Melbourne Australia couple Sigi (93) and Hanka (91) say after all of these years they are still very much in love.

Having virtually grown up in labour camps, the teenagers were both wasting away when their eyes first locked in the Częstochowa camp in Poland.

“I lost my mind,” Sigi says. “When I saw her, the whole world was turning around me. I saw a pair of beautiful eyes and I heard bells ringing.”

It was New Year’s Eve 1944, eighteen days before the camp was liberated by the Red Army.

“I had no interest in girls, because I was a skeleton,” Sigi says. “There was a pair of beautiful eyes looking at me, with a smile like I never saw in my life.”

He approached her and they talked. Before returning to his barracks he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“I remember the first kiss,” Hanka says as she puts her hand on her face. That is exactly what she did on that first day because, she says, she wanted to hold onto it forever. Sigi had stood out in an environment where the inhumane conditions had left most people shells of their former selves.

“At that time, the people in the camp were terrible,” she says. “He was very gentle.”

Over the coming days, this new love was tested. Sigi had been working in the munitions workshop making bullets for the Nazi German army. He says he had been sabotaging the factory line — making bullets too small for the gun barrels. When he received word that the Gestapo were looking for him, he found a hiding spot in a nearby abandoned construction site. He says only Hanka knew where he was hiding.

“She was the only person I could trust my life with,” he says.

Hanka says she risked her life to keep him alive — smuggling him small pieces of her bread ration and a blanket that she had made to keep him warm on -15 degree nights. Then one night, she came for a second visit. This time, she was smiling and had her arms out. The camp was being liberated.

“They’re gone,” she told him. “We are free.”

The next day they were married.

The year after, Hanka gave birth to the first of their two daughters, Evelyne, the first baby born to Holocaust survivors in Sigi’s home town of Katowice after the war.

Having moved to Australia in 1971, it wasn’t until their 50th wedding anniversary that the couple had a proper wedding, in their daughter’s Melbourne backyard.

Amazingly, their witnesses were fellow inmates at the labour camp, who had also witnessed their 1945 marriage signing.

“We’ve achieved a lot,” Sigi says. “We’ve got so many grandchildren and great grandchildren. She charmed me. That was that, the rest was history.”

Unlike Hanka and Sigi, only a handful of their classmates survived the Holocaust. Their great-grandson’s school, Bialik College, is currently collecting 1.5 million buttons to honour the children who were murdered under the Nazi regime. Sigi is donating 180 buttons to the project this month, to represent the family he lost in the Holocaust.

The doting couple, aged 93 and 91, have already had their gravestones prepared, side by side, for when they leave this world. The inscription also commemorates their immediate family who were never given a grave.

“We are inviting the souls of our exterminated family to rest in our grave.”

[Webmaster: Sadly, Sigi passed away, in Melbourne, on 18th October 2019, at the age of 95.]

Częstochowa Landsleit are encouraged to pay tribute to their parents,
their grandparents or other members of their nuclear or extended family,
who either survived or perished in the Holocaust. 

• In fact, anyone who wishes to may write a tribute page to some or all of their family,
  so long as their family comes from Częstochowa or the surrounding area.

• Each tribute should be a maximum of 1,500 words (in WORD or plain text format)
  and MUST be accompanied by at least 2 or up to 4 photographs (a page of plain text
  without a pic or two does not look good at all)..

• Each tribute should be headed CLEARLY with the names of the people being written about.

• You may submit a tribute for as many families as you wish – but please,
  write each one SEPARATELY.

• Please state clearly the name you want to appear as the author of the tribute and,
  optionally, your relationship to the family being written about.

“Because You are Jewish” – the Story of a Young Man’s Journey from Poland to the Five Towns

I was born in Częstochowa, Poland, in 1988. Since there were no Jewish schools in Poland at that time, my mother sent me to public school. When I was 8 years old I came back home from school and I told my mother what the teacher told us that day – “Mom, tomorrow we can’t eat meat, we are going to church and the priest is going to pour ashes over our heads.” My mother looked at me and said, “Sure, if you don’t want to eat meat tomorrow, I will not give you meat to eat, but you will not go to church.” I asked, “Why not?” She said, “Because you are Jewish.”

