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In 2015 the European Parliament declared 2 August as the European Roma Holocaust Memorial Day. Since then, commemorations have been organised in many European countries to remember the victims of the brutal persecution and genocide suffered by the Roma and Sinti during the Second World War. Today, on the 80th anniversary of these events, more than ever, we should remember this tragic part of European history, understand its consequences and strive to ensure that its memory does not disappear from our consciousness.

Discrimination, classification and eugenics: a road to genocide
The genocide of the Roma and Sinti was one of the darkest chapters of the Second World War. Like the Jews, they were victims of the brutal persecution of the Nazi regime. Imprisoned in concentration camps and ghettos, murdered in gas chambers and subjected to other methods of extermination, they became victims of the German Nazi genocide whose mark is still felt in the Roma community today.

Nazi ideology based on racism and eugenics proclaimed the superiority of the Aryan race over others. Due to their cultural difference, the Roma and Sinti were perceived as an ‘inferior race’, ‘undesirable’ and incompatible with the ideal of German society. Because of their nomadic lifestyle, they were described as ‘antisocial’ and ‘criminal’, inherently inclined to commit crimes. They were considered a threat to the purity of the Aryan race and the social order. Already from the early 1930s, the Roma and Sinti in Germany were subjected to discrimination and persecution. Their rights were systematically restricted and racial segregation was introduced.

After Hitler came to power in 1933, the treatment towards them became harsher. Many Roma persons were subjected to forced sterilisation. In the acts implementing the Nuremberg Laws, the Romani were deprived of their civil rights just like Jews. They were subjected to preventive police control and sent to ‘re-education centres’. In 1938, Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and Gestapo, issued a decree bearing the title ‘Combating the Gypsy Plague’, which stated that the Roma (Gypsies) were a racial and social threat to the German people. The decree ordered the intensification of police and administrative measures against the Sinti and Romani, including their registration, segregation and internment in special camps. This decree formed the basis for mass arrests and internment in existing concentration camps in Germany and Austria, such as Dachau, Bergen-Belsen, Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen, Mauthausen, Mittelbau-Dora, Natzweiler-Struthof, Gross-Rosen and Ravensbrück, for example. New internment and transit camps were also successively created for them. Initially, the Roma and Sinti were forced to wear black triangles, classifying them as ‘antisocial’, or green triangles, denoting ‘professional criminals’. Eventually, they were assigned a brown triangle with the letter Z (Zigeuner, German for ‘Gypsy’). Terrible conditions prevailed in these camps leading to the death of many inmates. Roma prisoners were subjected to pseudo-scientific medical experiments. Conditions in the Berlin-Marzahn, Lackenbach and Salzburg camps were among the worst.

The Romani Holocaust
The first mass persecution took place after the outbreak of the Second World War. On 21 September 1939, Reinhard Heydrich ordered the deportation of 30,000 Roma from Germany and Austria to occupied Poland. In May 1940, some 2,500 Roma were deported to the Lublin District in the General Government (occupied Poland), where they were placed in Jewish ghettos or sent to labour camps. Many of them died as a result of the harsh conditions of forced labour. The rest were most likely later murdered in the gas chambers of Bełżec, Sobibór and Treblinka.

In the autumn of 1941, the German police deported around 5,000 Roma persons from Austria to the Łódź ghetto, where hundreds died from a typhus epidemic and lack of basic necessities. Those who survived were transported to the camp at Kulmhof (Chełmno nad Nerem) in 1942 and were murdered in mobile gas chambers.
In December 1942, Himmler ordered the deportation to KL Auschwitz¹ of all the Roma and Sinti of the Third Reich. They were sent to Auschwitz II–Birkenau and placed in a special section known as the ‘Gypsy camp’ (Zigeunerlager). The conditions there were conducive to the spread of infectious diseases such as typhus, smallpox and dysentery, which significantly reduced the camp population. In addition, pseudo-scientific medical experiments were carried out on them. At the end of March 1943, about 1,700 Roma brought from the Bialystok region were murdered in the gas chambers of Birkenau, and in May 1944 the camp management decided to liquidate the entire ‘Gypsy camp’. SS guards surrounded the camp, but the Roma incarcerated in there, having learned about the SS’s plans, armed themselves, resisted and refused to leave. The SS retreated and decided to first transfer about 3,000 Roma to Auschwitz I and other concentration camps. The final operation aimed at liquidating the ‘Gypsy camp’ took place two months later, on the night of 2–3 August. As a result, some 4,300 Sinti and Roma, mainly the sick, the elderly, women and children, perished in the gas chambers of Birkenau. This mass murder became a symbol of the suffering and heroism of the Roma community, and the date was chosen as International Roma Holocaust Memorial Day. The total number of Romani victims at Auschwitz is estimated to be around 21,000 out of the 23,000 Sinti and Roma deported there.

In German-occupied Europe, the fate of the Roma varied according to local conditions. They were interned, used as forced labourers or killed. Einsatzgruppen units and other mobile units killed the Romani in the Baltic States, occupied Poland and the USSR. In occupied Serbia, Roma men were executed en masse. In France, the Vichy authorities interned thousands of Roma, and in Romania some 26,000 were deported to Transnistria, where many died of disease and starvation. In Croatia, the Ustasha regime killed almost the entire Roma population, some 25,000 people.

The scale of the crime and the fight for genocide recognition
The exact number of the Sinti and Roma who died during the Second World War remains unknown due to the lack of accurate data on their number living in Europe before the war and the relatively late international recognition of this genocide. It is estimated that before the war the Romani population was between 1 and 1.5 million. Historians estimate that at least 250,000 European Sinti and Roma were killed by the Germans and their allies, although some scholars suggest that the number could be as high as 500,000.

The Nazi genocide destroyed numerous Roma communities, and the Romani suffered psychological and physical trauma, making it difficult to rebuild their cultural and social networks. After the war, however, discrimination against the Roma continued. Throughout Europe, they continued to experience various forms of discrimination, both institutional and of a social nature. These diverse forms of discrimination had a long-lasting impact on the Roma in Europe, perpetuating their marginalisation and social exclusion.

Unlike the genocide of Jews, that of the Roma was not recognised immediately after the war. The courts in West Germany, for example, ruled that actions taken against the Roma before 1943 were legal, which closed the way to compensation for the thousands of victims who were imprisoned, forcibly sterilised and deported. Police harassment and discrimination continued and the post-war authorities seized the Nazi regime’s files. It was not until 1965 that German law recognised that acts of persecution prior to 1943 were racially motivated, allowing Roma to claim compensation. However, many of those able to do so had already died. It was only in March 1982 that the German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt officially recognised the German Sinti and Roma as victims of genocide.

‘Porajmos’, Holocaust and ‘Samudaripen’
Today there are many terms used to describe the extermination of the Roma. Some of them are the subject of ongoing discussions and debates. This situation demonstrates the different perspectives and approaches to this tragedy not only by researchers and organisations working on the subject, but also by the Roma communities themselves.

The term ‘Porajmos’, meaning ‘devouring’ or ‘burning’, was introduced by the scholar Ian Hancock in the 1990s to describe the Romani genocide. However, its use is controversial, as in some dialects it denotes ‘rape’, which many Roma find offensive.

Another term is ‘Samudaripen’, meaning ‘total destruction’. Introduced by the linguist and researcher Marcel Courthiade in the 1970s, it is preferred by some Roma communities for being more precise.

The term ‘Holocaust’ is also sometimes used to describe the extermination of the Roma and Sinti, but can be considered controversial as it is commonly associated with the extermination of Jews. The use of the same term for different groups of victims can lead to confusion and be seen as blurring the specificity of each group’s experience.

Other terms used by Roma communities include: ‘Kali Traš’ (Black Fear) and ‘Berša Bibahtale’ (Unhappy Years). The diversity of these terms shows the importance of recognising the unique experiences of different Roma groups. Besides, the terminology used by different Roma ethnic groups to describe their genocide is also important from a social and psychological perspective. This is because these names are loaded with emotional and cultural meaning, helping us understand the suffering and trauma of these communities. Hence, the inclusion of these terms in public discourse is important for the recognition and commemoration of this specific form of genocide.

The use of appropriate terms is also important for education and public awareness. It allows for a better understanding and appreciation of the history of the Romani, avoiding oversimplification and confusion between different experiences of genocide.

Why do we want to remember today?
The shadow of the extermination of the Roma, the horrific genocide perpetrated by the German Nazis during the Second World War still hangs over us. Today in Europe, the Romani are still victims of hate crime, violence, persecution, expulsion and racial discrimination. Therefore, the remembrance of this tragedy should not only be a moral obligation to the victims and their families, but also a key element in building a better future. The importance of this remembrance is multidimensional and involves both the Roma community and society as a whole.

The extermination of the Roma left lasting wounds in their community. However, today the memory of this event is becoming part of their identity and cultural heritage. Learning about their history can strengthen the sense of togetherness and belonging within the Romani community, which was cut off from its roots as a result of the genocide.

The Romani ‘Holocaust’ did not happen in a vacuum. It was the culmination of centuries of discrimination and prejudice deeply rooted in European history. Education on the subject can raise awareness of the mechanisms of exclusion and persecution that marked the fate of the Roma. Such analysis allows for a better understanding of the mechanisms leading to other genocides and crimes against humanity. This knowledge is invaluable in identifying threats and taking preventive action to protect future generations from similar tragedies, as well as counteracting negative phenomena such as racism and xenophobia.

Remembrance-related challenges
Commemorating the annihilation of the Roma and Sinti faces numerous difficulties owing to both historical neglect and current challenges. For many years, the tragedy has been ignored, leading to insufficient public awareness and the victims fading from memory.

One of the main challenges is the lack of sufficient resources and support from state and local authorities. In many countries where the Roma and Sinti were victims of mass atrocities during the war, their commemoration was marginalised. This has resulted in the absence of monuments, museums and educational programmes to help preserve the memory of this tragedy. In addition, Roma communities often face prejudice and a lack of understanding from the rest of society, which hinders their efforts to acknowledge and commemorate their own history.

The lack of access to sources on the extermination of the Roma and Sinti is another major problem. This history is far less well documented compared to the other genocides of the Second World War. There is a lack of source material, such as biographies, testimonies and documents. In addition, there is a poorly developed written tradition in the Roma community, which further hinders the preservation and transmission of history. The lack of their own media to promote and report on Roma history and the limited international representation of Roma to claim recognition of their suffering during the Second World War are additional barriers to the commemoration process.

Another important challenge is the need to integrate the story of the Romani tragedy into the broader narrative of the Second World War and the Holocaust. Often the history of the Roma and Sinti is treated as marginal, instead of being an integral part of the story of the Nazi genocide. As a result, many people are unaware of the scale and cruelty that affected these communities. To remedy this, museums, educational institutions and school curricula need to integrate the topic of the Romani genocide into their programmes. This will ensure a fuller understanding of the scale and diversity of the Holocaust, which is key to preserving the memory of all its victims.

Good practice and modern initiatives
A number of activities are currently underway to commemorate the Sinti and Roma extermination. These initiatives aim to preserve the memory of the victims, educate the public and combat prejudice.

Monuments, museums and cultural institutions dedicated to the commemoration of the Romani genocide are being established in some European countries. In 1997 the Documentation and Cultural Centre of the German Sinti and Roma² opened in Heidelberg as the first institution of its kind in the world. In 2001 a permanent Roma exhibition presenting the theme of the Roma extermination was created at the Auschwitz Museum. In turn, the Memorial to the Sinti and Roma Victims of National Socialism (Nazism) was unveiled in Berlin in 2012.³

It is also important to take care of existing memorials in order to preserve their historical significance. An example of such efforts is the opening of the Memorial to the Holocaust of the Roma and Sinti in Bohemia in Lety u Písku in the Czech Republic in May 2024. This museum was established on the site on the grounds of a former concentration camp where more than 1,300 Roma were held between 1942 and 1943, of whom more than 300 died and the rest were deported to extermination camps, mainly Auschwitz. It should be noted that for many years the camp grounds were used by an industrial pig farm, which aroused much controversy and protests from the Roma community. The museum at Lety u Písku was established as a result of long-standing efforts and pressure from both the Roma community and international human rights organisations.

Various institutions and NGOs play a key role in the commemoration of the Romani genocide. International initiatives such as the European Holocaust Memorial Day for the Sinti and Roma⁴ have raised public awareness, creating a space for Romani voices to be heard and promoting values of equality and respect. The Central Council of the German Sinti and Roma founded in 1982⁵ stages numerous educational events, exhibitions and conferences in Germany and other countries.

International youth initiatives such as the annual ‘Dikh he na bister’ (‘Look and don’t forget’ in Romani) play an important role in the commemoration process. This visit to Kraków and Auschwitz-Birkenau aims to commemorate day of liquidation of the ‘Gypsy camp’, where the remaining 4,300 Roma and Sinti were murdered.⁶ The organisation of festivals, concerts and exhibitions dedicated to the history of the Roma and Sinti supports awareness-building among the general public.

The international cooperation of various organisations, mainly the Council of Europe,⁷ Office for the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe/Democratic Institutions and Human Rights (OECD/ODIHR),⁸ UNESCO⁹ and Internation Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA)¹⁰ contributes to promoting the remembrance of the Romani and Sinti genocide in Europe. The funding of educational projects and research on Roma history, the development of guidelines and the publication of books and articles are crucial for education and memory preservation.

In the EU Roma strategic framework, adopted in 2020, and in the European Council Recommendation, the European Commission and EU Member States committed themselves to countering antigypsyism. This framework is based on equality, social and economic inclusion and participation. The European Commission has extended the global #ProtectTheFacts campaign¹¹ to include the plight of the Romani. The Citizens, Equality, Rights and Values (CERV) programme has prioritised projects on remembrance of the Nazi genocide, education and research on the subject and the fight against denialism.

Contemporary good practice and international initiatives show that the activities aimed at preserving the memory of the extermination of the Roma and Sinti in Europe are on the rise. Through these activities, history can be preserved and a more informed and integrated society can be built. NGOs, Roma communities and international institutions are working together to ensure that the Roma tragedy is not forgotten. Despite the many challenges, these initiatives bring about positive change and raise public awareness of the Roma and Sinti extermination.

ENDNOTES
¹ The KL (i.e. Concentration Camp) Auschwitz was a German Nazi concentration and death camp complex operating in occupied Poland, near Oświęcim, between 1940 and 1945. It consisted of three main parts: Auschwitz I (mother camp), Auschwitz II–Birkenau (death camp) and Auschwitz III–Monowitz (labour camp). Auschwitz has become a symbol of the Holocaust, where some 1.1 million people, mainly Jews but also Poles, Roma and prisoners of other nationalities, were murdered under brutal conditions.
² https://dokuzentrum.sintiundroma.de/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
³ https://www.stiftung-denkmal.de/en/memorials/memorial-to-the-sinti-and-roma-of-europe-murdered-under-national-socialism/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁴ https://www.roma-sinti-holocaust-memorial-day.eu/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁵ https://zentralrat.sintiundroma.de/en/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁶ https://2august.eu/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁷ https://pjp-eu.coe.int/en/web/inclusive-education-for-roma-children/texts-2; https://rm.coe.int/168008b633; https://www.coe.int/en/web/roma-and-travellers/roma-history-factsheets (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁸ https://www.osce.org/files/f/documents/9/b/135396.pdf (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁹ https://www.unesco.org/en/articles/shedding-light-roma-genocide-take-part-protectthefacts-campaign (accessed 1 August 2024).
¹⁰ https://holocaustremembrance.com/what-we-do/our-work/ihra-project-recommendations-teaching-learning-genocide-roma (accessed 1 August 2024).
¹¹ https://www.againstholocaustdistortion.org/ (accessed 1 August 2024).

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Piotr Trojański, PhD, Professor at the University of the National Education Commission, Kraków (Poland)

Proofreading: Caroline Brooke Johnson

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Agnieszka Mazur-Olczak, Deputy Head of the Projects Department at the ENRS, in an interview about our travelling exhibition ‘Between Life and Death. Stories of Rescue During the Holocaust’.

What is ‘Between Life and Death’?

‘Between Life and Death’ is an exhibition that is very contemporary, despite discussing historical events. It tells the story of the dark and light sides of humanity, presenting accounts from individuals in various countries who found themselves in extreme situations. This includes those who had to save their own lives and those who, for various reasons, chose to take the risk and help them. What is most important to me is that as we travel the world with this project, I consistently hear that despite the exhibition recounting difficult war stories, it always conveys a sense of hope.

How did it all start?

It began with the European Commission, which wanted to organise a significant event on January 27, Holocaust Remembrance Day, in 2018. At the ENRS, we conceived the idea of creating an exhibition and reached out to the Polin Museum and the Silent Heroes Memorial Centre in Berlin. While developing the concept, we realised that no exhibition had ever presented both perspectives —the rescuer and the rescued— and that we could combine them. We believed that, through the European Network's partnerships and the vital involvement of the Polin Museum, we could find suitable partners. We sought institutions with interesting, documented stories that they were willing to share to promote their collections. We had very little time to prepare this exhibition; it was an intensive three-month effort involving two curators who created the content and a team of academic consultants. Despite the time pressure, everything came together thanks to our contacts and determination.

How did you choose the characters featured in the exhibition?

The selection process varied by country. We always consulted with our national partners regarding the stories we wanted to showcase. The exhibition is structured to display stories from individual countries, and each country has a national partner involved in the work. The authors either searched for characters on the Yad Vashem lists, or our partners recommended them based on their materials or knowledge of compelling stories. We also aimed to highlight lesser-known cases. For instance, instead of featuring the well-known Ulma family for the Polish panel, we chose the Gawrychs. Similarly, for the Dutch section, we did not present Anne Frank, as her story is widely known. It was also crucial that our partners had contact with the witnesses to history, so we could invite them to the exhibition openings.

Did you manage to meet the witnesses to history personally?

Yes. The first significant meeting was in 2018, during the exhibition's inauguration at the European Commission headquarters. Ms Elżbieta Ficowska, Ms Elisabeth Drillich, and Mr Shochot, a Lithuanian survivor, attended the opening. It was a deeply moving experience for both them and the audience. Whenever we present the exhibition, we strive to invite a person featured in the exhibition to the opening. I remember Ms Zita Kurz's profound emotion when she realised someone was interested in her story during the exhibition's debut in Bratislava. These meetings are incredibly poignant, transforming the stories from mere panels with photos into encounters with living individuals. Often, these stories seem destined for tragic endings, yet many of these individuals went on to lead significant lives.

Who is this exhibition for? Who visits it, and who would you recommend it to?

The exhibition attracts a diverse audience, depending on its location, but we always aim to engage young people. ‘Between Life and Death’ is not just about the past; it is very much about the present. Each country's panel begins by depicting the situation of Jews before the German occupation and how it changed. It illustrates how significant and tragic events can stem from seemingly small, insignificant laws. The lack of societal response—whether due to inability or unwillingness—led to the exclusion, deportation, and murder of this group. This is highly relevant today. Young people often say, ‘I'm not going to vote because I'm not interested in politics’ and this exhibition shows that you may not be interested in politics, but politics is always very much interested in you, and demonstrates that it profoundly affects everyone. This exhibition serves as both a warning and a powerful narrative, showing that even small actions can be crucial for someone's survival. We never know when we might find ourselves in such a situation.

‘Between Life and Death’ has already visited many countries, including Japan. You often accompany it. What can you say about its reception in different countries? Have you encountered any surprising reactions from visitors?

Regardless of the location, I consistently hear two praises. Firstly, visitors often expect an exhibition about humanity's dark side, but they leave feeling hopeful. Secondly, compliments frequently go to the graphic design studio that collaborated with us. The exhibition's design is not a simple set of boards; it is compact and adaptable to various spaces, always attracting attention. Visitors are naturally curious about their national panels and often learn something new. Young people, in particular, are motivated to explore similar stories or delve into their country's history and its contemporary implications.

Where did the idea for a panel of diplomats included in the exhibition a few years later come from?

The idea for a panel dedicated to righteous diplomats originated from our Hungarian colleagues. Initially, the Hungarian contribution included a passage about a community of international diplomats who helped Jews in Budapest. However, our colleagues wanted their panel to mirror the others, showcasing both a rescuer and a survivor. I became interested in the Yad Vashem list, which is updated annually, and discovered Chiune Sugihara, a Japanese diplomat in Kaunas who helped Jews, including many from Poland. We decided to highlight diplomats as a special professional group with unique opportunities to help. This new panel, showing diplomats from different countries, emerged from this idea. Following its creation, the exhibition's trip to Japan was conceived. And just then, the pandemic broke out… Initially, it seemed a hindrance but allowed us to develop the project further. Although "Between Life and Death" couldn't travel around Europe, it went to Japan, where exhibitions were permitted. This break enabled us to create additional material, including a film about the diplomats and nine educational packages on the Holocaust available on our hi-story platform.

How did the exhibition's reception change, if at all, after Russia's attack on Ukraine? Do you see any differences?

Yes, there have been changes. This is especially evident at openings, where directors and political representatives frequently mention Ukraine's tragedy. Just before the full-scale invasion on 24 February 2022, we were preparing to take the exhibition to Dnipro, Lviv, and other locations in Ukraine. I recall a conversation with Professor Rydel just days before the war began; he emphasised the need to support Ukrainians by bringing the exhibition there. Although these plans are currently on hold, we hope they will be realised soon. We have an excellent Ukrainian panel and a committed Ukrainian partner who helped set it up and participated in the exhibition's 2018 opening in Brussels.

What is your favourite part of the exhibition?

My favourite part is the section on diplomats, as I was heavily involved in it. It is incredible that an interest in diplomacy and curiosity about a Japanese person who wanted to help some people led to a new narrative for the exhibition. Additionally, for the first time, the exhibition has been translated into the host country's language, because until then, there was only an English version. Nowadays we also have a Slovak version, which is travelling around Slovakia. I hope to see it translated into many more languages for broader tours. The Polish panel is also a favourite, particularly due to the enriching experiences with Mrs Elżbieta Ficowska, but I see the entire exhibition as a cohesive whole and I treat it a bit like my own child.

You must have had numerous adventures during the preparation and journey of the exhibition. Is there any event that particularly stands out?

I will always remember the first presentation at the European Commission headquarters, which included many high-ranking officials. Just before the event, Ms Marta Cygan brought us a poem by Mr Ficowski, "Both Your Mothers," written for Elżbieta Ficowska and translated into several languages. We distributed it to the interpreters at the event. At the end of the ceremony, after each survivor had shared their story, Ms Cygan read the poem. It was incredibly moving, with many leaving the room in tears, especially as the poem's subject, Elżbieta Ficowska, was present among us. At that moment, I realised the exhibition's profound importance and felt that all our efforts were worthwhile. Ever since then, the exhibition has continued to surprise and impact us in many ways.

