gross correct in his assertion, but that similar events occurred in other places throughout Poland.
“Fear” builds upon Gross’ previous book to paint a harrowing picture of post-war Polish-Jewish relations. Gross believes that most of the Jewish-Polish survivors desired to remain in Poland after the war, remembering a time of greater harmony in the land. Yet trouble began bubbling when Jews attempted to reclaim their old property, erupting with the Kielce Pogrom in 1946. Of the 200 Jews who returned to Kielce, Poland, after the war, nearly a quarter of them were savagely murdered by the local townspeople in a repeat of the centuries old blood libel claim. Whether or not this was sparked by a Soviet provocation is up to debate, yet there is no doubt it was perpetrated by Polish citizens.
Gross paints a Poland where Kielce is typical rather than an anomaly, a place where Poles actively participated in the exploitation of Jewish survivors, war ravaged but glad to be “Jew-free.” Many Poles have adamantly contested his sentiments, among them my Professor of Polish History. An ardent Polish nationalist, she has an EXTREMELY biased view of everything Polish. In her mind, the nation of Poland is the greatest on earth, and her class lectures accurately reflect her opinion. It should surprise few of my readers that the first time she brought up the subject of Gross’ book, I engaged her in debate. I brought up events like Kielce and the Communsit purge in 1968. Her response was to call Kielce an anomaly and the purge a work of the Soviets, disregarding any Polish participation or acquiescence to such events. She is narrow minded and provincial in nature. But that does not make her entirely wrong.
One of our most recent arguments involved current day Polish-Jewish relations. Some Jews are desiring to have the land that they owned before the War returned to them. This case is especially prevalent with regards to land or property owned by the Jewish community in general, such as the site of former synagogues as well as cemeteries. She is adamantly opposed to any form of reparations, believing that it ignores the atrocities suffered by Polish citizens during the War and beyond. She, like myself, is influenced by her own personal history; her parents had their home in modern day Lithuania taken away from them when they were sent to labor camps in Siberia during the war.
Our debate on this topic continued to waste quite some class time. I countered that while happened to her parents was terrible, they were not systematically slaughtered and they were given new property at the war’s close. Another one of my class mates took it a step further. In a seeming echo of Gross, my friend Laura mentioned that she found it abhorring that there was no Holocaust Museum of any kind anywhere in Warsaw. Why was Poland ignoring its history, she asked? Why were they afraid to admit what they had done wrong?
All of these issues, I believe, add up to a much larger theme. How does one own up to one’s mistakes? How can we truly say we are sorry?
It is common knowledge that human beings are inherently flawed, and I am not only subject to this mantra but continuously seem to contribute to its veracity. Even Jewish tradition acknowledges our propensity to sin; the most important holiday of the Jewish year, Yom Kippur, is a day of atonement for all of our transgressions. I take Yom Kippur very seriously, more seriously than I take most things in my so-called-sarcastic life. I really believe that in order to move on we must repent, that in order to grow we must first realize where we have erred. And boy have I erred.
I find myself continuously reflecting on some of the things I have done wrong in my life. Sometimes there are minor things, like the Cheeseburger I ate at camp when I was 14 in a desperate attempt to “fit in.” (Author’s note: I apologize to my parents for this stunning revelation, but I would also like to add that I really love food and had a burning desire to know what meat and cheese tasted like together. In my own defense, even though I absolutely loved it I still wanted to puke afterwards.) No, rather most of my thoughts are encompassed with overwhelming guilt, remembering all those I have wrong, all those I have hurt, all the times I have made others cry.
Do you ever look back with your 20/20 hindsight and wonder, “what was I thinking?” It seems to constantly perplex my every thought. I am aghast by my immaturity, ashamed at my inability to reign in my anger, saddened by what sometimes must have been nothing but pure maliciousness. Sometimes I have been fortunate enough to make amends for what I have done, to apologize and to have meant it. Sometimes I have not been so lucky.
There are things I have done for which I yearn to truly repent, apologies I truly desire to make. But is a reflective Yom Kippur and a heartfelt note truly enough to make amends? Can I ever take back what I did, or what I did not do? For those truly terrible things we regrettably do, can we ever truly be forgiven?
A few weeks back, I was discussing this topic with my fellow Warsavian Dave. I mentioned by questions regarding apologies, highlighting my difficulties and my misgivings. Dave said something that truly enlightened me. As he put it, “sometimes the best thing we can do is to know what we do wrong and make sure it never happens again.” This, I believe, is the crux of the issue, both for myself as well as for Poland.
The question that now exists is whether or not Poles have put in sufficient effort to recognize their mistakes. Like everything else in this country, the answer is rather grayed. I have mentioned before in these pages men like Zbigniew Romaniuk and Bogdan Radomski, men who have dedicated their lives to good, who live by rules of tolerance and acceptance and who I know, without a date, would dedicate every fiber of their being towards the prevention of future atrocities. In addition, in conversations I have had with some of my Polish friends regarding their ancestors and the war, it is clear through insinuation that some of them had parents who collaborated, others who had parents who did nothing. Yet many of these friends, and a few in particular, have made such a concerted effort to learn about my faith, to ask me questions and to show their respect, their appreciation for my openness, for not hating them for their grandparents’ hatred of me.
Yet the other side exists as well. Anti-Semitism is not dead in Poland, but that is not my main concern. My main concern is people like my history teacher, people who make efforts to minimize the ill actions of Polish people during the war. I am less concerned with her beliefs but rather how her beliefs with influence the attitudes of her children and her children’s children. Anti-Semitism is an ever present evil; ignorance need not be.
I wish to be clear in my sentiments: The Holocaust was perpetrated by the Nazis, not by Poles. Anyone who asserts that these Poles are the true minions are wrong, as many of these people were thrown into a situation where they began to question humanity, where they shut their eyes because the truth was too painful to bear. This reaction, while deplorable, is distinctly human. The majority of Poles may have been weak and may have lacked courage, but this does not equate them as murderers. Yet the question remains as to how Poland is responding to the issue today, how they are attempting to apologize. All 14 year old Polish students are required to make a class trip to Auschwitz. But how is this education complemented. Do they acknowledge Polish hands in the atrocities? Or is it a crime pushed entirely onto the Nazis, a crime seen as a crime against Poles as much as a crime against Jews?
The day after Shimon Peres spoke at the synagogue, he was the keynote speaker at the commemoration ceremony of the 65th anniversary of the Ghetto Uprising. Speaking alongside him was the Polish President, surrounding him were dignitaries and survivors and religious leaders of all types and creeds. Peres spoke movingly to a crowd of many thousands. He spoke of the atrocities committed and the evils perpetrated, of the death of Polish Jewry and the birth of the State of Israel. He also discussed the positive nature of Polish-Jewish and Polish-Israeli relations, the great strides mad and the great strides to come. To Peres, this is Poland’s apology. Allowing him to speak, to have such an audience, to try and make reparations but, more importantly, to try and make right, is, in his mind, a powerful gesture.
