From the sprawling estates of Belarus to the shadowy corridors of communist Poland, Melchior Wańkowicz lived a life that defied conventions, censures, and regimes. A masterful storyteller, chronicler of history, and unyielding advocate for freedom, Wańkowicz’s journey offers a profound exploration of courage, creativity, and the indomitable power of the written word.

A Childhood Steeped in Loss and Legacy
Melchior Wańkowicz was born on January 10, 1892, in Kałużyce, a family estate near Minsk, then part of the Russian Empire. His very name bore the weight of history, a homage to his father, a freedom fighter in the January Uprising of 1863. Tragedy struck early: his father died the year of his birth, and his mother followed just three years later. Orphaned at such a tender age, Wańkowicz was uprooted from his birthplace and sent to live with his grandmother in the Lithuanian countryside.
This period, though marked by profound loss, became the wellspring of his creative imagination. Years later, he immortalized his idyllic childhood in ‘Szczenięce Lata’ (‘Puppy Years’), a poignant memoir that painted a nostalgic picture of the waning Polish gentry and the rhythms of a bygone rural world. The book remains one of the most tender and evocative portrayals of Polish provincial life, a testament to Wańkowicz’s deep emotional connection to his roots.

The Revolutionary Awakens: A Youth in Defiance
Wańkowicz’s formative years coincided with the repressive policies of the Russian Empire, which sought to erase Polish culture and language. Attending a Russian-controlled school in Warsaw, he experienced firsthand the indignities of enforced assimilation. His refusal to conform became evident early—he was punished multiple times for speaking Polish on school grounds. This spirit of defiance found an outlet in clandestine student organizations, where he joined the fight for Polish independence.
By his teenage years, Wańkowicz was fully immersed in underground activism. He became a member of the Organization of Youth of Secondary Schools ‘Future’ (Pet) and later assumed the role of its secretary-general. His participation in the 1905 school strike, a pivotal protest demanding the right to Polish education, was a formative experience that underscored the power of collective resistance. This burgeoning political consciousness would later inform his lifelong commitment to truth and justice, both in his writing and in his personal life.

The Patriot and the Pen: Forged in the Fires of Independence
Before Wańkowicz became synonymous with Polish reportage, he was a soldier and patriot on the frontlines of his nation’s struggle for independence. During the First World War, he served as a representative of the Central Committee of Polish Citizens, an organization committed to aiding displaced Poles in Russia. This role brought him face-to-face with the chaos and suffering of war, as he organized relief efforts and reunited families torn apart by conflict.
In 1917, Wańkowicz joined the First Polish Corps under General Józef Dowbor-Muśnicki. However, his commitment to Polish sovereignty was tested in May 1918, when the Corps leadership struck an agreement with Germany to cease hostilities. Viewing the deal as a betrayal, Wańkowicz participated in a mutiny led by younger officers opposing the decision. His arrest and subsequent trial for treason marked him not just as a soldier but as a man unyielding in his principles. His eventual acquittal by a military court cemented his status as a committed patriot.

Between Wars: The Rise of a Literary Titan
With Poland’s independence restored, Wańkowicz transitioned from activism to literature, channeling his energies into intellectual and creative pursuits. After completing studies in law and political science at Jagiellonian University, he returned to Warsaw and briefly worked in public service. Yet, bureaucracy could not contain his restless spirit. In 1924, Wańkowicz co-founded Towarzystwo Wydawnicze Rój (Rój Publishing Society), a revolutionary publishing house that brought Polish literature into the modern age. Under his leadership, Rój elevated authors like Bruno Schulz and Witold Gombrowicz, while Wańkowicz himself gained renown as a writer and journalist. His book ‘Na Tropach Smętka’ (‘On the Trail of Smętek’) combined sharp reportage with lyrical prose, offering an incisive look at cultural tensions in Polish-German borderlands. Perhaps most famously, he demonstrated that even advertising could be an art form. His slogan ‘Cukier krzepi’ (‘Sugar strengthens’) became a national catchphrase, cementing his reputation as a linguistic innovator.

War and Exile: Chronicler of Heroism
The outbreak of Second World War forced Wańkowicz into exile, but it also provided him with new material to document. As the world descended into chaos, he served as a war correspondent for the Polish II Corps, covering the Battle of Monte Cassino—a grueling campaign that became a symbol of Polish resilience. Determined to witness the events firsthand, Wańkowicz spent two harrowing weeks on the front lines. His account, ‘Bitwa o Monte Cassino’ (Battle of Monte Cassino), remains a towering achievement, blending meticulous historical detail with profound emotional depth. Exile, however, was not merely a physical displacement for Wańkowicz; it was an emotional and intellectual exile as well. The destruction of Warsaw, the loss of his Żoliborz home, and the death of his daughter Krysia during the Warsaw Uprising left indelible scars. For years, he lived as a literary nomad, moving between London, Rome, and the United States, always searching for a sense of belonging.

The Communist Reckoning: Defiance at Any Cost
Wańkowicz’s return to Poland in 1958 marked the beginning of his most politically fraught years. Initially welcomed as a national treasure, he soon became a thorn in the side of the communist regime. In 1964, his name appeared among the signatories of the ‘Letter of 34’, a bold protest against state censorship. The regime retaliated with characteristic ruthlessness, accusing him of anti-state activities and collaboration with Radio Free Europe.
The ensuing trial was a showpiece of political repression. Wańkowicz, then in his seventies, faced accusations fabricated by a system intent on silencing dissent. The court sentenced him to three years in prison, though public outcry forced the authorities to halt the execution of the sentence. Wańkowicz, unwavering in his principles, refused to beg for clemency, embodying the very courage he had celebrated in his writings.

Legacy of Resistance
Melchior Wańkowicz passed away in Warsaw on September 10, 1974, but his defiance outlived him. True to his wishes, his funeral was a modest affair, free from the state propaganda that sought to claim his legacy. His final resting place at Powązki Cemetery serves as a quiet monument to a man who refused to be silenced.
Wańkowicz’s life and work remain a beacon for those who value freedom of expression. His stories remind us of the resilience of the human spirit, the power of words to challenge oppression, and the enduring importance of truth. As censorship and authoritarianism resurface in various forms, Wańkowicz’s legacy calls us to resist, write, and never surrender.

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References:
Melchior Wańkowicz (1892-1974) (Dzieje.pl)
Proces Melchiora Wańkowicza oczami Jana Olszewskiego (Dzieje.pl)
Melchior Wańkowicz. Klasyk polskiego reportażu (Polskie Radio)
Melchior Wańkowicz - postać nieco zakazana w PRL (Jedynka)

An interview with Rafał Rogulski, Director of the ENRS

What is the most important objective of the European Network Remembrance and Solidarity?

The ENRS was created to foster an international dialogue about the history of Europe, its states and nations in the 20th century. It is important to us that this topic takes its rightful place in public discourse and that, in turn, the people of Europe come to know and understand one another better. Wars, the deaths of millions of people, the collapse of superpowers, the emergence of new states and the rebirth of pre-existing ones, population movements, border changes, concentration camps, the Holocaust, totalitarian and authoritarian political systems – Nazism and communism; impoverishing and enslaving entire nations and social groups; the struggle for freedom, its regaining and the way it was used in practice; and the struggle for and observance of human rights – these are selected processes that took place in the 20th century. Knowledge and the memory of them shape our identity, our attitude towards others and towards ourselves. If the processes of political and economic unification of Europe are to bring us closer together, it is worthwhile for us to know not only our own history, but also that of our neighbours. We need to be able to see the history of our nation and our country in a broader, international context. Only then will it be possible to talk about deepening not only the community of civilisation, but also the community of culture.

Why is it so important to remember and discuss these difficult events?

By expanding our knowledge and remembering, we at least give ourselves a chance of not making the same mistakes and allowing us to live in free, democratic states, in a democratic and strong community, to develop in peace. The discourse on history can and should be seen as a preventive measure against potential conflicts. I know that in the face of Russia’s cruel aggression in Ukraine, and also in the face of previous conflicts, such as the wars in the Balkans, it is difficult to speak with optimism about learning from history, but the ENRS grew out of a conflict over memory, over interpretations of the past, over the commemoration of the victims of the Second World War and other difficult aspects of 20th-century history. One of the conclusions reached by the creators of the ENRS network was that what was missing was a broader discussion that acknowledged, above all, the different perceptions of certain historical events and processes and recognised some aspects are indeed remembered but in different ways by individual countries and nations. Often we may feel that the memory of others in a certain sense limits or deforms our own, and vice versa. Sometimes certain issues are blanked out, while others are emphasised, and vice versa. To understand this, it is necessary to know why this is so.
An important motive in the creation of the ENRS was the fact that not only was it recognised that such differences of opinion and plurality of thinking existed, but an attempt was made to find some means of allowing us to live with this better and more comfortably. It would allow us to differ in an informed way, it would help us to increase our knowledge of ourselves and one another in Europe. The ENRS was born out of the need for a space to develop and contain a dialogue, in particular about the events of 20th-century European history.

A dialogue between …?

Mainly Europeans, but also all other interested parties. Both those who are familiar with history and those not yet interested. We invite the former to deepen their knowledge through our projects, while we want to make history interesting for the latter. We want to show them that a certain basic knowledge of history helps to orient themselves in today’s world. It helps them to understand both the dramatic events that are happening around them and the many political decisions taken in different countries, often conditioned by an interpretation of historical events of which we are often unaware. In order to be able to understand such decisions, we need to look at them on many levels, one of them being the historical context.

Is creating a space for such dialogue therefore one of the missions of ENRS?

Nurturing a dialogue about the history and memory of the 20th century is a never-ending task. It is an ongoing process carried out by a number of institutions in different countries: historical museums, memorials and central and local government institutions, both public and private. Most of them focus on the history of the country in which they were founded and operate. We, on the other hand, aim to make them work together and thus strengthen an international dialogue about the various events and processes of 20th-century history.
In this endeavour, our partners are all those concerned – from politicians, the media, civil servants and opinion-forming groups that shape the institutional landscape of our reality to the entire multitude of people who are aware of being a part of a historical process and want to learn as much as possible about it.

Given the multifaceted nature of historical, cultural and social experiences, can we speak of sharing a memory of them?

I would start by asking what it means to remember together? Is it about remembering the same thing the same way, or is it about creating a sense of togetherness across the diversity of memories? The former is as impossible as it is unnecessary, while the latter would support the creation of a sense of community of interest, which the European Union undoubtedly is. One of the aspects on which this community is founded is history: a shared history. Yet building a sense of community on the basis of history is not easy. Yes, there are aspects of history that affect different countries and national communities to a similar degree, but there is a range of experiences both in the realm of facts but, perhaps above all, the memory of those events to this day divide rather than unite.

Is it possible to reconcile these different memories? Can they be turned into a shared common memory?

The point is not to reconcile them by force, but to build a sense of community despite these differences. The community of interests I have in mind is not based solely on questions of economy, history or security, but combines all these components simultaneously, and strengthens our awareness that together we are stronger in every respect. Artificially highlighting differences without showing how to overcome them – only if by accepting them – is something that weakens the community and in reality exposes us to danger, which, as we know, is no longer lurking around the corner, but brazenly standing at the door and pressing the bell. Undoubtedly, historical knowledge can be the linking element, because it helps us understand, but it is not enough on its own.

Today we sometimes find certain behaviour from the past difficult to understand or accept.

Well, there will always be something left once we are gone. Some currents of thought, ways of acting, some facts, events and processes, and perhaps some of them will continue to be difficult for our great-grandchildren analysing them more than 100 years’ time to understand. Yet to us today these seem important and appropriate. When we set out to study the past and try to evaluate it, we cannot ignore the historical context in which the phenomena we are interested in occurred.

You have mentioned the dangers of disinformation today? How do we deal with those? How can we responsibly learn about history in the age of disinformation?

The key issue when it comes to dealing with disinformation is knowledge and scepticism, maintaining a distance and thinking critically about information being transmitted in different ways. The technical level in which people can be disinformed today is increasing at a tremendous rate. Thanks to today’s technologies, it is possible to present and put various statements in people’s mouths that can be spoken as if it is their voice, but it can have nothing to do with what they have ever said or perhaps even thought. This allows for an almost unbelievable level of manipulation. To shield ourselves against disinformation, we need to remain sceptical, critically check various sources and use our common sense.

We are used to treating the trial at the International Military Tribunal at Nuremberg as an obvious aftermath of the war. And yet, at the time, immediately after the end of the war, the very idea of putting on trial people who had acted in accordance with the laws of their state, trying them for crimes that were not codified in written law (e.g. crimes against peace, or crimes against humanity) aroused quite widespread opposition and even indignation among some lawyers.

Even for that part of the legal world which did not doubt that the crimes of the Second World War should be accounted for in judicial terms, unanswered questions remained: how to judge mass, even industrial-scale murders, for what and on what basis to judge those who ‘merely’ gave orders and commands? In a world of sovereign states, do governments have the right to try the leaders of other states? Is this not a dangerous precedent?

The helplessness of the justice system in the face of mass, organised crimes was aptly expressed during the trial of the KL Lublin (Majdanek) staff by the Polish prosecutor Jerzy Sawicki, who, incidentally, was also the Polish delegate during the Nuremberg trial: ‘I am supposed to speak about the guilt of the defendants, i.e. I am supposed to put their guilt into words. Your Honour, words are the creation of people, and what happened there is inhuman. [I know that normally when a prosecutor stands before the court and asks for a death sentence, a shudder of horror goes through the court, the prosecutor and the audience. I feel all my powerlessness when the words “death penalty” are pronounced in this courtroom’.

It seems that most of the legal dilemmas faced by lawyers during the Nuremberg trials, whatever aspect they concerned, were ultimately located in the age-old tension/conflict between the Roman ‘judicial’ approach to law and the modern ‘legislative’ approach. The former concept was largely based on axiology, seeing legal norms in the perspective of morality derived from natural laws (St Thomas, Kant’s categorical imperative). Its proponents were charged with the accusation that interpreting legal rules on the basis of an ambiguous, unspecific and undefined morality had the effect of departing from legal rules and giving lawyers too wide a field of interpretation. The latter notion, over time referred to as legal positivism, prevailed in the early 20th century in continental Europe. It favoured a reasoned, rational approach to law, which was primarily reduced to the legal norm; moreover, the radical version of legal positivism emphasised that there was no necessary connection between law and morality (John Austin, Rudolf von Ihering). The discussion taking place among legal scholars still during and just after the war was in essence a debate between positivists and proponents of natural law. The former believed that the crimes of the Second World War could be judged with the help of existing laws and existing jurisprudence. The latter pointed out that the mass scale and specificity of the crimes required new legal solutions. It is important to note that the goal of both was to try and convict the criminals, but they wanted to achieve this by different methods.

Justice for the victors?
One of the main general criticisms of the Nuremberg trials was and still is that they were a manifestation of ‘victors’ justice’, which only prosecuted and punished crimes committed by the Axis states, while the Allies, most notably the Soviet Union, were not held accountable for their own war crimes. Critics argue that the selective application of justice undermined the credibility of the trials.

Indeed, Nuremberg was a ‘court of the victors over the vanquished’, but it was the only possible tribunal in the political situation of the time. Any trial, even the best-prepared one, is subject to the subjectivity of the judges, to human error, let alone a trial before an international tribunal in which the conflicting interests of four powers clashed and a defeated Germany tried desperately to defend itself.

Faced with a whole series of dilemmas and legal doubts, only the will of the politicians could push through the establishment of the International Military Tribunal. Pragmatism and political realism stood above procedural deficiencies, the subjectivity of the judges, and the impossibility of trying Soviet criminals. Awareness of these shortcomings accompanied both politicians and lawyers from the very beginning. The prosecutor on the British side, Sir Hartley Shawcross, wrote 20 years after the trial: ‘The wisest legal arguments pale into insignificance and even become irrelevant in the face of the facts which have been proved, including by the use of official Nazi documents. What happened [during the Third Reich period] touched the conscience of all civilised nations, including the German people, and even cried out for judgement and punishment.’

It is also worth remembering that even during the war the response to information about the mass murders carried out by the Germans was suggestions that extrajudicial punishment be administered to them. As early as 1941, Theodore N. Kaufman self-published his book Germany Must Perish, in which he proposed the sterilisation of the entire German nation. According to the author’s calculations, it would take four months to sterilise the male German population by some 25,000 surgeons, and about three years for women. The plan of the American finance minister Henry Morgenthau, who believed that Germany would be a security risk even after demilitarisation, was well known and considered after the war, so in his book Germany Is Our Problem (1945) he advocated making Germany an entirely agricultural country in order to deprive it of an economic base for war. Even Winston Churchill himself believed (W. Churchill’s dispatch to A. Eden of 17 September 1944) that most of the German leadership (50 to 100 people) should be executed without trial. In the perspective of the above ideas, any judicial solution was a victory for common sense and the principles of Western civilisation.

Today, it is not easy for us to understand the legal dilemmas of the time - the international trial of criminals from Rwanda, Yugoslavia or Sudan seems obvious to us, but it is worth remembering that after the atrocities of the war, innovative interpretations of the law raised fears of creating new chaos, the effect of which could be to undermine the legal foundations of Western civilisation. The most striking example is the comment by US Supreme Court Chief Justice Harlan Fiske Stone: ‘...I would like to inform you that the Supreme Court had nothing to do, either directly or indirectly, with the Nuremberg trials or the actions of the government that authorized them’. In a private letter, he wrote: ‘The Nuremberg trials are an attempt to justify the use of the power of the victor over the vanquished, since the vanquished caused the aggressive war’. He feared the lasting effects of the instrumental use of law in international politics.

Acting in accordance with the law of one’s own state
One of the fundamental dilemmas of the Nuremberg trials was the very fact of the establishment of an international tribunal. Western political thought was dominated by the Act of State principle, particularly firmly rooted in Anglo-Saxon law, derived directly from the concept of state sovereignty. This principle implies that, in an anarchic international system, the authorities of one state do not have the right to judge the authorities of another state, since the legal principles established by the sovereign are the law in its territory.¹.According to this interpretation, a person acting on behalf, or in the interest, of a state cannot be held personally responsible for their actions; he or she is, as it were, subject to immunity on the grounds that their acts are presumptively legal, since they comply with the law established by the sovereign. Lawyers, both European and American, realised that a complete abandonment of the Act of State principle could be a dangerous precedent and could provide a legal basis for future interference in the internal legal system of sovereign states. The Nazi period provided an argument for many positivists to move away from the overly principled dominance of formalism over axiology and the overly radical separation of law and morality. The International Military Tribunal at Nuremberg finally recognised the primacy of the prohibition on planning and waging aggressive war over the absolute sovereignty of the state. Moreover, among some of the lawyers involved in the work of the United Nations War Crimes Commission (UNWCC) there was a conviction which one of them, Hersh Lauterpacht, formulated clearly as follows: ‘... the community of nations has in the past claimed and successfully asserted the right to intercede on behalf of the violated rights of man trampled upon by the State in a manner calculated to shock the moral sense of mankind. The right of humanitarian intervention has for a long time been considered to form part of the law of nations’². With regard to German crimes, he was convinced that the ‘fate of the accused ... serves as irrefutable proof that the scope of exclusive domestic jurisdiction ends where crimes against humanity begin’³.

Ultimately, the dilemma of ‘acting according to the law of the state’ was also resolved by the so-called Radbruch Formula. Its author proceeded from the premise that if the international community wanted to reckon with German crimes, which were committed according to criteria of legality but completely ignored elementary principles of morality, it could not resort to state law, as it did not provide for, or even prevent, such a reckoning. On the basis of a Roman jurisprudential maxim, Radbruch formulated the principle henceforth known in law as the Radbruch Formula: lex iniustissima non est lex, which can be translated as: a grossly unjust law is not a law. Thus, the law established by the legitimate government of the German Reich, by the fact of drastically violating natural law, became, according to Radbruch, a highly unjust law and therefore not valid. In the end, therefore, a sense of justice proved more important than dogmatic adherence to principles. It should also be stressed that this approach was also fostered by European public opinion, agitated by the evidence of war-time crimes being successively revealed.