This is when I found out for the first time that I was Jewish. Since that day, I knew that I was Jewish but I didn’t understand what it meant to be a Jew. All my friends from school would go to church and I was the only one who didn’t. When I was asked which church I belonged to, I would have to lie and make up a name. I once told my best friend in school that I was Jewish and the next day I was called by everybody a “dirty Jew”. That taught me to keep my mouth shut and not to tell anyone my secret.

For many years, my parents and I would attend a summer and winter Jewish camp in Poland called The Lauder Camp. This camp was a place where all the Jewish families from the whole Poland would come and spend a few weeks learning about Judaism. The camp was for all three generations of Polish Jews: Holocaust survivors, their children and grandchildren. Once I knew I was Jewish, it was refreshing to be in a place where I didn’t have to hide my true identity — the secret of who I was. There, everyone was Jewish and everyone felt comfortable. There, for the first time, I learned my favorite song, Modeh Ani, and I would sing it everywhere I went. I would even sing it in my school.

Aside from camp, I had another source for my Jewish education – my mother. My mother was the child of two Holocaust survivors – Braindl (nee Cwajghaftig) and Yankiel Wasilewicz (pic left). It was very hard to keep anything Jewish after the war, but they ried and they did. My mother’s mother lit the Shabbos candles, and my mother’s father made Pesach sedarim. My grandmother would take my mother, as a little girl, for the Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur prayers to the “Congregation”, an old building in Częstochowa that housed the mikvah before the War. My grandfather used to do kapparos at home with my grandmother and my mother and would then bring the chickens to the shochet. Whatever they did after the War, even though it was hard for them, that’s what my mother knew, and that’s what she taught me.

Since 1974, my mother has been working for the Social and Cultural Society of Jews in Częstochowa. Throughout the years, she worked hard to teach those Jews who were left in Częstochowa about the Jewish holidays. She organised events, inviting actors from the Jewish theatre in Warsaw to come to Częstochowa, hosting famous artists, writers, musicians, etc.. At this Jewish Centre I learned a lot about Judaism, but still it was not enough for me. I wanted to learn more.

When I was 12 years old, my mother started to think that it would be nice if I would have a bar mitzvah. She called Rabbi Michael Schudrich, who is Chief Rabbi of Poland today, but who back then was the Chief Rabbi of Warsaw and Lodz, and she asked him if he could teach me and prepare me for my bar mitzvah. He then asked my mother, “But does he have a bris?” My mother honestly said, “No”.

When I was born, there was no mohel in Poland, so I couldn’t have a bris when I was 8 days old. Therefore, I was never circumcised. The rabbi told my mother that I need to have a bris and that he wold try to arrange everything. A few days later, we got a phone call that the mohel (Rabbi Fisher, from Monsey, NY) will come to Poland just for me, so that I can have a bris, and that we should come to Warsaw where my bris would take place. So that’s what we did.

It took us three hours by train to get to Warsaw. After we got to the Jewish quarter and entered the Nozyk Synagogue, the main synagogue in Warsaw, we were informed by Rabbi Schudrich that, unfortunately, Rabbi Fisher was unable to come because something went wrong with his flight. We turned around and went back to Częstochowa. A few days later, we got another phone call from Rabbi Schudrich. He assured us that, this time, Rabbi Fisher would be able to come and that we should come once again to Warsaw. So we did. When we got to the Jewish quarter in Warsaw, we entered the Jewish theatre which is not far from the synagogue. We ate something there, and there we met my mother’s friend.

She asked us what we were doing in Warsaw so my mother told her the truth. She right away took me aside and tried to convince me not to do it. She said that it’s like cutting off my arm. After she was done, I thanked her but I told her that I was a Jewish boy and, if a Jewish boy has to have a bris, I’m having it!

We went to the synagogue. There, we met with Rabbi Schudrich and Rabbi Fisher. That day was a day after the yahrtzeit of the famous Rabbi Elimelech of Lizensk, Poland. Thousands of Chassidim were coming back from Lizensk and going to the airport in Warsaw. Before going to the airport, some of the Chassidim decided to visit the synagogue. They came in and they saw that something was going on there, and one of the Chassidim became my sandek. His name was Rabbi Yaakov Yossef Neushloss. Afterwards, we were dancing in a circle and my sandek asked me for my address and my phone number. I gave him my address and my phone number and then my mother and I went back to Częstochowa.