Not all Poles ignore what has happened. In fact, on Saturday, April 19, the direct anniversary of the uprising, thousands of Poles joined hands in the center of Warsaw, creating a makeshift human wall where the ghetto walls once stood. Linking arms, the grandious nature of the atrocity became more evident. The shear numbers granted severity to the crime. Most Warsavians did not show up, perhaps some did not care. But the presence of these few righteous gentiles, fighting for the memory of men and women lost in their very own way, may be the closest thing to an apology we will ever get. They are saying sorry for the sins of their ancestors by remembering, by coming together and defiantly saying, “Never again.” The result may not be perfect, the repentance may not be all we could ask for, but it is something, and it is something real.
Human beings make mistakes. Poland and its citizens were wronged and wronged others in return. Yet let us not only dwell on what has been done but on what will be done and what has yet to be done. I will, for my part, continue arguing with my Professors, continue to remind her of what happened and hope that her eyes, like her fellow citizens, will continuously remain open.
At the closing of the Ghetto Commemoration ceremony, after Peres had spoken, a Jewish Chazan, or prayer leader, took the stage and, at the top of his lungs, recited “El Maleh Rachamim,” the prayer for the recently deceased. The graves on which we all stood were not recent. They were ancient, they were memories, they were people few in attendance had ever known outside of a textbook. Yet by saying this prayer, we were, in a way, reviving their memories. We were transplanting their deaths into the great scope of history, loudly declaring that 65 years is not so long that we can forget such a horror, such a terrible event. The act of courage exercised by Anilewicz and his comrades are to be remembered, both for the end they met and the manner in which they faced their inevitable doom. 65 years is not so long. 65 years is not so long. As long as the people of Poland remember that, as long as they believe in “Never Again,” is it possible that is enough?
As I wore my Kippah on my head throughout the ceremony, standing in a sea of non-Jews, I could feel the usual Polish stares. But it was more of intrigue than disgust, of curiosity than callousness. For some, especially the older Poles present, there seemed to be a sense of relief in their eyes. Jews still exist in Poland. Our mistakes are not irrevocable. So they stood next to me in silence, avoiding my stare but always drifting somewhat closer, not to make me feel enclosed but to tell me it was ok, I was ok, Jews were ok.
This was their apology. This was them ridding themselves of their guilt. It is less than perfect. But maybe sometimes we ought to count what we have rather than what’s missing. Maybe, as long as these memories persist, we can hold on to the hope that next time, if there is, God forbid, a next time, the outcome will be different. Maybe never again will become a part of the lexicon, a truth more than a hope, a mantra of responsibility not only on the Jews of the World, but on the Human Beings of the world as well.
Posted by borovitz at 06:08 PM | Comments (0)
April 13, 2008
Bogdan, Bransk, and the Borowicz family tree
I slowly rub my hand up and down my bare face. It seems so unnatural, so unreal, and yet so rejuvenating, so clean. I was clean-shaven for the first time in 2008.
It started sort of accidentally, really. But day by day the stubble grows and tasks come up and “your going to Poland?” questions all over the place, and suddenly you have some ugly chinstrap accumulating, and you are forced to ask yourself: what if? And then someone asked “are you growing your beard for Poland?” and of course that seemed to make sense so then I was and I did. It got excessive at time, unruly and wild, but Ari and Jonah forced me to trim my first night in Florence, and my situation improved.
I was assaulted with queries from all around: when would the madness end? Finally, I came to a conclusion, a pulled from thin air scenario that gave me a purpose and an exit, a sort of war manifesto, if you will. And it all started with a tiny little town tucked into the Northeast corridor of Poland over a century ago. It all started with Bransk.
I have mentioned Bransk on these pages before. While researching my family history, I was able to discover that Abraham Borowicz (my last name’s pre-Ellis Island spelling) left Bransk around 1904 to settle in America. I soon become obsessed with this small little town that I knew absolutely nothing about. It was the epitome of my romanticism, the fruition of my dreams of a Foer-esque moment of enlightenment. Would my naivety overcome my reality? Was I hoping for some answers that might never come? I wasn’t sure, but I had to go to Bransk to find out.
Bogdan Radomski, who is the Resident Director of the CIEE Warsaw program for the 16 American students braving the Polish winter, heartily agreed. When I informed him of the existence of such a town, he was possibly more excited than I was. What particularly struck me was the first few words that came out of his mouth: “we must go.” Suddenly and imperceptibly, this became a journey that was no longer simply about answers to my own questions. I was about to learn something, that much was sure. But what was the lesson and who would be teaching it?
Bogdan might have one of the most interesting life stories I have ever heard in my life. In our very first conversation, at lunch my first day in Warsaw, Bogdan was very excited to hear I was Jewish. He began telling me everything he knew about Polish Jewry today, although he admitted it was quite little. He also performed a ten -minute soliloquy as to the meaning of my last name. Last names, he informed me, were scarcely used in Poland until the country was partitioned at the end of the 18th century. Those people who lived in areas falling under Russian and Austrian control were forced to take on a surname for tax purposes. Borowicz, he told me, could come from one of two sources, either from forestry, as it relates to the word for a woodsman, or from the famed Polish vodka, Borowka. Unfortunately, members of the Borovitz family have tended to have more of a connection to alcoholism than to nature, but I kept my footnotes to myself.
The longer I knew Bogdan, the more he began to open up to me about his life. Although he was not alive in World War II, his parents had actually hid Jews in the attic of their house. At one point, however, a neighbor tipped them off that they were about to be searched by the Gestapo, and they were forced to send the family away. By some good graces, the majority of this family survived the War and immigrated to the United States. About 30 years ago, they re-contacted Bogdan. The family had done very well for themselves in the Philadelphia area, and offered to give Bogdan some money in return for his parents’ kindness. Bogdan, however, politely refused; accepting any money would be an insult to his parents’ memories.
Polite refusal seems to be a staple of Bogdan’s life. He might be the only Polish man I know who simply does not drink, not due to a bout with alcoholism but due to the simple logic of he does not like the taste of alcohol, does not like how alcohol makes him feel, and feels queasy when drinking. Only on special occasions will he, perhaps, allow himself a bottle of wine. While such an individual may not raise many eyebrows in America, in Poland, as well as the rest of Eastern Europe, such an attitude is beyond taboo. Once, during a visit by a Polish delegation to the Ukrainian Finance Minister (for information on Ukrainian drinking habits, see my blog on the subject) the Minister revealed to Bogdan beforehand a bottle of very expensive Vodka he was going to share with the group. Bogdan warned that the man that while he appreciated the gesture, he did not drink, and would not drink the vodka. The minister prodded a bit but finally relented, perplexed beyond belief. At the reception later on, the Minister made a point of showing off the vodka, then pouring Bogdan his very own tall glass. Bogdan stood up, rose the glass in the Minister’s direction, gave his apologies to the group, and simply walked out. Relations between the two countries have not been the same since. On another occasion, while in Chicago (mini-Warsaw), a man challenged Bogdan to a fight because he would not have a drink with him.
