Day 2, 3, & 4

*A short preface:

Sorry to all of you who may have been awaiting an updated post (Amanda and I like to imagine that our followers are numerous, although we know this is probably untrue). In truth, we have been writing in journals the past couple of days while I`ve been deliberating the level of candor with which to share my grandparent`s (my dziadzu and babcia`s) story. After much deliberation, I`ve decided to use nearly full disclosure as a tribute to a great generation that shrinks in ranks daily, and to reflect the tremendous pride I have for the perseverance, strength, and love of my ancestors. If anyone, especially members of my family, are offended, please let us know. Otherwise, we will do our best to convey the facts to you as they have been presented to us via conversations ad nauseum with my dad and my babcia and via my dziadzu`s memoires.
(Additionaly, sorry about the backwards apostrophies. They are the only apostrophies available on this Ukrainian keyboard).

After finishing my previous blogpost, I introduced myself to the man at the front desk. His name was Tomek. He looked extraordinarily similar to my cousin Alex. I suppose this is proof that we really must be Polish. I informed Tomek of the situation with my bed. He told me to use a different one. I returned to the bunk room and found to find Amanda still soundly sleeping and went to sleep in a new bed for a couple of hours.

When I awoke Amanda and I compiled a list of places to visit in Warsaw from my dziadzu`s memoires. Our list consisted of Polna St., Wilca St, Kruzca St, cmentarsz Zydowski (a Jewish cemetary on Okopowa St.), Praski Spitzal (an old hospital in Praga), the ghetto demarkation line, and the proletariat section of Praga. The cultural relevance of each of these places will become apparent shortly. We took our list down to our new friend Tomek and explained our purpose for visiting Poland.

I assumed he would be thrilled to help. I was wrong. Although he did help us to locate each location on a map, he seemed dispassionate about our journey. Perhaps it is difficult to be proud of your country and have the only visitors coming to remember its atrocious past. Perhaps he was latently anti-semetic. Perhaps he was just lazy and didn`t feel like working or was having a bad day. I can only speculate. Maybe I should ask my cousin Alex, his doppleganger, for insight. In addition to locating each of these places, Tomek was also able to recommend to us a "Jewish" restraunt he told us was on the top of a building and circled its location on the map.

The first area of Warsaw my dziadzu mentioned in his memoires was Praga. On November 11th, 1942, in already war torn Poland, my dziadzu and babcia fled my babcia`s home town of Drohobycz for Warsaw. At this time, Jews were either herded into Ghettos, labor camps or concentration camps, or lived in hiding with fake papers. My dziadzu and babcia acquired fake papers and headed for Warsaw, the big city, where they hoped to remain anonymous.

After arriving in Warsaw, they rented a room in Praga, an area that survived the war and one that Amanda and I visited on both days 1 and 2. Unfortunately my dziadzu and babcia`s happiness was shortlived at their new locale. From my dziadzu`s memoirs:

This idyllic life lasted only a few days...On the evening of the 10th day...2 uniformed Polish Policemen entered our room. They knew we were Jewish...the people who sold us fake papers took additional income by giving our names to their police accomplices

My dziadzu and babcia paid off the blackmailers but knew they would have to leave that apartment. It is interesting to note that the Poles and the Ukrainians were also persecuting the Jews. My dziadzu and babcia rented another apartmnet in Praga and only a few days later they were met with the same fate. This time

the blackmailers took whatever wardrobe they wanted, some gold coins...(and) ordered us to give them our...wedding rings...I told them "give me any possibility of communicating with you. If we survive...I will pay whatever you ask for my wife`s ring." Unexpectedly...they handed the ring back to me...Apparently, they had some residual human feelings

Walking around Praga today it is hard to imagine such atrocities. The streets are picturesque and there are two gorgeous churches. The people we encountered were all friendly and helpful and were patient communicating with us despite our significant language barrier. These are very different times.

After their second blackmailing in only a couple weeks in Warsaw, my dziadzu received word from my great great uncle Maxymilian Zirler that his father, both aunts, and both his cousins had died at the hands of Ukrainian militia men and the Nazis. At this point my dziadzu`s brother, his mother and two uncles were the only remaining members of his family. This however, was astonishing compared to the toll the war had reaped on other lineages.