What are your plans for the exhibition? Are you thinking about expanding it? What is the next country you plan to visit?

We are currently working on the Estonian panel. The Estonians expressed a desire to join the project and showcase their stories, so the exhibition will soon be displayed in Tallinn.

On 27 July 1924, at the VIII Summer Olympics in Paris, the Polish track cycling team, Józef Lange, Jan Lazarski, Tomasz Stankiewicz and Franciszek Szymczyk, triumphantly won a silver medal. On the same day, Adam Królikiewicz, riding Picador, clinched the bronze in show jumping. These victories marked Poland’s first Olympic medals. Commemorating the 100th anniversary of this momentous achievement, the Sejm has declared 2024 the Year of Polish Olympians. However, the stories of Polish Olympic athletes throughout the 20th century encompass not only glory but also enslavement and resistance against oppressive regimes.

A new reality

The outbreak of the Second World War abruptly halted the athletes’ preparations for future Olympic Games, cutting short the promising momentum achieved in Paris. Having only joined the Olympic arena in 1924, Poland had already amassed a considerable tally of medals, participating in eight Olympic Games (four summer and four winter) between the wars.

According to research undertaken by Ryszard Wryk, one of the foremost sports historians, a total of 327 Polish athletes competed in the Olympics during the Second Republic: 266 in the summer and 61 in the winter Olympics. Among them were 307 men and only 20 women. On the eve of the outbreak of the Second World War, most of the men were mobilised for the army and many of the women were involved in caring for the sick and wounded. Following the capitulation to Germany on 6 October 1939, they shared the fate of thousands of Polish prisoners of war who were captured and confined in prisoner-of-war (POW) camps.

Thirty-four Polish Olympians were taken prisoner by the Germans, 29 were sent to POW camps after the September defeat and five more after the capitulation of the Warsaw Uprising, including its commander General Tadeusz Bór-Komorowski, an equestrian, cavalryman and a member of the national team at the 1924 Olympics in Paris; 26 were imprisoned in oflags (prison camps for captured enemy officers) and eight in stalags (prison camps for non-commissioned officers and privates). Despite their imprisonment, these athletes endeavoured to recreate the spirit of not only Polish sports but also the global sports movement, including the Olympic ideals initiated by the French educator Pierre de Coubertin. Coubertin’s vision of Olympism as ‘a philosophy of life, which expresses and unites the values of body, will, and spirit in a balanced whole’, sought to inspire peaceful competition among nations. Although this vision had been shattered by recent events, it provided a sense of purpose and resilience for those who had left the Olympic stadiums for the harsh realities of camp life.

Captive sport

The rules for the treatment of prisoners of an enemy state, from their capture to their release, were governed by the Geneva Convention of Prisoners of War, 27 July 1929, of which Germany was one of the signatories. This convention obliged states holding prisoners of war to treat them humanely, to provide them with decent living conditions and to allow them to pursue cultural, scientific, educational and sporting activities.

The organisation of sporting life was regulated by Article 17 of the Convention of Prisoners of War, which stated that the detaining authorities ‘shall encourage, as far as possible, intellectual and sporting entertainment organised by prisoners of war’. The rules for the organisation of sport in POW camps were regulated by the ordinances of the German camp authorities and their superiors in Berlin.

Sport within the camps took on an institutionalised form, becoming a crucial part of the daily routine for maintaining physical wellbeing and mental equilibrium. Morning gymnastics and short marches were mainly obligatory, while sports competitions were conducted by special organisational units adhering to strict regulations. These competitions ranged from establishing camp champions in various sports to friendly tournaments and show contests – physical fitness tests were particularly popular.

The POW Olympic Games of 1940 and 1944 held profound symbolic significance. The first of these games took place from August 31 to 8 September 1940, at Stalag XIII Langwasser near Nuremberg, initiated by Platoon Sergeant Jerzy Słomczyński, a physical education instructor. Polish, French, Belgian, Dutch, Yugoslavian and British prisoners of war participated in these games. In 1944, the POW Olympics were held at Oflag II D Gross-Born and Oflag II C Woldenberg, observing full Olympic ceremonial traditions. These events transcended mere sporting competitions; they became political demonstrations, asserting that the universal Olympic spirit endured despite the ravages of war. As sports historian Kazimierz Rudzki eloquently recalled in his 1945 memoirs:

‘This bizarre 1944 Olympics at Woldenberg was more than just a sporting event. It was a symbol of faith in the value and meaning of the Olympic idea, in spite of everything and in spite of everything that happened beyond the reach of the barbed wire.’

Participation in sports was understandably limited to a few well-nourished prisoners. However, even on a small scale, these activities fostered a sense of community and solidarity among the POWs. Sporting events provided a crucial means of integration, offering a semblance of normalcy and hope in an otherwise harsh and oppressive environment.

Guarding against ‘barbed-wire fever’

Determining the extent of physical activity in POW camps is challenging, as prisoners in stalags were subjected to hard labour and harsh living conditions far worse than those in oflags. The Germans frequently violated the Geneva Convention, making physical exercise difficult and often banning it outright. Despite the constant threats to their health and lives, some prisoners, even in the stalags, managed to engage in physical activities with the tacit approval or collusion of camp authorities. These activities helped them stay fit, combat the mental toll of confinement and provided a semblance of a ‘normal’ life.

Even in isolation, many imprisoned Olympians sought to maintain their physical activity and encouraged it among their fellow prisoners. Notable figures include Zygmunt Weiss (1903–1977) and Henryk Niezabitowski (1896–1976), both of whom defended Warsaw and were subsequently imprisoned in Oflag IV A Hohnstein near Dresden. Weiss, an athlete, sprinter and twice an Olympian (1924 and 1928), moved into sports journalism, specialising in cycling. Niezabitowski, a rower and ice hockey player, became a key promoter of sports in the camp, particularly from the spring of 1941.

Another dedicated figure was Tadeusz ‘Ralf’ Adamowski (1901–1994), a talented all rounder and an ice hockey player, a member of the national team at the 1928 Olympics. He was sent to Oflag II C Woldenberg in May 1940. He was a member of the Military Sports Club (WKS) ‘Orla’, where he played basketball and was an organiser and active participant in sports competitions under the name ‘Olympic Year in Camp II C’.

One of the most active promoters of a culture of physical activities in the camp was Jan Baran-Bilewski (1895–1981), an athlete and pentathlete. Captured during the September Campaign, he was first imprisoned in Oflag II B Arnswalde. Despite the unstable situation, taking advantage of his own sporting background and the relatively good conditions for physical activity, he became involved in popularising physical exercise. He was the chief organiser of the three-day sports competition held on 29–31 August 1940, which some historians consider to be the first POW Olympic initiative.

Numerous Olympians contributed significantly to promoting physical education in the camps, including Jerzy Gregołajtis (1911–1978), hockey player and Olympic basketball player; Franciszek Kawa (1901–1985), Olympic athlete; Adam Kowalski (1912–1971), hockey player; Klemens Langowski (1911–1944), Olympic sailor; and Kazimierz Laskowski (1899–1961), fencing champion and pioneer of boxing in Poland, who held regular gymnastics, including specific groups of prisoners, popularised physical culture and participated in the work of the Association of Military Sports Clubs. K. Laskowski conducted seven self-defence and hand-to-hand combat courses, in which he trained more than 200 prisoners of war. The following athletes, despite their imprisonment, dedicated themselves to the promotion of physical activity: Witalis Ludwiczak (1910–1988), Olympic hockey player; Stanisław Sośnicki (1896–1962), athlete; Kazimierz Szempliński (1899–1971), sword champion; Janusz Ślązak (1907–1985), rower and ensign of the Polish Olympic team; and Wojciech Trojanowski (1904–1988), Olympic athlete. They organised lectures, daily gymnastics, sports clubs and competitions, instilling a sense of unity and resilience among their fellow prisoners.

Among the chief promoters of physical education and camp sport were undoubtedly Wacław Gąssowski (1917–1959), six-times Polish champion in athletics; Janusz Komorowski (1905–1993), one of the best Polish equestrians of the younger generation; Seweryn Kulesza (1900–1983), Olympic medallist in equestrian; prize-winning boxer Walter Majchrzycki (1909–1993); Olympic basketball player Zenon Różycki (1913–1992); shooter Jan Suchorzewski (1895–1965); and one of the Poland’s best sabre players Marian Suski (1905–1993) – all of them were actively involved in various forms of mainstream sport. These individuals, through their unrelenting efforts, provided not only physical sustenance but also a psychological lifeline, reminding their comrades of the world beyond the barbed wire and the enduring spirit of the Olympics.

In the shadow of conspiracy

The Second World War tested the patriotism of Polish Olympic athletes as never before. Most faced this trial with dignity and courage, with some making the ultimate sacrifice of their lives. Others struggled merely to survive, while a few, often under extreme duress, collaborated with German or Soviet occupiers. Before the war, six Olympians had already died, and the fates of seven others remain unknown. Of the 275 athletes alive on 1 September 1939, 51 were born before 1900, making them about 40 or older when the war began. The largest group, 138 athletes, were in their thirties, born between 1900 and 1910, while 56 were in their twenties. These ages made them eligible for mobilisation in either active or auxiliary military service.

In the summer of 1939, 106 former Olympians were mobilised into the Polish army. Among them, five were killed and two disappeared without a trace. The most prominent among those killed during the September Campaign was athlete Antoni Cejzik (1900–1939), who died near Zaborowo in early September 1939. Eighteen Olympians found themselves in POW camps. Nine Polish officer athletes, policemen and civil servants were captured by the Soviets, deported to camps in Kozielsk or Starobielsk, and later shot in Katyn, Kharkiv or Moscow’s Lubianka.

Some athletes undertook missions beyond direct combat. Olympian Halina Konopacka (1900–1989) assisted her husband Ignacy Matuszewski in the evacuation of 75 tonnes of Bank of Poland gold to France via Romania, Turkey and Syria in September 1939. Twenty-eight Olympic athletes engaged in conspiratorial activities in occupied Poland, involving military, intelligence, sabotage and sport within the Union of Armed Struggle, later transformed into the Home Army, or smaller resistance groups.

Among the most notable was athlete Janusz Kusociński (1907–1940), who fought in the September Campaign and was wounded twice. During the occupation’s early months, he worked as a waiter at the ‘Pod kogutem’ bar in Warsaw, known as the Sportsmen’s Inn, as its staff were predominantly pre-war athletes. Simultaneously, he joined the underground, active in the Wilki (Wolves) Military Organisation and distributed illegal press. Arrested by the Gestapo, Kusociński was imprisoned in Pawiak, taken to Palmiry near Warsaw, and executed on 21 June 1940.

Skier and glider pilot Bronisław Czech (1908–1944), arrested for his role as a Tatra courier, escorting people and parcels from occupied Poland to Hungary, died in a concentration camp in 1944. Stanisław Marusarz (1913–1993), another courier, made a daring escape by jumping from the window of Kraków’s Montelupich Prison in 1940, twice evading execution. After the German invasion of Hungary, he continued his resistance efforts under an alias, training Hungarian ski jumpers. The story of Olympic boxer Antoni Czortek (1915–2004), a prisoner in Auschwitz from 1943 to January 1945, is equally harrowing. Forced to fight an SS guard face-to-face for his survival, Czortek’s courage was emblematic of the resilience shown by many Olympians. Wrestler Ryszard Błażyca (1896–1981), refusing to train German club fighters, was sent to an forced labour camp in a remote part of Germany.

The clandestine sports activities were a unique form of resistance against the occupiers and included illegal football matches, competitions and training sessions organised in POW camps. Fifteen Polish Olympians were involved in these efforts, including football legend Henryk Martyna (1907–1984); footballer and doctor Stanisław Cikowski (1899–1959); rower and hockey player Henryk Niezabitowski; and fencer Kazimierz Laskowski (1899–1961), who organized boxing competitions and hand-to-hand combat training in the oflag.

A (un)better world

Amid the turmoil of war, 41 Polish Olympic athletes adopted a stance of passive survival, striving to endure and provide for their families under dire circumstances. Cross-country skier Franciszek Bujak (1896–1975) found work in a ski factory in Zakopane, while footballer Wawrzyniec Cyl (1900–1974) toiled in a car repair shop in Łódź. Athlete Julian Łukaszewicz (1904–1982) worked at the Łódź power station and Stefan Ołdak (1904–1969) took on the role of a athletics judge. Rower Roger Verey (1912–2000), mobilised but unable to locate his unit, spent weeks in September 1939 searching for it, ultimately surviving the occupation in Krakow by driving trams.

Not all stories ended in survival. Former cyclist Tomasz Stankiewicz (1902–1940), who worked in the automotive and trade sectors, was arrested by chance in 1940, imprisoned in Pawiak and executed in Palmiry. Canoeist Marian Kozłowski (1915–1943), employed as a manual worker in Poznań, was deported to a forced labour camp in a remote part of Germany, where he perished in an Allied bombing raid in 1943. For some athletes, little is known beyond their place of residence during the war. Seven competitors had been living abroad for years, with their exact fates remaining unknown. Boxer Adam Świtek (1901–1960) had resided in France since 1930 and skater Leon Jucewicz (1902–1983) in Brazil since 1928. Karol Szenajch (1907–2001) was aboard a ship returning to Poland from New York when the war broke out.

Among the heroic Olympians were those whose wartime actions were minimal or whose fates are difficult to trace. Yet, a small group made significant concessions to the Soviet or German occupiers, often not by choice but under duress. Their collaboration, whether political, military or through participation in sports competitions organised by the occupiers, reflects the complex and painful choices faced in an (un)better world.

Loud and silent heroes

During the Second World War, 45 Polish Olympic athletes met their tragic end under various circumstances. The post-war fates of the survivors were as diverse as they were poignant. For 41 individuals, little more is known beyond their last known residences. Thirty-two athletes continued their involvement in sport after the war, with ten competing in the 1948 or 1952 Olympic Games. Ninety changed into roles as referees or coaches, either immediately following the war or after concluding their athletic careers. Forty-six distanced themselves from competitive sports entirely, five ended up in Polish prisons or Soviet camps and two were sidelined from their professions for political reasons. Forty-three chose to remain abroad or emigrated.

These athletes’ lives formed a melancholic bridge between the war years and the inception of the new communist regime in Poland. Many pre-war sporting elites found it impossible to accept the new order, prompting some to move their families and professional lives abroad. Yet, a total of 168 pre-war Olympians chose to stay or return to their homeland, where they eventually died.

One such tragic figure was Stanisław Kłosowicz (1906–1955), a leading Polish road cyclist of the interwar period. During the occupation, he lived in Radom, working as a turner. In 1941 he was forcibly taken on a German ‘excursion’ to Katyn, witnessing the Katyn massacre. Arrested by the Soviets in 1945, he was deported deep into the USSR. By the time he returned to Poland in the early 1950s, he was gravely ill and died in 1955. Similarly, Franciszek Koprowski (1895–1967), a versatile athlete and Home Army officer, was arrested by the Soviet secret police agency (NKVD) in July 1945. He endured 18 months in Vilnius and subsequent camps in Ostashkov and Murmansk. On his return to Poland in July 1948, he worked as a physical education teacher, then as a fencing coach and sports activist, eventually running a farm owing to health reasons.

Most of Poland’s interwar Olympic athletes were exemplary patriots. Not only did they represent their country in international competitions, but they also fought valiantly in defence of their homeland, participating in conspiracies and enduring imprisonment. Thirty-nine Olympic athletes served as officers or non-commissioned officers before the war, naturally taking up arms. Alongside them were ordinary workers, doctors, teachers, farmers and craftspeople, all striving to regain freedom, preserve their national identity and save lives.

Many of these athletes died as soldiers or civilians, in combat or executed. Some were honoured for their dedication and heroism, while others were imprisoned or forgotten under the communist regime. Post-war, some faded into obscurity, dedicating themselves to pursuits unrelated to sport. Others rebuilt Polish sports and pioneered training methods, and a few bridged both paths. The sporting achievements and patriotic attitudes of Olympians such as Janusz Kusociński, Józef Noji, Stanisław Marusarz, Halina Konopacka and Eugeniusz Lokajski remain an inspiration for future generations of athletes, not only in Poland but worldwide.

Loud and silent heroes – even those less celebrated during the communist era, such as those murdered in Katyn and emigrants – are figures worthy of emulation in today’s vastly different world. Their biographies are compelling examples not just of the pursuit of gold medals, but of the steadfast quest for human dignity.

***

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The Wednesday of 23 August 1939 marks an extraordinarily important date in the history of Central Europe, indeed all of Europe.

On that day, Joachim von Ribbentrop, foreign minister under the German Reich, flew to Moscow and, after brief negotiations with Vyacheslav Molotov, Soviet foreign commissioner, signed – in the presence of Joseph Stalin himself – the non-aggression agreement between Germany and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, soon to be known as the Molotov–Ribbentrop (or the Hitler–Stalin) Pact.

The most important part of that document, with a direct impact on the developments in Europe in the following days and weeks, was the secret additional protocol, which divided Central and Eastern Europe into German and Soviet spheres of influence. The former was to include the western half of Poland and Lithuania (soon to be handed over to Moscow), while the latter the eastern half of Poland, Finland, Estonia and Latvia, as well as Romanian Bessarabia.

Hitler feared a war on two fronts, and at the same time insisted the arrangements be made quickly because of the imminent arrival of the autumn rains and fog, which could stop the Blitzkrieg (German: Lightning War), making it much easier for the Poles to defend themselves. In order to achieve his aims, he had to secure at least the neutrality – and preferably active cooperation – of the Soviets during the attack on Poland and the subsequent showdown with the West. This was the reason why the German side willingly and speedily agreed to such a vast expansion of the Soviet sphere of influence and in practice the borders of the USSR. Looking at the scene from a different perspective, one can see that without Stalin’s agreement and cooperation with Hitler, who ‘just a while ago’ was the number one enemy for the communists, the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939 would almost certainly not have occurred, and any additional months of peace might have changed the fate of the world.

Germany and the Soviet Union did not give Europe and the world that chance, however. On 1 September 1939, Germany attacked Poland, soon followed by the USSR, which did the same on 17 September. In the areas occupied by the Wehrmacht and the Soviet army, war crimes were committed from the very first days of the onslaught. Soon deportations of Poles to concentration and forced labour camps and the Soviet Gulag incarceration facilities began. The repressions were aimed at the broadly defined leadership and opinion-forming class. In the spring of 1940 during the Katyn Massacre, the Soviets murdered more than 20,000 Polish prisoners of war. On 30 November 1939 the Soviet Union invaded Finland, which – thanks to a fierce defence – managed to save its independence. In the autumn of 1939, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia had to conclude friendship agreements with the USSR and allow the Soviet army into their territory. After less than a year, at the beginning of August 1940, all three were incorporated into the USSR. In June 1940 the Soviets, threatening to invade the country, forced Romania to hand over Bessarabia and the northern half of Bukovina. Cruel repressions took place in the Baltic states occupied by the USSR, especially the deportation of hundreds of thousands of men, women and children to Siberia. The Finns and Romanians had to take in hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing the areas annexed by the Soviets, and those who remained were exposed to Soviet repression. At the same time, the Germans had already murdered a significant part of the Polish intelligentsia, established the Auschwitz concentration camp and set up ghettos for Jews.

The Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact concluded on 23 August Pandora’s box. On that day the worst plagues prepared by the totalitarian systems – Nazism and Stalinist communism – were inflicted on Europe. The choice of 23 August as the European Day of Remembrance for Victims of Totalitarian Regimes is therefore fully justified.

We remember little, increasingly little, of 20th-century history. Generally only as much as the most powerful media of memory record for a while in the collective imagination: the most repeated themes of major films, symbols inscribed in school textbooks and mainstream museum practices.

At the same time, a wave of protests continues to rise for the introduction into the ‘catalogue of compulsory memory’ of the forgotten, wronged and humiliated victims whom we have not previously remembered or only pretended not to notice. What criterion should be adopted in this competition for the ever-shrinking tiny piece of public attention, of collective memory? Maybe it is worth remembering those victims who seem to be the most forgotten, who have not left communities of mourners, who have been completely ‘trampled into the ground’ (sometimes quite literally) who have not had any system of cultural symbols created around their suffering?

Let me give one example. I wonder how many history books in the world, how many films, how many museums focusing on 20th-century history mention a single order, preserved in writing and already available to professional researchers for years, on the basis of which 111,091 people were executed? There are few such crimes, even in the bloody history of the 20th century. This one, in fact, was five times larger in scale than the Katyn operation, certainly better known and commemorated, but which claimed the lives of ‘only’ some 22,000 Polish officers and prisoners of war on the basis of Stalin’s decision of March 1940.

The order whose victims I take the liberty of reminding you of here was issued in the same political circle, only three years earlier, even before the outbreak of the Second World War. It was order no. 00485 of 11 August 1937 issued by the head of the NKVD, Nikolai Yezhov, on the basis of a decision two days earlier by the Politburo of the All-Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks). It was an order for the genocide of the Polish minority living in the USSR at the time. There was probably no single document before that entailed the deliberate liquidation of such a large number of people on the basis of ethnicity. Yezhov proclaimed the fight against the ‘fascist-insurgent, spying, sabotage, defeatist and terrorist activities of Polish intelligence in the USSR’. He also set a clear task for subordinate NKVD services throughout the country: a ‘complete liquidation of the hitherto untouched broad, diversionary and insurgent backup resources’ and the ‘basic human reserves’ of Polish intelligence in the USSR’.

Such ‘backup resources’ and ‘basic reserves’ could be formed by anyone who had Polish nationality entered in their passports. According to the 1926 census in the USSR, there were 782,000 such people. According to the following census (1939), the number of Poles in the USSR decreased to 626,000. This was precisely the effect of the system of unprecedented persecution to which Poles were subjected in the Stalinist state. More than 150,000 of those who were shot dead (not just in 1937–38) died during deportations or starved to death in 1932–33. At least every second adult male was deprived of life in this Polish community of fate.

