Into the
1990s my mother Renata became increasingly active in Holocaust Education. She trained as a docent at Montreal’s
Holocaust Center. She worked as an
interviewer and researcher with McGill University’s oral history project Living
Testimonies, which was a precursor to film director Steven Spielberg’s Shoah
Foundation. She attended international
conferences. She lectured to students in
schools and on group tours, both at home and abroad. She reunited long-lost relatives and rescued
the lost identities of hidden children.
Mum became a wounded healer transforming lives.
Each spring Mum traveled to Poland, spending an average of
three months there. She became the North
American liaison for The Association of Hidden Children in Poland. In Warsaw Mum roomed with friends, and worked
in an office located on the same street where she had lived as a child.
Some of those in Poland hidden
during the war when they were children came late to the recognition of their
Jewish roots. Those who married mostly
inter-married, and their children were raised as Catholics.
At least one became a
priest, and several became nuns. Decades
after the war, some were still too frightened to acknowledge their
antecedents. Many lived in poverty. Mum lobbied for the establishment of pensions
for those who were robbed of their parents and inheritance. The lawyer’s daughter from Warsaw won her
case. She was also integrating her many
identities and becoming the Holocaust educator and activist Renata
Skotnicka-Zajdman.
What she was doing for others, Mum was about to do for
herself. In 1997, during a search to
discover the fate of another child hidden in wartime, Mum stumbled on clues suggesting
her wartime rescuer Janek Bartczak might be alive.
During a time of war and a
place of horror, friendship flourished between two young men wooing two Jewish
sisters. One of the men was a Polish
Catholic; the other, a Polish Jew. The
Catholic youth became a smuggler. When
Warsaw’s Jews were walled into their ghetto, Janek’s business activities
allowed him access to the girl he loved.
Unknown even to the members of his immediate family, he had joined the
underground resistance movement.
Janek Bartczak was generally perceived as a dandy. His brother-in-law, a policeman who patrolled
outside the Ghetto gates, dismissed him as a spiritual lightweight. Janek strutted through the streets of the
Ghetto in knee-high black leather boots, a black leather coat, and a
Tyrolean-type hat. His hair was flaxen
and his features, Slavic-sharp. His
intimidating appearance made a powerful impression on his Jewish friend’s
teen-age sister Renata. His phantom
would swagger through the back alleys of her memory for the next fifty
years. Trying to transmit his image as
vividly as she could, Renata came to call her ghost “Richard Widmark,” for the
sinister-looking film star.
During the height of the deportations in the summer of
1942, Janek’s brother-in-law arrested Renata at the Ghetto gates. The arrest was pre-arranged. Pawel Golombek used his position to lead to
safety the Jews he was supposed to be shutting in. His apartment became a safe house. He and his family supported not only
themselves, but also the escapees they sheltered, by the smuggling activities
of his wife’s two brothers, and by selling moonshine manufactured in their
kitchen, as well as his policeman’s salary.
An unquestioned arrest, a child snatched from *Umschlagplatz whom
he hid under his coat and delivered to the sanctuary presided over by his wife
and mother-in-law—Golombek committed these audacious acts under the noses of
the German occupiers and his anti-Semitic neighbours; acts which, had they been
discovered, would have led not only to his execution, but to the execution of
his entire family.
As of September 1, 1942,
there were two Jewish girls sheltered by the Golombeks. There was the dark-haired, dark-eyed,
ten-year-old Isabella whom Golombek’s sister-in-law claimed, to neighbours, to
be her illegitimate daughter by a Roma. There was blue-eyed Renata, whose
chestnut-coloured hair had been bleached blonde by her brother. Three years earlier she’d been setting the
table for her mother’s birthday breakfast when the roar of the Luftwaffe, the
planes of The Third Reich’s air force, signalled the invasion of
Poland. Since that day she had endured
bombardment, homelessness, and refugee-hood.
She witnessed the death of her mother in Soviet-occupied Poland, and was
caught in the German invasion of the Soviet Union. She had slept in ditches and stolen food from
fields. Hiding on a farm, she had been
repeatedly raped. Like any other hunted
animal, her throat was cut. She had been
beaten by Polish police,thrown into jail and further
beaten in a cell shared with Polish prostitutes. Preferring to die with family, Renata
smuggled her way into the Warsaw Ghetto, to her brother, but her brother,
preferring that Renata snatch a chance at life, smuggled her back out.
On the evening of September 1, the Russians sprang a
surprise bombing raid on Warsaw. To
identify their targets, they tossed flares from the sky. The Golombek family,
along with Isabella, hastened to the basement of their apartment building. Renata was instructed to remain upstairs, for
fear she’d be recognized as a Jewess and betrayed by neighbours. Feeling abandoned in the safe house during
the bombardment on the anniversary of her dead mother’s birthday, the girl
snapped. She went to the bathroom, found
a razor knife and lifted it to her wrist.
On the verge of severing an artery, Renata hesitated. Instead, she began to scream. Her uncontrollable cries were so loud they
could be heard in the basement, even through the sound of bombardment. Janek dashed towards the stairs. “No!”
