Fotografie w Małym Przeglądzie Janusza Korczaka - AD 1926-1927.

Inny artykuł Jawana z fotografią w „Małym Przeglądzie” z 1 kwietnia 1927 roku.

Na samej górze to pierwsze i ostatnie fotografie opublikowane w Małym Przeglądzie 24 i 31 grudnia 1926 roku. Jakość, mimo rozmiaru fotografii, jest bardzo słaba. Prawdopodobnie fotografie zrobił podpisany reporter, Jawan. Pod pseudonimem Jawan w „Małym Przeglądzie” pisał Jerachmiel Wajngarten (znany również jako Jerachmiel Weingarten). Był on od początku powstania jednym z najważniejszych starszych współpracowników i redaktorów Małego Przeglądu, pisma założonego przez Janusza Korczaka w 1926 roku. W „Małym Przeglądzie” pisał artykuły, felietony oraz przeprowadzał wywiady (m.in. z młodymi artystami teatralnymi). W 1929 roku założył i redagował własne ilustrowane pismo dla młodzieży wzorowane na idei korczakowskiej – „Gazetę Młodych”. Prowadził też inne dodatki literackie dla dzieci oraz pisał recenzje teatralne (również pod pseudonimem Jawan). Urodził się w Warszawie w grudniu 1902 roku w rodzinie kupieckiej i był wszechstronnie wykształconym publicystą, pedagogiem oraz tłumaczem piszącym w języku polskim i hebrajskim.

Korczak wielokrotnie odpowiadał na pytania dzieci, dlaczego jest tak mało fotografii. Pisał, że to bardzo dużo kosztuje.

„Gazeta Młodych” Jerachmiela Wajngartena.

W 1929 roku "Jawan" założył i redagował własne ilustrowane pismo dla młodzieży wzorowane na idei korczakowskiej – „Gazetę Młodych”. Tutaj fotografia (Harrego Kaliszera lub Jawana) z kolonii Korczaka w Gocławku.

 

מאָשקע/modyf. משה מאַך זיך נישט וויס n – Mojsze, Pretend You Know Nothing

מאָשקע/modyf. משה מאַך זיך נישט וויס n – Mojsze, Pretend You Know Nothing

INTERPELATION.

In Yiddish: Mejsze mach zych nyszt wysen.

In Polish: Gadaj zdrów (Talk all you want / It's like talking to a brick wall).

Is it known to the councilors of the capital city of Warsaw that for a month now Mały Przegląd has been demanding the removal of barbed wire from the Krasiński Garden?
Mały Przegląd asks with absolute firmness whether the councilors will raise this matter at the session, because public opinion is deeply shaken and outraged—and things might turn sour?
We wait impatiently for an answer, and we enclose greetings to the whole family and bows.

Archival Commentary: The Fight for a Sliver of Green and the Satirical Bite

This short text from the fourth issue, dated November 5, 1926, exposes a real topographical tragedy of pre-war Warsaw. The Krasiński Garden, along with the Saxon Garden, was among the absolute favorite places of Janusz Korczak and the children from the adjacent Jewish quarter. In this severely overcrowded, northern part of the city, there was a desperate lack of green spaces. The children literally had nowhere to breathe, and the fact that the city administration cordoned off their tiny slivers of freedom with barbed wire sparked genuine outrage.

The phonetically written phrase "Mejsze mach zych nyszt wysen" (in classical Yiddish: Mojsze, makh zikh nisht visn) translates literally to: “Mojsze, pretend you know nothing about it”—the Yiddish equivalent of playing dumb. The editorial team deliberately pairs this idiom with the Polish phrase "Gadaj zdrów" ("it's like talking to a brick wall"). Korczak and the children act as formal petitioners lodging an "interpellation" to the Warsaw City Council to protect the playground, while simultaneously mocking the soullessness of adult bureaucracy: We are submitting an official petition, but the city councilors will just "pretend they know nothing," leaving us to futilely "talk to a brick wall." 

Debunking the Myth: Did Korczak Know Yiddish?

