Throughlines of History & Making it Personal: WWII in Poland

This year, the world will commemorate the 85th anniversary of the start of the Second World War. There will be memorials and commemorations in nearly every country. Here in Italy, they have an entire annual national holiday for their Liberation Day. Standing amongst that history brings it into much shaper focus - cultivating an appreciation that is nearly impossible from books and movies. When standing IN history the divisions of political, economic, and social history blur. Human stories emerge. For Europe, WWII wasn't something happening elsewhere with the luxury of ignoring until it was personal. It was personal from the beginning. 

Liberation Day is celebrated annual in Italy on April 25th

I know that my own depth of knowledge of World War II is deeper than the average American's but I also know it pales in comparison to the immense wealth of information available. I find the content overwhelming at times: political analytics, military strategy, technology, causality statistics, leader profiles, specific battles...the list of possible studies is never ending. However, on our recent trip to Poland, 3 moments stood out that brought much of that overwhelming detail into focus. They humanized the numbers. Brought clarity and curiosity. Made it personal. When learning about the Pacific Theater I have a personal connection with my Grandpa Snider serving in the Pacific with the Royal Canadian Navy. While the minutia of that theater is still overwhelming, having that grounding is helpful. Now, I have grounding here in Europe to make the big picture personal. Standing IN history will do that. 

A festive contrast to what this area looked like in the fall of 1939

Our Polish Christmas began in Gdańsk which is in northern Poland. It is here, on Sept 1, 1939, that the German Third Reich invaded Poland. While it took time for all out war to breakout, it is this invasion that now defines the start of the European Theater. Right here in the city that I found myself. We really enjoyed Gdańsk - the streets, the markets, the atmosphere - and found ourselves running late to the Museum of the Second World War. Despite reading that we would want at least 4 hours in the museum we arrived with time for just under 3. 

Museum of the Second World War in Gdańsk

A memorable exhibit. In a "game" of "what has changed," patrons are guided through a typical Polish home in the months prior to the invasion, during the war, and the aftermath.

It was not enough. This museum is fantastically done and we could have easily spent the day wandering the exhibits and reading the countless displays. I had several moments of clarity - where fuzzy details became connected dots. I found myself mostly immersed in the lead up to the war and the early invasion of Danzig which is the area now called Gdańsk. Danzig is mentioned in a Hitler speech I use to share with students. It was important due to it's independent city status but also because of the ice free port and many German speakers. I've talked about the "Danzig corridor" for years and yet it wasn't until I was reading the displays that I truly realized the connection. 

A monument dedicated to the parents, and children, who were transported to safer places like England at the start of the War. Most of these families, in desperation to save their children, would never see them again.

 

Embarrassingly, the biggest "aha moment" for me was while starring bewildered at mural sized maps on the walls . I'm good at geography. I enjoy maps. Yet, I didn't fully comprehend the changing borders of Poland. This struck me while noticing the city of Lviv within the borders of Poland. Today, Lviv is in Ukraine, which I only know from reading news reports after the Russian invasion. 

A basic map of the border changes after the Treaty of Versailles at the end of WWI. These border changes will be the initial set up for Hitler's invasions, and occupations, of land.

Our trip started in Gdansk, went through Warsaw, then Kraków, and ended in Wrocław

Throughlines of history matter! There are connections to today 👀 #readbannedbooks

There is a very complicated history between Poland and Ukraine with multiple invasions and territorial changes over the years. Lviv only became a part of Ukraine in 1991! The political ramifications of these maps hit me. The through lines running from history to today seemed so crystal clear as I stood in this museum. The Nazis took land that they felt was German in heritage, language, and culture. That included Poland. Russia invaded Crimea Ukraine in 2014 for the same reasons: they wanted to reincorporate land they felt was ethnically Russian. The world watched, not wanting to piss a powerful Russia off. Just as the world watched as Hitler invaded land prior to Poland - not wanting to piss off a powerful Germany. I make similar connections in places like Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Gaza. While it's important to not make direct connections, it IS important to see the connections of history and for some reason staring at those gigantic maps with an inquisitive head tilt, those indirect connections seemed more clear. 

