Sign up for my newsletter

A Letter to My Grandmother

Pages: 1 2 3 4

I caught a train to the small village of Tarnow in which you grew up, now a town of over 100 00 people. I managed to locate your address, 66 Glovaskego, which lay just a few blocks from the train station. I felt a buzz, walking up the street. 52. 56. 58. What a strange journey to find your grandson walking these steps. A Polish girl at the hostel helped me translate what I would say to whoever lived there. “My name is Robin. My grandmother lived in this house many years ago.” 60. 62. A big Alsatian jumps against a fence, barking loudly. 64. I cross the street. 68? I cross back. There is no number 66, but number 68 has a garden big enough for the plot of 66. An old lady is opening the gate, and I ask her for 66. She shakes her head. I mention your maiden family name, but it gets the same response. The house is cement and looks just a few decades old. Number 66 is now a garden. There really is nothing left now, just the ghosts of what used to be. I walked to the center of Tarnow, and picked up a tourist map of the old town. The churches stand impressively tall. On the pamphlet, it reads; “Before the war, Tarnow had a mostly Jewish population.” There was a “Jewish Trail” I could follow. It passed the Bima - all that remains of a “magnificent 17th century synagogue, destroyed by the Nazi’s in 1939.” Pictures of Jews praying sit on the gates. Throughout the town, pictures and billboards commemorated Polish political prisoners sent to Auschwitz. It was a shocking reminder of a gloomy history on a beautiful summer day. There may be no Jews in Tarnow, but throughout the Old Town there were plaques in Hebrew where something once stood. I tried to get to the old Jewish cemetery, but it was closed for the day. Choirboys were practicing hymns beside a massive cathedral. People were drinking beer in the open-air gardens. I spoke to a pretty girl at a falafel stand. She thought I was Polish. I walked past some more graffiti with the word “Jude” on it. The past has not settled.

The biggest impact of the last few days hits me now, as I write you this letter. I don’t feel depressed, or angry or confused. Just dulled, with a fridge-buzz in my head. The hostel is quiet and I am alone in a room with eight bunks. I don’t feel like going out much, but this weekend the Jewish cultural festival is in the square. I ask myself: How could it happen? Why did it happen? How could they let it happen? Will it happen again? Is it happening now? How did the survivors make it? Why would they want to? Who can I blame? Who can I talk to? There is no one to talk to, except you, Bobba, on the other side of the world. I am in Poland, where this horror took place. Forgive, but never forget, you would say. I am in Poland, where you were born but have never returned. I am in Poland because those monsters lost. They lost because of you. Because you raised an amazing family, and they went on and raised more amazing families. We survived. So I continue to fly about like a seed, but I know I will land somewhere and grow, and my roots will be thick and healthy, and support a tree with a thick trunk for so many branches.

I am in Poland, Bobba, because I love you.

Kismet Dao Hostel
Krakow

Pages: 1 2 3 4