At first, it seems strange that a man as innocent looking as Bogdan (he reminds me of a cross between a teddy bear and a grandfather from a 50’s TV show) could have such a strong sense of will power. That is before you know about his life. Bogdan’s father was imprisoned in a Soviet prison for ten of the first 12 years of Bogdan’s life. Bogdan and his family had no idea if he was alive or dead, the Soviets divulging no information as to his condition or whereabouts. His father’s only crime was speaking out for what he believed in, promoting freedom for a land that hadn’t known it for centuries. Bogdan grew up as the man of his house; responsibility and ethics were qualities that were learned not from growth but out of necessity. His father was finally released when Bogdan was 12, but because of injuries sustained in prison he lived only another four years. Bogdan keeps a picture of his father on prominent display in his office, and the pride with which he still discusses the man he hardly knew makes it evident where his true moral compass lies.
It is hard to discuss one’s self when around Bogdan. He has too much too say, too much to teach, and the best thing to do is to ask and listen. When I asked Bogdan about the communist purge of Jews in 1968, he had yet another personal anecdote to tell. One of his closest friends, Vicky, was forced to leave the country because her parents were out of work. When I ask Bogdan about Solidarity, the trade organization that spelled the beginning of the end of Communist Poland, he tells me that he was not only a member, but he assisted in the negotiations with the communist government. When I ask him about the shift to democracy in 1989, he tells me that he was initially working on the creation of the Polish currency. When they offered him a ministerial post, however, he refused. Bogdan simply wanted to teach.
The most interesting story by far, however, that Bogdan told me involved him and his wife. Bogdan’s wife is an academic, except their fields of study could not be more different. “My wife teaches either Biology or Botany,” he tells me, “except I can never remember which because it switches so often.” He expounds upon his hours of listening to his wife discuss DNA and pollination, cloning and plants, never understanding a thing but listening all the same. In the late 1970’s and early 1980’s, Bogdan and his wife were both working in the United States, teaching and researching. After the Solidarity movement arose, Bogdan returned to Poland, yet his wife stayed abroad. When General Jaruzelski proclaimed Martial Law on Poland in 1981, all Polish academics working abroad were forced to sign a letter of support of Martial Law. Bogdan’s wife did not. Her passport was revoked, communication to the U.S. was cut, and for over five year Bogdan and his wife had no contact. The only reason he even knew she was alive was through a letter passed through multiple contacts throughout the U.S. and Great Britain that finally reached Bogdan months after it had been written. When I asked him how he felt when he couldn’t reach his wife, he responded in what I would like to call true Bogdan fashion: “I thought maybe she found someone better.”
Humility and curiosity in tow, Bogdan and I set off in our Hertz rent-a-car toward some town neither of us really knew anything out. I was going because my family was from there. Bogdan was going to act as a translator, and, basically, because he’s Bogdan. And so I was regaled with stories of communism and democracy, of Polish history and personal history. Underneath all these stories lay a word on the tip of our tongues, this mysterious Bransk, always driving closer but never quite seeming real. The entire time, however, the same questions kept running through my head: What exactly was I doing? What did this all mean?
On the way to Bransk, Bogdan insisted that we stop at Treblinka, the Nazi death camp that was the final destination for 800,000 Jews and probably 80,000 Poles, although exact numbers are hard to determine. Bogdan had never been, and I think the stop over was more for his sake than for mine. What should be known about the Treblinka death camp is that almost none of it is still standing. Partially burned during an uprising by inmates in August, 1943, and partially bombed by the allies later in the war, what remains for the observer is massive fields enraptured by trees, an enclave of death and destruction hidden from the human eye yet well within reach of true civilization. Close enough that people knew what was happening and far enough away to turn a blind eye when the nose could not. The Treblinka train tracks have been removed, yet their wooden base remain, a reminder of that final ride for close to a million people, that last stop on the murder express where they lost first their dignity and their right to life.
The memorial that exists today at Treblinka consists of what seems like hundreds of stones, possibly thousands, spread about the landscape that was the last stand for so many. Stones that have the names of famous of famous victims, like Janus Korzcak, the head of the Warsaw Ghetto Orphanage who bravely led his children to their deaths. Stones that have the names of towns and cities, places that lost all their Jews and places that simply became lost. As I entered the memorial field, the very first stone I laid my eyes on was all too familiar. Bransk. It seemed to be looking at me more than I was looking at it, so unimposing and yet so meaningful and coincidental and serendipitous. Bransk. It was waiting there, waiting to be seen, the memories of its inhabitants yearning to be remembered.
On the way out of the camp, Bogdan and I encountered an Israeli school group, finishing a weeklong trek throughout Poland of Holocaust remembrance sites. I had a brief conversation with some of the students, discussing with them how their week had gone. “It’s been hard,” one of the students replied, “but it’s important.”
Back in the car, back on the road, through towns with names I could barely pronounce but places, Bogdan assured me, which had stones in Treblinka all the same. Chestechova, Bielsk Podlaski, large communities once gone, houses with Mezuzahs ripped off their doorpost and cast aside with no thoughts of anything.
We were driving forever when finally we saw it. Bransk. Unimposing at it had been in my imagination, Bransk is the stereotypical Polish village. One street comprises the main drag of the city, filled with drugstores and supermarkets and the major small town necessities. I tried to close my eyes for a moment, to travel back in time 100 years and imagine what it had been, what sort of reality had existed for my ancestors and beyond. Perhaps as I have gotten older my ability to imagine has waned, perhaps years ago I could have seen in my mind what I so desperately wished I could still see with my eyes. But that was gone, and my thoughts seemed to betray what my hopes would not.
All Bogdan and I had to go one was a name and an address. Zbigniew Romaniuk. House number 16, Sieniewicza Street, Bransk. The door to the address held a sign above it: Apteka. Drugstore. This was our destination? We walked inside, and Bogdan asked for Mr. Romaniuk. Whispering. Chattering. A woman runs upstairs, then comes back down. One moment, she tells us with her hands and her eyes. Suddenly we are whisked upstairs, through a staircase in the back of the store up to an apartment that seems in its own right some secret annex of information. It was there that I first met Zbigniew.
An inherent warmth and kindness imbued the entire small apartment, not to mention Zbigniew himself. He welcomed in us strangers like he would have an old friend, making us feel at home, wanting us to be comfortable and at ease. Zbigniew does not beat around the bush. He knows why we are here, why I am here, even if I do not.