A few months later, I had a bar mitzvah in a yeshiva in Kishinow, Moldova, where for the first time I learned the Hebrew alphabet, just to be able to read the blessing before and after the reading of the Torah. The rabbis at that yeshiva found out that I love music, so they offered me that if I stay in the yeshiva, they will get me a private music teacher. But my mother would have to go back to Poland. I was only 13 years old and I didn’t want to stay by myself in a foreign country, so I went back to Poland with my mother.

Now I had a bris and a bar mitzvah – but I was still in a public school.

After the summer, we were invited by the Jewish Community of Warsaw to come to Warsaw for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. We came and we were staying in a hotel there. After the holidays, I asked Rabbi Schudrich if he could help me come to Warsaw so that I could learn in the Lauder Jewish School there. I told him that, in Częstochowa, there was not much of a Jewish life. “I’m in a public school, there is no synagogue in Częstochowa – and in Warsaw there is.” He told me that he will see what he can do.

A few months later, we got a phone call that Rabbi Schudrich had found us a place to stay and that we could come to Warsaw if we wanted to. We chose to go. At that time, I was 14 and I was in a middle of 8th grade. We moved to Warsaw for a year and a half.

In the Lauder school, I learned Jewish history, Jewish culture, and Hebrew language, but not Torah. After school, I had a private teacher who taught me how to put on tefillin and he got me a pair of tzitzis. I started to remind myself how to read Hebrew and started to pray, but only on Shabbos. I started to keep Shabbos and kosher as much as I could.

Sometime during that year, I got a phone call from my sandek, Rabbi Neushloss, that he was in Poland and he would like me to join him for a tour and for the yahrtzeit of Rav Elimelech of Lizensk. He sent a private driver who came to Warsaw, picked me up and brought me to where a bus full of Chassidim was waiting for me. We went from one cemetery to the next, from one shul to the next. Eventually, after a whole day of driving, we got to our final destination – Lizensk. There, I spent the most amazing Shabbos of my life. The streets of Lizensk were filled with Chassidim.

This was the second time in my life seeing Chassidim. The first one was at my bris. It felt like I was in a different world. At the Shabbos night meal, thousands of Chassidim were eating together, singing together and, afterwards, dancing together. When everyone was dancing, the whole floor was shaking! It was an unbelievable experience. Sunday was the yahrtzeit and everyone, including me, was praying at the grave of the holy Rabbi Elimelech.

After the yahrtzeit, when we got back to Warsaw, Rabbi Neushloss (pic left: standing with me) asked me if I would want to come to his house for Pesach. I answered, “Sure”, but in my mind I was thinking about how I would be able to pay for the ticket. But I thanked him for everything and said goodbye. Some time before Pesach, I got a phone call from Rabbi Schudrich that Rabbi Neushloss sent him a ticket for me to come to his house in Monsey, NY. So I went. I spent a really beautiful Pesach there and, afterwards, I decided to visit a rabbi whom I knew from the Lauder Camp in Poland, Rabbi Lieber, who would travel to the camp from America to teach Polish Jews at the camp about Judaism. I told the rabbi that I was in the Lauder Jewish School but I didn’t know where to go after my graduation, since there were no Jewish high schools or yeshivas in Poland. He told me that he would try to look for something for me.

In my last year in the Lauder School, right before the summer, I didn’t know what to do. All my friends were applying to different high schools and I was waiting for a phone call from Rabbi Lieber (pic right: singing with me). Finally, a month before summer, I got a phone call that I could come to a yeshiva in America. I got a visa and left Poland at the age of 15. I started learning in the Bobov Yeshiva in Boro Park. I learned there maybe for a month before switching to the Talmudical Academy of Baltimore.

Since I didn’t know much about Yiddishkeit and I never really studied Torah before, I was placed in a second grade where, for the first time in my life, I learned Chumash. I remember when, for the first time, I said a pasuk from the Chumash, all the kids in the class were clapping. That same year, I went to the 4th grade and there, for the first time, I learned mishnayos. Next year, I went to the sixth and the eighth grades where, for the first time, I learned gemara. A year later, I went to the tenth grade and a year after that I went to the twelfth grade and graduated high school in 2008.

