Neighbors Jan Gross Quotes

Two thousand Jews, for example, lived in and around the small town of Tykocin, northwest of Warsaw on the road to Bialystok in eastern Poland, worshiping in a square, fortified synagogue with a turreted tower and a red mansard roof, built in 1642, more than a century after Jewish settlement began in the region. Lush farm country surrounds Tykocin: wheat fields, prosperous villages, cattle in the fields, black-and-white storks brooding wide, flat nests on the chimneys of lucky houses. Each village maintains a forest, a dense oval stand of perhaps forty acres of red-barked pines harvested for firewood and house and barn construction. Inside the forests, even in the heat of summer, the air is cool and heady with pine; wild strawberries, small and sweet, strew the forest floor. Police Battalions 309 and 316, based in Bialystok, invaded Tykocin on 5 August 1941. They drove Jewish men, women and children screaming from their homes, killed laggards in the streets, loaded the living onto trucks and jarred them down a potholed, winding dirt road past the storks and the cattle to the Lopuchowo village forest two miles southwest. In the center of the Lopuchowo forest, men dug pits, piling up the sandy yellow soil, and then Police Battalions 309 and 316, out for the morning on excursion from Bialystok, murdered the Jews of Tykocin, man, woman and child. For months the forest buzzed and stank of death. (Twenty miles northwest of Tykocin in the village of Jedwabne, Polish villagers themselves, with German encouragement, had murdered their Jewish neighbors on 10 July 1941 by driving them into a barn and burning them alive, a massacre examined in Jan T. Gross’s book Neighbors.)

While the experience of the Second World War has to a large extent shaped the political makeup and destinies of all European societies in the second half of the twentieth century, Poland has been singularly affected. It was over the territory of the pre-1939 Polish state that Hitler and Stalin first joined in a common effort (their pact of nonaggression signed in August 1939 included a secret clause dividing the country in half) and then fought a bitter war until one of them was eventually destroyed. As a result, Poland suffered a demographic catastrophe without precedent; close to 20 percent of its population died of war-related causes. It lost its minorities - Jews in the Holocaust, and Ukrainians and Germans following border shifts and population movements after the war. Poland's elites in all walks of life were decimated. Over a third of its urban residents were missing at the conclusion of the war. Fifty-five percent of the country's lawyers were no more, along with 40 percent of its medical doctors and one-third of its university professors and Roman Catholic clergy. Poland was dubbed 'God's playground' by a sympathetic British historian, but during that time it must have felt more like a stomping ground of the devil.

The Shoah has been portrayed in scholarly literature as a phenomenon rooted in modernity. We know very well that in order to kill millions of people, an efficient bureaucracy is necessary, along with a (relatively) advanced technology. But the murder of Jedwabne Jews reveals yet another, deeper, more archaic layer of this enterprise. I am referring not only to the motivations of the murderers - after all, Jedwabne residents and peasants from Lomza County could not yet have managed to soak up the vicious anti-Jewish Nazi propoganda, even if they had been willing and ready - but also to primitive, ancient methods and murder weapons: stones, wooden clubs, iron bars, fire, and water; as well as the absence of organization. It is clear, from what happened in Jedwabne, that we must approach the Holocaust as a heterogeneous phenomenon. On the other hand, we have to be able to account for it as a system, which functioned according to a preconceived (though constantly evolving) plan. But, simultaneously, we must also be able to see it as a mosaic composed of discrete episodes, improvised by local decision-makers, and hinging on unforced behavior, rooted in God-knows-what motivations, of all those who were near the murder scene at the time. This makes all the difference in terms of assessing responsibility for the killings, as well as calculating the odds for survival that confronted the Jews.

Poland, once a dominant power in Europe, was partitioned by its more powerful neighbors throughout much of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and its elites organized several heroic but unsuccessful uprisings. 'For your freedom and ours,' was the traditional watchword of Polish patriots, derived from a belief in a brotherhood of victims. Both ideas - that the persecuted weak are right until proved otherwise, and that the liberty of mankind is universal - were embedded in the Romantic mythos. Nineteenth-century Polish messianism portrayed Poland as 'the Christ of Nations.' But during the Second World War, Poles failed to recognize a fellow victim, not in some far-off land, but living right across the street. And this attitude, in a manner of speaking, continued in the post-war period - what I have in mind is that the Jews were more less abandoned, or worse, to their fate during the war, and that the country proved unable and unwilling after the war to mourn over the calamity that befell the Polish Jews. To be sure many beautiful and moving commemorative statements were put out about the Jews after the war by several Polish intellectuals, but there has never been a demonstration of collective grief or soul searching over the Holocaust in Poland, let alone a catharsis.

We are slowly beginning to understand a disturbing feature that surfaces again and again in the way Jews collectively remember this period: a recurring observation that the 'locals' (be they Ukrainians, Lithuanians, or Poles) were 'worse than the Germans.' Jews know better than anybody that the Holocaust was a Nazi invention, one that they carried around Europe as they conquered the continent. The disturbing feature in Jewish narratives of the wartime mentioned above can be explained by pointing out that death administered by people well known to the victims evoked special suffering, as they must have also felt betrayed. But we now realize that death at the hands of neighbors must have been also, literally, very painful.

Until the outbreak of the war, Jedwabne was a quiet town, and Jewish lives there differed little from those of their fellows anywhere else in Poland. If anything, they may have been better. The Jewish community was not affected by significant rifts or protracted conflicts. There were a few Chasids in Jedwabne, but spiritual leadership of the community was recognized by all in the person of a pious and respected rabbi, Avigdor Bialostocki. A few years before the war the town saw the appointment of a new parish priest, Marian Szumowski, whose sympathies were with the nationalist party, but until then Rabbi Bialostocki and Jedwabne's Catholic priest had been on very good terms with each other. In addition, by a lucky coincidence, the local police commander was a decent and straightforward fellow who kept order in the town and went after troublemakers, irrespective of their political beliefs or ethnic background. And then the war came.

In Jedwabne ordinary Poles slaughtered the Jews, very much as ordinary Germans from the Ordnungspolizei Batallion no. 101 did in Jozefow, as documented in Christopher Browning's Ordinary Men. They were men of all ages and of different professions; entire families on occasion, fathers and sons acting in concert; good citizens, one is tempted to say (if sarcasm were not out of place, given the hideousness of their deeds), who heeded the call of municipal authorities. And what the Jews saw, to their horror and, I dare say, incomprehension, were familiar faces. Not anonymous men in uniforms, cogs in a war machine, agents carrying out orders, but their own neighbors, who chose to kill and were engaged in a bloody pogrom - willing executioners.