Journey to Staszow, Part I

I won't go into the detail of all the reasons that I had decided to go to Staszow, Poland. Suffice it to say that by the spring of 2005, I was feeling a strong need to go there. At the very least, I felt that my book would benefit from me putting my feet on the same ground on which my ancestors had worked, prayed and died. It was then that I contacted by distant step-cousin, Jack Goldfarb. With Jack’s help, I made travel arrangements and on my 56th birthday found myself flying to Europe.

With the able guidance of Monika Skowron, a 22 year-old law student from Krakow, I arrived in Staszow and was introduced to Ana, Jack’s friend, and three local history teachers, Tomek, Dorota and Katya. They were all eager to meet me and seemed impressed that I had traveled so far to pay my respects. I was given a short tour of the cemetery. Tomek, the senior of the three teachers, showed me photos of Jewish life from a book that he and several others had written about the region's history. When he was done leafing through its pages, he told me in halting English, that he would like for me to have this book as a remembrance. I gasped out loud and with shaking hands took the book from him and, then, I cried. He held me while I sobbed, the others looking on with great compassion. He told me that they were planning a program that would commemorate the liquidation of the ghetto in Staszow, which had occurred on November 8, 1942. With the greatest earnestness, he invited me to come to the program. I said that I couldn’t, but that I would be back next week with my wife and I would love for her to meet them. He beamed and said that he would like us to visit the high school and see the parts of the program that had been put together. He was quite concerned that what they were envisioning was proper and respectful. I told him I was looking forward to seeing them all again. As we parted company, he turned to me and said, “Hello.” Hello, Goodbye. Shalom, Shalom.

Monika and I followed Ana to her home where we were fed an enormous lunch and spent the afternoon with Ana’s mother, 84-year-old Leokadia Kewalec, who as a young woman had safely harbored eight Jews in the family barn for three years during the Nazi occupation. Perhaps, the most affecting story that she told was how she had persuaded the Jews to remain in hiding, even after they had witnessed the murder of neighbors and the Jewish family they had been caring for. Her friends wanted to leave so as not to endanger Leokadia's family any more. They paid attention to her arguments and were liberated by the Red Army, not two weeks later. She pointedly mentioned that the soldiers were led by a Jewish officer. She wept openly when she talked about how she had lost touch with one of the Jews, a Mr. Wolbromski, and feared him dead. In all, there are now over one hundred descendants of the eight.

The next day, Monika dropped me off at the cemetery and I spent an hour or so by myself there. I burned sage, sweetgrass, cedar and tobacco. I said Kaddish. I sat in silent meditation. I prayed that my ancestors and all those buried at this place might know that their well-being was being sought by me and others who loved them. Perhaps, if there was some pain that tied them to this place, they might now see that all was well here. Perhaps, this might be a time for them to realize and to recognize their true nature and finally surrender to it.

I wandered through the high brush and examined the headstones, the metzavot. Cousin Jack had repatriated these memorials over the past few years. Some had been in storage. Others, had been used as paving material. A few were in pristine condition. Others had great hunks broken from them, as though some ravenous beast had taken a huge bite and moved on. One has an eight-inch diameter ragged hole in it. Had it been used as target practice? Three large memorials had been financed by Jack and had been constructed of broken bits and pieces of all that remained of some of the hundreds of metzavot that had once stood witness to the Jews who lived and died in Staszow in the 19th and early 20th centuries. When I had left for Poland I had the notion that I owed my ancestors something. I knew that getting the book completed was just part of that debt. I had paid my respects and made my prayers, yet I had the distinct feeling that something remained for me. I was not finished.

Comments

[Marina]

Please, if you have any photos or information on the Weizman or Grosberg families from Staszow, please contact me. Even a photo of a headstone or any scrap of information.
Thank you.

[danny sasson]

hi my name is danny sasson
im from israel i was in Staszow 4 years ago/ my father and i went there we mat ana and her mother can you male the names + aderes or phone off the teachrs ? do you speak or read hebrow ?

[Lukasz]

I grew in Staszow. My family wasn't jewish but they were old polish staszow family from Krakowska street (very close to Czarna river). My gradma was a tailor, grandfather was policeman(?). I know this very sad story about november 1942..
I would like to send my best greetings to all who can remember - personally or from grandma&grandfather stories - OUR city.