Zbigniew begins where I begin, with a simple sheet of paper that he removes from a folder, and meticulously begins to read off a list of names, some of which I have known from the here-say of memories and some of which were forgotten by ancestors long ago.
Abraham Borowicz. My great-grandfather. A tailor. Left Bransk between 1903-1905, born in 1882. His father, Isaac Abraham Borowicz, also a tailor. His brother, David. His brother Beryl. His sister Bracha. His family, some of whom soon followed him and some of whom he forever left behind.
Zbigniew then showed me the death record of Jakov Borowicz, who was 39 in 1942 when he was sent off to Treblinka. Named after the grandfather, or perhaps great grandfather, of Abraham Borowicz. At the same time that this Jakov (pronounced Yakov) Borowicz, a Jerry Borovitz, Hebrew name Yakov, was working in army planes in the South Pacific. Two cousins, worlds apart, who may never known of the bond they shared, and of the fate they did not. I am named after my grandfather Jerry. But a part of me is named after this other Yakov, too. I carry within me his legacy, as well, because there may be no one else to do it. There is also a Zev Borowitcz, also killed at Treblinka, possibly the son of Yakov, yet a fact that may be lost in the books of time.
Judel Borowicz, the father of Yakov, has his name appear in a property registry of the town from 1914. His father was Wolf, the translation of Zev. Perhaps Yakov was trying to help the name of his ancestor live forever. The Nazis extinguished that flame. Zbigniew would later show me this house, number 14 Cerkiewnej Street, that Judel (pronounced Yudel) once owned. The original house was destroyed in the war, and the one that stands in its place is much more modern, much more new. There’s no place like home, but this wasn’t it.
Zbigniew then began to tell me a little bit about the Jewish community of Bransk. The first mention of Jews in Bransk dates back to the 16th century, but the community really began to take off in the early 19th century. By the start of World War II, the community had at least five functioning synagogues, including one for the rich, one for the poor, one for Hassidic Jews and one for tailors, the latter of which may very well have been attended by my Great Grandfather. At one point in the early 20th century, Jews comprised 58% of the town of Bransk. Jews held a variety of professions, although, as was common in most small towns, many of them were merchants, trading and peddling their goods in the town market square.
Zbigniew insists that, historically, relations between the Jews and non-Jews of Bransk were good overall. During the War, however, the relationship becomes a bit cloudier. When the Nazis first invaded Poland, for some reason that may never be known, they decided to bomb the town of Bransk. Coincidentally, the Jewish quarter was hit the hardest, and many of the town’s synagogues were partially or entirely destroyed. Since Bransk was in Eastern Poland, it was initially placed under the control of the Soviets as a part of Hitler and Stalin’s backdoor bargaining. Many of the towns Jews welcomed these invaders, either due to their socialist ideology or their fear of the Nazis, whom they knew would treat the Jews a lot worse than Poles or Soviets ever did. Some of the Poles of Bransk were obviously upset by Jewish collaboration with the Soviets, setting an ugly stage for what was yet to come.
When the Nazis took over Bransk in 1941, they immediately ghettoized the Jews, and a little more than a year later, on November 2, 1942, the entire ghetto was liquidated, its inhabitants sent off to Treblinka with no more than a large stone to remember they were ever there. Many native Poles, even some with anti-Jewish bias, hid Jews in their homes. In fact, Bransk has ten individuals who have been rewarded as righteous gentiles by Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum in Israel, a high number for a town so small. Yet there are also many other instances of people betraying Jewish hiding places and, in a few instances, of people murdering Jews themselves. Such is the story of the end of the Jews of Bransk, and the end of the Jews in hundreds of other towns and Shtetls, where often times even memories such as these are non existent.
I found myself absolutely amazed at what I was hearing, not so much because of the story but because of the storyteller. Who was this Zbigniew Romaniuk, and what exactly was he doing? It all seemed so unreal, so dream like, the chances of everything coming together so infinitely small. How many students come to Poland? How many students come searching for their roots? And of these, how many find a man like Zbigniew, a man who seems so devoted to a subject that everyone seems to ignore, a man who seems to live for visits like these, relishing the opportunity to tell me all he can, disappointed he cant tell me more.
Through Bogdan, who was acting as my translator, I asked him the question that was pressing on my mind. “Why are you doing this?” Zbigniew’s answer was simpler than I had imagined. He told us that he is a historian, a lover of history, and that when he set out to study his town’s history, he realized he could not do it without studying the history of the town’s Jews. He even spent a half year in Israel, learning Hebrew and about Jewish rituals and customs, in order to better understand what it was he was seeing, studying, and teaching. I asked him if he had ever met resistance in the town to what it was he was doing. He became shifty at this point, unsure if it was safe to say exactly what it is he wanted to say. Apparently convinced that a 20 year old American and a 62 year old Economics teacher weren’t going to start gossiping with the natives, he confided that 12 years ago, he had been Deputy Mayor of Bransk, next in line to become Mayor. Then, a movie, entitled “Shtetl,” came out detailing the Jews of Bransk. He was interviewed at length in the film, and he was subsequently fired from his post. After bouts with unemployment, he was finally able to find work as a teacher and eventually made it back to the town’s municipal ranks. Currently serving as City Council President, he again is next in line to become Mayor. The Mayor himself has promised his backing, on the condition that he “drop the Jew stuff.” Zbigniew, however, promises he won’t. The work is too important.
After our discussion, Zbigniew took Bogdan and I back to the only remaining Jewish site in Bransk. A cemetery, hidden in the outskirts of the town, wedged in between a forest and a fence. It is small and uneven, bodies probably buried on top of each other because there was no other room, no other option. After the Nazis liquidated the ghetto, they destroyed all the headstones, placing them throughout the town as parts of walls, parts of walkways, parts of streets. Even today, you can see bits of Hebrew scrawled on the Schoolhouse buildings, individual homages to relatives and friends in bathrooms and bedroom floors. So far, Zbigniew has been able to find about 70 of these headstones and put them back in their (somewhat) rightful place, back in the cemetery. As I walked around the cemetery, I was at a lost for words, which for those who know me know is an extreme rarity. Zbigniew was talking, Bogdan was translating, and I felt more uncomfortable than I had ever felt in my life. Was I treading on my ancestors?
Did Abraham Borowicz ever imagine this? That over 100 years after he left his descendant would come, and walk on the graves of his family and friends, the only remnants of a community lost? Confused and hurt and confused some more, I said the only thing I knew how to say, reciting the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for mourners. I got lost in the words, the repetitive nature of it all soothing my bursting emotions or lack thereof. I didn’t know how I was feeling, I didn’t know what I was thinking, and saying this prayer was the only thing that stopped this lack of knowledge from truly taking me down.
On the way back to Warsaw, Bogdan and I were both pretty quiet. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was supposed to take from the whole experience. It was interesting, and unique, but besides the awe I held for Mr. Romaniuk, and the affection I felt for Bogdan, what was so special about Bransk? What was so special about me?
