Poland,Personally - a documentary film by Shaul Lilove from menuchati on Vimeo.
And tonight, Jewish people are called to kindle light in darkness—and in so doing, BE light in darkness. How? We are as sad, defeated and frightened as everyone else. Here is one small story to share that might help—but it starts out sad.
On November 11, 2020, Manny Kolski passed away. He was 106 years old, from Lodz, Poland, a brave and proud veteran of the Polish Army.
I had the great privilege of meeting him when I went on a Classrooms Without Borders Trip with Tzipy Gur. These trips are organized around following a Holocaust survivor back to their country, to trace their life story. We who go with them—teachers, professors, high school students, regular folks--- are their mobile support system. It was Manny’s job to show us everything about his life in Poland before and during WWII.
While serving in the Polish army, Manny became a POW. When he was released and returned home to his family in Poland, he was imprisoned again. The Lodz ghetto was notorious—worse than the Warsaw ghetto in lots of ways. Getting to the “Aryan” side to trade for food was almost impossible, because armed security shot people on sight, and surrounding the ghetto was a German ethnic minority that sided with the Nazis. Chaim Rumkowski, the chairman of the Judenrat, ruled the Lodz ghetto with an iron fist. People called him “King Chaim.” Rumkowski falsely believed that as long as he provided workers for the Nazis, at whatever cost, Jews would survive. Men, women and children worked in slave camps inside the Lodz ghetto, first for 1200 calories a day, then 900, then 700, then less. Manny spoke of him with no affection.
Manny worked as a fireman in the ghetto—a way to get more food to his family. When Manny spoke of this, he cried. He was still, 70+ years later, not proud of having used his position as a firefighter in the ghetto to help feed his mother and sisters. At what cost, he said. It had taken bread from others. I imagine survivor guilt is deep and complicated. Seeing Manny cry was startling. He was upbeat, athletic, hard to keep up with. He could walk all of us into the ground. He was 96 years old at the time of this trip.
We walked around the site of the Lodz ghetto, and then we went to the Lodz cemetary, where we looked in vain for the spot Manny had dug his father’s grave so many years before. We could not find it—but we did find the still open pits Jews had been forced to dig for Nazis to execute them in to. Luckily, those giant pits gaped back up at us—empty. Those were ones they hadn’t had time to shoot anybody in to.
We accompanied Manny to Birkenau, where he saw his mother and sister for the last time. Several of us went up in one of the Nazi guard posts with Manny, to look out over the sprawling complex, full of skeletal fireplaces; the remains of barracks that had burned, each in as rigidly straight order as a mammoth board game. Manny stood there looking out over the grounds. There was mist rising from the grass—miles of it. He turned to us, and said, “This is my victory. I am here and they are not!”
Earlier, at the umschlagplatz, the German word for the place the Nazis took Jews to board trains to death camps, many of us were stunned by the train car, still there on the tracks. Some of us got inside with the educator on the trip, Jonty Blackman, who read a poem from a different survivor out loud, and had us consider the situation of those trapped inside. We prayed. We cried, shell shocked, deeply sad.
When we circled up, there was Manny, holding his daughters’ hands. He raised his frail fist, and said, “Chazak V’A’Matz! Strength and Courage!” Some of us laughed. Some of us cried more. We all felt braced and comforted. Here was our charge—the one WE were supposed to be supporting—the one who a few moments ago, had been staring up the train tracks by himself, lost in thought. Thinking of what? The last time he had seen his beloved sisters? What it had been like in that crowded, desperate train ride? He told us he knew what was about to happen to his family, and that he was not going to tell them, because…why?
I won’t ever know the answer to those questions. But I do know this: as we turned our tear-stained faces toward Manny, he, having lost his first family, and his beloved wife just a few years earlier than the trip back to Poland, told us to be of strength and good courage, as God said to Joshua in the Torah. And we were made stronger by it.
A year or so later, he and his oldest daughter came to my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah and danced in my child's honor. It was a beautiful thing.
Manny walked every day in Squirrel Hill for his health. After the war, he was a candy maker here in the states. He had beloved grandchildren. He worked with the Pittsburgh Holocaust Center to educate people about the effects of hatred and genocide. He sang Polish lullabies to the adopted baby of a candy maker on Forbes Avenue. His face radiated sweetness.
Tonight, I am so honored to light the first candle of my chanukkiah in honor of Manny Kolski, Holocaust survivor, educator, candy maker, father, grandfather, and a shining light unto the world forever, for being a kind man, a giving man, a sweet man. If he could find—and be light in the darkness, so can we. One breath, one step, one moment at a time.
You are each a light in my life, and I am grateful for all of you. Thank you so much for being you, and adding to my life as you do. Much Love, Ms. May/Sheila
