Journeys with My Mother Read Free

could have imagined that the new postwar world could possibly dust off the Nuremberg Laws?
    At the beginning of May 1968, at one of our family dinners, I told my parents about my decision to leave. They understood; their minds, too, were already made up: they would go to Israel. There was nothing more that they could do in Poland, it was not the model of communism they were fighting for.
    The summer that followed the spring was beautiful and, on the surface at least, everything went on as before. But nothing preoccupied me more than my new situation. With no work, waiting for permission to emigrate, I had plenty of time to churn through my thoughts. I went to the open-air swimming pool almost daily and met friends, but the atmosphere of my city was suffocating me.
    Those of my friends who were not behind bars would come to our small flat on the eighth floor. We were all young professionals. I had known most of them since primary school, through to high school and then university. These were intimate and melancholy evenings. Over a few savouries and Egri Bikaver – one of the two red wines available on the market – we shared the latest jokes and laughed a lot, planned our future, considered possibilities. Looking at the imaginary globe, we wished for another one. There was much bravado in our conversations but little was under our control. Some of us still equivocated while others, for one reason or another, decided to sit it out. As for me, if I could no longer stay in Poland, my preference was to stay in Europe, closer to everything dear to me.
    The authorities, however, did not open the borders without conditions attached, without underscoring how disloyal we – the Jews – were. The first step towards obtaining permission to leave was to renounce our citizenship; then, at least officially, we had to declare Israel as our destination. Hence, the authorities would not have to provide us with information on how to emigrate to other countries. 1 It felt as if we were exiled already.

    My parents’ youth fell between the two world wars; it was a time of Poland’s newly gained independence, much hope and political unrest. Compressed on one side by the Soviet Union and Germany on the other, the emerging Polish parliamentary democracy turned into rule by decree. Although not officially sanctioned, casual or violent anti-Semitism flourished. Many roads were closed to Jews. They could not take part in public works projects, nor be employed as civil servants. No government office, school or hospital would willingly hire Jews; hence Jews were restricted in their employment to private, mostly Jewish, businesses.
    Growing up in an area where unemployment and poverty were palpable – basements with no sanitation or light, often housing more than one family – my parents Ola and Władek were radicalised early. They had a choice: to avert their eyes or to defy the existing order. The ideals of communism offered a way to solve the twin problem of unemployment and poverty, and put an end to racial hatred. Back then, the Communist Party was illegal and there was no kudos to be gained from taking part in illicit activities. All this changed after the Second World War. The Communist Party dominated its rivals, and it wasn’t long before their leaders assumed absolute power.
    When did my parents wake up to the injustice done in their names? When did they learn about Stalin’s excesses, of the great number of innocent people murdered during the Great Terror? How attuned were they to power abuse in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary?
    All these years later I ask my friends whose parents had followed the same path, only to find that they are grappling with the same questions. To turn against the Party’s dogmas was inconceivable, not to say suicidal. It must have been terrifying to be part of machinery that was outside their control.
    It seemed that it was the events of 1968, the manipulation of