sovay: (PJ Harvey: crow)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2017-07-23 05:52 am

I was anticipating the total destruction of Polish Jewry

I don't know if I saw relatives of mine this afternoon.

My grandfather's father was born in Lodz. He was the eldest of six siblings, three sisters, three brothers; the family owned a textile mill in the city and the father was a Talmudic scholar of some repute. My great-grandfather was expected to continue in his father's religious footsteps; instead, after a stint in the Imperial Russian Army (from which he must have deserted, because he sure didn't serve twenty-five years), he became what my grandfather once memorably described as a "Zolaesque freethinker" and emigrated to America in 1912. One of his brothers followed him; though we're no longer in contact with them (a little thing about declaring my mother ritually dead when she married my father), his descendants live in Florida. Another brother is buried in Israel, though I'm not sure how or when he got there—his older children were born in Lodz, his later ones in Tel Aviv. None of the sisters made it out of Poland alive. The middle one I have almost no information about, except that Lodz is listed as her place of death. (Her children survived: they too turn up later in Israel.) The eldest and the youngest died—as far as I know, with their families—in Chełmno and Auschwitz. These are the cousins who feel like closer ghosts than they should, dying in 1942 and 1945, because their descendants would have been no farther from me in blood than [personal profile] gaudior. They are loose ends, like other family stories. I don't know what there is to be known of them anymore.

Because the exhibit is closing in a week, my mother and I went to the MFA this afternoon to see Memory Unearthed: The Lodz Ghetto Photographs of Henryk Ross. If you live in the Boston area, I don't say it's a light day out, but it's worth your time. Ross was one of the few survivors of the Lodz Ghetto, a staff photographer employed by the Judenrat. He was supposed to take the nice pictures of the ghetto, to document how productively and well the Jews were getting along under Nazi supervision; he used his license to take the ones that were not so nice, dead-carts instead of bread-carts, chain-link and barbed wire, the sick and the starving, the broken walls of a synagogue. He documented the resistance of living, which sometimes looked like defiance and sometimes like collaboration: the slight, quietly smiling man who rescued the Torah scroll from the smashed-brick ruins of the synagogue, the young wife and plump child of a Jewish policeman like the ones seen—perhaps he's among them—assisting a crowd of Jewish deportees aboard the boxcars that will take them to Auschwitz. Pale Jude stars are so omnipresent in this black-and-white world that even a scarecrow wears one, as if to remind it to confine its trade to non-Aryan fields. Ross took about six thousand photographs total; in the fall of 1944, as the ghetto was being liquidated, he buried the negatives as a kind of time capsule, not expecting to survive himself to recover them. He was still alive and still taking pictures of the depopulated ghost town the ghetto had become when the Red Army liberated it in January 1945. His face cannot be seen in the photograph of him reclaiming his archive because he's the figure at the center of the grinning group, the one bending to lift a crusted box from the dug-up earth. Groundwater had rendered about half the negatives unsalvageable, but rest could be developed, warped, nicked, bubbled, and sometimes perfectly clear, their damaged emulsion showing scars and survival. He published some in his lifetime. He never arranged the complete series to his satisfaction. My mother would have seen him on television in 1961 when he testified against Eichmann. The MFA has a clip of an interview with him and his wife Stefania née Schoenberg—his collaborator and another of the ghetto's 877 Jewish survivors—eighteen years later in Israel, describing how he took his covert photographs hiding his camera inside his long coat, how just once he snuck into the railway station at Radogoszcz to record the last stages of a deportation, the freight train to the "frying pan" of Auschwitz itself. He died in 1991. It is said that he never took a picture again.

(I know there are philosophical questions about photographs of atrocity: how they should be looked at, what emotions they may have been intended to evoke, to what degree it is or is not appropriate to judge them as art. I'm not very abstract here. They were taken to remember. You look at them to make sure you do. What you feel is your own business; what you do with the knowledge of the history had damn well better concern other people.)

My great-grandfather's sisters would have been deported from the Lodz Ghetto. Their death dates even match the major waves of deportation to their respective camps. I have no idea what either of them looked like. I have seen maybe two photos each of my grandfather's parents: aunts and uncles, nothing. I'm not saying the photos don't exist. My grandfather had a sister; she may have inherited a better pictorial record. But I haven't seen it. And looking for people who look like my grandfather is no help; Henry Kissinger went through a period of looking like my grandfather and that was awkward for everybody. Any older woman might have been either one of them, any older man one of their husbands, any young people their children, any children their grandchildren. None of them might have been my family. Maybe theirs were among the images destroyed by the winter of 1944, as unrecoverable as their bodies. Maybe they were never captured on film at all. I wouldn't know. I don't know. I pored over faces and thought how beautiful so many of these people were (not beautiful because of their suffering: bone and expression, the kinds of faces that are beautiful to me), how many of them looked like both sides of my mother's family. Almost no one was identified by name. Maybe no one knows these people by name anymore. I hope that's not true.

