Saturday, August 29, 2009

Back in Warsaw

So, Liz and I made it back to Warsaw safe and sound. It is raining here right now. The air is a bit chilly. It's sort of perfect. Very sleepy and quiet and grey. I swear -- Warsaw is the Cleveland of Europe. I'm definitely in love.

Krakow was...well...Krakow? It was cute. Very dainty and touristy and colorful and old. Like Prague or Paris. Or something. It was also a backpacking, touristy hell mouth, in many ways. You know -- one of those places where 18-year-olds go to get very very drunk for very, very cheap. Yes. That kind of place. Like New Orleans. Or Daytona Beach. Or Ibiza. Eww. We stayed at a hotel that was in the center of Old Town and I don't think either one of us has had a decent night's sleep in about three days. The hotel was charming -- very Belle Epoque with a rod iron elevator and high, high ceilings and shiny bedding and heavy, golden keys. But it was so fucking loud!

The first two nights, we were subjected to everything from The Eagles to Bon Jovi until about 3 a.m., thanks to the numerous night clubs that surrounded us. And even then we weren't granted a reprieve, thanks to random groups of tourists that would then spill out of the bars and stop to chat drunkenly under our window for what seemed like hours. The first night, a girl decided to scream bloody murder at about 5 a.m. and then the second night, I realized how much drunk men love to kick random shit. Seriously -- at least four different groups of dudes of various nationalities decided to kick the same construction site fence at the corner of our street. At half hour intervals. I wanted to die.

By the third night, we changed rooms. In fact, we were actually planning on leaving Krakow early, but realized we couldn't if we still wanted to visit Auschwitz. So we asked for the quietest room they had -- and we thought it was all good until about midnight., when some shitty live band started playing all sorts of horribly R&Bish bluesy type bullshit until about 4 a.m. I guess this is the karmic payback I get for being a horrible drunken tourist at several points in my own life. I just hope that God finds these last three nights to be enough payback for now.

The main reason for heading to Krakow was really to visit Auschwitz-Birkenau, which is about a 1.5 hour train ride from the city. It's located in a sleepy, industrial town called Oswiecim.

Liz and I grabbed the 2:45 train out of the city. It's amazing how cheap and easy it is to take the trains here. We found our seats and I proceeded to teach Liz how to play One Thousand. It's a card game that my grandmother taught me when I was about ten-years-old. She said that it was my great-grandma's favorite card game -- and the only card game she knew. During the war, they'd play it constantly to keep their minds off the pain and suffering that seemed relentless and never ending.

After two games of One Thousand, we arrived in Oswiecim. I guess you could compare it Lima, Ohio, with a European spin. The train station was creaky and rusty and empty, aside from a watchmaker's shop, where I proceeded to buy a Casio calculator watch for $20! Then we grabbed a cab to Auschwitz.

Auschwitz...I really don't know what to say. It hasn't really sunken in yet. As I skim my mind for what to write, I simply end up with a stomach ache. The smells, the quiet, the buildings, the dirt paths, the barbed wire, the killing wall. It is, in many ways, intangible how oppressive and intense that place is. I don't feel capable of writing about it just yet, other than to say that it is horrific. Walking through the barracks, you could feel the sheer terror of what went on there and the irrationality and senselessness of it all -- more so than I've ever felt reading about the Holocaust or watching a documentary. It was so much, that we couldn't bring ourselves to take the shuttle to the Birkenau camp -- Auschwitz II -- where the crematorium was. It was just too much to handle. The scope of it was just too much.

What I can say is that it was such a jarring contrast to visiting Trawniki -- the camp where my great-grandmother was for a year, before she escaped. There was literally nothing left of that camp, aside from a small memorial and an old wall with barbed wire. The sheer mundanity of the town and the quaint pastoral setting added their own heaviness and surrealism to what I've learned of Trawniki. It's odd, because most people have never even heard of the Trawniki camp. Even Poles. Except for David Tenenbaum.

I was introduced to David through Rabbi Schudrich. David was 12 when his small town near Lublin was liquidated of all its Jewish inhabitants. His entire family disappeared and he was sent to work in four different camps before surviving one of the most infamous death marches. Today, he lives in New York, but visits Poland often. He is a jovial, talkative man full of long, tangential anecdotes and Jewish bravado.

I met him at the Synagogue the morning before I left for Krakow. David knew much about Trawniki. He had an aunt who died there. And he worked at a camp not too far away, where he served cognac and cigars to important SS men. He remarked at how much they loved their boots shined, too.

David worked as a servant for a very important general. Every morning, David would appear at the general's office to deliver milk to his secretary. That is when David would skim through the intelligence of the day, just to see what was going on.