After graduating from the Talmudical Academy of Baltimore, I went to Yeshiva Sh’or Yoshuv in Lawrence, NY, where I am today. Aside from making lifelong friends and learning a lot of Torah in Sh’or Yoshuv, ironically, I was told that the song Modeh Ani, which was and still is my favorite song, was composed by a rebbi who taught in Sh’or Yoshuv for many years – Rabbi Shmuel Brazil!

Living as a Jew in Poland was not easy. It was like living in darkness. I tried to put all the puzzles together, but I was missing a lot of the pieces. Today, thanks to many great people and of course to Hashem, our G-d, I fully understand what it means to be Jewish.

I am forever grateful to my mother for letting me leave Poland to study in a yeshiva, even though I’m her only child, and to all the people that made my dream come true. The first words I utter every morning are for me — as they are for all religious Jews — a constant reminder that our lives are a journey guided by the hand of Hashem and that He brilliantly enlightens our path and guides us along the way – Modeh ani lifanecha.

Please introduce yourself and explain the function you perform. Let’s also talk about the history of your family, about your parents and where you come from.

My name is Halina Wasilewicz. I was born in Częstochowa. I’ve been branch Secretary of the TSKŻ since 1974. At the present time, I’m both Secretary and Chairperson. I sometimes jokingly say that I’m a child of the TSKŻ, since I spent youth growing up at the Częstochowa TSKŻ club.

My parents come from different sides of Poland. My father was born in Kuźnica Stara, not far from Częstochowa. From the age of ten, he lived in Częstochowa. My mother was born in Opoczno. After she married, she lived in Łódź and was transported from the Łódź ghetto to the HASAG slave labour camp in Częstochowa.

My father was very connected to Częstochowa. Like the majority of Jews, he was part of a large family. He didn’t talk much about his family. I can’t even tell you for certain how many siblings he had. I know about one brother for sure. I know that he had three daughters, two sons-in-law and a grandson born in 1940. That was my father’s closest family.

My mother came from a large family. She had five siblings. Some lived in Łódź, others in Opoczno. After getting married, one of the sisters lived with her husband in Ozorków. From that entire family, and I can’t even tell you how many there were, only my mother survived. When she left the Łódź ghetto, she had no idea where she was being sent. As it turned out, it was to Częstochowa and, as I sometimes tell my son, she never complained about her fate. Wherever she was sent, she coped with the situation and didn’t try to change anything. Only once did she change something – for a few hours prior to the liberation of Częstochowa. Of course, everything I know is based on what I heard from my parents. I used to eavesdrop on their conversations in Yiddish because they never discussed these things with me directly.

Yiddish was spoken at home?

Yes. My parents used it when speaking with each other. They spoke in Yiddish when talking about things that were not meant for my ears and I, just to be contrary, learned the language – how I don’t know.

It just flowed into your head?

Yes, it just flowed in.

My mother said that, in the HASAG camp, those who weren’t working on any shift would be forced into the barracks square and then loaded onto railway wagons. As the Germans sensed that the liberation army was nearing Częstochowa, they didn’t make their escape alone. They took some of the Jews with them – those who were not working.

This was the only time when my mother tried to change her situation. Of course, she was prepared. She stood on the barracks square with her rucksack and said to her friend,”Mania, come over to this incomplete hundred”, because prisoners were counted off in groups of one hundred and then packed onto railroad wagons. After a moment, they found themselves in this incomplete hundred. The loading of prisoners finished, and the Germans left. My mother remained in the camp with the other Jews. She didn’t know Częstochowa. She heard a voice say, “I know the way to Częstochowa. Let’s go”.

A group of them then formed which my mother joined. I don’t know how many of them there were. She went with a woman from Skarzysko-Kamienna who had been transported there, maybe, in mid-1944. As it was January and fairly frosty, she somehow lost her way and, instead of going with the group, she headed outside of Częstochowa, in the opposite direction, to the town of Olsztyn.