Groundbreaking in understanding the scale of this operation was the work of Russian researchers from the Memorial Nikita Petrov and Arseniy Roginsky (1993 and 1997, respectively), who presented official internal NKVD reporting. These are its figures: in the Polish operation, 143,810 people were arrested between September 1937 and September 1938. Of these, 111,091 were executed. Not all of them were ethnic Poles, whose number among those slaughtered in this one operation is estimated between 85,000 to 95,000. However, Poles were systematically killed in the Soviet state in other operations as well: they were the victims of the anti-kulak operation of 1930–31, the Great Famine of 1932–33 both in Ukraine and Kazakhstan (after all, it was not only Ukrainians and not only Kazakhs who died from starvation), and as a result of successive waves of arrests and deportations of the Polish population first from the border areas with the Second Polish Republic in Soviet Ukraine and Belarus, and then in 1936 from these republics to Kazakhstan in general. At the height of the terror (1937–38), Poles were also shot en masse as part of smaller NKVD schemes, such as the German operation (liquidating ‘German spies’), the ‘cleansing’ of the NKVD itself from the Polish element still introduced to it in large numbers by a Bolshevik revolutionary and politician Felix Dzerzhinsky, and many others.

The validity of order no. 00485, originally intended to be in force for three months, was extended to nearly two years. Its deadly effects were completed four days later by another order issued by Yezhov. It was numbered 00486, and concerned the families of ‘traitors to the fatherland’ (not just Poles). Only those who had betrayed their loved ones could avoid arrest. Children over the age of 15 were subject to ‘adult’ repression. Younger ones were to be sent to orphanages or to work.

The exceptional scale of repression directed by the Soviet state against Poles has been pointed out by Harvard University professor Terry Martin. On the basis of a named list of victims shot in Leningrad in the period 1937–38, he calculated that Poles were killed 31 times more often than their number in the city would suggest. In other words, a Pole in and around Leningrad was 31 times less likely to survive during the height of the Great Terror than the average resident of the city most affected by Stalin’s crimes. Yale University professor Timothy Snyder calculated the following numbers for the entire Soviet Union at the time of the Great Terror: the Poles were, unfortunately, a chosen people in it. Stalin’s choice determined that they were 40 times more likely to be shot than the average for all nations of the USSR. Poles accounted for 0.4 per cent of the total population in the USSR, while they made up around 13–14 per cent of the victims in the 681,000 executed between 1937 and 1938. So much for dry statistics based on NKVD data. But, as Snyder rightly wrote in his monograph Bloodlands (2010), we must above all remember that each victim had a name, each has an individual biography and each deserves human remembrance. With poignant empathy, the fate of Poles murdered as part of NKVD operations in Ukraine in 1937–38 was portrayed by perhaps the most eminent contemporary scholar of the Stalinist system, Professor Hiroaki Kuromiya of Indiana University. In his book The Voices of the Dead (American edition 2007), we can see this great crime through the prism of the individual fates of people executed simply for saying ‘Poland is a good country’ (this was interpreted as ‘fascist agitation’), or for refusing to renounce a Polish husband or wife.

The memory of this crime must be claimed in the name of historical truth about the times of the Great Terror. This concept, linked to the years 1937–38, present in all history textbooks (including Polish ones) of the 20th century, is most often limited to Stalin’s crackdown on the old Leninist cadres and the Red Army’s top brass. Today’s historical propaganda in Russia, uncritically adopted by the dominant part of the media in Poland, presents the Great Terror, or the Great Purge, as an internal tragedy of the Russians, a ‘domestic conflict’ that only Russians have the right to talk about. Meanwhile, according to NKVD data, of the 681,000 people executed between 1937 and 1938, 247,000 were victims of ‘nationality operations’ (led by the Polish), and more than 350,000 were kulaks (not necessarily Russians; there were also a great many Poles among them, but certainly no communists in this category). The Polish victims, so numerous in this terrible crime, remain silent. We cannot give them a voice, but we can, and we must, restore their memory. We cannot allow them to be dissolved in the false image of the Great Purge, in which only Bukharin, Kamenev, Zinoviev or Tukhachevsky are remembered.

There are not any graves left behind for the victims of the ‘Polish operation’. There was no Anna Akhmatova to mourn them in her Requiem, nor Arthur Koestler to show their fate in Darkness at Noon. These were ordinary people, not generals, not renowned poets or worldfamous political activists. They were killed and their families deported deep into the Soviet Union, condemned to oblivion alone. They did not leave influential friends to claim their memory. Then came the Second World War and its great tragedies. There was no room left for the memory of the victims murdered before that war to be cultivated by its later victors.

Yet it is precisely for this reason that once we know about them, we should not forget them. It is for the same reason that we should not forget the great sacrifice of the Jewish genocide committed by German Nazism. We must remember the victims of the crime all the more strongly: the more they seem forgotten, nameless, powerless – this is what humanity, our humanity, demands of us. Would it not be worthwhile to become aware of the existence of these people, each of whom had a name, each of whom had a face, but each of whom became Homo sacer (a person made worthless and located outside the law) – exactly as Giorgio Agamben depicted it on the basis of the Holocaust experience described by Primo Levi. Perhaps it is worth showing, also to today’s world, this example of a great crime that transforms people into victims – killed with impunity but not sacrificed – into ones excluded from the bios, simply because they belonged to a group chosen by political power to be shot dead.

Over the last 40 years we historians have been living through a memory boom. We are not alone. In the humanities and the social sciences as a whole, the field of memory studies has expanded exponentially.

Everyone interested in history or politics, in sociology or anthropology has found in their field of study clusters of scholars who start their enquiries by examining the significance of memory for their discipline. In the 1970s and 1980s, race and class were the primary organising concepts of intellectual exchange. Now memory has replaced them.

In part, memory has arrived to fill a vacuum. Marxism as a theory of history collapsed long before the Soviet Union fell apart, and race lost its coherence as a concept of social analysis when confronted with the record of intercommunal violence in post-imperial Africa and Asia. The Rwanda and Cambodia genocides made it difficult to use models of white domination to account for crimes committed by Africans and Asians against other Africans and Asians. And while scholars interested in gender stimulated work in many different disciplines, they have not yet provided a political framework for understanding the violence of the last century and its after-effects.

Memory addressed the question as to the origins and consequences of violence in ways that have proved fruitful in two senses. Memory has helped account for the genocidal violence of the last century, and memory has provided a language in which the victims of genocidal violence can reassert their ‘authority’, their right to tell their own history in their own ways.

This dual agenda – memory as a ubiquitous tool of social analysis and memory as an instrument of social justice for the victims of war and violence – helps account for the efflorescence of memory studies throughout the world.

In parallel, there has been a ‘memory boom’ in the field of neurology and psychology. We now know more than ever before about the workings of the mind in creating and reshaping memory traces. The breakthrough was to set aside the old model of the brain as a kind of super hard disk filled with preserved memories. This static notion of storage and retrieval gave way to a much more rigorous model of the brain as a kind of orchestra conductor, drawing from different regions of the brain memory traces that come together to present memories to the mind. The critical point is that remembering is not an act of retrieval but a moment of recreation. When we remember, we change the elements of what we remember by turning them into a collage, a complex alloy of different elements assembled differently every time we recollect an event, person or mood.

The second major breakthrough in the science of memory studies was the recognition that violent and life-threatening events cannot be recalled in the way we remember less destructive events in our lives. We call these difficult memories ‘traumatic memories’. They cannot be assembled easily as a collage, since recalling these events threatens the integrity of the self, understood as the way we hold ourselves together under severe stress. When extreme violence happens – in the form of rape, sexual abuse, physical injury, psychological torture, terrifying ordeals or other insults – memories of such events remain in fragmentary or silent form. Putting them together as a narrative is painful and at times impossible. Those fortunate to have professional help and supportive social and family environments can take the long road to recovering memories. They are the lucky ones.

The reason the recognition of traumatic memory matters is that the voices of the victims of trauma in war and genocide become carriers of an essential ethical message. They tell us that even after the horrors of the past century, it is possible, indeed necessary, to say in public that human beings can survive injustice and live by a moral code. At the core of that code is the assertion that everyone has the right and the duty to speak truth to power.

Commemoration is a form of memory activism that goes beyond the academy. It is present throughout the world. Public remembrance requires a place and a trace, or in Greek, a topos and a logos. At a particular place, people come together to remember a particular moment in history represented by an object, a flame, a structure, a symbol.

All societies identify particular dates in the calendar as worthy of public commemoration. They can be dates associated with important moments in national history, such as the end of victorious wars or revolutions. It is a mistake, though, to see commemoration solely through the eyes of a state. States may ordain or legislate that such and such a date is a holiday, honouring a particular event. But over time, the survival of such events requires participation by members of civil society. The authors of public commemoration matter less than do the memory activists or memory agents who continue to do the work of public remembrance.

Memory agents matter because the initial emotional and political charge propelling commemoration forward tends to fade over time. All commemorative events have a half-life; that is, the energy behind them begins to dissipate over time. Memory agents recharge the batteries of the commemorative project; without such an effort, commemoration loses its force. Without an audience, public remembrance fades away.

This act of entropy, or the loss of momentum in commemoration, is inevitable. To forestall forgetting, a group of people have to donate their time and collect sufficient funds to enable them to organise public acts of remembrance. If these agents die, or move away, or get arrested, others must take their place. New generations have to take over their roles, or attach to the date or the place of commemoration new meanings.

Commemorative sites are public settings for the performance of memory. They are built in such a way as to enable people to come together on a particular day to remember a particular set of events that are deemed to be significant. That is why they are placed in public thoroughfares, in front of public buildings or in cemeteries or churches. These places frame the performance that takes place adjacent to them. At times, these sites of remembrance are fenced off to prevent animals from grazing there or people from using them for recreation.

The events that take place in front of memorial sites are designed to instruct the public about the important event commemorated there. That is why schoolchildren are sent there, and why flags or other symbols of collective life are on display. In some countries, clergymen participate, but the language used is almost always a mix of the sacred and the secular.

One of the paradoxes of public remembrance is that stories about the past change when visions of the future change. After the collapse of communism in 1989, the future of the former communist world opened up to new horizons. To chart the trajectory of that future, it was necessary to align it with elements in the past that pointed towards the new possibilities in national life. In this sense, memory narratives are always about the future.

The writing of history is but one part of the effort to produce a memory narrative of use to our society. History is memory seen through documents. Memory is history seen through emotion. Both tell us how we got to where we are. The free expression of both history and public remembrance is the bedrock on which democracy rests. We should be grateful, therefore, for the memory boom of the last 40 years. It is one of the pillars of an open society and a resource for those yet to realise their freedom.

Not all history is remembered but every memory has a history. Russia’s horrific war against Ukraine transforms not only history but also the memory of Ukrainians.

If before the year 2014, the main memory events in Ukraine were the Holodomor (starvation enforced by Stalin’s regime during 1932–33) and the Second World War, since 2014 it has been the memory of the Revolution of Dignity (that started in November 2013 and ended in February 2014 with more than a hundred people killed by the police) that has taken the central place in the Ukrainian memoryscape. As a scholar of memory who has been studying Ukraine for more than a decade I have learned a lot about memory due to the war.

Historical parallels

When the full-scale invasion started on 24 February 2022, many Ukrainians drew parallels to the memory of the Second World War. There is even evidence that the older generation reacted to Russians entering the villages and towns by referring to them as ‘Germans’. It was difficult to find the correct words to articulate something one could not comprehend. There was simply nothing more terrible in living memory one could draw parallels to. Memory of the Second World War became the vehicle that helped put what seemed unspeakable into words. Historian George Liber wrote: ‘The Second World War ignited a monstrous, all-encompassing inferno, a conflagration without end or mercy.’ Indeed the Second World War that started for many Ukrainians in 1939 with the Soviet occupation in the West, and continued from 1941 with Nazi Occupation of the whole territory, became the most traumatic period with extensive physical destruction and enormous demographic losses. This allowed historian Timothy Snyder to speak about Ukraine as the epicentre of what he calls ‘Bloodlands’.

Now Ukrainians are going through yet another ‘all-encompassing’ inferno, a conflagration without end or mercy’ inflicted by Russia intoxicated by its imperialist expansionist ideology, which Timothy Snyder defines as yet another kind of fascism equipped with the power of social media that circulates ideologies easily and fast. Now hundreds of thousands of Ukrainian children are being deported to Russia and the people in the occupied territories suffer unimaginable tortures and hardships. As the death toll of people in Ukraine is not known, people in Ukraine continue to demonstrate unprecedented courage and perseverance in their resistance.

Considering the losses and the terror of war, it is not surprising that people look for parallels in history to describe what is happening. Having been studying memory for more than 15 years, I have learned more about memory in the last two years than in all the previous years. Now I understand better that memory is first and foremost a cognitive function of our brains and this cognitive function helps us to survive. When Russia encircled Ukrainian cities, towns and villages, people remembered family stories of survival and resistance transmitted down to them through many generations who lived and survived before them. These memories gave them strength to act. I also remember that the moment when I heard that Russia attacked the whole of Ukraine, I immediately thought about my grandparents who survived the war. That gave me hope that our generation will also survive. Tragically the fact is that many have not survived and will not survive this war. For me, this is something that is still impossible to admit. As a historian, I am always very careful with drawing parallels between the past and the present in order not to overshadow the past. But on a personal level, through the work of memory, parallels do help us. It seems that we were wired to find solace in our past. Maybe this is the true meaning of the phrase ‘historia magistra vitae’ (history [is] the teacher of life)?

Memory as an imperative
Another thing that I have better understood about memory since the invasion is an imperative to remember. Indeed, there is a moral need to remember one’s past. I only now fully understand how important remembrance is for society and what a tragedy it is when memory is banned and remembrance is not possible. Authoritarian regimes are notorious for doctoring and silencing the past.  
The struggle of Ukrainians against authoritarian Russia is also a struggle for the right to remember. In the Soviet Union there was no memory of the Holocaust, for instance. There was no distinction or nuances in memory of the victims. People collectively were presented either as winners or as victims. The master narrative of war in the Soviet Union was mainly the narrative of triumph of victory over Nazism (which in the Soviet Union was referred to as fascism). There was a lot of misnaming during the Soviet period. The Second World War was known as the Great Patriotic War and even the chronology was misleading. When I went to school, we read that the war started in 1941, not in 1939. It was in drastic contrast to the stories I heard from my grandparents. Already as a schoolgirl I understood that there was a discrepancy between what one read in the schoolbooks and what one heard from family. As a historian, I know that such discrepancies are common for authoritarian and dictatorial regimes. Democracies help memories to survive. Moreover, in democracies there are more opportunities to combine what one hears at school and at home as many smaller stories find their way into a bigger official narrative. Autocracies and dictatorships work in a different way, they create histories where many people cannot recognise themselves. The gap between lived experience and what one reads in textbooks is big and sometimes insurmountable.

With the fall of the Soviet Union the situation changed. German scholar Aleida Assmann writes that after the fall of the Berlin Wall, Europe faced three different processes regarding memory. In Western Europe, its societies tried to address memories of perpetrators and victims in the remembrance of the Holocaust and crimes of the Nazi regime. In Eastern Europe, societies focused on their memories as victims of the crimes of a Communist regime. Finally in Russia, society succumbed to nostalgia for the lost greatness that later consolidated to legitimise aggression against neighbouring states. True, even in Russia, at the beginning of the 1990s, under Boris Yeltsyn there was a slight move towards the reconceptualization of memory. The best example of this direction was the recognition by Russia of Katyn massacre when 22,000 Polish military officers and intellectuals were executed by Soviet secret police. Yet even these shifts did not involve Russia’s re-evaluation of its imperialist legacies. Russia’s war against Ichkeria (or better known as Russia’s Chechen Wars) only proved that Russia continued to hold its territories with force. With Putin’s coming to power in 2000 even the slightest shifts in reinterpretation of Soviet history were stopped on the state level and the country moved back to the Soviet narratives of triumph without reflecting on the price of this triumph. Stalin got rehabilitated as a ‘skilled manager’. The memory culture regarding the Second World War is often called the Victory frenzy (pobedobesie, which in Russian combines a meaning of victory and diabolical obsession).

This culture is mainly based on the cult of violence. In 2014, when Russia annexed Crimea and started the war in Donbas, Victory Day was celebrated with the phrase ‘We can repeat it’, which is a direct opposite to the ethics of the Western memory of war reflected in the slogan ’never again’. Moreover, Russian memory culture bears strong masculine and patriarchal connotations. During the celebrations of Victory Day, one can see slogans such as ‘On Berlin!’ or ‘On German women’ – a direct connotation to notorious mass rapes by the Soviet Army. When crimes are not punished, they are repeated. War atrocities inflicted by Russia in Georgia, Syria and Ukraine show it all too well. Researchers of memory call the West European approach to remembering the Second World War as a ‘memory of regret’. Russia did not regret and continued to fall into the Great Victory frenzy year after year.

It is a big problem that Russia cannot cope with its past. Crimes against humanity committed by the Communist regime were never recognised by the Russian regime. To say the truth, they were never fully recognised by non-East European societies either. The English historian Tony Judt wrote that after the war, we all pretended that we had peace and ignored that half of Europe was actually under the occupation of the Soviet regime. Ukrainian writer Oksana Zabuzhko described the fall of the Soviet Union as a ‘semi-collapse’ of the empire because even after acquiring independence many former republics were still under the influence of Russia. Ukraine’s attempts to keep this influence resulted in the Revolution of Dignity and later in Russia’s attack on Ukraine.

Empires seldom give up their expansionist ambitions without bloodshed. Russia is what the German historian Dietmar Rothermund calls a ‘post-imperial nation’ that shows all the symptoms of ‘post-imperial malaise’: lack of acceptance of reality, painful experience of the loss of imagined ‘greatness’ that results in an injured feeling of pride and a nostalgic relationship with the past. This post-imperial identity allows Russians to see themselves as victims even in relation to Ukraine, ignoring the fact that it is Russians themselves who are the cause of suffering and that it is Russia that is committing the crimes. Before 2014 I could not imagine the power of such nostalgic memory and how it can justify the most horrible crimes committed by Russia. The outcome of the war will define Ukraine’s and Europe’s future. The outcome will also define who and how they will be remembered after the war. I hope that Ukraine will win and democracy will prevail, and we will have a chance for a complex and inclusive memory: a memory of Ukrainian resistance and European solidarity that stood against imperialism and won.

He was one of the most widely read and prominent Polish post-war writers. He imbued everyday banalities with existential content, while his uncompromising attitude, especially against communism, resonated with readers globally. The combination of Hollywood charisma, deep literary insight and fearless opposition to oppressive regimes keeps Marek Hłasko’s legacy alive.

Enfant terrible

Born on 14 January 1934 in Warsaw, Marek Hłasko was the only child of Maciej Hłasko and Maria Łucja, née Rosiak. He was not an easy child. A family legend has it that during the two-year-old Marek’s baptism ceremony when asked if he would renounce evil spirits, he answered ‘no’, which was later cited as the evidence of his strong-willed nature.

Marek Hłasko was just three years old when his parents divorced. After the fall of the Warsaw Uprising, which he spent in Warsaw, Hłasko lived with his mother in Częstochowa, Chorzów and Białystok, before settling for a longer period in Wrocław, together with his strict stepfather. He finished primary school there in 1948.

Hłasko was not very obedient and, to make matters worse, he was very immature. He therefore changed schools frequently, and in 1950, at the age of 16, he was accused of being a demoralising influence on his classmates and expelled from secondary school. By then he was already reading a lot. He particularly loved Fyodor Dostoyevsky, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway.

Polish James Dean
 At the age of 16, Hłasko embarked on his first employed job. In order to support himself, he obtained his driving licence and became a driver’s helper and later as a lorry driver, among other things, at the transport depot in Bystrzyca Kłodzka. His experiences gained there were later a source of inspiration when he wrote his novel Next-stop Paradise (1959).

He also did short spells of work for the following organisations: the City’s Construction Union, a subway construction company Metrobudowa, the Transport Association of Warsaw Associations of Consumers and Warsaw Transport Enterprise of the City Retail Sale. Perhaps he did not stay for long because as a young man he was already making his first serious attempts at writing.

It was in Częstochowa, while keeping a diary and witnessing the Soviet’s offensive of 1945, Hłasko first considered a writing career. Years later in Beautiful Twentysomethings (1966), he gave a shocking description of the march of the Red Army and NKVD troops, the abuses and cruelties of war, an analysis of the Soviet soul and the mentality of homo sovieticus.

However, he considered the beginning of his career to be in 1951, with the creation of Sokolowska Baza (‘The Sokolow Base’), his first short story with the vivid characteristics of a stage play. It was also at this time that he was unexpectedly endowed with the trust of the Party and was appointed to the Tribune of the People as a field workers’ correspondent. Hłasko’s sharp and witty interventions must have pleased his superiors, for he was awarded a prize. It was Anatoly Rybakov’s novel The Drivers that supposedly set Hłasko in motion: ‘It was the first social realist book I had read,’ Hłasko recalled. ‘I have to admit that I fell into a stupor. That’s how stupid I can be, I said to myself. And I started.’

In 1952, he came into contact with the Association of Polish Writers and Igor Newerly, who was active in the organisation and acted as a mentor to the young. Hłasko introduced himself as an uneducated chauffeur who tried to describe his life in his spare time after work. A year later, he was awarded a three-month creative scholarship by the Polish Writers’ Association, so he eventually left his job as a chauffeur and went to Wrocław.

He became a legendary figure for the younger generation, a symbol of non-conformism. He was well built (84 kg), essentially oversensitive, insecure and with a tendency to depression, but he was called the Eastern European James Dean, whom he resembled.


The unsung writer
 Writing did not come easily to him at all. He rewrote each page many times, edited and changed every page repeatedly. He took writing very seriously. For him, it was a desperate attempt to do something with his life, an escape from the burdens of a simple labourer’s existence. As a writer, he was self-taught. independent, worked hard and wrote a lot. He published a new book every year.

His manner of writing, as well as the language itself, amazed young people who had never read anything so uncompromising and free of socialist-realist conformism. It was sincere, without illusions and as true as he knew how. In the biography written by Hłasko’s cousin Andrzej Czyżewski, it is clear this was influenced by the death of his father and the occupation, which left a deep mark on the boy, as Hłasko himself later wrote:
         ‘It is obvious to me that I am a product of a time of war, famine and terror. This is where the intellectual poverty of my stories comes from; I simply can’t think of a story that doesn’t end in death, disaster, suicide or imprisonment. There is no posing as a strong man in them, as some people suspect me of.’

