Today was a day about Jewish life.
Not Jewish death.
At the POLIN Museum, I learned that before World War II, Poland was home to more than 3 million Jews—about 10% of the country’s population and the largest Jewish community in Europe. For nearly 1,000 years, Jewish life flourished here. There were schools, synagogues, newspapers, businesses, artists, scholars, political leaders, and families building lives alongside their Polish neighbors.
It is impossible to understand what was lost without first understanding what existed.
Later, we visited the Okopowa Street Jewish Cemetery in Warsaw.
I expected a cemetery.
What I found was evidence.
Evidence that hundreds of thousands of Jewish people lived here, worked here, raised families here, and considered Poland home.
There are approximately 90,000 visible gravestones, but more than 200,000 people are buried there. Modern technology has shown that some burial areas are as many as 14 layers deep. The cemetery’s hills are not natural. The land was once flat.
The symbols carved into the stones tell stories. A pair of hands. A pitcher. A crown. Each one reveals something about the person beneath it, their family, their faith, and their place in the community. Some identified deeply with their Jewish heritage. Others saw themselves as both Jewish and Polish. The stones preserve those stories long after the voices are gone.
I stood beside two mass graves containing approximately 50,000 people each.
One hundred thousand human beings.
I learned that children from the Warsaw Ghetto helped bury many of the dead to earn money for their starving families. As a teacher, I found myself trying to imagine children carrying that burden. It is something I still cannot fully comprehend.
I also stood beside a section of the cemetery wall that once formed part of the Warsaw Ghetto boundary. What appears to be an ordinary wall was once part of a lifeline. Through this area, people, food, documents, messages, and other items were smuggled into and out of the ghetto.
We also visited the Nożyk Synagogue, the only prewar Jewish synagogue in Warsaw that survived the war and continues to serve an active congregation today.
Throughout the day, I had been learning about a world that was destroyed. Walking into the synagogue was a reminder that the story did not end there.
Despite everything that happened, Jewish life remains.
There was something powerful about sitting in a place where people still gather to pray, celebrate, mourn, and build community. After a day spent learning about loss, the synagogue was a reminder of resilience.
And then tonight, I had the privilege of sharing dinner with Anna Krzyżowska and her daughter.
After spending the day learning about history, I found myself sharing a meal with someone who lived it.
Anna was recognized by Yad Vashem as one of the Righteous Among the Nations for helping rescue Jews during the German occupation.
Her story moved me.
Anna’s mother, Maria, was already hiding and helping Jews. She taught those in hiding Polish customs and Christian prayers so they would have a better chance of surviving if questioned. For a long time, she kept this secret from Anna.
When Anna turned 16, her mother finally told her what was happening and asked whether she was willing to continue helping, knowing that discovery would mean death for everyone involved.
Anna’s response was simple:
“Where would they go?”
From that point on, she became part of the effort. She assisted those in hiding and helped conceal weapons.
History often celebrates heroes as if they were somehow different from the rest of us. Sitting in a room with Anna, I was reminded that many acts of courage begin with something much simpler—a decision that another human life matters.
As I reflect on this day, I keep coming back to one thought:
Today I learned about a community that flourished.
I stood in a cemetery that proves they existed.
And tonight, I met someone who helped some of them survive.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget this day.
Izzy Roe