LETTER FROM JEDWABNE By Gary Lucas

When I was a boy, I often pondered the War, that’s why. Those dirty mumsers…those fate of my European relatives on my mother’s dirty Polocks!” side. My family I knew had originally been Cringing at this horrible story, and named Piekarski, and they had lived for many shocked by my normally mild-mannered generations in a little Grandpa’s intolerant town called Jedwabne, language (weren’t we near Bialystock in also of Polish descent? northeastern Poland. I And what exactly set us knew that my apart from our non- grandfather Samuel had Jewish neighbors in been more or less Jedwabne that would smuggled out of justify such an atrocity?), Jedwabne and Poland I filed this information by his doting mother at away for many years in a very tender age. She the back of my mind had disguised him by under the heading dressing him up as a “Subject for Further little girl, in order to Investigation.” It prevent him from being especially galled me, eventually conscripted Europhile that I am (I’m into the Polish army. At a Ellis Island he was guitarist/composer/songw given a banana to eat, a riter/producer who works fruit he had never seen frequently all over the before, by a well map over there, being meaning immigration much better known in official—and he never France, England, the forgot his attempt to eat Czech Republic, Holland, it, skin and all (and he Germany etc. than I am never, ever ate one in this country), that in an again). era growing up in which the heritage of every Besides wondering why Piekarski had conceivable ethnic group was being been changed to Goldman, his new American celebrated, mine seemed to have been surname (that’s less Jewish sounding?), I used definitively, literally cut off at the roots by to ask my Grandpa, a proud, feisty, pretty what happened in Jedwabne, details of which much self-educated man who had raised a were shadowy and vague. mighty family and whom I loved dearly, what This story of the burning barn was like became of the Piekarski’s, and why, in fact, an unconfirmed rumor that circulated quietly had we no more living European relatives on among the Goldman family. My parents Adele my mother’s side of the family? and Murray actually made a pilgrimage to “They took all the Jews in Jedwabne Jedwabne some years ago, but brought back and burned them all up in a barn during the no fresh information. I’d press my Grandpa

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before he died repeatedly for more stories friends—I actually attended his bar mitzvah a about Jedwabne, a town that he seemed to few years ago—and both he and our wives recall vividly and with much obvious bonded by going to see the Klezmatics play affection, and although he had no more details the together shortly of this slaughter of the Innocents, he would thereafter. He and his lovely wife Elizabeth obligingly regale me with warm and endearing both came to see me play as well with my own tales of his uncle who drove the Polish stage band Gods and Monsters at the Mercury coach, his cousins the Noziks and their Lounge not that long ago. extended family, and other precious memories Then last year, another revelation—the he took with him when he left Poland shortly publication in Poland of NYU Professor Jan after the turn of the century. T. Gross’s excellent and informative book Thus it came as a total revelation, an “Neighbors”, which provides an even more unexpected fiery bolt from the skies, to open thorough account of the massacre of an one morning five years estimated 1600 Jews, and which definitively ago and discover a Letter to the Editor from implicates the local Polish community of one Ty Rogers describing the Jedwabne Jedwabne in the crime, its inescapable pogrom in authoritative detail. He had a date conclusion being that, indeed, here was a case for it, too: July 10th, 1941. And he mentioned of Neighbors killing Neighbors. A book that a memorial standing in the town that has set off a firestorm of debate within Poland, erroneously ascribed the killings to the a nation that hitherto had never acknowledged German Nazis alone. its own people’s complicity in such deeds. Stunned, I tracked Ty down through the Thanks to “Neighbors”, many, many people New York phone directory, called him and world over now know about a little town in introduced myself. It turned out he was a Poland called Jedwabne. fellow landsman whose grandfather had also So it was with amazement that I come from Jedwabne; he had been there fairly learned this spring from Ty that the Polish recently, had done some investigation into the government had actually invited the surviving facts of the pogrom, and most importantly, members of the families massacred in was in possession of a yiskor book from a Jedwabne to attend a memorial service on the Rabbi Baker, another landsman now living in 60th anniversary of the killings, in which Israel, who had left Jedwabne in the 30’s, and President Kwasniewski himself, a forward- who had painstakingly gathered together all thinking and progressive man, would actually known (at the time) survivor’s accounts and formally apologize to the Jewish people on photos of the community. behalf of the Polish nation for the crimes This suddenly put many more pieces of committed on that day. My own extended the puzzle together for me. The yiskor book family urged me to go as their Designated also included a list of all the Jews burned in Mourner (thank you Wallace Shawn), citing the barn after being cruelly tortured on that age and work obligations as the main fateful day. Chillingly, I found both my obstacles preventing them from traveling with Grandpa’s family’s name and his cousin’s me. family name on that list. Thanks to Ty, a But questions remained. Under much young lawyer brimming with energy and a pressure from the Catholic right wing in dogged determination to further share the truth Poland, the precise language to be inscribed about Jedwabne with the world, I made copies on the memorial plaque, which was to have of this book for my family, and it circulated laid the blame for the murders squarely upon among my parents, uncles, aunts and cousins the Poles, was bowdlerized to read as just a like samizdat literature. Ty and I became good simple declaration that the murders occurred,