The day after Bransk, myself, Bogdan, and the rest of my program set out on a weekend trip to Gdansk, a port city in Northern Poland on the Baltic Sea. Friday night I attended Shabbat Dinner at the local Jewish Community building, if you can call it that. What was once a thriving Jewish community of thousands has now been relegated to less than 80, and on this particular night I am not sure there were a half dozen Jews in the room. What was particularly interesting was that on that particular day, Dr. Mordechai Livneh, along with his mother, aunts, brother and cousins, were there to visit. 58 years ago, Dr. Livneh left Gdansk, along with his family, to immigrate to the land of Israel. His mother had lived and hid in Bransk all her life. This was her first time back since they left.
Dr. Livneh told me how they had driven throughout the city, his mother showing him where she grew up, where she went to school, where she hung out with her friends and where she lived and thrived and grew. He was seeing his own history, a history he did not remember but desired to know, a history that was a part of him that he could never live but only be told. I wasn’t the only one, I realized, concerned about my history. I wasn’t the only one who wanted to know. But what would I do with it? What did it really mean?
On our last day in Gdansk, we visited the neighboring beach town of Sopot. My roommate Sean and I stood at the edge of the Baltic Sea, 45 degree weather chilling our skin, contemplating whether or not we should jump in. I stood there, clean-shaven and historically aware, not sure if one had to do with the other or if I was simply striving for coincidence because coincidence is all that made sense.
I thought of Bogdan and I thought of Zbigniew and I thought of Bransk and Abraham Borowicz and the cemetery and Treblinka and 58% and 6 million. I thought of my past and my history. And then I realized that right now, at this moment, none of that mattered. Because what was the point of Abraham Borowicz leaving Bransk 100 years ago if not for moments like this. Moments where we throw inhibition to the wind and live for the sake of living, act for the sake of action, do for the sake of doing what we may never have the chance to do again. So I ripped off my clothes and I ran into the water, cold as all hell, Sean right behind me following suit. It pierced my skin like hundreds of bees attacking all at once, and the pain didn’t end when I got out.
My past had nothing to do with this. I could have kept the beard and the only difference would have been one more extremity to dry off. I did this because I was there, because I could. I did this because when all of life’s options disappear, when hope is lost and we have no more words left to say, sometimes our only option left is to jump right in.
And as I lay there shivering on the beach, using my friend’s jacket for warmth, I suddenly realized that sometimes you just have to know how cold the water really is. The jump was important, the trip was worthwhile, but its just one moment in a lifetime of experiences, even if gives me glimpses into lifetimes of experiences. I had seen where I came from. Maybe now its time to take the leap, and figure out where I’m going.
Posted by borovitz at 11:15 AM | Comments (0)
April 04, 2008
Florence and Prague
Mine eyes have had the glory, in the past ten days, to see two of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen in my life. Florence and Prague are separated by mountains and borders and Austria and histories and diverging political preference, yet each, in their own way, are stunningly beautiful and extravagantly unique. Two cities that have produced poetry and prose, Dante and Kafka, Lorenzo De Medici and Pavlek Havel. Two cities that bring people throughout the world together to revel in their majesties, to see museums and paintings and bridges and castles. Two amazing, spectacular, wonderful cities, and yet, once my honeymoon was over, I couldn’t wait to get home.
The collegiate Spring Break has developed, in recent years, a certain “Girls Gone Wild” stigma, a scene of a jam packed beach with scantily clad young women and heavily boozed young men. Revelry and hilarity and immaturity run amok in these meccas of madness as our Nation’s best and brightest throw their inhibitions to the wind in the hopes of one last hurrah. In the world of studying abroad, however, Spring Break gives a chance for travel, an opportunity to see that which we have no yet seen, to culture ourselves for an extended period of time that a simple weekend simply can not afford. So I headed for where the culture was, to Florence, Italy and Prague, Czech Republic (or, for you native speakers out there, Firenze and Praha) prepared for adventure and excitement and maybe to learn a thing or two along the way.
The excitement of my vacation from my vacation (no, the irony has not been lost on me) truly began when I decided to celebrate the Jewish holiday of Purim the night before my flight was about to leave. Purim is the holiday that celebrates the book of Esther, the story where the Jews of Persia were saved from the hand of an evil tyrant, Haman, by the Queen, Esther, who was Jewish. Jewish tradition teaches us that, to celebrate this story, we are supposed to become so inebriated as to be incapable of recognizing the difference between the wicked Haman and Mordechai, the story’s moral compass. It should be noted that I recently learned from another blog, that of Ben Dreyfuss, that this long supposed commandment is not the whole Megillah (sorry, bad pun). Rather, the Talmudic text from where this concept is derived continues further, giving a precautionary tale as to the dangers of excessive drunkenness. However, I was unaware of this fact until after my most recent Purim schpeel (Yiddish for play, or performance). You should know that Purim and I have a sordid history. My senior year of High School, while in Israel, my entire grade decided to break the rules of our class trip by drinking on Purim. It’s a good thing that my teachers were not as deft at Talmudic texts as Ben Dreyfuss, otherwise we might have actually been kicked off the trip. Anyway, this year I decided to repeat many of my past mistakes by attending the all you can eat, all the beer you can drink Purim party of the Warsaw Jewish community. Not only could I not recognize the difference between Haman and Mordechai, I also slept through my alarm clock (not to mention my roommate attempting to wake me up) and only awoke about an hour and fifteen minutes before my flight was to take off. This taught me a valuable lesson: whenever reading a Talmudic text, or any important document, always check the paragraph AFTER whatever it is you are reading.
Due to my infallible luck as well as the brisk nature of the Warsaw airport, I was still able to make my flight on time. For anyone who has never visited Florence, I have one simple command for you: GO! It may very well be the most beautiful city in the world, unless you count the fact that the river is some sort of jungle green that just doesn’t seem right. I wish I could describe the city for you in laymens terms, but I just do not know where to begin. I was struck to my core the first time I saw Michaelangelo’s famous David. Pictures do not do this magnificent sculpture justice. The thing that strikes you most is the awe imposing size of the boy shepherd, how his muscles are rippling. Michaelangelo desired to capture the moment just before David slung the rock into Goliath’s head, dealing that fatal blow, and somehow, through David’s eyes, arms, and body stance, the sculpture exudes tension. It is an illusion, of sorts; the longer you look, the more sure you are that David is about to strike.
