The next day, we boarded the train for Gliwice, a small town of important significance to my family. After finishing medical school and working in a prestigious position, my dziadiu's circumstances surrounding his occupation changed. Because of his faith, the communist party took away his job and my family was driven into poverty. He was forced to "place (my uncle and father) with (his) in-laws in Gliwice," while he and my babcia lived in a neighboring town.
We were told Gliwice would be "industrial and less beautiful" than Katowice by the man at the camp store. When we arrived, we found it to be much like Katowice- very western. Gliwice was also a German town destroyed in the war, gifted to Poland and rebuilt in an attempt to recreate its original facade. The result is a somewhat Epcot centerish trip into the past. There are Chase banks, along with many other western financial institutions, lining the main drag. We walked down the main street carrying our massive packs where nearly sixty years ago, my dad lived in an apartment with his dziadziu Leon Miszel.
Thanks to Amanda's sympathetic appeals, a local hotelier took pity on us and allowed us to drop off our bags while we searched the town. We found the hospital my great-grandfather worked in and found the middle school my father attended, but were unable to find the second home my father lived in with his grandfather because, post-Soviet collapse, the street names were changed and Plaz Wosnicki, or Peace Square, no longer exists. My dad still finds this street name highly ironic.
In the evening, we boarded a train for Czestochowa, the town my dziadziu and babcia stumbled upon after the Warsaw Uprising. Following the Uprising, my dziadziu and babcia were put on a train that Amanda and I discovered was most likely bound for Auschwitz. They, however, had no idea that this was the destination. From my dziadziu's memoirs:
We were put on open cattle cars and the train was moving southward...at a speed of about fifteen miles per hour going to an unknown destination. I believed that we were taking an enormous risk by staying on this train and after sunset, I begged Halina to jump with me off the train. I tried to explain with her, that even if we sustained some injury, we would avoid being housed in the same camp together with many people and being recognized as Jews. Halina could not overwhelm her instinctive fear of jumping off from the moving train. This was a blessed fear because all of a sudden the train stopped. Now, without any delay, I forced her to climb over the railing with me and to jump down three yards into a ditch...We heard several rifle shots...we got out of the ditch and ran through the fields without knowing where we were or what we should do. We kept (going until)...we heard the barking of a dog and we noticed a peasant's hut. We knocked on the window and were allowed to enter...(The peasants) were hospitable, nice people. Obviously, they did not know we were Jewish. They let us sleep in the straw. The next morning...we learned we were in the village of Koniecpol, not far from Czestochowa...In the afternoon, when we were having a nap in the hayloft of the barn, we heard the German language which paralyzed us, but it turned out that these were just soldiers passing by and asking some harmless questions. We had very little choice but to move to Czestochowa and find some apartment there...(The next day) we boarded the train and within a few hours reached Czestochowa uneventfully.
My dziadziu was reunited with his mother in Czestochowa and lived clandestinely with my babcia and her until the end of the war.
When we arrived in Czestochowa, we stopped in a beer garden just outside the station to have a drink and orient ourselves. The establishment was playing great music, which was a relief from the top ten billboard chart BS they seem to play everywhere else. The owner of the establishment took notice of us, and in broken English, started trying to convince us to go to his "nightclub." His pitch wreaked of desperation. It seemed one akin to a Greek restaurant caller, as we later learned. We respectfully declined but after a few beers, Amanda needed a restroom and he offered his facilities. This time we accepted. When we arrived, he unlocked the door to the completely unpopulated nightclub and we realized our interpretation of his pitch was woefully inaccurate. This man was an artist. He had recorded music with jazz greats including Miles Davis and Buddy Guy. He wasn't trying to sell us anything, he just wanted us to see his pride and joy "nightclub," which was regrettably in financial despair. His vision was for his club to serve as a cultural beacon for the city, hosting poetry slams, music and dance clinics and gallery walks. It was a gorgeous space and one that Amanda and I truly believe would have thrived in a more western metropolis such as Paris, London, New York City or Chicago. Unfortunately, this man was in Czestochowa where the locals crave westernization and long for the U.S. Billboard top ten. He was tragically ahead of his time and told us he'd be closing shop in a few months. He gifted us a CD he had composed with some jazz greats, and pointed us towards our campground behind the famous Jasna Gora monastery and provided us with his websites for more information.
www.tamtammusic.pl
The next morning, we toured the monastery complete with ornate golden statutes, an oration booth overlooking a massive field where John Paul II had lead multiple masses, a bell tower presiding over the entire city, and a renowned black Virgin Mary who had once upon a time delivered the Poles from Swedish invasion.
