Olami Manhattan Took Me To Poland – Day Two

Just a moment ago, I was in Krakow, surrounded by men in suits singing Eshet Chayil, the soft glow of Shabbat candles filling the hotel lobby. Now, I’m in the New York Public Library, staring at the calendar in disbelief, wondering how I returned home a week ago. It feels as though time has played a trick on me; it was only a second ago, wasn’t it? And yet, the dates don’t lie.

My week in Europe, though brief, felt like a lifetime. The sheer number of places we visited in such a short time seems almost impossible, yet somehow, we did it. Now a week later, my days back in America feel like a blur, passing by with such speed that I find myself reeling from how much we did in such a short amount of time.

The blessing of being a writer, however, is that with my articles, I get to relive each day and remember every moment. Though the journey is behind me, its impact has only just begun.

With that in mind, let’s dive into Day Two.

***

I woke up early Monday morning, said my prayers, and quickly dressed, eager to hear the group minyan (communal worship) resonate through the conference room. As one of the first to arrive, I set up my computer and took a seat just outside the room, watching men enter with tefillin bags as I jotted down my notes.

Soon the men completed the prayers, and we all gathered for breakfast, singing the niggunim we’d learned the night before, with Rabbi Lynn leading us. The mood was joyful, and in the breaks from singing, educators answered students’ questions about religion and history.

When the last person rested their fork, we made our way to the coach bus, our second home for the week, and began the journey to the small town of Kałuszyn in the Warszawa province. A few rows back, a woman in a belted winter coat, beamed as she gazed out the window at the passing countryside. Her excitement piqued my curiosity, and as a writer, I felt compelled to learn more. But before I could ask her about her story, our guide, Tzvi Sperber, began today’s spiel, and the question that lingered in my mind soon found its answer.

The woman whose smile caught my attention was Paloma Maia Aisenberg, an actress recognized for her performances in the Off-Broadway productions Invasive Species and Fiddler on the Roof as well as Viva La Vida! At the Lincoln Center. Her family, before immigrating to Uruguay and Argentina, had lived in Kałuszyn, so this visit felt like a return to her roots. Yet, she was quick to add, in a conversation later, that the beauty of reconnecting with the place of her ancestors was overshadowed by the heartbreaking fact that not a single Jew remains in the town.

Paloma Maia Aisenberg, a descendant of the Kałuszyn community, stands in front of her hometown. (Photo by Miriam Frankel)

Standing outside the Catholic church in Kałuszyn, I couldn’t help but notice the irony of our location, a group of Jews gathered in front of a place of worship not our own. Yet what truly caught our attention was a Jewish tombstone embedded in the church’s exterior, just to the left of the doors. A ripple of whispers spread through the group. Was this a sign of respect or an act of disregard? Fortunately, Sperber quickly eased our uncertainty, introducing us to a local man who would provide the answer.

Przemek “PJ” Jaczewski, born and raised in Kałuszyn, was deeply familiar with the town’s Jewish history in ways few others were. His journey began at age twelve when he discovered a fragment of a matzevah (Jewish tombstone) while playing outside. His father simply told him it came from the town’s Jewish community, and that was the end of the conversation. It wasn’t until later in life that Jaczewski grew truly curious about what had happened to Kałuszyn’s Jews.

Przemek ‘PJ’ Jaczewski, our tour guide, leads us through the town, sharing its history. (Photo by Miriam Frankel)

After moving to Warsaw, he came across an article about the town’s Jewish population, which motivated him to delve deeper into its history. Soon after, he began researching, visiting archives, interviewing survivors, and connecting with descendants of Kałuszyn’s Jewish community.

His commitment to honoring and memorializing the jewish community of Kaluzyn did not come without sacrifice. While many supported his efforts, one of his close friends, who was not Jewish, confessed to owning a Torah scroll from Kałuszyn’s Jewish community. Believing it should be returned to a Jewish congregation in Poland where it could be properly used and cared for, Jaczewski urged his friend to part with it. His friend refused. The disagreement escalated, culminating in a chilling text message: his friend claimed to have thrown the Torah away, insisting the matter was settled. The two never spoke again, and their friendship came to an abrupt and painful end.

