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Uncovering Jewish Heritage

Monthly Archives: February 2016

Hiding in Plain Sight: Lesko 1992

29 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by Marysia Galbraith in Cemeteries, Jewish Culture, Lesko, Memory, Polish-Jewish Heritage, Polish-Jewish relations, Synagogues

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Funny what we forget. I got an SLR camera for my ethnographic fieldwork in the early 1990s, thinking it would be an important tool for documenting everyday life. I even experimented with shooting and developing black and white film (this was a film camera). The photos are interesting because they capture things I deliberately went out to photograph. As it turns out, fragments of Jewish culture figure prominently; they’re the subject of 28 out of 112 photos. Here are some of them from Lesko:

Tombstones (some painted) in the Lesko Jewish Cemetery. 1992
Tombstones (some painted) in the Lesko Jewish Cemetery. 1992
Marcin beside a tombstone taller than he is. 1992
Marcin beside a tombstone taller than he is. 1992
Front facade of the former synagogue in Lesko. 1992
Front facade of the former synagogue in Lesko. 1992

This ornate facade of the synagogue features the Ten Commandments and the inscription in Hebrew: “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven” (see Virtual Sztetl). The building was partially destroyed during World War II, and rebuilt in the 1960s and 70s. That’s when the round tower was enlarged and the curved roofline was added. You can tell because the newer features are made of brick instead of the original stone. Here are photos of the interior and exterior of the synagogue in 1932 (from fotopolska.eu):

Lesko Synagogue 1932
Lesko Synagogue 1932
Lesko Synagogue 1932 interior
Lesko Synagogue 1932 interior

 

Last spring, I learned that the iron railing that used to surround the central alter is now a balcony on a building in the center of town. I actually took this photo of it in 1992, but had no idea where the balcony came from.

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The balcony on this building used to be the iron railing around the alter in the synagogue, Lesko 1992

It’s one of the prettiest buildings in town, especially since it was renovated and repainted golden orange. Still, this railing brings to home the fact that fragments of Jewish life and its destruction are hiding in plain sight. I suppose its appropriation is what preserved this particular part of the synagogue. But knowing what it is and where it came from, it seems horribly, terribly, out of place.

The Phantom Limb

24 Wednesday Feb 2016

Posted by Marysia Galbraith in antisemitism, Catholicism, Cemeteries, Jewish Culture, Lesko, Memory, Poland, Polish Culture, Polish-Jewish Heritage, Polish-Jewish relations, stereotypes

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Fieldwork 1991-3

It was a beautiful sunny day in Alabama. As I walked across the quad enjoying the promise of spring, I bumped into a colleague, Joanna Biermann, who is going to Warsaw next month to participate in a conference associated with the annual Beethoven Festival. She has been an invited guest several times already, and has made some good friends in Warsaw as a result. We took a half hour to catch up, sipping tea on a bench under the large oaks behind the library. In response to my current research, she quoted a friend of hers who describes Polish Jews as the nation’s phantom limb; the pain remains even after the Jews are gone.

The beauty of ethnographic fieldwork is you record everything, even what seems at the times peripheral to your area of focus. That means I have over twenty years of fieldnotes I continue to mine for information about other aspects of Polish culture. Recently, I returned to the notes from my earliest fieldwork in 1991-1993 looking for references to Jews and Jewish culture. I coded them using ethnographic software, and now I’m trying to pull out patterns in the way Poles talked about and acted toward Jewish subjects. The first thing that strikes me is how often Jews were mentioned in interviews and informal conversations, despite the fact that most of the people I spoke with had limited or no contact with actual Jews. Most of the participants in my study were still in high school in the early 1990s. That means that by the time they were born in the 1970s, most of the Polish Jews who had survived the Holocaust had left, pushed out by organized political campaigns and by everyday prejudice.

LeskoSynagog

Lesko Synagogue in 1992

The comments I recorded are mostly superficial, and usually fall back on stock phrases, sentiments, and stereotypes. Since I mostly did group interviews in the early 1990s, I was able to witness young peoples’ debates about the role of Jews in Polish life. Their views were so varied that no unified perspective emerged. One person would claim that Jews are still prevalent in government, or in journalism, and others would disagree. One criticized Poles for intolerance, while others interjected that tolerance was a fundamental value that has made Poland a hospitable environment for minorities (including Jews) for most of the nation’s history. Some addressed a lingering distaste, or even hatred of Jews; others countered that these are dying artifacts of an older generation that young people do not share.