A swarm of false myths has surrounded Korczak’s alleged "ignorance" of the Yiddish language. Many superficial biographers swear that the Doctor did not know it at all, attempting to forcefully cram him exclusively into the framework of Polish culture. This also stems from an old class prejudice of the assimilated intelligentsia, who dismissed Yiddish as a "slum jargon." The truth, as I have documented on my blog, is quite different: Korczak understood Yiddish perfectly by ear. While he did not speak it in elite salons or write his books in it, he learned it methodologically directly from working-class children (as recorded by Paulina Appenszlak at the orphanage on Franciszkańska 2). He had to know it, and he did, in order to listen to the children's grievances during summer camps in Michałówka or at Krochmalna Street. The very subtitle of this Interpellation serves as direct, hard proof of his comprehension. [1, 2, 3, 4, 5]

P.S. The Living Speech of Pan Misza and Khane Kostek

My father, Pan Misza, who worked for many years as an educator alongside Janusz Korczak in the Orphanage, carried the vibrant, juicy folklore of the Warsaw Jewish street through the horrors of the war. Whenever he heard a complete absurdity or wanted to dismiss something as utter "nonsense!", he would use another, exceptionally rare Yiddish idiom: "A zajur af Hane Kostek!" (A yor oyf Khane Kostek! – אַ יאָ r אויף חנה קאָסטעק).

In Jewish Warsaw, "Khane Kostek" was a synonym for a quarrelsome, lower-class woman—the ultimate archetype of perpetual bad luck and constant complaining. The phrase functioned as an ironic curse: “May such a [bad] year fall upon Khane Kostek, but not upon us,” or “What you are saying makes as much sense as wishing a good year to Khane Kostek.” It is tangible proof that the circle of educators around Korczak breathed the authentic, unpolished speech of Muranów and Wola, rather than just the dry theories found in textbooks.

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מאָשקע/משה מאַך זיך נישט וויסן – Mojsze, udawaj, że o niczym nie wiesz

INTERPELACJA.

Po żydowsku: Mejsze mach zych nyszt wysen.

Po polsku: Gadaj zdrów.

Czy panom radnym stołecznego miasta Warszawy wiadomo, że od miesiąca Mały Przegląd domaga się, aby z ogrodu Krasińskich usunąć drut kolczasty?

Mały Przegląd zapytuje z całą stanowczością, czy panowie radni sprawę tę poruszą na posiedzeniu, bo opinja publiczna jest do głębi wstrząśnięta i wzburzona — i może być źle?
Czekamy z niecierpliwością na odpowiedź i załączamy pozdrowienia dla całej rodziny i ukłony.

Komentarz archiwalny: Walka o skrawek zieleni i publicystyczny pazur

Ten krótki tekst z czwartego numeru Małego Przeglądu z 5 listopada 1926 roku obnaża realny dramat topograficzny przedwojennej Warszawy. Ogród Krasińskich, obok Ogrodu Saskiego, należał do absolutnie ulubionych miejsc Janusza Korczaka oraz dzieci z sąsiadującej dzielnicy żydowskiej. W tej przeludnionej, północnej części miasta panował potworny brak zieleni. Dzieci nie miały gdzie oddychać, a fakt, że administracja odgradzała ich skrawki wolności drutem kolczastym, wywołał autentyczną wściekłość.

Zapisany fonetycznie przez redakcję zwrot „Mejsze mach zych nyszt wysen” (w klasycznym jidysz: Mojsze, makh zikh nisht visn) oznacza dosłownie: „Mojsze, udawaj, że o niczym nie wiesz”. Korczak celowo zestawia ten idiom z polskim odpowiednikiem „Gadaj zdrów”, czyli rzucaniem grochem o ścianę. „Mały Przegląd” wchodzi tu w rolę oficjalnego organu, składając polityczną interpelację do radnych miejskich w obronie dzieci, jednocześnie drwiąc z bezduszności dorosłej biurokracji: My piszemy, ale radni i tak będą „udawać, że nic nie widzą”, skazując nas na bezskuteczne „gadanie zdrów”.

Obalenie mitu: Czy Korczak znał jidysz?

Wokół rzekomej „nieznajomości” języka jidysz przez Korczaka narosło mnóstwo fałszywych mitów. Wielu powierzchownych biografów zaklina się, że Doktor nie znał tego języka, próbując na siłę wpisać go wyłącznie w ramy kultury polskiej. Wynika to także z dawnego uprzedzenia asymilowanej inteligencji, która uważała jidysz za „żargon biedoty”. Prawda, którą opisałem już na moim blogu, jest inna: Korczak doskonale rozumiał jidysz ze słuchu. Nie używał go w salonach i nie pisał w nim książek, ale uczył się go metodologicznie bezpośrednio od dzieci z nizin społecznych (jak notowała Paulina Appenszlak w Domu Sierot przy Franciszkańskiej 2). Musiał go znać i znał go, by móc słuchać dziecięcych skarg na koloniach letnich w Michalówce czy przy Krochmalnej. Sam podtytuł tej Interpelacji jest tego bezpośrednim, twardym dowodem. 