Jaczewski tells us that Kałuszyn, once home to 10,000 residents, now has only 3,000, none of whom are Jewish. The town’s Jewish community was decimated during the Holocaust as the Nazis sought to erase all traces of Jewish life. Many Jewish residents were murdered in Kałuszyn, while others were deported to Treblinka. The Jewish cemeteries were desecrated, the synagogue was demolished, and its materials were repurposed to build a nearby runway.

One Jewish site, the mikvah (Jewish ritual bath), survived the war but was demolished just two years before our visit to make way for new development. The loss of this final remnant of Jewish life felt like the last act of erasure.

Acknowledging this painful reality, Jaczewski brings our attention back to the Jewish tombstone we had noticed earlier. While the parish members were unable to recall its exact origins, Jaczewski explains that a Jewish individual had once requested it be placed on the church wall as a tribute and a reminder. For Jaczewski, “it stands as a powerful symbol, proof that Jewish and Polish history in Kałuszyn are forever intertwined,”  Jaczewski adds, “Reviving Jewish life in Kałuszyn, whether through the matzevah on the church or by welcoming Jewish visitors, especially those with roots here, like Aisenberg, is something that always excites me. I believe it’s incredibly important.”

Hearing Jaczewski speak about preserving Jewish memory resonated deeply with Aisenberg, whose own family history in Kałuszyn reflects a similar theme of resilience and continuity, one she eagerly shared as we walked to the next location. Her grandfather left Kałuszyn in the early 1900s, during the Russo-Japanese War of 1905. Faced with the fear of being drafted into a war he did not want to fight in, he, along with other Polish Jews, made the difficult decision to leave their homeland. As he packed for the journey, he carried only a small bag and a Torah scroll, uncertain if he would find a Jewish community wherever he arrived. When they docked in Punta Alta, Argentina, they found none. Determined to preserve his faith and heritage, Aisenberg’s grandfather took it upon himself to build a Jewish community from the ground up, with the Kałuszyn Torah at its heart.

The family’s dedication to Judaism has continued to this day, inspiring Aisenberg to join the Poland trip with Olami Manhattan and JRoots. Reflecting on her grandfather’s decision to carry the Torah with him, she noted, “His choice speaks volumes about the Jewish commitment to values, honoring heritage, and ensuring that traditions live on for future generations.”

Paloma Maia Aisenberg and Przemek ‘PJ’ Jaczewski stand at one of the Kałuszyn Jewish community memorials, discussing her family’s history. (Photo by Margaux Betesh)

At the final stop in Kałuszyn, we visited two memorials at the site of the former Jewish cemeteries, where the names of the murdered were etched into stone. Among them were the names of three children, and the weight of their loss hit me harder than I had expected.

A girl standing beside me quietly asked, “How do you think they died? In a camp, or here?”

I couldn’t answer. The truth would have hurt too much.

Our next stop offers no emotional respite.

Treblinka.

Surrounded by trees with roots buried in snow, Treblinka’s entrance initially seemed like any other hiking path. But as we ventured deeper, the usual peace of rustling leaves was replaced by the haunting thought of how the screams of Jews, killed and tortured here, might have sounded, stifled by the sounds of nature. The imprint of train tracks, still visible in the earth decades after they were removed, were deeply unsettling, like scars, the earth itself still bore the weight of the pain.

Imprints of the railroad tracks still visible in the ground at Treblinka. (Photo by Margaux Betesh)

Sperber shares the poignant story of Rabbi Azriel David Fastag, a Chassid of the Modzitzer Rebbe, who was sent to Treblinka. Known for his beautiful voice and deep love for Chassidic music, Rabbi Fastag often led his community in prayer. When World War II erupted and Jews were rounded up for concentration and death camps, Rabbi Fastag was shoved into a train bound for Treblinka. As the train lurched, he began to quietly hum a new version of “Ani Ma’amin.” The song quickly spread among the prisoners, uniting them in a moment of spiritual defiance.