Hłasko’s short stories and novels quickly became a thorn in the side of the Party rulers and the socialist press of the Polish People’s Republic. He was accused not only of promoting drunkenness and moral freedom, but also of a penchant for nihilism and betrayal of the fatherland. The straw that broke the Party’s bitter spell were the interviews he gave to the French newspapers Le Figaro and L‘Express. In them, he unequivocally denounced communism as an inhuman system.
         ‘In my opinion, the intellectuals I meet here [in the West] react to what is happening in that [Eastern] world only from the point of view of their own moral attitude, but they do not have this terrible daily experience. That’s why I feel completely unable to say anything to them ...
         If I told them that a worker’s greatest dream is to get drunk for two hours, to forget himself completely – they wouldn’t believe it. And yet it is true. The misfortune of a man living in a totalitarian country is the unquenchable feeling of the grotesque and the ridiculousness of himself... the reduction of dreams... the reduction of desires... the impossibility of reacting to the swine that one sees every day, at every step of the way.’ [extract from an interview with L’ Express, 1958].


In exile
 In February 1958, Hłasko went to Paris on a scholarship, and in October, after being refused a return visa several times, he decided to stay abroad – in West Berlin. From there he went to Israel. He returned to Europe in 1961. It was then that he began to publish his short stories in the Parisian magazine Kultura (‘Culture’). His famous autobiography Pretty Twentysomethings – an account of his Warsaw years and life in exile – was also published there. After its publication, the Polish communist authorities banned the printing of his works in the country.

He could not live without Poland, but neither could he return to it. His lack of talent for foreign languages made it hard for him to live abroad. He led an itinerant life, taking on work as a labourer in order to secure basic living conditions. From 1960 he lived in Germany with his wife, the famous German actress Sonja Ziemann. Although her role is sometimes demonised in books and articles about Hłasko, it was she who financed their life together and saved Hłasko when he suffered a nervous breakdown in 1963 and found himself in a psychiatric hospital. Finally, it was Sonja who, in the last year of the writer’s life, brought him back from the United States, where he had been working as a salesman in a shop, arranged for his next story to be filmed and gave him the prospect of a tolerable existence in Europe.

In the spring, the writer travelled briefly to Wiesbaden, Germany, where he died on 14 June 1969, probably from an overdose of sleeping pills. His ashes were brought to Poland in 1975 and laid to rest in Warsaw’s Powązki Cemetery.


A legend still alive
 At the end of the 1980s, Marek Hłasko’s time had come. For the first time, all of his works were published in their entirety, without censorship. Hłasko’s books were even included in mandotary reading lists. Many plays and films were based on his prose. Wojciech Has filmed The Noose, Aleksander Ford The Eighth Day of the Week and Czesław Petelski Next-stop Paradise as The Depot of the Dead.

Kira Gałczyńska, in her book How Those Years Were Wrong, captured the enduring relevance of Hłasko’s characters – flawed, cynical, yet deeply human:
         ‘Hłasko’s heroes were people each of us had met, avoided at times, feared. But that did not change the fact that they existed, that they lived. A world of illusions, of unfulfilled love, of beautiful girls who are cynical and calculating, and of the same kind of boys who treat affection like a game, a sport, while secretly dreaming of the great love they only know from films or books.’

The drudgery of earning a living – in France, Italy, Switzerland, England, Germany, Israel and the United States – took its toll on the writer’s health. But it also had a kind of mysterious therapeutic effect, triggering a defence mechanism that converted into a vigorous and regular creativity. He was constantly searching, chasing something, tearing something down and bursting with that restless spirit of contrariness, contradiction and rebellion. And out of all this turmoil and busyness, as if from a Ferris wheel, new stories and novels spilled out at regular intervals, without a trace of haste or chaos, to be remembered for posterity.

Sound in the Silence is a multi-disciplinary project that uses location-based workshops to explore and express the lasting effects of the second World War. We connect young people across cultures through art and education workshops on-location where history happened. We work with issues of remembrance and social justice and use creative expression to help repair what is broken in our world. Each iteration of this intercultural project culminates in a site-specific public performance that articulates our thoughts, motivates us to action, and inspires more people to join us.

But where did the idea for Sound in the Silence come from?

It all started with a song.

In 1999 my creativity and my culture collided when I found myself sitting across the table from a German film maker who was in town to do research for a documentary film he was making about my family. I was a 24-year-old, struggling actor, rapper, and playwright trying to figure out how to create a sustainable career as an artist. He was a 50-year-old artist who was following the melody (and story) of a famous song from Hamburg to Shanghai to New York and finally to San Francisco. His name was Jens Huckeriede.

When he was 28, Jens decided to become an artist who would use his art and performance to think about how his own personal history related to the Holocaust, and to challenge others to do the same. He told me that his projects were part of a creative methodology called New Forms of Remembrance which claims that we must use provocative, charged locations to inspire our work in order to give the generations a chance to understand history and their place in it.

Jens told me that one of his projects was painting the lyrics of Hamburg’s most famous song “An de Eck steiht'n Jung mit'n Tüdelband” (On the corner stands a boy with a hoop) onto the sidewalk in the Wohlersallee, a neighborhood in Hamburg where there had been a "Jüdisches Volksheim", a home for Jews, that became a place to bring Jews before they were deported "to the East", in the 1940's. The people who lived in the neighborhood didn’t like it but when he showed them what he was painting - the lyrics to An de Eck steiht'n Jung mit'n Tüdelband - they would start to sing the song and tell him stories about Leopold and Ludwig Isaac, the Jewish brothers who wrote it. When he discovered that Leopold is my great grandfather, his research led him to me.

That meeting in 1999 changed my life. Together Jens and I made the film return of the tüdelband, which is a journey from contemporary music into Jewish-German history. In the film, I start to search for my family history in Hamburg and, while doing so, discover my artistic roots.

I started to think about how Jens’ concept of “New Forms of Remembrance” could be combined with my approach to music and theater. I imagined bringing a curated group of artists to historically charged locations like concentration camps, memorial sites, and museums, and turning the seminar rooms into recording studios, writing rooms, and rehearsal halls. I envisioned a three part process where learning about the location would act as source material for creating live performance. We would start by educating ourselves with book learning, studying the social and economic impacts of the war on the villages surrounding the area of the concentration camp. Then we would spend a week living at the location and this experiential education would act as fuel for our creative prompt. Then we would develop music, theater, and film and craft it into a unique performance that would reflect the experience of our time spent at the location.

I started to think about my grandfather, and how, when I was a child, I asked him about our family history. He said nothing. He stayed silent. It was a silence that told me never to ask again. My grandparents were hunted, afraid, and betrayed by their country. We don’t need silence. We need to yell, and sing, and scream, and tell our story. There is sound in all this silence...

In der ersten Hälfte des Jahres 1933 wurde die Ukrainische Sowjetrepublik von einer großen Hungersnot heimgesucht. Diese war die Folge der Zwangskollektivierung der Landwirtschaft, die von der sowjetischen Staatsmacht auf Befehl Iosif Stalins durchgeführt wurde. Innerhalb eines Jahres starben Millionen von Menschen. Hunderte Dörfer und Tausende Bauernhöfe verschwanden von der Erdoberfläche. Die Verhungerten wurden zu Anfang auf den Friedhöfen beerdigt, später direkt an ihren Gehöften oder in Brunnen, die daraufhin zugeschüttet wurden. Die kommunistischen Behörden verboten, über die Hungersnot zu schreiben oder zu sprechen, sie verboten sogar, die Erinnerung an die Gräber der Hungertoten zu bewahren. Was also geschah in der Ukraine in den Jahren 1932‑1933? Wieso durfte bis zum Dezember 1987 nicht über diese Ereignisse gesprochen werden?

 

Die Kollektivierung wurde mit Hilfe von Massenterror eingeführt. Sie wurde auf der Grundlage mündlicher Anweisungen von der Ebene des Kremls bis hinunter zum einzelnen Dorf organisiert und erreichte ihren Höhepunkt im Januar 1933. Ihre wichtigste Methode war die Konfiszierung von Lebensmitteln auf den Bauernhöfen. Der Terror bestand darin, die Höfe unablässig zu durchsuchen, um verstecktes Getreide zu finden, wobei manchmal in Naturalien, Fleisch oder Kartoffeln zu zahlende Strafen auferlegt wurden (November – Dezember 1932); in der Beschlagnahme sämtlicher Lebensmittel bei Durchsuchungen einzelner Höfe (Januar 1933); in einer Propagandakampagne, die darauf abzielte, den Hass der hungernden Stadtbevölkerung gegen die so genannten „Kulaken und Saboteure“ zu entfachen, wie die Bauern genannt wurden; in der Blockade der Ukrainischen Sowjetrepublik und des Kuban-Bezirks der Nördlichen Kaukasusregion; schließlich im Verbot des Ausdrucks „Hungersnot“, der niemals in als „streng geheim“ gekennzeichneten Dokumenten verwendet werden durfte.

Der Terror mittels Hunger fand inmitten einer sozioökonomischen Krisensituation statt, die von der Wirtschaftspolitik der sowjetischen Staatsmacht verursacht worden war. Für seine Politik des Zeitraums vom November 1929 bis zum Januar 1933 fand Stalin persönlich einen vielsagenden Ausdruck – „Beschleunigung“. Diese fand auf dem Lande in der Beschlagnahmung der Ernten ihren Niederschlag. Bis Ende 1932 starben die Menschen in der Ukraine und anderen Regionen, weil man ihnen das Getreide fortnahm. Mit Beginn im November 1932 starben sie daran, dass man ihnen überhaupt alle Lebensmittel wegnahm.

Die Große Hungersnot war eine Folge der Politik der Kommunisten. In den ersten Jahren ihrer Herrschaft legten die Bolschewiki die Grundlagen ihrer Kommandowirtschaft, die nur vorübergehend von Lenins Einführung der sog. Neuen Ökonomischen Politik (NĖP) 1921 unterbrochen wurde. 1929 begann Stalin das umzusetzen, was Lenin nicht geglückt war, nämlich Millionen von Kleinproduzenten in Staatsbetriebe hineinzuzwingen. Wegen des Widerstands aus der Gesellschaft sah sich Stalin gezwungen, auf die Verstaatlichung zu verzichten und sich auf Genossenschaften zu beschränken, was bedeutete, den Bauern den Besitz eines kleinen Stück eigenen Landes zu gestatten. In der Meinung, daß die Kolchosniki ihren Eigenbedarf aus den eigenen Parzellen würden decken können, ließ Stalin den Dörfern praktisch ihre gesamte Getreideernte abnehmen. Den Bauern war nicht erlaubt, selbst Getreide zu erhalten, solange das Abgabesoll nicht erfüllt war, das praktisch keine rechtlich vorgegebene Obergrenze hatte. Getreide, das nach dem Aufkauf gefunden wurde, galt als der Revision entzogen oder gestohlen.

Die Bauern wollten nicht ohne Entlohnung auf den Kolchosen arbeiten, wofür sie der kommunistische Staat der Sabotage bezichtigte. Das reichte als Vorwand für Verfolgungsmaßnahmen. Die Krise der Kolchosen drohte, die gesamte Wirtschaft in den Abgrund zu reißen. Im Januar 1933 sah sich die Regierung gezwungen, von den unbegrenzten Pflichtabgaben zu einem staatlichen Getreideaufkauf gegen Pauschalpreise quasi als Steuerleistung überzugehen. Dies bedeutete, dass der Staat letztendlich das Besitzrecht der Kolchosen und ihrer Mitglieder auf ihre eigenen Ernteerträge anerkannte.

Diese Repressionen werden von den Gefahren erklärt, denen der Kreml sein Herrschaftsmonopol ausgesetzt sah. Bei den Sowjets, darunter natürlich auch den nationalen Sowjets, war die reale Exekutivgewalt konzentriert, die der Partei eine staatsgleiche Struktur verlieh. Solange diese Macht unter der unmittelbaren Kontrolle des Kremls stand, herrschte keine Gefahr, dass die Sowjetunion zerfiel. Aber falls sie auf die regionalen Parteistrukturen überging, nahm diese Gefahr in den Augen der kommunistischen Führer reale Formen an. Der Kreml sah die stärkste Bedrohung von der Ukraine ausgehen – der Sowjetrepublik mit einer überdauernden Tradition einer nationalen (nicht sowjetischen!) Staatlichkeit. Die Ukraine grenzte an andere europäische Staaten, und im Hinblick auf ihre ökonomischen Ressourcen und ihr Bevölkerungspotential rangierte sie gleichauf mit allen anderen nationalen Sowjetrepubliken zusammengenommen. Nach der Bildung der UdSSR begann der Kreml in den nationalen Republiken eine Kampagne zur „Einwurzelung“ der Sowjetmacht im nichtrussischen Umfeld. In der Ukraine verwandelte sich die Einwurzelungskampagne rasch aus einem bloß bürokratischen Unternehmen in ein Instrument der nationalen Entwurzelung.

In der zweiten Jahreshälfte 1932 trafen zwei verschiedene Krisen aufeinander und verstärkten sich wechselseitig – diejenige der sozioökonomischen und die der Nationalitätenpolitik des Kremls. Mehr als alles andere befürchtete Stalin eine gesellschaftliche Explosion in der hungernden Ukraine. Die kurz darauf begonnenen Repressionen waren zugleich gegen die ukrainischen Bauern gerichtet, gegen die ein durch die Getreiderequisitionen ausgelöster Hunger als Terrormethode zielte, wie die ukrainische Intelligenz, die von Massenverhaftungen und ‑hinrichtungen betroffen war, verbunden mit Säuberungen, die in den lokalen Zellen der kommunistischen Partei durchgeführt wurden.

Die Darstellung der Großen Hungersnot muss mit der Erinnung an das „Recht der fünf Ähren“ beginnen, das die kommunistische Staatsmacht einführte, um die „Verschwendung“ der Ernte zu bekämpfen. „In Erfüllung der Wünsche der Arbeiter und der Kolchosniki“, so ist in der Präambel zu lesen, verabschiedeten das Zentrale Exekutivkomitee und der Rat der Volkskommissare der UdSSR (Sovnarkom) am 7. August 1932 den Beschluss „Über den Schutz des Eigentums der Staatsunternehmen, der Kolchosen und Genossenschaften sowie die Stärkung des gesellschaftlichen (sozialistischen) Eigentums“. Für Diebstahl solchen Eigentums wurde Erschießen nahegelegt, „im Falle mildernder Umstände“ Freiheitsentzug von nicht weniger als zehn Jahren. Im November 1932 entsandte Stalin Sonderkommissionen für die Pflichtablieferung von Getreide; eine unter Leitung von Vjačeslav M. Molotov in die Ukrainische SSR, die andere unter Lazar M. Kaganovič in die Kubanregion. Im Dezember 1932 suchte man bei den Bauern ohne Unterlaß nach Getreide. Die Durchsuchungen wurden Durchsuchten wie Durchsuchenden zur Gewohnheit. Sie wurden unter der Aufsicht von GPU-Beamten von hungernden Angehörigen der Komitees Armer Bauern durchgeführt, die einen bestimmten Anteil von dem aufgespürten Getreide erhielten, und auch von aus den Städten abgeordneten Arbeitern. So wie im Vorjahr waren die Dörfer auch schon vor den Durchsuchungen aufgrund der Pflichtablieferungen fast um ihr gesamtes Getreide gebracht worden.

Am 1. Januar 1933 schickte Stalin ein Telegramm nach Char’kov/ Charkiv mit der Forderung nach Getreideabgaben; er schlug dem ZK der KPU (b) und dem Rat der Volkskommissare der USSR vor, „über die Dorfräte den Kolchosen, Kolchosniki und einzelnen Arbeitern eingehend mitzuteilen, dass: a) alle, die freiwillig das zuvor gestohlene und versteckte Getreide an den Staat abliefern, nicht repressiert werden; b) gegenüber Kolchosniki, Kolchosen und einzelnen Arbeitern, die hartnäckig das gestohlene und vor der Durchsuchung verborgene Getreide weiter verstecken, die härtesten Strafen angewandt werden, wie sie der Beschluss des Zentralen Exekutivkomitees und des Rats der Volkskomissare der UdSSR vom 7. August 1932 vorsieht.“

Die Überlebenden des Großen Hungers erzählen, dass die Sonderbrigaden der Kommunisten bei den Durchsuchungen in den Bauernwirtschaften nicht nur Kartoffeln, Fleisch und Speck wegnahmen, wie es der zitierte Beschluß der sowjetischen Staatsmacht vorsah, sondern überhaupt alle Lebensmittel. Dutzende, Hunderte, Tausende Zeugnisse aus verschiedenen Ortschaften liefern ein geschlossenes Bild. Stalin beließ es nicht bei der Beschlagnahme von Lebensmitteln. Am 22. Januar 1933 schrieb er eigenhändig (das Manuskript ist erhalten) eine Direktive des ZK der VKP (b) und des Rats der Volkskommissare der UdSSR, die mit den Worten beginnt: „Das ZK der VKP und den Sovnarkom haben Informationen erreicht, dass die Bauern vom Kuban und aus der Ukraine massenweise auf der Suche nach Verdienst in den Zentralen Schwarzerdebezirk, an die Wolga, in den Bezirk Moskau, in den Westlichen Bezirk und nach Weißrussland ausreisen.“ Der Kreml verlangte von den Leitungen der Nachbarregionen die Blockade der USSR und des Kuban.

Die Menschen sind nicht mehr am Leben, die für die schrecklichen Repressionen in der Ukraine verantwortlich waren. Auch den totalitären Staat gibt es nicht mehr, dessen Führung die Verantwortung für den Großen Hunger trug. Wir erwarten von der internationalen Gemeinschaft die Anerkennung dieses Verbrechens als Völkermord. Wir erwarten dies vor allem von der Russischen Föderation, deren Bevölkerung ebenfalls Verluste von vielen Millionen Menschen in der Zeit der Herrschaft Iosif Stalins und der kommunistischen Partei erlitt.

Aus dem Russischen von Andreas R. Hofmann

 

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Prof. Stanisław Kulczycki (geb. 1937) – ukrainischer Historiker, Vizedirektor des Instituts für Ukrainische Geschichte an der Akademie der Wissenschaften.

 

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In the pages of Aleksandra Piłsudska’s biography, we have evidence of her participation in numerous committees and the honours she received for being a marshal’s wife. Her biography describes with historical accuracy the events in which she took part and reflects on the role she played in them. These are facts. But Aleksandra Piłsudska’s life is also a document of a woman’s participation in the public sphere in different political periods and successive stages of her life – as a young lover, as a single mother at the side of a politician concerned above all with the fate of the state, as a partner awaiting marriage, as a good and loyal wife and as a widow in exile and guardian of the first marshal of Poland’s memory.

Née Ola Szczerbińska

Aleksandra Piłsudska, née Szczerbińska, was born in 1882 in Suwałki, in the Suwałki Governorate, Russian Empire (now Poland), into an impoverished aristocratic family. Her father, Piotr Szczerbiński, worked as a magistrate’s clerk, while her mother, Juliana Zahorska, was a housewife and mother. However, she was not able to enjoy her mother’s care for long. Aleksandra’s mother died relatively quickly as a result of her frail and deteriorating health (probably due to successive childbirths). The girl and her siblings were orphaned just two years later when their father also died. The death of both parents was not the only difficult experience young Ola had to face. At the age of three, she fell seriously ill. Doctors gave her no chance of recovery, and her parents’ only hope was prayer. On hearing the tragic diagnosis, her parents made a vow to the Blessed Mother that if their daughter survived, they would dress her exclusively in blue robes for three years – like the robes of the Virgin Mary. The wish was granted. The girl survived and, in keeping with her parents’ promise, she was dressed mainly in blue for the next few years. This gave the future marshal’s wife an aversion to the colour blue for the rest of her life.

Raised in the patriotic spirit by her grandmother

After the death of her parents, Ola and her siblings were looked after by her mother’s sister, Maria Zahorska, and her grandmother, Karolina Zahorska, née Truskolaska. It was her grandmother, a courageous woman with a strong character, who had a great influence on Aleksandra’s upbringing, and her intellectual and emotional development, and shaped her granddaughter’s patriotic attitude. Karolina Zahorska, an ardent patriot, cultivated the memory of the January Uprising (the longest-lasting insurgency in partitioned Poland in 1863–1864, against tsarist regime, aimed at the restoration of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth) to the end of her life. The woman always wore a ring on her finger, a relic of the heroes of the uprising. The young Szczerbińska also grew up in the tradition of the January Uprising.

Young Aleksandra received her early education at a Russian grammar school in Suwałki, where, like many of her peers, she took secret lessons in Polish, history and literature as part of secret self-education circles. Despite the scepticism of her aunt, who defended the traditional role of women, her grandmother agreed to her granddaughter’s education. In 1903 Aleksandra graduated from the two-year Women’s Higher Commercial School in Warsaw. At the same time, she was a student at the Flying University, a secret Polish university. There she received a well-rounded education and the opportunity to work professionally in commerce and finance.

With dynamite in her corset and bullets in her skirt

In 1903, Szczerbińska took a job at A. Horn’s leather goods factory in Wola, on Dworska Street. Every day, she and her colleagues commuted by carriage to the factory in the suburbs of Warsaw. She was interested in the life and work of the industrial workers. She was able to observe working conditions in the factory, the wage levels and the conditions on the factory floor. This deepened her interest in social problems, which led her to join the Polish Socialist Party (PPS).

A year later, in 1904, she joined the ranks of the PPS and almost immediately became involved in patriotic activities, adopting the underground pseudonym ‘Ola’. Among other things, she received and stored foreign shipments of rifles, revolvers, ammunition and explosives, and coordinated their transfer to local branches of the PPS military organisation. Interestingly, the proper performance of her duties was facilitated by the female fashion of the time. Women carried weapons and ammunition in hatboxes and laundry baskets under long, full skirts. Voluminous coats, cloaks, skirts, dresses, bras and corsets made it easy to conceal many things.

‘Dynamite was excellent for the corset. Over time we became so skilled that, with up to forty pounds of ammunition or blotting paper on us, we travelled freely without arousing suspicion [...]. The worst thing was with dynamite, because was the most uncomfortable and most dangerous contraband. Any strong rubbing with a pin or whalebone from a corset and the fun was over. An additional annoyance was the fumes from the dynamite caused lethargy. After all this, you had to leave the train with a light step and a confident face, as this was the best guarantee of safety,’ Szczerbińska described in her diary. For safety of having an alibi, Szczerbińska decided to become a tutor for girls from wealthy homes. This also served as to camouflage her underground activities.