For lawyers dealing with international law, this was one of the greatest dilemmas in history, concerning not only the application of principles, but above all the place of morals and values in international law. The legal interpretation that eventually prevailed at Nuremberg also makes it possible to try contemporary war criminals from the former Yugoslavia or Rwanda, among others. The undermining of the positivist conception of law by the premises contained in Radbruch formula made it possible to move beyond the dichotomy of the dispute: justice for the victors versus impunity for the perpetrators. Article 8 of the IMT Charter finally recognised that acting on the orders of a government or superior did not absolve criminal responsibility, although it may result in leniency. It was also emphasised that in the event of a conflict between national and international law the individual has a duty to comply with the latter, as in such a situation national law is not binding on the citizen.

Lex retro non agit!
The Nuremberg trials introduced new categories of crimes: ‘against humanity’ and “waging aggressive war” (against peace), which were not clearly defined in international law before the war. The so-called retroactivity of these provisions, i.e. the violation of two legal principles: nullum crimen sine lege (nulla poena sine lege) and lex retro non agit, was questionable. Since the legal terms themselves - crimes against humanity and crimes against peace - appeared after they had been committed by Nazi Germans, many legal scholars doubted whether the fundamental principles of law were being violated when trying war criminals. Disputes over the principle and interpretation of retroactivity also took place among the jurists of the IMT, including between the head of the American delegation, Robert H. Jackson, who believed that it was more important to try the criminals than to doubt the lex retro principle, and the advisor to the French delegation, Prof. André Gros, who had a lot of doubts on this issue.

In the end, Article 6 of the IMT Charter included the following provision: ‘The following acts, or any of them, are crimes coming within the jurisdiction of the Tribunal for which there shall be individual responsibility’. Article 6 was followed by a list of international crimes, including participation in a war of aggression and participation in a conspiracy (collusion) to commit one of the crimes against peace.

A witness at the Nuremberg trials, the Bavarian Social Democrat Wilhelm Hoegner, summarised these contentions as follows: ‘I remain of the opinion that the Nuremberg trials were contrary to the legal principle of nulla poena sine lege. After all, there were extraordinary circumstances, and this trial was the only chance to settle accounts with the criminal Nazi gang.’

Procedural objections and moral relativism
During the trials, the prosecutors were themselves a party to the conflict, so it was easy to formulate allegations of a lack of independence. The Tribunal was a military court with representatives of four powers, representing four different cultures and legal traditions (continental system, common law system, Soviet law). The jurists did not adopt any catalogue of procedural rules under which the proceedings were to take place, although it is clear that American law had the greatest influence on the final shape of the trial. The four powers did, however, reach a compromise on the application of substantive law, i.e. the legal norms applied before the tribunal.

The absence of a two-instance system, i.e. the possibility of an appeal against the verdict, was questionable. This was a political decision, motivated primarily by the Tribunal’s mode of work (ad hoc tribunal) ⁴. The political authorities wanted to try the defendants relatively quickly and definitively, hence the decision to make the verdicts final and indisputable. In view of the beginning of the Cold War, lengthy trials could be seen as a tool of the game between the Western Allies and the Soviets.

Some of the objections to the trials are of a more ethical nature, although to some extent they also relate to procedure, e.g. jury selection or unequal access to trial information. One can paraphrase the title of this text and write that the Themis at Nuremberg was one-eyed - she saw the German crimes but not the Soviet ones. Moreover, the Soviet lawyers at Nuremberg were themselves implicated in the crimes of the Soviet system. Morally, such a situation is of course unacceptable, but politically, under the circumstances, there was no alternative. The fact that there were Soviet lawyers, primarily judges, meant that much of the evidence of Soviet crimes, for example the Soviet aggression against Poland or the case of the Katyn massacre, was dismissed and the evidence was regarded as falsification.

German defenders often referred to the principle et tu quoque (Latin for ‘and you too’), an attempt to point out that the accusing Allies had themselves committed similar acts for which they accused German leaders. The defence counsels argued that German bombings of, for example, Coventry or London, were no different from Allied raids on Dresden or Leipzig. Similar allegations were made about the murder of German prisoners of war especially by the Soviets. These arguments sought to undermine the moral and legal legitimacy of the Tribunal.

The diversity of the verdicts, including the acquittal of some defendants, may be indicative of the fairness and insight of the Tribunal, which reflected on the individual guilt of each defendant. However, upon closer inspection of the judges’ behind-the-scenes deliberations, this picture is no longer so clear-cut. After the disclosure of Judge Biddle’s personal notes (thirty years after the Nuremberg trials), the bargaining over the sentences to be handed down came to light. This only confirms the primacy of politics over justice, perhaps better described as a ‘synergy of politics and justice’.

Criminals behind the desk and executors of orders
A phenomenon of the National Socialist system was the fact of the ‘total mobilisation’ of German society and the massive support given to Hitler. ⁵ That was support of the simple worker and the farmer, but also members of scientific and intellectual elites and by representatives of large industrial concerns. Ultimately, they created a system that organised a powerful machine of violence and extermination during the Second World War. The number of NSDAP membership cards issued reached 10.7 million, meaning that one in five adult Germans belonged to the Nazi party. As many as 17.3 million soldiers served in the Wehrmacht from 1939 to 1945 (of whom 15.6 million were Germans and Austrians). The most conservative estimate by German historians of the Wehrmacht’s involvement in the atrocities - particularly on the Eastern Front - is 5%; this would mean that more than 700,000 soldiers may have committed them. If we add to these figures members of SS formations, officials of the SS Race and Settlement Main Office, and representatives of large industrial concerns supporting Hitler, we get a picture of the entanglement and scale of support given to Hitler by the German people. In December 1963, 22 members of the Auschwitz staff stood trial in Frankfurt am Main. Already in the indictment, prosecutor Fritz Bauer pre-empted the defence arguments, writing: ‘It was not the case that there was only Nazi Hitler and only Nazi Himmler in Germany. There were hundreds of thousands, millions of others who carried it out not only because they were ordered to do so, but also because it corresponded to their own world view, which they adopted voluntarily.’ The Allies cannot be accused of trying only the most important representatives of the Third Reich at Nuremberg, because that was precisely the purpose of the trial. The selection of those who would sit on the dock was not only a matter of justice, but above all a matter of politics. The German Reich was to be tried at Nuremberg, represented by people from various institutions and spheres of life (from political activists, propagandists, military commanders to representatives of the business community). It is worth remembering that the main perpetrators escaped responsibility by committing suicide (Hitler, Goebbels, Himmler) or by fleeing abroad (Eichmann and Mengele, among others). The purpose of the trial was to develop the legal basis and jurisprudence that was later to be used by the courts before which lesser functionaries of the Nazi regime were to be tried. Of course, it should be remembered that the conflict between the Western powers and the Soviet Union dubbed the Cold War effectively rendered the planned denazification and trial of criminals impossible.

When it came to trying the guilty, a much more serious issue was that of ‘behind-the-scenes perpetrators’ who had not directly committed the crimes. This dilemma also applied to some commanders of concentration and death camps who themselves had not participated in the crimes directly. The resolution of this dilemma was all the more pressing because even before or during the Nuremberg trials, others were still taking place before American and British courts. ⁶

To resolve similar dilemmas, the concept of a multi-person crime, involving ‘taking part’ in a joint action, was used. This concept should not be confused with collective responsibility. The perpetrator of a multi-person international crime could have been an organisation, such as the SS, the Gestapo or even a specific ministry. In both Britain and the United States, there were legal constructs to try people who did not commit crimes directly. These were the concepts of collusion and conspiracy. Prior to the war, these were primarily used to try organised crime or economic crime, such as the Mafia. In this case, we are dealing with a plurality of perpetrators accused of jointly committing the crime, so the prosecution had to prove that the accused participated in a joint plan and had knowledge of its criminal objectives. The adoption of such premise in the trial of German criminals also made it possible to consider the very membership of certain organisations as participation in a conspiracy to wage a war of aggression. Such a concept was pushed by the American lawyer Murrey C. Bernays as early as 1944, as he submitted successive memoranda to the American government suggesting the use of the concept of conspiracy (collusion) to try not only individuals, but also organisations such as the Gestapo, SS, or SA. He suggested that a tribunal to try war criminals should link the criminal acts to the doctrine and policies of the Third Reich. Ultimately, the indictments and sentences in trials held even before the Nuremberg trials used the concept of a common plan/design, aiming at aggression or domination of other nations. The British used this concept in the trial of the Bergen-Belsen staff, and in November 1945, in the Almelo trial, a British military court explicitly stated that the ‘responsibility of the members of the group is equal to that of the man who fired the actual shot’.

This concept provoked fierce protests from lawyers outside the common law circle, including the French, who insisted on adherence to the continental principle of individual criminal responsibility. However, it was acknowledged that ‘aggression is by definition a multi-person crime, so the doctrine of conspiracy does not substantially increase the burden on defendants’. The prosecutors in the Nuremberg trials eventually formulated four charges, the first of which concerned participation in the creation and execution of a common plan, i.e. a conspiracy aimed at crimes against peace, war crimes and crimes against humanity. The prosecution team wanted to show that this conspiracy had been formed many years before the outbreak of war, namely its beginning in 1919, when the NSDAP was founded. The indictment emphasised a close connection between the charge of conspiracy and the commission of crimes against peace. Anyone who was to be convicted of participation in a conspiracy or a crime against peace had to be proven to have participated in a specific war of aggression.

The solution finally adopted allowed the leaders of the German Reich to be tried at Nuremberg and was reflected in the Charter of the IMT (Article 6): ‘The Tribunal ... shall have the power to try and punish persons who, acting in the interests of the European Axis countries, whether as individuals or as members of organizations, committed any of the following crimes: (...)planning, preparation, initiation or waging of a war of aggression, or a war in violation of international treaties, agreements or assurances, or participation in a common plan or conspiracy for the accomplishment of any of the foregoing’. At the same time, Article 7 emphasised that ‘The official position of defendants, whether as Heads of State or responsible officials in Government Departments, shall not be considered as freeing them from responsibility or mitigating punishment’. Finally, the Nuremberg principles recognised that the preparation of a(n) (war of) aggression was a conspiracy involving participation in preparatory activities leading to aggression or awareness of the existence of a plan of aggression.

Related to the above issue is also the problem of acting on orders, which primarily concerns members of military organisations, but also officers of paramilitary formations. This is a particularly difficult issue, as the security system of states is largely based on the subordination of the security apparatus and the army. It is difficult to imagine that states would tolerate any subjective assessment of an order by a subordinate. This was the line of defence adopted by many lawyers who defended the German perpetrators, especially military ones (including Alfred Jodl, Wilhelm Keitel, or Erich Raeder). The defendants’ invocation of a ‘no-win situation’ would have meant that any, even worst, acts could be justified. Moreover, as the prosecutor Robert H. Jackson emphasised, ‘Hitler’s decisions would have been of no effect unless they had been carried out by Keitel and Jodl and the other men under him’. The Nuremberg law was based on the primacy of international law over the norms of domestic law in this regard. From the point of view of the law, the mere fact of acting on orders did not absolve the accused from liability; more important in the course of the proceedings were ‘mitigating circumstances’. The average executor of an order was most often not in a position to assess whether the order given to him was in accordance with international law or not, and therefore whether he could refuse to obey it. On the other hand, he was certainly convinced that the order was in accordance with German law and therefore legal, because under the Nazi system, as underscored by the defence lawyer at the Nuremberg trial Hermann Jahrreiß: ‘Hitler’s order was already a law before the Second World War (...). The Führer’s order was binding, that is legally binding’. The trials assessed whether the executor was aware of the criminal nature of the order or of the consequences of carrying it out and whether he had a realistic possibility of refusing to carry out the order. While both of these aspects may have been possible mitigating circumstances, they did not release one from responsibility in accordance with Article 8 of the IMT Charter: ‘The fact that the Defendant acted pursuant to order of his Government or of a superior shall not free him from responsibility, but may be considered in mitigation of punishment if the Tribunal determines that justice so requires’. For the sake of completeness, it is worth adding that paragraph 47 of the 1872 Reich Code, which was in force during the First and Second World Wars, contained a regulation with regard to acting on orders. The provision of interest to us reads: ‘A subordinate who obeys an order shall be liable to punishment if it was known to him that his superior’s order concerned an action whose purpose was a common or military offence’. So the Nuremberg regulations on this issue were largely in line with the German law hitherto in force.

Impact on post-war reconstruction
The Nuremberg trials, but also other trials of German criminals, were not received with much enthusiasm by their fellow countrymen. From a psychological point of view, this should not be surprising. The reluctance to settle accounts with the past meant the unwillingness to admit guilt. The mechanisms of denial were similar to other such cases; above all, the past was not talked about. Blame was shifted to others, leaders who behaved cowardly and committed suicide were accused, leaving the nation at the mercy of the victors. Crimes were explained by following orders, acting in accordance with the German law of the time. It was repeated that the German people had no idea of the crimes.

The attitude of the Germans to the Nazi past, but also to reckoning with it, can be traced quite accurately thanks to opinion polls taken during these years. The Office of Military Government for Germany (U.S.) (OMGUS) set up a special department for surveys in the American occupation zone, later extending their reach to other western zones and sectors of Berlin. Between 1945 and 1949, more than 70 surveys were carried out on large groups of respondents. Replying to the question about the guilt of the defendants tried at Nuremberg, respondents in the American occupation zone answered as follows: in 1945, 70% answered that they were guilty, in 1946, guilt was acknowledged by 75% of the respondents, but in August 1946, only 52% believed that the defendants were guilty. After the verdict was pronounced, 55% of the respondents thought the sentence was fair and 21% thought it was too lenient. When asked in October 1946 about the collective guilt of the Germans for the war (Kriegsschuld), as many as 92% of Germans answered that they were not guilty and 51% were willing to consider that those Germans who supported Hitler’s regime were partly to blame (Teilschuld). As many as 83% of Germans believed that ‘both sides’ fighting in the war had committed crimes against peace and against humanity.

It is fundamentally misguided to consider the Nuremberg trials from an ex-post perspective as a factor in deepening the post-war divisions in Germany by focusing on retaliation rather than reconciliation. Historical experience shows that the absence of a form of response to evil must result in a large-scale undermining of pro-justice convictions. A sense of harm, a failure to punish perpetrators, a fundamental sense of injustice can cause concrete losses and deficits both politically and socially. The sense of injustice gives rise to the desire for revenge (e.g. the conflict in Rwanda in the 1990s, or today’s post-colonial movements). In the short term, the processes may have deepened internal divisions in Germany and internationally. The focus on punishing the guilty without creating space for dialogue made some Germans feel that they were victims of the victors rather than partners in the construction of the post-war order. However, the long-term effects were unequivocally positive. The process helped solidify universal principles of accountability for war crimes and became the foundation for modern international law. It also contributed to the democratisation of West Germany and its integration into the West.

The years following the Second World War were an example of the implementation of so-called transitional justice in the Western occupation zones. The ultimate goal of such a process is a reform of institutions, social reconciliation and the prevention of future human rights violations. However, the path to this goal first leads through the use of legal mechanisms (courts, tribunals, commissions for crime prosecution) to hold perpetrators accountable and redress the wrongs of the victims. The legacy of Nuremberg continues to influence contemporary discussions about how to reconcile justice with the need to ‘heal the wounds of conflict’.

Summary
To put it in the language of political realism - the Nuremberg trials were a tool adequate for its time. The IMT was hostage to the political situation, but there was no other alternative at the time.

A breakthrough achievement was the introduction of the principle that individuals, not states, could be held responsible for war crimes and crimes against humanity. This marked a major change in international criminal law.

Although today no-one questions the Nuremberg principles and, moreover, we are able to appreciate the achievements of the IMT with the benefit of hindsight and, unfortunately, subsequent crimes perpetrated elsewhere (Yugoslavia, Rwanda, Russia), it is worth remembering the enormous controversy that surrounded the very idea of an ‘international court’. Discussions among lawyers, which took place even before the decision to set up the Nuremberg Tribunal, could have led to a stalemate in which international justice would have judged only the direct executors of the crimes, but would have been powerless against the decision-makers who gave the orders that resulted in genocide. The very fact of the establishment of the IMT ended speculation on this aspect, and although doubts and controversy have remained, the decision itself regarding the establishment of the IMT is not challenged now.

NOTES
¹ When writing about the anarchic international system what I have in mind is Hobbes’ perception of the international system as a world ‘without Leviathan’, that is with no supreme power over sovereign nation states.
² A British lawyer of Polish-Jewish origin residing in England since 1923. He played a major part in forming a catalogue of crimes judged by the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg. He co-created the term ‘crime against humanity’.
³ This view was presented in the closing statement of the British prosecutor in Nuremberg Hartley Shawcross, whose speeches were written by Lauterpacht; Quoted after: A. Bryl, Zbrodnie przeciwko ludzkości…, op. cit., pp. 50–61, here: 56–57.
⁴ An ad hoc tribunal, i.e. one set up temporarily to try and punish a specific crime and specific persons.
⁵ The term ‘total mobilisation’ was formulated by Ernst Jünger in his 1930 essay Die totale Mobilmachung.He notes that conflict has ceased to be a domain of professional armies and elites, to become a confrontation between entire societies, involving each social stratum and each aspect of life.
⁶ The biggest of them were trials of the staff of KL Bergen- Belsen (17 October–17 November 1945), KL Dachau (15 November–13 December 1945) and KL Mauthausen-Gusen (29 March–13 May 1946).

Have you ever wondered how history can be taught in a way that resonates across cultures and languages? Welcome to the world of "Hi-Story Lessons," an innovative educational platform designed to bring an international perspective to history teaching in Europe. Launched in 2015, this dynamic website has evolved significantly, enhancing its resources and user experience. In this interview, we join Urszula Bijoś and Maria Naimska as they share the journey behind Hi-Story Lessons

UB: Hi-Story is an educational platform designed for teachers and individuals involved in both formal and informal education, including trainers, educators at memorial sites, and local council members. It operates in six languages: English, Polish, German, Slovak, Hungarian, and Romanian. On the platform, educators can find resources that simplify their teaching experience, including ready-to-use materials, animations, photo galleries, and lesson plans organised into eight chronological categories, covering periods from pre-World War I to the end of the Cold War in 1991. Additionally, we offer two methodological categories focused on various teaching methods and educational materials aimed at combating disinformation.

MN: We had been contemplating the creation of an educational portal for some time, and the opportunity to implement this idea arose in 2015. We began discussing the platform's design, its target audience, and the content it should include—essentially the project's guiding goals. From the outset, we recognised its primary audience as schools, intending for both students and teachers to use it. We started by gathering key historical events from the timelines of the involved countries: Poland, Germany, Slovakia, Romania, Hungary, and the Czech Republic. We invited historians and educators from these countries to collaborate, tasking each national group with selecting 30 events from the 20th century that significantly shaped their country's history. Additionally, we chose 30 international events that connected these national histories, resulting in a shared timeline of 210 events.

As new funding sources became available, we aimed to enhance this foundation with infographics and animations. Deciding on which events to start with proved challenging, so we first asked historians and teachers to write concise texts about each topic, limited to two pages to provide introductory insights for students. Our first animation was a ten-minute film about World War I, produced in seven languages. It has garnered around one million views, making it the second most-watched animation on this topic, following the BBC's production. We subsequently created animations on the Russian Revolution, the Great Depression of 1929, and the Marshall Plan, focusing on complex subjects often presented dryly in textbooks, especially economic issues, which typically lack visual materials.

Next, we produced infographics for classroom use. Collaborating with the Museum of the Warsaw Uprising and the Jewish Historical Museum, we created the first infographic covering the Ghetto Uprising of 1943 and the Warsaw Uprising of 1945—this marked the first collaboration between these institutions. Our aim was to develop materials enabling students and teachers across Europe to differentiate between the two uprisings. We later created infographics about the peace conferences in Tehran, Yalta, and Potsdam, and on World War II. I am particularly proud of the World War II infographic, which effectively illustrates the shifting fronts during the conflict, helping to clarify many of its nuances. My last projects included an animation about the collapse of the Soviet Union and resources aimed at students regarding the use of free licences. In 2021, our Strategy Department produced a set of materials focused on disinformation, especially relevant at the time due to Russian propaganda and Vladimir Putin's article in The National Interest on the 75th anniversary of the end of World War II. The ENRS responded by publishing articles, lesson plans, and worksheets addressing disinformation from the Russian Federation and its tools, including deepfakes, information bubbles, and information warfare on Twitter.