It was gorgeous, but as a common theme of our trip, mildly off putting to see people so immensely absorbed by religion. All across the acres-wide campus, there were people singing in various languages- Latin, Spanish, Polish, etc- praises of Jesus. They led communion everyday. One family we encountered had travelled across Europe with their son in a wheelchair, encumbered by serious birth defects, to place him in front of the black Virgin Mary and pray for healing. Amanda and I had an interesting conversation about faith, healing and the power of hope. We discussed means versus ends, and whether the origin of hope can justify the ends even if it is misplaced and the faith can contribute to the segregation of peoples who all have the same basic wants and needs to the point where they can hate and even kill each other. We came to no conclusions, but would love to hear your opinions on this matter.
The papal cannon in C(zestochowa)
The conversation was especially fitting. As we left the monastery, we walked down the main street of Czestochowa. Sixty seven years ago, my dziadziu and babcia walked down this street when the Russians "liberated" Poland. I recalled my Dziadziu's memiors,
On January 6, 1945, my mother brought the news. "People are saying that the Russians broke the front and are moving towards Czestochowa."...On the fourteenth, Russian reconnaissance units were noted in Czestochowa and the Germans were fleeing. On the sixteenth, Czestochowa was already filled with Russian tanks...the mood of the Polish population was rather sober. Most people wanted to be liberated by the Polish Home Army or otherwise by the Western Allies and were less than happy to see the Soviet liberators. I vividly remember walking toward downtown on January 16. I encountered an elderly Polish lady. She told me that the Russians were in, and added in the same breath in an unhappy voice, "and the Jews are already roaming the city."
It really makes me wonder why we emphasize these so called differences when nearly every religion preaches the same beliefs of love and tolerance. How these words are perverted into endorsements of violence and hate is something I will never understand. We passed back through the square in front of the train station and back by our friend's depressed attempt at a cultural revolution. We boarded a train for Wroclaw, the city of my dad and uncle's birth, and our last stop on our tour of Poland and my familial heritage.
Following the war, after treaties were in place, Eastern Poland became Western Ukraine and Eastern Germany became Western Poland. Cities like L'vov and Drogobych, so integral to my family's past, were no longer part of their homeland. The ruling powers enacted a translocation of people, and Poles living in now Ukrainian L'vov, were transferred to now Polish Wroclaw (formerly German Breslau) and the surrounding area. The medical school in L'vov followed this translocation as well, and my dziadziu and babcia, after a mandatory but brief stop in Lublin to enlist as doctors with the communist government, went to Wroclaw to finish their medical training. From my dziadziu's memoirs: "What occurred under the auspices of the Soviet Union was a gigantic well-organized 'ethnic cleansing' that admittedly did not involve any extreme brutalities and did not cause many casualties. Still this was a monstrous translocation of about ten million people. Whatever estate Halina and I would have inherited from our parents and relatives was lost in the east behind the present border of Poland...With the millions of people repatriated from the eastern part of former Poland, also came Halina's parents. They settled in Gliwice."
In Wroclaw, under the peaceful guise of communism, my dziadziu and babcia experienced some wonderful life changes: my dad and then my uncle martin were born, my dziadziu and babcia finished medical school, and my dziadziu found employment and mentorship under the internationally renowned biologist Ludwig Hirszfeld. My dziadziu "came to be very close to Hirszfeld, he became like a second father to (him) and he treated (him) as if (he) were his own son." This was followed by some terrifying historical repetitions: the communist regime supported certain elements of religious and scientific dogma and after Hirszfeld passed away, my dziadziu had no protection and was chased out of his post.
We set out to find my dad's birth home, the apartment he lived in with my family during grades 1-5 before moving to Gliwice, his elementary school, and my dziadziu and babcia's medical school and professional academies. First we found my dad's birth home. I can't for a moment explain why that I felt so happy at the site I nearly cried. It was here on Henryka Sienkiewicza Street that sixty five years, ten months and six days ago little Henry Milgrom came to be. From my dziadziu's memoirs:
Since the hospitals were still in quite inadequate condition, we decided to have the delivery at home...labor started the night of December 15 and continued through all the morning and afternoon of December 16. Around 4:00 pm, the electricity went off which was not a rare occurrence in Wroclaw at that time. Around 4:30 pm, Halina delivered a healthy boy by the light of a carbide lamp...The arrival of the baby caused the visit of my in-laws (the Miszels) as well as Edek and Lila with whom we celebrated this addition to the family. The young man was named Henry in memory of my father.