Germany and the Soviet's had a secret agreement to divide up Poland. After WWII Poland was a satellite of the Soviet Union. Anyone in possession of a Polish flag was forced to rip the white part off and only display the red part. This flag, in the Museum, was stored in the floor boards of a house and is one of only a few surviving WWII era Polish flags. 

Despite a century+ of land disputes of their own with Ukraine, the support of the people of Ukraine is seen everywhere. There is immense solidarity in the aftermath of invasion and occupation. 

The museum in Gdańsk got all parts of my history loving, teacher oriented, humanitarian centered brain firing. With that energy I walked in to Auschwitz-Birkenau both completely prepared and completely unprepared for the day. No amount of reflection will help me articulate what went through my mind today or the range of emotions. 

Truth be told, I expected this sign to be larger. More imposing. Yet, how symbolic that in reality it is a small sign which evoked so much fear and pain that when you see it today it induces a physical response. I also struggled with keeping my pictures in colour or B&W. They both feel "real."

Even the weather seemed to emulate the gravity of the day: from clear, yet frigid, skies that developed into dark storm clouds and sideways rain. I'm grateful we got to visit here in the depths of winter. While I am sure the camps were miserable in European summer heat, I am really astonished that a single soul survived winter at a camp. Knowing we would be outside much of the day, I wore LuLu tights, jeans, a snow skirt, tank top, long sleeve, hoodie, down jacket, scarf, beanie, and gloves. I still felt the chill. Yet, 80 years ago, human beings found the ability to survive wearing less than the equivalent of one of the layers I had on today. 

I really felt odd taking pictures. My dear friend Jenn Sartin, who is in the midst of a masters degree in Holocaust education, commented that experts want pictures to be taken. Especially with the rise in Holocaust denial, the more evidence that can be captured and shared, the more we combat the ignorance of denial. It still felt weird. I was conscious to not take selfies and the number of repulsed looks I shot at others who didn't feel it was disrespectful was numerous. I've looked at so many pictures from here over the years. In some instances, today was was like looking at pictures. The difference being the ever present cold shiver in my spine and the blinking of my eyes to ensure it was indeed real. 

I've seen this picture so many times, yet standing where it was taken...knowing what happened to those children just yards away from where we were...

This was especially powerful after seeing the shoes on the banks of the Danube River in Budapest. 

A child's shoe from the mountains of footwear. 

The use of the whisper headsets set up a unique personal experience. Our guide would often say something and I would turn to make a comment, or share a look with Brian, to realize he too was lost in his own moment. Each of us on tour had our own takeaways and I'm confident you could take the same tour again and get an entirely unique experience. 

If you took a moment of silence for each victim of the Holocaust there would be 11.5 years of silence. As you walk into the museum - and I say museum loosely here, it's the entirety of the well preserved complexes - a list of names is being read quietly on speakers. Like a whisper in your ear that set the tone for the day.

Some moments that hit me hard:

• Our guide was expecting and the way her voice broke while talking about family separations on the train platforms broke me. Guides are employees of the Museum itself - they are professionals who do this daily. Yet, it is never mundane for them. The horrors still get to them.

• She mentioned many times how orderly the process was before entering the gas chambers. The expectation that they were showers and the emphasis on tying shoes together and to remember which hook number they had used. I knew this narrative, but standing there and listening, I was physically nauseated. 

• Early prisoners of Auschwitz were Polish intellects who were most likely to rebel. When she specifically named teachers I felt an visceral reaction. While entirely different, obviously, teachers are viewed as a threat by many today. In this moment there was a weird coupling of pride and disgust welling up inside me. 

• The description of Rudolf Höss raising his family, including young children, on the grounds at Auschwitz. I can't even describe how that made me feel. Or how I felt standing in front of the gallos that he was hung for war crimes directly in front of a crematorium. I didn't know that he was allowed to write a memoir during his trials. 

No words can describe the day. No pictures can capture the range of emotions. No textbook can recount the stories. I found myself with my jaw wide open in the bookstore. I simultaneously wanted to read all of them and none of them. The stories of the Sonderkommando intrigued me the most but I also know what my heart can handle as I expand my capacity for reading "for fun." I instead will read One of the Girls in the Band: The Memoirs of a Violinist from Birkenau. I'm grateful for the opportunity to witness history and perpetuate both the human stories, and the big picture, in a world where denial is overwhelming a mere 78 years after liberation. 