The Bezdany raid

After the split in the PPS in 1906, Szczerbińska opted for independence and remained in the PPS Revolutionary Faction, where she continued her activities. This soon led to her arrest. A year later, thanks to an informer who had infiltrated the party, she was sent to Pawiak prison. For lack of evidence, she was released after only a few months. The prison episode did not cool the girl’s enthusiasm, as evidenced by the famous 45-minute Bezdany raid, near Vilnius, in which militants attacked a mail train travelling from the Congress Poland to St Petersburg. The train was carrying more than 200,000 roubles. Alongside men (including four future prime ministers of a reborn Poland), women, including Szczerbińska, played an important role in the whole operation. At first she drew up tactical maps and carried out intelligence work, helping to plan the attack. Later she was responsible for hiding the bags of money and transporting it across the heavily guarded border into Austro-Hungarian territory. They succeeded. As Ignacy Daszyński and Władysław Pobóg-Malinowski later recalled, ‘Szczerbińska had nerves of steel.’

The action was successful and the PPS were able to continue their revolutionary activities. Among them was Aleksandra, who from then on focused her interest mainly on the territory of Galicia, where a military movement was taking shape under the auspices of Józef Piłsudski. She joined the Union of Active Struggle, which was being formed in Lviv. Despite the fact that, as a woman, she was not allowed to join the ranks, she took part in the organisation’s staff work, which was mainly related to intelligence. She also took charge of the organisation’s library and undertook the task of translating military manuals. Szczerbińska soon became one of the founders of the Assistance Association of Political Prisoners, which looked after former party activists in Russian prisons or in exile. Thin files hidden in parcels helped several exiles escape from Siberia. Meanwhile, she was part of a group of women volunteers in the Rifleman’s Movement and became a member of the women’s section of the Rifleman’s Association in Lviv.

In the service of the Fatherland

The pro-independence activities of the future Mrs Piłsudska did not end with the successful operation at Bezdany. ‘Comrade Ola’ took an active part in the organisation of the Military Commissariats of the National Government, which were being set up in the Kingdom of Poland, and soon afterwards she also took up the post of Commander of the Women’s Courier Service in the Intelligence and Courier Unit of the First Brigade of the Legions. Józef Piłsudski himself appreciated their role and effectiveness. The women not only provided him with valuable information about the Russian army, but also carried out propaganda activities, transported weapons and strategic reports prepared by the Warsaw prisoners of war. However, she was arrested again for ‘illegal agitation’ on behalf of prisoners of war and was sent to Pawiak prison, from where she was transferred to the internment camps in Szczypiorno and Lubań, where she spent a year. But even though conditions were much worse than when she was first arrested, Szczerbińska did not give up her independence activities. Released in 1916, she continued her work with the Women’s War Emergency League, carrying out inspections and maintaining contact with the league circles across the country.

Aleksandra’s patriotic activity declined considerably in 1917, following the arrest of Józef Piłsudski. As the person closest to him, she was now closely surveilled by the German police. However, there was also a second, much more important reason. In early 1918, she gave birth to her lover’s first child, a daughter named Wanda.

‘Wiktor’ and ‘Ola’

‘Here I see a man whom Siberia has not been able to break’, this is how Szczerbińska describes her first meeting with her future husband, which she says took place among baskets of arms and ammunition in a secret warehouse. When they met in 1906, Piłsudski was already a conspiratorial legend – a known enemy of the Tsarist regime and leader of the PPS Fighting Organisation. As she later wrote in her memoirs, she saw him as ‘the leader of an organisation, not as a man open to such a human emotion as love’. As it turned out, this feeling was not alien to the marshal. A friendship developed and a year later, in Kiev, Piłsudski confessed his feelings for her .

The couple did not marry until 1921, after the death of Maria Piłsudska, the marshal’s first wife, who had refused to divorce her husband. By this time they had also seen the birth of their second daughter, Jadwiga. The formalisation of their long-standing union allowed the family, who had previously lived separately, to live together – first in the Belvedere (until 1922, when Józef Piłsudski handed over the office of head of state to Gabriel Narutowicz, the first president of the Republic), and later to an acquired estate in Sulejówek. At that time, they earned a modest living from the marshal’s writing, but they were also had an extreme social conscience – together they supported a charity for the needy, which received numerous donations from Polish and foreign organisations and committees.

In Aleksandra Piłsudska’s biography, everyday life is closely linked to public life. Piłsudska, who lived with a powerful politician and soldier whose prioritised his career, had to skilfully separate the two. Her domain was to run the house, or rather the homes, to bring up her daughters, to look after them and to see to their education. She also had to look after Piłsudski and keep her marriage from falling apart.

Despite the alleged crisis in her marriage, Aleksandra Piłsudska comes across at this time as a person aware of her needs, protecting her own marriage and family and fully responding to the political atmosphere of the country. The May coup forced her to return to Warsaw. As at the beginning of the 1920s, she was once again at the side of Poland’s most important politician and took her place as the marshal’s wife. She chose to participate in the public life of the Second Republic. She was ready for independent action in the public space. Thanks to her position, she was able to support initiatives that had always been close to her heart, including women’s and children’s rights, as well as women’s military organisations.

A defender of women’s rights and the needy

Although Aleksandra Piłsudsk is remembered by the public as Józef Piłsudski’s faithful companion and second wife, her involvement in the fight for independence and equal rights for women is greater than one might think. Admittedly, these issues were also the subject of disputes in their marriage.

‘Our discussions were almost always harmonious, but we differed on one point: equal rights for women. While Piłsudski agreed that in a free Poland women should have the same rights as men, he maintained that they would not be able to exercise their rights sensibly because the female mentality was by nature conservative and easily influenced. I, a fierce feminist, was extremely indignant at this,’ the marshal’s wife wrote in her memoirs. Piłsudska regarded the granting of the right to vote to women in independent Poland as her personal achievement. As she herself later wrote: ‘[it was] not because they demanded it, but because they had won these rights through active participation in the struggle for independence’.

Mrs Piłsudska was active in helping those in need, engaging in an association that ran a day-care centre for orphans and homeless children and another that helped the poor of Warsaw. She was involved in organising soup kitchens and allotment gardens for the unemployed, libraries for young people and dental clinics. She was also active in uniform associations and veterans’ organisations. Veterans and children were close to her heart. It is therefore not surprising that the marshaless was highly respected.

Emigration

After the German invasion in September 1939, Piłsudska evacuated first to Vilnius, from where she travelled to Lithuania and then Latvia. Finally, via Sweden, she managed to reach Great Britain, where she stayed in London.

The forced departure to England and spending the rest of her life in exile changed the situation not only for Piłsudska, but also for many Polish politicians, soldiers and ordinary people. In exile, Aleksandra Piłsudska tried to remain active in Piłsudski’s political circles, to support Poles at home and to correspond with old colleagues and friends. She co-founded the Józef Piłsudski Institute, established in London in 1947, and was a member of the League of Independent Poles.

But her years in exile were also marked by a successful personal life, seeing her daughters grow up, caring for her grandchildren and spending time with her family and colleagues at the Józef Piłsudski Institute, which she helped to establish in London

Memoirs of a Marshaless

The traumatic experiences of September 1939, the fear that the Polish state would once again disappear from the map of Europe for years to come and the fear that Józef Piłsudski’s political achievements would be forgotten or misinterpreted by history, forced Piłsudska to write her memoirs. She wrote them as an eyewitness who had participated in great historical events and who, moreover, had been able to experience them at close quarters.

The memoirs are also the source of Aleksandra Piłsudska’s own biography. They were first published in English in London in 1940, and a year later in the United States. In 1960 they were translated into Polish and republished in London. They have been reprinted several times, most recently in 2004 with a historical study. Piłsudska died in 1963, but she wrote her memoirs when she was 58, when she still had a good memory. Aleksandra Piłsudska’s memoirs are therefore not part of a historical study, written many years later, often at the end of a person’s life. The memoirs were written in circumstances that very often became the motivation for writing down the events of one’s life. The outbreak of the war, the dramatic experiences of Aleksandra Piłsudska and her daughters as they fled Poland, the difficulties of making a life for themselves in exile, the lack of material resources, the fear for relatives and colleagues who had remained in the country, all justified the writing of her memoirs.

In her ‘Memoirs’, Piłsudska described several important aspects of her personal life, including her views on a number of issues and, at times, a description of her relationships with her nearest and dearest. These fragments, however, form the framework of her reflections on the past. Aleksandra Piłsudska’s memoirs are first and foremost a record of the events of Józef Piłsudski’s life and a summary of his views. They show us a woman hiding behind another man’s biography, the biography of a distinguished husband, reverently describing his achievements and sharing his views.

With due dignity

‘We cannot look at Aleksandra Piłsudska only as the wife of Józef Piłsudski and the mother of his children. We must also see her through the prism of her achievements and contribution to the fight for independence and the consolidation of independence. We must remember that she worked for years to ensure that this tradition was perpetuated and not devalued in any way’, noted Professor Grzegorz Nowik, historian of the Polish Academy of Sciences, deputy director of the J. Piłsudski Museum in Sulejówek.

Suffice to say that Aleksandra Piłsudska was awarded, among other things, the Cross of Valour and the Silver Cross of the Order of Military Virtues for the heroic courage she displayed as an activist of the PPS in the legendary operation at Bezdany in 1908, and later as an active member of the intelligence and courier unit of the First Brigade of the Polish Legions – ‘for the bravery and fortitude shown in the work for independence’.

Aleksandra Piłsudska, seen by historians mainly in relation to Piłsudski, was inscribed in the intimate sphere of the eminent politician’s life. Stories about her are written on the assumption that if she had not been Piłsudski’s wife, no one would have heard of her. Even her heroic deeds are shoehorned into this scheme. And rightly so, as there were many women who took part in momentous events and made history. However, they were much less fortunate – they did not marry or their husbands were not as famous as Marshal Piłsudski, so their names were lost and their heroism completely forgotten.

In Aleksandra Piłsudska’s biography, her private, intimate life was mixed with combatative politics and social activity. Piłsudska played many roles in her life and was either honoured or criticised for her activities and attitudes. She had to deal with both the modest tributes paid to her and the rumours spread about her. But one thing remained constant – she took care of the image of her husband, her family and herself as a serious, stable, modest person who behaved with due dignity.

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Bibliography

Droga, K., Kobieta, którą pokochał Marszałek. Opowieść o Oli Piłsudskiej, Wydawnictwo Znak, Kraków 2018.
Piłsudska A., Wspomnienia, Warszawa 2004.
Sikorska M., Aleksandra Piłsudska (1882-1963), Łódź 2021.
Sikorska-Kowalska M., Komendantka Oddziału Kuriersko-Wywiadowczego I Brygady Legionów. Aleksandra Szczerbińska i towarzyszki broni , ‘Acta Universitatis Lodziensis’, ‘Folia Historica’, No 104, Łódź 2019.
Zaleska I., Towarzyszka „Ola” – działalność niepodległościowa Aleksandry Piłsudskiej , ‘Niepodległość i Pamięć’, No 3(63), 2018.
Dzieje.pl: Aleksandra Piłsudska
Culture.pl: Rewolucjonistka, feministka, pierwsza dama. Aleksandra Piłsudska od A do Z
Polskieradio.pl: Aleksandra Piłsudska: rewolucjonistka u boku marszałka

‘Were it not for my efforts, Katowice would not be Polish today,’ said Wojciech Korfanty, one of the most prominent politicians of the interwar period. In the plebiscites and rankings conducted in Upper Silesia, Korfanty is ranked as one of the most eminent Silesians and people of the greatest merit for the region. The year 2009, which marked the 70th anniversary of his death, was celebrated in the province as the Year of Korfanty. Since 1993, prizes in his name have been awarded by the Upper Silesian Association, a regional organisation promoting Silesian culture and tradition.

Korfanty’s overall political activity, however, goes beyond the region. This was honoured by the Sejm (parliament) of the Republic of Poland, among others, by declaring 2023 as the Year of Wojciech Korfanty.

Legendary politician

Wojciech Korfanty is a key figure of the first half of the 20th century, well known for fighting for Silesia’s Polish identity. He was the first politician to unequivocally proclaim the unity of Upper Silesia with the rest of the Polish lands and became a member of the German parliaments, the Reichstag and the Prussian Landtag. In Greater Poland, he was a member of the Supreme People’s Council – the political centre of the region. On behalf of the Polish Government, he headed the Polish Plebiscite Commissariat in Upper Silesia from 1919 to 1921, whose main objective was to win the votes of Upper Silesians for Poland. In May 1921, he led the Third Silesian Uprising as a dictator. He thus contributed significantly to the incorporation of the industrialised part of the Upper Silesian region into the Republic of Poland.

However, the influence and significance of Korfanty’s activities were not confined to the borders of Greater Poland. No less important was Korfanty’s role in the process of rebuilding the Republic of Poland after 1918, earning him the title of ‘one of the fathers of independent Poland’ among historians. Being a leading politician in the Silesian Voivodeship, Korfanty also gained a certain position on the national political scene. Ousted from power after the May coup in 1926, he became one of the leaders of the anti-Sanation opposition. Through the daily Polonia, which he published, he influenced public opinion not only in the Silesian Voivodship, but in the whole country.

Fate did not spare Korfanty being challenged in the last years of his life. The politician was forced to go into exile in Czechoslovakia, and on his return to the country in April 1939 he was arrested. He died shortly after leaving prison. Leaving behind the enduring legacy of a steadfast politician.

Educated in German schools, raised in the Polish spirit

Wojciech Korfanty (born Adalbert Korfanty) was born on 20 April 1873 in Siemianowice Śląskie into a family of miners. His mother taught him to read from Piotr Skarga’s Lives of the Saints, yet he still had to use a Polish-German dictionary when reading Poland’s epic tale, Pan Tadeusz. At the same time, however, his parents belonged to a typical group of nationally indifferent Upper Silesians who identified themselves by their connection to the region. Very talented and extremely intelligent and educated in German schools, but at some point he assumed a Polish identity. The young Korfanty was opposed to forced Germanisation and Chancellor Otto von Bismarck call for it.

Years later, the future politician recalled: ‘the credit for my national consciousness must be attributed to my hackneyed professors at the gymnasium in Katowice, who, by their vilification of everything Polish and Catholic, aroused in me a curiosity for the Polish book, from which I longed to find out what this vilified and humiliated nation, whose language I spoke in my family, was’.

Korfanty had already shown an active stance against Germanisation during his years spent at Katowice Royal Grammar School. According to historians’ testimonies, at that time the young Korfanty supposedly walked around with a big stick and a wolfhound, used to threaten his enemies. There he founded a secret circle aimed at spreading Polish culture and a knowledge of literature. He made contacts with activists from Greater Poland. He took part in pro-Polish meetings, during which he spoke negatively about the German Chancellor Bismarck, for which he was expelled from grammar school.

Korfanty was helped by Count Józef Kościelski, a Polish national activist with anti-Prussian views, a member of the Reichstag and a patron of culture and the arts. Thanks to him, in the winter of 1895, Korfanty began his studies at the polytechnic in Charlottenburg near Berlin as a free student. A year later he moved to the Faculty of Philosophy at the Friedrich Wilhelm University in Wrocław. Between 1897 and 1899 he worked as a tutor for the young Lithuanian landowner Zygmunt Jundziłło, accompanying him on his travels. After returning from his travels, he resumed his studies in Wrocław. Until May 1901 he studied law and economics here, and in May–August 1901, he moved to the University of Berlin. He ultimately did not complete his studies. In fact, this period marked the beginning of his intensified political activity.

‘Korfanty is a man of the future; if he toes the line, he will be a historical figure.’

‘In Berlin I fell into the circle of national youth – a new life had begun. I was intoxicated with national ideals’, he wrote years later about his stay as a student in the Reich. However, even here Korfanty was active in Polish organisations, including the Scientific Society of Polish Academics and the Union of Polish Youth. Although Korfanty’s political profile had not yet been formed.

He did not shy away from socialist circles. Social democrats and supporters of the National League had not yet become hostile political camps. In later years, however, he denied any links with socialists. During the ceremony to unveil the Adam Mickiewicz monument in Warsaw in 1898, he met the leaders of the National League – Zygmunt Balicki and Roman Dmowski. By then, he was already one of the leaders of the Polish academic community in Wrocław, and joined the National League shortly afterwards. It was then that the significant and, as it turns out, prophetic words of Roman Dmowski were uttered: ‘Korfanty is a man of the future; if he toes the line, he will be a historical figure.’

His strengthening attitude and increasing activities with a liberationist bent exposed Korfanty to the German authorities. In 1902, accused of inciting the population by publishing anti-German articles, he was sentenced to four months in prison. The incident, however, as it turned out, served to boost the popularity of the politician’s rising star.

Member of the Reichstag

At a convention of the League of Nations activists from the Prussian partition in Kraków in 1902, it was decided that Upper Silesia would field its own national list in the elections to the Reichstag (parliament of the Reich) and the Landtag (Prussian parliament). The uniqueness of the situation was that the national activists from the Prussian partition took into account Upper Silesia, which was not a partitioned area.

Running for this very constituency in the 1903 elections, Korfanty won a seat in the Reichstag by a margin of 675 votes. This victory was a political watershed in the history of Upper Silesia: Korfanty became the first politician to run successfully under unambiguously national Polish slogans. At the same time, he also became a deputy to the Prussian Landtag. He retained his parliamentary seat until 1918.

In October 1918 the defeat of the Central Powers was already certain. The gathering of members of the Reichstag in the Polish Circle, anticipating the imminent end of their mission, began the final phase of their activities. It culminated in a speech by Wojciech Korfanty.

The last speech

‘No statistical tricks will be able to change the fact that in West Prussia the left bank of the Vistula up to the Hel Peninsula is inhabited by an undoubtedly Polish population,’ said Korfanty in his speech on 25 October 1918.

Your Lordships, Mr Ledebourg explained to us here yesterday which parts of the country he thought should belong to Poland. Here I would like to confirm his data and declare that we do not want a single German district, but demand Polish districts of Upper Silesia, Middle Silesia, Poznan, Polish West Prussia and Polish districts of East Prussia. [...] It is a miraculous orchestration of God that the old Prussia, the old Russia and the old Austria will perish under the onslaught of national ideas against which these three states have committed the greatest crimes.

This was the last speech by a Polish MP in the Reichstag. Together with Korfanty, other members of the Polish Circle also resigned.

In the service of Upper Silesia

Despite a turbulent time in political life in Warsaw and later Poznań, Korfanty did not lose sight of Upper Silesia, whose nationality, contrary to Korfanty’s hopes, was not decided by the Treaty of Versailles, which ended the First World War. In the final Versailles Treaty, one provision set out that the question of Silesia’s national identity would be decided in a plebiscite among the residents of the region. Both Poles and Germans appointed their plebiscite commissariats, responsible for the electoral campaign and its organisation. The Polish one was headed by Wojciech Korfanty. Despite different attitudes towards him, Korfanty managed to overcome animosities and unite the Polish forces in the region.

The summer of 1920, however, was marked above all by the events of the Second Silesian Uprising. Unlike the spontaneous uprising of the Polish population to join the region to Poland, it was the response of the Polish military and plebiscite organisations to the anti-Polish German actions before the plebiscite that was soon to take place there. The order to fight was issued on 19 August 1920. The uprising ended on 28 August on the orders of its commanders. On 20 March 1921, the plebiscite mandated by the Versailles Treaty took place. Nearly 97.5% of eligible voters cast their votes: 40.3% of them favoured joining Poland, while 59.4% voted for Upper Silesia to become a part of Germany. This meant that almost the entire plebiscite area fell to the Germans.

The response to the plebiscite result was the Third Silesian Uprising, which began on the night of 2/3 May. The uprising was again led by Korfanty, who – as an opponent of the politics of accomplished facts and armed settlements – after the first military successes gave the order to suspend military operations and wait for the decision of the Entente Commission. As a consequence of the 1922 uprising, the territory granted to Poland was enlarged by about one-third of the disputed territory (29% of the area and 46% of the population) with more than 75% of the coal mines and half of the metal works.

Imprisoned in the reborn Poland

In July 1921 Wojciech Korfanty left Silesia. Between 1922 and 1930, in the reborn Poland, he was a member of the Sejm for Christian Democracy (ChD). In a wave of euphoria over Poland taking over the part of Upper Silesia allocated to it, Korfanty’s candidacy for the post of prime minister was put forward. However, in the face of a protest from Head of State Józef Piłsudski and a threatened general strike by the PPS, he did not begin to form a government, and the committee withdrew his nomination. Only in the autumn of 1923 did he briefly become deputy prime minister in Wincenty Witos’s Government.

Defeated in Warsaw, Korfanty returned to Katowice, where, in addition to his political activities, he became heavily involved on the economy. The latter, however, as well as his property ownership, had an increasingly unfavourable effect on Korfanty’s public image. The politician and activist was frequently accused of deriving personal gain from state activities. Against the background of the attacks launched against him, Korfanty was helped by the fact that he had his own publishing house and its associated press organ, the daily Polonia. The publishing house not only profitted him financially, it also became an effective tool for influencing public opinion. In terms of the breadth and modernity of the publishing techniques used, however, it was one of the best newspapers in the republic at that time. This favourable situation came to an abrupt end with the outbreak of the May Coup in 1926 and Józef Piłsudski’s assumption to power in Poland.

In 1930 Korfanty was arrested and imprisoned in the Brest fortress together with other Centrolew deputies. After his release, he returned to Upper Silesia, where, however, the spectre of another arrest hung over him. Fearing repression, he left Poland for the capital of Czechoslovakia. He initially stayed with Wincenty Witos, from whose memoirs comes a more detailed description of Korfanty’s escape:

On 7 April, Senator Korfanty arrived in Rožnov in the evening. He said that he had escaped from Silesia before his arrest, having been warned by an official of the Katowice prosecutor’s office. He reached the border by car. He claimed that in a few minutes it would be too late.

‘I have to go back’

Korfanty’s emigration status deteriorated significantly in March 1939. This was because at that time the Wehrmacht occupied Czechoslovakia. This meant an immediate threat to Korfanty, who was living in Prague. At first he took refuge in the French embassy, then, with a French passport in the name of Albert Martin, he left for Paris. Efforts to obtain permission from the Polish authorities to return to the country were unsuccessful. But they did not discourage him either. On 27 April 1939, he arrived in Gdynia and from there Katowice.

However, in the country to which he so badly wanted to return, he was arrested and, despite the protests, imprisoned in Pawiak prison. He spent three months there. It was also during this time that the prisoner’s numerous ailments and conditions manifested themselves: liver disease, anaemia, inflammation of the gall bladder and pleurisy. These, as well as the fear of Korfanty’s death in custody, contributed to Korfanty’s release after 82 days. He died on 17 August 1939, on the 20th anniversary of the outbreak of the Silesian Uprising.