My dziadzu and babcia moved again and were blackmailed again. After 3 blackmailings in under a month, my dziadzu and babcia connected with a family from Drohobycz and moved into the apartment of a clergymen living in the residence of the bishop. Within a week the Gestapo arrived at the apartment. Somehow, they were able to talk and bribe their way out of his captivity but had to move once again. My great great uncle Nathan was not so lucky. My dziadzu received word he had died at the hands of the Gestapo.

The next area mentioned in my dziadzu`s memoirs was Polna St. Amanda and I were relieved to find that Polna St. was only a short walk from our hostel and would be our first stop of the day. On our way to Polna St. we stopped into a starbucks where the barista spoke to us first in Polish and then in English with a Polish/Scottish accent. We found out she had studied in Glasgow. It was funny to hear but her English was quite impressive. The coffee cost nearly as much as our hostel.

Now well caffeinated, we continued toward Polna St. and passed Mokotow Fields. My dziadzu mentioned being able to see the fields from the window of their hideout on Polna St. Although, he also mentioned that they rarely dare look out the window for fear of being noticed. Amanda and I decided to try to get an elevated picture of the fields to simulate what it might have looked like out the window of their room on the 5th story. We stood on a park bench and I lifted Amanda as high as I could into the air. This did not produce the intended result as we simply got a close up picture of the trees in front of us. With passersby giving us looks of ridicule, we unsuccessfully attempted to take this picture two or three more times. We decided to try something else.







We went to the closest tall building which happened to be the Warsaw Polytechnic University. We entered and climbed two flights of stairs to the third floor before finding the stairway to higher levels inaccessable. Every window in the building overlooking Mokotow fields was located in an office. We went down the third floor hall knocking on and trying to open each door. After walking the length of the hall finding only locked doors, we were finally successful on the last door in the hall. We opened the door to find a startled Polish man hard at work. He looked up at us with a face that screamed "who the fuck are you and why are you in my office?"







At this point, I was hoping only two things- 1) that this man spoke english and 2) that he would allow us to explain what we were doing there before calling security, or worse, the police. The gentleman was exceedingly nice and allowed us to take the photo out of his window. In my best Polish I said "ginkoya" which is Polish for thanks. Amanda echoed by saying "ginkuppa, or something like that" and giggled. It was pricelessly cute. Someday she will learn to say that word. Feeling emboldened by our success we continued on our search for Polna St. a few short blocks away.







After 4 blackmailings in Praga my dziadzu and babcia, along with the family they had joined up with, found residence on Polna St. in the back room of an apartment belonging to a middle class couple. The couple made it clear that they were hiding these people not out of altruism but for money and suggested that if the money stopped coming in they would be thrown out. Nonetheless, they remained true to their word and my dziadzu and babcia along with the family of four and then three lived in the room from June 1943 until August of 1944. During this 14 month period, they left the room only a few times- once when the father of the family contracted a severe ear infection from which he eventually perished, once when my babcia contracted rheumatic fever, and once when my dziadzy desperately needed a dentist.

In our quest for Polna St. Amanda and I found asking folks, most of whom didn`t speak English "Polna?" and then pointing in various directions as if to say "which way?" When we found the street I immediately felt a sense of joy at our discovery which was almost immediately overcome by contemplation and introspection. The buildings remain intact and appear as I imagine they would`ve many years ago. There is a high school on the block and kids were outside- a young couple kissing, others playing soccer in the yard. What a phenomenal gift a peaceful life is.












The next are mentioned in my dziadzu`s memoirs was Wilca St. Amanda and I left Polna St. en route to zydowski cemetary but we took a wrong turn and fortuitously found ourselves on Wilcza St.