P.S. Żywy język Pana Miszy i Hana Kostek

Mój ojciec, Pan Misza, który przez wiele lat pracował jako wychowawca u boku Janusza Korczaka w Domu Sierot, przeniósł ten żywy, soczysty folklor warszawskiej ulicy żydowskiej przez wojnę. Kiedy słyszał kompletną niedorzeczność lub chciał skwitować coś słowem „bzdura!”, używał innego, niezwykle rzadkiego idiomu jidysz: „A zajur af Hane Kostek!” (A yor oyf Khane Kostek! – אַ יאָר אויף חנה קאָסטעק).

W żydowskiej Warszawie „Hana Kostek” była synonimem kłótliwej kobiety z nizin, symbolem wiecznego pecha i pretensji. Powiedzenie to oznaczało ironiczne życzenie: „Niech taki [zły] rok spadnie na Hanę Kostek, a nie na nas” lub „To, co mówisz, ma tyle sensu, co życzenie dobrego roku Hanie Kostek”. To dowód na to, że środowisko wychowawców wokół Korczaka oddychało autentyczną mową Muranowa i Woli, a nie tylko suchą teorią z podręczników.

Khane Kostek (Chana Kostek) to zdecydowanie imię i nazwisko kobiece.

• Khane (חנה – Chana): To jedno z najpopularniejszych, klasycznych imion kobiecych w języku jidysz i hebrajskim (odpowiednik polskiej Anny).
• Kostek (קאָסטעק): To nazwisko. Choć w języku polskim "Kostek" funkcjonuje jako męskie zdrobnienie od Konstantego (lub rzadziej od dłuższego nazwiska), w przedwojennej żydowskiej Warszawie funkcjonowało ono jako regularne nazwisko rodowe pochodzenia słowiańskiego.

W folklorze przedwojennej żydowskiej Warszawy (a szczególnie w specyficznym mikroświecie Krochmalnej i Muranowa), Khane Kostek była realną, legendarną postacią uliczną z przełomu XIX i XX wieku, która z czasem stała się stałym symbolem językowym – tzw. eponimem.

Była to archetypowa warszawska przekupka, straganiarka lub żebraczka z nizin społecznych. Słynęła w całej dzielnicy z niezwykle trudnego, nieszczęśliwego życia, biedy, pecha oraz z tego, że bez przerwy głośno i kwieciście kłóciła się, złorzeczyła i narzekała na swój los.

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7/10 - difficult day - therefore just one photo related to Janusz Korczak and his newspaper the Little Review.

A Severe Critic.

he thinks that he is the only clever one and everyone else is stupid
He signs his name everywhere
Korczak because he is famous
He writes everything himself and doesn't allow
anyone else to write and only
laughs. Please put this in the newspaper

                                    Miron

This clipping from "Little Review" (December 1926) is another brilliant piece of evidence showing how unique and uncompromising Mały Przegląd truly was.

Printing a handwritten, remarkably sharp letter from a child who openly criticizes Janusz Korczak himself—accusing him of narcissism, monopolizing the writing, and laughing at others—demonstrates absolute respect for the young reader's subjectivity. Korczak did not censor this voice; he did not take offense, nor did he attempt an authoritarian self-defense. On the contrary, he put Miron's grievance on public display as an official facsimile under "Notes for the Editor." By doing so, he proved that in his newspaper, a child had the right to judge an adult as an absolute equal.

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100 Years Ago – October 9, 1926: The First Issue of "Mały Przegląd" (The Little Review) under Janusz Korczak. A Literary and Pedagogical Analysis of the following issues.

100 Years Ago – October 9, 1926: The First Issue of "Mały Przegląd" Under Janusz Korczak. A Literary and Pedagogical Analysis.

The newspaper that is historically celebrated as an instant revolution was, in reality, not a sudden explosion. It was a slow, methodological evolution of both children's and Korczak's ideas. The first issue of Mały Przegląd (The Little Review), published on October 9, 1926, might have seemed quite boring—and in truth, it was! It was compiled entirely before a genuine network of children's correspondents had formed. Furthermore, out of loyalty to Korczak's institutional structures and the need to mimic the serious adult press as a supplement to Nasz Przegląd, it initially took on the stiff character of an official programmatic manifest.