UB: When I took over Hi-Story from Maria in 2022, I valued the platform's professional and useful content, developed over the years by the coordinator, the ENRS team, and exceptional specialists—teachers, educators, and historians. My responsibility was to reshape the platform and facilitate its further development. I focused on designing a concept aligned with the ENRS strategy and our grant providers' goals, enriching educational content, and coordinating the development of new materials. As the Hi-story team we envision creating a community where teachers can share their ideas and the materials they have developed, including worksheets, videos, and lesson plans. Hence why, simultaneously, I aimed to expand the community around the platform, particularly the group of engaged teachers. In the webinar series "Materials and Methods for Teaching History," I took on the task of finding speakers. Webinars provide a unique format, and I aimed for them to be interesting and innovative to encourage teacher participation, site visits, and engagement with associated events.

From what perspective are the materials on the platform written, and can they be adapted to the curricula of individual countries?

UB: Our materials were not designed to fit individual national curricula for two primary reasons: curricula change frequently, and our materials present the histories of multiple countries. Teachers are well aware of their specific needs. Using our platform, they can select only the graphic materials, graphs, maps, or text excerpts they require. Our goal is to highlight historical aspects often overlooked in textbooks. For example, we cover topics like the Holodomor, the Great Famine in Ukraine from 1932-33, and the history of the Roma and Sinti peoples. These subjects may not be included in national curricula, but we believe they are crucial and worthy of discussion as part of our effort to promote lesser-known topics in 20th-century history.

MN: Hi-Story's mission is to present different perspectives. For instance, when developing a text about the history of one country, ideally the team from the neighbour country would also create a corresponding text. Often, these events intersect. Dates are indisputable facts; however, facts can be interpreted in various ways.

Hi-Story operates in a constantly evolving virtual environment. How do you assess its technological evolution?

MN: Initially, we created materials for the platform as static timelines that could be printed. Each sheet represented a decade, allowing users to print timelines for one country and juxtapose them on a board to visualise concurrent historical events. This approach leaned more towards offline resources, with an additional blank page for users to add their own events. The classroom activity was designed to encourage students to identify what they believed was missing.

I also remember when we decided to create an online version of these infographics, launching them in all languages simultaneously. That was back in 2016, and although the infographic was visually appealing, we lacked the necessary technological capabilities at that time.

UB: The pace of technological advancement is so rapid that to keep up, we would need a dedicated department focused on ensuring our materials remain innovative in both content and format. Additionally, we must comply with WCAG (Web Content Accessibility Guidelines) standards, meaning that as we add more visual layers, accessibility becomes a concern.

The revamped version of the platform serves as a repository for teachers, enabling them to quickly locate chronologically organised materials in their preferred language. To inform this redesign, we conducted a focus study at the end of last year, which included a survey completed by a hundred individuals and in-depth interviews with some of our target audience. We learned what teachers need, and their feedback directly influenced the site's redevelopment. Respondents value Hi-Story for addressing topics such as totalitarianism and the distinctions between totalitarian regimes and democratic systems. They praise the high-quality animations, along with the graphic materials and lesson plans, which they can download for classroom use. Notably, teachers expressed a desire for more PowerPoint presentations featuring a simple format of one image accompanied by one caption, as this format is effective in a school context. They also indicated that their primary goal is to foster critical thinking skills in their students, which has shown us in which direction to follow.

What is the reality of managing a platform like this? What have been and continue to be your biggest challenges?

MN: The most significant challenge was reconciling the content created by various contributors. All materials underwent consultations with other experts, and revisions were a constant part of the process. This often required mediating discussions between authors who were attached to their texts and those who proposed expansions, modifications, or removals. Once a compromise was reached and the text was ready, we moved on to the storyboarding stage. At this point, we had to decide what information would be included in the animations and infographics, how it should be visually represented, and what would be narrated. This process was time-consuming and demanded meticulous attention to detail; for instance, we had to ensure that a cap from World War II was accurately depicted and that maps were appropriate. Maps, in particular, presented a challenge. Completing each animation and infographic felt like a small happy-ending.

Looking ahead, what challenges do you foresee for the platform?

UB: The primary challenges are educational, affecting schooling throughout Europe, such as the length of texts and the volume of written content our audience can absorb. Whether it’s slides or interactive mind maps, information is still presented in textual form. We aim to provide contextualised historical knowledge, highlighting nuances and complexities—acknowledging that “this happened, but it was also different, and it didn’t affect everyone, and this point is worth mentioning,” while simultaneously covering the histories of multiple countries. This inevitably results in extensive written content, whether in a Word document or another format. Regardless of how we present the information, the author's intent remains paramount. Another challenge is the rapidly changing technological landscape and the integration of AI, which requires institutions and audiences to adapt for effective utilisation. Also, increasing political polarisation in Europe complicates our ability to agree on a shared history. Each of us is shaped by our educational systems and national historiography. While our team values its international composition and diverse perspectives, this diversity can create challenges at the educational level. Even when we create comparative content across five countries, it remains uncertain whether, for example, a teacher from Hungary is interested in the Polish perspective.

Additionally, there’s a misconception that if something is available online, it can be accessed by anyone worldwide. In reality, our content reaches only a small audience. Therefore, we strive not to get overwhelmed by this scale, avoiding the assumption that if something is online, it’s universally accessible. The internet is already saturated with webinars, meetings, and materials, making it challenging to effectively reach our audience without significant financial investment in promotion.

Urszula, what is your dream for Hi-Story?

UB: Hi-story Lessons is designed and updated by a large team of content creators, researchers, communication specialists, and my colleagues from ENRS, who consistently help us test and discuss new solutions. My goal is to continue this collaborative approach by inviting diverse perspectives. So far, we haven't organised in-person events for teachers, and I would like to create a summer school or seminar. Currently, we are planning to establish a small working group of teachers who can provide valuable feedback on our materials. Additionally, I would like to form a team of five coordinators from five ENRS countries, who would meet monthly to brainstorm about the materials needed and to share the perspectives of these nations.

Maria, you handed Hi-Story over to Ula two years ago. How does it feel to look at Hi-Story from a distance?

MN: Yes, I did, and I parted with a heavy heart. However, since I began coordinating the European Remembrance Symposium, I no longer had the capacity to manage such a large initiative like Hi-Story. I wish Urszula all the best with the platform.

I believe that Hi-Story is fundamentally about accountability. Anything you do with children carries immense responsibility. What they learn now will impact their perspectives in 20 or 30 years, influencing how they interpret history and engage with the world. When we established the platform, our goal was to support open educational resources. As a public institution, all our materials are free and of exceptional quality. It is crucial to broaden the repository and to show teachers how to access these resources.

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Urszula Bijoś joined the ENRS team in 2022 to coordinate educational projects. She studied History at the University of Warsaw, specialising in the popularisation of history with elements of journalism. For many years, she worked at the non-governmental organisation, the Centre for Civic Education, where she managed projects for teachers. She completed a trainer’s course, developed educational materials, and organised summer schools and educational workshops.

Maria Naimska holds a B.A. in Mediterranean Studies and an M.A. in Political Studies from the University of Warsaw. With an interest in web design solutions, she also completed a postgraduate programme in databases and their applications at the Polish-Japanese Academy of Information Technology. Prior to joining the ENRS in 2014, she was involved in several digital and educational projects across various fields. Since 2019 Maria coordinates the European Remembrance Symposium.

In a world overshadowed by terror and brutality, the story of Józef and Wiktoria Ulma and their six young children shines as a beacon of humanity and moral clarity. Living in the quiet village of Markowa in southeastern Poland during the dark years of the Holocaust, the Ulmas epitomized the extraordinary courage of ordinary people. Risking everything, they sheltered eight Jewish neighbours in their modest home, defying the oppressive machinery of Nazi Germany. Their ultimate sacrifice—losing their lives and those of their children—stands as a profound testament to the power of empathy and faith in the face of unimaginable danger.

Rooted in Humility, Elevated by Vision
In the serene village of Markowa in southeastern Poland, Józef and Wiktoria Ulma were a beacon of resilience, intellect, and humanity. Their lives, though marked by simplicity, were extraordinary in their depth and purpose. Józef, born in 1900, was a man of immense curiosity and practical genius. Despite having only four years of formal education and six months at an agricultural school, he transcended his humble beginnings. His interests were vast, ranging from horticulture to photography. Józef established Markowa’s first fruit tree nursery, constructed a home wind turbine for electricity, and captured village life with his camera, creating an invaluable visual archive. He exemplified a peasant intelligentsia—a man deeply tied to the land yet yearning for intellectual growth.
Wiktoria, born in 1912, was equally remarkable. Orphaned at a young age, she displayed resilience and a zest for life, attending courses at a local Folk High School and engaging in cultural activities like village theatre. Together, the Ulmas created a household filled with love, learning, and faith. Parents to six children and expecting a seventh, their lives revolved around nurturing not only their family but also their community.

A World Turned Dark: The German Occupation
Before the Second World War, Markowa was a quiet, close-knit community of about 4,500 residents, including around 120 Jews. While cultural and religious differences meant that Polish and Jewish residents lived somewhat parallel lives, relations were amicable. Jewish families in Markowa primarily engaged in trade and farming, their children attending schools alongside Polish peers. Religious gatherings often took place in nearby Łańcut, at a synagogue that likely welcomed the Goldman family—the very neighbors the Ulmas would later risk everything to protect.
The peaceful life of the Ulmas and their neighbours shattered with the German invasion of Poland in 1939. For the Jewish community of Markowa the occupation brought swift and devastating oppression. Early restrictions, such as wearing the Star of David, escalated into forced labour, deportations, and mass executions. By 1942, ‘Operation Reinhardt’ sought to exterminate the Jewish population in the General Government area, leaving Jewish families in Markowa desperate for refuge.
Markowa fell under the jurisdiction of brutal German and local collaborators, including the infamous Konstanty Kindler, a volksdeutsch known for his ruthlessness. Daily life became a litany of terror: curfews, forced labour, and deportations were commonplace. The Jewish residents, targeted with relentless persecution, were subjected to confiscations, ghettos, and ultimately, extermination.
The Ulmas, known for their kindness and connection to local Jewish families, did not hesitate. In December 1942, they opened their modest home to eight Jews: Saul Goldman, his four sons, two daughters, and a young child. For over a year, these individuals lived hidden within the Ulmas’ home, sharing the family’s meagre resources. Such an act of defiance carried the ultimate risk; under the German Nazi decrees, anyone aiding Jews faced immediate execution, a punishment that extended to entire households.

The Tragedy That Silenced Markowa
The Ulmas’ courageous choice to protect their Jewish neighbours did not remain a secret. Suspicion grew as the family purchased unusually large quantities of food, arousing local curiosity. In March 1944, the German authorities were tipped off—likely by Włodzimierz Leś, a collaborator who had previously extorted and betrayed Jews in the area.
In the early hours of March 24, German gendarmes and local collaborators arrived at the Ulma home. The brutality was swift and unrelenting. The eight Jewish individuals hiding in the house were executed immediately. Józef and Wiktoria were then dragged outside and shot. As Wiktoria fell, in the throes of childbirth, the executioners made a harrowing decision: they would kill the children too. Eight-year-old Stanisława, six-year-old Barbara, five-year-old Władysław, four-year-old Franciszek, three-year-old Antoni, and 1.5-year-old Maria were all executed. In an instant, 17 lives were extinguished, including Wiktoria’s unborn child.
The massacre did not end with death. The perpetrators looted the Ulma farm and held a macabre celebration at the site of the execution. The villagers of Markowa were forced to bury the dead, creating two graves—one for the Ulmas and another for the Jews they had sheltered. The tragedy left an indelible scar on the community.

The Aftermath: Injustice and Memory
The perpetrators of the Markowa massacre largely escaped justice. While Włodzimierz Leś was executed by the Polish Underground in 1944, the German commander, Eilert Dieken, lived out his post-war years as a respected citizen in Lower Saxony, untouched by accountability. Josef Kokott, another participant, was eventually tried and sentenced to death in Poland, though his sentence was later commuted to life imprisonment. He died in prison in 1980.
The Ulmas, however, were not forgotten. In 1995, Yad Vashem honored Józef and Wiktoria as Righteous Among the Nations. Their names joined a sacred list of those who risked everything to save Jews during the Holocaust. In 2016, a museum dedicated to Poles who rescued Jews during World War II was opened in Markowa, bearing the Ulma family’s name. Each year, March 24 is observed as the National Day of Remembrance of Poles Saving Jews Under German Occupation, a tribute to their sacrifice and the bravery of others like them.

Faith in Action: The Ulmas’ Moral Compass
The Ulmas were guided by an unshakable faith. Their well-worn Bible contained underlined passages from the parable of the Good Samaritan and the commandment to love one’s neighbour, reflecting the principles that shaped their actions. These were not mere ideals; they were convictions put into practice, even at the cost of their lives. Their choice to shelter Jews was an act of profound moral courage, rooted in love and a sense of shared humanity.
The family’s beatification by the Catholic Church in 2023 underscores their spiritual legacy. While their recognition as Righteous Among the Nations resonates deeply within Jewish memory, their elevation to sainthood amplifies their story on a global scale, reminding Catholics and non-Catholics alike of the universal values they represent: compassion, sacrifice, and unwavering moral clarity.

A Symbol of Universal Values
What makes the Ulmas’ story uniquely compelling is not just the magnitude of their sacrifice but the life they led before their tragic end. Józef and Wiktoria were not wealthy, educated elites, but rather a humble couple driven by intellectual curiosity, strong faith, and a sense of communal responsibility. They cultivated their farm, raised their children, and enriched their village through Józef’s photography, ingenuity, and activism. Their decision to protect others in a time of extreme peril was not born of wealth or privilege but of an extraordinary humanity that transcended fear.
The Ulma family’s story transcends national and religious boundaries. It is a testament to the enduring power of human dignity in the face of unspeakable evil. Like Jan Karski and Witold Pilecki, the Ulmas stand as symbols of resistance and humanity during one of history’s darkest chapters. Their legacy challenges us to reflect on our own capacity for courage and compassion.
Today, as their names appear in museums, textbooks, and prayers, the Ulmas remind the world that even in the bleakest times, ordinary people can achieve extraordinary heroism. Their story is not merely one of martyrdom but a beacon of hope and a call to action for future generations.

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References:
"Wiktoria and Józef Ulma - Meet the Ulma Family The Ulma family from Markowa (Institute of National Remembrance)
"Historia rodziny Ulmów, dzień w którym ich zamordowano został ustanowiony Narodowym Dniem Pamięci Polaków Ratujących Żydów pod okupacją niemiecką. (Oddział Instytutu Pamięci Narodowej w Rzeszowie)
"Biografia - Błogosławiona Rodzina Ulmów, Józef i Wiktoria oraz siedmioro ich dzieci

Before the war

30 January 1933 Adolf Hitler becomes the Chancellor of Germany.
22 March 1933 First German concentration camp created in Dachau, Germany.
25 November 1936 Nazi Germany and Japan sign the Anti-Comintern Pact, directed against communism and the USSR. Italy joins the pact in 1937.
7 July 1937 Japanese attack on China, beginning of the Japanese-Chinese War.
12 March 1938 Anschluss of Austria. Austria is incorporated into Germany.
30 September 1938 Munich Agreement – part of Czechoslovakia is incorporated by Germany. To keep the peace European powers agreed to Hitler’s demands.

1939

14 March 1939 Slovakia supported by Germany declares independence from Czechoslovakia. On 15 March Germany invades Czechoslovakia and establishes the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia.
3 May 1939 Stalin replaced Maxim Litvinov, Soviet Commissar for Foreign Affairs, who was identified with the anti-German position. This was a significant move to improve the relations between the Soviet Union and Germany.
23 August 1939 - The Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact was signed. Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union agreed not to attack each other and to remain neutral if attacked by a third power. Secret clauses in the pact divided up other countries into respective spheres of influence in Central and Eastern Europe, including a partitioning of Poland.
1 September 1939 German attack on Poland, triggering the Second World War.
3 September 1939 UK and France declare war on Germany.
17 September 1939 USSR attack on Poland and the incorporation of its eastern borderlands, more than one-half of Polish territory.
28 September 1939 Capitulation of Warsaw, German occupation of the western half of Poland.
8 October 1939 The Piotrków Trybunalski Ghetto (Yiddish: פּיִעטריקאָװ) was created in Piotrków Trybunalski. It was the first Nazi ghetto in occupied Europe.

1940

9 April – 10 June 1940 German attack on Denmark and Norway, beginning the German occupation of these countries
13 March 1940 After the Winter War with Finland (30.11.39-13.03.40) the USSR incorporates some important territories but fails to create a Finish SSR.
10 May – 25 June 1940 Battle of France. German attack on France, Belgium, Netherlands and Luxembourg, which fall under German occupation.
June 1940 USSR incorporates the Baltic States.
26 May – 4 June 1940 The Dunkirk evacuation of Allied soldiers from France. 22 June 1940 Germany defeated France. In the southern half of France, Germany created a puppet French State (État français) – so-called Vichy France.
28 June 1940 the Soviet Union started the occupation of Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina.
10 July – 31 October 1940 Battle of Britain. UK’s successful defence against German air force attacks.

1941

11 March 1941 Lend-Lease policy – USA’s financial and military aid for the countries fighting the Axis.
20 May – 1 June 1941 The German invaded Crete, Greece 22 June 1941 Germany launches operation Barbarossa. USSR joins the Allies after German attack.
8 September 1941 The start of the German siege of Leningrad.
2 October 1941 – 7 January 1942 Battle of Moscow. Soviets fend off an attack by the German army. Start of the Soviet counteroffensive in the centre and northern front.
7 December 1941 Attack on Pearl Harbor by Japanese.
8 December 1941 The United States enter the war.
9 December 1941 China joins the Allies against the Axis.

1942

1 January 1942 Declaration of the United Nations signed by the Big Four (USA, UK, USSR and China). The document formalized the alliance against the Axis and was a basis for the United Nations.
20 January 1942 Wannsee Conference. 15 senior officials of Nazi Germany met to ensure all administrative leaders about implementing of the “Final Solution (die Endlösung) to the Jewish Question”. As a result a network of extermination camps was built in which millions of Jews were murdered.
4 – 8 May 1942 Pacific War: Battle of the Coral Sea. Naval battle between Japanese and American-Australian forces. Allied forces stop the Japanese advance into the Pacific.
4 – 7 June 1942 Battle of Midway. American victory against Japan in a naval and air battle. First and decisive American victory in the Pacific War.
7 August 1942 – 9 February 1943 Guadalcanal Campaign. Major Allied victory over Japan in a series of land battles. Start of the American offensive in the Pacific.
23 October – 11 November 1942 Second battle of El-Alamain. Important victory of the Allies against the Axis in North Africa.
8–16 November 1942 Operation Torch. Allied invasion of North Africa (Casablanca, Oran and Algiers) controlled by Vichy France. Results in Allied victory.
22–26 November 1942 First Cairo Conference. Chiang Kaishek, Churchill and Roosevelt discussed fighting Japan until its unconditional surrender and seized territories had been reclaimed.

1943

14 – 24 January 1943 Casablanca Conference. Churchill, Roosevelt and de Gaulle decided to fight until an unconditional surrender (without any guarantees to the defeated party) of Germany.
19 April – 16 May 1943 Warsaw Ghetto uprising. Casualties: up to 40,000 insurgents and civilians.
17 July 1942 – 2 February 1943 Battle of Stalingrad. Soviet victory over Germany – the turning point of the war on the eastern front.
5 July – 23 August 1943 Battle of Kursk. Soviet victory over Germany. Start of the Red Army offensive on the Eastern front.
10 July – 8 September 1943 Allied attack on Sicily. The southern part of Italy falls under Allied rule.
28 November – 1 December 1943 Tehran Conference. First meeting of the Big Three – Churchill (UK), Roosevelt (USA) and Stalin (USSR).The leaders decided to open a new front in France.