In August of 1944, the Warsaw Uprising broke out. Polish nationals knew the Russians were defeating the Nazis on the eastern front and wanted to establish a presence of their own in Warsaw before being overtaken by the Russians. The city received heavy artillery fire from the Germans and my dziadzu and babcia were forced to evacuate their hideout on Polna St. They moved in with some friends on Wilca st who were fighting with the Home Army for Polish liberation. As my dziadzu said:

At this time neither Halina nor I were scared of bullets. For several years our fear was concentrated on Gestapo and extermination camps. We did not believe that anything else could harm us

He went to enlist in the Home Army. Once again, he was met with anti-semitism. Upon his telling the army officer he desired to enlist, the officer responded "you have to prove to me that you did not exert any activity to harm the Polish nation." My dziadzu explained that as a Jew he had been in hiding and had good friends in the Home Army who put him in touch with this recruiter. The recruiter replied "since Jews are to Poles like dogs, you should be put against the wall and shot." He then reached for his sidearm. At that moment, the person from Wilcza St., whom my dziadzu and babcia were living with and who had put my dziadzu in touch with this recruiter, arrived, saving my dziadzu`s life. Many Jews were executed by the home army- an atrocity conveniently ommitted from the Warsaw Uprising Museum Amanda and I visited later on.

Because of his connections, my dziadzu was eventually allowed into a unit "safe for Jews" and served as a firefighter. His medical training certainly came in handy in this outfit. My dziadzu said that the perils in the uprising were his best times during the war.

The uprising seemingly would`ve been a success. However, the Russians, wanting control of Poland after the war, stopped their advance just short of Warsaw. They allowed the Germans and the Poles to decimate each other. In this manner the uprising was eventually put down and the Home Army capitulated. Warsaw was decimated and all residents of the town were put into cattle cars headed for labor camps and concentration camps. Only then did the Russian Army resume their advance to the town they easily could`ve saved.

Aboard the cattle cars, my dziadzu and babcia contemplated jumping out of the 9ft high window while the train was moving but decided the train was moving too fast. By a stroke of luck, the train temporarily stopped. They jumped down 9ft into a ditch and began running across a field with gunfire resonating behind them. Fortunately neither were hit. After running for a bit they found themselves in the small village of Koniecpol. We will revisit this portion of their toil later on. This was November of 1944.

After 2 more months on the run, on January 16th, 1945, the area of Poland my dziadzu and babcia were in was "liberated" by the Russians. My dziadzu and babcia were safe and ecstatic but my dziadzu noted that his was not the case for many of his countrymen.

The mood among the Polish population was rather somber. Most people wanted to be liberated by the Polish Home Army or otherwise by their western allies and were less than happy to see the soviet liberators.

Walking freely for the first time in five years, my dzidzu ran into an elderly woman on the streets. He overheard her say "the russians are in...and the Jews have already overtaken the city."

Although things were infinitely better with the Nazi`s defeated my dziadzu and babcia still faced a perilous journey. They returned to Warsaw to pick up the peices of their fragmented lives. My dziadzu found his mother, aunt, brother and sister in law all miraculously still alive. He then inquired about my great uncle Max Zirler. He had been executed by the Ukrainians during the uprising. Like Max, nearly all the rest of his family had perished. After 500 years of ancestry in the same locale, the Milgroms had been mowed down to only a few survivors- all of whom left Poland in the years subsequent the war.

My great great aunt had knowledge of where my great great uncle Max had been buried with others in a shallow grave. From my dziadzu`s memoirs:

We bought a simple coffin and...rented a cart...(we) pushed the cart 2 miles to where my uncle was buried. We opened the shallow grave and transfered the remains, which were barely decomposed, to the coffin. This was quite shocking for all of us even though we were hardened by the atrocities and tragedies we witnessed during the war. We pushed the cart a few miles to the Jewish cemetary which was only partially destroyed. We found an empty grave... and took the liberty of placing my uncles remains in the grave...Years later, I returned to put a tombstone on the grave.

When I decided to visit Poland and retrace my dziadzu and babcia`s path, I asked my babcia (my Dziadzu passed away 5 years ago) for any contact info she might have of friends or family in the area. At first she could think of no one. After a couple of weeks she produced two names- only one of which she had known before the war. Despite my attempts I was unable to reconnect with her. After 500 years of my families inhabitance, the only trace of our existence here is this grave and the tombstone of Max Zirler. Amanda and I aimed to visit his final resting site after Wilcza St.

