I just recently went on a trip to Poland as part of a Jewish Social Entrepreneurship fellowship called Core18. Below is the story of one particular experience that nicely contrasted the overall darkness of a typical Poland trip, yet had a profound impact on me and my peers.
Where there are no men.
Throughout our (mostly outdoor) tour through Poland, the frigid temperatures intensified by the wind chill factor forced us to remain well bundled at all times. However, while the threat of the Polish winter was easily ameliorated by layers of cold gear, the chill that came as a result of what we saw, the ground upon which we stood, and the history of the places we visited penetrated all layers through to the bones of each and every one of us on the trip.
January 8, 2015. Relief from the Poland chill had met us as we entered a preserved synagogue in Łańcut. One of the few standing pre-war synagogues in Poland had provided us with a shield from the outdoor elements, as well as an additional warmth brought on by a glimpse into the richness of Jewish life in Poland before it became occupied by Nazi Germany. The beauty of the synagogue spoke for itself. It was colorful. It was grand.
The edifice itself — its architecture, its design—stood to represent the vibrancy and prominence of the Jewish community in Łańcut, and did so very well. However, it was the story synagogue’s preservation that made this visit one of the most meaningful over the course of my one week in Poland.
The story begins with how the synagogue was able to avoid the unfortunate fate that so many other synagogues in Poland had met with the advent of the Nazi occupation. This particular synagogue was property of the Noble family of Łańcut, who at the time, had maintained an excellent relationship with the Jewish community. The noble family essentially saved the synagogue by forcing the Nazis to stop burning down what they rightfully claimed to be their property.
So was the tale told to us by Mirick, the synagogue’s long-time maintainer.
Mirick, a Poland native has been maintaining and restoring portions of the synagogue for decades. He spoke to us in a vocabulary rich and grammatically beautiful hebrew that was saturated with a most interesting accent of his native Polish toungue. He told stories of the Jews of Łańcut, histories of rabbanim, progressions of Jewish ideologies including chassidut, and teachings of the torah. He did so with certain gusto, and incredible passion.
As I witnessed The degree of care that Mirick maintains in his work, it became apparent that this undertaking was a true labor of love. I was truly inspired. Among all the death and destruction, here was a semblance of Jewish life— kept alive by the hard work and dedication of a man named Mirick, who devoted his life to the Jewish people like many of the Core18 fellows have.
‘So, are there others like you?’ asked a fellow, who was met with a slightly confused expression. ‘You know, other Jews either in Łańcut or other places in Poland that care as much about the history and future of our people as you do?’
Mirick’s facial expression seemed to indicate a further degree of confusion. “Ani lo yehudi” Mirick responded. “I am not a Jew.”
Suddenly, the room grew quiet. The feeling of shock seemed to fill the void of the chill that had left us at the door of this synagogue. Here stood a man, a Polish man, with no genetic/generational/historical connection to Judaism. A man who addressed us entirely in lashon hakodesh, the holy language (Hebrew). A man who seemingly knew and understood more about Jewish culture, knowledge, and tradition than many of my peers who grew up in very Jewish environments. A man who cared about both preserving the history, and supporting the future of our people.
“Why do it?” asked a fellow, “Why choose to invest so much of yourself into a discipline that no one really cares about, and to align yourself with a religion that is not your own, and can potentially get you into trouble?”
After taking a second to formulate an answer, Mirick responded that for him it was a no-brainer. According to Mirick, ‘Poland is not Poland without the Jews.’ Polish culture would not be what it was or even what it is today without the influence of the Jewish community.
So why not convert?
‘For me, I love the Jewish people, and love Jewish learning; but again I am not a Jew. Sometimes though, especially when there is antisemitism around me I will identify with and call myself Jewish.’
—Especially when there is antisemitism around me.—
Silence blanketed the room once again. The chill came back. I felt it shoot up my spine, as every single hair on my body stood up at attention as if to show respect for this tzadik before me, and await what ever else he had to say.
I immediately reflected on my own experiences, specifically in college. There were times on NYU’s diverse campus that I found myself in social situations where it was easier for me to speak about my Syrian or Egyptian heritage so as to better relate with some of my peers, and avoid potential conflict areas. In a space where it was totally safe and absolutely okay for me to share my heritage with pride, I had elected to shy away for convenience.
I was absolutely thrown.
I call myself a proud Jew. I am a proud Jew. But there I stood listening to a native, non-Jewish Pol who seemingly took more pride in my religion than I.
Before I could appropriately organize and analyze those thoughts, Mirick concluded by quoting a piece of Mishna that would close the case for me altogether.
“במקום שאין אנשים, תשתדל להיות איש”
“In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man”
A piece of mishna that I’ve learned time and time again. A parable that I’ve dissected and discussed. A portion that I would be able to recite both backwards and forwards if need be.
But a concept, I realized, that I never truly fully understood.
The example and oration of a non-Jewish native Pol, who never stepped foot into a Jewish school, hebrew class or the land of Israel framed that particular parable in such a way that I would have never understood from my many years of Yeshivah education.
In a place where there are no men, women, children, people. In a collective of the corrupt. In a community of perversion. In an entire society of immorality. Be the man, the woman, the child, the person. Be honest. Be reasonable. Be moral. In a place filled with death, destruction and darkness; be the life, the rebuilding, the light.
Mirick set an incredible example. He was the light that reignited my own.
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Ezra Mosseri is an entrepreneur and recent graduate from NYU. After starting his own education company, Exceleratr, Ezra got heavily involved in startups and entrepreneurship at NYU, in New York City, and beyond. Ezra is a Core18 fellow, and in addition to working on a few small projects, he is looking to get involved in Venture Capital.
Get in touch with Ezra at ezra[at]exceleratr[dot]com.