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R.I.P. (I’m reminded of Lenny Bruce’s routine After much debate, most of us decided to in which a Jew, attempting to absolve our come anyway. At the very least, to pay our people from supposed collective guilt in the respects to the martyrs of July 10th, 1941. death of Jesus, leaves a confessional note in Having bought one of those non- his basement, “I did it! Signed, Morty”.). This refundable tickets, I flew to Warsaw on the emendation did not sit at all well with the evening of July 4th from JFK (I live in the group of surviving landsmen and women, West Village of Manhattan). who, through the miracle of the Internet and Arriving bleary-eyed from the eight-hour Ty’s indefatigable attempts to locate and flight, I was picked up by two charming young connect us all, had swelled to about one female Polish foreign office guides, and hundred strong around the world. deposited in the eerily deserted Parkowa Every week brought a new flurry of e- Hotel, the official government residence mails from Ty, sometimes several a day, directly across from the Russian Embassy. transmitting the latest news about the Entered only through a gate guarded by memorial event to come, reviews and several young soldiers, this 50’s style hotel commentaries from the international press was to serve as the rallying point for our about Jan Gross’s “Neighbors”, and group, and was situated in the foreign discussions of the issues confronting the embassy enclave not far from downtown group. Would we accept the compromised Warsaw, next to a sprawling park. language on the memorial plaque? Should we I had elected to spend the next couple of boycott the ceremonies instead? days in Cracow since the group wasn’t really A secondary issue was scheduled to gather until Sunday, as I accommodations—the original offer by the particularly wanted to visit the annual Jewish Polish government to put us in a hotel at their Heritage Festival there. After dinner in the expense for a week was scaled back at the last empty hotel restaurant (the food in Poland was minute to covering two days of hotel only, excellent throughout my stay) and a restless outraging many of the group who had night’s sleep, I left by train early the next purchased non-refundable airline tickets based morning for Cracow. on the original invitation. The official I had been to Cracow once before on explanation by the Polish authorities was the some days off on a tour of the Czech unforeseen costs of housing such an unwieldy Republic, and again found the city as beautiful group, grown larger than originally estimated. and uplifting as ever. Warsaw had been Many in the group believed it was a late leveled by the Germans; Cracow remains attempt to discourage people from coming at today in all its magnificent Old World all, especially once our unhappy feelings with splendor. The Old Town section, while dotted the new inscription were made known. with Benettons and McDonalds, is one of This was but one gaffe that bred initial Europe’s jewels, akin to ’s Old Town uncomfortable feelings on our, and no doubt (another city that escaped the bombing). The on the Polish government’s, side; the Kazimierz old Jewish quarter, which is exhumation of the mass Jewish gravesite in Ground Zero for the Jewish Heritage Jedwabne by the Polish Institute for National Celebration, lives again, thanks to Jews who Remembrance, who are conducting their own come from all over the world to visit, and investigation into this and other massacres, thanks to the Ronald Lauder Foundation who was another. It’s hard to be a Jew…and maybe restored the ancient building. As I wandered just as hard to be a Pole having to confront a through the twisting little streets and leafy shameful legacy. byways of Kazimierz on that sunny Friday afternoon, I truly felt I had come home.

