Olami Manhattan Took Me To Poland: Day Four

In January, while writing an article on a new film titled Bardejov, I had a chance encounter that would change everything. I met Rabbi Shmuel Lynn, the film’s screenwriter, and, as I would soon discover, the Director of Olami Manhattan. Just weeks later, I found myself face to face with Emil Fish, the Holocaust survivor who produced the film and whose roots trace back to the very town that gives the film its name.

At the end of our interview, Rabbi Lynn asked about my writing. Then, with extreme generosity, he invited me to join as press on a trip to Bardejov and Poland. That single moment became the beginning of a journey, not only into history, but into myself. It sparked this entire series, shaped future projects I now hold close, and laid the foundation for deeply personal devotions I could not have foreseen.

To say I’m grateful would be a hollow understatement. Language, though my craft, fails to capture what this has meant to me. The original article, titled “Bardejov: From History to the Silver Screen,” explored the town’s remarkable legacy, Emil Fish’s powerful story, and the making of the film. It changed the course of my life.

Emil Fish, Holocaust survivor and producer of Bardejov, stands before photos of his childhood town and the 1942 deportation of Jews in Bardejov Town Square. This image was featured in the previous Bardejov: From History to Silver Screen article. Photo credit: Miriam Frankel.

Today’s piece continues the conversation, still centered on Bardejov, but through a new lens. Still, I encourage you to read that first article, if only to understand why walking the streets I once researched felt so profound. That story lit the path. This one walks it.

With that in mind, here is article four.

***

As our coach bus winds into the historic town of Bardejov, the morning light casts a warm glow on the cobblestones. Locals bustle through the central square, footsteps echoing between Gothic buildings. For a fleeting moment, I imagine myself among them, dressed in a wicker hat and sundress, weaving through market stalls in preparation for Shabbat. But the reverie is short-lived. Bardejov’s beauty obscures a deep scar, one shaped by centuries of Jewish persecution and unable to be erased.

Walking along Bardejov’s cobblestone streets, surrounded by quaint shops and the charm of a historic town. Photo credit: Margaux Betesh.

Three times in its history, Bardejov’s Jewish community was exiled. Forced displacement, brutality, and erasure left behind only fragments of what once was. Had I lived here in another time, I, too, might have been swept away in those violent currents.

As we step off the bus, we’re greeted by Ľuboslava Stachová, “Luba” for short, a local tour guide with the Bardejov Jewish Preservation Committee. Moved by the 2024 documentary Bardejov, which chronicles the resilience of the town’s Jewish population during the Holocaust, Stachová committed herself to educating visitors on its overlooked history, “I knew I had to do something.”

Ľuboslava “Luba” Stachová, our local guide from the Bardejov Jewish Preservation Committee, welcomes us warmly, ready to share the town’s deep Jewish heritage. Photo credit: Margaux Betesh.

Our first stop is the Beit Hamidrash in Bardejov’s historic Jewish quarter. In the 19th century, this synagogue served as a place of worship and Torah study. Under Hlinka occupation and later Slovakian control, it was reduced to an ornate storage facility. Only recently, after years of advocacy, was it restored and reopened in 2024 as a cultural and educational center.

A lone pew resides at the front of the sanctuary. I walk over with my camera, snapping photos, when laughter and shock erupt nearby. One of our fellow travelers, Jonathon Vessel, stares at his phone in disbelief.

Jonathon Vessel and Rabbi Lynn share a light moment after Vessel reveals he’s originally from Bardejov. Photo credit: Margaux Betesh

“I just found out I’m from Bardejov,” he says, astonished. Texting his family during the visit, his brother responded with historical documents revealing their roots here. “This has The Truman Show written all over it,” I think. Of all places, Bardejov, this  tiny remote, picturesque Slovakian town, is his great grandfather’s home.

We continue on to the town’s mikvah, a Jewish ritual bath long hidden beneath the guise of a hardware store. The building was cleared in 2021, and though restoration is ongoing, its original features peak through. Aside from the arched windows and yellow interior, original Hebrew writing is marked on the walls and still water sits in the bath, almost waiting to be put back to use.

Hebrew writing etched into the walls of the Bardejov mikvah, a lasting testament to the town’s rich Jewish heritage. Photo credit: Miriam Frankel.

The emotional crescendo of our visit comes at the Holocaust memorial created by Emil Fish, founder of the Bardejov Jewish Preservation Committee. A stark white wall bearing exposed brick, train tracks embedded in the earth, and the words “Never Again” inscribed in three languages serve as a haunting reminder of those who never returned. In the inner wall, fourteen large granite tablets are housed, prepared in the shape of tombstones. Altogether the names of 3392 victims of the holocaust are sandblasted into the granite. Flowers placed by local Slovakians lay quietly on the floor.

The Olami Manhattan group and I stand in front of the Bardejov memorial, beside the Magen David structure, a powerful moment of reflection and unity. Photo credit: Margaux Betesh.

Moving my fingers across the names, I wish I could offer more than pitied glances and bowed heads. I wish I could tell them their sacrifices, and ultimate death will be remembered. If only I could bring them with me to Israel, to place their prayers in the western wall and see freedom. If only, their names were mentioned with laughter rather than tears.

We move on to the Chevra Bikur Cholim Synagogue, one of the best-preserved shuls in the region. Rabbi Lynn, our trip leader, sets the tone: “When we walked in here, it was like they finished shacharit an hour ago. The siddurim were out. The gemaras on the shelf. The Sefer Torah in the ark. The Slovakian people preserved it perfectly.”

The Bikur Cholim Synagogue in Bardejov, Slovakia, remains remarkably intact, its walls, furnishings, and Torah ark preserving the memory of a once-thriving Jewish community. Photo credit: Margaux Betesh.