In a political testament in Polonia, he left this exhortation:

I utter a fervent plea to the Silesian people to remain faithful to Christian principles and to their attachment to Poland, to work and sacrifice without ceasing in order to make of Poland such a Poland as is worthy of our dreams. A great Poland, a strong Poland, a Catholic Poland, a Poland of the rule of law, a Poland that is always just’.

***

Bibliography

Bebnik G., S. Rosenbaum and M. Węcki, Wojciech Korfanty, Warszawa 2020.
Lewandowski J.F., Wojciech Korfanty, Warszawa 2013.
Orzechowski M., Wojciech Korfanty. Biografia Polityczna, Wrocław-Warszawa-Kraków-Gdańsk 1978.
Skrzypek M., Wojciech Korfanty, Warszawa 2009.
Dzieje.pl: Wojciech Korfanty (1873-1939)
Polskieradio.pl: Wojciecha Korfantego kochały kobiety i Ślązacy

She was already 17 when she accidentally learned that everything she knew about herself was untrue. That the mother she was with, Stanisława Bussoldowa, did not give birth to her at all, but took care of a six-month-old baby, saved at the last moment from annihilation in a world that no longer existed. That Elżunia was not after all a diminutive of Elżbieta (Elizabeth), but a Jewish name, in Hebrew, Elishew. This name, as well as her likeness, was left by Henia Koppel, a Jewish woman, Elżbieta Ficowska’s ‘real’ mother, whose face Elżbieta never knew.

Born under an imprisoned star

Elżbieta Ficowska’s mother, Henia Koppel, gave birth to her in the Warsaw ghetto. To save the child, she decided to move her to the Aryan side. The six-month-old baby was given medicine to sleep, placed in a wooden box with holes in it so she could breathe, hidden among the bricks and taken away from the Warsaw ghetto. The box also contained a silver spoon on which was engraved her name and her date of birth: ‘Elżunia, 5 I 1942’, the only trace of a surviving identity.

Elżbieta has no idea what her parents looked like. She has no photographs. Years later she managed to track down two of her mother’s friends from grammar school, who described her mother as a beautiful blonde with blue eyes. Her father was much older, stocky, black-haired and black-eyed. This is the only image she has of them.

‘I have seen so many photographs of nameless Jews in old German film chronicles. I always stare at them searchingly, and sometimes I succumb to the illusion that I might somehow recognise my loved ones, even though I know it is impossible. I don’t know their faces, I only see them in my imagination’, she later said in an interview.

From that world to this world

The child was taken out of the ghetto by Stanisława Bussoldowa’s stepson, Paweł Bussold, who had a pass to the ghetto. Elżbieta was supposed to go to a woman, but the latter fell ill with tuberculosis. Although she had not planned to, Bussoldowa took good care of Elżunia. During the years of German occupation, she provided assistance to Jews from the Warsaw ghetto, collaborating with Irena Sendler. Stanisława Bussoldowa worked as a feldsher and midwife at a health centre on Działdowska Street in Warsaw. The facility organised money for Jews locked behind the walls of the Warsaw ghetto. She also delivered food ration cards to the ghetto, took people to the so-called Aryan side and delivered babies of Jewish women hiding in occupied Warsaw.

On a daily basis, the young girl was looked after by a nanny – Janina Peciak. She would receive phone calls from the child’s mother from the ghetto and put the receiver to the chattering little girl. The last time she called was in October 1942.

Henia perished on 3 November 1943, in the forced-labour camp in Poniatowa. Elżbieta’s father, Josel, perished during the major liquidation operation of the Warsaw ghetto (July–September 1942). He was shot at the Umschlagplatz when he refused to get into a wagon. They were disappeared like the world she had never managed to get to know and had no chance to know from the Aryan side.

Washed you of orphanhood and swaddled you in love

As Elżbieta Ficowska recalls, her foster mother offered her a happy childhood full of love. When Stanisława Bussoldowa took in Elżunia, she was already in her 60s; her children were grown up and she herself was a widow already. She gave her foster daughter a lot of wholesome and mature love. She was a well-looked after child, and everyone around her did their best to make her feel as comfortable and as safe as possible. This is why Stanisława Bussoldowa protected her from a premature clash with history. Out of concern for the child, Stanisława Bussoldowa did not allow Elżbieta to find out about her Jewish origins for a long time. During the war, she was hidden from the Germans. After the war, she was also hidden from the Jewish organisations seeking to recover the children who had been saved.

Not to be surprised at all when you say – I am

Elżbieta Ficowska found out about her Jewish origins at the age of 17 by accident. A friend, with whom she attended the Felician Sisters’ School in Wawer, asked her one day why she hadn’t told her she was Jewish. Elżbieta thought it was nonsense, completely untrue. However, this information planted a seed of anxiety in her, and her imagination increasingly suggested videos from the past and various, as well as strange stories. Such as the one from when she was in the cemetery and noticed that the date of her father’s death, Stanisława’s husband, died two years before she was born. She was then told that the stonemason had got the date on the gravestone wrong, and she did not pursue the story further.

In the same way that she didn’t make the connection, while she was with her nanny in a vegetable shop in Michalina, when someone asked her if the Jews coming from America had already been there. She had no idea that after the war there were Jews in Poland who wanted to find the Jewish children rescued from the Holocaust and take them to Jewish families in America or Israel.

Eventually Elżbieta Ficowska learned about her Jewish background from her Polish mother. After an argument, she ran away from home to a friend’s house. She hid in the basement and refused to come out. When she was found by her mother, they had their first and only conversation about how she became her daughter. ‘It was so difficult for her and for me that we never went back to it again,’ Elżbieta Ficowska confessed in an interview.

I keep both my mothers with me

Henia Koppel (1919?–1943) and Stanisława Bussoldowa (1886–1968) were both mothers to Elżbieta Ficowska. The first, who gave her life ‘under an imprisoned star’, gave up her daughter in order to save her life, and the second spared her of orphanhood and swaddled her in love. Both risked their own lives.

‘I keep both my mothers with me and will do that till the end. Their presence reminds me that there is nothing more destructive than hatred and nothing more precious than human kindness,’ says Elżbieta.

A tribute to both of them is a poem by Jerzy Ficowski, poet and husband of Elżbieta Ficowska. ‘Both Your Mothers’ is dedicated to Bieta, as Jerzy affectionately addressed his wife by this nickname, and commemorates the story of two mothers, two maternal loves, and is a monument to their sacrificial love.

***

Both Your Mothers

for Bieta

Under a futile Torah
under an imprisoned star
your mother gave birth to you

You have proof of her
beyond doubt and death
the scar of the navel
the sign of parting for ever
which had n time to hurt you

this you know

Later you slept in a bundle
carried out of the ghetto
someone said in a chest
knocked together somewhere in Nowolipie Street
with a hole to let air in
but not fear
hidden in a cartload of bricks

You slipped out in this little coffin
redeemed by stealth
from that world to this world
all the way to the Aryan side
and fire took over
the corner you left vacant

So you did not cry
crying could have meant death
luminal hummed you
its lullaby
And you nearly were not
so that you could be

But the mother
who was saved in you
could now step into crowded death
happily incomplete
could instead of memory give you
for a parting gift
her own likeness
and a date and a name

so much

And at once a chance
someone hastily
bustled about your sleep
and then stayed for a long always
and washed you of orphanhood
and swaddled you in love
and became the answer
to your first word

That was how
both your mothers taught you
not to be surprised at all
when you say
I am

[translated by Keith Bosley]

Memory is inseparable from identity. It is a complex relationship. Personal experiences create our individual identity; experiences of previous generations our social and cultural identity. The mechanisms of memory and the manners of its interpretation are topics of research by scholars from various fields: psychologists, sociologists, and historians. These are also motifs taken up by artists.

The project Visualisations of 20th-century Forced Migrations – Transnational Memory in Pictures and Art focused on the transnational experience of forced migration before, during, and as a result of World War II (1933–1949). It is not simply about the historical moment of flight, expulsion, deportation or forced resettlement, but more about experiences and images related to the cultural memory of the affected groups.

We invited young people from various disciplines to join the project and talk about topics related to forced migration in the 20th century, using tools from the field of art and various types of visual materials. We were looking for intimate stories describing the experiences of the participants in the events, because, paraphrasing Martin Pollack’s words in his famous book Topografie der Erinnerung[1] (The Topography of Remembrance), ‘it will be easier to understand a great story when we look at it (...) from the inside out, from the perspective of individual experiences and ordeals, including tragedy.’

During several months of intensive work, an extremely diverse range of projects was created, and the development of the final visual form was preceded by long and thorough research. Some of the authors used archival materials for their analyses, while others decided to produce a completely original artistic statement. Online solutions turned out to be an interesting tool, making it possible to share the collected text, photographic, and video material through publicly available, open-access websites.

The Lighthouses. A Story about the Germans in Yugoslavia by Mladen Nikolić (Serbia) is a visual essay about the fate of the ethnic German population in the territories of former Yugoslavia using the example of the town of Pančevo. The German names carved in the 1920s and 1930s by the town’s inhabitants on the bricks of the two lighthouses pointing the way to the port provided the author with his inspiration. Nikolić also found a large number of archival photos depicting pre-war everyday life, as well as the impact of warfare on the fate of the Germans.

In her project Images of Law and Injustice, Andrea Škopková (Czech Republic) decided on the form of a textual essay analysing visual materials about the forced migration of people living in the border areas of Czechoslovakia in the years 1938–1945.

Several projects have taken the modern form of websites. At www.docpstrazna.pl, Joanna Kowalska (Poland) invites us to take five walks around Pstrążna, located on today’s Polish–Czech border, together with its inhabitants. The author’s idea is that during the video-recorded walks, the witnesses talk about the history of their families and migration in context, pointing out traces of memory and memory loss in the landscape. Kowalska complements the video materials with her own photographs showing the village today and with documentary photographs she has received from interviewees.

Brenna Yellin’s (USA) project Disorderly Trajectories traces the migrations of ethnic Germans from the areas that fell under the influence of the USSR after the war. Usually, these routes are presented in a simplified linear way, but Yellin shows how complicated they were. Based on the histories of several characters, the subsequent stages of the journey and their dates can be traced. The author has also selected quotes from their testimonies, which concisely relate their experiences and accompanying emotions (www.tinyurl.com/BrennaYellin).

The third online project is Displaced People and the Buildings They Left Behind by Badri Okujava (Georgia), available at www.topography.ge. This project focuses on the ethnic minority of German Swabians who had lived in Tbilisi from the mid-19th century and who were forced to leave in November 1941. The main part of the project is a topographical depiction of over 400 former places of residence of minorities. This was achieved by marking the map of Tbilisi with specific addresses, family names, and photos taken by the author documenting the current state of these buildings.

A bridge between online projects and original implementation is It Is Still Before My Eyes by the duo Liana Blikharska and Daria Koltsova (Ukraine), which consists of two parts: an artistic design of a stained-glass window and a presentation using Google Earth. The authors talk about the deportations in the USSR through the fate of the Crimean Tatars who had lived in these areas from sometime between the 13th or 14th century. During the so-called evacuation programme, the Soviet authorities forced the entire Tatar community to leave the Crimea and move east.

The next three works are expressions of the artists’ creativity. Kalina Trajanovska (Macedonia) created a video work combining her own photographs and recorded sound. This poetic tale refers to the history of Madžir Maalo, a district of Skopje in Macedonia. The name of the district literally means ‘refugee settlement’ (Ottoman Turkish muhacir and Arabic muhajir meaning ‘refugee’). Observing the destruction of one of the houses, Trajanovska reflects on the Muslim inhabitants who were forced to leave their homes during several waves of migration.

Antonia Foldes’ (UK) project Threads takes on a unique final form – a hand-embroidered bag created by the author. The embroidery design combines various folk motifs and methods of execution to tell the story of migrations in what is now Ukraine. The bag has been a symbolic object accompanying migrants for centuries. It allows you to ‘package’ the past and ‘take’ it into an unclear future. Referring to Michael Rothberg’s theory of multidirectional memory, Antonia Foldes juxtaposes various narratives about memory without judging them.

Another author who uses embroidery in her work is Olga Filonchuk (Ukraine). Using the format of a book–diary entitled At the Still Point of the Turning World, she captures her daily life since leaving Kiev in March 2022 following the Russian invasion. Together with her sister and seven-month-old niece, they settled in the German spa town of Bad Liebenstein in the company of other Ukrainian women and children. The diary is a collection of photos and texts by Filonchuk that express the complex emotions and memories that accompany the author in her new home. It is an attempt to register a moment of inspiration, a moment of shock, which turned from seconds into weeks, then months, and stretched in time.

The basis of the works within the Visualisations of 20th-century Forced Migrations – Transnational Memory in Pictures and Art were meetings between people from different countries, from different regions, and from different backgrounds. We met initially in June 2022 in Berlin, and then we saw each other online for several months, refining the next stages of the projects. I know that, apart from official meetings, the participants had private contacts, exchanged knowledge, supported each other with experiences, and worked together. Looking for the best artistic solutions and the most precise ways to express their thoughts, they had the opportunity to get to know and understand each other better. They added their contemporary individual experiences and histories to the analysed historical individual stories. The resulting projects are an expression of the potential that the visual arts have in better understanding important historical events by learning about the fates of their individual participants.

 

REFERENCES

[1] Martin Pollack, Topografie der Erinnerung, Residenz Verlag, 2016.

 

Photo by Mladen Nikolić

Die Streikwelle des Sommers 1980 und die daran anschließende Gründung der Unabhängigen Selbstverwalteten Gewerkschaft „Solidarność“ leitete eine neue, die tiefste Krise des kommunistischen Staates in Polen ein. Die sich seit 1976 verschärfende Wirtschaftskrise führte 1980 zur Destabilisierung des politischen Systems. Die Zerschlagung der Solidarność nach Einführung des Kriegsrechts konnte die ökonomischen, sozialen und politischen Entwicklungen nicht aufhalten, durch welche die politische Ordnung der Volksrepublik Polen in eine chronische Krisensituation geriet, die mit der Veränderung der internationalen Lage schließlich in ihren Untergang mündete. Nachstehend möchte ich den Versuch anstellen, die wichtigsten Ursachen für den Zusammenbruch des Systems 1989 zu benennen.

 

1. Die Änderungen in der UdSSR. Dieser ursächliche Faktor trat zuletzt in Erscheinung, nämlich erst, als Michail Gorbačev 1986 die Politik der perestrojka verkündete. Er ist aber deswegen zuerst zu nennen, weil er dafür entscheidend war, die Polen regierende Riege um General Wojciech Jaruzelski zur Einleitung von Systemreformen zu bewegen, die letztlich zum völligen Zusammenbruch des Kommunismus führten. Im Juli 1986 hielt Gorbačev während einer Sitzung des Politbüros des ZK der KPdSU über die Staaten Ostmitteleuropas fest, dass man „sie nicht länger in seinem Schlepptau mitziehen“ könne. „Die Wirtschaft ist der Hauptgrund dafür.“ Mithin hatte sich im Kreml die Überzeugung durchgesetzt, dass die innerhalb des Rates für Gegenseitige Wirtschaftshilfe (RGW) verankerte wirtschaftliche Zusammenarbeit, die auf dem Transferrubel beruhte, dringender Änderungen bedürfe. Die Lieferung von Erdöl und Erdgas, den wichtigsten Exportgütern der UdSSR, in die RGW-Länder zu Festpreisen brachte der sowjetischen Wirtschaft keinen Nutzen. So war es kein Zufall, dass nach der Bildung der Regierung von Tadeusz Mazowiecki eine der wichtigsten Forderungen Moskaus gegenüber Warschau war, so schnell wie möglich den US-Dollar als Leitwährung im bilateralen Handel einzuführen.

2. Der Zustand der Wirtschaft. 1983 wuchs erstmals seit fünf Jahren in Polen das Bruttoinlandsprodukt wieder. Allerdings resultierte das nicht aus wirklichen Änderungen des Wirtschaftssystems, sondern daraus, dass die Ökonomie wieder in ihre alten Geleise zurückfand, aus denen sie zuerst durch die Fehler der Gierek-Regierung und dann die Streiks der Jahre 1980/81 geworfen worden war, schließlich auch durch die Unterstellung vieler Betriebe unter Militärverwaltung und die ökonomischen Saktionen der westlichen Länder gegen Volkspolen. Bereits 1985 verringerte sich das Wirtschaftswachstum erneut.

Die von dem Jaruzelski-Regime nach Einführung des Kriegsrechts ständig wiederholten Beteuerungen der Notwendigkeit, die Wirtschaftsreformen fortzusetzen, deren Einleitung 1981 verkündet worden war, erwiesen sich bald als bloße Propaganda. Erst die Regierung von Ministerpräsident Mieczysław Rakowski machte sich an der Jahreswende 1988/89 an wirkliche Reformen, indem sie beispielsweise Garantien für die Freiheit der Wirtschaftstätigkeit abgab und die Vorschriften für den Außenhandel liberalisierte. Wenn nicht kurz darauf das politische System kollabiert wäre, hätten die Reformen Rakowskis vielleicht dazu geführt, eine Transformation nach dem chinesischem Modell umzusetzen, d.h. die Marktwirtschaft zu installieren, ohne das autoritäre politische System aufzugeben.

3. Ansätze zur Privatisierung des Staates. Inmitten des allgemeinen wirtschaflichen Schlamassels der achtziger Jahre gab es ein bemerkenswertes Wachstum des privaten Sektors. In den Jahren 1981‑1985 steigerte er seine Produktion um nahezu 14 Prozent, während der staatliche Sektor ganze 0,2 Prozent Wachstum erreichte. Das private Unternehmertum war zwar immer noch von zahlreichen Beschränkungen gegängelt, allmählich setzte sich jedoch besonders in den mittleren Etagen der Staatsmacht die Überzeugung durch, dass sich ohne den Ausbau des Privatsektors das Konsumgüterdefizit nicht würde bewältigen lassen.

Innerhalb des Privatsektors hatten die sog. Polonia-Gesellschaften einen besonderen Stellenwert. Sie wurden auf der Grundlage eines Gesetzes vom Juli 1982 unter Beteiligung von Ausländern polnischer Abstammung gegründet. Die Polonia-Gesellschaften wurden für die Staatsmacht, insbesondere für die Geheimdienste eine Art Experimentierfeld. An ihnen wurde erprobt, wie sich Personen innerhalb marktwirtschaftlicher Zusammenhänge verhalten, und sie wurden auch für operative Vorgänge genutzt. Infolgedessen machte sich ein Teil der regierenden Elite allmählich den Gedanken zueigen, dass das in den vierziger Jahren eingerichtete Wirtschaftssystem unbedingt aufzuheben sei, das wesentlich auf dem Staatseigentum beruhte. So entstand eine den genannten Reformen der Regierung Rakowski günstige Atmosphäre, die im Nebeneffekt allerdings auch die sog. Privatisierung für die Nomenklatur mit sich brachten.

4. Die Deregulierung des politischen Systems. Deren Hauptmerkmal war die Schwächung der Position der Polnischen Vereinigten Arbeiterpartei (PZPR), die bis dahin das Machtmonopol in Volkspolen besessen hatte. Aufgrund der Krise von 1980/81 und des anschließenden Kriegsrechts verlor die PZPR ungefähr eine halbe Million Mitglieder. Erst in der Mitte des Jahrzehnts hörte die Partei auf zu schrumpfen, und ihre Mitgliederzahl lag fortan stabil bei etwa 2,1 Millionen. Dagegen setzte sich der Alterungsprozess in der Partei fort. Der Anteil von Mitglieder im Alter bis 29 Jahren fiel von 15 Prozent 1981 auf kam 6,9 Prozent 1986, das Durchschnittsalter der Mitgliederschaft stieg auf 46 Jahre. Ähnlich erging es dem engeren Parteiapparat, der über 12.000 Funktionäre zählte.

Die kommunistische Partei alterte, verlor zugleich an Einfluss und wurde immer mehr vom politischen Entscheider zu einem bloßen Instrument in den Händen unterschiedlicher Pressuregroups innerhalb des Machtapparats. Die wichtigste davon war ein gewisser Teil des Offizierskorps der Polnischen Armee. Im ersten Jahr des Kriegsrechts wurden auf Leitungspositionen des Parteiapparats 32 Armeeoffiziere delegiert, in die Staatsverwaltung weitere 88. Darunter befanden sich elf Minister und stellvertretende Minister, 13 Wojewoden und Vizewojewoden sowie neun Sekretäre von Wojewodschaftskomitees der PZPR. Neben den Militärs gewannen in den achtziger Jahren die höheren Funktionäre des Sicherheitsdienstes und Leute aus dem Wirtschaftsapparat an Einfluss. Auch die Leitung des Gesamtpolnischen Gewerkschaftsverbandes (OPZZ) gehörte der kommunistischen Partei an; sie wurde im Laufe der Zeit zu einer Kraft, die ebenfalls die Kontrolle der PZPR über den Staatsapparat und insbesondee über die Wirtschaft beträchtlich begrenzte.

5. Die Entwicklung der Stimmung in der Gesellschaft. Nach der Einführung des Kriegsrechts schien sich die Stimmung zunächst zu beruhigen. 1983 glaubten 40 Prozent der Befragten, dass sich die Wirtschaftslage verbessern würde, acht Prozent glaubten das Gegenteil, und über die Hälfte waren der Meinung, dass es keine Veränderungen geben würde oder hatten keine Meinung. Diese abwartende Haltung begann sich seit Mitte des Jahrzehnts in eine für die Staatsmacht ungünstige Richtung zu ändern. Während noch im Dezember 1985 46 Prozent der Befragten die Wirtschaftslage für schlecht hielten, wuchs dieser Anteil in den Folgemonaten ziemlich regelmäßig: 55 Prozent waren es im April, 58,5 Prozent im Dezember 1986 und nicht weniger als 69,1 Prozent im April 1987. Mit der Stimmung ging es in der Folgezeit immer weiter bergab, was bei der Führungsspitze erhebliche Beunruhigung auslöste. In einer Denkschrift vom Januar 1988 äußerten sich die drei engsten Berater General Jaruzelskis, der Sekretär des ZK der PZPR Stanisław Ciosek, der stellvertretende Innenminister Władysław Pożoga sowie Regierungssprecher Jerzy Urban hierzu: „Die Stimmungskurve ist unter den Warnstrich gefallen, mit anderen Worten: der kritische Punkt vor der Explosion [...] ist überschritten.“

6. Die Aktivität der Kirche und der politischen Opposition. In den achtziger Jahren wandelte sich die katholische Kirche in den Augen der volkspolnischen Machthaber vom Hauptgegner zu einem wichtigen Stabilisierungsfaktor für die Stimmungen in der Gesellschaft. Zwar verzichtete die Staatsmacht bis zum Schluss nicht auf ihre gegen die Geistlichkeit gerichteten Machinationen – Symbol dessen war die Entführung und Ermordung des Pfarrers Jerzy Popiełuszko durch Beamte des Sicherheitsdienstes. Aber die Führung der PZPR nahm praktisch in Kauf, dass der Einfluss der Kirche in dieser Zeit in unerhörter Weise weiter zunahm. Das kam ebenso zum Ausdruck in der Rekordzahl neugeweihter Priester und neugebauter Kirchen wie in der raschen Steigerung der Auflagen katholischer Zeitungen und Druckwerke. Mitte des Jahrzehnts erschienen 89 katholische Zeitschriften, die zusammen eine Auflage von anderhalb Millionen erreichten. Auch gegenüber dem Aufbau neuer kirchlicher Einrichtungen und der Gründung von Klubs der Katholischen Intelligenz (KIK) betrieb die Regierung eine liberalere Politik. Die kirchlichen Organisationen waren auch bei der Verteilung der aus dem Westen eintreffenden karitativen Hilfe federführend, deren beträchtlicher Umfang den Behörden erhebliches Kopfzerbrechen bereitete.

