Birkenau

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My Polish Wisnia: Part II Day 7.3

#‎MyPolishWisnia‬ turned the camera on me.

It was our last night here in Oświęcim. We got back to Hotel Galicja just as another family was checking in. In just a few hours, we would leave for Krakow, and then Vienna, then New York, then Philadelphia. It was going to be a full day of travel, and it had already been one of the most intense days we have had here. Visiting Auschwitz requires a lot of walking, a lot of standing. But the most draining are the memories.

We had earned our coffee, and my grandfather deserved some room service (that would be me). As he was taking my picture in the doorway of our room, the family that had just checked in downstairs came lumbering down our hall, speaking some other language, dragging their luggage behind them. My grandfather, naturally, poked his head out into the hallway. Where are you from? What language is this? The teenage daughter answered us. She was the only member of her family that spoke English, her parents and her younger brother only spoke Hungarian and did not understand. “Hungarian! You know, I know a song in Hungarian…” and my grandfather launched into some Hungarian tune, which I had never heard him sing before. So, I guess, add Hungarian to his list of languages. And then the entire family joined him, singing in the hallway. This was an apparently popular old Hungarian song.

The family looked tired. We were tired too. But upon meeting new people, suddenly my grandfather wasn’t tired anymore. Or he just forgot he was tired. When the family found out my grandfather was a survivor of the concentration camp, their eyes went wide, and they forgot they were tired too.

The daughter explained that they had just arrived to spend a few days visiting the site of Auschwitz-Birkenau. She then translated for her family as my grandfather ran through his history, from growing up outside Warsaw, to the violence he experienced in the Warsaw ghetto, to ending up in this place, a prisoner for over two and a half years. We just got back from visiting the barracks where he slept as a prisoner of Birkenau. The girl looked a little timid. “And what is the difference between Auschwitz and Birkenau?”

A year ago, I would have asked the same question. Because of my travels with my grandfather, I have gotten to know many more survivors and their stories. I have gotten to see so much of Auschwitz and hear experts talk about its history and legacy. I have gotten to understand more and more what my grandfather experienced. The girl’s question made me realize just how much of an education I have received.

Her question was so innocent, and my grandfather answered it without hesitation. They certainly had a lot to learn. Coming to Auschwitz, that is the best way to learn.

#‎MyPolishWisnia

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My Polish Wisnia: Part II Day 7.2

Singing saved my grandfather’s life. It is how he survived his time in Auschwitz. He would entertain the guards with songs like ‘Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen,’ and so became a sort of privileged prisoner in the camp, perhaps somewhat less expendable. During his time as prisoner, he actually composed a song – Oświęcim, a parody of life in Auschwitz-Birkenau, based on the name of the town where the concentration camp sits. Towards the end of the war, the night before the Germans evacuated every remaining prisoner out of Birkenau on a Death March, my grandfather wrote out his song and gave the paper to a fellow prisoner, Szaja, as a gift. They would meet again 20 years later in Israel as free men, as survivors, and Szaja would hand him back that very same paper. This song is now on display at the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC (view it HERE).

My grandfather taught me his song, Oświęcim, and I will perform it with him for the first time, here in Poland.

After dinner, they invited me to perform some entertainment for the attendees of the conference.

We had gathered at the Youth Meeting Center in Oświęcim, the town where Auschwitz was, and where it still is. We met wonderful people who grew up here, who have roots here. As a prisoner, my grandfather knew nothing of this town. All he knew was Auschwitz. Yet, he tells me that in his circles, the prisoners never knew this German word Auschwitz – they referred to the place in Polish based on where it was located, Oświęcim. Today, Oświęcim is a town with stores, schools, families, life. Like everything touched by the Holocaust, Oświęcim carries forward with it a complicated legacy.

Later in the evening, my grandfather and I performed his song, Oświęcim, his song that he wrote as a prisoner of Auschwitz.

I cannot describe to you what it felt like to perform here. I cannot put it into words. I don’t even know what to call it.

#MyPolishWisnia

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My Polish Wisnia: Part II Day 7.1

My grandfather wanted to take me to Bunk 15, the barracks where he slept for most of his nights as a prisoner of Auschwitz. The barracks still stand. We might have gone off by ourselves, but a Dutch filmmaker who was attending the conference approached my grandfather to participate in an interview for his documentary. The man wanted to film my grandfather walking around the Birkenau death camp. They would film me, too, walking with him; a grandfather pointing out his memories to his grandson. So we struck a deal. If they could arrange for a car and could get us in to the locked and roped-off barracks, we would do it. They liked the idea of filming inside the barracks. They could get someone from the museum to unlock the gates to drive us in to the restricted section. They could open the doors of Bunk 15. Sure.

