— veracity —
He was caught somewhere between his mother’s last kiss and the first kiss he would give his child, between the war that was and would be. Jonathan Safran Foer During the Cold War, my mother would travel from Gdańsk, Poland, to East Berlin twice a year to shop for items that were unavailable back at home; school supplies, clothes, and…
Continue reading →A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die. Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory The woman who used to…
Continue reading →What else, if not individual acts of complicity, like that of that neighbor—or acts of defiance, like that of my grandfather—form the historical waves, the irresistible current of events that shapes the foundation of every human society. Where wind carries the smell of the crematorium And a bell in the village tolls the Angelus The Spirit of History is out…
Continue reading →My mother’s face betrayed nothing but the utmost delight. She touched my father’s arms and chest, all the places where the flowers were blooming. They cut into the ocean in a perfectly perpendicular line. Their color changes depending on how much of the rock is submerged in water in low or high tides and how much sunlight reflects on their…
Continue reading →The Polish Nazis—with swastikas tattooed in their armpits—were quiet. No one knew they existed until it was too late. We must tell our children about how this evil was allowed to happen—because so many people succumbed to their darkest instincts; because so many others stood silent. But let us also tell our children about the Righteous among the Nations. Among…
Continue reading →The ballot didn’t fit, because my hands shook uncontrollably. The year I was eligible to vote for the first time, I announced to my parents that I would tell the communist officials at the voting place that I know it is all a sham. This is what eighteen-year-olds do, they announce their bravery, while the elders look at them with…
Continue reading →History takes place in language before it manifests itself in events. In first grade, at seven years of age, I started catechism classes like everyone else in my school. A part of me was excited about it, and a part of me was scared. Today I know that the part of me that was scared was precisely responsible for my…
Continue reading →The first was red socks. I grew up in communist Poland, and I knew few people who didn’t dream of leaving. I was one of them, and I emigrated as soon as the ban on traveling to the West was lifted. The place we all wanted to live was the United States of America, the greatest country in the world….
Continue reading →My parents unanimously condemned the idea. They didn’t want me to take the risk. We argued. The liar’s punishment is,not in the least that he is not believed,but that he cannot believe anyone else.George Bernard Shaw In March, when Donald J. Trump tweeted that his predecessor, Barack Obama, had illegally wiretapped Trump Tower before the election, I quickly concluded that…
Continue reading →The power of the image lies in its silence, because the silence turns the witness into an active participant. That we could, as we do, live in the realm of eternal mirrors,working our way at the same time through unmowed grasses. Czesław Miłosz When on December 13th, 1991—the tenth anniversary of martial law being declared in communist Poland to crush the…
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