Overcome with emotion, Rabbi Fastag made a desperate offer: “I will give half of my portion in Olam Habbah (the World to Come) to whoever can take my song to the Modzitzer Rebbe!” Two young men, risking their lives, took up the challenge, hoping to deliver the Rebbe’s song. One was killed instantly as he jumped from the train, while the other survived the fall, carrying the song to the Modzitzer Rebbe in New York.

Bringing us back to the present, Sperber reaches for his iPad and plays the song.

As we walk through Treblinka, I’m struck by the barrenness of what remains. There are several monuments, but not a single barrack or building of the camp still stands. Of all the memorials, one in particular resonates with me the most. It’s a tall monument atop a hill, made of large granite stones. At its summit are carvings of human remains and two hands in a blessing gesture, a symbol often found on Jewish tombstones. On the eastern side, a menorah is etched into the stone.

Students walk toward the monument at Treblinka, reflecting on its history. (Photo by Margaux Betesh)

Years earlier, Rabbi Lynn had visited Treblinka with another group on Hanukkah. The rain poured relentlessly, soaking the group and their belongings. They had come to light a menorah, but doubt crept in. How could a candle, let alone eight, survive such a downpour?

Still, they lit the menorah, recited the blessings and then stood in silence, bracing for the inevitable. But the flames didn’t go out. Minutes passed. Then hours. Against the wind, against the storm, against all logic, the candles burned on, much like the candles of the Maccabees.

When Rabbi Lynn finished recounting his story, tears welled in his eyes. The reason? Inside Treblinka, there stands another monument made of rocks, each inscribed with the names of Polish towns. As Rabbi Lynn described the Hanukkah, he stood in front of Wodzisław, the town of his family’s origins. In that moment, memories of someone dear to his heart surfaced: his grandfather’s cousin, Avraham Najman, a Holocaust survivor who passed away just a few years ago.

Rabbi Lynn, overcome with emotion, recalls meeting his relative, a Holocaust survivor, for the first time after a lifetime of separation. (Photo by Miriam Frankel)

At just 13 years old, Najman’s family was living in Starachowice when the war broke out. His parents were taken in a selection and murdered in the forests, leaving him alone. He was sent to the Starachowice labor camp, where he survived, only to endure Auschwitz, Dora, and Bergen-Belsen before finally being liberated. Najman then made his way to America, hoping to reconnect with his family. But when he arrived, he was met with rejection, his American relatives had assimilated so thoroughly that they were ashamed of their European survivor roots and turned him away.

It wasn’t until Rabbi Lynn began leading trips to Poland that he first heard of Najman. One day, a family member casually mentioned his name, and the rest was history. Despite living just 45 minutes from Rabbi Lynn’s childhood home, the two had never met, and Rabbi Lynn grew up unaware of Najman’s existence. They quickly made up for lost time, becoming very close. During one trip to Poland, Rabbi Lynn located the spot where Najman’s parents had been killed. He immediately called Najman, who, over the phone, recited the Kaddish (Jewish mourning prayer) for his parents at the very place where they had taken their last breaths. With Rabbi Lynn’s unwavering support, Najman was able to confront and heal many painful chapters of his past, ultimately reuniting a family long separated by war and assimilation.

Wiping his eyes, Rabbi Lynn led the group in a prayer for the souls of those killed in the camp, as well as for the survivors who have since passed away. Following this solemn moment, Sperber addressed the group, “The names that were underneath us and on the walls, the names we all have. I’m going to ask you, on the count of three, to scream your name from the depths of your stomach so everyone here knows they’re still living within each and every one of us. They carried our names then, and we carry their names now.”

At the end of the countdown, I could have sworn that the trees of Treblinka yelled with us.

The trees of Treblinka, standing silent witness to history. (Photo by Margaux Betesh)