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In the cozy warm dining room of the strongly believe in the culture, that people like Klezmer-Hois, one of the small Jewish- me, Jew and non-Jew, can sit around the table themed hotels on Szeroka Street, I spoke to here, can talk, can drink and eat, can play, and Janusz Makuch, the visionary director of the enjoy our common time. Doesn’t matter who Jewish Heritage Festival. Outside families and is Jewish and who is not Jewish. We’re all couples ate picnic-style at little tables beneath together in this common, this very small the green trees that surround the hotel, right world.” next door to a superb new vegetarian Indeed. Saturday night the streets of restaurant. Kazimierz were packed with thousands upon “I remember organizing the first Festival thousands of revelers exalting in the in 1988,” Janusz told me. “And it was the atmosphere of a rock concert. I met Jews who beginning. I remember there was only one had come from all over the world (including Jewish museum then on Szeroka Street, and Prof. Jan Gross of “Neighbors” fame and his no real restaurants. There was nothing really. girlfriend), but I think it safe to say that the Then the people I wanted to invite to Cracow majority of celebrants were Polish gentiles started to come, like Andy Statman in 1992. standing shoulder to shoulder with their He’s a genius, of course. The audience was Jewish music-loving counterparts, digging the expecting this little boy with peyis playing, rapturous vibes together. you know, “Fiddler on the Roof”. And he I had an emotional reunion myself with suddenly started from Coltrane, you know, trumpeter/composer Frank London and and started to play this Free Jewish Music. It saxophonist Greg Wall, the leaders of was amazing.” Hassidic New Wave, the incendiary -rock Over the years, Janusz remarked, the group who closed the Festival, which also Festival had become the premier Jewish featured outstanding modern klezmer Festival in Europe. “We had seven, eight ensembles such as Brave Old World and thousand people last year dancing in the Satlah. I had toured with Frank and Greg and streets of Kazimierz on the last night of the their at that time Israeli rhythm section in Festival…in the rain! And not all of them 1993, barnstorming one-nighters all over Jews, of course. Since Jews have given so Europe on the Knitting Factory-sponsored much to Polish culture, it’s only natural that JAM Tour (Jewish Avant-Garde Music the Polish people here would support our Tour)with my original live score to festival so strongly. It’s a lost world for them accompany a screening of the 1920 silent film to discover, like Atlantis.” With films, “The Golem”. Now Frank and Greg asked me symposiums, craft demonstrations, even (this to sit in with them for their closing number. year) a workshop on Jewish cooking, the After a rousing set that included a Cracow Jewish Festival is a huge international thunderous Senegalese drum ensemble phenomenon—this despite the fact that in augmenting the core Hassidic New Wave Poland there are currently less than 3,000 group, I was introduced by Greg as “an old Jews living there. In Cracow perhaps 120 friend” (I played on their first album), and only. took the stage with my slide guitar in hand. To “It’s very very difficult to preserve the stand onstage and play with them on their memory of the Jewish culture on the cemetery final number, overlooking the tumultuous here,” he went on. The cemetery he referred to throngs of ecstatic people in the central was Poland itself, once home to 3 million square, Jews and Gentiles from all over the Jews. “But here at the Festival, here in world dancing madly in the midsummer full Cracow, this is a living culture, a living moonlight at midnight to our music, was an tradition, part of a long long process. And I awe-inspiring dream for me. I took a bow with