Apparently, she came to some railway crossing and came upon a railway crossing attendant. He looked at the two women with a child, recognised straight away where they had come from and said, “I can vouch for myself, but not so much for my substitute co-worker” and pointed to a house nearby. He said that they’d be able to stay there. The housewife said to my mother, who at the time was a little over thirty years old, “Grandma, please sit down”. I don’t know how my mother must have looked, dressed in rags. She stayed there for a few days in order to recover her strength, as she was unable to walk any further. The woman who had accompanied my mother came from Kielce and headed off in that direction.

After staying there for a few days, some Russian soldiers brought her to Częstochowa. There was a building at 19 Garibaldi Street (ul. Garibaldiego 19), which the Germans had most probably used as a storehouse. Maybe Germans had even lived there and then abandoned it straight after liberation. It was to there that Jews from Cz?stochowa headed first. My mother also ended up there and told me that this three-storey building was completely full of people who were lying on rags, on newspapers and on cardboard cartons. This was their accommodation. My mother asked, “Is there room for me to spend the night?” The response was, “There’s no room.”

Were all those people Jews?

Yes, all Jews from HASAG, but not only from Częstochowa. I’m talking about the first few days after liberation. I always mention that because, as assessed by historical researchers examining this subject, at that time it was the highest concentration of Jews in Poland – over 5,000 people who had remained in the HASAG slave labour camp. I don’t know how many of those people were actually staying in that building.

Is that building still standing today?

Yes, it’s still standing at 19 Garibaldi Street (ul. Garibaldiego 19),

What happened then?

My mother went down to the ground floor, sat on the steps and began crying as she had nowhere to go. And it was at that moment that along came Wasilewicz. This is a family story which I’ve passed on to my son. Mr Wasilewicz said, “Do my eyes deceive me?” Now I’ll tell you how they knew each other.

Together with a friend, my mother was transported to Częstochowa from the Łódź ghetto. They slept on the same bunk. That friend worked on the same shift as Mr Wasilewicz, my dad. After the liquidation of the ghetto in 1943, my dad was left with one worn-out suit. My mum had arrived from the Łódż ghetto with various items, among which were needles and thread. She loved to sew, to make things in her spare time. My mum’s friend took the suit from Wasilewicz and my mother mended it. That was the beginning of their acquaintance. My dad looked after my mother. As one of the older people, he brought some order to the place in which they spent the night. Later, he looked after my mother during the many years of their marriage.

And so they were married?

I don’t know what kind of wedding it was. It was most probably in the Registry Office. It proved to be problematic as some certification was required to prove that my father’s first wife was no longer alive – witnesses to her being transported to Treblinka. These are stories that I found out about many years later.

A little time passes and little Halinka comes into the world.

Yes, little Halinka. And it wasn’t that long after – it was 1946.

What was Jewish life like in Częstochowa during your childhood years?

It existed. Despite the fact that my dad was not a religious person, for me he was very Jewish to such a degree that, when my parents were married in the Registry Office, the official said, “Mr Wasilewicz, you have such a beautiful sounding Polish surname, why do you need to be called Jankiel?” To which my dad replied, “That’s the name my father gave me and I’m not going to change it. I survived the occupation with it so, as a Jew, I’m not going to change it”. Even after I was born, he wanted to register me under the name of my grandmother Chaja Ita or Chaita. Usually, children born after the War were given Polish names which sounded similar to Jewish ones, beginning with the same letter. After being persuaded by my mother, Chaita became Halina. But on my identity papers, there is no doubt – I am Halina Wasilewicz, the daughter of Jankiel and Brandl.

Were your parents active in the community? Do you remember your neighbours and acquaintances?

They were only active within the Jewish community. I remember our neighbours and acquaintances, but they were active exclusively in the Jewish community. I went to school …

To a public school, a state school?

A state school but it was a TPD (Towarzystwo Przyjaciół Dzieci – Society of Friend of Children) school.

Namely, without religion? It was without religion – actually without religion at that time. Later, in 1956, religion was introduced very briefly. It was the first secular school. 99% of its students were Jewish. It was not enough that we got together in the afternoons at the club, we were also together at school.

Where was the school located? On ul. Kopernika (Kopernikus Street). There’s an old building there. Before the War, it was probably Axer’s high school.

So that this was a continuation?

In a way it was. Later, a new school building was constructed on the other side of the street and that’s where the administration moved. That was the first secular school.

