I was warned about going on this trip.
Not *against* going, of course, but the suggestions from ‘Poland Personally’ veterans revealed subtly the challenges that I would face. Some advice was practical: “Bring a raincoat. And comfortable shoes.” Others suggested the freedom to enjoy myself when I could: “Eat lots of ice cream cones and try the beer.”
In the same breath, they would also offer themselves as sounding boards, or ask me to check in with a phone call: “Try not to be alone.” One of our seminar members even wrote her dissertation on how this trip affected teachers psychologically. When I would tell friends and family members my plans to go to Poland to explore the concentration camps and ghettos of the Holocaust, they struggled to reply appropriately. “Have a good trip?” one well meaning friend offered, emphatically emphasizing the question mark.
Having now completed this journey, I can say that all of the advice was well-warranted. I wore the raincoat when it rained. I had on my tennis shoes as I trekked through what felt like half of Poland. I ate all the ice cream cones and I drank most of the beer. I cried, I hugged teachers I hardly knew that suddenly became family, and I talked and listened and cried some more.
But if I may be so bold, I am going to give some different advice to those that follow me on this trip to Poland: leave a little room for hope. That may sound saccharine or unrealistic when you’re walking an uneven dirt road for what seems like an endless stretch of concentration camp barracks, or facing the reality of an immense pile of victims’ personal items, or staring at a photograph with the sad, vacant eyes of a child being marched to her death. At times, it’s too big, it’s too much, it’s overwhelming and dark and incredibly sad.
Still, I looked for the hope. I found it in the memorials made from broken Jewish gravestones. I found it in the artwork and gifts of the Majdanek prisoners, refusing to lose their humanity in the face of assured death. I found it in the Oneg Shabbat underground archive that contained notes scrawled on postcards and scraps of paper thrown out the windows of train cars on their way to Auschwitz, notes not only that were found and mailed to family members in the Warsaw Ghetto but also found later in emptied homes and meticulously kept archived, a monument made of paper to remind us all that they were here, they still had their humanity and however small, they still had their hope. I found it in the Krakow JCC and the Grodzka Gate organizations that are working tirelessly to rebuild Jewish family histories. I found it in Tsipy’s ironclad will to make the impossible happen on this trip; I found it in Natalia’s contagious laughter, and I found it in Hedy’s quiet gracefulness under pressure. Finally, I found hope in Harold’s story, in his inexhaustible willingness to relive his memories of losing his family, and the horrors of the Starachowice labor camp and Auschwitz, and in his patience with us as we ask him over and over how he managed to survive.
I have no doubt that there will be dark days ahead, for my own country, for the vulnerable, and yes, for the Jews. But what this trip has shown me, most surprisingly, is the human capacity for hope and resilience; however small, it was always there.