Die Regierung hoffte, dass ihr liberaler Kurs allmählich die Akzeptanz des Regimes bei der Geistlichkeit steigen lassen würde. Aber das Doppelspiel der Kirchenhierarchie, die einerseits den Dialog mit der Staatsmacht führte und andererseits den gemäßigten Teil der Opposition diskret unterstützte, brachte die Regierung Jaruzelski in Verwirrung. Diese war sich im klaren, dass zur Durchführung der seit Mitte des Jahrzehnts heranreifenden Systemreform die Unterstützung der Kirche benötigt würde, aber man hatte keine Vorstellung davon, bis zu welchem Grade die Bischöfe die Reformen mittragen würden, noch inwieweit sie sich mit den Zielen der Opposition identifizierten.

Trotz ihrer Schwächephase um die Mitte der neunziger Jahre wurde die Opposition zu einer Kraft, die für ständigen Widerstand gegen das System sorgte. Die Opposition war zwar in verschiedene, einandern bekämpfende Lager gespalten, allgemein gesagt bildete sie aber zwei Hauptströmungen, die sich in ihrer Haltung zum volkspolnischen Regime unterschieden. Innerhalb der radikalen Strömung verfügte die 1982 von Kornel Morawiecki gegründete „Solidarność Walcząca“ („Kämpfende Solidarność“) über das größte Potenzial; dieser Flügel beabsichtigte, das Regime mittels eines Generalstreiks und einer revolutionären Erhebung zu stürzen. Dagegen ging die gemäßigte Strömung, die sich um Lech Wałęsa und das bis 1986 im Untergrund tätige Provisorische Koordinationskomitee der Gewerkschaft Solidarność sammelte, davon aus, dass die sich verschlechternde Wirtschaftslage und der Druck aus dem Westen schließlich das Jaruzelski-Regime zur Aufnahme von Gesprächen mit der Opposition zwingen würden. Aus Sicht der Regierung war von Bedeutung, dass die gemäßigte Strömung stärker war als die radikale, und als 1988 die PZPR-Führung sich schließlich zu Gesprächen mit Wałęsa und seinen damaligen Mitarbeitern bereitfand, erwiesen sich die radikalen Oppositionellen als zu schwach, um die Gespräche am Runden Tisch zu blockieren und danach die dort ausgehandelten Parlamentswahlen vom Juni 1989 zu boykottieren.

Aus dem Polnischen von Andreas R. Hofmann

 

 

Prof. Antoni Dudek (geb. 1966) – Politologe, beschäftigt sich mit der neusten politischen Geschichte Polens. Mitglied des Institutsrates am Institut für Nationales Gedenken.

 

 

 

As is well known, Poland suffered enormous human and material losses during the Second World War. These losses were relatively - i.e. in relation to the pre-war population - the largest in Europe. Moreover, the German Nazi occupation authorities embarked on a cruel and humiliating programme of degrading the Polish nation to the function of an uneducated workforce. This provoked widespread and strong Polish resistance during the war and, once it ended, condemnation, resentment and even hatred towards Germans in general, based on the largely correct conviction that a large part of German society supported Hitler’s regime. Of course, the generalisations presented here should not be taken literally, but as a characterisation of a certain dominant tendency.

In Germany, a certain section of society may not have known the horrifying facts about the occupation of Poland, while another section effectively pushed the tragic truth about it out of its consciousness. Under these conditions - especially in the western occupation zones, from which the Federal Republic of Germany was formed in 1949 - Poles came to be seen as the main culprits for the great misfortune of the German people, which was considered to be the loss of the eastern part of the former Germany and the displacement of the German population living there until then. German critics of Poland and the Poles did not want to understand that these territories were compensation for the even more extensive areas that the Soviet Union had taken from Poland, and not simple territorial spoils. Importantly, it was the Soviet leader Joseph Stalin who at the Big Three conference in Potsdam pushed through the course of the Polish western border and the displacement of the German population from Poland within the new borders.

This mutual antagonism was exploited by politics in both countries. In Poland, Stalin installed the rule of the communists, who were very unpopular among the Polish population and there was a partisan war against their rule in the country. One of the very few aspects of the reality of the time in which the positions of the communists and the Polish population appeared to agree was the hostility to the Germans and the conviction that Poland necessarily needed the territories taken from the Germans in order to rebuild and in the future develop. For this reason, the communists literally nurtured hostility to Germany and the Germans, as it was probably the most important factor at least partially legitimising their power in Poland.

On the other hand, in the Federal Republic of Germany - created by the decision of the Western occupying powers (the United States, Great Britain and France) after the beginning of the Cold War in 1949–1950 - recalling the alleged and actual guilt of Poles and hostility towards the Polish People’s Republic as an ally of the Soviets was politically very convenient, as it emphasised the pro-Western stance of this new German state and at the same time relegated the moral and legal reckoning with German Nazi crimes to the very background. In addition, certain provisions of the Potsdam Agreement of August 1945 allowed the West German side to claim that the actually existing Polish-German border on the Oder and Neisse rivers was not definitively established and therefore Germany still existed within the 1937 borders. This argumentation, as one can easily guess, caused much concern in Poland for the future of the country.

As we know, a communist state was created in the Soviet occupation zone of Germany in 1949 under the name of the German Democratic Republic. Despite their declared friendship, relations between communist Poland and communist East Germany were only seemingly correct. In 1950, East Germany, on the express orders of Moscow, signed a treaty with Poland on the recognition of the new border, but the two governments were still very distrustful of each other and competed fiercely for the favours of the Soviet hegemon.

Although the resentment and alienation prevailing between Poles and Germans was deep and almost universal, keen minds on both sides of the unrecognised border increasingly came to the conclusion that such a state of affairs must end one day and that the two large nations in the middle of Europe could not live with their backs turned to each other. In 1956, Władysław Gomułka, a politician described as a ‘national communist’, took power in Poland. Just after the war, he had been Minister for what was known as the Recovered Territories, as the communist propaganda named the territories taken from Germany, and well acquainted with the complexity of the situation of these territories. One of his important foreign policy goals was to have the Oder-Neisse border recognised by the Federal Republic of Germany. He was keen to do this because he wanted to weaken Moscow’s role as the sole protector of communist Poland and create more stable conditions for the country’s development than before. In the Federal Republic of Germany, its first Chancellor Konrad Adenauer had already made it his policy objective in the early 1950s to establish normal, correct relations with France, Israel and, precisely, Poland, as he saw in this an opportunity for Germany to return quickly to the ranks of respected members of the international community. While the normalisation of relations with France and Israel had indeed already taken place in the 1950s, progress in relations with Poland had to wait much longer. Despite confidential talks that had been ongoing since 1957 (Carlo Schmid, Berthold Beitz), their only achievements were an initial trade agreement and the opening of trade representations in each country in 1963.

Regardless of the politicians’ unsuccessful attempts, the late 1950s and early 1960s saw the emergence of tendencies in Germany, especially among the younger generation, to settle the Nazi past of German society. In the case of those following the Christian ethic, this led to the learning about and confession of guilt, as well as repentance and atonement. In 1958, the Evangelical youth organisation Aktion Sühnezeichen (Sign of Repentance Action) was founded in Germany, which dedicated itself to such simple but very meaningful activities outside Germany as working to clean up former crime scenes, mostly concentration camps, and caring for former prisoners who were sick and infirm. At the beginning of the 1960s, activists of the Christian churches in Germany began to increasingly convince German society to abandon the idea of revising the existing border with Poland and to seek understanding and reconciliation with the Poles. Information about the change of mood in Germany reached Poland, arousing more and more lively interest in the Catholic Church, a dominant force here. The most perspicacious among the Catholic clergy and intellectuals were aware that the hatred of Germans pouring profusely from the communist media and into the heads of children and young people at school, was profoundly immoral from a Christian point of view and further weakened the mental ties between Poles and the free democratic world.

In assessing the situation at the time, we must remember that the communist authorities in Poland harshly persecuted the Catholic Church, whose adherents were well over 80 per cent of Polish society until 1956. The Communists imprisoned many bishops and priests for years on trumped-up charges, made it difficult for Catholics to practise their religion and discriminated against them. The most notorious of the prisoners was the head of the Church in Poland, the Primate of Poland Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński. He was released from custody in 1956, at which time the repressions against the clergy and the faithful eased somewhat, but nevertheless relations between the communist state and the Catholic Church were still very tense.

Between 1962 and 1965, the Second Vatican Council took place in Rome, its aim being a profound modernisation of the Catholic Church. The participating Polish cardinals and bishops, who shared their experiences of coexistence between Church and state guided by an anti-religious ideology, made many contacts with representatives of other churches. They used them to invite bishops from all over the world to the great celebrations planned in 1966 for the Millennium, the 1,000th anniversary of the adoption of the Christian faith by the Polish ruler Prince Mieszko I and his state. On 18 November 1965, in the last days of the Council, a comprehensive letter signed by 36 top representatives of the Polish episcopate and containing such an invitation was handed over to the German bishops. The author of the letter was the Archbishop of Wrocław Bolesław Kominek, a clergyman who had grown up both in Polish and German culture. The concluding sentences of this document included the words:

In this most Christian, but also very human spirit, we extend to you, sitting here on the benches of the concluding Council, our hands and grant forgiveness as well as ask for it. And if you, German bishops ... fraternally embrace these outstretched hands, then only then will we be able to celebrate our Millennium in a most Christian manner with peace of conscience.

The words we grant forgiveness, as well as ask for it[1] have become the foundation of German-Polish reconciliation and a leitmotif of many other reconciliation processes. Today, these words can be found on the author’s memorial and commemorated in dozens of different ways.

The reply of the German episcopate sent on 5 December 1965 was polite and diplomatic, but completely in line with the formal legal position of the Federal Republic of Germany towards Poland. It also did not contain such an emotional plea for forgiveness, which - on the face of it - marked the failure of the Polish bishops’ initiative. A few days later, the communist authorities in Poland unleashed a violent propaganda campaign against the Church and the signatories of the letter. The bishops were accused of violating the government’s exclusive competence in foreign policy and of betraying the Polish raison d’état by addressing the Germans with these words. Communist Party chief Gomółka was so furious with the bishops that he seriously considered arresting them or deporting them from Poland to the Vatican. Questions were raised about who had given them the right to forgive the Germans and what the Poles were supposed to apologise to them for. A major problem was that the content of the letter to the German bishops also came as a surprise to Polish Catholics, and criticism of this act of forgiveness was voiced in many Catholic milieus.

Over the next few months, however, the bishops successfully convinced Catholics in Poland that, twenty years after the war, a religious and moral act of forgiveness was necessary and imperative. In time, the communist campaign against the authors of the letter also weakened, as it turned out that this appeal had nevertheless been noticed in West Germany and had become an impulse to increasingly seek dialogue with the Poles. Moreover, in December 1966, a government was formed in the Federal Republic of Germany, with the Social Democrat Willy Brandt as Foreign Minister and Deputy Chancellor, who began to implement a plan for what is known as Ostpolitik (eastern policy), whose motto was Wandel durch Annäherung (change through rapprochement). This policy was to lead to the establishment and expansion of relations with the Soviet Union and the countries of the Soviet bloc, including Poland in particular. In October 1969, Willy Brandt became Chancellor and a year later visited Poland, where he signed a treaty for the normalisation of relations with Poland, the most important part of which was the recognition of the Oder-Neisse border as Poland’s western border and the declaration of the renunciation of all mutual territorial claims. On the same day, the German Chancellor made an unexpected gesture that became a true icon of reconciliation. Laying a wreath at the Monument to the Ghetto Heroes in Warsaw, he knelt in humility.

It was proof to the Germans themselves, to the Poles and to many observers around the world that a fundamental mental change had taken place in Germany, which on the German side opened the way to reconciliation. The agreement between the People’s Republic of Poland and the Federal Republic opened a new stage in Polish-German relations. In 1972 the German-Polish Textbook Commission was established, which exists to this day, with the task of issuing joint recommendations to authors of history textbooks in both countries on how - taking into account the latest state of scientific research - to present the history of German-Polish relations. It is worth mentioning that a team of authors working under the aegis of the Textbook Commission has since 2008 produced a set of secondary school history textbooks which are identical in content in the German and Polish versions. Thanks to the work of the German-Polish Textbook Commission, which has been going on for half a century, and the intensive scientific contacts between historians from both countries, which also began in the 1970s, the old academic disputes about the history of German-Polish relations have been resolved together. This is by no means to say that the common past is not a source of sometimes sharp disputes and tensions, but their cause is nowadays basically only the way the past is commemorated and not the historical facts. The former is the domain of politicians, the latter of historians.

In the 1970s, intensive German-Polish economic cooperation developed. It was driven by West German loans, which were large by the standards of the time, and were intended to bring about a modernisation leap in Poland, which had suffered from deep economic and technological backwardness in the previous decades. These intentions, implemented under the conditions of the communist planned economy, failed. In the course of time, it became apparent that the increasingly intensive contacts between the two societies, the tourist trips in both directions, the temporary work of Poles in Germany, the emerging city partnerships, cultural exchanges, etc., were of far greater importance. It should not be imagined that these contacts were as intensive and uncomplicated as they are today between friendly countries, but they were fundamentally different from what was possible in the Soviet Union and other communist countries.

One of the most spectacular successes of the then stage of German-Polish cooperation, with virtually all the hallmarks of reconciliation between the churches, was the election of the Polish Cardinal Karol Wojtyła as Pope, i.e. head of the worldwide Catholic Church, in 1978. Under the name John Paul II, he became one of the most recognisable and popular figures in the world at that time. Years later, it became clear that this election was mainly due to the very active support given to the Polish cardinal by the German members of the College of Cardinals.

At the same time, among the numerous illegal opposition organisations working in Poland for the reform or outright overthrow of communism, a clandestine think-tank called the Polish Independence Alliance emerged. It published expert reports on various aspects of Polish politics outside state control. This group published two texts on Polish-German relations. They concluded that an authentic and partnership-like Polish-German understanding was a necessary condition for Poland to liberate itself from Soviet hegemony and overthrow communism, for if Poles and Germans gained trust in each other and reconciled, any justification for Soviet guarantees of the territorial status quo in Poland would disappear. Moreover, expert reports by the secret think-tank concluded that the division of Germany into two states was completely unnatural and harmful to Poland, as the communist German Democratic Republic walled Poland off from Western Europe. Therefore, any steps leading to the reunification of this country by the Federal Republic of Germany should be supported. Such ideas went virtually unnoticed in West Germany, but their compelling logic had since become a permanent component of the geopolitical thought of the Polish anti-communist opposition.

In the summer of 1980, i.e. not long after the election of Pope John Paul II, the non-communist Independent and Self-Governing Trade Union Solidarity was established in Poland, which was in the midst of a severe economic crisis, after a huge wave of strikes, soon having nine million members. This huge peaceful political force attempted a radical democratisation of Poland, which the communists saw as a threat to their rule. On 13 December 1981, General Wojciech Jaruzelski’s government imposed martial law, and the police and army arrested more than 10,000 Solidarity activists. A communist military dictatorship took power in Poland for several years, and a political and humanitarian crisis engulfed the country. West Germany’s attitude to these events in Poland was complicated, as the government of the Federal Republic, which had so far achieved much success with its change-through-rapprochement policy towards the Polish communists, was very reluctant towards the Solidarity Trade Union, as it disturbed - as it was believed in Bonn - this apparent harmony. For this reason, Solidarity as an organisation received hardly any support from the West German authorities. The attitude of German society was different. The powerful, spontaneous social movement, which courageously strove to democratise and expand the sphere of freedom in its homeland, aroused widespread support there. For this reason, in order to alleviate the consequences of the crisis in Poland manifesting itself in dramatic shortages of food, medicine and clothing, a massive campaign was organised in Germany to send parcels of food, medicine, baby food and clothing to Poland. This aid, going directly from individual German donors to Polish families or distributed by church structures, reached millions of Poles for several critical years. In the eyes of the Poles, this great aid campaign became visible proof to everyone that the Germans as a nation had changed and had now become friends who could be counted on in times of need. This was another foundation of the reconciliation process.

In the following years, the crisis of the communist state and the loss of credibility of its leaders was so great that in the spring of 1989 they decided to share power and responsibility for the state with the opposition and agreed to almost entirely democratic elections. In these elections (held on 4 June 1989), they suffered a crushing defeat and the first non-communist government in the entire Soviet bloc was soon formed under the leadership of Tadeusz Mazowiecki. The first foreign leader to visit the new Polish government was German Chancellor Helmut Kohl. It was a very special visit, as on its very first day, 9 November 1989, the infamous wall that had divided Berlin during the Cold War came down, marking the fall of the communist German Democratic Republic and opening up the prospect of German reunification. On 12 November 1989, during the remainder of Kohl’s visit to Poland, a ‘Reconciliation Mass’ took place in Krzyżowa in Silesia, where German opposition to Hitler had been active during the Second World War. During this political as well as religious ceremony, Polish Prime Minister Mazowiecki and the German Chancellor embraced each other, passing on the ‘sign of peace’ to each other. The news and photographs documenting this event became another symbol that spoke of progressive reconciliation.

As I mentioned, Poland had a positive attitude towards the expected German reunification. However, that process, according to the letter of the Potsdam Agreement of 1945, once again (this time for the last time) opened up the question of recognition of the Polish western border, which caused serious anxiety on the Polish side. This anxiety was not unfounded, as Chancellor Helmut Kohl, motivated by domestic political considerations, was for an exceptionally long time dragging his feet as regards deciding exactly how this recognition of the border with Poland was to take place. It was finally decided on 17 July 1990, during negotiations between the Foreign Ministers of the two German states, the four former occupying powers and the Polish Foreign Minister, who had been invited for this purpose.

The agreement on the definitive recognition of the German-Polish border itself was signed on 14 November 1990, and less than a year later a comprehensive agreement on good neighbourly and friendly cooperation between the two countries was concluded.

These pacts formed a very convenient basis for the development of cooperation. From the point of view of the reconciliation process between the two societies, the creation of a strong organisation called the German-Polish Youth Cooperation was of particular importance. Its task is to organise and co-finance exchanges of schoolchildren and university students, school partnerships, joint workshops, etc., all with the aim of getting the younger generation from both countries to know each other, which should then lead to their cooperation in adulthood as a matter of course. To date, more than three million participants have taken part in Youth Cooperation programmes. Thousands of city, municipal, county and regional partnerships were (and still are) established in the 1990s with a similar objective in mind. In the same period, the number of mixed German-Polish marriages skyrocketed and Polish women are still the most frequently married foreigners. In conclusion, one can venture to say that the 1990s saw a complete normalisation of German-Polish relations in the sphere of interpersonal and social relations, which can probably be described as reconciliation. And this state of affairs has proved to be permanent.

Harmonised with these overwhelmingly positive trends were the joint political actions of both countries. A strategic goal of Polish foreign policy, vigorously supported by Germany, was Poland’s membership of the European Union, opening up the fastest possible path to modernisation, as well as that of the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO), giving the country the best possible guarantee of security. Both of these goals were also in the interest of a reunified Germany, if only because of the opening up of the Polish market and Germany’s participation in Poland’s modernisation. At the same time, after Poland’s entry into NATO in 1999, Germany ceased to be a frontline state and gained considerable strategic depth. Consequently, one began to speak of the 1990s as a period of Polish-German ‘community of interest’.

This period essentially came to an end at the beginning of the 2000s. Incidentally, already in 1994 the German political scientist and publicist working in Poland, Klaus Bachmann, described Polish-German relations as ‘kitschy reconciliation’. He argued that, in order to achieve primary political goals, both countries avoided debate on contentious and controversial issues, thus distorting the true picture of mutual relations. In 2002, the first major friction in Polish-German relations occurred on the occasion of the Polish army’s decision to purchase American F-16 fighter jets, rather than French or Swedish aircraft as the Germans had expected. At the same time, Poland and Germany took a completely different stance on the US-Iraq conflict and the Second Gulf War. Poland demonstrably supported Washington’s plans and later even took a large occupation zone in Iraq, while Germany, together with France, Russia and China, refused to participate in this war and support the Americans. This was the first time in history that the Federal Republic of Germany overtly countered its hitherto major ally. Meanwhile, the Poles watched with growing concern Germany’s security policy, which boiled down to a rapid reduction in the size of its army and military expenditure, and the policy of the European Union, which showed a tragic helplessness towards the war in the former Yugoslavia.

At the same time, Vladimir Putin had been president in Russia since 1999, and already the first years of his rule indicated that authoritarianism and imperial tendencies were gradually resurfacing in Russia, which in principle necessarily led Poland to seek a rapprochement with the strongest NATO state, i.e. the United States, as the only real ‘donor’ of security in this part of the world.

