Wow, wow, wow. I have written before about how I never expected to meet actual, live Polish cousins. I met them, I think it was in November 2018 in Kraków, but today we met on their turf—in Katowice, where my grandmother’s first cousin Maria/Myriam Kozłowska is buried. My grandmother and Maria never knew that each other survived the war. It seems they might not even have known of each other’s existence; there was a Chmielnik branch of the family and a Lublin branch and perhaps they had lost touch. Today I went to pay homage to my grandmother’s cousin at her grave with her son, his wife and her granddaughter. Her granddaughter and I compared notes as we are both interested in the family tree and she gave me a beautiful print out of a tree she had made with all the descendants that stem from our common great-great grandparents: Hana Laja Rozencwajg and Berek Płuciennik.
Earlier in the day I met with a woman who had known Maria Kozłowska—the mother-in-law of the American rabbi who performed her funeral, whom I met by chance in Rzeszów the other week. She did not speak English so our two hour meeting was all in Polish. With my cousins too I spoke Polish—only occasionally I had to ask how to say something in English.
I remember a few years ago, meeting the parents of a Polish friend for dinner. They did not know English and there were so many subjects we could not tackle. And I remember even before that, being so excited when sitting with my friend Witek and some Polish friends when I actually told a story of going snorkeling with my sons in Polish—broken Polish to be sure, but Polish. Don’t get me wrong, the Polish language is wicked hard, as we say in Mass, and I still make a ton of mistakes and have many lacunae in my vocabulary, but the fact that I can spend several hours interacting in a meaningful way with other humans in Polish is a huge win. Yay, team! I only wish I had found out about my grandmother’s cousin early enough to meet and speak to her.
Sign upon the entrance to the Katowice cemetery.
Outside of the Katowice cemetery.
Inside the cemetery.
My grandmother’s cousin’s matzevah.
Remembering those who perished in the Holocaust.
Me and my Polish cousins.