David soon learned that Lublin was the base for the architects of the "Final Solution." It was from this point that the SS was trained in the methodical mass murder of the European Jews. And he said that Trawniki was one of the worst training grounds.

At Trawniki, SS officers were taught how to most quickly and effectively round up, displace, and then murder entire populations of Jews -- from small villages like David's to urban areas like Warsaw. Jewish workers were rounded up from various Ghettos and shipped to Trawniki in order to wait on the German staff. My great-grandmother was one of these workers. She worked as a maid for an officer for over a year -- ironing his shirts, cleaning his room, mending his socks, and fetching his milk.

But what my great-grandmother never realized was the real purpose of her visit. That is because she was only one of two women to have survived Trawniki.

The "workers" who were brought to Trawniki were eventually used for target practice. The Germans would practice the easiest and most effective ways of killing as many Jews as possible. They would line the women up and then shoot as many as three through the head at one time, in an attempt to save ammunition. Once the group of workers was killed off, another group would then be shipped in and the process was repeated over, and over, and over again.

This is what David told me. And this is what has been written about the camp, as well. Yet, its ruins do not bare the mark of such horror in the way that Auschwitz's do...and, I guess, also don't. The value of ruins...yup. I got a lot to think about.

For now...here is a bit of footage I took at Auschwitz. I eventually stopped tapping, because I just couldn't bare it anymore. But here is the bit that I do have, for those interested:





Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Trawniki and Travel Mishaps

Warsaw Rising Museum and The Milk Bar!

Train to Krakow

Liz and I just arrived in Krakow...I'll be blogging a bunch more over the next few days, plus posting movies from Trawniki, etc. For now, here are some train photos:








Shabbat Shalom (Had to ask Liz if this was right?!?)

So, right now, Liz and I are on a train, heading through the countryside toward Krakow, where we are staying for three nights. As I look out the window, I can’t help but be amazed by how much the scenery reminds me of driving south through Ohio and into West Virginia. All the farmland, the yellowed fields of harvested wheat, the mix of birch trees and evergreens. The flat, flat land dotted by hills upon which fat black and white cows graze. It’s so familiar and so foreign. Which is how I’ve been feeling this entire trip. Even who I am – how I feel to myself – feels so familiar and so foreign. I have a lot of out of body experiences. I feel myself getting up, walking, talking, and writing, but I don’t feel really connected with any of it – as though my spirit is hovering above my body, gazing down and out into the unknowable future.

I should also say that right now is the month of preparations leading up to Rosh Hashanah – the Jewish New Year. Now, I do not know this because I am a faithful, observant Jew. Rather, I’m a very, very bad Catholic. But this is what I learned when I attended my first Shabbos dinner last Friday night.

Rabbi Schudrich had invited us to attend Friday night services and dinner. That afternoon, we worked and did laundry, and fretted over what to wear to such an event.

“Do we need to have our shoulders covered?” Liz asked.

I freaked out. Our shoulders covered? I didn’t even consider all the rules!

I combed my closet for the sort of dress a “nice, Jewish girl” would wear and chose the one that I had opted to wear on my first visit to Menorah Park, the Jewish retirement community where I’d been conducting research since March. It didn’t seem to offend any of the people there, so it should work here, was my logic.

I got dressed and Liz began preparing us a nice salad – spinach and tomatoes and corn and bacon. Bacon!

Liz started to laugh. “Denise!” she said. “Do you realize we are eating bacon before our Kosher dinner?”

“That is so weird!” I said, remarking that I hadn’t bought it intentionally. That maybe it was due to some sort of unconscious fear. “I will never give up bacon,” I said.

We ate our bacon-dressed salad and then proceeded to leave the house.

When we arrived at the synagogue, we were greeted by a man dressed in traditional Orthodox Jewish garb. I thought he was Hassidic, but Liz informed that, no, he was Orthodox, and, again, I was reminded how ignorant of my “background” I really am. He let us in and said that it’d be best if we sat upstairs. I was super grateful that Liz had given me an extra scarf for some added modesty.

We quickly wandered through a line of pews that faced out onto the main floor. We grabbed our seats and then hunched over the rail like little children spying on their parents.

Below, men in all sorts of traditional dress, suits, casual clothes, wide-brim hats, yamukels, and long satin robes greeted each other. Some prayed silently by themselves, while others socialized.

In the pew next to us, a woman marched in place, scratching her head over and over. “Is she praying?” I asked Liz. “Or is it like a mental illness or something?”

Liz confirmed that it was most likely a sort of prayer.