1944

17 January – 18 May 1944 Battle of Monte Cassino. Allied victory over Axis forces in Italy.
27 January 1944 End of the siege of Leningrad. Over two year-long (900 days) siege causes mass death from starvation of almost 1,000,000 civilians. Finally, the Soviets lift the siege of the city.
6 June – 31 August 1944 Operation Overlord. Landing in Normandy and Allied offensive in France.
20 July 1944 20 July plot. Germany army officer, Claus von Stauffenberg attempted to kill Hitler by detonating an explosive hidden in a briefcase, however failed due to the location of the bomb at the time of detonation, the blast only dealing minor injuries to Hitler.
23 July 1944 Liberation of Majdanek Extermination Camp. On the night of 22-23 July 1944, Soviet soldiers of the Red Army came upon Majdanek, the first of the Nazi camps to be liberated. They freed just under 500 prisoners.
1 August – 2 October 1944 Warsaw Uprising. Casualties: 150–180,000 insurgents and civilians. Insurgents were not helped by Soviet forces stationed on the right bank of the Vistula River.
15 August 1944 Operation Dragoon. Allied attack on southern France.
19–25 August 1944 Uprising in Paris, followed by liberation of the city by the Western Allies. Casualities: 1–1,300 insurgents and civilians.
29 August – 28 October 1944 Uprising in Slovakia. Casualties: 4,000 insurgents and civilians
17 October – 26 December 1944 Battle of Leyte. Allied victory, first step in freeing the Philippines from Japanese occupation.

1945

27 January 1945 Liberation of Auschwitz concentration camp. The German Nazi concentration camp and extermination camp in occupied Poland where more than a million people were murdered as part of the Nazis' "Final Solution" to the Jewish question—was liberated by the Soviet Red Army during the Vistula–Oder Offensive.
12 January – 4 February 1945 Red Army winter offensive. Soviets capture Poland west of the Vistula River and advance on Berlin.
4–11 February 1945 Yalta Conference where the Big Three decided on the division of Germany into four occupation zones and set the Polish eastern border on the Curzon line. The conference effectively allowed the USSR to expand its sphere of influence to Central Europe.
13–15 February 1945 Allied bombing of Dresden. It completely destroys the city and causes the death of thousands of civilians.
16 April – 2 May 1945 Battle of Berlin. Soviet victory and fall of Nazi Germany.
5–9 May 1945 Uprising in Prague. Casualties: 8–9,000 insurgents and civilians.
8 May 1945 Unconditional surrender of Germany. The end of war in Europe.
25 April – 26 June 1945 San Francisco Conference and foundation of the United Nations.
17 July – 2 August 1945 Potsdam Conference where the Big Three established rules by which the Allies would govern Germany, set the new borders of Germany and Poland, decided on the resettlement of Germans and called on Japan to surrender.
6 August 1945 First American nuclear attack on Hiroshima, Japan.
9 August 1945 Second and last American nuclear attack, on Nagasaki, Japan. Soviet attack on Manchukuo (Japanese puppet state) in Manchuria.
2 September 1945 Unconditional surrender of Japan. The end of war in the Pacific theatre.
20 November 1945 Nuremberg trials of The International Military Tribunal.

1946

5 March 1946 Iron Curtain Speech - Winston Churchill delivers his famous "Iron Curtain" speech in Fulton, Missouri, marking the beginning of the Cold War era and highlighting the division between Western democracies and Eastern communist states.
19 September 1946 Churchill’s speech in Zurich, stressing the role of a united Europe.

1947

12 March 1947 Truman Doctrine Announced - President Harry S. Truman articulates the Truman Doctrine, pledging to support Greece and Turkey against communist expansion, which signifies the start of the U.S. policy of containment.
5 June 1947 Marshall Plan Proposed - Secretary of State George Marshall outlines the European Recovery Program, known as the Marshall Plan, which provides economic assistance to rebuild Western European economies.

‘In sport, joy and risk converge, inspiration meets calculation, and passion is tempered by discipline. Sport, like poetry, teaches us how to rise above life’s mediocrity.’

In an era marked by upheaval, when borders were redrawn and national identities forged in the crucible of conflict, Kazimierz Wierzyński emerged as a singular figure—both a poet and a conspirator, a chronicler of sport and a champion of the human spirit. His life, spanning the twilight of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to the throes of the Second World War and the Cold War, offers a lens through which to explore the intersections of art, politics, and cultural identity. Through his words and actions, Wierzyński embodied the resilience of a nation and the enduring vitality of human creativity.

The Birth of a Poet in a Factured World
Born in 1894 in Drohobycz, a multicultural town in Galicia, Wierzyński grew up at the crossroads of Polish, Ukrainian, and Jewish influences. His early years were steeped in the rhythms of provincial life and the railways his father worked on—symbols of movement, possibility, and longing that would later echo in his poetry. His youth coincided with the rise of Polish national consciousness, and by the time he graduated from high school in Stryj in 1912, he was already involved in the Drużyny Sokole (Sokol Teams), a paramilitary organization that fostered patriotism and physical fitness. The duality of physical vigor and intellectual pursuit, a hallmark of Wierzyński’s life, was evident even then.

War, Captivity, and the Seeds of Resistance
The outbreak of the First World War interrupted his studies at Kraków’s Jagiellonian University, where he had been immersed in literature, philosophy, and Slavic studies. Enlisting in the Polish Legion, Wierzyński’s early enthusiasm for the cause of independence soon collided with the brutal realities of war. Captured by Russian forces and interned in a camp in Ryazan, he turned to literature for solace, immersing himself in the works of Russian symbolist Alexander Blok. These formative years, marked by captivity and eventual escape, sharpened his understanding of resilience, a theme that would resonate throughout his life and poetry.
After fleeing the camp in 1918, Wierzyński joined the clandestine Polska Organizacja Wojskowa (Polish Military Organization) in Kiev, participating in the underground struggle for Poland’s independence. By the time he returned to Warsaw later that year, he was poised to contribute not only to Poland’s political rebirth but also to its cultural renaissance. Immersing himself in the vibrant artistic scene of the capital, he co-founded the Skamander group, alongside luminaries such as Julian Tuwim and Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz. This collective revolutionized Polish poetry, embracing modernity, humour, and an unapologetic celebration of life.

Poetry of Rebirth
Wierzyński’s debut collection, Spring and Wine (1919), epitomized the ethos of this new wave of poetry. Infused with youthful exuberance and a love for the quotidian, the collection resonated with a nation newly liberated yet still haunted by war. The poet’s voice, both irreverent and profound, symbolized a generation’s defiance of despair. Yet, as the years progressed, Wierzyński’s work took on more somber tones. In collections like The Great Bear (1923) and Tragic Freedom (1936), he grappled with the complexities of human existence, blending lyrical beauty with philosophical depth.

From the Pitch to the Page
Parallel to his literary achievements, Wierzyński was an outspoken advocate for sport. His fascination with athletics was personal—he played football for Pogoń Stryj—and philosophical. For him, sport was not merely physical but a metaphor for human aspiration. This conviction found its fullest expression in The Olympic Laurel (1927), a collection of poems celebrating athletes as modern demigods. Awarded the gold medal for literature at the 1928 Amsterdam Olympics, the collection broke new ground, merging classical themes with contemporary athleticism. Wierzyński’s vivid portrayals of figures like Finnish runner Paavo Nurmi, whose stoic determination captivated the world, elevated sport to the realm of art and philosophy.
His enthusiasm for sport extended beyond poetry. As editor-in-chief of Przegląd Sportowy, Poland’s premier sports journal, Wierzyński revolutionized sports journalism, bringing literary flair and intellectual rigor to a field often dismissed as trivial. Under his leadership, the journal became a cultural force, advocating for the significance of sport in shaping national identity. His innovations included the creation of the Tour de Pologne cycling race and the annual Best Polish Athlete awards—traditions that endure to this day.

Exile and the Poetry of Loss
Yet, Wierzyński’s life was not confined to the arenas of literature and sport. The outbreak of the Second World War forced him into exile, a period that tested his resolve and redefined his role as a poet. Fleeing first to France, then to the United States, he became a voice for a Poland in chains. His wartime poetry, including Crosses and Swords (1946), bore witness to the horrors of occupation and the sacrifices of resistance fighters. Exile deepened his sense of loss but also broadened his perspective, allowing him to connect Poland’s struggles with universal questions of freedom and human dignity.
In his later years, Wierzyński’s poetry shifted toward introspection. Collections like The Texture of the Earth (1960) abandoned formal constraints, embracing a conversational tone that reflected both the wisdom and weariness of exile. These poems, tinged with irony and stoicism, captured the contradictions of a life lived between nations, between optimism and sorrow.

Legacy of a Poet of Action
Kazimierz Wierzyński died in 1969 in London, leaving behind a body of work that is as diverse as it is profound. From his youthful celebrations of life in Spring and Wine to his meditations on exile and loss, his poetry captures the full spectrum of human experience. His dedication to sport and its moral dimensions, encapsulated in The Olympic Laurel, remains a unique contribution to world literature.
Wierzyński’s life defies simple categorization. He was a poet and conspirator, a journalist and editor, an athlete and philosopher. In his writing and actions, he exemplified the idea that art and life are inseparable, that both require courage, discipline, and imagination.
Through his words, Kazimierz Wierzyński continues to inspire, reminding us that the human spirit—whether expressed through poetry, sport, or acts of resistance—is boundless in its capacity for resilience and renewal. His legacy invites us to reflect not only on what it means to live but on how to live with purpose, passion, and an unyielding commitment to the extraordinary.

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References:
Dudek, J., Kazimierz Wierzyński (1894–1969) po latach, Kraków 2016.
Dudek, J., Poeci polscy XX wieku, Kraków 1997.
Kądziela, P., Wspomnienia o Kazimierzu Wierzyńskim, Warszawa 2001.
Najder, Z., Węzły pamięci niepodległej Polski, Kraków 2014.
"Precz z teatrem! Niech żyje sport!". Kazimierz Wierzyński, poeta-olimpijczyk (Culture.pl)

Every year since 2013, the ENRS has marked the European Day of Remembrance for the Victims of Totalitarian Regimes on the anniversary of the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact on August 23, 1939. What is the meaning of a commemorative pin and the media campaign “Remember. August 23”? What makes this date so significant? Agnieszka Mazur-Olczak explains its importance in European history and in our calendar.

The European Day of Remembrance for Victims of Totalitarian Regimes was first commemorated on 23 August 2011 in Warsaw, under the auspices of the Polish Presidency. During this event, the Warsaw Declaration was signed, in which the signatories emphasised the importance of maintaining the memory of the criminal consequences of totalitarian regimes in the consciousness of Europeans and called on the EU to support, research, and collect documentation related to the crimes committed by these regimes.

The Warsaw Declaration was signed a year after the ENRS was founded. In 2013, our organisation first conceived the idea of how to commemorate August 23. We decided to create a pin that would serve as a symbol of remembrance for the victims of totalitarianism.

Why is the ENRS so committed to spreading awareness about this date?

Our core mission is to foster a shared memory of the difficult history of the 20th century. These two regimes significantly marked that history, which is why, from the very beginning, the ENRS recognised that August 23 is an important day for us and that we should be strongly involved in its commemoration. We have always been aware that this date is not deeply rooted in the memory of Western Europeans, as they were not as severely affected by the communist regime. As a result, August 23 is not a date that the West associates with the outbreak of the Second World War. However, it is impossible to talk about the Second World War without mentioning August 23, because it was the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact that paved the way for these totalitarian regimes. It allowed them to temporarily suspend military actions against each other while simultaneously enabling them to wreak destruction on the territories they divided between themselves.

What is the 'Remember. August 23' campaign about?

When the project was launched in 2013, our colleagues developed an idea of a pin and an informative note. The design of the pin refers to International Black Ribbon Day, which has been observed since 1986. The note explains what this date symbolises and why it is so significant in the history of Europe, and even the world. The note from 2013 featured a collage of images of selected victims from both totalitarian regimes, which we obtained from archives. Over the years, we have modified the design of the card. The next edition had an educational dimension, presenting a map that showed the spread of both totalitarian regimes across Europe, following the division line established by the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact. This map became the main motif of our project for several years. Based on it, we created a short animation where red and black colours sweep across Europe. This simple graphic trick perfectly illustrated what happened at that time, which is why the animation is still frequently used by the media and shown at conferences commemorating August 23. This year, we diversified our notes by creating twelve versions featuring the heroes of our spots, along with QR codes that lead to our website where people can watch their related stories.

Because we wanted the campaign to become more media-friendly, in 2018, we came up with the idea of creating a series of short films. We collaborated with producer Piotr Kornobis, and this led to the first two scripts telling the stories of Mala and Edek – lovers from Auschwitz – and Peter Mansfeld, the youngest victim of the 1956 uprising in Hungary. These films were very well received by our social media audience. We also managed to air them on several European television programmes. Their success showed us that it was worth continuing the series. We also saw potential in the fact that the European Network is based on partnerships from different countries. We believed that by showcasing the profiles of dissidents from various nationalities, we could collectively commemorate this date, and our partners indeed became very engaged in promoting their stories.

For several years now, we have been sending our pins to various institutions across Europe so that on this day, the public visiting museums and memorial sites can wear the pin as a sign of solidarity with the victims and as a mark of respect for those individuals. Thanks to our media efforts, August 23 has become so recognisable that now institutions are writing to us asking for pins and inquiring whether we have produced a new spot.

What message do the characters featured in the spots want to convey to us?

I think all these films tell us that resistance makes sense. They all tell us that every totalitarian regime, regardless of when it arises, will eventually be overthrown. Each of our characters is different, each story is told differently, but they all share one common denominator: each character has become a symbol of resistance in their country.

The strength of this campaign lies in its diversity. Sometimes the hero speaks to us in the first person. Sometimes their story is told by their mother. Sometimes it’s a letter, as in the case of the film about Milada Horáková, where the narrator reads a letter she wrote to her then fifteen-year-old daughter the day before her execution. Her daughter was only able to read it forty years later.

If you watch these films and you’re a mother, you can identify with the spot about Mansfeld or Milada Horáková. If you are in love and want to focus only on the pleasant things in your life, then the stories of people who couldn’t experience their love in freedom and joy because they were surrounded by a dark world will resonate with you. If you enjoy literature and watch the spot about Jan Kroos, you’ll think about how, for centuries, every totalitarian regime has burned books that were dangerous to them. Everyone, regardless of their country, can find a character in these stories that will touch them and make them want to learn more about them, to understand how and why their fate unfolded the way it did.

The heroes of these films are often people who survived one totalitarian regime during the Second World War, only to be thrown into another by history because they ended up on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain. For instance, the story of Boris Romanchenko resonates most strongly with me. He survived the Second World War and was a prisoner in concentration camps, later living in Ukraine, which was dependent on the Soviet Union, and in 2022 he was killed by a bomb dropped on Putin’s orders. These heroes have qualities that deeply resonate with us.

This year, representatives of the Roma community from Germany and the Czech Republic were added to the gallery of characters. What determined this choice?

In 2015, the European Parliament designated August 2 as the Roma Holocaust Memorial Day. The Roma are a social group that also suffered greatly during the Second World War, and who still face exclusion and discrimination today. When we were searching for Roma heroes, we found that there are very few photographs of them and that their stories are poorly documented because people are not very interested in this topic. We decided it would be good to give them a voice too and to show that, in addition to typical national groups, there is also a community that lives in various countries. We all interact with them, but we are unaware of the tragedy they experienced during the Second World War. This year, we are working on two spots that will premiere in a few days. One of this year's featured figures is Johann Trollmann, a boxer. During the recent Olympics in Paris, we were captivated by the athletes' performances and admired the results of their hard work. Trollmann was also an athlete. What’s more, before the outbreak of the Second World War, he was a huge star in Germany, which ultimately led to his death. We believe it is worth telling this story. In the film, we present a picture of a wonderful young rebel who could have provided many people with the sporting excitement that we all enjoy, admire, and follow. However, Trollmann had to die simply because he was of the wrong race. This is something we should remind people of, because we cannot divide people into those of the right race and those who are not.

Why do we need this campaign? Why now? Why specifically on August 23?

I think that in recent years, there has been a lot of disinformation in the public sphere regarding historical facts. We have seen this recently in speeches at the UN or in Putin’s addresses. I believe that reminding people today of what August 23 represents is to show that this contemporary dictator is moving towards the division of Europe almost along the same line that was drawn in the 1939 pact. Today, it is extremely important to know these heroes and their stories, to remind people that there were individuals who opposed the regime. A short 30-second film cannot tell us the whole story, but it can inspire us to seek out more information and delve into historical facts.

Today, in an age of disinformation and at the same time information overload, we want to use our films to bring a story closer to people and provoke the viewer to read more about it. The biographies of these characters can be found on our website and under each film on our YouTube channel. The most important thing is to understand the historical context. These times are not so distant that they couldn’t return. The truth is, we never know when this Pandora's box might be opened again.

In 2015 the European Parliament declared 2 August as the European Roma Holocaust Memorial Day. Since then, commemorations have been organised in many European countries to remember the victims of the brutal persecution and genocide suffered by the Roma and Sinti during the Second World War. Today, on the 80th anniversary of these events, more than ever, we should remember this tragic part of European history, understand its consequences and strive to ensure that its memory does not disappear from our consciousness.

Discrimination, classification and eugenics: a road to genocide
The genocide of the Roma and Sinti was one of the darkest chapters of the Second World War. Like the Jews, they were victims of the brutal persecution of the Nazi regime. Imprisoned in concentration camps and ghettos, murdered in gas chambers and subjected to other methods of extermination, they became victims of the German Nazi genocide whose mark is still felt in the Roma community today.

Nazi ideology based on racism and eugenics proclaimed the superiority of the Aryan race over others. Due to their cultural difference, the Roma and Sinti were perceived as an ‘inferior race’, ‘undesirable’ and incompatible with the ideal of German society. Because of their nomadic lifestyle, they were described as ‘antisocial’ and ‘criminal’, inherently inclined to commit crimes. They were considered a threat to the purity of the Aryan race and the social order. Already from the early 1930s, the Roma and Sinti in Germany were subjected to discrimination and persecution. Their rights were systematically restricted and racial segregation was introduced.

After Hitler came to power in 1933, the treatment towards them became harsher. Many Roma persons were subjected to forced sterilisation. In the acts implementing the Nuremberg Laws, the Romani were deprived of their civil rights just like Jews. They were subjected to preventive police control and sent to ‘re-education centres’. In 1938, Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and Gestapo, issued a decree bearing the title ‘Combating the Gypsy Plague’, which stated that the Roma (Gypsies) were a racial and social threat to the German people. The decree ordered the intensification of police and administrative measures against the Sinti and Romani, including their registration, segregation and internment in special camps. This decree formed the basis for mass arrests and internment in existing concentration camps in Germany and Austria, such as Dachau, Bergen-Belsen, Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen, Mauthausen, Mittelbau-Dora, Natzweiler-Struthof, Gross-Rosen and Ravensbrück, for example. New internment and transit camps were also successively created for them. Initially, the Roma and Sinti were forced to wear black triangles, classifying them as ‘antisocial’, or green triangles, denoting ‘professional criminals’. Eventually, they were assigned a brown triangle with the letter Z (Zigeuner, German for ‘Gypsy’). Terrible conditions prevailed in these camps leading to the death of many inmates. Roma prisoners were subjected to pseudo-scientific medical experiments. Conditions in the Berlin-Marzahn, Lackenbach and Salzburg camps were among the worst.

The Romani Holocaust
The first mass persecution took place after the outbreak of the Second World War. On 21 September 1939, Reinhard Heydrich ordered the deportation of 30,000 Roma from Germany and Austria to occupied Poland. In May 1940, some 2,500 Roma were deported to the Lublin District in the General Government (occupied Poland), where they were placed in Jewish ghettos or sent to labour camps. Many of them died as a result of the harsh conditions of forced labour. The rest were most likely later murdered in the gas chambers of Bełżec, Sobibór and Treblinka.

In the autumn of 1941, the German police deported around 5,000 Roma persons from Austria to the Łódź ghetto, where hundreds died from a typhus epidemic and lack of basic necessities. Those who survived were transported to the camp at Kulmhof (Chełmno nad Nerem) in 1942 and were murdered in mobile gas chambers.
In December 1942, Himmler ordered the deportation to KL Auschwitz¹ of all the Roma and Sinti of the Third Reich. They were sent to Auschwitz II–Birkenau and placed in a special section known as the ‘Gypsy camp’ (Zigeunerlager). The conditions there were conducive to the spread of infectious diseases such as typhus, smallpox and dysentery, which significantly reduced the camp population. In addition, pseudo-scientific medical experiments were carried out on them. At the end of March 1943, about 1,700 Roma brought from the Bialystok region were murdered in the gas chambers of Birkenau, and in May 1944 the camp management decided to liquidate the entire ‘Gypsy camp’. SS guards surrounded the camp, but the Roma incarcerated in there, having learned about the SS’s plans, armed themselves, resisted and refused to leave. The SS retreated and decided to first transfer about 3,000 Roma to Auschwitz I and other concentration camps. The final operation aimed at liquidating the ‘Gypsy camp’ took place two months later, on the night of 2–3 August. As a result, some 4,300 Sinti and Roma, mainly the sick, the elderly, women and children, perished in the gas chambers of Birkenau. This mass murder became a symbol of the suffering and heroism of the Roma community, and the date was chosen as International Roma Holocaust Memorial Day. The total number of Romani victims at Auschwitz is estimated to be around 21,000 out of the 23,000 Sinti and Roma deported there.