Most commonly, Jews were linked to property and wealth. I was told that Jews used to say, “You own the streets but we own the buildings.” Even today, this phrase is repeated. Usually, it’s a way of highlighting the discrepancy between the political domination of Poles and the economic power of Jews. Some imply that because Jews expressed disdain for the impoverished Poles, it justifies Poles’ resentment and dislike of Jews. But also, because I’ve heard this phrase so many times in so many ways, I know it’s often repeated without much thought at all, as one of the few things anyone ever told them about Jews.

Some participants in my study expressed continued concern about Jews reclaiming property or Jewish capital flooding into Poland and buying up the country, yet again leaving Poles with nothing. Others defended everyone’s right to invest in Poland, emphasizing the importance of being open to other groups, or countered that Poles are envious of anyone who gets ahead. One person suggested that Jews should be admired for their ability to create and organize; Poles should learn from them, not assume that they are schemers.

On the ten-day walking pilgrimage to Częstochowa (I really did this—all 300 km—to the monastery housing Poland’s most important icon, the Black Madonna), a priest entertained the pilgrims on the journey with stories that used humor as a vehicle for discussing the differences between Catholics and Jews. Although he tried to show that the two faiths have shared origins and fundamental similarities, he sometimes crossed the line toward mockery. For instance, when explaining why Catholics don’t abide by Sabbath restrictions, he told a story about an Orthodox Jew who hadn’t locked his business before sunset on the Sabbath, so he used his cat to turn the key.

On another occasion, I spoke with a priest who felt the Polish people and the Catholic Church are under attack by accusations of intolerance and antisemitism. He talked about slander in the press, and referred to an article that linked antisemitism in Germany to the irrational antisemitism that persists in Poland despite the virtual absence of Jews. He complained that this view is biased and has no place in an article about Germany. He further complained that when Poles tell the truth, for instance that most communists in Poland during and after WWII were Jews, Jews accuse them of antisemitism. These are the same Jews, he went on, who told Poles, “You own the streets but we own the buildings.” The priest also argued that press reports are overwhelmingly negative and misrepresent the Church, giving it a bad name. But then he went on to label as Jews two prominent journalists—Adam Michnik, the editor of the newspaper Gazeta Wyborcza and Jerzy Urban, editor of the satirical news weekly Nie. On another occasion, he got into a heated defense of Poles, saying he doesn’t understand why they have a reputation in the West for antisemitism.

Both of the priests reinforced the distance between Poles and Jews, though in different ways and with different degrees of vitriol. They offered little possibility for Jews to be regarded as Poles.

The person who expressed the most nuanced view of Poles’ relations with other ethnic and religious groups was the director of one of the high schools in Lesko, a small town in the southeastern mountain region of Bieszczady. Even before I started the taped interview with him, he told me that the biggest ethnic problem in Poland was going to be with Lithuanians and Jews who want their former properties back. For example, the dormitory of the high school is claimed by prewar owners who were Jews. At the time, it wasn’t yet clear if the building would be returned, and if the money spent on its renovation would be reimbursed. During the interview, he had this to say:

“There are minorities [in Poland], everyone knows that. It’s an interesting situation. The typical American may not understand because in the US there are many nationalities that cultivate their own traditions, but nevertheless remain primarily American. But because of the unjust politics toward minorities during the Interwar period, hatred was awakened between Poles and Jews and Poles and Ukrainians. This was easy to do because Poles were in their own country but poor, while Jews owned the buildings and businesses. Jews are condemned for being rich, while Ukrainians are pushing for higher positions. But there are no attacks. Everyone lived together, went to school together, met and got to know each other’s culture. They were all free to study their religion. Also, in Lesko, there was a Greek Catholic church, a Catholic church, and a Jewish place of worship, and nothing happened. Everyone could believe what they wanted, and no one was persecuted for what they think. Jews were destroyed by Germans[…] After the war, state politics was also in error. It acted as if minorities didn’t exist at all.”

Although he reiterated stereotypes, he also sought to balance positive and negative views of Jews and their history in Poland.