Then the cantor started his chanting. And the congregation followed behind in a low hum, with call and response in Hebrew. I was completely lost, but also completely entranced. It was amazing how formal, yet how random the whole ceremony was. While everyone was praying together, their unique movements and physical distance from each other seemed to heighten their loneliness.

Rabbi Schudrich appeared downstairs, a long linen robe with tassels around his shoulders, and he began banging on a lecturn, making recitations throughout the cantor’s singing.

Liz and I did our best to sit, stand, turn, cover our eyes – whatever the other women were doing. It struck me that there were only 25 or so people attending the service. I wondered if it was because most Jews in Warsaw aren’t Orthodox? Or was everyone on vacation? Or were there really just no Jews to be found?

After the service, Liz and I quickly ran out to the front of the synagogue for a cigarette. As we stood there, puffing away, the other congregants began pouring out. “NO! No! NO!” a man shouted at us. “If the Rabbi sees you!”

Liz and I looked at each other, confused. “We aren’t allowed to smoke on Shabbos?” I asked.

“No! No!” said a woman.

I quickly put out my cigarette and decided to make no further swift moves for the rest of the evening. As we walked, the older participants didn’t seem to happy with our presence.

We followed the group to a small building, inside which were two tables prepared in a sort of long T, covered with linens. Liz and I huddled in a corner and waited for the Rabbi, hoping he’d give us instructions so that we didn’t make further fools of ourselves. When he saw us, he seemed pleased that we had made it and asked us to sit next to him at the head of the table. Even this was stressful! I wasn’t sure whether to sit in the chair next to him, or one over – or what was allowed! And I kept patting him on the back, which also freaked me out, because I’m pretty sure women aren’t allowed to touch Rabbis or something.

The Rabbi stood at the table and began chanting in Hebrew as he fiercely cut through some Challah bread and then distributed grape juice. Then we were ordered to wash our hands in the nearby bathroom. Again, even this was stressful, as people in the line continually eyed Liz and I – strangers in a strange place. When we approached the sink, we noticed a cup collecting water from the tap. Do we wash our hands in the cup or turn on the sink? My brain was really starting to hurt.

Back in the dining room, the food was being served – a plethora of kosher delights, like egg salad, potato salad, two types of herring, eggplant and zucchini, grated carrots. It was all amazing looking. Worried not to take too much, I put about a teaspoon of each item on my plate.

“I’ve seen a bird eat more,” the Rabbi said.

“Eat! Eat!” he said. “You don’t leave here hungry!”

Liz and I piled egg salad and herring onto our plates.

After the first course came more chanting and then some soup and then more chanting and singing again.

During the meal, the Rabbi was having an intense conversation with the man next to him – an Israeli man who’d lived in Warsaw for many years. I tried to eavesdrop, but had no luck, when the man turned to me and started joking about the Rabbi dining with a very important person just the week before. The Rabbi rolled his eyes, nodded his head and then said, “Yeah, I had Shabbos dinner with Madonna,” he smiled.

“Madonna! Like thee Madonna? Why?” I asked.

The Rabbi went on to explain that Madonna had been in town for a concert and her Kabbalah Center had organized some sort of Friday Shabbat. It was his job to oversee the catering and make sure everything was kosher – which didn’t quite seem to click with Madonna’s extremely restrictive diet. But, he said, they made it work. And it was fine.

Then the Rabbi interrupted his story to address the group with a sort of homily. That is when he said that this night we were celebrating marked the beginning of the month in which we prepare for Rosh Hashanah. We do this, he said, by adding little things to our daily ritual – because it is in the little things we do everyday through which the greater things happen. Baby Steps, I thought. I can do that.

When he was finished speaking, I asked the Rabbi what little thing I could do every day in order to prepare for my own new beginning. “Read Psalm 27 everyday,” he said.

The meal continued with a main course, a desert course, and plenty more singing and chanting, when, by 11:45, Liz and I were ready to head home. Before I left, the Rabbi asked if I’d heard from my husband. “Only the lawyer,” I said.

He smiled at me warmly. “How long were you together?” he asked.

“Over nine years.”

“You must have been through a lot together.”

As I wagged my head, I started to cry. It was the first time I’d cried in days. As the group continued singing, the tears just came. And I tried to remind myself – little steps to a new beginning. It will be OK.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Images from Abroad, Part 2


"Meat Market"

"On Mokotowska"

"Praga, Part 2"

"Train Yard"

"Amazing Meal"

Images from Abroad


"Run Cool"



"Hammer of Safety"



"Praga"


"Tram Stop"


"Palace of Culture"

Same Old Story...Different Versions

So….where to start. I haven’t been able to blog as much lately because I’ve been so busy trying to finish the edits for “Knit Vintage.” Also, my research has left me absolutely exhausted each evening, able to do little more than eat, make a few phone calls, and then sleep.