His sister cautioned. Janek
disregarded his sister’s warning, raced up to the apartment, and barged through
the bathroom door. He was appalled by
what he saw. “No!” Janek yelled, echoing his sister, and knocked
the razor knife out of Renata’s hand before she yielded to despair. Then he darted to his bedroom, grabbed the
blanket from off his bed, pulled Renata out of the bathroom, wrapped her in the
blanket and then into his warm, strong arms.
While the flares flashed and the bombs exploded Janek stroked Renata’s
trembling head, rocking her and soothing her with visions of survival and a new
world at peace and free from humiliation, violence, and pain. He sang lullabies to the quivering child, who
felt like a wounded bird cupped in his hands, until she finally fell
asleep.
In the immediate aftermath
of the war, Renata’s brother led her to believe that Janek Bartczak was killed
on Warsaw’s barricades during the second uprising in August of 1944. She mourned him, and in her mind, she buried
him. Over fifty years later, in her
capacity as an activist in an international network developing among Jews who
survived genocide, my mother Renata decided to find out what happened to the
child with whom she shared sanctuary in the Golombek household. During her search, Mum stumbled upon an old
address for one Janek Bartczak. Like
many Poles, it appeared he had gravitated to Chicago.
My mother considered me her memory keeper, and ran regular
spot-checks. As she got older, the
imperative to impart the legacy of her spectres grew increasingly intense. Deceptively casual, she queried, “Who was
Pawel Golombek?’
Innocently, I answered, “He was a Polish policeman.”
“Correct,” Mum pronounced, like a schoolteacher who was
satisfied, but only for the moment. “And
who was Janek Bartczak?” The bar was
raised higher. “Ahhh—Richard
Widmark?” Mum smiled. Close enough.
“What happened to Bartczak?” The interrogation was relentless. I had gotten away with the doppelganger analogy;
now I knew I had to get this one right.
“He was killed in
the August ’44 uprising.”
“Not necessarily.”
Mum was savouring the moment when she could deliver the punch line. She then called a member of her network in
Chicago, a woman for whom she’d been instrumental in re-uniting with a twin
brother in Poland. The woman went to the
address the next day.
“He doesn’t live
there anymore. The neighbours say he
retired and moved to Arizona.”
Within the week
Bartczak resurrected, metaphorically enough, in Phoenix.
“I have to go and see him.”
Mum stated the obvious, and immediately began to plan. “I’ve got enough flight points on my Visa
card to make the trip, but where would I stay?”
Instantly I turned to the telephone and called Rabbi
Grafstein, whom I’d met when she helped to establish Living Testimonies. After being rejected by a Canadian
congregation because of her gender, Sarah Leah Grafstein applied and was
accepted as a prison chaplain in Phoenix, Arizona. She would marry an American ten years her
junior. Together, the rabbi and her
husband adopted a half-black boy.
“Your mother will stay with me.” Rabbi Grafstein responded as I hoped she
would. “Meeting Renata changed my
life.”
“Janek’s story must be told.” Mum moved into crusader mode. “But who can interview him? Regina says his English is poor.”
“Are you kidding?”
Incredulous, I stared at the woman who was missing the obvious. “YOU will!”
“Me?” Mum was
overwhelmed by the suggestion.
“You’ll conduct the interview in Polish. Who could do it better? Everything you’ve done has led to
this.” As I became aware of the obvious,
my breath caught. “You appear to have
been chosen.”
“Oh my.” As the
import of my words sunk in, Mum shuddered.
“But who would set it up? We have
cameras and a technician in the studio here, but how would we do it in Phoenix?”
Once more, I called Rabbi Grafstein, who then placed a call
to California. Mum was officially
registered as an interviewer for Spielberg’s recently established Shoah
Foundation. Technicians and
equipment were expedited to Arizona.
Mum
flew to Phoenix at Easter. The metaphors
were becoming outrageous.
When Mum and Janek reunited, she fell into his arms.
“You’re alive,
you’re alive.” She huddled against the
older man’s chest, the way she had on the night of the bombardment. “I still can’t believe it.”
The elderly gentleman held her close. “So are you,” he whispered. “This is even harder to believe.”
Janek
was now in his mid-seventies. He was
still vigorous and strong. His
flaxen-coloured hair had thinned out, and what was left of it was white.
Living in freedom and peace had allowed
Janek to shed his tough persona, and his natural sweetness shone through the
features of his broad Slavic face.
As they got
their bearings, the rescued and rescuer updated each other on what had turned
out to be their lives.
“My brother
and I accepted that you were trapped and killed on the barricades during the
’44 uprising.” Mum gazed at her wartime
rescuer, in wonder. “How did you manage
to escape?”
“The same way you did, moja kochana.” Janek gazed tenderly at the woman, now in
late middle age, whose fate he had accepted would forever remain a
mystery. “I escaped through the
sewers. Unlike you, however, once I got
out, I didn’t have far to go. When I
hauled myself out of a manhole I looked up to see a policeman staring at
me. It was Pawel, my very own
brother-in-law!”
“Muj Boze!”
