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 →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 →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 →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…
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