The credit, he explains, goes to Maria Koperniechova, a righteous gentile who bricked the windows and refused Nazi entry, saving the synagogue. Inside, the rug beneath our feet is Persian-style, I mention it to Vessel, giggling that perhaps his great grandfather was paying a nod to his future grandchildren’s Iranian heritage.

A prayer book on a wooden stender captures my attention. The name “Frankel,” my own last name is etched on the cover. I’m not from Slovakia, but seeing my name there in an old siddur gives me chills. “This humble book refused to be erased,” I write in my notes, “Frankel and I are bound together across time and place, just by name and blood.”

Rabbi Lynn then opens the Aron Kodesh, revealing a Torah scroll left open to Parshat Zachor, read the week before Purim. He reads aloud: “Remember what Amalek did to you.” The commandment to recall and resist those who sought to destroy us feels strikingly relevant.

Inside the Bikur Cholim Synagogue, Rabbi Lynn holds the Torah portion open, explaining its symbolism and the stories it carries through generations. Video still credit: Miriam Frankel.

Amalek, an ancient murderous nation located near the land of Canaan (modern-day Israel), was the first to attack the Jewish people, with vicious cruelty and unprovoked. They targeted the most vulnerable, children, the elderly, and the infirmed, showing no mercy to any Jew. In the Torah portion that was laid open, we are commanded to never forget Amalek’s attempt to eradicate us. Though the nation of Amalek ultimately failed in its mission, the shadows of their violence stretch long into the present, casting a pall over Jewish life throughout the centuries. Antisemitism, the violence that Amalek pioneered, is an unbroken thread running through history, one that continues to punctuate our existence with pain and loss.

In my thoughts groups like Hamas, Hezbollah, Al-Qaeda, ISIS, Houthis and Nazis embody the modern-day Amaleks. The genocide of the Jewish people during the Holocaust and mass murder during October 7, their relentless pursuit to destroy us in every corner of the world, is a chilling echo of what Amalek sought to accomplish millennia ago. As Rabbi Lynn opens the Torah to these words, the moment feels like a haunting reminder that despite the passage of time and advancements of society, some fights seem to remain eternal.

Before leaving the synagogue, its caretaker, an elderly Slovak man, lifts a shofar and attempts to sound its traditional calls: tekiah, shevarim, teruah. A non-Jew performing a deeply Jewish ritual. His face beams with pride and chuckles as he places it down to the applause of our group.

As we prepare to leave, the elderly Slovak caretaker lifts the shofar and tries the ancient calls, tekiah, shevarim, teruah. Not Jewish, but beaming with pride, he sets it down to laughter and applause. Video still credit: Miriam Frankel.

Later, we head to Cinema Žriedlo, to watch “Bardejov” where Fish once watched movies as a child. Watching Bardejov here, sitting next to Stachová and surrounded by fellow travelers, feels surreal. Afterward, we Zoom with Fish, who beams with pride. “It’s amazing you’re there,” he says. “Even if there are no Jews left in Bardejov, their heritage must survive.”

The sun dips below the skyline, but our day is not yet done. We walk with Vessel to the old Jewish cemetery, hoping to find the graves of his ancestors. The gates are locked. Undeterred, a few students climb the fence followed by the majority of the group. Using an online tombstone catalog, they locate the grave of Jonny’s great-aunt, though not his great-grandfather. Still, the discovery is powerful.

Jonathon Vessel stands before his relative’s grave in the Bardejov Jewish cemetery. Photo credit: Margaux Betesh.

Though my heart breaks to leave so soon, we then cross into southeastern Poland, arriving in Tarnów. Once home to 25,000 Jews, the city bore witness to both Jewish vibrancy and horrendous Nazi brutality.

Tarnów’s streets at night, quiet and dimly lit, capture the city’s layered past. Photo credit: Margaux Betesh.

As we walk into Tarnów’s main square, Rynek, JRoots founder Tzvi Sperber recounts harrowing stories. During the Holocaust, Jews were rounded up here, often on Fridays, forced to spend Shabbat hungry, cold, and terrified. Deportations to Belzec followed.

One testimony hits hard: A Nazi soldier abducts two children from their mother, throwing them into a truck. When she begs for them back, he offers her a choice, “one or the other.” She painstakingly chooses her firstborn, knowing there was no other way. As the truck drives off, her youngest screams “Mommy!” She screams back, “I’m coming, my child.” But she never did make it, no matter how far she ran or loudly she begged.

We walk through Piekarska Street, where a plaque displays a Star of David and a historical note about Tarnów’s Jewish community. Signposts guide visitors to other Jewish sites. At one point, a passerby, a non-Jew, mistakenly assumes we are non jewish tourists and insists the men wear kippahs in the Jewish district, out of respect. A moment that grounded us, and caused a ripple of laughter in unexpected solidarity.

Our final stop is Plac Rybny and Żydowska Street. Here stands a solitary bimah, all that remains of the Old Synagogue, burned down in 1939. Four brick pillars and a domed roof preserve its memory.

At the site, Tal Bodner, whose family hails from Tarnów, speaks emotionally about her visit. Her family’s story remains private, but she offers this: “Visiting Poland has left me even more motivated than ever to educate others about the Holocaust and share the beauty and resilience of the Jewish people.”

Tal Bodner stands in front of the bimah in the Tarnów synagogue. Photo: credit Margaux Betesh.

We exit the plaza slowly. An early 20th-century iron fence surrounds the space. Posters of Jewish events hang on the walls. Photographs of Tarnów’s Jewish life, sealed behind glass, stare back at us.

I pause before leaving, wondering how many people stop to read them, to remember. How many prayers have been whispered here? How many voices once filled this quiet square?

Today, the voices return, our voices, singing, praying, remembering.