There were no Jewish school as such?

No. Perhaps, for a short time after the War, but I really don’t know. I know that there was a Jewish orphanage. Perhaps, for a short time, there was such a school, but I can’t recall it from memory.

Were your friends mainly all Jewish?

Totally – my friendships were all Jewish friendships.

Did you, as children, feel any sense of “otherness” or hostility in the neighbourhood?

Yes, but I didn’t sense it directly. It was quite funny – I laugh talking about it now. My parents would have sensed it differently. I don’t know how it is now but, in the schools in my time, twice yearly, perhaps more often, the best students were honoured with distinctions. It was a public event with all students participating. People from each class were singled out. At that time, I’d hear, “Only Jews, nothing but Jews”. Others were also singled out, but when they were Jewish, attention was always drawn to that fact.

I understand that Jews were not given nicknames.

Of course there were nicknames. It’s good that you brought this up. My awareness about who I am came precisely from my encounters in the courtyard. I know that once I came home crying from the courtyard because someone had called me Źydówa (Kike). My dad told me to sit down. He said, “Yes, you’re Jewish, because I’m Jewish.”

I replied, “No, no, I’m not because I was born near Jasna Góra. Maybe you are Jewish!!” That was a time when I didn’t understand certain things. Later, when I began to understand, after school, I would go only to activities at the Jewish club. It was a wonderful time. It was like a second home, a cultural home. There was a drama group. In the beginning, it was called Źywego Słowa (The Living Word), led by actors from the Częstochowa theatre. There were classes in Yiddish and Hebrew, a music group, an art group led, in the beginning, by Jurek Duda-Gracza, a very well-known artist. At that time, he was a teacher at the graphic arts high school. He was not Jewish.

Do you remember his classes?

Of course. We even have a chronicle kept by the youth club. He illustrated some of the pages in it. Right now, the chronicle is on display at the Upper Śląsk Museum (Muzeum Górnośląskim) in Bytom. We also have photos of walls which he decorated. Only it’s a pity that they’re not in colour. At that time, photographs were only in black and white.

How do you remember the events of 1968?

At that time, I was at university outside of Częstochowa. Each visit home provided me with more information about who was no longer around. My mum used to greet me, one could say, joyfully and repeatedly saying, “It’s so good that you’re not in Warsaw”. Because I’d begun studying international commerce in Warsaw and I’d go to the club at Nowogrodzką 5. I’d grown up in a club, and my first steps as an adult were aimed at a club. It was all a terrible hotbed there, so probably ….

What do you mean by “all a terrible hotbed”?

The ringleaders of the student riot came from Club Babel. Among them were a group of my friends, so that I would have become entangled in it also. Perhaps, that’s not how I felt at the time. But years later, I tried to understand how I had …. But

But you didn’t leave the country.

At that time, my dad was already not leaving the house. We didn’t have family and I felt obliged to stay. I don’t hide the fact that, many years earlier, I wanted to leave because, much earlier, before March, many from my surrounding area were gradually disappearing.

What did the Jewish Częstochowa landscape look like at the end of the 1970’s and the 1980’s?

Very sad. That’s precisely how I summed it up – that all our youth left, all my friends. At one time, in my recollections, I compared it to this – my father was sitting, poring over a book published, in Yiddish, by Częstochowa Jews from New York. He was looking at pictures of Częstochowa from the past. My Jewish Częstochowa was also now history.

Your whole circle disappeared?

All of it, precisely. Even using the fingers of one hand, I can’t say how many remained in Poland or in Częstochowa. I only see them now in TSKŹ photographs from various parties. Only a few, a dozen or so, came to the Reunion of Częstochowa Jews in 2012.

As a Jew, how did you feel in the 1970’s and 1980’s?

You just had to live an ordinary life. In 1974, it was proposed that the Częstochowa TSKŹ branch be shut down because, according to the authorities, there were no funds to employ a secretary.

Was there any protest?

I’m getting to that. In October 1974, everyone got together and said that, even if they were unable to come, they still wanted to be assured that something like that was still there.

How many people were still here then?

Over seventy, maybe almost one hundred. I’m not now able to say exactly how many. It was usual, at that time, to only have one person per family on the list. To that you would have to add the spouse and the children.

