The Shoah has been called the end of European Jewry, and it is hard to argue the point. In most places, though, memory—wanted or unwanted—persists. The many efforts to deny the past are eloquent confirmation of its continued presence. In some places, however, most of those who could remember also left. Throughout the northern and western parts of today’s Poland, German-speaking populations, often the local majority, were driven westward by the Red Army. To replace them, the Soviet Union, while shifting Poland itself westward on the map, sent Polish residents of the new Byelorussian and Ukrainian SSRs to the zones they had cleansed of Germans.

Most of the German-speakers—Jewish and Gentile—had lived in the cities and larger towns. After World War II, the places where the Jews had lived, and from which they had been deported, had lost those who—whatever their politics—might have remembered them. On top of that, the postwar Polish government was rarely interested in anything that commemorated Jewish heritage, especially the part connected with Germany.

After World War II, the places where the Jews had lived, and from which they had been deported, had lost those who—whatever their politics—might have remembered them.

Twenty-five years ago, my father, Ernst Lustig (z”l), then a contributing editor to this journal, was interviewed by a West German radio station on the subject of Jewish cemeteries in Upper Silesia. He had been born in that region and lived there until he was 16 years old. Upper Silesia is the southwestern corner of today’s Poland; among its cities are Raciborz (formerly Ratibor), Opole (Oppeln), and Katowice (Kattowitz). Starting in the 1970s, he visited and extensively photographed many of the cemeteries, including those in his home town of Gleiwitz (now Gliwice), and presented his findings and photographs in well-attended lectures. Asked about the condition of the cemeteries in Gliwice, he replied, “Miserable.” In fact, Gliwice’s two Jewish cemeteries were better preserved than most others in the region. Although vegetation was breaking up tombstones and walls, paths were overgrown, pieces of some monuments were scattered and others had been stolen for their materials, hundreds of matzevot (tombstones) remained, a large proportion of them quite legible.

In the intervening years, the situation has not improved much. Before and after the end of Communist rule, Poland’s cities and towns (the parties ultimately responsible for maintaining cemeteries) had few financial resources. People paid to keep the cemeteries rarely were replaced upon their retirement. Happily, the situation finally seems to be changing. New generations of Poles raised in these cities and towns feel more of a connection to the local history than their parents may have felt. Private citizens have initiated efforts to restore and maintain these most obvious remnants of a heritage that almost was obliterated. The following three initiatives are typical.

Wielowies (formerly Langendorf)

The first is perhaps the most heartwarming. The village of Wielowies (formerly Langendorf), in the northern part of Gliwice county, was home to one of Upper Silesia’s oldest Jewish communities. Founded in the mid-17th century by Rabbi Yehonatan Bloch and his followers, it thrived for more than 200 years, declining as Jews from the region—as everywhere—moved to larger and larger cities. Two of Rabbi Bloch’s grandchildren were forerunners of this trend. Michael and Barnard Gratz came to the American colonies; their legacy is visible, especially in Philadelphia. The Langendorf Jewish cemetery stands in a clump of trees surrounded by plowed fields. Its oldest grave is that of Rabbi Bloch, who died in 1722. When my father visited in 1979, the cemetery was overgrown. Nobody had tended to the stones in many years.

A few years ago, Grzegorz Kaminski, a teacher at the local elementary school who also was a doctoral candidate in history, visited the site and then took his 10-to-12-year-old pupils to see it. They, not he, spoke the critical words: “We should take care of this place.” That they have done, making tombstones accessible and fully visible, removing vines, raking leaves, gathering fragments, and maintaining the fence. I visited the cemetery in 2005 and have since heard that the conservation efforts continue. The story of these children and their teacher is told on <www.youtube. com/watch?v=JO9Xujf4T-o>. The seven-minute film is somewhat confusing, as many references are made to one of the Righteous, Irena Sendler, a social worker and heroine of the Warsaw ghetto, whose story was undoubtedly on Mr. Kaminski’s lesson plan, but who otherwise has nothing to do with the Langendorf cemetery. Moreover, the history of Langendorf’s Jewish community as told by the mayor is largely incorrect. Yet the children with their garden tools and the teacher’s explanations of images on the tombstones are real and moving.

