coaches, and omnibuses. Pedestrians chewed bagels on the run. Bearded Hasidim hurried to and from prayer averting their eyes from the temptations of modernity; and the sons and daughters of wealthy bankers and financiers flocked to the Bar Central nightclub to hear Rosenbaumâs jazz band play music of the New World.
Again the images are racing, fatherâs hands are dancing, and Warsaw whirls into a frenzy of activity as the hub, the headquarters of political movements left, right, and indifferent. Bundists, Zionists, assimilationists, the orthodox, and freethinkers fought each other for communal control and allegiance. Their many factions and splinter groups seemed to rain down upon the city like confetti at a never-ending society wedding. Yiddish theatre groups played to full houses every night; provincial circuses pitched their tents in vacant lots; and news vendors sold Yiddish dailies, Hebrew periodicals, Polish tabloids, and cheap paperback romances. Circles of aspiring artists and writers gathered in cafes and meeting rooms to argue, exchange ideas, and feel the ebb and flow of what they believed to be a wave forever rolling towards an inevitable redemption. Warsaw was the vortex that absorbed the creative energies of a people who had honed their survival skills on the piercing edges of wildly fluctuating fortunes and centuries of impending disaster. And in the final years of the 1930s it stood poised, a community of 350 000 Jews, teetering on the brink of annihilation.
I turn off Marszalkowska into Ulitza Litewska, a street shaded by trees and medium-rise flats clad in greystone. Pre-war Warsaw endures in these cool shadows, its fading elegance intact. An arched entrance draws me into a courtyard presided over by hanging gardens suspended from balconies. Craning my neck I see them rising upwards, seven storeys of subdued greys interspersed with splashes of colour sprouting from miniature jungles of potplants. Each entrance â from street to courtyard, from courtyard into dark foyer, from stairs onto a third-floor landing â brings me closer to the familiarity I crave.
Szymon Datner, historian of Bialystok, is a frail man in his seventies. He walks with difficulty, each step an act of will as he guides me into his study. It is lined with books from floor to ceiling, numerous volumes with titles in English, Polish, Russian, French, Hebrew, and Yiddish. Among the books there are spaces in which stand wooden statuettes carved by folk artists: figures of klesmorim, the families of musicians who played at shtetl festivals and weddings. Wooden parrots daubed in purple, scarlet, and turquoise perch on antique cabinets. On every spare area of wall space hang paintings and photos: family friends, historical figures, and scenes of pre-war Bialystok. In the centre of the room there is an oak table, reassuringly bulky. Nearby stands a desk cluttered with papers, manuscripts, dictionaries, writing pads: a work in progress.
The room is saturated with learning: that ambience of cultured and humane fellowship which led me at an early age to identify with a continent I had never seen. Europe meant a sense of warmth and scholarship, love of family and tradition. It had the scent of yellowing manuscripts which evoked and spoke of bygone centuries hidden in mist-laden valleys. It was only in later years that the child began to be aware of cracks which undermined the fragile romance. Beneath the surface there hovered a different Europe of tribal brutality, where books were piled onto bonfires around which armies of the night danced in a frightening frenzy.
In Szymon Datnerâs study, Europe-the-haven prevails, in a room watched over by a wise guardian. Potplants are scattered throughout, their leaves spilling over with vitality. They reach towards rays of light that filter through double doors opening out onto a balcony. Books and plants, heart and mind, the Europe of my primal imaginings is concentrated in this one
Again the images are racing, fatherâs hands are dancing, and Warsaw whirls into a frenzy of activity as the hub, the headquarters of political movements left, right, and indifferent. Bundists, Zionists, assimilationists, the orthodox, and freethinkers fought each other for communal control and allegiance. Their many factions and splinter groups seemed to rain down upon the city like confetti at a never-ending society wedding. Yiddish theatre groups played to full houses every night; provincial circuses pitched their tents in vacant lots; and news vendors sold Yiddish dailies, Hebrew periodicals, Polish tabloids, and cheap paperback romances. Circles of aspiring artists and writers gathered in cafes and meeting rooms to argue, exchange ideas, and feel the ebb and flow of what they believed to be a wave forever rolling towards an inevitable redemption. Warsaw was the vortex that absorbed the creative energies of a people who had honed their survival skills on the piercing edges of wildly fluctuating fortunes and centuries of impending disaster. And in the final years of the 1930s it stood poised, a community of 350 000 Jews, teetering on the brink of annihilation.
I turn off Marszalkowska into Ulitza Litewska, a street shaded by trees and medium-rise flats clad in greystone. Pre-war Warsaw endures in these cool shadows, its fading elegance intact. An arched entrance draws me into a courtyard presided over by hanging gardens suspended from balconies. Craning my neck I see them rising upwards, seven storeys of subdued greys interspersed with splashes of colour sprouting from miniature jungles of potplants. Each entrance â from street to courtyard, from courtyard into dark foyer, from stairs onto a third-floor landing â brings me closer to the familiarity I crave.
Szymon Datner, historian of Bialystok, is a frail man in his seventies. He walks with difficulty, each step an act of will as he guides me into his study. It is lined with books from floor to ceiling, numerous volumes with titles in English, Polish, Russian, French, Hebrew, and Yiddish. Among the books there are spaces in which stand wooden statuettes carved by folk artists: figures of klesmorim, the families of musicians who played at shtetl festivals and weddings. Wooden parrots daubed in purple, scarlet, and turquoise perch on antique cabinets. On every spare area of wall space hang paintings and photos: family friends, historical figures, and scenes of pre-war Bialystok. In the centre of the room there is an oak table, reassuringly bulky. Nearby stands a desk cluttered with papers, manuscripts, dictionaries, writing pads: a work in progress.
The room is saturated with learning: that ambience of cultured and humane fellowship which led me at an early age to identify with a continent I had never seen. Europe meant a sense of warmth and scholarship, love of family and tradition. It had the scent of yellowing manuscripts which evoked and spoke of bygone centuries hidden in mist-laden valleys. It was only in later years that the child began to be aware of cracks which undermined the fragile romance. Beneath the surface there hovered a different Europe of tribal brutality, where books were piled onto bonfires around which armies of the night danced in a frightening frenzy.
In Szymon Datnerâs study, Europe-the-haven prevails, in a room watched over by a wise guardian. Potplants are scattered throughout, their leaves spilling over with vitality. They reach towards rays of light that filter through double doors opening out onto a balcony. Books and plants, heart and mind, the Europe of my primal imaginings is concentrated in this one
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