Others hinted at an ethos of tolerance. They talked about historically mixed communities that functioned peacefully, and about the need for acceptance of all people. One student in Krakow said, “If we are really are democratic now, there has to be a place for Jews [in Poland]. We can’t say ‘Polska dla Polakow’ [‘Poland for Poles’].” Others, like the student who showed me the Jewish cemetery in Lesko shortly after I moved there in 1992, expressed sadness that Jews are no longer present. He said it’s too bad the cemetery is neglected, but Poles have no money and there are no more Jews to insure its upkeep. He said he likes to come to the cemetery; it’s a peaceful place.

Much of the talk I recorded in the early 1990s seems predicated on the assumption that there were more Jews present than actually were at the time, and they were hiding in plain sight. Some felt threatened by the potential wealth and power of these covert Jews. But others asserted that there are no more Jews in Poland. If any remained, they assimilated— it was Jews who felt threatened by Poles after the war and during communism, so they stopped admitting their ethnicity, changed their last names, and forgot their culture and traditions. These are two sides of the same coin because in fact, public Jewish life and religion disappeared from nearly every Polish village, town, and city. But the past 25 years have shown that a notable proportion of contemporary Poles have some Jewish heritage and an increasing number of them (though still a tiny fraction of the contemporary Polish population, and a tiny fraction of the prewar Polish-Jewish population) is becoming more curious about their origins. Already in 1992-3, the sense was growing among the teenagers I spoke with that it isn’t necessary to hide one’s ethnic/religious roots anymore. After the fall of communism in 1989, something significant had shifted and institutional barriers against ethnic and religious minorities had weakened.

Still, so much about Jewish lives and deaths were left out of the comments I collected, as if the pain of their amputation from Polish communities was too much to bear.

Where’s Ralph?

13 Saturday Feb 2016

Posted by Marysia Galbraith in Jewish Culture, Kazimierz, Krakow, Memory, Polish-Jewish Heritage, World War II

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Amon Goeth, Ralph Fiennes, Schindler's List

I should have remarked yesterday how strange it was to see Nazi uniforms and people wearing yellow stars in the middle of Kazimierz. Even though the atmosphere was relaxed–people were play acting, or really just standing around and waiting. Those piles of suitcases stood out as a stark reminder of the destruction the scene was designed to recall. Also, the energy shifted when Ralph Fiennes/Amon Goeth strode purposefully to the top of the pile. He exuded an authority that even at a distance was unsettling. And in case you’ve been wondering where Ralph Fiennes is in this photo:

1993SchindlersList3

Filming Schindler’s List, 1993. Ralph Fiennes is in the background, playing Amon Goeth

Here he is:

RFiennes

Ralph Fiennes preparing to climb to the top of the pile of suitcases while playing Amon Goeth

Kazimierz

13 Saturday Feb 2016

Posted by Marysia Galbraith in Cemeteries, Identity, Jewish Culture, Kazimierz, Krakow, Memory, Polish-Jewish Heritage, Polish-Jewish relations, Synagogues

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Schindler's List

Raised on stories about Mama’s magical homeland of Poland, I visited for the first time in 1986. This was before the fall of communism, when the country was still in the grips of a state socialist government. But although I went in search of my roots, I didn’t think about my heritage as being Jewish. I knew nothing about Polish Jews, and I didn’t identify as Jewish. Nor did I mention it to anyone; there would not have been much to tell since I didn’t know anything about this aspect of my family history. Moreover, and perhaps primarily, I had somehow internalized the unspoken understanding that Poles are Catholic, and Jewish heritage wasn’t supposed to be talked about.

I review the memories in my mind, searching for clues about how I thought about Polish Jews. Again, I am reminded that I didn’t think about my own Jewish heritage during my first visits to Poland, except perhaps to repress it. I preferred the family narrative about our Polish Catholic background to the reality of our more complex past. From time to time, I saw anti-Semitic graffiti, or heard prejudicial remarks about Jews. But mostly, neither I nor the Poles I met paid much attention to the past lives of Polish Jews.

But not entirely. For instance, during the summer school I attended in Krakow, a fieldtrip was organized to Kazimierz, the former Jewish quarter of the city. Jews settled there near the end of the 15th century when faced with restrictions against living in the city center. By the 1930s the population of Kazimierz reached about 60,000 Jews. Most died in the Holocaust, leaving the district abandoned. After the war, it was not a popular place to live and those who moved in did little to maintain or update the historic buildings. By the 1980s, most of Kazimierz was in disrepair. Some buildings had fallen down completely while others had cracked, grey, and dirty walls. In fact, much of the Old City of Krakow looked run down. But Kazimierz was worse, even on Szeroka Street, the historic center of the Jewish district.