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them, and choked with emotion, retired to my Jedwabne, such beautiful tender faces in the hotel shortly afterwards, the strains of Frank’s old photos, and in the lobby. trumpet and Greg’s sax continuing to echo We told our family stories to each other ghostlike on the empty streets of the Old well into the night, stopping only for a short Town, wafting over on the night breeze from interview with German public tv. The the Festival closing jam session down the interviewers from that network, ARD, seemed road. almost relieved that for once this was not a I returned to Warsaw the next morning on story about German bestiality towards Jews as an old train jammed with young people, many they filmed us outside the Nozik synagogue in of whom had come from all over Poland for downtown Warsaw in the fading twilight. the Jewish Heritage Festival. Watching the Monday morning I took a stroll in green meadows flash by as we approached the Warsaw’s own Old Town, rebuilt brick by city, I reflected on the beauty of the natural brick after the war in a very realistic re- landscape of Poland, and how it had been creation of the original cityscape, in the sullied by the deaths of millions of Jews who company of an elderly Israeli couple, Tovah had lived there. Were these the same verdant and Jacov Tal. I had bonded with them the vistas the deportees saw on the way to the night before, and had listened, spellbound, as camps? Tovah had related her peripatetic upbringing, A big problem, reconciling the incredible which took her from Poland by way of ecumenical spirit I felt in Cracow with the Germany to Shanghai before finally settling in ghastly history that underlay the fields Israel with Jacov, a former officer in the surrounding us as the train sped on to Warsaw. Israeli Air Force. I am a tremendous fan of the work of Isaac I quizzed her closely about her memories Bashevis Singer, he’s my alltime favorite of living in China--my first wife was a writer (although they didn’t teach him at Yale Chinese girl who had studied on a kibbutz in where I studied literature as an Israel before converting to Judaism, and I undergraduate). I have read every single one recently recorded an album of Chinese pop of his books, including his last work “The from the 30’s. And of course about her King of the Fields”, a tremendous work of connection with Jedwabne --her husband’s historical reimagination that takes place in a family was from Palestine, and had lived there pre-Christian, pre-Jewish Poland. Here were for over 150 years. Jacov told me how he flew those same fields, drenched in blood. Yet they on the famous air mission during the Six Day appeared to me now as fresh, innocent and War that completely took out the Egyptian Air eternal, and as the chattering kids spilled off Force. the train at the Warsaw station, I felt the spirit In the windows of the tourist shops in the of hope for the future of Poland continue to cobble-stoned streets of the Old Town we stir in my breast. noticed puppets and figurines of Hassidic The Parkowa Hotel was now filling up Jews in black coats with peyis and beards. with the new arrivals of landsmen and women. Memento Mori’s, perhaps of a vanished From Israel, South America, and Mexico they culture, a culture that had seemed to flourish came, from New York, Detroit, Albuquerque, again so vividly on Saturday night in Cracow. and California they clustered in groups from Back in the hotel I encountered Rabbi the airport, and we introduced ourselves and Baker, one of the prime movers in bearing embraced each other in the marble lobby all witness to the terrible truth of Jedwabne. I had day. Talking excitedly in Yiddish, Hebrew, first met him several years ago at a Yahrzeit Spanish, and English, brandishing faded ceremony for the landsmen and women of snapshots of their relatives left to die in Jedwabne held in a shul in Brooklyn, which I

5 was invited to by Ty. Now back in his native drinks and canapés, we trooped downstairs to land, he looked older and frailer than meet the press, which, significantly, was previously but still alert and dignified. mainly only the Polish media, most of the Also there was a fiery young poet from foreign press in Poland not having been Buenos Aires named Laura Klein. Chain- invited to this event. smoking furiously and drinking cup after cup One by one our six designated of coffee, Laura was determined to read a spokesmen and women addressed the crowd, statement she had prepared for the early beginning with Ty Rogers, who more or less evening press conference, really the only socked it to the crowd there by relating our chance the families had to make any kind of anger at the truncated memorial inscription official statement to the press as the and our insistence on putting the blame for the ceremonies in Jedwabne the next day had been massacre in Jedwabne on some of the Polish planned down to the minute and, outside of a people living there—not the Germans. scheduled address by Rabbi Baker, no spoken The Polish journalists, camermen and contributions from the group had been officials looked distinctly uncomfortable as requested or were in fact desired. they listened to our group, as one after another Perhaps the Polish authorities (and the of our speakers reiterated the same points, official Jewish leaders) feared an each address seemingly angrier and more embarrassing situation should one of the grief-stricken than the last. These jeremiads group decide to protest in front of the culminated with Laura Klein’s dramatic, international media covering the ceremony, to emotional address, entitled “Forgive bring up the issue of the controversial Yourselves”, which she read in heavily circumscribed memorial inscription that did inflected Spanish- accented English, which not specifically blame the Poles as the she prefaced thusly: murderers. Or to protest the humiliating recent “I would prefer to read this text tomorrow, exhumation of the mass grave, in order to in Jedwabne, at the official ceremony. But we, count bodies and body parts to determine the the descendents of the Jewish families precise number of Jews killed there. slaughtered in 1941, were not allowed to As if that in any way could change the speak there, face to face to the descendents of reality of what had happened that day in our Polish neighbors…we are not needed for Jedwabne. their ceremony of public repentance…we have As usual when any group of Jews gathers come to confirm that our voices are absent, anywhere to discuss anything, they will never and to invite the Poles to keep their contrition reach a total consensus. When we entered the and their shame to themselves. ” official government reception house that Her address went on to invoke the words evening where our group’s press conference of Primo Levi written after Auschwitz, was to be held, I overheard one elderly woman finishing with a poem she had written herself from our group shake her head in disbelief and as a suggested prayer for all Polish people to say loudly to her self (and for all to hear), “I recite daily, an intense indictment of the don’t want any part of this! These people here actions of their forbears. Strong stuff, and don’t speak for me…these are not my feelings undeniably cathartic, whether you agreed with about this.” her or not. After a formal statement by our Polish When she had finished there was a hosts, where we were introduced to the supercharged, unbearably claustrophobic government officials assembled there who had atmosphere in the room. The spell was broken been working and planning the Jedwabne finally by a short, upbeat speech by Rabbi memorial for some time, and a short repast of Baker’s son-in-law which called for