My grandfather chiseled his name into the wall in the spot where he used to sleep as a prisoner of Auschwitz, in Barracks 15. This was years ago, when he returned after the war, it’s hard to remember when. But it has been there for decades. Many people have seen it, he points it out to people when he goes back. This was his buksa, his bed. No pillow or mattress. Just wood. He shared it with three other strangers; one thin, threadbare blanket to share between them. You could not stand up, you had to slide in. A bookshelf for people. You were lucky if you survived through the night, but you would wake only to find yourself still in this place.

There were many years my grandfather did not talk about his time here. David’s oldest son, my father, didn’t find out his own father was a Holocaust survivor until he was 16. My father had only discovered that David was born outside the United States a few years earlier. But now, my grandfather will tell you about it. He will come back to Auschwitz and show you. He has written it on the wall. He wants the world to know he was here.

“Ok, now we’re going to have you just walk down and around in between the bunks in silence, and we’ll follow you with the cameras.”

Even in daylight, Building 15 was dark. The stone walls and the wooden shelves which were used as beds were packed in tightly, cutting off most of the light. The windows seemed irrelevant. I followed my grandfather down one aisle and around the other, the documentary crew following behind us. There was not much room to move around. It was hard to picture 100 men in this space. It was cold. It was appalling. My grandfather slept here?

“Ok, now we’d like you to ask your grandfather some questions.”

They wanted me to prompt him from off camera. What did it smell like? What did it sound like? For all the detailed documents and records that were kept, none will really tell you what it was like to be a prisoner in Auschwitz. Nothing can, except the prisoners themselves.

The barracks were kept clean. Even though there was nothing but mud outside, you had to keep the barracks clean because they would be inspected by the Nazi guard. The Germans were afraid of disease spreading.

What was the mood like among the prisoners? Was there ever laughing? Not really. When you got food, when you had something to eat, there was a good mood. If you managed to get a bit extra, that was a great moment. There were occasional moments of sharing. But if you stole someone’s bread, the other prisoners would beat you to death. Prisoners would turn on each other all the time, like animals. You had to look out for yourself, that’s how you lived. Your survival depended on the death of someone else.

“Ok, now can you say that again, but over here by the door, in the light.”

There are only so many questions you can ask at once, theres only so far you can press. You can’t force someone to go back to a place they don’t want to go, even if they are already there. You’ll break them. It was already difficult being in the barracks, and the cameras made everything more complicated. It was beginning to feel like a conversation I wasn’t really involved in, even though I was.

They finished the interview with my grandfather outside the entrance to the barracks. I heard them laughing. My grandfather had lightened the mood, he always does. I stayed inside the bunk and walked around by myself, without the cameras behind me. I stood in the center taking everything in. I stood there for a while. Then I took out my own camera and took a picture.
Everything here is complicated. Nothing is appropriate.

My grandfather called back to me.
“Avi, ok, let’s go. Get out of that hell hole.”

Don’t mind if i do.

#MyPolishWisnia

 

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My Polish Wisnia: Part II Day 5.2

What does it take to tell your story of survival, to retell and relive those memories? Does it get easier or harder with each visit?

It has become more and more clear to me just how much my grandfather distanced himself from what happened, how he separated and blocked out this earlier part of his life, and how he protected his family from any trauma that he endured. I’m grateful to be able to accompany him as he comes back to Auschwitz, to tell his story. I’m grateful for the platform he is given. He is doing the world a service. The living testimony of survivors is the most important way to understand what happened here.

My grandfather is the strongest human being I know.

We drove back in to Birkenau as the sun was setting. The opening event of the conference would be a panel featuring 5 survivors of the Auschwitz concentration camp, including my grandfather. The topic: The Impact of the Camp Experience on Post-War Life. I’ve heard him speak many times now in recent years. But something happened on the way in to the panel. We pulled up to one of the prison buildings known as the Sauna, where prisoner clothing was sent for cleaning and delousing. We were walking towards one of the entrances, as my grandfather was remarking about a certain tree. He remembered that tree. We turned a corner. Someone opened a certain side door to the building. And my grandfather stopped cold.