Rybnik

The Jewish cemetery in Rybnik, 50 km to the south, no longer has any tombstones, but interest in the Jews who once lived in Rybnik has led to surprising explorations and discoveries. More remarkably, the impetus came from a young girl, Magda Ploszaj, who—without even a schoolteacher to guide her—began to document the Jewish cemeteries of her area. She and her mother told this author that her interest began early with her realization that here were people with nobody to remember them. Magda made her own videos, which may be seen at <www.youtube. com/user/BlackWhatsername>. The videos show more than 40 of her tours of Jewish cemeteries, most in Upper Silesia. In addition, her mother, Malgorzata Ploszaj, has taken hundreds of photographs of the same cemeteries, many of which may be found at <www.kirkuty.xip.pl/>. This site has images from almost 600 Polish Jewish cemeteries in Poland, along with some from Lithuania, Belarus, and Ukraine.

In 2008, Mrs. Ploszaj discovered six matzevot (tombstones) from the Rybnik cemetery, which had ended up on private property. She acquired them and transferred them to the local museum. Just recently she discovered another one, commemorating a member of Rybnik’s leading industrialist family of the 19th century. It, too, is now housed at the Rybnik museum. Seven gravestones out of tens of thousands that were lost or stolen—a small restoration, to be sure. But what if not one or two, but one or two hundred or one or two thousand Poles keep their eyes and ears open? Seventy years of general neglect are only now being countered by individual attentions. What if the number of those individuals grows in the coming years?

Gliwice

The final story comes from Gliwice, a city notable for the amount of Jewish history that survives locally in documentary form—not only two cemeteries, but also a local branch of the state archives that holds vital records and other data going back to the 1730s. In 2005, the Museum of Gliwice (housed in what was once the villa of a Jewish industrialist, Oscar Caro) mounted the first large-scale exhibition to present the history of an Upper Silesian Jewish community. Two years before, former members of the Gleiwitz Jewish community, together with the Forum for Dialogue Among Nations <www.dialog.org.pl/en/home.html> had dedicated a memorial to the Jewish community and its monumental synagogue. I had the honor of attending both events and assisted in the development of the exhibition.

In 2008, a group of residents of Gliwice, led by the curator of the museum exhibition, Bozena Kubit, founded a society called Zikaron-Memory, devoted to preserving and promoting the city’s considerable Jewish heritage. Its website is <http://zikaron.pl/>. At the same time, the Jewish community of Katowice, which governs the small Jewish congregations in its region, transferred control of the burial hall of the new Jewish cemetery of Gliwice to the Gliwice city government. This was a major development, because the building had been allowed to fall into ever greater disrepair since the 1940s. The hall itself is not without significance, having been designed by Max Fleischer, architect of three synagogues in Vienna and designer of the gravesite of the great cantor Salomon Sulzer. Together, Zikaron-Memory and the city of Gliwice are restoring and rebuilding the burial hall. At the same time, Zikaron’s members have already cleaned up the old cemetery considerably and have developed a walking tour of the city that highlights the many traces of its Jewish presence over three centuries.

My father died in 1999, before the efforts described here began. He summed up the tragedy of the Jewish cemeteries: “Even as there is more and more interest in them, less and less remains of them.” That will always be so, but conservation and restoration can slow the decline. Today, some of the people best situated to do that work have taken it up. They deserve our support and encouragement.

Roger Lustig is the son of German Jews. His father, Ernst Lustig (z”l), began compiling vital records databases almost 30 years ago. Working with JRI-Poland, Roger continues this effort. He has visited several Polish State Archives in the former Prussian Poland and has transcribed more than 50,000 vital records. As GerSIG research coordinator, he supervises its Name Adoption List Index (NALDEX). Lustig lives in Princeton, New Jersey.