The Duomo, or the cathedral of Florence, is one of the most stunning edifices in existence. The decorative green surrounding the walls gives a taste of something foreign, its intricacy hinting at the true grandeur of the task completed. The cathedral is enormous, its huge red dome dominating the Florence skyline. The view from the top is amazing, as well. I had the fortune of standing behind a nice Polish couple from Warsaw on line, and they were heartily impressed with my “knowledge” of the language. Praying in the Florence Synagogue, a monstrous domed structure that sticks out from an aerial view, was one of the most unique places I had ever worshipped. The building had a very distinct Italian (and churchy) flare. The Uffizi, Florence’s most famous museum, probably contains more pictures of Jesus per square footage than anywhere in the world. While the Christian art may not have piqued my interest as much as some of the other pieces, Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” may have been one of the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen in my life. Venus, or the Roman Aphrodite, was the Goddess of love, a creature whose beauty was unspeakable. I felt myself entranced by this woman, a mere splash of color on parchment, unable to look away because I felt her looking back, felt her pulling me in for one last stare, one last moment that we could share between us. When art has that kind of effect on people, you know they are doing something right.
I was also amazed at the immense amount of history contained within this tiny city. Remnants of the Medici family who ruled Florence for centuries are evident throughout the city, from Castles and Gardens to paintings of the family lining the walls of the Uffizi. The real historical goldmine, however, is Santa Croche, which serves not only as a church but also as the cemetery for some of Florence’s finest. Michaelangelo spent his waning years in Florence, and is buried within these church walls. Machiavelli, a revolutionary in political thought (also in tyranny, but lets not get political) wrote his famous piece, “The Prince,” specifically for the Medicis. Galileo Galilei, who turned the world upside down, lays deep beneath the holy floor. Dante Alighieri, the Divine poet, was born in Florence but exiled from the city, and while he is not buried in the church, a plot commemorates his name. Even more fantastic was Dante’s church, a small and darkened house of worship that seems to lead to Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise all at once.
While the city was absolutely beautiful, the best part about the trip was getting to see my friends. I stayed with one of my best friends from High School, Jonah, and our compadre Ari was with us as well, enjoying his Spring Break from school in D.C. It had been a long time since the three of us had been able to spend this kind of time together, and we definitely made the most of it. One of the best parts about friends like Jonah and Ari is that whatever stupid things you do, or whatever moronic things you say, they are still there for you. They were both outwardly opposed to my decision to go to Warsaw, yet in the end, they could not have been happier to here how much I was enjoying myself. Its nice, occasionally, to not feel so judged. One of the best moments of our trip occurred that first Saturday night, when the three of us, along with one of my closest friends at Michigan, Mike, and his little brother, Jake, stood on Mike’s roof watching the Florence sunset. As the mixture of light, clouds, and mountains came into view, Florence’s role as a muse for artists throughout the years became glaringly clear, as it was hard not to feel inspired. The most beautiful sight I saw, however, was when Jonah and I took a 20 minute bus ride outside the city to a small Mountain town called Fiesole. The view was literally breathtaking, as Jonah and I every few minutes to pause and look at each other, not saying anything but just sharing the mutual acknowledgement that we could not believe what we were seeing. Looking up at the sky and the city below, it all seemed too dreamy, as if Michaelangelo himself had picked up a giant brush and simply stroked it to perfection. I urge all of you, if you ever have the chance to go to Florence, go to Fiesole. It was recommended to me by Professor Ralph Williams, and it has only further reaffirmed the man’s genius.
While I absolutely loved Florence, one caveat kept creeping up on me wherever I went. Everyone and their second cousin (Authors note: My second cousin, Miriam, is studying in Florence, and I had a wonderful evening with her and her family, who were visiting for the week) is studying abroad there. In the span of just a few days I ran into about 14 people that I knew. Meanwhile, two months in Warsaw and I’ve made vague Jewish-geographical connections with a handful of people. But not so in Florence, as the place is absolutely overrun by American students. The frustration among the locals is clear, and many of them adhere strictly to the “other side” of the River where tourists are not as plentiful. Even my friend Abby, who is participating in a home stay, admitted that she has few Italian friends. No one needs to learn Italian, as English is everywhere, and newfound cultural understandings exist not as much trans-Atlantic but rather trans-the Eastern seaboard of the United States. Do not, however, assume that I think any less of my friends and their choices for studying abroad (for more on choices, see previous entry). Even I must admit that being surrounded by a sea of Americans might be worth it to be able to gaze upon that skyline every day.
While not evincing the same aesthetic pleasures as Florence, Prague was, in its own way, absolutely beautiful. If I had to make a comparison, it would be that Florence seemed to showcase the glory of God while Prague seemed to showcase the glory of man. The intricacies and innuendos of the streets and buildings, the vast and eclectic architectures and style, and the mesh of cultural significance and influence all make Prague such a unique city. It seems to have a palate to satiate every tourists thirst, quite literally something for everyone. And Prague has plenty for me.
Not surprising to anyone, the Jewish Quarter was particularly enjoyable for me. I had actually been to Prague before, on a trip my Senior Year of High School with Ari and Jonah. But my main memories from that trip are being frigidly cold and typically immature, not appreciating what it was that I was truly seeing. This time around I made few of those same mistakes. Along with my fellow Warsawian Dave we went to every single sight the Jewish quarter had to offer. The Jubilee synagogue reminded me of an ornately designed Orthodox church, the colors blasting off the page and encompassing us in its own 3 dimensional world. The Jewish cemetery was absolutely fascinating, holding a who’s who of Ashkenzaic Judaism throughout the centuries. What is most interesting is that the depth of the burial plot has risen over the years, the small allocation forcing bodies to be buried on top of each other, gravestones sideways from Nazi desecration, souls cramped together, trying to cut each other on line for Messianic redemption. I was also particularly moved by the Altneu synagogue, or the “old-new” synagogue,” aptly named because it was newer than the old synagogue but older than the new synagogue. Regardless, it is the oldest continuing functional synagogue in Europe, dating back to the 13th century. I had the pleasure of worshipping there Saturday morning, and it was the first time I had ever seen women literally put behind a wall, only able to view and hear the service through small portholes. Oh how times have changed.
Prague, however, has much more to offer beyond its rich Jewish history. The Old Town square still has retained elements of its rustic feel, and the small kiosks and shops set up for the Easter Market are a nostalgic shot at the days of Yore. The Charles Bridge is an absolute marvel, a nice combination of creativity and practicality. Adorned by statues of Saints and Kings, the Bridge has served as a Prague landmark for centuries. The most famous statue adorning the sides is the one of the crucified Jesus, with the Hebrew inscription hanging over his head, “Kadosh Kadosh Kadosh Adonai Tzeaot,” or “Holy Holy Holy is the Lord of Hosts.” Just on the other side of the Bridge lays what I do hope is a slightly more ornate version of my future home, Prague Castle. I have seen a lot of Castles in my travels, but this one rivals Sweden’s at the top of the list. Built on one of the highest hills in Prague, the Castle lords over the city like a grand protectorate and big brother, safeguarding its citizens with an eye on their activities. It is both a security blanket and an imposing force, a warning to both those within and from outside to not dare disrupt the Kingdom’s order.