From Wilcza St. We traveled across Warsaw via Free (?) tram and arrived at the cemetery. The gate was closed and we at first grew fearful that the cemetary was closed. Upon closer inspection we realized there was a small door within the gate that opened quite easily. We found the individual managing the cemetary and inquired about my great great uncle`s grave. The gentleman looked up the information on a computer and pointed us precisely to the spot we needed to go. We visited his grave site placing stones on his tombstone and sat at length in silence.




















In the same cemetary there is a mass grave of hundreds, maybe thousands, of unidentified Jews who perished in the holocaust. I can`t help but wonder if some of my other ancestors found their final resting place there. Amanda and I spent nearly two hours between the mass grave and my my great great uncle`s grave in near silence. How many lineages were ended in this terrible tragedy? How lucky am I to be here?


















Amanda: The most touching place that we visited, for me, was the Jewish Cemetery. Buried in this cemetery are those who were massacred in the Warsaw Uprising. We pushed through a heavy, wrought iron gate and entered a dark forest with old graves leaning against each other. It looked almost as though they were piled against each other; it looked almost comforting for the dead to be so close to one another. It was unlike any cemetery I have seen. The sun filtered through the trees and cast deep shadows on the graves. We spoke with the gravedigger, who pointed us in the direction of Jon's great uncle's grave. The walk led us past the mass grave, a sudden break in the gravestones. It is a field of green grass and weeds, about the size of a small house, surrounded by large stones with a black, horizontal stripe on them. At the edge of the circle is a large stone with Hebrew written on it, and a black box in front holding up a number of small white candles. On top of the gravestones were many small stones. Jon and I each placed a stone on top. I felt an immense loss in this place where the trees hid most of the sun from view. I, who rarely feel strong emotion from a new place, was moved to tears and glad I was wearing sunglasses. Maybe I shouldn't have cared. But it felt private,a sorrow that I wanted to feel alone, and for a few minutes Jon and I parted and stood by ourselves. After, we found his great uncle's grave. A single star of David rested above his name and dates. The tombstone was tall and gray, and over the site lay another gray stone. Over the years dirt and leaves had landed on the tomb. Jon leaned over and with the edge of our map gently brushed the debris to the ground. We each placed a small stone on top of the grave.

Jon: After the cemetary Amanda and I were intensely hungry. We headed to the "Jewish" restraunt Tomek had recommended earlier. From Tomek we had surmised that this was a rooftop restraunt. This was not the case. After walking around blindly trying to explain to folks "restraucja" and then pointing towards the tops of buildings, Amanda wisely took out the map Tomek had drawn on for us and showed it to an individual. The location was clearly marked and the nice lady led us straight there. As it turned out, the "Jewish restraunt" was on the ground. Further, as far as Amanda and I could tell, the only thing that would even remotely indicate the Jewishness of this restraunt was that it was excessively expensive. I suppose some stereotypes die hard. We had a beer and left.

On the way back to the hostel we grabbed some hummus, mousaka, and couscous. It wasn`t quite Polish food but it would have to suffice. When we arrived back at the hostel all the beds had been rented out. Amanda, once again quite wisely, found a campground on the map. We packed up our backpacks and hoofed it over there. We payed $15 for the campsite and I reflected on our day as we put up our tent.

My dziadzu and babcia survived the holocaust relying on guile, cunning, and in no small measure luck. Today the Warsaw cityscape is a mosaic of mostly new buildings with scattered remnants of pre war buildings mixed in. The Germans burned down the ghetto, walled in and full of Jews, during the Warsaw uprising. Today it is full of designer shops and fancy buildings with nouveau-rich architecture. In addition to the ghetto, the Germans shelled and burned the majority of the city. By stroke of complete luck, my dziadzu and babcia weren`t in any of these buildings. We were astonished to see pre war buildings on our visit to Polna, Wilcza, and Kruzca street all surrounded by newer buildings constructed after the destruction of their pre war inhabitants. My family is truly fortunate to be here.














Next we will go to the uprising museum then head to Lublin, the city where the Russians established the post WWII communist government and forced enlistment of my dziadzu and great uncle Edek into the medical services of the Red Army...