One of actual cattle cars used for human transportation is sitting on the platform where "selections" were made.

The literal end of the tracks within Birkenau

The memorial within Birkenau is in 23 languages. The native tongue of all victims are represented.

One snap of the remains of the gas chambers. This is how the Nazi's left them as they blew them up in an attempt to hide their crimes as they retreated.

Stalag VIII-B is somewhat situated between Kraków and Wrocław but in a very isolated part of the countryside. Which makes sense considering it was a POW camp.

The maps of World War II also come into play in my final experience in Poland. Dad had told me the story of my great Uncle Earl before, so I knew that I had a relative who had been a POW in the European Theater. But - and this is embarrassing to admit - I thought the camp he endured had been in Germany. I made that assumption because the land had been occupied by Germany at the time. It was only after planning our trip that I had the epiphany that although occupied by Germany, the camp was within Poland! We quickly realized that the remains of the camp are pretty isolated, and, relying on trains, not easy to access. 

There is nothing like a personal connection to make the many rabbit holes of history more compelling. Many specifics are a bit fuzzy but I know enough to know that my Great Uncle Earl was a freaking badass. My Grandpa Snider lost his battle with brain cancer before my birth but I did meet his brother, my Great Uncle Earl, many times. I was far too young to ask about war stories and, truth be told, my only clear memories are of picking ginger snap peas in his garden. The pride in my father's voice - texts and phone calls equally - as he relayed his Uncle's story was immense. 

My Great Uncle Earl, the badass.

Uncle Earl was in the Calgary Tank Regiment during World War II and was serving in that capacity during the Dieppe Raid. I won't pretend to have known much more than the name of this operation previously, but I am reading more now. Of the 5000 Canadian soldiers who participated, 3,400 were captured, injured, or killed. Ultimately, the lessons of that day helped the Allies prepare for the successful invasion of Normandy but at considerable sacrifice, the majority of which were Canadian. 

POWs from Dieppe being paraded through the occupied city.

One picture illustrates the hell that was the Dieppe raid, especially for tank operators. 

After being taken prisoner, Uncle Earl was paraded through the occupied streets of Dieppe before being transferred to the POW camp in occupied Poland. Dad told me about Uncle Earl's comments about wearing old cement bags to help them stay warm and I felt a shiver go down my spin while I was bundled up in my expensive winter gear. There are a fair number of photos from the camp because of the Third Reich propaganda machine that wanted to portray the "favourable conditions" of the POWs. The articles, stories, and books my dad - and now slowly me - have consumed account otherwise. 

These words bothered me when they were first uttered. The more I learn about my family, the more these words enrage me. Elections matter.

Uncle Earl escaped Stalag VIII-B FIVE times! He was recaptured 4 times. However, it is the story of one escape that leaves me breathless with a combination of admiration, pride, and awe. Dad's retelling of this story is incredible and while I can't do it the justice that his sweet, yet knowledge laden voice does, it is the type of story that can tell itself:

Like all Nazi camps, manual labour was used to feed the war effort. After one recapture, Earl was ordered to break down two railcars worth of ore rock and fill the cars with the raw material. He was told that if he didn't comply he would be shot. 

He looked that officer square in the eye and said, "You might as well shoot me now because I ain't doing it." I don't have any memories of Uncle Earl's voice, but I can HEAR this exchange. 

The guard told Uncle Earl that he didn't particularly want to shoot him and, instead, proposed that they each fill one railcar. At this point in the story, I expected some slippery deceit or double cross or, I don't know, something! But no, the story is simple and beautiful:

The officer laid his rifle against the railcar and they each broke down, and filled, a railcar full of rocks. 

The humanity of this story is astonishing. A simple act of humanity in a war full of atrocity.

As our train chugged on towards Wrocław, and excitement grew to do touristy and consumer-y things, I took a minute to stare out the window. When our little red Google Map dot aligned with the location of Stalag VIII-B I whispered small affirmations in that direction. 85 years after the start of the Second World War it was still personal.

Grateful that even in the midst of atrocity, not everyone followed orders, and compassion did find a way. It mattered a lot for one person and one family. 

Great Uncle Earl's obituary