The author of this shift in German policy was, as is well known, Chancellor Gerhard Schröder, in power since 1998. He became an advocate of the notion that a partnership with Russia was of key importance to European security, and of the idea, shared with the French, of creating a ‘European power’ (Europäische Großmacht) as an independent player in world politics: independent and thus contesting the current position of the USA. One effect of Germany’s adoption of this vision of international relations was that it ignored warning signals concerning Russia and - above all - willingly joined in the construction of the Nord Stream 1 gas pipeline, which runs along the bottom of the Baltic Sea from Russia directly to Germany, thus bypassing all the countries lying between Russia and Germany. With Germany’s help, Russia gained the possibility to use gas blackmail against Ukraine, Belarus, the Baltic states, Poland, Slovakia, the Czech Republic and Hungary. Germany, in turn, obtained large supplies of Russian natural gas at preferential prices. In Berlin, it was imagined that this would soon allow a profitable redistribution of this raw material in many European countries and, in addition, provide the German economy - already the strongest in Europe - with an additional competitive advantage, guaranteeing its position as an economic hegemon in the European Union. Germany has rejected all criticism of this pipeline, and has also torpedoed the idea of a European energy union, whereby the Union would buy gas for all its Member States and distribute it according to jointly accepted criteria.

As we know, Gerhard Schröder lost power in 2005 and, three weeks after leaving office as Chancellor, became Chairman of the Supervisory Board of the Russian gas giant Gazprom. He thus discredited himself in the eyes of the public, but the German Government, led from then until last year by Angela Merkel, did not give up its strategic plan, supporting the construction of Nord Stream 2 after Nord Stream 1. Added to this was the plan pushed by Germany for the ecological transformation of the EU economy. This generally noble plan, however, assumed until this summer that natural gas would soon be the only accepted transition fuel in Europe until the ‘universal happiness’ of a carbon-free economy was achieved. Nuclear power was condemned in these plans, and the use of coal as a fuel and fracking of natural gas banned. In this way, the German-Russian gas plans gained even greater economic and strategic importance. It was not until Russia’s unlawful aggression against Ukraine in February this year and the cruel war that continues to this day that it became clear how misguided and dangerous these plans were for Germany itself and for Europe as a whole.

In the early 2000s, unexpectedly for the Poles, there was a tendency in Germany to highlight the German victims of the Second World War. This included the victims of Allied bombing in Germany and, for example, the victims of the Soviet army atrocities that occurred during the conquest of Germany. Most important, however, was the movement for the creation of the Centre against Expulsions, a modern memorial to the territories lost to Poland in eastern Germany, and above all to the hard and often tragic fate of the German population forcibly displaced from there. This was accompanied by demands for compensation to be paid to the displaced Germans and their descendants for property lost to Poland. It should be emphasised here that the forced migration of the German population after the Second World War was no taboo in either Germany or Poland up until that time. A great deal of research was done on the subject, including much conducted jointly by German and Polish historians, many books were published and several films made. However, from the 1960s onwards this subject was rarely present in the German cultural mainstream and it seemed that this aspect of the past was beginning to be treated in Germany as a closed page of history rather than something that could capture the memory and imagination of contemporary Germans.

Incidentally, Poland of the 1980s and 1990s also experienced a similar process of historicisation, symptomatic of which was a regression of interest in the history of the German occupation of Poland and the crimes committed at that time. Thus, the surprise of Polish politicians and public opinion at the change in German remembrance policy was great. In Poland, people began to suspect that - as it was said at the time - the Germans now wanted to rewrite the history of the Second World War. Meanwhile, the existing consensus between Poles and Germans on such elementary questions as who was to blame for the outbreak of war, who pursued a criminal and genocidal policy and towards whom, and who bore responsibility for it and why, was (and is) seen as the most important basis for reconciliation and good relations with Germany. Observing the developments at the time, many Poles thought that this whole mental and political construction would soon collapse. Even the first dangerous political moves were already made: when the German authorities gave preliminary support to the idea of building a Centre against Expulsions and did not distance themselves from demands for compensation for German property lost on Polish territories, the Polish Sejm passed a resolution in 2004 stating (truthfully) that Poland had not yet received reparations for the damage caused in Poland during the Second World War, and that the Parliament was therefore calling on the Polish Government to determine the amount of these losses.

This development, which threatened a serious crisis in mutual relations, alarmed people of goodwill in both countries, who managed to stop it. The German Government declared that it would never support private German demands for compensation against Poland and, moreover, did not allow the establishment of the Centre against Expulsions in the form initially planned. The institution documenting and commemorating the forced migration of Germans from Central and Eastern Europe was opened to the public in Berlin last year under a different name. The permanent exhibition presented there is very factual and objective in its content and does not reflect any accusations against Poland. In Berlin, there are plans to create a Memorial and Meeting Place for Poland, dedicated to the history of the German occupation in Poland.

In Poland, on the other hand, nothing has been done to impede the activities of the countless German-Polish NGOs, partnerships between towns and regions, joint scientific programmes and the like, which have mushroomed since 1989. They all form a highly resilient and durable tissue that cushions most of the negative impacts generated by current politics, eliminating, or at least delaying, their impact on public awareness. Consistent with this picture is the fact that the work on establishing the amount of reparations that Poland could demand from Germany took as long as eighteen years and ended with the publication of the first part of this document literally ten days ago, but it is not certain that the Polish side will ever use these findings to formally demand reparations from Germany. This does not change the fact that the temperature of Polish-German relations has dropped quite markedly after 2000 and both sides have had to abandon many exaggerated expectations of a reconciliation process that probably needs much more time than we expected.

 

[1] These words are an unambiguous reference to the sentence And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, found in the key prayer said by Christians, informally known as Our Father… .

 

photo: Andrzej Ślusarczyk - Template:Fundacja "Krzyżowa" dla Porozumienia Europejskiego

Shortly after midnight, on the night of August 23, 1939, Joseph Stalin drank a toast to Adolf Hitler.  The occasion, of course, was the signature of the Nazi-Soviet Pact – or Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact – the non-aggression treaty between Moscow and Berlin which gave a green light to Hitler’s aggression against Poland and so paved the way for the outbreak of World War Two in Europe.  It is a date which is seared into the memories of many millions of people in Poland, Finland Romania, and the Baltic States – or those whose origins lie there – yet its significance is still strangely unrecognized in the standard western narrative of the war.  

Our collective ignorance of the subject is surprising.  For many of us, World War Two has a prominence today which seems to grow, rather than diminish, with each passing year.  For some countries, it has passed from history into something like a national religion, as evidenced in the groaning bookshop shelves and repetitive television documentaries.  In history publishing, it has become commonplace for every campaign of the war, every catastrophe and curiosity, to be subjected to endless reinterpretations and re-assessments, resulting very often in competing schools of thought and competing historical volumes. 

Yet, for all that, the Nazi-Soviet Pact still barely features in the Western narrative; passed over often in a single paragraph, dismissed as an outlier, a dubious anomaly, or a footnote to the wider history.  Its significance is routinely reduced to the status of the last diplomatic chess move before the outbreak of war, with no mention made of the baleful Great Power relationship that it spawned.  It is instructive, for example, that few of the recent popular histories of World War Two published in Britain give the pact any significant attention.  It is not considered to warrant a chapter, and usually attracts little more than a paragraph or two and a handful of index references.

When one considers the pact’s obvious significance and magnitude, this is little short of astonishing.  Under its auspices, Hitler and Stalin – the two most infamous dictators of 20th Century Europe – found common cause in destroying Poland and overturning the Versailles order.  Their two regimes, whose later conflict would be the defining clash of World War Two in Europe, divided Central Europe between them and stood, side by side, for almost a third of the conflict’s entire timespan.

Neither was the pact an aberration: a momentary tactical slip. It was followed up by a succession of treaties and agreements, starting with the German-Soviet Border and Friendship Treaty of 28 September 1939, whereby Poland was divided between them and both sides vowed not to tolerate Polish “agitation” on their territory. Thereafter, across two expansive economic treaties, they traded secrets, blueprints, technology and raw materials, oiling the wheels of each other’s war machines. Stalin was no passive or unwilling neutral in this period, he was Adolf Hitler’s most significant strategic ally.

For all these reasons, the German-Soviet strategic relationship – born on 23 August 1939 – fully deserves to be an integral part of our collective narrative of the war.  But it isn’t.  It is worth speculating for a moment on the myriad reasons for this omission.  To some extent, it can be attributed to the traditional myopia that appears to afflict the Anglophone world with regard to Central Europe; the mentality so neatly expressed by British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, who dismissed Czechoslovakia in 1938, as “a faraway country”, inhabited by “people of whom we know nothing”.  1938 is a long time ago, but to a large extent the sentiment still prevails, in spite of the recent outpouring of support for Ukraine.

In addition, there is also what one might call the “asymmetry of tolerance” in Western political discourse, in which the crimes of communism are more readily wished away or ignored than the crimes of fascism.  The logic underlying this is that the excesses of the left were somehow more noble in inspiration – motivated as they supposedly were by spurious notions of “equality” or “progress” – than the excesses of the right, which were motivated by base concepts of racial supremacy.  This serves, in part, to explain how the so-called Overton Window – the spectrum of acceptable political discourse – has shifted markedly leftward in recent years, and how Lenin and Che Guevara are still considered “edgy” on many university campuses.

There is also the problem of historiography.  The Western narrative of World War Two traditionally struggles to see past the villainy of Adolf Hitler and his Third Reich; and the centrality of the Holocaust to that narrative only tends to cement that bias.  German historiography, too, is largely predicated upon the ‘original sin’ of Nazism, relegating all other sinners to the status of, at best, bit-part players.  The villainy of Stalin’s Soviet Union, therefore, remains largely overlooked; minimised and relativised, a footnote to the Western narrative, rather than a headline.

In such circumstances, Soviet and later Russian propaganda – which has sought to minimise and relativise the pact and its consequences – has been largely pushing at an open door.  Nonetheless, the Nazi-Soviet Pact has proved to be something of a touchstone, an obvious embarrassment to the Kremlin, which required more than the usual efforts at obfuscation, diversion and deflection.  The first blast in this offensive came shortly after Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union, in 1941, when Stalin – now desperately courting the Allies – sought to distance himself from the Pact by describing it as a last resort, something forced on an unwilling USSR by circumstances.  It is perhaps testament to the power of Stalin’s “useful idiots” in the West, that – more than eight decades on – this interpretation is still routinely heard. 

In 1948, the Soviet propaganda offensive was ramped up a notch.  In response to the publication of the text of the Secret Protocol to the Nazi-Soviet Pact by the US State Department, Stalin himself penned a counterblast entitled Falsifiers of History which – of course – declared the Secret Protocol to be a capitalist fake, and criticised Western perfidy for failing to halt Hitler in the first place.  He also floated a new interpretation of the Pact, seeking to justify it by painting it as a defensive masterstroke – a delaying of the inevitable rather than a cynical collaboration.

Soviet denial of the Secret Protocol – the most incriminating document from the negotiations surrounding the pact – would prove remarkably durable.  Towards the end of his life, in 1983, Vyacheslav Molotov was asked by a journalist about the existence of the Secret Protocol.  His reply was unequivocal.  The rumours about it were designed to damage the USSR, he said: “There was no Secret Protocol”.  Less than a decade later, in the face of widespread popular protests in the Baltic States, Gorbachev would publish the text of the document – signed by Molotov – from the Soviet archive.

In the years that followed, the brief flowering of Glasnost – or ‘openness’ – under Gorbachev and Yeltsin, would give way to a new culture of secrecy and dogged denials.  Archives, briefly opened to the world’s scholars, would be closed to all but the most loyal and dependable commentators.  The memory of World War Two would in time become one of the cornerstones of Putinism; a cult of maudlin manufactured remembrance that would increasingly take the place of the once promised prosperity and stability.

Under Putin, however, the narrative was not just a retread of the Soviet story of the war; the Nazi-Soviet Pact, for instance, was rebranded as a demonstration of the Kremlin’s strength, and an implicit warning to Russia’s neighbours.  When Moscow published a trove of archival documents relating to the pact, in 2019, the underlying message was clear: the same brutal logic that had motivated the pact – the logic of “spheres of influence” and of the Darwinian right of the strong to dictate to the weak – was once again enjoying currency in the Kremlin.   

In these circumstances – with a disinterested West and a mendacious, revanchist Russia – it is easy to see how any honest assessment of the Nazi-Soviet Pact is very difficult to achieve.  Yet, honestly assess it we must, if for no other reason than for the sake of historical honesty and accuracy.  The Nazi-Soviet Pact is one of the most significant treaties of World War Two.  We forget the link, perhaps, but the pact led directly to the outbreak of war; isolating Poland between its two malevolent neighbours and scuppering the rather desultory efforts of the Western powers to thwart Hitler.

The Great Power relationship that the pact forged is similarly significant. The war that followed carried its malevolent stamp. Poland was invaded and divided between Moscow and Berlin.  Finland, too, was invaded by the Red Army and forced to cede territory. And, with Hitler’s connivance, the independent Baltic states were annexed by Stalin, as was the Romanian province of Bessarabia, their brave, dissenting populations doomed to be deported to the horrors of the gulag.  The Nazi-Soviet Pact is no parochial concern therefore, not a subject of purely local significance.  At a conservative estimate, it directly impacted the lives of some 50 million people.

So, it is clear then, that the Pact is something that needs to be commemorated and needs to be remembered.  In the main, it has fallen to those most directly affected to commemorate it.  In the late 1980s, Baltic and East European refugees from communism in the west established “Black Ribbon Day” – on 23 August – as a focus for anti-Soviet protests.  Soon after, in 1989, the inhabitants of the Baltic States protested against their annexation by the USSR – facilitated by the Nazi-Soviet Pact – by the mass demonstration of the Baltic Way; a 2-million strong human chain that snaked for over 400 miles across the three republics on 23 August.

In 2009, such popular initiatives found an official echo with a resolution, presented to the European Parliament in Brussels, proposing that 23 August should henceforth be recognised as the “European Day of Remembrance for the Victims of Stalinism and Nazism.”  It was passed with a few votes against from communist MEPs, one of whom described the juxtaposition of the Nazi and Soviet regimes as “indescribably vulgar”.

Russia, naturally, also cried foul, with then-president Dmitry Medvedev establishing in response the “Presidential Commission to Counter Attempts to Falsify History” – a deliberate echo of Stalin’s earlier attempt to stifle the truth of the pact.  According to the new decree, transgressors could be fined or imprisoned for 5 years for deviating from the new, strictly laudatory line on the Soviet performance in World War Two.  It was all rather reminiscent of the old Soviet joke: “the future is certain, it’s only the past that is unpredictable.”

Now, since 2014, the European Network of Remembrance and Solidarity (ENRS) – an international governmental initiative to promote the study of European 20th-century history – has taken up the challenge of commemorating the Nazi-Soviet Pact through its educational campaign, entitled “Remember: August 23”.  Its initiatives, which range from distributing pin badges to the production of short films to highlight the stories of some of the victims of the totalitarian regimes, are intended to disseminate knowledge, free of falsehood and disinformation, and provoke honest discussion.

Some might imagine that, with Russia’s recent invasion of Ukraine plunging the European continent once more into war, arguments about the finer points of 20th century history are somehow a luxury that can be ill-afforded.  I would argue the contrary, however.  Russia’s brutal and unprovoked invasion of its neighbour is merely the latest instalment of a bloody continuum; a new offence in a catalogue of crimes – stretching back to the Nazi-Soviet Pact and beyond – which betray the mindset of suspicion, paranoia and naked aggression that has long guided the Kremlin’s world view.  Now is the time for the scales, finally, to fall from our eyes; for us to realise – in bloody technicolour – the true vicious nature of Europe’s neighbour to the east, and to redouble our efforts in studying and disseminating the darkest chapters of its history.  In that endeavour, August 23 can and must play a central, defining role.

On 20 January 1942, several high-ranking dignitaries of the Third Reich met in a villa on Lake Wannsee. During the preceding weeks, the political situation in which the Nazi state found itself had clearly changed. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hitler declared war on the United States. At the same time, the lack of success in the Battle of Moscow meant that the vision of a quick defeat of the Soviet Union had been dispelled. However, they did not gather to hear about the situation on the fronts. The new reality opened up the opportunity for the ‘Final Solution of the Jewish Question’. The fate of European Jews, who were treated by Hitler as hostages, stopped being a potential bargaining pin preventing Americans to join war. Since it was obvious that the fighting in the East would not end soon, it was decided that the Final Solution should not be postponed until the defeat of Stalin. But what does the term exactly mean? Under this euphemistic term lay a crime unprecedented in the history of mankind: the will to bring about the systematic murder of the Jewish population in Europe.

Almost all copies of the minutes of the Vannsee Conference (the Wannsee Protocol) were destroyed by those in their possession. Consequently, our knowledge about the meeting would have been much poorer, had Robert Kempner not come across the only surviving copy in 1947. This German lawyer and fierce enemy of the Nazis was actively involved in the Nuremberg trials after the war. Kempner immediately noticed the extraordinary importance of the Protocol and thanks to his meticulous approach to the prosecution and a little luck, a shocking document related to a turning point in the history of the Holocaust is known today.

Despite the euphemisms used in the Wannsee Protocol, the picture of the meeting that emerges from the document is horrifying. The conference was opened by Reinhard Heydrich, head of the Reich Security Main Office. He informed the audience that the aim of the meeting was to establish a common line of action regarding the ‘Final Solution of the Jewish Question’. At the same time, he stressed his key role in the implementation of the plans. On 31 July 1941, Herman Göring had already authorised him to take all necessary steps to this end. Over the course of six months, ideas concerning the involvement of specific Third Reich administrations changed, as did the aforementioned political situation, which slightly delayed the convening of the conference. In the end, Heydrich spoke to representatives of several ministries, offices and security police. Among those present were Wilhelm Stuckart, Secretary of State in the Ministry of the Interior, and Roland Freisler representing the Reich Ministry of Justice. The Nazi authorities in the occupied countries were represented by Hans Frank’s deputy, Josef Bühler, Secretary of State in the Government of the General Government and SS-Sturmbannführer Rudolf Lange, Commandant of the Security Police and SD in Riga. Heydrich himself was, incidentally, at the same time Deputy Protector of Bohemia and Moravia. The assembled listened to a summary of the existing policy towards the Jews and its limitations. In place of the forced emigration applied before, the concept of ‘evacuation to the East’ appeared. To illustrate the scale of the issue for the participants, data on the Jewish population in Europe were presented. Adolf Eichmann, Heydrich’s right hand man in the Final Solution, was responsible for compiling the data. After a lengthy enumeration, issues such as the organisation of ghettos for aging Jews and the fate of Jewish veterans who fought on the German side in the First World War were addressed. Later in the conference, Heydrich reminded the audience of who was a Jew under German law and presented a solution to the question of Mischlings (mixed-race people i.e. those with Jewish and non-Jewish ancestors). After a brief discussion, the meeting was closed, and the Chief of the Reich Security Main Office requested that the members of the meeting provide him with appropriate assistance in solving this ‘problem’.

In a meeting lasting barely an hour and a half, the fate of millions of people was sealed. But was the Wannsee Conference such a breakthrough? The German crimes against the Jews did not begin on 20 January 1942. However, it could be said that it was only from this date that ‘command genocide’ on an unprecedented scale began. The previous policy of forced emigration (practiced since the 1930s against German Jews) proved to be insufficient. In the political situation at the time, emigration to neutral countries was already on hold. In view of the size of the Jewish population in the territories occupied by the Third Reich, this solution could hardly have been considered feasible. Also unrealistic ware the ideas such as sending Jews to Madagascar. The only areas where they could be ‘evacuated’ were those captured by the Nazis in the east. Also, the policy of confining and slowly starving Jews in ghettos did not seem optimal. Starvation and labour were time-consuming. The racially obsessed Nazis also feared that by eliminating weaker individuals they would select the most resilient who could potentially revive the Jewish nation. The Wehrmacht’s war machine was followed by Einsatzgruppen units (full name ‘Einsatzgruppen der Sicherheitspolizei und des SD’), which were to eliminate ideological and racial enemies in the rear of the army. However, the mass execution of civilians also had its drawbacks. It consumed time and valuable ammunition, and was a serious mental burden for most of the executioners. The Germans had been testing gas chambers for a long time. And it was this mean of mass executions that proved, with all other methods, to be the most desirable solution for the Nazis. They were faster, more efficient and allowed killing without direct contact between executioner and victims.

The Protocol of the Wannsee Conference contain a shocking sentence: ‘Europe is to be combed through from West to East in the course of the practical implementation of the Final Solution’. According to the list drawn up by Eichmann, and included on page six of the Protocol, the expected victims were to be more than eleven million. One cannot help but notice, however, that some of his calculations are rather peculiar. The list was divided into countries and territories A (basically under the direct control of the Reich) and B (allies, neutral countries, but also those with whom Germany was at war). Especially with regard to the latter, the somewhat naive approach and wishful thinking is glaring. It seems that Eichmann assumed that in the future it will be possible to ‘evacuate’ all of the European Jews, which would had been only possible with the final triumph of the Third Reich.

In compiling his list, Eichmann had at his disposal various data, not always reliable or up-to-date. For example, only two hundred people belonging to the Jewish community were attributed to Italian-occupied Albania, although the country had been a refuge for thousands of Jewish expats since the 1930s. These and other details somewhat contradict the notion of meticulous, bureaucratic precision of the Holocaust plans. Estonia stands out in particular on the list, being described as Judenfrei (i.e. free of Jews). The country’s pre-war Jewish population was not one of the most numerous, and the various repressions or displacements that befell this minority after the occupation of the country by the Soviet Union further depleted it. The intensified activities of the German occupying forces and their Estonian collaborators meant that as early as January 1942, the country could be proclaimed (although exaggeratedly) as the country in which the Jewish question had been finally resolved. Anyhow, only individual people survived the war.

The sixth page of the aforementioned Protocol has become one of the symbolic illustrations of the Holocaust because it shows like no other document the pan-European scale and the unprecedented nature of the Nazis’ murderous plan. In 2022, on the 80th anniversary of the infamous conference, the European Network Remembrance and Solidarity (enrs.eu) and the Wannsee Conference House (ghwk.de) with the support of an international group of historians, have created an interactive website with infographics describing the history and contents of the sixth page of the Protocol. The infographics is available here: www.ghwk.de/statisticsandcatastrophe.

The aim of the project, called ‘Statistics and Catastrophe. Questioning Eichmann’s Numbers’, is to critically analyse the list, the statistics presented by Eichmann, and to show what tragedy is hidden in this bureaucratic document. The biographies of the victims are also an important part of the infographic – it is the victims of the Holocaust that we first and foremost need to remember about on the 80th anniversary of the Conference. Only a week later, on 27 January, there is another symbolic anniversary: the liberation of the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp, which is commemorated as the International Holocaust Remembrance Day.

transl. Mikołaj Sekrecki