In German-occupied Europe, the fate of the Roma varied according to local conditions. They were interned, used as forced labourers or killed. Einsatzgruppen units and other mobile units killed the Romani in the Baltic States, occupied Poland and the USSR. In occupied Serbia, Roma men were executed en masse. In France, the Vichy authorities interned thousands of Roma, and in Romania some 26,000 were deported to Transnistria, where many died of disease and starvation. In Croatia, the Ustasha regime killed almost the entire Roma population, some 25,000 people.

The scale of the crime and the fight for genocide recognition
The exact number of the Sinti and Roma who died during the Second World War remains unknown due to the lack of accurate data on their number living in Europe before the war and the relatively late international recognition of this genocide. It is estimated that before the war the Romani population was between 1 and 1.5 million. Historians estimate that at least 250,000 European Sinti and Roma were killed by the Germans and their allies, although some scholars suggest that the number could be as high as 500,000.

The Nazi genocide destroyed numerous Roma communities, and the Romani suffered psychological and physical trauma, making it difficult to rebuild their cultural and social networks. After the war, however, discrimination against the Roma continued. Throughout Europe, they continued to experience various forms of discrimination, both institutional and of a social nature. These diverse forms of discrimination had a long-lasting impact on the Roma in Europe, perpetuating their marginalisation and social exclusion.

Unlike the genocide of Jews, that of the Roma was not recognised immediately after the war. The courts in West Germany, for example, ruled that actions taken against the Roma before 1943 were legal, which closed the way to compensation for the thousands of victims who were imprisoned, forcibly sterilised and deported. Police harassment and discrimination continued and the post-war authorities seized the Nazi regime’s files. It was not until 1965 that German law recognised that acts of persecution prior to 1943 were racially motivated, allowing Roma to claim compensation. However, many of those able to do so had already died. It was only in March 1982 that the German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt officially recognised the German Sinti and Roma as victims of genocide.

‘Porajmos’, Holocaust and ‘Samudaripen’
Today there are many terms used to describe the extermination of the Roma. Some of them are the subject of ongoing discussions and debates. This situation demonstrates the different perspectives and approaches to this tragedy not only by researchers and organisations working on the subject, but also by the Roma communities themselves.

The term ‘Porajmos’, meaning ‘devouring’ or ‘burning’, was introduced by the scholar Ian Hancock in the 1990s to describe the Romani genocide. However, its use is controversial, as in some dialects it denotes ‘rape’, which many Roma find offensive.

Another term is ‘Samudaripen’, meaning ‘total destruction’. Introduced by the linguist and researcher Marcel Courthiade in the 1970s, it is preferred by some Roma communities for being more precise.

The term ‘Holocaust’ is also sometimes used to describe the extermination of the Roma and Sinti, but can be considered controversial as it is commonly associated with the extermination of Jews. The use of the same term for different groups of victims can lead to confusion and be seen as blurring the specificity of each group’s experience.

Other terms used by Roma communities include: ‘Kali Traš’ (Black Fear) and ‘Berša Bibahtale’ (Unhappy Years). The diversity of these terms shows the importance of recognising the unique experiences of different Roma groups. Besides, the terminology used by different Roma ethnic groups to describe their genocide is also important from a social and psychological perspective. This is because these names are loaded with emotional and cultural meaning, helping us understand the suffering and trauma of these communities. Hence, the inclusion of these terms in public discourse is important for the recognition and commemoration of this specific form of genocide.

The use of appropriate terms is also important for education and public awareness. It allows for a better understanding and appreciation of the history of the Romani, avoiding oversimplification and confusion between different experiences of genocide.

Why do we want to remember today?
The shadow of the extermination of the Roma, the horrific genocide perpetrated by the German Nazis during the Second World War still hangs over us. Today in Europe, the Romani are still victims of hate crime, violence, persecution, expulsion and racial discrimination. Therefore, the remembrance of this tragedy should not only be a moral obligation to the victims and their families, but also a key element in building a better future. The importance of this remembrance is multidimensional and involves both the Roma community and society as a whole.

The extermination of the Roma left lasting wounds in their community. However, today the memory of this event is becoming part of their identity and cultural heritage. Learning about their history can strengthen the sense of togetherness and belonging within the Romani community, which was cut off from its roots as a result of the genocide.

The Romani ‘Holocaust’ did not happen in a vacuum. It was the culmination of centuries of discrimination and prejudice deeply rooted in European history. Education on the subject can raise awareness of the mechanisms of exclusion and persecution that marked the fate of the Roma. Such analysis allows for a better understanding of the mechanisms leading to other genocides and crimes against humanity. This knowledge is invaluable in identifying threats and taking preventive action to protect future generations from similar tragedies, as well as counteracting negative phenomena such as racism and xenophobia.

Remembrance-related challenges
Commemorating the annihilation of the Roma and Sinti faces numerous difficulties owing to both historical neglect and current challenges. For many years, the tragedy has been ignored, leading to insufficient public awareness and the victims fading from memory.

One of the main challenges is the lack of sufficient resources and support from state and local authorities. In many countries where the Roma and Sinti were victims of mass atrocities during the war, their commemoration was marginalised. This has resulted in the absence of monuments, museums and educational programmes to help preserve the memory of this tragedy. In addition, Roma communities often face prejudice and a lack of understanding from the rest of society, which hinders their efforts to acknowledge and commemorate their own history.

The lack of access to sources on the extermination of the Roma and Sinti is another major problem. This history is far less well documented compared to the other genocides of the Second World War. There is a lack of source material, such as biographies, testimonies and documents. In addition, there is a poorly developed written tradition in the Roma community, which further hinders the preservation and transmission of history. The lack of their own media to promote and report on Roma history and the limited international representation of Roma to claim recognition of their suffering during the Second World War are additional barriers to the commemoration process.

Another important challenge is the need to integrate the story of the Romani tragedy into the broader narrative of the Second World War and the Holocaust. Often the history of the Roma and Sinti is treated as marginal, instead of being an integral part of the story of the Nazi genocide. As a result, many people are unaware of the scale and cruelty that affected these communities. To remedy this, museums, educational institutions and school curricula need to integrate the topic of the Romani genocide into their programmes. This will ensure a fuller understanding of the scale and diversity of the Holocaust, which is key to preserving the memory of all its victims.

Good practice and modern initiatives
A number of activities are currently underway to commemorate the Sinti and Roma extermination. These initiatives aim to preserve the memory of the victims, educate the public and combat prejudice.

Monuments, museums and cultural institutions dedicated to the commemoration of the Romani genocide are being established in some European countries. In 1997 the Documentation and Cultural Centre of the German Sinti and Roma² opened in Heidelberg as the first institution of its kind in the world. In 2001 a permanent Roma exhibition presenting the theme of the Roma extermination was created at the Auschwitz Museum. In turn, the Memorial to the Sinti and Roma Victims of National Socialism (Nazism) was unveiled in Berlin in 2012.³

It is also important to take care of existing memorials in order to preserve their historical significance. An example of such efforts is the opening of the Memorial to the Holocaust of the Roma and Sinti in Bohemia in Lety u Písku in the Czech Republic in May 2024. This museum was established on the site on the grounds of a former concentration camp where more than 1,300 Roma were held between 1942 and 1943, of whom more than 300 died and the rest were deported to extermination camps, mainly Auschwitz. It should be noted that for many years the camp grounds were used by an industrial pig farm, which aroused much controversy and protests from the Roma community. The museum at Lety u Písku was established as a result of long-standing efforts and pressure from both the Roma community and international human rights organisations.

Various institutions and NGOs play a key role in the commemoration of the Romani genocide. International initiatives such as the European Holocaust Memorial Day for the Sinti and Roma⁴ have raised public awareness, creating a space for Romani voices to be heard and promoting values of equality and respect. The Central Council of the German Sinti and Roma founded in 1982⁵ stages numerous educational events, exhibitions and conferences in Germany and other countries.

International youth initiatives such as the annual ‘Dikh he na bister’ (‘Look and don’t forget’ in Romani) play an important role in the commemoration process. This visit to Kraków and Auschwitz-Birkenau aims to commemorate day of liquidation of the ‘Gypsy camp’, where the remaining 4,300 Roma and Sinti were murdered.⁶ The organisation of festivals, concerts and exhibitions dedicated to the history of the Roma and Sinti supports awareness-building among the general public.

The international cooperation of various organisations, mainly the Council of Europe,⁷ Office for the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe/Democratic Institutions and Human Rights (OECD/ODIHR),⁸ UNESCO⁹ and Internation Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA)¹⁰ contributes to promoting the remembrance of the Romani and Sinti genocide in Europe. The funding of educational projects and research on Roma history, the development of guidelines and the publication of books and articles are crucial for education and memory preservation.

In the EU Roma strategic framework, adopted in 2020, and in the European Council Recommendation, the European Commission and EU Member States committed themselves to countering antigypsyism. This framework is based on equality, social and economic inclusion and participation. The European Commission has extended the global #ProtectTheFacts campaign¹¹ to include the plight of the Romani. The Citizens, Equality, Rights and Values (CERV) programme has prioritised projects on remembrance of the Nazi genocide, education and research on the subject and the fight against denialism.

Contemporary good practice and international initiatives show that the activities aimed at preserving the memory of the extermination of the Roma and Sinti in Europe are on the rise. Through these activities, history can be preserved and a more informed and integrated society can be built. NGOs, Roma communities and international institutions are working together to ensure that the Roma tragedy is not forgotten. Despite the many challenges, these initiatives bring about positive change and raise public awareness of the Roma and Sinti extermination.

ENDNOTES
¹ The KL (i.e. Concentration Camp) Auschwitz was a German Nazi concentration and death camp complex operating in occupied Poland, near Oświęcim, between 1940 and 1945. It consisted of three main parts: Auschwitz I (mother camp), Auschwitz II–Birkenau (death camp) and Auschwitz III–Monowitz (labour camp). Auschwitz has become a symbol of the Holocaust, where some 1.1 million people, mainly Jews but also Poles, Roma and prisoners of other nationalities, were murdered under brutal conditions.
² https://dokuzentrum.sintiundroma.de/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
³ https://www.stiftung-denkmal.de/en/memorials/memorial-to-the-sinti-and-roma-of-europe-murdered-under-national-socialism/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁴ https://www.roma-sinti-holocaust-memorial-day.eu/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁵ https://zentralrat.sintiundroma.de/en/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁶ https://2august.eu/ (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁷ https://pjp-eu.coe.int/en/web/inclusive-education-for-roma-children/texts-2; https://rm.coe.int/168008b633; https://www.coe.int/en/web/roma-and-travellers/roma-history-factsheets (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁸ https://www.osce.org/files/f/documents/9/b/135396.pdf (accessed 1 August 2024).
⁹ https://www.unesco.org/en/articles/shedding-light-roma-genocide-take-part-protectthefacts-campaign (accessed 1 August 2024).
¹⁰ https://holocaustremembrance.com/what-we-do/our-work/ihra-project-recommendations-teaching-learning-genocide-roma (accessed 1 August 2024).
¹¹ https://www.againstholocaustdistortion.org/ (accessed 1 August 2024).

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Piotr Trojański, PhD, Professor at the University of the National Education Commission, Kraków (Poland)

Proofreading: Caroline Brooke Johnson

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Agnieszka Mazur-Olczak, Deputy Head of the Projects Department at the ENRS, in an interview about our travelling exhibition ‘Between Life and Death. Stories of Rescue During the Holocaust’.

What is ‘Between Life and Death’?

‘Between Life and Death’ is an exhibition that is very contemporary, despite discussing historical events. It tells the story of the dark and light sides of humanity, presenting accounts from individuals in various countries who found themselves in extreme situations. This includes those who had to save their own lives and those who, for various reasons, chose to take the risk and help them. What is most important to me is that as we travel the world with this project, I consistently hear that despite the exhibition recounting difficult war stories, it always conveys a sense of hope.

How did it all start?

It began with the European Commission, which wanted to organise a significant event on January 27, Holocaust Remembrance Day, in 2018. At the ENRS, we conceived the idea of creating an exhibition and reached out to the Polin Museum and the Silent Heroes Memorial Centre in Berlin. While developing the concept, we realised that no exhibition had ever presented both perspectives —the rescuer and the rescued— and that we could combine them. We believed that, through the European Network's partnerships and the vital involvement of the Polin Museum, we could find suitable partners. We sought institutions with interesting, documented stories that they were willing to share to promote their collections. We had very little time to prepare this exhibition; it was an intensive three-month effort involving two curators who created the content and a team of academic consultants. Despite the time pressure, everything came together thanks to our contacts and determination.

How did you choose the characters featured in the exhibition?

The selection process varied by country. We always consulted with our national partners regarding the stories we wanted to showcase. The exhibition is structured to display stories from individual countries, and each country has a national partner involved in the work. The authors either searched for characters on the Yad Vashem lists, or our partners recommended them based on their materials or knowledge of compelling stories. We also aimed to highlight lesser-known cases. For instance, instead of featuring the well-known Ulma family for the Polish panel, we chose the Gawrychs. Similarly, for the Dutch section, we did not present Anne Frank, as her story is widely known. It was also crucial that our partners had contact with the witnesses to history, so we could invite them to the exhibition openings.

Did you manage to meet the witnesses to history personally?

Yes. The first significant meeting was in 2018, during the exhibition's inauguration at the European Commission headquarters. Ms Elżbieta Ficowska, Ms Elisabeth Drillich, and Mr Shochot, a Lithuanian survivor, attended the opening. It was a deeply moving experience for both them and the audience. Whenever we present the exhibition, we strive to invite a person featured in the exhibition to the opening. I remember Ms Zita Kurz's profound emotion when she realised someone was interested in her story during the exhibition's debut in Bratislava. These meetings are incredibly poignant, transforming the stories from mere panels with photos into encounters with living individuals. Often, these stories seem destined for tragic endings, yet many of these individuals went on to lead significant lives.

Who is this exhibition for? Who visits it, and who would you recommend it to?

The exhibition attracts a diverse audience, depending on its location, but we always aim to engage young people. ‘Between Life and Death’ is not just about the past; it is very much about the present. Each country's panel begins by depicting the situation of Jews before the German occupation and how it changed. It illustrates how significant and tragic events can stem from seemingly small, insignificant laws. The lack of societal response—whether due to inability or unwillingness—led to the exclusion, deportation, and murder of this group. This is highly relevant today. Young people often say, ‘I'm not going to vote because I'm not interested in politics’ and this exhibition shows that you may not be interested in politics, but politics is always very much interested in you, and demonstrates that it profoundly affects everyone. This exhibition serves as both a warning and a powerful narrative, showing that even small actions can be crucial for someone's survival. We never know when we might find ourselves in such a situation.

‘Between Life and Death’ has already visited many countries, including Japan. You often accompany it. What can you say about its reception in different countries? Have you encountered any surprising reactions from visitors?

Regardless of the location, I consistently hear two praises. Firstly, visitors often expect an exhibition about humanity's dark side, but they leave feeling hopeful. Secondly, compliments frequently go to the graphic design studio that collaborated with us. The exhibition's design is not a simple set of boards; it is compact and adaptable to various spaces, always attracting attention. Visitors are naturally curious about their national panels and often learn something new. Young people, in particular, are motivated to explore similar stories or delve into their country's history and its contemporary implications.

Where did the idea for a panel of diplomats included in the exhibition a few years later come from?

The idea for a panel dedicated to righteous diplomats originated from our Hungarian colleagues. Initially, the Hungarian contribution included a passage about a community of international diplomats who helped Jews in Budapest. However, our colleagues wanted their panel to mirror the others, showcasing both a rescuer and a survivor. I became interested in the Yad Vashem list, which is updated annually, and discovered Chiune Sugihara, a Japanese diplomat in Kaunas who helped Jews, including many from Poland. We decided to highlight diplomats as a special professional group with unique opportunities to help. This new panel, showing diplomats from different countries, emerged from this idea. Following its creation, the exhibition's trip to Japan was conceived. And just then, the pandemic broke out… Initially, it seemed a hindrance but allowed us to develop the project further. Although "Between Life and Death" couldn't travel around Europe, it went to Japan, where exhibitions were permitted. This break enabled us to create additional material, including a film about the diplomats and nine educational packages on the Holocaust available on our hi-story platform.

How did the exhibition's reception change, if at all, after Russia's attack on Ukraine? Do you see any differences?

Yes, there have been changes. This is especially evident at openings, where directors and political representatives frequently mention Ukraine's tragedy. Just before the full-scale invasion on 24 February 2022, we were preparing to take the exhibition to Dnipro, Lviv, and other locations in Ukraine. I recall a conversation with Professor Rydel just days before the war began; he emphasised the need to support Ukrainians by bringing the exhibition there. Although these plans are currently on hold, we hope they will be realised soon. We have an excellent Ukrainian panel and a committed Ukrainian partner who helped set it up and participated in the exhibition's 2018 opening in Brussels.

What is your favourite part of the exhibition?

My favourite part is the section on diplomats, as I was heavily involved in it. It is incredible that an interest in diplomacy and curiosity about a Japanese person who wanted to help some people led to a new narrative for the exhibition. Additionally, for the first time, the exhibition has been translated into the host country's language, because until then, there was only an English version. Nowadays we also have a Slovak version, which is travelling around Slovakia. I hope to see it translated into many more languages for broader tours. The Polish panel is also a favourite, particularly due to the enriching experiences with Mrs Elżbieta Ficowska, but I see the entire exhibition as a cohesive whole and I treat it a bit like my own child.

You must have had numerous adventures during the preparation and journey of the exhibition. Is there any event that particularly stands out?

I will always remember the first presentation at the European Commission headquarters, which included many high-ranking officials. Just before the event, Ms Marta Cygan brought us a poem by Mr Ficowski, "Both Your Mothers," written for Elżbieta Ficowska and translated into several languages. We distributed it to the interpreters at the event. At the end of the ceremony, after each survivor had shared their story, Ms Cygan read the poem. It was incredibly moving, with many leaving the room in tears, especially as the poem's subject, Elżbieta Ficowska, was present among us. At that moment, I realised the exhibition's profound importance and felt that all our efforts were worthwhile. Ever since then, the exhibition has continued to surprise and impact us in many ways.

What are your plans for the exhibition? Are you thinking about expanding it? What is the next country you plan to visit?

We are currently working on the Estonian panel. The Estonians expressed a desire to join the project and showcase their stories, so the exhibition will soon be displayed in Tallinn.

On 27 July 1924, at the VIII Summer Olympics in Paris, the Polish track cycling team, Józef Lange, Jan Lazarski, Tomasz Stankiewicz and Franciszek Szymczyk, triumphantly won a silver medal. On the same day, Adam Królikiewicz, riding Picador, clinched the bronze in show jumping. These victories marked Poland’s first Olympic medals. Commemorating the 100th anniversary of this momentous achievement, the Sejm has declared 2024 the Year of Polish Olympians. However, the stories of Polish Olympic athletes throughout the 20th century encompass not only glory but also enslavement and resistance against oppressive regimes.

A new reality

The outbreak of the Second World War abruptly halted the athletes’ preparations for future Olympic Games, cutting short the promising momentum achieved in Paris. Having only joined the Olympic arena in 1924, Poland had already amassed a considerable tally of medals, participating in eight Olympic Games (four summer and four winter) between the wars.

According to research undertaken by Ryszard Wryk, one of the foremost sports historians, a total of 327 Polish athletes competed in the Olympics during the Second Republic: 266 in the summer and 61 in the winter Olympics. Among them were 307 men and only 20 women. On the eve of the outbreak of the Second World War, most of the men were mobilised for the army and many of the women were involved in caring for the sick and wounded. Following the capitulation to Germany on 6 October 1939, they shared the fate of thousands of Polish prisoners of war who were captured and confined in prisoner-of-war (POW) camps.