Like Florence, the best part of Prague was definitely spending time with my friends. The first night I stayed with Amy, a friend of mine from Michigan. Amy is the sweetest and most likeable person I know, and my friends from Warsaw who met me in Prague heartily agreed. She literally shepherded me around the city, making sure I would take in all the city sites she deemed important. The next three nights I stayed with Scott and Zach, to other fellow Wolverines. My first night in their apartment was certainly a memorable one, as the two decided to throw a party which they graciously allowed my fellow Warsawians to attend. It should be noted that Scott and Zach do not live in dorms but rather in an apartment building, and there is a Czech woman who lives somewhere in their building who is very unhappy to have noisy American college students as her neighbors. After repeated banging on the door, the woman finally decided to call the Czech police. They broke up with party with the fervor of a post communist apparatus, demanding passports and, more likely than not, desiring a pay off. We, in the end, gave them neither, an event that simply spelled the end for their celebratory endeavor. Scott and Zach showed me an amazing weekend, filled with all night partying and rich conversation, an amazing three days that left an indelible imprint on my time in Prague.
Yet I could not help myself, while being in Prague, from developing a sort of “Warsaw superiority complex.” When deciding where I would study abroad, I was split between Prague and Warsaw, finally choosing the latter because I thought it would be a more unique experience. For once in my life, I got something right, as there have to be close to 500 students studying in Prague, all of whom hang out at the same clubs and run into each other multiple times a week. The city is also absolutely over-run by foreigners. It was almost impossible to walk across the Charles Bridge, and the line for a tour of Prague Castle was around the block. Everywhere I went I heard English, and the desire to learn Czech seems not only secondary but also highly unnecessary. The irony is that some students went to Prague looking for something different; while it is certainly no Florence, it may well be on its way to becoming a real staple of the study abroad experience, complete with all the baggage that entails. But again, like Florence, I want to add a major warning label: Prague is still an absolutely spectacular city and would have been a great place to spend a semester.
I cannot even tell you, however, how happy I was to return to Warsaw after my ten days of traveling was done. Yes, I was tired and out of clean clothes, and a shower was certainly high on my priority list. But more than that, I was happy because, to a certain extent, my trip to Florence and Prague had vindicated my own choice of Warsaw. Florence is a perfect place for Jonah and Mike. The nightlife, the food, and the atmosphere all appeal to both of their personalities. But the truth is that if it hadn’t been for the two of them and Ari, the trip simply would not have been the same. Being with my friends made five days in Florence whiz by, filled with parties and food and just being able to sit there an enjoy each other’s company, something so rare in today’s day and age. But left to my own devices two days would have sufficed. Prague was a similar experience. Amy’s kindness gave me the best introduction to the city I could have asked for. Scott and Zach showed me how they have a good time. Yet in Prague, everyone seems like a guest, and trying to find a place to belong seemed an insurmountable task.
In Warsaw, we are it. No other Americans, very little English, sticking out but at the same time carving out a niche. We are insulated, but up to a point. We are seen as different but also as intriguing. Worshipping in Florence was different and the rustic Prague synagogue was a great experience but I felt myself longing for the Nozyk Synagogue in Warsaw, a place I was beginning to feel at home. The honeymoon is over. I am no longer living the dream but the reality. This is no longer a vacation but a more permanent stay. Friendships are maturing, relationships are expanding, and I’m beginning to really understand what Warsaw, what Poland, and what the Polish people are all about. Frankly, by this point, no other city can ever measure up.
Posted by borovitz at 04:45 AM | Comments (0)
April 01, 2008
Six Words. Six harrowingly frightening words, hanging over my head like an anvil of impending doom. Six simple words that define me and confine me in one fluid motion. “You look exactly like your father.”
Perhaps I should bring in some background in preparation for this unabashed parental bashing. This past week my parents performed their role in the study abroad act: the mandatory week-long visit to their child’s adoptive home. In the end, perhaps my decision to come to Warsaw was a true test my parents’ love. Their three week sojourn to Australia to visit my sister, Abby, during her time there was like a materialized dream. I know of few sane people (authors note: I don’t necessarily consider myself sane) who lay awake at night wishing they could see the muggy skies of Warsaw one last time. But my parents braved the cold weather and the lack of sunlight and came Eastward for a ten day tour of Warsaw, Krakow, and Berlin.
My parents might be the most stereotypical American tourists you have ever seen. My father, with a fanny pack around his waist, has absolutely no qualms about the fact that he rarely speaks the native tongue. He insists, in true Anglo-phile (and Irving Appelbaum) fashion, that if you say it loud enough, slow enough, and use proper hand motions, the message will eventually get through. While my father is deficient at communicating, my mother seems unable at time to master broken English. She will frequently ask for further clarification, often times repeatedly.
My parents, however, despite their deficiencies, might be the best married couple I have ever seen. (Full Disclosure: they gave birth to me. I might be biased.) My father is a master complainer. Whether it be his neck, his eyes, his head, the weather, geopolitical conflicts, or the Cleveland Indians, there is always something going wrong, and he loves letting my mother know about it. My mother, on the other hand, can be…demanding. Yet in some strange way, these two traits fit together like an extremely complex set of Lincoln Logs, for lack of a better childhood reference. They seem to truly revel in each others tragic flaws, my mother’s eyes twinkling at another Rabbinical “dilemma” or my father’s slight grin at a matriarchal “request.” As my father told me recently, “I love your mother more every day.”
My parents, incidentally enough, came from different backgrounds. My father was born in the working class neighborhood of Cleveland Heights, Ohio, on the same block with every other member of his family. Times were often tight financially for my father growing up, and things only worsened when my Grandfather Jerry (my namesake) passed away when my father was 17. My father went to work, taking out loans for college and later on rabbinical school, not enjoying even close to the lackadaisical lifestyle I have come to love so much. By the time my father finished Rabbinical school and started getting his life on track, he had one brother diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, one brother in prison, and a sister with hesitant dreams of how she would pay for her own college.
My mother, on the other hand, grew up in Decatur, Illinois. Like my father, she lived in a town inhabited by much of her family. Yet from an early age, my mother was afforded amenities my father could only dream of. She attending college loan free. She traveled through Europe for 6 months. She spent part of her Senior Year of High School in Israel. She had two loving parents and a loving sister and moved to a city that she loved with a job that she loved and friends that she loved and a promising future on the horizon. My mother had it all. Except for my father.
I was glad to have my parents visiting for the week. Yea, we have our differences, but in the end I am so lucky to have two such supportive people in my corner. A few years ago, after getting into some juvenile trouble, my father sternly advised me that he would never stop loving me but that I had to always be honest with him. The agreement has boded well for both sides. My parents and I were not the only ones excited for the visit. Some of my fellow transplanted Warsawians (ahem, Elise) were quite eager to meet my makers.