But, here I am again. And I guess I’ll start with Thursday.

Liz and I woke up quite early so we could meet with Jerzy and Hala. Jerzy had promised to take us to the Warsaw Rising Museum. It’s interesting to me that it’s called the “Warsaw Rising” Museum rather than the “Warsaw Uprising” Museum. “Rising” makes me think of the myth of the Phoenix rising from its own ashes, while “Uprising” has such a viscerally warlike feel. It’s funny how little changes in language can give a moment such a different texture.

We arrived at Jerzy and Hala’s around 9 a.m. Hala was very, very pleased to see that I had finally cut my hair. The last time I saw her, she was telling my mother that she was so worried about me – that I was so nervous, that I smoked too much, that I was too skinny, that I wasn’t eating enough. She said I needed to be optimistic. Find a good man. Cut my hair and show Patrick what he was missing. I tried to explain that it was just part of the process of a broken heart, but the concept seemed so alien to her. After all, she’s been with the man she has loved for over 50 years. Her first and only love. How could she possibly understand? I tried not to take it personally. Instead, I found it wonderful and miraculous that someone had figured out how to make it work.

She kissed Liz all over and, in German, commented how much happier I looked. She told Liz how sad I’d been and that this was the first time she’d seen me glow. Then we sat down for some cake and coffee and Jerzy and I discussed my grandmother’s book, “The Wall Between Us.” A bit of background…

Since I was about twelve years old – maybe even younger – my grandmother has been working on a book about her life story – a story that I’ve been absolutely obsessed with but unable to fully grasp. The war was something she seldom talked about. And when she did, it was always in a very cryptic way. She never let any of us – meaning my mom or I or any of her family – read her book until a year ago, after her stroke, when she was worried that it would never see the light of day.

My mother started working on the first bit of fact checking and edits. That is how she came to discover our true identity as Jews and my grandmother’s real name. I then began skimming through the book to clean up the prose and adjust the chronology, which was a complete mess. Through doing our edits, we culled even more information out of my grandmother – information that startled us, intrigued us, and gave us even more respect for all that she had endured.

When I got to Poland, I arrived with a printed manuscript of the book as my sort of travel guide. My grandmother had asked me not to share it with Jerzy. And I didn’t. But, as Jerzy and I toured the city and he realized how much I knew, he kept commenting that I should help her write it all down. Not being a very great keeper of secrets, I said, “She has written it all down.”

I told him about the book and said he could see it if he got her permission. He called her immediately and she said yes, he could look at the book, and make any comments he wanted.

From the time I first met with Jerzy, I knew that there were already slight differences in his and my grandmother’s story that would make this a difficult process of real fact finding. Often their stories would jive, but here and there, the dates or details would change, and that gave me pause. My mother and I approached my grandmother about these differences and she would only say “well, that is my version, and I prefer it that way.” We did not argue. Instead, I chocked it up to the nature of human memory. I looked at the differences in their stories as ways in which they have both decided to cope with an unbearable experience. They have each found ways of understanding their past that make it possible for them to live with it. And that is just fine. In fact, the differences in their stories reveal the most about who they really are as people. Their fiction is the most truthful—or at least illuminating—part of their personalities, in many ways.

As we sat there, going over the details, this is what I realized. I simply shook my head as Jerzy corrected her story. We then finished our cake and coffee and left for the museum.

The Warsaw Rising Museum is huge, frenetic, hyper, and imposing. It is built to look like an old bunker – to overwhelm the visitor with a sense of what it would have been like to be in the Uprising. And it does a pretty decent job of that.

Inside, Jerzy dragged us quickly through a maze of videos, images, dates, documents, artifacts, and interactive displays, pointing out what he thought was the most important – mostly dates that he thought verified his story and negated my grandmother’s. After about 30 minutes, he dropped us off at the front of the museum and said “now, you can go through as you like. I will leave you.” He left and Liz and I attempted to make our way through all of the information, but it was impossible. It was so overwhelming and hectic that it was hard to concentrate on any one distinct narrative. There were so many perspectives, forms, etc. So, after about an hour, we left, and headed back to Mokotowska on the tram.

Before heading home, however, we decided to mark the Milk Bar off of our list of things to do. Milk Bars are quite an incredible cultural affair. They are the Polish/Communist equivalent to the American diner, in a way – full of cheap, comfort food and casual service. We went to “Bambino Bar,” just around the corner from me – one of the nicer versions of these places. It is super, super 60s inside – from the dĂ©cor down to the women who prepare the food behind the pick-up window. We immediately got in the long line at the register, where you order off a huge menu hanging from the wall. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to bring my phrase book, so we had no idea what anything meant. As we got closer to the cashier, I noticed a set menu for only 11 zloty ($3.75 or so) and decided that would be the safest bet. But when we ordered, the cashier simply looked at us like we were crazy. “You can’t have it,” he said.

