Cashmere, Krakow
When I was 18, I took a trip to Poland to explore the history of the Holocaust. Here's what I wrote in my Krakow Diary entry on October 31, 2008.
This Shabbat, we stayed in Cashmere, Krakow, once a beautiful and thriving Jewish neighborhood where now the synagogues are museums and art galleries.
One synagogue was named "The Temple" since it's so beautiful inside. Gold leaf intricately covered the ceiling, and rich hues of red and yellow coated the walls and inner pillars. I stood in pure amazement and shock at how beautiful it was, knowing that it must have been mind-numbing in its full glory.
The interesting fact about this synagogue is the town men and women would purposely avoid walking past it. They would rather pass a church on Shabbat than The Temple, for who in their right mind would name their synagogue "The Temple"? As if to say they could ever replace the biblical temple, which can only be built in the holiest of lands, Jerusalem.
The types of people who had memberships to The Temple were extraordinarily wealthy. They had so much pride that pre-war, each seat resembled a mini throne: large, oversized, individual tall chairs. They wanted to feel like guests of honor. Now in place of the chairs are renovated pews donated by Ron Lauder. Despite knowing this bittersweet background, I left upset that I couldn't take pictures as it was Shabbat and hoped my mental memory would last forever.
When we first drove into Krakow, got off the bus, walked onto the street, and looked around, suddenly everything clicked. The skinny roads lined with modest shops and restaurants, the old-fashioned beer ads, the cars leaning more towards blocks, the old apartments with cast iron bent into Magen Davids on the doors, and the smell of cracked wood and fresh air—it all seemed to fall into place. This is everything I needed to see. These are the images of Poland in color—the cobblestones they once walked on. The robust horses that once trotted down them, pulling women in their fur jackets and high busts with thick scarves and mittens. These are the black iron gates families once opened as they entered the synagogue grounds observing the Shabbos. This was proof that before the war, there was life.
And as quickly as my bubble was blown, it was harshly burst.
On Saturday, we went on a Cashmere tour. Walking down the street in the rain, we entered three synagogues; one on an upper level of a shop and another painted with a mural of Israel, and the third synagogue "The Temple." The fourth one, "The Old Shule," was now an art gallery that we couldn't enter because it was a statutory holiday.
As we observed all the typical tourist attractions, a building off the beaten path caught my eye. It was a stark white apartment, stricken with black soot from the bottom up, branching out like flames. I had a feeling that right in front of this building, there had been a pile of dead bodies. The Nazis used to set fire to human remains to clear the streets. I imagined the heat and soot licking away at the wall, rising higher and higher till it cracked apart, staining it with heavy black soot so thick that to this day, 60 years later, the fire's shadow remains.
Within this old town of Krakow, underneath its rainy weather, outside its dim-lit restaurants, and weighing down on its cobblestones streets is a past so horrible, so gruesome, and hard to believe that not even its buildings can forget.
Once there were families attending synagogue and lighting Shabbos candles in their windows. Once, children wore dresses and skipped holding hands down the road. Now, as hard as Cashmere tries, as many cars drive, and as loud as the music goes, it will never cover the truth.
As the streets still stand, people from the corner of their eyes will glimpse that one white building burned black. And they'll know.
I'm not here to enjoy the beauty that once was but to commemorate the tragedy that followed after.
We must never forget.