Trace of a mezuzah in a doorway, Kazimierz 1986
Trace of a mezuzah in a doorway, Kazimierz 1986
Kazimierz 1986
Kazimierz 1986
Old Synagogue in Kazimierz, 1986
Old Synagogue in Kazimierz, 1986

It’s hard for me to distinguish memories from my first visit to Poland and subsequent ones in the early 1990s, but I think I went to the Remuh Synagogue already in 1986. That’s where a small group of older Jews continued to congregate. I also visited the walled cemetery next to the synagogue, where at least some of the gravestones and arched grave coverings were maintained and, judging by the small stones left on them, visited regularly. I think it was in the 1990s I was told that many of these older Jews were not in fact Polish, but rather came from the former Soviet Union. Such talk left me with the impression they weren’t real Polish Jews, but rather opportunists exploiting the growing interest in Jewish heritage tourism.

Some of the historic buildings started to be renovated already in the early 1990s. The first Jewish-themed business I remember was Ariel, a restaurant and café on Szeroka Street. It featured Jewish food and displayed Jewish memorabilia and artwork. I took some of my friends from Bieszczady, my rural fieldsite in the southeast of the country, to Ariel. I wanted to impress them with the cultural diversity of Krakow. Looking back at my fieldnotes from that time, I was surprised to see I noted that my friends were fascinated by this former Jewish district. They asked me if the café was in a Jewish style, and if the people around us were Jewish. So perhaps even then, Poles were more interested in Jewish culture than I realized.

1993Ariel

Ariel Cafe in Kazimierz 1993

Over the years, Kazimierz has become more and more popular. The first to come were artists and students seeking an edgier, cheaper part of the city to live in, as well as tourists seeking traces of Poland’s Jewish past. I have read that a turning point came after Steven Spielberg filmed Schindler’s List in the district. This was in early 1993, while I was still living in Krakow. A fake wall was built to enclose Szeroka Street near Starowiślna Street, and movie-set facades resembling World War II era businesses were painted on abandoned buildings. In effect, Spielberg turned the area into the Jewish ghetto, even though the actual ghetto was a few miles away in the district of Płaszów. I watched filming one day. An actor dressed as a Nazi officer (I now realize it was Ralph Fiennes playing Amon Goeth) strode to the top of a pile of suitcases over and over again. Mostly, everyone was just standing around. I was able to pick Spielberg himself out; he was wearing one of his signature ball caps. Some of his kids were there, and I think I saw his wife as well.

Filming Schindler's List, 1993. Ralph Fiennes is in the background, playing Amon Goeth
Filming Schindler’s List, 1993. Ralph Fiennes is in the background, playing Amon Goeth
Filming Schindler's List, Kazimierz 1993. Note Ariel Cafe in the background and the fake facades on the surrounding buildings.
Filming Schindler’s List, Kazimierz 1993. Note Ariel Cafe in the background and the fake facades on the surrounding buildings.

After witnessing the filming of Schindler’s List, I couldn’t suspend my disbelief and become absorbed into the story when I watched the movie in the theatre. It didn’t help that one of my friends, a swarthy Brazilian whose father’s family was Polish, appeared larger than life in the first “Jewish” crowd scene.

Today, so many parts of Kazimierz have been reconstructed or renovated that it can be easy to forget how derelict it used to be. In addition to the many cafes and restaurants, the synagogues, prayer houses, and other Jewish institutions have been restored. Even more significantly, eclectic forms of Jewish life have returned to the district, most visibly at the Jewish Community Center, which holds Shabbat dinners and Jewish cultural events, and functions as both a gathering point and an information center for Jewish residents of Krakow and visitors from around the world.

Inside the Tempel Synagogue, Kazimierz
Inside the Tempel Synagogue, Kazimierz
Inside the Tempel Synagogue, Miodowa Street, Kazimierz 2015
Inside the Tempel Synagogue, Miodowa Street, Kazimierz 2015
Izaak Synagogue, Kazimierz
Izaak Synagogue, Kazimierz
I gave a talk at the Jewish Community Center in Kazimierz, June 2015
I gave a talk at the Jewish Community Center in Kazimierz, June 2015

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