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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 April 22, 2008 06:08 PM