One night during my parents visit, they graciously offered to take out my friends and I for dinner. Everyone had a great time. My father talked Judaism with some of the guys while my mother told embarrassing childhood stories for the girls, who were sure to return the favor by relaying some of my exploits that don’t quite make the cut for these pages. It was after this wonderful dinner that disaster struck. Left, right, young, old, no one could help but bombard me with verbal grenades, those six words that rattle my core like nothing before. “You look exactly like your father.”
After my initial shock subsided, I really began to think about those 6 words. How much, in the end, were we just reprints of our parents? Where does individualism end and genetics begin? In the end, is every man doomed to be his father?
I am not saying that there is anything wrong with my father. In fact, I admire him more than any other person in the world. His sense of morality and truth and commitment to what is right at times seems so effortless, such an innate part of his being. A certain part of me pines for that sense of inner piece. But a certain part of me is so absolutely scared of becoming his carbon copy, or even a mixed copy of my two parents. Why can’t I be an original?
Whenever people who know my parents ask about my future plans, you can be sure there is always one question they will ask: “are you going to be a Rabbi like your father?” Sometimes the lawyer-like-your-mother parallel is thrown in, as well. Why, if I become a Rabbi, does that inherently make me like my father? Why, if I study law, am I suddenly my mother’s son? I almost feel like I am faced with a black and white and grayless choice: I must either choose a career entirely different than my parents, or be forced to live my life in comparison to them.
There is no shortage of such examples in today’s world. Our current President can serve as the epitome of such father-son rivalry. Without becoming overtly political, it does not take much more than a few college level psychology classes to figure out that Dubbya suffers from a severe “finish what daddy started” mentality. Our President lived the first 40 years of his life as his father’s son, and I cannot help but think he enjoys it when they refer to President Bush (41) as the son’s father.
So is that all it really is? Every man living in his father’s shadow, desperately hoping to cast one of his own? In his book, “The Audacity of Hope,” Barack Obama wrote that every man was either trying to measure up to his father or to rectify the mistakes of his father. Are we really such simplistic creatures that we are driven my the most bare-boned of human emotions? Is all I really want to be a better man than my father? And is that so bad?
After spending a week in Poland, my parents and I took the fast train Westward to check out Berlin. Berlin is one of the most interesting cities I have ever visited. East and West Berlin were only reunified in the last 20 years, and the differences between the two sides of the city, while not as glaring as before, are still noticeable. East Berlin can, at times, look like a glorified version of Warsaw. West Berlin reminds me of a much larger version of Times Square. But the city, which is absolutely gigantic, still seems to fit together as a whole, and it is eerie to think that slabs of concrete once separated people from their families.
Berlin, obviously, has a rich Jewish history. Jews have been in Germany for centuries, and for a long time they were offered greater chances for opportunity than anywhere else. German Jews, as well, began to take on their own specific character. Germans are known for being efficient, organized individuals, and German Jews acquired the same traits over time. The records kept by the German Jewish community were unparalleled, the organization and social structures some of the best of its time. As my parents and I went on a tour of Jewish Berlin, we were constantly being shown former synagogues but, more importantly, dozens of former schools and hospitals, old age homes and orphanages. The Jewish community of Berlin was tight knit, albeit they had their differences, and truly worked together on a message of self-reliance.
In the post war era, the question was often asked whether or not Jews could, or should, return to Germany. While the cooperation of gentiles in other countries can and will always be a subject of debate, the people of Germany were undoubtedly acquiescent to Hitler’s plans. Most Germans were, in fact, fervent Nazis, even if they did not advocate the mass extermination of Jews. Could Jewish life in such a place be trusted? Could that sense of Yiddishkeit, or Jewish spirit, be renewed?
In an effort to make amends for it’s past transgressions, during the 1960’s and 70’s West Germany offered free citizenship to anyone of Jewish origin. The people who came, however, were not the German-Jewish survivors of the Holocaust; they were long gone, living new lives in Israel or the United States. Rather, it was hordes of Jews from then communist countries, the Soviet Union in particular, that emigrated under these favorable conditions. These new Germans left an indelible impact on the Jewish community.
Today’s Jews of Berlin do not hold the same characteristics as their predecessors. The marks of efficiency and organization, while still evident, lack their previous strength. The community is unified, but differences are often glaring, especially in regards to the socioeconomic performances of native German Jews in relation to their Eastern counterparts. Our guide, Chaya, provided my parents and I with a superb example to represent this shift. All of the local shops run by German Jews run on strict schedules and timetables. Everyone knows the operating hours and prices and sales, etc. However, the local Israeli butcher, originally of Eastern European origin, does not keep regular hours. He simply opens up shop whenever it is convenient for him. To offset this potential loss in sales, he gives out his cell phone number to all of his customers for emergency purposes. These are not your parents German Jews.
Friday night, my parents and I decided to attend services at one of Berlin’s more famous synagogue. The service was the same kind my father had grown up attending in Cleveland, Ohio, and he was extremely moved by all the familiar tunes. As I looked around the congregation, I noticed that there was a distinct un-German look to the people around me. Some of them looked Middle Eastern; others were blatantly Russian. Many of them were immigrants, and many more had parents who were not born in Germany. Yet they were all here, praying in this synagogue, singing the same tunes that German Jews had sung for generations before hand, sitting in the same seats and living in the same communities and trying to be the best people, and the best Jews, they could possibly be. Certain things about the German Jewish community has changed. Some of the customs have altered, and a shift in mindset can be detected. Yet a Friday night service in 2008 maybe be indistinguishable from a Friday night service in 1938 to anyone other than the keen observer. The Rabbi still wears the same outfit, the congregation still supports each other, and the community still tries to help its own.
That’s when it hit me. There are certain parts of my character that I have inherited from my parents and that will never change. I talk with my hands and I pace like my father. I have a methodical speech pattern that resembles my mother. I have a propensity for debate and a love of religion and politics. Some things, like the Friday night service, just don’t change.
But I am also an individual. My parents may never fully comprehend why it is I came to Warsaw. My sarcasm is often well over their heads, and my political preferences often stray from their realm of comfort. Sometimes I will be exactly who everyone thinks I am, a spitting image of my parents. But sometimes I am going to surprise everybody. Sometimes I will do something that my parents would never do. Sometimes I will do something for myself, something unique and different and unexplainable yet utterly delightful.
Sometime I might hit the trail and figure out where it is I’m going. It may be to Rabbinical School or Law School or Grad School or no school, it may be to Poland or Thailand or Nigeria or Chicago or Alabama. Or it might be somewhere entirely different. But sometimes we need to take the advice of the Israeli butcher and just close up shop, not for anybody else but for ourselves.
But not to worry, because I will always leave my cell phone number for emergencies.
Posted by borovitz at 08:58 AM | Comments (0)