And that was the year when you began to become active?

Yes. At that gathering, the question was asked, “Is anyone running the social club?” And I, being active in the community, raised my hand and, for 16-17 years, I ran the social aspect of the TSKŹ. So from there, I went from the TSKŹ period of my youth to an official position.

Let me ask this – what did the events in Poland in 1989 mean to you personally, as a Jew? Of course, I include your son in that.

What it meant is that, right now, he is away from me. I have to say that it was life-changing.

To me, that’s unusual. You are someone who was active in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Suddenly, something unexpected happens. What was that like? How did it affect you?

It was strange. I remember that, when I was a child, there was the Social-Cultural Association (Towarzystwo Społeczno-Kulturalne) and there was also a Jewish religious congregation (Kongregacja Wyznania Mojźeszowego) which provided all the basic things. There was a shochet (ritual slaughterer), there was matzo, and the deceased were buried. Perhaps twice a year, a children’s gathering was organised. I even have photographs. I still have the flags which I got and which were draped on a kind of bar around the candles. I already showed you the memorabilia from my childhood. However, nothing was done to educate the next generation. I know that two or three boys had their Bar Mitzvah, but I don’t know if they were prepared for it as required. For their parents, it was probably very important. I know those boys.

Are they no longer in Poland?

One is here, and guess where – in the TSKŹ!

In Warsaw?

Yes.

I realise that I knew little apart from what I’d experienced at home and from what I heard from my mum’s stories. I remember that dad took the poultry to the shochet and that we brought matzo home. Once a year, I went with my mum to the pseudo-synagogue, to the Congregation. Even then, I still didn’t know why mum and I would stand in the corridor. That was used as the separate “room” – the men used the real room. My knowledge deepened at the Lauder Foundation camp in Rychwałd.

In the beginning, how did it affect you?

It enriched me somehow. I felt good. I sometimes rebelled when there were discussions about who is a Jew or who could be a Jew. “I’m a Jew, what’s the problem? I don’t know about certain things, but I do know that I’m a Jew”. However, I didn’t know about a lot of things. From home, I knew how to prepare a seder. My collision with the cuisine at the university hall of residence was bizarre. I didn’t know the principles of kashrut, but I did know that I couldn’t drink milk after meat because it would make me ill, and that stuck with me.

I began travelling to Rychwałd on account of my son, so that he would learn more than I could teach him, and now he’s centuries ahead of me when it concerns knowledge. And with him, it was as I described. When did I start speaking to him about his heritage? From kindergarten. He returned from kindergarten one day with this huge piece of knowledge, “Mum, tomorrow we won’t cook meat. We’ll go to church and the priest will sprinkle ashes on our heads.”

I said, “Kubuś, sit down, let’s talk. I don’t have to cook meat, we can have days without meat. You know, I don’t go to a church. Your dad will come, he’ll take you.”

“Why don’t you go?” he asked. I replied, “Because I’m Jewish”, to which he responded, “Is it only you?”

So, I started naming all of my acquaintances whom he had around him, whom he knew. We’d never spoken before on that subject. Later, when I would speak with anyone on the street, he would ask, “Do they know that we’re Jewish?”

So I don’t really know how he sensed those things about which it wasn’t necessary to speak too loudly. He began to feel more and more comfortable about it, but when he was in second grade at school, the question was asked again, “When do we go to communion and in which church?” So, again, I had an issue to deal with. Until one day, he said that he wanted to be a real Jew, if he was already Jewish.

I asked, “And what, according to you, does it mean to be a real Jew?” He replied, “I want to be circumcised.”

That event took place when he was twelve years old, before his Bar Mitzvah. Due to the fact that I wanted to do at least one thing at the appropriate time, we went with Kuba to Kishinev where there was a yeshiva. Within the space of two months, he was prepared and had his Bar Mitzvah. Years later, however, he admitted that he was sad because it had not occurred in the presence of our friends. One day, Kuba came into contact with a group of Hassidim, among whom was a tzaddik. It was decided that Kuba should start going to a Jewish school. As a result, he found himself at the Lauder School in Warsaw. Now, he’s in a yeshiva in New York. He’s also studying psychology and teaching.
 
Thank you so much for the interview. I hope that one day we can do a sequel.