Thirty-four Polish Olympians were taken prisoner by the Germans, 29 were sent to POW camps after the September defeat and five more after the capitulation of the Warsaw Uprising, including its commander General Tadeusz Bór-Komorowski, an equestrian, cavalryman and a member of the national team at the 1924 Olympics in Paris; 26 were imprisoned in oflags (prison camps for captured enemy officers) and eight in stalags (prison camps for non-commissioned officers and privates). Despite their imprisonment, these athletes endeavoured to recreate the spirit of not only Polish sports but also the global sports movement, including the Olympic ideals initiated by the French educator Pierre de Coubertin. Coubertin’s vision of Olympism as ‘a philosophy of life, which expresses and unites the values of body, will, and spirit in a balanced whole’, sought to inspire peaceful competition among nations. Although this vision had been shattered by recent events, it provided a sense of purpose and resilience for those who had left the Olympic stadiums for the harsh realities of camp life.

Captive sport

The rules for the treatment of prisoners of an enemy state, from their capture to their release, were governed by the Geneva Convention of Prisoners of War, 27 July 1929, of which Germany was one of the signatories. This convention obliged states holding prisoners of war to treat them humanely, to provide them with decent living conditions and to allow them to pursue cultural, scientific, educational and sporting activities.

The organisation of sporting life was regulated by Article 17 of the Convention of Prisoners of War, which stated that the detaining authorities ‘shall encourage, as far as possible, intellectual and sporting entertainment organised by prisoners of war’. The rules for the organisation of sport in POW camps were regulated by the ordinances of the German camp authorities and their superiors in Berlin.

Sport within the camps took on an institutionalised form, becoming a crucial part of the daily routine for maintaining physical wellbeing and mental equilibrium. Morning gymnastics and short marches were mainly obligatory, while sports competitions were conducted by special organisational units adhering to strict regulations. These competitions ranged from establishing camp champions in various sports to friendly tournaments and show contests – physical fitness tests were particularly popular.

The POW Olympic Games of 1940 and 1944 held profound symbolic significance. The first of these games took place from August 31 to 8 September 1940, at Stalag XIII Langwasser near Nuremberg, initiated by Platoon Sergeant Jerzy Słomczyński, a physical education instructor. Polish, French, Belgian, Dutch, Yugoslavian and British prisoners of war participated in these games. In 1944, the POW Olympics were held at Oflag II D Gross-Born and Oflag II C Woldenberg, observing full Olympic ceremonial traditions. These events transcended mere sporting competitions; they became political demonstrations, asserting that the universal Olympic spirit endured despite the ravages of war. As sports historian Kazimierz Rudzki eloquently recalled in his 1945 memoirs:

‘This bizarre 1944 Olympics at Woldenberg was more than just a sporting event. It was a symbol of faith in the value and meaning of the Olympic idea, in spite of everything and in spite of everything that happened beyond the reach of the barbed wire.’

Participation in sports was understandably limited to a few well-nourished prisoners. However, even on a small scale, these activities fostered a sense of community and solidarity among the POWs. Sporting events provided a crucial means of integration, offering a semblance of normalcy and hope in an otherwise harsh and oppressive environment.

Guarding against ‘barbed-wire fever’

Determining the extent of physical activity in POW camps is challenging, as prisoners in stalags were subjected to hard labour and harsh living conditions far worse than those in oflags. The Germans frequently violated the Geneva Convention, making physical exercise difficult and often banning it outright. Despite the constant threats to their health and lives, some prisoners, even in the stalags, managed to engage in physical activities with the tacit approval or collusion of camp authorities. These activities helped them stay fit, combat the mental toll of confinement and provided a semblance of a ‘normal’ life.

Even in isolation, many imprisoned Olympians sought to maintain their physical activity and encouraged it among their fellow prisoners. Notable figures include Zygmunt Weiss (1903–1977) and Henryk Niezabitowski (1896–1976), both of whom defended Warsaw and were subsequently imprisoned in Oflag IV A Hohnstein near Dresden. Weiss, an athlete, sprinter and twice an Olympian (1924 and 1928), moved into sports journalism, specialising in cycling. Niezabitowski, a rower and ice hockey player, became a key promoter of sports in the camp, particularly from the spring of 1941.

Another dedicated figure was Tadeusz ‘Ralf’ Adamowski (1901–1994), a talented all rounder and an ice hockey player, a member of the national team at the 1928 Olympics. He was sent to Oflag II C Woldenberg in May 1940. He was a member of the Military Sports Club (WKS) ‘Orla’, where he played basketball and was an organiser and active participant in sports competitions under the name ‘Olympic Year in Camp II C’.

One of the most active promoters of a culture of physical activities in the camp was Jan Baran-Bilewski (1895–1981), an athlete and pentathlete. Captured during the September Campaign, he was first imprisoned in Oflag II B Arnswalde. Despite the unstable situation, taking advantage of his own sporting background and the relatively good conditions for physical activity, he became involved in popularising physical exercise. He was the chief organiser of the three-day sports competition held on 29–31 August 1940, which some historians consider to be the first POW Olympic initiative.

Numerous Olympians contributed significantly to promoting physical education in the camps, including Jerzy Gregołajtis (1911–1978), hockey player and Olympic basketball player; Franciszek Kawa (1901–1985), Olympic athlete; Adam Kowalski (1912–1971), hockey player; Klemens Langowski (1911–1944), Olympic sailor; and Kazimierz Laskowski (1899–1961), fencing champion and pioneer of boxing in Poland, who held regular gymnastics, including specific groups of prisoners, popularised physical culture and participated in the work of the Association of Military Sports Clubs. K. Laskowski conducted seven self-defence and hand-to-hand combat courses, in which he trained more than 200 prisoners of war. The following athletes, despite their imprisonment, dedicated themselves to the promotion of physical activity: Witalis Ludwiczak (1910–1988), Olympic hockey player; Stanisław Sośnicki (1896–1962), athlete; Kazimierz Szempliński (1899–1971), sword champion; Janusz Ślązak (1907–1985), rower and ensign of the Polish Olympic team; and Wojciech Trojanowski (1904–1988), Olympic athlete. They organised lectures, daily gymnastics, sports clubs and competitions, instilling a sense of unity and resilience among their fellow prisoners.

Among the chief promoters of physical education and camp sport were undoubtedly Wacław Gąssowski (1917–1959), six-times Polish champion in athletics; Janusz Komorowski (1905–1993), one of the best Polish equestrians of the younger generation; Seweryn Kulesza (1900–1983), Olympic medallist in equestrian; prize-winning boxer Walter Majchrzycki (1909–1993); Olympic basketball player Zenon Różycki (1913–1992); shooter Jan Suchorzewski (1895–1965); and one of the Poland’s best sabre players Marian Suski (1905–1993) – all of them were actively involved in various forms of mainstream sport. These individuals, through their unrelenting efforts, provided not only physical sustenance but also a psychological lifeline, reminding their comrades of the world beyond the barbed wire and the enduring spirit of the Olympics.

In the shadow of conspiracy

The Second World War tested the patriotism of Polish Olympic athletes as never before. Most faced this trial with dignity and courage, with some making the ultimate sacrifice of their lives. Others struggled merely to survive, while a few, often under extreme duress, collaborated with German or Soviet occupiers. Before the war, six Olympians had already died, and the fates of seven others remain unknown. Of the 275 athletes alive on 1 September 1939, 51 were born before 1900, making them about 40 or older when the war began. The largest group, 138 athletes, were in their thirties, born between 1900 and 1910, while 56 were in their twenties. These ages made them eligible for mobilisation in either active or auxiliary military service.

In the summer of 1939, 106 former Olympians were mobilised into the Polish army. Among them, five were killed and two disappeared without a trace. The most prominent among those killed during the September Campaign was athlete Antoni Cejzik (1900–1939), who died near Zaborowo in early September 1939. Eighteen Olympians found themselves in POW camps. Nine Polish officer athletes, policemen and civil servants were captured by the Soviets, deported to camps in Kozielsk or Starobielsk, and later shot in Katyn, Kharkiv or Moscow’s Lubianka.

Some athletes undertook missions beyond direct combat. Olympian Halina Konopacka (1900–1989) assisted her husband Ignacy Matuszewski in the evacuation of 75 tonnes of Bank of Poland gold to France via Romania, Turkey and Syria in September 1939. Twenty-eight Olympic athletes engaged in conspiratorial activities in occupied Poland, involving military, intelligence, sabotage and sport within the Union of Armed Struggle, later transformed into the Home Army, or smaller resistance groups.

Among the most notable was athlete Janusz Kusociński (1907–1940), who fought in the September Campaign and was wounded twice. During the occupation’s early months, he worked as a waiter at the ‘Pod kogutem’ bar in Warsaw, known as the Sportsmen’s Inn, as its staff were predominantly pre-war athletes. Simultaneously, he joined the underground, active in the Wilki (Wolves) Military Organisation and distributed illegal press. Arrested by the Gestapo, Kusociński was imprisoned in Pawiak, taken to Palmiry near Warsaw, and executed on 21 June 1940.

Skier and glider pilot Bronisław Czech (1908–1944), arrested for his role as a Tatra courier, escorting people and parcels from occupied Poland to Hungary, died in a concentration camp in 1944. Stanisław Marusarz (1913–1993), another courier, made a daring escape by jumping from the window of Kraków’s Montelupich Prison in 1940, twice evading execution. After the German invasion of Hungary, he continued his resistance efforts under an alias, training Hungarian ski jumpers. The story of Olympic boxer Antoni Czortek (1915–2004), a prisoner in Auschwitz from 1943 to January 1945, is equally harrowing. Forced to fight an SS guard face-to-face for his survival, Czortek’s courage was emblematic of the resilience shown by many Olympians. Wrestler Ryszard Błażyca (1896–1981), refusing to train German club fighters, was sent to an forced labour camp in a remote part of Germany.

The clandestine sports activities were a unique form of resistance against the occupiers and included illegal football matches, competitions and training sessions organised in POW camps. Fifteen Polish Olympians were involved in these efforts, including football legend Henryk Martyna (1907–1984); footballer and doctor Stanisław Cikowski (1899–1959); rower and hockey player Henryk Niezabitowski; and fencer Kazimierz Laskowski (1899–1961), who organized boxing competitions and hand-to-hand combat training in the oflag.

A (un)better world

Amid the turmoil of war, 41 Polish Olympic athletes adopted a stance of passive survival, striving to endure and provide for their families under dire circumstances. Cross-country skier Franciszek Bujak (1896–1975) found work in a ski factory in Zakopane, while footballer Wawrzyniec Cyl (1900–1974) toiled in a car repair shop in Łódź. Athlete Julian Łukaszewicz (1904–1982) worked at the Łódź power station and Stefan Ołdak (1904–1969) took on the role of a athletics judge. Rower Roger Verey (1912–2000), mobilised but unable to locate his unit, spent weeks in September 1939 searching for it, ultimately surviving the occupation in Krakow by driving trams.

Not all stories ended in survival. Former cyclist Tomasz Stankiewicz (1902–1940), who worked in the automotive and trade sectors, was arrested by chance in 1940, imprisoned in Pawiak and executed in Palmiry. Canoeist Marian Kozłowski (1915–1943), employed as a manual worker in Poznań, was deported to a forced labour camp in a remote part of Germany, where he perished in an Allied bombing raid in 1943. For some athletes, little is known beyond their place of residence during the war. Seven competitors had been living abroad for years, with their exact fates remaining unknown. Boxer Adam Świtek (1901–1960) had resided in France since 1930 and skater Leon Jucewicz (1902–1983) in Brazil since 1928. Karol Szenajch (1907–2001) was aboard a ship returning to Poland from New York when the war broke out.

Among the heroic Olympians were those whose wartime actions were minimal or whose fates are difficult to trace. Yet, a small group made significant concessions to the Soviet or German occupiers, often not by choice but under duress. Their collaboration, whether political, military or through participation in sports competitions organised by the occupiers, reflects the complex and painful choices faced in an (un)better world.

Loud and silent heroes

During the Second World War, 45 Polish Olympic athletes met their tragic end under various circumstances. The post-war fates of the survivors were as diverse as they were poignant. For 41 individuals, little more is known beyond their last known residences. Thirty-two athletes continued their involvement in sport after the war, with ten competing in the 1948 or 1952 Olympic Games. Ninety changed into roles as referees or coaches, either immediately following the war or after concluding their athletic careers. Forty-six distanced themselves from competitive sports entirely, five ended up in Polish prisons or Soviet camps and two were sidelined from their professions for political reasons. Forty-three chose to remain abroad or emigrated.

These athletes’ lives formed a melancholic bridge between the war years and the inception of the new communist regime in Poland. Many pre-war sporting elites found it impossible to accept the new order, prompting some to move their families and professional lives abroad. Yet, a total of 168 pre-war Olympians chose to stay or return to their homeland, where they eventually died.

One such tragic figure was Stanisław Kłosowicz (1906–1955), a leading Polish road cyclist of the interwar period. During the occupation, he lived in Radom, working as a turner. In 1941 he was forcibly taken on a German ‘excursion’ to Katyn, witnessing the Katyn massacre. Arrested by the Soviets in 1945, he was deported deep into the USSR. By the time he returned to Poland in the early 1950s, he was gravely ill and died in 1955. Similarly, Franciszek Koprowski (1895–1967), a versatile athlete and Home Army officer, was arrested by the Soviet secret police agency (NKVD) in July 1945. He endured 18 months in Vilnius and subsequent camps in Ostashkov and Murmansk. On his return to Poland in July 1948, he worked as a physical education teacher, then as a fencing coach and sports activist, eventually running a farm owing to health reasons.

Most of Poland’s interwar Olympic athletes were exemplary patriots. Not only did they represent their country in international competitions, but they also fought valiantly in defence of their homeland, participating in conspiracies and enduring imprisonment. Thirty-nine Olympic athletes served as officers or non-commissioned officers before the war, naturally taking up arms. Alongside them were ordinary workers, doctors, teachers, farmers and craftspeople, all striving to regain freedom, preserve their national identity and save lives.

Many of these athletes died as soldiers or civilians, in combat or executed. Some were honoured for their dedication and heroism, while others were imprisoned or forgotten under the communist regime. Post-war, some faded into obscurity, dedicating themselves to pursuits unrelated to sport. Others rebuilt Polish sports and pioneered training methods, and a few bridged both paths. The sporting achievements and patriotic attitudes of Olympians such as Janusz Kusociński, Józef Noji, Stanisław Marusarz, Halina Konopacka and Eugeniusz Lokajski remain an inspiration for future generations of athletes, not only in Poland but worldwide.

Loud and silent heroes – even those less celebrated during the communist era, such as those murdered in Katyn and emigrants – are figures worthy of emulation in today’s vastly different world. Their biographies are compelling examples not just of the pursuit of gold medals, but of the steadfast quest for human dignity.

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The Wednesday of 23 August 1939 marks an extraordinarily important date in the history of Central Europe, indeed all of Europe.

On that day, Joachim von Ribbentrop, foreign minister under the German Reich, flew to Moscow and, after brief negotiations with Vyacheslav Molotov, Soviet foreign commissioner, signed – in the presence of Joseph Stalin himself – the non-aggression agreement between Germany and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, soon to be known as the Molotov–Ribbentrop (or the Hitler–Stalin) Pact.

The most important part of that document, with a direct impact on the developments in Europe in the following days and weeks, was the secret additional protocol, which divided Central and Eastern Europe into German and Soviet spheres of influence. The former was to include the western half of Poland and Lithuania (soon to be handed over to Moscow), while the latter the eastern half of Poland, Finland, Estonia and Latvia, as well as Romanian Bessarabia.

Hitler feared a war on two fronts, and at the same time insisted the arrangements be made quickly because of the imminent arrival of the autumn rains and fog, which could stop the Blitzkrieg (German: Lightning War), making it much easier for the Poles to defend themselves. In order to achieve his aims, he had to secure at least the neutrality – and preferably active cooperation – of the Soviets during the attack on Poland and the subsequent showdown with the West. This was the reason why the German side willingly and speedily agreed to such a vast expansion of the Soviet sphere of influence and in practice the borders of the USSR. Looking at the scene from a different perspective, one can see that without Stalin’s agreement and cooperation with Hitler, who ‘just a while ago’ was the number one enemy for the communists, the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939 would almost certainly not have occurred, and any additional months of peace might have changed the fate of the world.

Germany and the Soviet Union did not give Europe and the world that chance, however. On 1 September 1939, Germany attacked Poland, soon followed by the USSR, which did the same on 17 September. In the areas occupied by the Wehrmacht and the Soviet army, war crimes were committed from the very first days of the onslaught. Soon deportations of Poles to concentration and forced labour camps and the Soviet Gulag incarceration facilities began. The repressions were aimed at the broadly defined leadership and opinion-forming class. In the spring of 1940 during the Katyn Massacre, the Soviets murdered more than 20,000 Polish prisoners of war. On 30 November 1939 the Soviet Union invaded Finland, which – thanks to a fierce defence – managed to save its independence. In the autumn of 1939, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia had to conclude friendship agreements with the USSR and allow the Soviet army into their territory. After less than a year, at the beginning of August 1940, all three were incorporated into the USSR. In June 1940 the Soviets, threatening to invade the country, forced Romania to hand over Bessarabia and the northern half of Bukovina. Cruel repressions took place in the Baltic states occupied by the USSR, especially the deportation of hundreds of thousands of men, women and children to Siberia. The Finns and Romanians had to take in hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing the areas annexed by the Soviets, and those who remained were exposed to Soviet repression. At the same time, the Germans had already murdered a significant part of the Polish intelligentsia, established the Auschwitz concentration camp and set up ghettos for Jews.

The Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact concluded on 23 August Pandora’s box. On that day the worst plagues prepared by the totalitarian systems – Nazism and Stalinist communism – were inflicted on Europe. The choice of 23 August as the European Day of Remembrance for Victims of Totalitarian Regimes is therefore fully justified.

We remember little, increasingly little, of 20th-century history. Generally only as much as the most powerful media of memory record for a while in the collective imagination: the most repeated themes of major films, symbols inscribed in school textbooks and mainstream museum practices.

At the same time, a wave of protests continues to rise for the introduction into the ‘catalogue of compulsory memory’ of the forgotten, wronged and humiliated victims whom we have not previously remembered or only pretended not to notice. What criterion should be adopted in this competition for the ever-shrinking tiny piece of public attention, of collective memory? Maybe it is worth remembering those victims who seem to be the most forgotten, who have not left communities of mourners, who have been completely ‘trampled into the ground’ (sometimes quite literally) who have not had any system of cultural symbols created around their suffering?

Let me give one example. I wonder how many history books in the world, how many films, how many museums focusing on 20th-century history mention a single order, preserved in writing and already available to professional researchers for years, on the basis of which 111,091 people were executed? There are few such crimes, even in the bloody history of the 20th century. This one, in fact, was five times larger in scale than the Katyn operation, certainly better known and commemorated, but which claimed the lives of ‘only’ some 22,000 Polish officers and prisoners of war on the basis of Stalin’s decision of March 1940.

The order whose victims I take the liberty of reminding you of here was issued in the same political circle, only three years earlier, even before the outbreak of the Second World War. It was order no. 00485 of 11 August 1937 issued by the head of the NKVD, Nikolai Yezhov, on the basis of a decision two days earlier by the Politburo of the All-Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks). It was an order for the genocide of the Polish minority living in the USSR at the time. There was probably no single document before that entailed the deliberate liquidation of such a large number of people on the basis of ethnicity. Yezhov proclaimed the fight against the ‘fascist-insurgent, spying, sabotage, defeatist and terrorist activities of Polish intelligence in the USSR’. He also set a clear task for subordinate NKVD services throughout the country: a ‘complete liquidation of the hitherto untouched broad, diversionary and insurgent backup resources’ and the ‘basic human reserves’ of Polish intelligence in the USSR’.

Such ‘backup resources’ and ‘basic reserves’ could be formed by anyone who had Polish nationality entered in their passports. According to the 1926 census in the USSR, there were 782,000 such people. According to the following census (1939), the number of Poles in the USSR decreased to 626,000. This was precisely the effect of the system of unprecedented persecution to which Poles were subjected in the Stalinist state. More than 150,000 of those who were shot dead (not just in 1937–38) died during deportations or starved to death in 1932–33. At least every second adult male was deprived of life in this Polish community of fate.