Mum erupted, unconsciously shifting into her wartime Catholic
persona. “My Lord!”
“Oh
yes!” Janek agreed. “Can you imagine? I was starving. I was stinking, I was wet and I was filthy,
and I resurface in downtown Warsaw like a vision out of hell!”
“What a shock for Pawel,” Mum gasped, “But a happy shock!”
“Oh, I’m
not sure he recognized me right away, but I recognized him! I think the shock for Pawel was discovering
that I had joined The Underground and fought in The Uprising. He didn’t think much of me, until then.” Janek was obviously proud to have earned the
respect of his heroic brother-in-law.
Continuing to fight in the underground
resistance movement, Janek was captured by the Germans and sent to a
prisoner-of-war camp in Germany. He
escaped, made his way to Italy and joined the Polish army-in-exile under
General Anders’ command. Janek’s unit
was transferred to Britain. Before war’s
end, Polish warriors were shattered by the news that the dream of an
independent Poland was lost; betrayed at Yalta by Roosevelt and Churchill. Like many Polish soldiers and pilots who
helped to save the country that ultimately betrayed them, Janek felt he
couldn’t go home. While still in power,
Churchill offered British citizenship to displaced Polish servicemen and
women. After he was ousted from power,
the new Labour government tried to scare displaced Polish military personnel
into leaving. Like thousands of Polish
refugee servicemen and women, Janek decided his future lay elsewhere. He immigrated to South America. Only in 1947 was he able to notify his family
in now-Communist Poland that he was alive.
In time, Janek married an Argentinian
woman. His wife was now serving coffee
and cake. In awe, she watched the woman
who had risen like a phoenix from the ashes.
So did their son, Antonio, with his Jewish wife and their two young
boys. Their grandfather had never told
them of his wartime exploits. True
heroes are silent, or dead.
Unlike
most subjects interviewed for Holocaust oral history projects, Janek was
relaxed. He told his tale as if holding
a long-overdue conversation. He was
almost gleeful as he recounted how often and well he outwitted both the German
occupiers and his treacherous Polish neighbours. When Mum asked why he behaved as he had,
Janek responded by placing his hand over his heart. His testimony was a gift to both of them. The woman whom he rescued as a child was now
a rescuer of Memory.
When Mum returned home, she made it
her mission to have Janek officially recognized and honoured by the Israeli
government as a member of an elite category known as Righteous Among The
Nations. Israeli law stipulates that at
least two living witnesses submit depositions in order to validate the
nomination of a candidate. Having yet to
locate the hidden child Isabella (though they would), Mum’s network launched a
search for Janek’s wartime Jewish lover.
She was traced to New York City.
In the intervening fifty years Ada had been twice divorced and recently
widowed.
“You’ve got
to do this,” Mum commanded.
“Of course
I will.” Ada was in a daze, reeling from
the news that her wartime lover was alive.
Ada and Janek reunited over a telephone line, but they would never set
eyes on each other, again.
*The central train platform
where Ghetto Jews were collected and carted off for mass murder,
Before leaving for her annual stay in Poland, Mum called
Janek to say good-bye. He was a widower,
now.
Three days after Mum’s departure, Antonio
called me.
“Oh gosh!
I’m so sorry. I’m so very very
sorry.”
“Will you tell your mother?’
“Of course I will.”
Calculating the time change between North America and
Europe, I estimated that I could reach Mum in her Warsaw office.
“Sweetheart! This
isn’t our usual time to talk. Is
something going on? What’s up?”
My silence sent Mum into alert. “Something is wrong. What is it?”
Sadly, I told her.
Janek Bartczak suffered a stroke and died a second and final time. He was seventy-nine years old.
“No! Oh no! I’d only just found him and now I’ve lost him
again!” Mum was grief-stricken.
“No
Mum.” My voice was soft with
sorrow. “You haven’t lost him. Antonio told me his father died at peace
because he finally found out what happened to you and to the other child
sheltered in his home. Who he was and
what he did won’t be lost because you recorded it. The Shoah Foundation will keep Janek’s story
and memory safe. He’s safe now,
Mum. He’s safe. Janek will never be lost again.”
Mum was in tears, and I was near tears. Yet, despite her grief, my mother recognized
the truth of my words. Not only had she
taken the time to say good-bye but Renata, a wild orphan of war, also found a
way of saying Thank You.
Since Janek wasn’t in a
position to receive it, a notice was sent to Antonio, summoning him to an Israeli
consulate. In a desert city in the
American Southwest, in a ceremony witnessed by his Jewish wife and their two
sons, Janek’s son was presented with a certificate and medal for his father’s
part in providing a safe harbour during a violent storm, and for his
magnificent, and now-stilled heart.
Abou the author.
. Nadja Zajdman is a Canadian author. In 2022 she published the story
collection The Memory Keeper, as well as the memoir I Want You To Be Free, the
story of her late mother, the pioneering Holocaust educator and activist Renata
Skotnicka-Zajdman. In 2023 Zajdman followed up with a second memoir, Daddy’s
Remains. In 2024 Bridgehouse brought out Zajdman’s essay collection, Between
Worlds.
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