Then it hit me. “Oh!” I said. “That’s for old people!”

“Yes,” said the cashier stoically.

So Liz and I did our best, picking out various items from the menu without a real clue. All we knew was that there would be some form of pierogies, fish, salad, and potatoes. We quickly grabbed our trays and waited at the window for our special surprises.

Luckily, we didn’t end up with anything too terrifying. The pierogies were perfect. The “salad” I ordered made me realize that coleslaw is, in fact, an appropriation of Polish food, and Liz’s fish looked decent enough. We ate and then dragged our cement-lined stomachs back home for a long nap.

Later that evening, we had plans with Dorota and Pola. A girl’s night out. Dorota promised to take us to Praga – the eastern part of Warsaw, just across the Vistula River, once considered a bedlam of crime and small time mafia folk. The cool thing about Praga is that it was virtually untouched during the war. It’s prewar buildings managed to escape the burning of Warsaw and you can still see bullet holes in the edifices that line the main streets. In recent years, many artists have migrated to this area, rehabbing old factories with art galleries and clubs. It is now much safer, but it still remains largely ungentrified, packed to the hilt with old communist block-style apartment buildings and Polish thugs. In fact, it reminded me a lot of east Akron or Youngstown. There was even a club we visited that reminded me so much of Speak In Tongues – one of my favorite former venues in Cleveland.

Unfortunately, it was Thursday, so almost everything was closed, except for a few cafĂ©-bars that sat within a sort of compound of old factories covered in amazing graffiti. People lounged at tables in a makeshift courtyard, but it was bit too chilly for us, so we ducked inside a quite, old bar, grabbed a table, some drinks and grilled cheese sandwiches and talked for hours. I feel so fortunate to have met Dorota and Pola – it feels like they are long lost relatives or friends I haven’t seen in years. How perfectly it all worked out.

We left at around one and headed back to Dorota’s car. Then things got weird.

A thuggish Polish dude and his friend stood under a street lamp on a corner, looking incredibly sketchy. We all sort of moved away, clutching our bags, until we realized that the thuggish looking guy had a cat hidden beneath his coat. Suddenly he started shouting, “Attack! Attack! Attack!” and thrusting the cat towards us like a machine gun. We all burst into laughter as he smiled at us with self-satisfaction.

Then, back at the car, we sat for a moment to collect ourselves, when we noticed another man standing in the doorway of an apartment building. I adjusted my eyes to make sure that I was really seeing what I was seeing. And I was. “Oh my God!” I shouted. “That man is naked! That man is naked!”

Dorota, Pola, and Liz all turned to see an overweight man, standing on the street in little more than bikini briefs and the car exploded with shrieks. We grabbed our cameras and giggled and screamed in disbelief. The man just stood there – his hands casually folded behind his back, his potbelly hanging out, and his banana hammock his only protection from the elements. Finally, after about five minutes of convulsive laughter, he went inside and we headed home. And I decided that I absolutely love, love, love Praga.

Oh! Before I go, one last note. While we ate our grilled cheeses at the bar, we were also served some of the most amazing pickles I’ve ever had. Let me tell you – I love pickles. Absolutely love them, can’t live without them. My mother even says that when she was pregnant with me, all she craved were pickles and sauerkraut. She would eat jars and jars. And I still do. As I freaked out about how good the pickles were, Pola mentioned that most Polish people make their own pickles at home. And she promised to send me her mother’s recipe, which she did. Liz and I are going to try and make them this week. In the meantime, I leave you with the Dwurnik pickle recipe:

1 kg small cucumbers

3-4 cm of horseradish

several dills (the whole, with the seeds sitting in the plant)

5-6 parts of garlic

2-3 bay leaves

a few small spicy peppers (not necessary)

3-4 spoons of a sea salt (the one with minerals)

circa 1,5 boiling water

Put the salt into the boiling water (the water must be very salty, but not bitter, which would mean that it has too much salt).

Wash the cucumbers and then put them very tidily into the ceramic pot or several glass jars. Add the other ingredients.

Add the salted water and close the jars. If you do it in a ceramic pot, you put a plate on top and something heavy on it (like a clean, boiled stone).