Groundbreaking in understanding the scale of this operation was the work of Russian researchers from the Memorial Nikita Petrov and Arseniy Roginsky (1993 and 1997, respectively), who presented official internal NKVD reporting. These are its figures: in the Polish operation, 143,810 people were arrested between September 1937 and September 1938. Of these, 111,091 were executed. Not all of them were ethnic Poles, whose number among those slaughtered in this one operation is estimated between 85,000 to 95,000. However, Poles were systematically killed in the Soviet state in other operations as well: they were the victims of the anti-kulak operation of 1930–31, the Great Famine of 1932–33 both in Ukraine and Kazakhstan (after all, it was not only Ukrainians and not only Kazakhs who died from starvation), and as a result of successive waves of arrests and deportations of the Polish population first from the border areas with the Second Polish Republic in Soviet Ukraine and Belarus, and then in 1936 from these republics to Kazakhstan in general. At the height of the terror (1937–38), Poles were also shot en masse as part of smaller NKVD schemes, such as the German operation (liquidating ‘German spies’), the ‘cleansing’ of the NKVD itself from the Polish element still introduced to it in large numbers by a Bolshevik revolutionary and politician Felix Dzerzhinsky, and many others.

The validity of order no. 00485, originally intended to be in force for three months, was extended to nearly two years. Its deadly effects were completed four days later by another order issued by Yezhov. It was numbered 00486, and concerned the families of ‘traitors to the fatherland’ (not just Poles). Only those who had betrayed their loved ones could avoid arrest. Children over the age of 15 were subject to ‘adult’ repression. Younger ones were to be sent to orphanages or to work.

The exceptional scale of repression directed by the Soviet state against Poles has been pointed out by Harvard University professor Terry Martin. On the basis of a named list of victims shot in Leningrad in the period 1937–38, he calculated that Poles were killed 31 times more often than their number in the city would suggest. In other words, a Pole in and around Leningrad was 31 times less likely to survive during the height of the Great Terror than the average resident of the city most affected by Stalin’s crimes. Yale University professor Timothy Snyder calculated the following numbers for the entire Soviet Union at the time of the Great Terror: the Poles were, unfortunately, a chosen people in it. Stalin’s choice determined that they were 40 times more likely to be shot than the average for all nations of the USSR. Poles accounted for 0.4 per cent of the total population in the USSR, while they made up around 13–14 per cent of the victims in the 681,000 executed between 1937 and 1938. So much for dry statistics based on NKVD data. But, as Snyder rightly wrote in his monograph Bloodlands (2010), we must above all remember that each victim had a name, each has an individual biography and each deserves human remembrance. With poignant empathy, the fate of Poles murdered as part of NKVD operations in Ukraine in 1937–38 was portrayed by perhaps the most eminent contemporary scholar of the Stalinist system, Professor Hiroaki Kuromiya of Indiana University. In his book The Voices of the Dead (American edition 2007), we can see this great crime through the prism of the individual fates of people executed simply for saying ‘Poland is a good country’ (this was interpreted as ‘fascist agitation’), or for refusing to renounce a Polish husband or wife.

The memory of this crime must be claimed in the name of historical truth about the times of the Great Terror. This concept, linked to the years 1937–38, present in all history textbooks (including Polish ones) of the 20th century, is most often limited to Stalin’s crackdown on the old Leninist cadres and the Red Army’s top brass. Today’s historical propaganda in Russia, uncritically adopted by the dominant part of the media in Poland, presents the Great Terror, or the Great Purge, as an internal tragedy of the Russians, a ‘domestic conflict’ that only Russians have the right to talk about. Meanwhile, according to NKVD data, of the 681,000 people executed between 1937 and 1938, 247,000 were victims of ‘nationality operations’ (led by the Polish), and more than 350,000 were kulaks (not necessarily Russians; there were also a great many Poles among them, but certainly no communists in this category). The Polish victims, so numerous in this terrible crime, remain silent. We cannot give them a voice, but we can, and we must, restore their memory. We cannot allow them to be dissolved in the false image of the Great Purge, in which only Bukharin, Kamenev, Zinoviev or Tukhachevsky are remembered.

There are not any graves left behind for the victims of the ‘Polish operation’. There was no Anna Akhmatova to mourn them in her Requiem, nor Arthur Koestler to show their fate in Darkness at Noon. These were ordinary people, not generals, not renowned poets or worldfamous political activists. They were killed and their families deported deep into the Soviet Union, condemned to oblivion alone. They did not leave influential friends to claim their memory. Then came the Second World War and its great tragedies. There was no room left for the memory of the victims murdered before that war to be cultivated by its later victors.

Yet it is precisely for this reason that once we know about them, we should not forget them. It is for the same reason that we should not forget the great sacrifice of the Jewish genocide committed by German Nazism. We must remember the victims of the crime all the more strongly: the more they seem forgotten, nameless, powerless – this is what humanity, our humanity, demands of us. Would it not be worthwhile to become aware of the existence of these people, each of whom had a name, each of whom had a face, but each of whom became Homo sacer (a person made worthless and located outside the law) – exactly as Giorgio Agamben depicted it on the basis of the Holocaust experience described by Primo Levi. Perhaps it is worth showing, also to today’s world, this example of a great crime that transforms people into victims – killed with impunity but not sacrificed – into ones excluded from the bios, simply because they belonged to a group chosen by political power to be shot dead.

Over the last 40 years we historians have been living through a memory boom. We are not alone. In the humanities and the social sciences as a whole, the field of memory studies has expanded exponentially.

Everyone interested in history or politics, in sociology or anthropology has found in their field of study clusters of scholars who start their enquiries by examining the significance of memory for their discipline. In the 1970s and 1980s, race and class were the primary organising concepts of intellectual exchange. Now memory has replaced them.

In part, memory has arrived to fill a vacuum. Marxism as a theory of history collapsed long before the Soviet Union fell apart, and race lost its coherence as a concept of social analysis when confronted with the record of intercommunal violence in post-imperial Africa and Asia. The Rwanda and Cambodia genocides made it difficult to use models of white domination to account for crimes committed by Africans and Asians against other Africans and Asians. And while scholars interested in gender stimulated work in many different disciplines, they have not yet provided a political framework for understanding the violence of the last century and its after-effects.

Memory addressed the question as to the origins and consequences of violence in ways that have proved fruitful in two senses. Memory has helped account for the genocidal violence of the last century, and memory has provided a language in which the victims of genocidal violence can reassert their ‘authority’, their right to tell their own history in their own ways.

This dual agenda – memory as a ubiquitous tool of social analysis and memory as an instrument of social justice for the victims of war and violence – helps account for the efflorescence of memory studies throughout the world.

In parallel, there has been a ‘memory boom’ in the field of neurology and psychology. We now know more than ever before about the workings of the mind in creating and reshaping memory traces. The breakthrough was to set aside the old model of the brain as a kind of super hard disk filled with preserved memories. This static notion of storage and retrieval gave way to a much more rigorous model of the brain as a kind of orchestra conductor, drawing from different regions of the brain memory traces that come together to present memories to the mind. The critical point is that remembering is not an act of retrieval but a moment of recreation. When we remember, we change the elements of what we remember by turning them into a collage, a complex alloy of different elements assembled differently every time we recollect an event, person or mood.

The second major breakthrough in the science of memory studies was the recognition that violent and life-threatening events cannot be recalled in the way we remember less destructive events in our lives. We call these difficult memories ‘traumatic memories’. They cannot be assembled easily as a collage, since recalling these events threatens the integrity of the self, understood as the way we hold ourselves together under severe stress. When extreme violence happens – in the form of rape, sexual abuse, physical injury, psychological torture, terrifying ordeals or other insults – memories of such events remain in fragmentary or silent form. Putting them together as a narrative is painful and at times impossible. Those fortunate to have professional help and supportive social and family environments can take the long road to recovering memories. They are the lucky ones.

The reason the recognition of traumatic memory matters is that the voices of the victims of trauma in war and genocide become carriers of an essential ethical message. They tell us that even after the horrors of the past century, it is possible, indeed necessary, to say in public that human beings can survive injustice and live by a moral code. At the core of that code is the assertion that everyone has the right and the duty to speak truth to power.

Commemoration is a form of memory activism that goes beyond the academy. It is present throughout the world. Public remembrance requires a place and a trace, or in Greek, a topos and a logos. At a particular place, people come together to remember a particular moment in history represented by an object, a flame, a structure, a symbol.

All societies identify particular dates in the calendar as worthy of public commemoration. They can be dates associated with important moments in national history, such as the end of victorious wars or revolutions. It is a mistake, though, to see commemoration solely through the eyes of a state. States may ordain or legislate that such and such a date is a holiday, honouring a particular event. But over time, the survival of such events requires participation by members of civil society. The authors of public commemoration matter less than do the memory activists or memory agents who continue to do the work of public remembrance.

Memory agents matter because the initial emotional and political charge propelling commemoration forward tends to fade over time. All commemorative events have a half-life; that is, the energy behind them begins to dissipate over time. Memory agents recharge the batteries of the commemorative project; without such an effort, commemoration loses its force. Without an audience, public remembrance fades away.

This act of entropy, or the loss of momentum in commemoration, is inevitable. To forestall forgetting, a group of people have to donate their time and collect sufficient funds to enable them to organise public acts of remembrance. If these agents die, or move away, or get arrested, others must take their place. New generations have to take over their roles, or attach to the date or the place of commemoration new meanings.

Commemorative sites are public settings for the performance of memory. They are built in such a way as to enable people to come together on a particular day to remember a particular set of events that are deemed to be significant. That is why they are placed in public thoroughfares, in front of public buildings or in cemeteries or churches. These places frame the performance that takes place adjacent to them. At times, these sites of remembrance are fenced off to prevent animals from grazing there or people from using them for recreation.

The events that take place in front of memorial sites are designed to instruct the public about the important event commemorated there. That is why schoolchildren are sent there, and why flags or other symbols of collective life are on display. In some countries, clergymen participate, but the language used is almost always a mix of the sacred and the secular.

One of the paradoxes of public remembrance is that stories about the past change when visions of the future change. After the collapse of communism in 1989, the future of the former communist world opened up to new horizons. To chart the trajectory of that future, it was necessary to align it with elements in the past that pointed towards the new possibilities in national life. In this sense, memory narratives are always about the future.

The writing of history is but one part of the effort to produce a memory narrative of use to our society. History is memory seen through documents. Memory is history seen through emotion. Both tell us how we got to where we are. The free expression of both history and public remembrance is the bedrock on which democracy rests. We should be grateful, therefore, for the memory boom of the last 40 years. It is one of the pillars of an open society and a resource for those yet to realise their freedom.

Not all history is remembered but every memory has a history. Russia’s horrific war against Ukraine transforms not only history but also the memory of Ukrainians.

If before the year 2014, the main memory events in Ukraine were the Holodomor (starvation enforced by Stalin’s regime during 1932–33) and the Second World War, since 2014 it has been the memory of the Revolution of Dignity (that started in November 2013 and ended in February 2014 with more than a hundred people killed by the police) that has taken the central place in the Ukrainian memoryscape. As a scholar of memory who has been studying Ukraine for more than a decade I have learned a lot about memory due to the war.

Historical parallels

When the full-scale invasion started on 24 February 2022, many Ukrainians drew parallels to the memory of the Second World War. There is even evidence that the older generation reacted to Russians entering the villages and towns by referring to them as ‘Germans’. It was difficult to find the correct words to articulate something one could not comprehend. There was simply nothing more terrible in living memory one could draw parallels to. Memory of the Second World War became the vehicle that helped put what seemed unspeakable into words. Historian George Liber wrote: ‘The Second World War ignited a monstrous, all-encompassing inferno, a conflagration without end or mercy.’ Indeed the Second World War that started for many Ukrainians in 1939 with the Soviet occupation in the West, and continued from 1941 with Nazi Occupation of the whole territory, became the most traumatic period with extensive physical destruction and enormous demographic losses. This allowed historian Timothy Snyder to speak about Ukraine as the epicentre of what he calls ‘Bloodlands’.

Now Ukrainians are going through yet another ‘all-encompassing’ inferno, a conflagration without end or mercy’ inflicted by Russia intoxicated by its imperialist expansionist ideology, which Timothy Snyder defines as yet another kind of fascism equipped with the power of social media that circulates ideologies easily and fast. Now hundreds of thousands of Ukrainian children are being deported to Russia and the people in the occupied territories suffer unimaginable tortures and hardships. As the death toll of people in Ukraine is not known, people in Ukraine continue to demonstrate unprecedented courage and perseverance in their resistance.

Considering the losses and the terror of war, it is not surprising that people look for parallels in history to describe what is happening. Having been studying memory for more than 15 years, I have learned more about memory in the last two years than in all the previous years. Now I understand better that memory is first and foremost a cognitive function of our brains and this cognitive function helps us to survive. When Russia encircled Ukrainian cities, towns and villages, people remembered family stories of survival and resistance transmitted down to them through many generations who lived and survived before them. These memories gave them strength to act. I also remember that the moment when I heard that Russia attacked the whole of Ukraine, I immediately thought about my grandparents who survived the war. That gave me hope that our generation will also survive. Tragically the fact is that many have not survived and will not survive this war. For me, this is something that is still impossible to admit. As a historian, I am always very careful with drawing parallels between the past and the present in order not to overshadow the past. But on a personal level, through the work of memory, parallels do help us. It seems that we were wired to find solace in our past. Maybe this is the true meaning of the phrase ‘historia magistra vitae’ (history [is] the teacher of life)?

Memory as an imperative
Another thing that I have better understood about memory since the invasion is an imperative to remember. Indeed, there is a moral need to remember one’s past. I only now fully understand how important remembrance is for society and what a tragedy it is when memory is banned and remembrance is not possible. Authoritarian regimes are notorious for doctoring and silencing the past.  
The struggle of Ukrainians against authoritarian Russia is also a struggle for the right to remember. In the Soviet Union there was no memory of the Holocaust, for instance. There was no distinction or nuances in memory of the victims. People collectively were presented either as winners or as victims. The master narrative of war in the Soviet Union was mainly the narrative of triumph of victory over Nazism (which in the Soviet Union was referred to as fascism). There was a lot of misnaming during the Soviet period. The Second World War was known as the Great Patriotic War and even the chronology was misleading. When I went to school, we read that the war started in 1941, not in 1939. It was in drastic contrast to the stories I heard from my grandparents. Already as a schoolgirl I understood that there was a discrepancy between what one read in the schoolbooks and what one heard from family. As a historian, I know that such discrepancies are common for authoritarian and dictatorial regimes. Democracies help memories to survive. Moreover, in democracies there are more opportunities to combine what one hears at school and at home as many smaller stories find their way into a bigger official narrative. Autocracies and dictatorships work in a different way, they create histories where many people cannot recognise themselves. The gap between lived experience and what one reads in textbooks is big and sometimes insurmountable.

With the fall of the Soviet Union the situation changed. German scholar Aleida Assmann writes that after the fall of the Berlin Wall, Europe faced three different processes regarding memory. In Western Europe, its societies tried to address memories of perpetrators and victims in the remembrance of the Holocaust and crimes of the Nazi regime. In Eastern Europe, societies focused on their memories as victims of the crimes of a Communist regime. Finally in Russia, society succumbed to nostalgia for the lost greatness that later consolidated to legitimise aggression against neighbouring states. True, even in Russia, at the beginning of the 1990s, under Boris Yeltsyn there was a slight move towards the reconceptualization of memory. The best example of this direction was the recognition by Russia of Katyn massacre when 22,000 Polish military officers and intellectuals were executed by Soviet secret police. Yet even these shifts did not involve Russia’s re-evaluation of its imperialist legacies. Russia’s war against Ichkeria (or better known as Russia’s Chechen Wars) only proved that Russia continued to hold its territories with force. With Putin’s coming to power in 2000 even the slightest shifts in reinterpretation of Soviet history were stopped on the state level and the country moved back to the Soviet narratives of triumph without reflecting on the price of this triumph. Stalin got rehabilitated as a ‘skilled manager’. The memory culture regarding the Second World War is often called the Victory frenzy (pobedobesie, which in Russian combines a meaning of victory and diabolical obsession).

This culture is mainly based on the cult of violence. In 2014, when Russia annexed Crimea and started the war in Donbas, Victory Day was celebrated with the phrase ‘We can repeat it’, which is a direct opposite to the ethics of the Western memory of war reflected in the slogan ’never again’. Moreover, Russian memory culture bears strong masculine and patriarchal connotations. During the celebrations of Victory Day, one can see slogans such as ‘On Berlin!’ or ‘On German women’ – a direct connotation to notorious mass rapes by the Soviet Army. When crimes are not punished, they are repeated. War atrocities inflicted by Russia in Georgia, Syria and Ukraine show it all too well. Researchers of memory call the West European approach to remembering the Second World War as a ‘memory of regret’. Russia did not regret and continued to fall into the Great Victory frenzy year after year.

It is a big problem that Russia cannot cope with its past. Crimes against humanity committed by the Communist regime were never recognised by the Russian regime. To say the truth, they were never fully recognised by non-East European societies either. The English historian Tony Judt wrote that after the war, we all pretended that we had peace and ignored that half of Europe was actually under the occupation of the Soviet regime. Ukrainian writer Oksana Zabuzhko described the fall of the Soviet Union as a ‘semi-collapse’ of the empire because even after acquiring independence many former republics were still under the influence of Russia. Ukraine’s attempts to keep this influence resulted in the Revolution of Dignity and later in Russia’s attack on Ukraine.

Empires seldom give up their expansionist ambitions without bloodshed. Russia is what the German historian Dietmar Rothermund calls a ‘post-imperial nation’ that shows all the symptoms of ‘post-imperial malaise’: lack of acceptance of reality, painful experience of the loss of imagined ‘greatness’ that results in an injured feeling of pride and a nostalgic relationship with the past. This post-imperial identity allows Russians to see themselves as victims even in relation to Ukraine, ignoring the fact that it is Russians themselves who are the cause of suffering and that it is Russia that is committing the crimes. Before 2014 I could not imagine the power of such nostalgic memory and how it can justify the most horrible crimes committed by Russia. The outcome of the war will define Ukraine’s and Europe’s future. The outcome will also define who and how they will be remembered after the war. I hope that Ukraine will win and democracy will prevail, and we will have a chance for a complex and inclusive memory: a memory of Ukrainian resistance and European solidarity that stood against imperialism and won.

He was one of the most widely read and prominent Polish post-war writers. He imbued everyday banalities with existential content, while his uncompromising attitude, especially against communism, resonated with readers globally. The combination of Hollywood charisma, deep literary insight and fearless opposition to oppressive regimes keeps Marek Hłasko’s legacy alive.

Enfant terrible

Born on 14 January 1934 in Warsaw, Marek Hłasko was the only child of Maciej Hłasko and Maria Łucja, née Rosiak. He was not an easy child. A family legend has it that during the two-year-old Marek’s baptism ceremony when asked if he would renounce evil spirits, he answered ‘no’, which was later cited as the evidence of his strong-willed nature.

Marek Hłasko was just three years old when his parents divorced. After the fall of the Warsaw Uprising, which he spent in Warsaw, Hłasko lived with his mother in Częstochowa, Chorzów and Białystok, before settling for a longer period in Wrocław, together with his strict stepfather. He finished primary school there in 1948.

Hłasko was not very obedient and, to make matters worse, he was very immature. He therefore changed schools frequently, and in 1950, at the age of 16, he was accused of being a demoralising influence on his classmates and expelled from secondary school. By then he was already reading a lot. He particularly loved Fyodor Dostoyevsky, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway.

Polish James Dean
 At the age of 16, Hłasko embarked on his first employed job. In order to support himself, he obtained his driving licence and became a driver’s helper and later as a lorry driver, among other things, at the transport depot in Bystrzyca Kłodzka. His experiences gained there were later a source of inspiration when he wrote his novel Next-stop Paradise (1959).

He also did short spells of work for the following organisations: the City’s Construction Union, a subway construction company Metrobudowa, the Transport Association of Warsaw Associations of Consumers and Warsaw Transport Enterprise of the City Retail Sale. Perhaps he did not stay for long because as a young man he was already making his first serious attempts at writing.

It was in Częstochowa, while keeping a diary and witnessing the Soviet’s offensive of 1945, Hłasko first considered a writing career. Years later in Beautiful Twentysomethings (1966), he gave a shocking description of the march of the Red Army and NKVD troops, the abuses and cruelties of war, an analysis of the Soviet soul and the mentality of homo sovieticus.

