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UNITED STATES HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM CENTER FOR ADVANCED HOLOCAUST STUDIES The Holocaust as a Literary Experience Henryk Grynberg W A S H I N G T O N , D. C. The Holocaust as a Literary Experience Henryk Grynberg MONNA AND OTTO WEINMANN LECTURE SERIES 12 MAY 2004 The assertions, opinions, and conclusions in this occasional paper are those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect those of the United States Holocaust Memorial Council or of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. First printing, August 2004 Copyright © 2004 by Henryk Grynberg, assigned to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum THE MONNA AND OTTO WEINMANN ANNUAL LECTURE focuses on Holocaust survivors who came to America, and on their families. Born in Poland and raised in Austria, Monna Steinbach Weinmann (1906–1991) fled to England from Vienna in the autumn of 1938. Otto Weinmann (1903– 1993) was born in Vienna and raised in Czechoslovakia. He served in the Czech, French, and British armies, was injured in the D-Day invasion at Normandy, and received the Croix de Guerre for his valiant contributions during the war. Monna Steinbach and Otto Weinmann married in London in 1941 and immigrated to the United States in 1948. Funding for this program is made possible by a generous grant from their daughter Janice Weinman Shorenstein. The Monna and Otto Weinmann Annual Lecture is organized by the Center for Advanced Holocaust Studies of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. I have come a long way—from a hamlet called Radoszyna, and a shtetl of one hundred families, called Dobre—to this capital of the world—a world that the Jews of Dobre couldn’t have even imagined. They didn’t quite know even their own part of the world. They couldn’t have imagined what it held in store for them, even in the nearest future. As one child survivor from Boryslaw said about her parents in one of my Drohobycz, Drohobycz stories: “They had no idea of the place where they had brought us into the world.” The Jews of Boryslaw or Dobre were about as ignorant as most of the inhabitants of the 5000 Jewish communities that were destroyed by their European neighbors, who are now commonly known as “Nazis.” That unforgivable ignorance seems like an obvious argument for more knowledge, in accordance with the eighteenth-century belief that enlightenment solves all human problems. And indeed we, the victims, needed more knowledge. And we, potential victims, still need it. And this magnificent Museum serves that purpose very well. Yet, on the other hand, my past and present experience teaches me that mere education does not prevent haters from committing crimes against the Jews and humanity. On the contrary, it seems that the most dangerous hatred is the one taught in schools and at universities. Professors and students led the all-European pogroms of 1819, and called “Hep! Hep!” protesting against the emancipation of the Jews. Students burned books in bonfires as late as the 1930s. It was scholars who thought up “scientific” racism, and “scientific” antisemitism, and a hateful red Golem. Leaders of the Khmer Rouge who drowned Cambodia in blood were educated in 2 • THE HOLOCAUST AS A LITERARY EXPERIENCE France. The perpetrators of the 9/11 genocide had studied at American and European universities. By the way, I don’t know why such acts as 9/11, 2001, or 3/11, 2004, are not defined and prosecuted as genocide, crimes against civilization, crime against humanity. Recently a U.S. college newspaper “depicted a man throwing a ball at another man sitting on top of an oven. The caption reads, ‘Knock a Jew in the oven! Three throws for one dollar! Really! No, REALLY!’” Reportedly, the editor of that “humorous” newspaper at New Jersey’s Rutgers University apologized, saying “the newspaper had failed in trying to convey the racist attitudes that led to the Holocaust.”1 But the newspaper had also failed Basic Human Decency 101, and so did Rutgers University—if you ask a layman Holocaust survivor. Education? Such people should be kept as far away from the university as possible. On the other hand, I have known many decent people with no education at all, and they are the heroes of most of my stories. I was born into a world of peasants, cattle, horses, and all the domestic animals. Clarence Thomas complained during his hearings before the Senate commission that, as a child in rural Georgia, he had to use an outhouse. Well, where I was a child—35 miles northeast of Warsaw—an outhouse was a privilege. When I revisited my native Radoszyna in 1966, the inhabitants asked me to use my “influence” in Warsaw so that they could get electricity and wouldn’t have to walk four miles, all the way to Solki, to watch TV. At a distance of just four miles from Radoszyna lay a