The cucumbers will be ready after a few days if you do them in a ceramic pot. If you do them in jars, after closing them, you have to wait until the water is dull (not transparent) and the jars are hermetically closed (it happens by itself during a few days - it is a chemical process). After that you can put the jars into the fridge or any cool place. You can also keep them in a cupboard. You can eat them after a few months.

Important: You don't add vinegar or lemon to the cucumbers.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

I Just Wasn't Made For These Times

Before I forget…not everything is so heavy and dark over here in Warsaw.

Thanks to Liz, life is a bit lighter at the moment. Like my mother, she gets me out of the house. Makes me laugh. Encourages me to be good to myself. And thanks to my, ehem, Viennese episode, I’ve realized that my penchant for self-destruction just isn’t worth it. So, I’m trying to be really aware of keeping the bad out and letting the good in.

So, we’ll start with the massage! I honestly never thought I’d have a fascinating anecdote about getting a massage…but this—well this was quite an adventure.

Liz and I found a spa just down the street from where we live. It seemed very familiar, reasonably priced. The receptionist spoke English. And so we ordered two 60-minute massages for the following day. Then we proceeded to walk to a nearby butcher, where we bought an inappropriate looking piece of kielbasa and made a Polish-Viennese feast. Yes, the appetite is back.


The next day, we arrived back at the spa at noon and the English-speaking receptionist quickly shuffled us into our dressing room. She quickly pointed out our robes, some hospital-ish slippers, and what I thought she said were “underpants.” I pulled down the “underpants” – which looked like tissue paper wrapped in plastic and looked at Liz.

“Did she say those were pants?” Liz asked.

I unwrapped the package to find a disposable, gauzey g-string. I held it between my fingers in shock. “There’s no fucking way I’m putting these on,” I said.

Liz shook her head in agreement. “Yeah, no way.”


Weird "Pants"


So, we undressed, dismissed our band-aid fabric g-strings, and put our robes on. When we were done, the receptionist then led us to a big room with two masseuses – a man and a woman. Liz got the guy, I got the girl.

“Please, take off your clothes,” the woman said to me.

I stood there, looking around, thinking, Aren’t you gonna leave first. But as she stared at me, it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere. Liz and I looked at each other and silently counted to three before untying our robes. And then we stood there naked, back to back, for what seemed like an eternity.

You are in Europe, I kept telling myself. This is what they do in Europe. This is Europe…

We got on our tables and were finally relieved once the blankets were placed over our exposed, puritanically American bodies. And then the massages began. And they were normal for a while. Until the blankets were pulled down to our waists and the boob massages began.

Yes. Liz and I were fondled for up to 10 minutes by strange Polish people. Now, I wasn’t totally freaked out. In fact, I kinda liked it. My breasts have never received that sort of attention – not from a boyfriend, bedfellow, or husband. It was sorta…relaxing in an incredibly awkward way? But I just kept thinking about poor Liz – lying there, with her full breasts being fondled my some strange man and I wanted to start convulsing with laughter.

After our hour was up, the masseuses left us alone. We both peeled our faces off of our tables and began laughing hysterically.

“Oh – my – fucking – God!” Liz said. “That was totally insane!”

As we put our robes back on and headed out of the room, we saw Dorota sitting there, drinking a coffee waiting for us. Dorota is the woman I’m renting my apartment from and is one of the most charming, fascinating ladies I have ever met. She was in the area, and hoping to say hello before heading off. “So,” she said. “How was it?”

And we told her. And even Dorota, a woman who knows Warsaw and Polish culture well, couldn’t believe it. “Wow!” she said. And that’s all she really could say.

Then Dorota told us that just a week after I got my call from Patrick, she and her partner also broke up. He’d written her from New York. They’d been together for fifteen years, always on and off and on and off. And now, it was over. So we planned a very healthy, boy-bashing night out for Thursday with plans to gussy ourselves up and forget all about these terrible creatures.

Later that day, we ended up making plans to meet up and go out with Dorota’s neice, Pola. I am completely enchanted with Pola. She is a 30-year-old artist with the body of a ballerina and the voice of a dreamer. Everything she says sounds so soporific and kind. And honest.

I’d first met Pola on August 6. It was not a good day. I had gotten three hours of sleep. I hadn’t eaten anything in over 48 hours. And I was a shaky, crying mess. But I had to keep my meeting with Pola, who I’d be renting from for September. She met me at my building at 10 a.m. and we walked to her apartment, where we sat and talked about her work, my work, shared the names of our favorite books and artists. I tried to avoid any discussion about my divorce, when Pola said, “So! Dorota says you are married already! I’m so jealous!”

I looked at her like an injured puppy. “Don’t be so jealous,” I said. “He called two days ago and he wants a divorce. And there’s some girl he’s seeing. And it’s all…so…I don’t know.”