However, he considered the beginning of his career to be in 1951, with the creation of Sokolowska Baza (‘The Sokolow Base’), his first short story with the vivid characteristics of a stage play. It was also at this time that he was unexpectedly endowed with the trust of the Party and was appointed to the Tribune of the People as a field workers’ correspondent. Hłasko’s sharp and witty interventions must have pleased his superiors, for he was awarded a prize. It was Anatoly Rybakov’s novel The Drivers that supposedly set Hłasko in motion: ‘It was the first social realist book I had read,’ Hłasko recalled. ‘I have to admit that I fell into a stupor. That’s how stupid I can be, I said to myself. And I started.’

In 1952, he came into contact with the Association of Polish Writers and Igor Newerly, who was active in the organisation and acted as a mentor to the young. Hłasko introduced himself as an uneducated chauffeur who tried to describe his life in his spare time after work. A year later, he was awarded a three-month creative scholarship by the Polish Writers’ Association, so he eventually left his job as a chauffeur and went to Wrocław.

He became a legendary figure for the younger generation, a symbol of non-conformism. He was well built (84 kg), essentially oversensitive, insecure and with a tendency to depression, but he was called the Eastern European James Dean, whom he resembled.


The unsung writer
 Writing did not come easily to him at all. He rewrote each page many times, edited and changed every page repeatedly. He took writing very seriously. For him, it was a desperate attempt to do something with his life, an escape from the burdens of a simple labourer’s existence. As a writer, he was self-taught. independent, worked hard and wrote a lot. He published a new book every year.

His manner of writing, as well as the language itself, amazed young people who had never read anything so uncompromising and free of socialist-realist conformism. It was sincere, without illusions and as true as he knew how. In the biography written by Hłasko’s cousin Andrzej Czyżewski, it is clear this was influenced by the death of his father and the occupation, which left a deep mark on the boy, as Hłasko himself later wrote:
         ‘It is obvious to me that I am a product of a time of war, famine and terror. This is where the intellectual poverty of my stories comes from; I simply can’t think of a story that doesn’t end in death, disaster, suicide or imprisonment. There is no posing as a strong man in them, as some people suspect me of.’

Hłasko’s short stories and novels quickly became a thorn in the side of the Party rulers and the socialist press of the Polish People’s Republic. He was accused not only of promoting drunkenness and moral freedom, but also of a penchant for nihilism and betrayal of the fatherland. The straw that broke the Party’s bitter spell were the interviews he gave to the French newspapers Le Figaro and L‘Express. In them, he unequivocally denounced communism as an inhuman system.
         ‘In my opinion, the intellectuals I meet here [in the West] react to what is happening in that [Eastern] world only from the point of view of their own moral attitude, but they do not have this terrible daily experience. That’s why I feel completely unable to say anything to them ...
         If I told them that a worker’s greatest dream is to get drunk for two hours, to forget himself completely – they wouldn’t believe it. And yet it is true. The misfortune of a man living in a totalitarian country is the unquenchable feeling of the grotesque and the ridiculousness of himself... the reduction of dreams... the reduction of desires... the impossibility of reacting to the swine that one sees every day, at every step of the way.’ [extract from an interview with L’ Express, 1958].


In exile
 In February 1958, Hłasko went to Paris on a scholarship, and in October, after being refused a return visa several times, he decided to stay abroad – in West Berlin. From there he went to Israel. He returned to Europe in 1961. It was then that he began to publish his short stories in the Parisian magazine Kultura (‘Culture’). His famous autobiography Pretty Twentysomethings – an account of his Warsaw years and life in exile – was also published there. After its publication, the Polish communist authorities banned the printing of his works in the country.

He could not live without Poland, but neither could he return to it. His lack of talent for foreign languages made it hard for him to live abroad. He led an itinerant life, taking on work as a labourer in order to secure basic living conditions. From 1960 he lived in Germany with his wife, the famous German actress Sonja Ziemann. Although her role is sometimes demonised in books and articles about Hłasko, it was she who financed their life together and saved Hłasko when he suffered a nervous breakdown in 1963 and found himself in a psychiatric hospital. Finally, it was Sonja who, in the last year of the writer’s life, brought him back from the United States, where he had been working as a salesman in a shop, arranged for his next story to be filmed and gave him the prospect of a tolerable existence in Europe.

In the spring, the writer travelled briefly to Wiesbaden, Germany, where he died on 14 June 1969, probably from an overdose of sleeping pills. His ashes were brought to Poland in 1975 and laid to rest in Warsaw’s Powązki Cemetery.


A legend still alive
 At the end of the 1980s, Marek Hłasko’s time had come. For the first time, all of his works were published in their entirety, without censorship. Hłasko’s books were even included in mandotary reading lists. Many plays and films were based on his prose. Wojciech Has filmed The Noose, Aleksander Ford The Eighth Day of the Week and Czesław Petelski Next-stop Paradise as The Depot of the Dead.

Kira Gałczyńska, in her book How Those Years Were Wrong, captured the enduring relevance of Hłasko’s characters – flawed, cynical, yet deeply human:
         ‘Hłasko’s heroes were people each of us had met, avoided at times, feared. But that did not change the fact that they existed, that they lived. A world of illusions, of unfulfilled love, of beautiful girls who are cynical and calculating, and of the same kind of boys who treat affection like a game, a sport, while secretly dreaming of the great love they only know from films or books.’

The drudgery of earning a living – in France, Italy, Switzerland, England, Germany, Israel and the United States – took its toll on the writer’s health. But it also had a kind of mysterious therapeutic effect, triggering a defence mechanism that converted into a vigorous and regular creativity. He was constantly searching, chasing something, tearing something down and bursting with that restless spirit of contrariness, contradiction and rebellion. And out of all this turmoil and busyness, as if from a Ferris wheel, new stories and novels spilled out at regular intervals, without a trace of haste or chaos, to be remembered for posterity.

Sound in the Silence is a multi-disciplinary project that uses location-based workshops to explore and express the lasting effects of the second World War. We connect young people across cultures through art and education workshops on-location where history happened. We work with issues of remembrance and social justice and use creative expression to help repair what is broken in our world. Each iteration of this intercultural project culminates in a site-specific public performance that articulates our thoughts, motivates us to action, and inspires more people to join us.

But where did the idea for Sound in the Silence come from?

It all started with a song.

In 1999 my creativity and my culture collided when I found myself sitting across the table from a German film maker who was in town to do research for a documentary film he was making about my family. I was a 24-year-old, struggling actor, rapper, and playwright trying to figure out how to create a sustainable career as an artist. He was a 50-year-old artist who was following the melody (and story) of a famous song from Hamburg to Shanghai to New York and finally to San Francisco. His name was Jens Huckeriede.

When he was 28, Jens decided to become an artist who would use his art and performance to think about how his own personal history related to the Holocaust, and to challenge others to do the same. He told me that his projects were part of a creative methodology called New Forms of Remembrance which claims that we must use provocative, charged locations to inspire our work in order to give the generations a chance to understand history and their place in it.

Jens told me that one of his projects was painting the lyrics of Hamburg’s most famous song “An de Eck steiht'n Jung mit'n Tüdelband” (On the corner stands a boy with a hoop) onto the sidewalk in the Wohlersallee, a neighborhood in Hamburg where there had been a "Jüdisches Volksheim", a home for Jews, that became a place to bring Jews before they were deported "to the East", in the 1940's. The people who lived in the neighborhood didn’t like it but when he showed them what he was painting - the lyrics to An de Eck steiht'n Jung mit'n Tüdelband - they would start to sing the song and tell him stories about Leopold and Ludwig Isaac, the Jewish brothers who wrote it. When he discovered that Leopold is my great grandfather, his research led him to me.

That meeting in 1999 changed my life. Together Jens and I made the film return of the tüdelband, which is a journey from contemporary music into Jewish-German history. In the film, I start to search for my family history in Hamburg and, while doing so, discover my artistic roots.

I started to think about how Jens’ concept of “New Forms of Remembrance” could be combined with my approach to music and theater. I imagined bringing a curated group of artists to historically charged locations like concentration camps, memorial sites, and museums, and turning the seminar rooms into recording studios, writing rooms, and rehearsal halls. I envisioned a three part process where learning about the location would act as source material for creating live performance. We would start by educating ourselves with book learning, studying the social and economic impacts of the war on the villages surrounding the area of the concentration camp. Then we would spend a week living at the location and this experiential education would act as fuel for our creative prompt. Then we would develop music, theater, and film and craft it into a unique performance that would reflect the experience of our time spent at the location.

I started to think about my grandfather, and how, when I was a child, I asked him about our family history. He said nothing. He stayed silent. It was a silence that told me never to ask again. My grandparents were hunted, afraid, and betrayed by their country. We don’t need silence. We need to yell, and sing, and scream, and tell our story. There is sound in all this silence...

In der ersten Hälfte des Jahres 1933 wurde die Ukrainische Sowjetrepublik von einer großen Hungersnot heimgesucht. Diese war die Folge der Zwangskollektivierung der Landwirtschaft, die von der sowjetischen Staatsmacht auf Befehl Iosif Stalins durchgeführt wurde. Innerhalb eines Jahres starben Millionen von Menschen. Hunderte Dörfer und Tausende Bauernhöfe verschwanden von der Erdoberfläche. Die Verhungerten wurden zu Anfang auf den Friedhöfen beerdigt, später direkt an ihren Gehöften oder in Brunnen, die daraufhin zugeschüttet wurden. Die kommunistischen Behörden verboten, über die Hungersnot zu schreiben oder zu sprechen, sie verboten sogar, die Erinnerung an die Gräber der Hungertoten zu bewahren. Was also geschah in der Ukraine in den Jahren 1932‑1933? Wieso durfte bis zum Dezember 1987 nicht über diese Ereignisse gesprochen werden?

 

Die Kollektivierung wurde mit Hilfe von Massenterror eingeführt. Sie wurde auf der Grundlage mündlicher Anweisungen von der Ebene des Kremls bis hinunter zum einzelnen Dorf organisiert und erreichte ihren Höhepunkt im Januar 1933. Ihre wichtigste Methode war die Konfiszierung von Lebensmitteln auf den Bauernhöfen. Der Terror bestand darin, die Höfe unablässig zu durchsuchen, um verstecktes Getreide zu finden, wobei manchmal in Naturalien, Fleisch oder Kartoffeln zu zahlende Strafen auferlegt wurden (November – Dezember 1932); in der Beschlagnahme sämtlicher Lebensmittel bei Durchsuchungen einzelner Höfe (Januar 1933); in einer Propagandakampagne, die darauf abzielte, den Hass der hungernden Stadtbevölkerung gegen die so genannten „Kulaken und Saboteure“ zu entfachen, wie die Bauern genannt wurden; in der Blockade der Ukrainischen Sowjetrepublik und des Kuban-Bezirks der Nördlichen Kaukasusregion; schließlich im Verbot des Ausdrucks „Hungersnot“, der niemals in als „streng geheim“ gekennzeichneten Dokumenten verwendet werden durfte.

Der Terror mittels Hunger fand inmitten einer sozioökonomischen Krisensituation statt, die von der Wirtschaftspolitik der sowjetischen Staatsmacht verursacht worden war. Für seine Politik des Zeitraums vom November 1929 bis zum Januar 1933 fand Stalin persönlich einen vielsagenden Ausdruck – „Beschleunigung“. Diese fand auf dem Lande in der Beschlagnahmung der Ernten ihren Niederschlag. Bis Ende 1932 starben die Menschen in der Ukraine und anderen Regionen, weil man ihnen das Getreide fortnahm. Mit Beginn im November 1932 starben sie daran, dass man ihnen überhaupt alle Lebensmittel wegnahm.

Die Große Hungersnot war eine Folge der Politik der Kommunisten. In den ersten Jahren ihrer Herrschaft legten die Bolschewiki die Grundlagen ihrer Kommandowirtschaft, die nur vorübergehend von Lenins Einführung der sog. Neuen Ökonomischen Politik (NĖP) 1921 unterbrochen wurde. 1929 begann Stalin das umzusetzen, was Lenin nicht geglückt war, nämlich Millionen von Kleinproduzenten in Staatsbetriebe hineinzuzwingen. Wegen des Widerstands aus der Gesellschaft sah sich Stalin gezwungen, auf die Verstaatlichung zu verzichten und sich auf Genossenschaften zu beschränken, was bedeutete, den Bauern den Besitz eines kleinen Stück eigenen Landes zu gestatten. In der Meinung, daß die Kolchosniki ihren Eigenbedarf aus den eigenen Parzellen würden decken können, ließ Stalin den Dörfern praktisch ihre gesamte Getreideernte abnehmen. Den Bauern war nicht erlaubt, selbst Getreide zu erhalten, solange das Abgabesoll nicht erfüllt war, das praktisch keine rechtlich vorgegebene Obergrenze hatte. Getreide, das nach dem Aufkauf gefunden wurde, galt als der Revision entzogen oder gestohlen.

Die Bauern wollten nicht ohne Entlohnung auf den Kolchosen arbeiten, wofür sie der kommunistische Staat der Sabotage bezichtigte. Das reichte als Vorwand für Verfolgungsmaßnahmen. Die Krise der Kolchosen drohte, die gesamte Wirtschaft in den Abgrund zu reißen. Im Januar 1933 sah sich die Regierung gezwungen, von den unbegrenzten Pflichtabgaben zu einem staatlichen Getreideaufkauf gegen Pauschalpreise quasi als Steuerleistung überzugehen. Dies bedeutete, dass der Staat letztendlich das Besitzrecht der Kolchosen und ihrer Mitglieder auf ihre eigenen Ernteerträge anerkannte.

Diese Repressionen werden von den Gefahren erklärt, denen der Kreml sein Herrschaftsmonopol ausgesetzt sah. Bei den Sowjets, darunter natürlich auch den nationalen Sowjets, war die reale Exekutivgewalt konzentriert, die der Partei eine staatsgleiche Struktur verlieh. Solange diese Macht unter der unmittelbaren Kontrolle des Kremls stand, herrschte keine Gefahr, dass die Sowjetunion zerfiel. Aber falls sie auf die regionalen Parteistrukturen überging, nahm diese Gefahr in den Augen der kommunistischen Führer reale Formen an. Der Kreml sah die stärkste Bedrohung von der Ukraine ausgehen – der Sowjetrepublik mit einer überdauernden Tradition einer nationalen (nicht sowjetischen!) Staatlichkeit. Die Ukraine grenzte an andere europäische Staaten, und im Hinblick auf ihre ökonomischen Ressourcen und ihr Bevölkerungspotential rangierte sie gleichauf mit allen anderen nationalen Sowjetrepubliken zusammengenommen. Nach der Bildung der UdSSR begann der Kreml in den nationalen Republiken eine Kampagne zur „Einwurzelung“ der Sowjetmacht im nichtrussischen Umfeld. In der Ukraine verwandelte sich die Einwurzelungskampagne rasch aus einem bloß bürokratischen Unternehmen in ein Instrument der nationalen Entwurzelung.

In der zweiten Jahreshälfte 1932 trafen zwei verschiedene Krisen aufeinander und verstärkten sich wechselseitig – diejenige der sozioökonomischen und die der Nationalitätenpolitik des Kremls. Mehr als alles andere befürchtete Stalin eine gesellschaftliche Explosion in der hungernden Ukraine. Die kurz darauf begonnenen Repressionen waren zugleich gegen die ukrainischen Bauern gerichtet, gegen die ein durch die Getreiderequisitionen ausgelöster Hunger als Terrormethode zielte, wie die ukrainische Intelligenz, die von Massenverhaftungen und ‑hinrichtungen betroffen war, verbunden mit Säuberungen, die in den lokalen Zellen der kommunistischen Partei durchgeführt wurden.

Die Darstellung der Großen Hungersnot muss mit der Erinnung an das „Recht der fünf Ähren“ beginnen, das die kommunistische Staatsmacht einführte, um die „Verschwendung“ der Ernte zu bekämpfen. „In Erfüllung der Wünsche der Arbeiter und der Kolchosniki“, so ist in der Präambel zu lesen, verabschiedeten das Zentrale Exekutivkomitee und der Rat der Volkskommissare der UdSSR (Sovnarkom) am 7. August 1932 den Beschluss „Über den Schutz des Eigentums der Staatsunternehmen, der Kolchosen und Genossenschaften sowie die Stärkung des gesellschaftlichen (sozialistischen) Eigentums“. Für Diebstahl solchen Eigentums wurde Erschießen nahegelegt, „im Falle mildernder Umstände“ Freiheitsentzug von nicht weniger als zehn Jahren. Im November 1932 entsandte Stalin Sonderkommissionen für die Pflichtablieferung von Getreide; eine unter Leitung von Vjačeslav M. Molotov in die Ukrainische SSR, die andere unter Lazar M. Kaganovič in die Kubanregion. Im Dezember 1932 suchte man bei den Bauern ohne Unterlaß nach Getreide. Die Durchsuchungen wurden Durchsuchten wie Durchsuchenden zur Gewohnheit. Sie wurden unter der Aufsicht von GPU-Beamten von hungernden Angehörigen der Komitees Armer Bauern durchgeführt, die einen bestimmten Anteil von dem aufgespürten Getreide erhielten, und auch von aus den Städten abgeordneten Arbeitern. So wie im Vorjahr waren die Dörfer auch schon vor den Durchsuchungen aufgrund der Pflichtablieferungen fast um ihr gesamtes Getreide gebracht worden.

Am 1. Januar 1933 schickte Stalin ein Telegramm nach Char’kov/ Charkiv mit der Forderung nach Getreideabgaben; er schlug dem ZK der KPU (b) und dem Rat der Volkskommissare der USSR vor, „über die Dorfräte den Kolchosen, Kolchosniki und einzelnen Arbeitern eingehend mitzuteilen, dass: a) alle, die freiwillig das zuvor gestohlene und versteckte Getreide an den Staat abliefern, nicht repressiert werden; b) gegenüber Kolchosniki, Kolchosen und einzelnen Arbeitern, die hartnäckig das gestohlene und vor der Durchsuchung verborgene Getreide weiter verstecken, die härtesten Strafen angewandt werden, wie sie der Beschluss des Zentralen Exekutivkomitees und des Rats der Volkskomissare der UdSSR vom 7. August 1932 vorsieht.“

Die Überlebenden des Großen Hungers erzählen, dass die Sonderbrigaden der Kommunisten bei den Durchsuchungen in den Bauernwirtschaften nicht nur Kartoffeln, Fleisch und Speck wegnahmen, wie es der zitierte Beschluß der sowjetischen Staatsmacht vorsah, sondern überhaupt alle Lebensmittel. Dutzende, Hunderte, Tausende Zeugnisse aus verschiedenen Ortschaften liefern ein geschlossenes Bild. Stalin beließ es nicht bei der Beschlagnahme von Lebensmitteln. Am 22. Januar 1933 schrieb er eigenhändig (das Manuskript ist erhalten) eine Direktive des ZK der VKP (b) und des Rats der Volkskommissare der UdSSR, die mit den Worten beginnt: „Das ZK der VKP und den Sovnarkom haben Informationen erreicht, dass die Bauern vom Kuban und aus der Ukraine massenweise auf der Suche nach Verdienst in den Zentralen Schwarzerdebezirk, an die Wolga, in den Bezirk Moskau, in den Westlichen Bezirk und nach Weißrussland ausreisen.“ Der Kreml verlangte von den Leitungen der Nachbarregionen die Blockade der USSR und des Kuban.

Die Menschen sind nicht mehr am Leben, die für die schrecklichen Repressionen in der Ukraine verantwortlich waren. Auch den totalitären Staat gibt es nicht mehr, dessen Führung die Verantwortung für den Großen Hunger trug. Wir erwarten von der internationalen Gemeinschaft die Anerkennung dieses Verbrechens als Völkermord. Wir erwarten dies vor allem von der Russischen Föderation, deren Bevölkerung ebenfalls Verluste von vielen Millionen Menschen in der Zeit der Herrschaft Iosif Stalins und der kommunistischen Partei erlitt.

Aus dem Russischen von Andreas R. Hofmann

 

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Prof. Stanisław Kulczycki (geb. 1937) – ukrainischer Historiker, Vizedirektor des Instituts für Ukrainische Geschichte an der Akademie der Wissenschaften.

 

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