October Issue Number Zero (2 pages)

October 7th, 1926. Issue Number Zero (2 pages).

October Issue Number One (2 pages)

October 9th, 1926, Issue Number One (2 pages).

The First Page: Stiff and Uninviting

The first page is strikingly dry, almost repelling compared to what Mały Przegląd would later become. Looking at the layout of the columns on this debut page, it is clear that it was structured like a typical, dull newspaper for adults, rather than a paper created by children for children:

• "FROM THE SEJM" (Parliament) as the Lead Story: Opening a children's paper with a heavy, political article about parliament is the absolute negation of a child's perspective.
• Medical and Disciplinary Topics: Texts concerning "Scarlet Fever" or "Littering the Streets" sound like stern, didactic lectures written by adult officials or doctors eager to moralize and educate youth from a position of authority.
• A Lack of Dynamism: The entire page resembles a rigid, mentoring monologue. There is not yet any space for an authentic voice, genuine emotions, or the everyday problems of children. I also deeply miss a single drawing or the crossword puzzles that later became so characteristic of the paper.

The Second Page: The Spark of the Korczak Habitus

Only after turning the page, on page two, does the true "Korczak style" begin to dawn—the very style that became the lasting foundation and legend of this publication:

• "The Straw Fire" (Słomiany ogień): Here, Korczak's profound child psychology emerges. This column touched the very core of children's enthusiasm—sudden, blazing, but often short-lived. Korczak wrote about this without an adult's cynicism, with complete and total understanding of a child's nature.
• "The First Mail": This was the embryo of what eventually revolutionized journalism. Although the letters in this first issue were few and heavily managed by the editorial staff, it was this column that threw open the gates for thousands of children's correspondents who would eventually completely displace the boring essays about Parliament or scarlet fever.

"The Straw Fire" – Prewar Prologue to the Ghetto Diary (1926–1942)

In that first issue from 1926, because "The First Mail" was still in its infancy and authentic children's letters were scarce, Korczak had to stage multi-voicedness himself. In "The Straw Fire," he creates a chorus of simulated children's explanations: "I wanted to," "I fired up," "but it passed," "my mother didn't let me," "school weighed me down." The adult editor writes on behalf of the children, protecting them from the mentors' accusations of laziness or instability.

Few realize that this exact same mechanism, this unique rhetoric of simulated dialogue and protective excuses, returns with devastating, existential weight sixteen years later—in Korczak's "Ghetto Diary" of 1942.

In the horrific conditions of the Warsaw Ghetto, a deeply isolated Korczak writes about the former alumni of his Orphanage. He writes of those who grew up, who are managing better or worse, but who do not come to visit him on Krochmalna or Sienna Street. Yet, instead of condemning them for ingratitude, Korczak employs the same technique from 1926. He writes their roles for them, composing their justifications himself: "I don't come because I am ashamed," "because I have no shoes," "because it hurts too much to see the starving children."

Whether in his prewar editorial office in 1926 or on the threshold of the gas chambers in 1942, Korczak's biological structure of empathy remained unchanged. When the crowd failed to arrive, or had not yet arrived, the Old Doctor sat alone at his desk, simulating the presence of the other, taking the blame upon himself to shield those he loved.

October Issue Number Two (3 pages) 

The Death of a Dog in Józefów and the Birth of Child Subjectivity

October 15th, 1926, Issue Number Two (3 pages).

The second issue is arguably just as dry initially. Nearly two-thirds of the publication (two out of three pages) is consumed by "Answers to Letters" penned by Korczak. It is a dense, heavy block of text, highly uninviting to a young reader searching for momentum.

The single, authentic breath of life in this editorial monolith is a printed facsimile of a child's handwritten letter. A young boy named Miecio describes a tragedy at the Otwock railway line. For me, as an adult reader today, this letter carries an overwhelming, almost paralyzing force.

How the 1st Letter to Małego Przegl. Looks:

This year we lived in
Józefów in Shatner's villa next to the station.
one afternoon when I went out
to wait for daddy. A fast
train arrived from Otwock and under it got
under a little doggie. Because the train ran over
his paw. The doggie writhed in terrible
pains. One of those passing by couldn't
look at it in terrible so he
killed him. We boys dug
a pit and buried him

— Miecio Klajnerer.

What Miecio Klajnerer records with his childish handwriting is pure, unfiltered realism of the lines near Warsaw. There are no euphemisms, no adult sentimentalism. It is the raw mechanics of an event: a speeding train, a crushed paw, a dog writhing in convulsions, and an anonymous passerby who commits a brutal act of mercy—killing the animal because he himself cannot bear the sight of its suffering.