Then I laughed. “So funny, right? Here I am, thinking – look at this amazing, beautiful woman. Single. Dedicated to her work. And I’m thinking why hadn’t I done that with my life. And then you’re sitting there thinking, ‘Oh! She’s so lucky!’ The grass is always greener, right?”

And then we laughed together. And we kept in touch.

So, on Tuesday, Pola agreed to take Liz and I to her favorite hangout – Chlodna 25, a sort of cafĂ©-bar where they host after parties for art shows, small indie rock concerts, and plenty of good conversation and people watching.

We got there at around 9 p.m. and it immediately felt right – as though we’d been coming to this creaky, low-lit haunt for years. And I could even smoke inside! Yes! I’d found heaven. Of course, Pola, being the amazing artist and personality she is, knew the owner, who in turn, had reserved us a table and told us that everything was on the house. “But you don’t drink alcohol?” one of his friends asked. “Never? For health care?”

“No. Never,” I said. “For mental health care.”

And he laughed.

We then proceeded to order our coffee and tea and sandwiches and we talked for four hours. About bad hip hop. Good hip hop. Polish hip hop. Love. Hate. Alcoholism. Friends. Life. Coping. Falling apart. Dreams. Men. How we loved them. How we hated them. Art. Writing. The male ego and how we all needed to stop trying to date such ego-driven men. It was time to find...carpenters? Lawyers? Or nothing at all. Just ourselves.

And then it was 1 a.m. and it was time to leave. So Pola drove us back, and suddenly, my stomach ache crept back in. And I started to feel sad. And I started wondering where Pat was. What he was doing. How he was feeling. And how it was all over. And how mad I was at him for doing this. This way. Ever. For what? And how I hoped to never talk to him again...sort of.

And then I got back to the apartment and made a mix of bad 90s hip hop, pathetic indie pop, weepy country songs, and hateful punk. And I put on Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” and Lauryn Hill’s “Ex-Factor” and The Magnetic Fields “All The Desperate Things You Made Me Do,” and I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t. So I slept.

Jewtinatastic

“It’s not the world’s fault you want to be an artist…now get back to work.” – Werner Herzog

____________________________________

So…after being a bit sidetracked by my “Et tu Patrick?” moment, I think I’m getting back on the horse, so to speak. Sure, half of me feels like it’s dying, but the other half is somehow enjoying herself. Really enjoying herself. Grateful for all of this. Even the bad stuff. I can’t wait until my dying part is, well, um, dead.

Believe it or not, but there was a very real purpose to this trip. As I’ve said before, I am writing a book. And not about my pending divorce…though it all surreally seems to fit so perfectly into this concept of “The Value of Ruins.” It’s almost as if this were supposed to happen.

So, yes. My book is called “The Value of Ruins.” It is a story that unfolds in three parts. Part one is very much about my Grandmother – my fascination with her. The stories I’ve told myself about her. Her mystery. And then, at the end of this section, we see the real Cristina Brunak as we’ve never seen her.

See, my grandmother, who grew up in Warsaw until she left after the war, always insisted that while her father was Jewish, neither she nor her mother were. Which meant that I wasn’t. But somehow, in my bones, that never felt right. The Jew thing seemed to fit. But the more I forced it, the more she denied it. Until 2008. That was the year that my mother – yes my mother, my grandmother’s daughter – finally discovered what my grandmother’s REAL name was. And that she was, too, in fact, a Jew. Which makes my mother Jewish. And me Jewish, too.

This revelation was huge for me. A validation. A realization. An epiphany. It felt right. And I became fascinated, trying to learn as much as I could, at least, about our family’s history. I quickly dubbed myself a “Jewtina.” Even thought about adopting the name “Rossenwasser” – my family’s REAL name – for myself. But aside from that, I didn’t have any real intention of investigating the religious/spiritual/cultural matter of it further.

Then, in March 2009, my agent sent me an email with a link to a Cleveland Plain Dealer article about a group of 90-year-old women who were having their Bat Mitzvah. “This story is perfect for you.” He envisioned a sort of Tuesdays with Morrie tale where we learn about these ten nonagenarians, their lives, their preparations, and, ultimately, their rite of passage – one usually reserved for 12-year-olds. I was immediately attracted to this story and ran up to Cleveland to start interviewing these women.

However, when I sat down to write a book proposal, the right words just didn’t come. It felt so forced, so Akron Beacon Journal Sunday feature to make the old lady readers feel good about themselves. I hated it. Then a friend pointed out to me that what she really thought was fascinating about this story was how it had fallen into my lap just as I’d discovered that I am, in fact, a Jew, too.