He told the room just a few moments later: “As a prisoner of the camp, I worked exactly in this room for one and a half years. When we moved from the old sauna, I worked here until the evacuation. Somewhere at the back was an office, where I worked. I have been here a few times after the war, but never exactly entered this area. I could not bear it, and today I started crying.
I cried for the first time in 70 years.”

[Photo & Quote courtesy of The Auschwitz Museum. Read more about the panel, the survivors’ testimony, and the conference: HERE]

Everything in my family always involves The Meal. Major celebrations revolve around dinner. Family reunions are meal plans with unspecified activities in between, usually snacks. It’s pretty typical to discuss where we are having our next meal while we are eating our current one. So ending the day gathered around the dinner table with all of the participants of the conference felt comfortable and necessary.

Besides, my grandfather is in his prime around people. He is never not happy to meet someone. He is a man who truly celebrates being in the presence of others. He is The Grand Master Schmoozer. After a day of intensity, the company of family, friends, strangers who become friends, is important. Even now, spending time in Auschwitz, revisiting this history, we are able to laugh and joke and relax. Just take your cues from my grandfather. Life goes on.


I only know how to say 3 things in Polish. The first thing is: Nie mówią po polsku = I don’t speak Polish. The second thing is a phrase my grandfather taught me that I’d rather not repeat here. And the third is very important, so important that I made sure to know it and commit it to memory before i left: smażony kurczak. It’s not really a traditional Polish dish, but you’d be surprised how much smażony kurczak can be found in Poland, when it’s the only thing you can ask for.

#MyPolishWisnia

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My Polish Wisnia: Part II Day 5.1

It is a very difficult balance to document everything and also stay present to the experience; to balance sharing the story while also allowing for private moments. Each is important. On this trip, my grandfather never asked me to take a specific picture, except for this one. As we entered the Auschwitz concentration camp, which is now the Auschwitz Memorial & Museum, he stopped me as we were walking and had me take this picture.

This is the visitors entrance at Auschwitz. There were people everywhere. It was a regular weekday afternoon, and the lines were long. Different groups were shuffling along barbed wire to different parts of the camp, various tour guides pointing out barracks and buildings in so many different languages. French, German, Korean. Noticeably, there were many groups of Israelis with blue and white sweatshirts. There were many groups of Israeli soldiers with Israeli flags draped over their uniformed shoulders like capes. This time of year, 5-6,000 people visit Auschwitz per day. At the height of the summer season, the number grows to 8-9,000. Our driver, Marian, told us that – on average – a bus arrives every 15 minutes, ushering in a new group of tourists. This year, 1.5 million people will visit the site.

My grandfather was marveling, dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe it. He kept saying, “I cannot believe it.” My grandfather stopped a random group in line to ask where they were from. They took pictures with him. He sang to them in Italian. During his nearly 3 years as a prisoner of Auschwitz, he was a witness to some of the worst behaviors that humans are capable of. And i think he was glad that so many more were coming to bear witness, too.

“All this was done with nature’s permission.”

We are used to seeing images of the Holocaust in black and white. The stripes of the prisoners uniforms, the boots of the SS guards, mud, blood, nothing has color. As if from a different time. The Past. When i was last here in January, everything looked like it should. Black barbed wire against white wintry skies; it was cold as hell, and that seemed appropriate.

But today was pleasant. The skies were beautiful and blue, the breeze was warm and mild, the sun burst through the windows onto the exhibits in the Auschwitz I buildings and the grass – which my grandfather tells me was never there before – carpeted the entire stretch of the expansive Auschwitz II-Birkenau death camp. It was unsettling to see Auschwitz as just a place like any other, with trees and clouds and sunsets, greens and blues and oranges.

As we passed a particular ditch, my grandfather told me about an episode he had never mentioned to me before. He told me about the time he witnessed several guards lining up around this ditch with a pile of sand, and bringing several prisoners forward. The prisoners were made to shovel a bit of sand into their pockets and jog along the ditch. If they spilled even a grain from their pockets, the guards would beat them with their sticks until they tumbled and fell in the ditch. Then, they were shot. It was a game, it was sport.

At the 70th Anniversary event in January, survivor Kazimierz Albin, prisoner #118, stood in this very spot and told his story and I remember one particular phrase that stuck with me: “All this was done with nature’s permission.” Whether sun or snow, it did not matter, that was the reality of Auschwitz. I looked around at the grass and the sky, and everything was quiet. For all the torture and violence and deprivation and death, this is just a place. This could be a place like any other place.

#MyPolishWisnia

My Polish Wisnia

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