I took some pictures and collected some dirt from the playground across the street. I wondered if my dad had played on those swing sets.
After spending his first few years of life in this apartment, Henry's brother Martin Louis Milgrom was born.
Our second son was born in October, 1951. We named him Martin, a modified name for Max, my uncle murdered during the Warsaw uprising. When I told Hirszfeld about this name, he felt hurt that I did not name him Ludwig. I explained to him that with the tradition preserved by many Jewish families, a child is not named after a living person. He said that this is a superstition and I hastened to give my newborn son the middle name of Louis.
The family decided to move to a new apartment that was bigger and closer to my grandfather's work and my dad and uncle's school. We found the apartment on Pastera Street. Fortuitously, a current tenant was leaving just as we arrived and I was able to catch the door. Inside, I took pictures of the stairs and doorways, imagining my dad carrying his backpack home from school.
We then crossed the street and and went over a bridge to find my dad's elementary school. When we saw a school on Parkova Street, a street my dad had mentioned, we thought we'd found the place. We couldn't be sure because when my dad attended under the communist regime, the school was called Rosenberg's in tribute to the executed cold war era Soviet spies, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. That name has long since been discarded. I'm embarrassed to say this, but as we walked across the campus, Amanda and I were struck by the awkward physical and behavioral appearance of the kids in attendance. We approached a woman who seemed to be in charge. I explained that my father had attended this school a little over fifty five years ago. She looked a bit puzzled, and said, "Hmmm...are you sure this is the place?" I said, "I believe so." She responded, "You know this is a school for 'special' kids, right? There's another school just down the street." We were embarrassed and immediately understood the awkwardness we had observed. We were at a school for mentally handicapped kids. We apologized and went on our way. Down the street, we found the school I'm pretty sure my dad actually attended. It was full of less awkward looking children. We took some photos.
The next stop was Wroclaw Medical School, where my grandparents got their medical degrees and went on to work as professors. There was no central campus so we began perusing the grounds and looking at signs. We found the Department of Dermotology and Venerology, where my babcia received her M.D. In Dermotology. We entered the building and immediately encountered a security guard who spoke no English. Fortunately there were two students passing by who were able to relay that we were there because my babcia had attended sixty years prior. He let us look around a bit but the building was mostly locked up and no one was around. It was still nice to see though.
We left in search of the Department of Microbiology where my grandfather studied and worked under the tutelage of the renowned Ludwig Hirszfeld. Together, they published numerous scientific papers supporting Mendelian genetics and other controversial topics at that time not supported by the communist regime. From my dziadziu's memoirs:
In 1951...the Soviet Union entered into what was most likely the lowest ebb in the history of her scientific pursuits. Biology became dominated by the infamous Trofin Lysenko and his group. They denied the existence of genes and propogated the antiquated and absurd idea of inheritance of acquired traits. Stalin himself gave support to Lysenko, stating that his teachings were in agreement with Marxism-Leninism. This was quite a blow to Hirszfeld, who was a prominant geneticist, as the co-discover of Mendelian inheritance of human ABO blood groups. Even though the terms 'Mendelian inheritance' and 'Mendelian traits' became anethema, Hirszfeld...was lecturing about this inheritance and the authorities in someway still tolerated it. Also, Hirszfeld's studies which applied to blood groups and anthropology were considered reactionary. Orthodox communists believed that the studies of differences between various human ethnic groups represented racism. I vividly remember a visit of two Soviet hematologists to the blood transfusion center in Wroclaw in 1951. They noticed Hirszfeld's table showing the frequency of blood groups A and B in various races. This table showed that blood group A is very frequent in the west of Europe and that going eastward to Asia, it decreases in frequency. On the other hand, group B is frequent in the East Indies and then, going westward...it decreases in frequency. In such a way, the Russians were listed on this table far away from Englishman and close to East Indians. The Russian visitors took this as an insult and loudly expressed their dissatisfaction with Hirszfeld's racism. My admiration for Hirszfeld at this time reached its peak. This world famous scientist, in his late sixties, was challenged and insulted by ignorami about his greatest scientific achievements. He wrote a strong rebuttal in Russian to our two visitors. Also, whenever he could, he stressed the correctness of formal genetics as well as the importance of anthropology. Once, in a scientific meeting, Hirszfeld was...kindly asked to raise a toast...in honor of the Russian bacteriologist Boshian. Boshian represented an extreme, biased, dishonest and insane trend in Russian microbiology...Hirszfeld firmly refused to give any credits to Boshian. The man from the ministry tried the usual totalitarian procedure of intimidation and insisted on the toast. Then Hirszfeld said, 'Please stop it, otherwise I will toast Boshian as one of the greatest fakers in this history of world microbiology.'