To be honest, what really riveted me about these women was what they could show me about who I really am, who my grandmother really was, and how I could embrace this part of my identity. So, these women essentially became my introduction to Judaism, and the second part of my book.

The third part of my book is, well, all of this. The trip to Poland. The search for the truth. For my grandma. For myself. For the real value of ruins.

The value of ruins. It’s a strange idea, right? Well, during the Third Reich, Hitler’s architects would often do multiple drafts of buildings and monuments. And at least one draft would attempt to depict what the building would look like after hundreds of years of decay. How its presence would one day leave an impression on future generations to come, just as the Acropolis or the Mayan pyramids have done.

However, I feel like Hitler’s real ruins are people. It’s in the people we see the effect of the world. In a sense, we are G-d’s ruins, too. And it’s through our ruination that we have a specific value. One that can’t be touched or quantified. But one that makes people like my grandmother so very beautiful, special, and complicated.

So…here I am. A new Jew, trying to find out what it all means. And a ruin myself, in many ways.

Amidst lots of sight seeing and coming to understand where my Grandma came from, I am also focusing on my own connection with Judaism. So that is why I met with Michael Schudrich, the Head Rabbi of Poland, the other day. Tuesday to be exact.

Liz and I got very, very lost. Unfortunately, Warsaw is not a grid city. And no amount of Communist structure has changed the web-like network of roads and roundabouts and alleyways. So after going in circles, we finally gave up and hailed a cab. I showed him the address for the city’s synagogue on a map. He looked at the paper then looked at me, then the paper again. “Synagoga? You?” he said in awe, like it was his first time meeting a REAL Jew. I mean, the black hair, sloped nose, and neurotic presence were just too much for him to handle, I guess.

When we arrived, Rabbi Schudrich was immediately warm and welcoming and full of jokes. “So where are you from?” he asked.

“Akron, Ohio.” I said.

“Sounds boring,” he replied.

I was immediately smitten, especially when he started teasing Liz about her Mexican beauty. “You can take the New Yorker out of New York, but,” he said. “I can still make women uncomfortable!”

Rabbi Schudrich first came to Poland in the 1970s. He was told there were no Jews left. And he didn’t believe it. He continued to return to Poland in search of people who were keeping their identities hidden, thanks to trauma from WWII, Communist persecution, and anti-Semitism that persists until today. “Now, there are thousands and thousands,” he said. “Just like you.”

Just like me! I wondered. I was so excited to meet these other new Jews with complicated stories and conflicts of identity.

“You can meet them on Friday,” he said. “Come for services and then we’ll have dinner.”

Then the Rabbi asked for my phone number so he could also set up a day for me to talk to a group of new Jews about my family’s story. He looked at my new Polish cell phone number and smiled. “You know,” he said. “These three numbers of your phone are 613. And that’s how many commandments we have. Fate, maybe?”

As Liz and I left the synagogue and walked through the busy streets, I thought about how fateful all of this trip has been. How meeting Dorota was so perfect. Living around the corner from Jerzy was just too much. How familiar everything felt. Then how Patrick destroyed my heart. And how my mother came to help me, and how we found the tombstone together. And how, maybe, it had something to do with all of this – all of this revelation and rebirth.

And then I started thinking about the night after Patrick had called me and said he wanted a divorce. I was desperate for a sign to show me that it would fine. That this was really going to be a good thing in the end. So I reached for my Tarot cards. As I shuffled them, I breathed my pain and confusion and despair down through my fingertips and into the deck. I did not ask for any specific guidance. I just put myself in the cards, hoping they’d see what I couldn’t. Then I laid them out in a work spread. And then I called Juice.

Juice is one of my dearest, dearest friends. She is also one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. Her spirit is contagious. Everyone who meets her wants to put her in their pockets for safekeeping – like a good luck charm, or a favorite action figure. She is cute and vivacious and wacky and independent and hilarious. And she is a healer. And a hell of a Tarot Card reader.

I read my spread to Juice over the phone. She picked the cards out of her own deck and then went to work. “Start over,” they say. “Start over, start over, start over.”

And then she gasped. “Oh my G-d, Denise,” she said. “Do you see this? The cards start with the Torah and end with the Torah. That’s fucking weird.”

I looked down at the reading. And there, on my first card, The Wheel of Fortune, was the word “Torah.” And then, my eyes moved to my last card, The High Priestess. And in her lap lay a scroll with the word “Torah” upon it. It was a sign, I was sure. And this was all meant to be.

And all of these little coincidences – these little signs – I put a lot of weight in them. Because I want to and I have to. They give me peace. They give me a sense that this is project must go one. And so it will.