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reconciliation with the Polish people and a call in the region, finally halting in a muddy field to move forward together in a positive outside the market square of Jedwabne. direction. Government helipcopters hover in the The press swarmed forward to distance overhead. There are security people photograph and demand soundbites from our and soldiers everywhere. As we step warily group spokespeople. We returned back to the off the bus, we see throngs of curious hotel with some sense of satisfaction that the onlookers lining the streets of Jedwabne, voices of the surviving families had been many with staring stony faces and hard eyes. heard, directly, at last. How dare we come back to their town? What Tuesday July 10th 2001. We arose to an did They have to do with this killing in 1941? autumnal grey morning to leave on the bus for I have to admit I’m a little bit scared. Jedwabne at 7am. As we traveled the 2 and a “Look at this poster! How disgusting…” half hour journey the skies darkened, the wind One of the group points to a paper flyer picked up, it grew noticeably colder, and it affixed to a lamp post, which basically says in began to rain heavily. After the unseasonably Polish, we didn’t do it, it was the Germans, warm and humid summer weather we had this ceremony is a lie. “They should have at enjoyed in Warsaw, this was a funereally least taken these down…” appropriate atmosphere for the memorial. “This way!” We’re jostled hither and Gazing out the bus window, I moodily thither up the street, into the town square, past saw the same lush landscape I had enjoyed on the massive Catholic church. Two my train ride back from Cracow transformed parishioners in front of the church hold up a in the misty morning half-light into a primeval big banner with a quote from a famous Polish forest inhabited by malevolent creatures and poet to the effect that the truth shall set you mournful spirits. Suddenly a voice broke my free, and that this memorial ceremony is not gloomy reverie: the truth. “Excuse me, are you the man that is A drunken village lout ambles by and related to the Nozik family? We are some of giggles inanely, then shouts an epithet at our us living in Israel now… you surely must be group. We don’t have time to react, we’re our cousin!” swept up by the tumult, it’s raining harder and The voice of a kindly sympathetic soul, a chilly wind is blowing through Jedwabne. a radiant elderly woman named Jafa Azaryho. I look around as we sweep past the squat I go back to her seat and meet two couples, mustard yellow and brown houses, and gaze both Nozik-related, both living in Israel, one at the narrow twisting side streets. I can easily couple in Jerusalem, the other in Tel Aviv. project myself into the madness of 1941, can “And we remember your mother’s easily imagine being chased and hunted down cousin Max, he used to send us food when we these rude alleys… were first living there, all the way from I’m dragging my guitar case down the America in 1951…” street with me. It weighs a ton, the cross I bear I can’t believe this. I have direct kin throughout my music career, a steel reinforced here I never knew existed. Tears well up in flight case to prevent the airline baggage my eyes as they show me pictures of the handlers from playing basketball with my Nozik girls in turn of the century Jedwabne. I guitar. Two years ago SwissAir charged me an feel some relief, some joy, but also much extra five hundred dollars overweight charge anger as we wind down the Polish highway, because of my heavy instrument cases, to fly past signs advertising chainsaws, through the from Zurich to play a festival in Tel Aviv. town of Lomza where stood the Jewish ghetto “Are you trying to get the money back you