You can look through the contents of Henryk Ross' archive yourself. They are, like most photographs, historical and modern prints both, better in person. We left the museum and had dinner at Bronwyn both because we lucked out parking two blocks from the restaurant in the middle of a street fair and because it was Eastern European food and it felt symbolic that we were here to eat it, even if I am pretty sure that a Hungarian-inflected chorizo dog is food of my people only in the sense that I personally would order it again because it tasted great. I did some badly overdue grocery shopping and caught the closing performance of the PMRP's Murders and Scandals: Poe and Doyle and spent nearly the entire cast party upstairs reading the scripts for the second through the fourth seasons of Babylon 5 (1993–98) and as much of the fifth season as doesn't suck. Autolycus fell asleep on my lap almost as soon as I sat down at my computer and I haven't been able to move from this chair for hours. I can't imagine what the world looks like in which I have so many more cousins of the degree of Gaudior, although I know that I am tired of fictional versions in which neither of us would even be here (the same goes for other atrocities, imagined worse for purposes of entertainment). Maybe in that other world, we have more family photographs. Maybe we're not in contact with them, either. Maybe I still don't have faces to go with the names. It doesn't matter if they were all strangers, though, the people from this afternoon and more than seventy years ago: they were alive. They are worth remembering. Especially now, they are worth remembering why.

sartorias: (Default)

[personal profile] sartorias 2017-07-23 01:33 pm (UTC)(link)
Thank you for that post.
cmcmck: (Default)

[personal profile] cmcmck 2017-07-23 02:17 pm (UTC)(link)
Sigh :o(

Such pain

Well, I think I've mentioned my own background?

Visiting Dachau a little while ago was a step on a road which I hope will lead me to Kaiserwald Kz near Riga in Latvia where it's my intention to say Kaddish for those of my own family I can't trace.

I've checked this out with Jewish friends and a US Rabbi friend and they all say it's in order for a gentile to make Kaddish in this situation.
zdenka: Miriam with a tambourine, text "I will sing." (this is my truth)

[personal profile] zdenka 2017-07-23 03:50 pm (UTC)(link)

I don't know if I'll be able to make it to the exhibition, but the photos posted on the museum website are very powerful. I'm glad Ross was able to preserve them.
drinkingcocoa: (Default)

[personal profile] drinkingcocoa 2017-07-23 05:10 pm (UTC)(link)
Thank you. Especially now, yes.
drinkingcocoa: (Default)

[personal profile] drinkingcocoa 2017-07-24 12:24 pm (UTC)(link)
My first thought was "Everything is fucked."

My second thought was, "That's too negative. Think of a more positive spin."

There is no third thought. :-P

come on humans we're better than this *deep sigh*
ladymondegreen: (judaism2)

[personal profile] ladymondegreen 2017-07-23 05:31 pm (UTC)(link)
It is strange to think that my grandparents grew up just four hours walking distance from yours. And yet, that is the entire story of Eastern European Jewery, within a few steps we are all cousins.
davidgillon: A pair of crutches, hanging from coat hooks, reflected in a mirror (Default)

[personal profile] davidgillon 2017-07-23 07:57 pm (UTC)(link)
They were taken to remember. You look at them to make sure you do.

And by witnessing we deny those who would deny history.
lost_spook: (dw - tardis)

[personal profile] lost_spook 2017-07-23 08:45 pm (UTC)(link)
Those photographs are very powerful. I've only just looked through a few now on the internet - it must have been very emotive to see them like that in an exhibition, especially when it strikes so close to home.

dhampyresa: (Default)

[personal profile] dhampyresa 2017-07-23 09:40 pm (UTC)(link)
This entry made me cry.

It's not impossible that some of my relatives are on those pictures as well.
dhampyresa: (Default)

[personal profile] dhampyresa 2017-07-28 10:11 pm (UTC)(link)
*hugs back*

"East" -- which is very vague, but the rift with those relative happened in the early 1920s and it was the "complete no contact" kind of rift. The last name is common enough that there's no way to know which ones I'm related to and which ones I'm not.
nineweaving: (Default)

[personal profile] nineweaving 2017-07-24 12:00 am (UTC)(link)
This is heartbreaking. Thank you, Henryk Ross, for your perilous and stubborn witness. Thank you, [personal profile] sovay.

skygiants: Hazel, from the cover of Breadcrumbs, about to venture into the Snow Queen's forest (into the woods)

[personal profile] skygiants 2017-07-24 03:42 am (UTC)(link)
I am definitely going to try to get to this exhibit.
asakiyume: (feathers on the line)

[personal profile] asakiyume 2017-07-24 12:02 pm (UTC)(link)
In a sense, as you suggest, all older women in these pictures are your great aunts, all their children and grandchildren your cousins at various removes. You don't know who might actually be them, and so your family love extends to all of them.

I'm very glad Henryk Ross made this record for us. Each of these people was a universe of thoughts and feelings. When there's mass suffering, it's never just an abstract mass. It's all these individuals, in their fullness. These photos won't let us forget that.
isis: Isis statue (statue)

[personal profile] isis 2017-07-24 02:42 pm (UTC)(link)
This is fascinating, thanks for posting. My family was from the Sudeten part of then-Czechoslovakia rather than Poland, but of course our stories are similar (and most of theirs ended at Terezin).
jesse_the_k: Dreamy photo of playground roundabout in rosy foggy light (lost youth)

[personal profile] jesse_the_k 2017-07-24 10:25 pm (UTC)(link)
Thank you for posting and for the music cue:
suffused with sorrow and wreathed in beauty it enabled me to look at the photos

Where I saw people with eyebrows as thick as my parents and theirs, hairlines and ears familiar.

My father's folks left Ukraine in 1905. My mother's timeline is muddier. She certainly told me about hearing terrifying news along the socialist grapevine in the early 30s. Knowing that hell was here on earth and everyone was turning away. This is one way generational trauma is transmitted: her entirely-justified fear became paranoia became my terror in the current moment.