Jewish world of mine: worn-out steps of little shops, patched roofs, tablecloths and bedspreads with modest patterns in dim colors, but beautiful, shining candlesticks. We went there for the Jewish holidays. On such occasions, the paths and sparse sidewalks had been swept and sprinkled with yellow sand. After prayers and the holiday meal, the people stood in front of their tidied-up little houses and gazed at the empty marketplace where no one was bargaining or arguing, for the principle of the Jewish holiday was peace, harmony, and good cheer. Years later I happened to travel through such little towns—Polish, Czech, Slovak. The little houses were still there, even the twisted steps, yet no one asked and no one told what had happened there, it was never mentioned in the guide information for those towns. In order not to be sentimental, I admit: the synagogue full of bearded men wrapped in black gabardine was quite stifling, and the prayers were too long, too loud, too nervous, and too hurried. They had accumulated over the centuries and one had to recite them all if one Henryk Grynberg • 3 were an Orthodox Jew—hence the hurry. Furthermore, it was when a Jew prayed that he best knew how dangerous it was to be a Jew—hence the nervousness. An antisemite should dream sometimes that he is a Jew, so he can realize what courage it takes to be one. Those prayers disappeared one day along with the crowd of the faithful, the synagogue, the town, and the world that had stood there waiting for me, holding a place for me: either in the shul among the kohanim, or outside of it among the rebels. Nothing remained and there was no one to rebel against. It was necessary to forget, and become someone else. Such turns repeated themselves in my life time and again—there was no place to stay for long. My father was a pakhter, kind of a dairy contractor-producer, a little more than Shalom Aleichem’s Tevye der Milchiker, or Tevye of Fiddler on the Roof. My grandfather was the same kind of a dairyman in nearby Nowa Wies. They both were Orthodox Jews, although my father shaved and dressed like a Gentile. Both were in business with the respective squires of Radoszyna and Nowa Wies, and were doing quite well. My mother’s father, who lived in Dobre, was a shoykhet and a glazier, whichever opportunity came first. He was a Hasid who totally relied on God in heaven, and wasn’t doing well at all. We knew very little about the world at large, but we were more fortunate than even the well-informed Jews of Warsaw, because insignificant places like Dobre, Radoszyna, or Nowa Wies attracted very little attention and for a long time were postponed in the plans of our enemies who walked and talked like Germans, so everybody called them Germans or Niemcy, or Daytschn—never “Nazis.” Even after we had learned that some of the killers in uniform were Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Latvians, or even Russians, no one called them “Nazis.” We didn’t know such a word. By the way, Ukrainians, Lithuanians, or Latvians couldn’t even be Nazis, and how many Germans were members of the Nazi Party? Perhaps ten percent at the most? We were the victims of killers from various ethnic groups, though mostly Germans and Austrians, and of various affiliations including the Nazis, though under Nazi leadership. What they had in common was their hatred of the Jews—as it was in the Middle Ages, and as it is today. That’s how universal the Holocaust was. As universal as the hatred that led to it, and the myth that had taught the hatred. Thus the most common name of our murderers was not Nazis, but antisemites. We were fortunate to be left out until the fall of 1942 when most of the Jews of Warsaw were already dead—something we, ignorant Jews 35 miles from Warsaw, and 30 4 • THE HOLOCAUST AS A LITERARY EXPERIENCE miles from Treblinka, didn’t know yet. Well, as a six-year-old at that time, I can’t truly say how much we knew. But we had a gut feeling that we shouldn’t obey the orders and shouldn’t go where the enemies wanted us to go. The research paper “On the Rescuing of the Jews by the Poles during the Nazi [sic] Occupation” (the occupation was definitely German) published in 1960 (Biuletyn ZIH, No. 35) says that escaping deportations and killings was “a mass phenomenon, especially in small towns and villages.” The authors, Tatiana Berenstein and Adam Rutkowski, quote a commander of the SS and police of the Radom region (about 100 miles south of Warsaw) who, in a document dated September 21, 1942, wrote: “The experience of the last weeks has shown that it is from small Jewish settlements that the Jews escape from the ghettos in order to avoid evacuation, and these Jews are hidden by the Poles.” I can attest to that, because most of my relatives tried to escape, as did many other able-bodied Jews of Dobre.

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