Yet, the most magnificent and pedagogically shattering moment is the finale: "We boys dug a pit and buried him."

In this single, laconic sentence, Korczak found exactly what he had been waiting for. This is why he decided to print the letter not as typeset text, but as an authentic graphic cliché of the child's actual handwriting. In the adult world, a routine thing had occurred—the train moved on, the passerby struck the dog and walked away, the system kept moving. The children were the only ones to step outside this mechanical rush. They stopped, and through the ritual of a burial, they restored the trampled moral order and the dignity of that living creature.

This letter stands as final proof that the true spirit of Mały Przegląd was not born in the dull monologues about parliament on page one. It was born in that drainage ditch by the station in Józefów, where young boys with shovels proved to be the only real human beings on the entire platform.

October Issue Number Three (3 pages)

October 22nd, 1926, Issue Number Three (3 pages).

October Issue Number Four (4 pages)

Friday, October 29, 1926 – Financial "Sanation" and the Fateful Shabbat Shift

October 29th, 1926, Issue Number Four (4 pages).

The fourth issue of Mały Przegląd reveals that the editorial staff was still deeply entangled in adult structures, desperately trying to find its footing. The main headline, "Sanacja finansowa" (Financial Sanation), tied directly to the newly established Piłsudski government after the May coup, is absolute nonsense for a children's newspaper. Very few adults—and certainly no children—could comprehend or comment on macroeconomics at this level. Launching a children's essay contest on state finances with a massive prize of 500 zlotys at this early stage was a complete misfire.

The accompanying drawing contest was equally uninviting. Without any examples or guidelines on the expected artistic level, most children would simply abstain out of intimidation.

However, the true gem of this issue is Janusz Korczak’s article, "List do Palestyny" (Letter to Palestine), positioned at the bottom of the page. Even in these early, rigid weeks, Korczak was already trying to build an international, horizontal bridge between Jewish children in Poland and those in the British Mandate of Palestine. It bypasses adult Zionism and focuses on direct, child-to-child solidarity.

A LETTER to PALESTINE (by Korczak). 

 We have written the following letter to the Jewish children in Palestine:

"We are publishing a newspaper in Warsaw called Mały Przegląd (The Little Review). It contains no fairy tales or short stories, only true news. We want it to be a newspaper written by children for children and by youth for youth. Adults call it a foolish idea, but we think it will turn out well.

We receive many letters, and we put the newspaper together from them. People write to us from Warsaw and various towns. We have letters from Łódź, Wilno, Lwów, Poznań, and one letter from Gdańsk. They share news from home, from school, and various other things. We have already received 400 letters.

We absolutely must have letters from Palestine. Because people are asking us to write about what children in Palestine are doing, what the schools are like there, how they work in the fields, and how they study. Because there was a very beautiful Palestinian exhibition here. We want to know about the oranges and the grapes, about the Arabian horses, and everything.

We live far away, and we know nothing, because about Palestine only adults write for adults. We want to know how it really is there. So that there is no pretending and no various unnecessary additions.

We also have Hebrew schools here, and now many children understand Hebrew. We sing 'Hatikvah,' and we dance the Palestinian dance. There are many Shomrim (scouts) among us. We collect Palestinian stamps.

Now winter is already beginning. It even snowed once. And what is it like where you are?

Let no one correct your letters, because we write with mistakes too.

We terribly want you to write quickly. So that even before Hanukkah, there will be news from Palestine.

There is one girl in Warsaw who spent a year in Palestine. But one girl cannot know everything, and we want to know everything.

Once again, we ask for letters, but absolutely quickly. Let everyone sit down and write right away, because later you will forget, or you won't feel like it anymore.

Thank you in advance for your reply.

The address of our newspaper is as follows:

'Mały Przegląd', Warsaw, Nowolipki 7.

Shalom

The Archival Secret of the Shabbat Shift

There is one more crucial, overlooked historical detail to note from this early period. The historic first issue of Mały Przegląd was published on a Saturday—on Shabbat (October 9, 1926). This caused an immediate conflict with the religious rhythm of the Jewish community. Recognizing this error, the editorial team swiftly shifted the publication day. From this fourth issue onward, and continuously until the final issue in September 1939, the newspaper was always published on Fridays, ensuring it reached families right before the onset of Shabbat.

October Issue Number One and Four (1st pages).