As time progressed, Hirszfeld's and our situation became precarious. The usual snake of anti-semitism began creeping out more and more. In the winter of 1952-53, Stalin fabricated the infamous accusation against Moscow doctors for poisoning their patients, top Soviet officials. The accused were a group of the most prominent positions, all but one of them Jews...We were all quite nervous...we were going through revival of the Nazi nightmare and we obviously anticipated that Hirszfeld and his associates (including myself) would be the first in line for accusations if the Soviet example was followed by the People's Republics, as was usually the case...At this time, I regretted very much that I had not left Poland and avoided exposing myself and my family to this ordeal. Then, out of the blue, came the news about Stalin's death. Unfortunately, Hirszfeld did not live long enough to see enjoy the changed atmosphere.
Because of Hirszfeld's prominence prior to World War II, the communist regime couldn't shake his resolve or stifle his scientific influence. This however was destined to change after he passed away.
When we found the Department of Microbiology, we opened the door expecting the same occurrence as the Department of Dermotology, with locked halls and a security guard. We were immediately greeted by a placard in memory of the late Hirszfeld.
We began taking pictures when a door opened. Out emerged a professional woman who, with briefcase in hand, appeared ready to head home for the weekend. At first she seemed a bit perturbed to see us taking photos in her building. She pointedly asked, "can I help you?" I said, "my Dziadziu worked here and was a mentee of Ludwig Hirszfeld," as I pointed to the placard. "His name was Felix Milgrom." I didn't expect her to know who he was, but her face immediately lit up and she invited us into her office. The inside of her office was like a shrine to Hirszfeld's memory, with his pictures and his honorary degrees adorning the walls. Apparently, she was the head dean of the medical school and had inherited the office that had once belonged to Hirszfeld. This very room was where my dziadiu and Hirszfeld had met thousands of times.
She explained that, although she never personally knew my dziadziu or Hirszfeld, she had read much of their work and had photos and even a short video documenting the work they did together. There was a lady still working in the department who had worked with my dziadziu, but unfortunately, she was on sabbatical. The head dean walked us through the old library, now closed to students and the public, where my dziadziu and Hirszfeld had led seminars and conferences. I was completely in awe. After numerous questions and pictures, we thanked her profusely for her time and she left for the weekend.
We exited the building and sat in the courtyard where my dziadiu once walked every day on his way to work. We reflected for a bit. During an era when so many people fought to pass on their memory and, unfortunately, so few succeeded, it was humbling and liberating that this woman, now director of the medical school working in Hirszfeld's old office, knew of and remembered my dziadziu. It illuminated the fighting spirit of perseverance, unyielding persistence, and stubborn optimism my dziadziu exuded to not only survive the worst atrocities known to man, but to thrive professionally and foster a loving, caring and intelligent family in a community that despised his kind. Somehow, this closing experience made everything feel right.
After Hirszfeld's death, without any professional protection from his prestigious mentor and despite the fact that "the last letter that Hirszfeld signed...requested (my dziadziu) be appointed (his) successor...as Director of the Institute," my dziadziu was chased out of his academic position because of his heritage and beliefs and my family was driven into poverty. My father and uncle went to live with their dziadziu in Gliwice, while my dziadzu and babcia eked out a living in a nearby town. They continually endured harassment. After subsisting for a few years in this circumstance, "in July 1957, practically peniless, (they decided to leave) Poland, the country in which our ancestors had lived since the middle ages." They appealed to the communist government for visas. "As a final insult," my family was granted one way visas conditional on the provision that they never return to Poland. It was a cold slap in the face that symbolized their tragic endurance and embodied the bigotry and anti-semitism of that community. They left, jumping through Europe and South America and finally landing in the States, and never looked back. My dziadziu worked as a medical professor at the University of Buffalo until he passed away on September 2, 2007 at age 87. It has been a humbling honor for me to return to the land my family endured and to share their story. I have never been more proud to be a Milgrom. Today, I am humbled and honored to say to my dziadziu that all those who tried to take everything from you, even now after you have passed on, can never take away your legacy. I love you Dziadziu. In memorium eterni.
For more pictures from this section of our journey, please visit:
Katowice, Gliwice, and Czestochowa
Wroclaw
Location:Where the East becomes West and the West becomes East (Katowice, Gliwice, and Wroslaw
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