7 just paid back to the Jewish people?” I asked Guide hands my elderly Israeli cousin a cup of the flight agent sardonically. water. I want to play in Jedwabne. I want to These children are the flowers of the exorcise the ghosts of my ancestors and say a nation, and perhaps the only hope for the prayer, my way, for my people. future. I feel a kinship with Laura. Unlike her, I When I first started playing in don’t reject reconciliation with the Poles. But Germany years ago, I had severe doubts about I do feel prevented from giving voice to my my endeavor. I remember my Grandpa feelings at the official ceremony, which is of describing how he refused to set foot on course being scripted by politicians on both German soil after the war, refusing to leave sides. “Who are you, I never heard of you or his cruise ship when it docked in Hamburg on your music before?” one of the Orthodox the Grand Tour. rabbinical associates had asked me snidely “They didn’t bomb enough here…they earlier that morning back in the hotel, didn’t bomb enough.” attempting to put me down as someone not I reject this attitude, as well as his worthy to participate in their memorial intemperate language about the Poles all those service. Everyone had his own agenda here. years ago. I understand where it came from. “I played with , But I won’t buy into it. , I play my music all over We place stones on the memorial, and the world.” I showed him the International blue yahrzeit candles. I start to cry again. Herald Tribune’s profile on me that ran in Cantor Jacob Malowany from the Fifth January. He turned away dismissively. Avenue Synagogue sings a prayer to conclude “In my law, you’re disturbing the dead if the ceremony as the wind whistles in our ears. you play here.” His voice reaches to the heavens and echoes in “I doubt that,” I retorted. “My family the surrounding fields. It actually cracks as he had many musicians in it…I’m sure they’d sobs with grief. approve.” To me, music is the healing force of Now we move into the graveyard. I wait the universe. Far more effective than words, for the prayer service to conclude. words, words. Cutting across all national And then I take up my guitar and play… boundaries, religions, age groups. Think of the at first tentatively… Ha Tikvah. Festival in Cracow. Friends from the group, examining the A Polish security guard seizes my guitar gravestones, turn and look at me, as warm case and demands I open it. Just an acoustic smiles break out all around. guitar, sorry. Then it’s time for the the Polish Gathering strength, encouraged, I play president to speak Adon Olom. To his credit, his speech firmly puts the This hymn in praise of the Almighty blame on the Poles, not the Germans. He is moves through the cemetery like a wandering looking to the future and to building better spirit. Strangers from all over stop to listen, relationships with the Jewish community. He touched by the old song. is a mensch. Nobody asks me to stop… We move to the memorial itself, in a I continue, wandering through the field near the old Jewish cemetery. There are graveyard to say Kaddish, in my way. many, many young Polish people in the crowd My guitar is finally drowned out by the sitting with our group of surviving families, noise of the helicopters departing overhead. looking sorrowful, attentive, and sympathetic. . The group moves back to the bus, ready One of the blonde youngsters dressed as a Girl to return to Warsaw. The media caravan packs up, ready to move on.

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I decide to stay in Jedwabne for a little The next day the sun is shining once while longer, with Laura Klein and the again. documentary filmmaker Slawomir Grunberg, I say goodbye to all my new friends the director of the film “Shtetl”. To see for in the lobby of the old hotel. Especially to my ourselves a bit of the town, without the crowds dear, newfound Israeli cousins. and the media circus. Next year in Jerusalem, maybe? The parishioners are still standing Warsaw looks splendid to me, the rigidly holding their banner of denial in front Old Town shimmering in the midday sun. of the Catholic Church, in the rain.. No I run into some more new friends representatives from that organization there, journalists on a last minute shopping accepted the invitation to attend the memorial spree, before heading to the airport. Buying ceremony. Instead, they were urged to boycott last minute tsochtkes, including those it by the local priest. bewhiskered Hassidic dolls. Laura knocks on the door of the Next year in Cracow, definitely. ancestral house of her family Grandowski, a small yellow house off the central square near the church. The door opens and a young Polish --Gary Lucas woman with her son excitedly invites us in. NYC 7/12/01 She speaks good English, she has lived in New Haven for some years. Unbelievably, we discover that she is Laura’s third cousin. Her family came back to Jedwabne after the pogrom as converted Catholics, to reoccupy the family house. Yes, she is a Grandowski. There is a large tapestry of the Last Supper hanging on the wall of the house. We go back outside. The church bell rings, it’s 3 o’clock. The time 60 years ago when the burning of the Jews of Jedwabne began. No bells were heard ringing in the local church that day. I pick up my guitar and begin to play again, in front of the church. The rain beats down steadily.

“And I play my guitar through the night to the day Turn Turn Turn again And the only tune my guitar could play Was the old croon Rain and the Wind” --Bob Dylan

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