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| Leon – Georg Glattenberg (górny rząd, drugi od lewej), znany później jako Ze'ev Harari; Edwin Markuze (górny rząd, trzeci od lewej), Lejzer Czarnobroda (górny rząd, czwarty od lewej), Madzia Markuze (górny rząd, piąta od lewej), Igor Newerly (górny rząd, szósty od lewej), Ludwig Mirabel (górny rząd, siódmy od lewej), Kuba Kirstein (górny rząd, po prawej), Szlomo Kurzbard (górny rząd, drugi od prawej), Efraim Rozen (górny rząd, czwarty od prawej), Dycia Goldgraber (dolny rząd, druga od lewej), Dorka Goldgraber (dolny rząd, trzecia od lewej), Renia Herszenfus (dolny rząd, czwarta od lewej), Stefa Reif (dolny rząd, piąta od lewej), Irena Librader (dolny rząd, trzecia od prawej) oraz Maurycy Kotler. Sfotografowani w 1936 roku. |
Działo się to w środę, dn. 23 maja, o godzinie 6-ej wieczór.
Wyszedłem od kolegi, który mieszkał na Browarnej, obok Karowej. Ponieważ wieczór był ładny, obrałem kierunek Wisły, zresztą Wisła jest bliżej do naszego mieszkania.
Szedłem pogwizdując wesoło, zdawało mi się bowiem, że wpadłem na dobry pomysł, i napręzno naprawię aparat rakowy, nad którym napróżno głowił się kolega. Chciałem już rozpakować i jeszcze raz zajrzeć do skrzynki, gdy usłyszałem za sobą kroki. Obejrzałem się. Szło za mną kilkanaście jasnych koszul z mieczykami Chrobrego, kilku uczniów szkoły Konarskiego i parę czapek gimnazjalnych. Co robić? Uciekać? Nie ma sensu. I tak dogonią. Zresztą ściganie tylko rozpala żądze schwytania zwierzyny. Przyspieszyłem kroku. Jeśli nie mają złych zamiarów myślałem, albo jeśli się jeszcze nie zdecydowali, nadepną się i pozwolą mi odejść. Ale jeden zabiegł mi drogę i wprawnym ruchem apasza z całych sił nasunął mi kapelusz na oczy, drugi dał mi szczutka w nos, jednocześnie trzeci podstawił nogę, inni zaś rzucili mnie na ziemię, zaczęli bić i kopać w twarz, w plecy, w brzuch...
Straciłem przytomność. Gdy podniosłem głowę, ujrzałem nad sobą rozbawioną gromadę. Śmieli się i dowcipkowali na temat mojej bezsilności.
Wstałem, ociekając krwią. Chwiałem się na nogach, więc musiałem oprzeć się o drzewo. Widziałem wszystko, jak przez mgłę. Chciałem podnieść okulary, lecz wyprzedził mnie jeden z napastników. Podniósł okulary i spokojnie, metodycznie połamał na drobne kawałki rogową oprawę, następnie stłukł o kamienie szkiełka.
Pokrwawiony dowlokłem się do policjanta przy moście Kierbedzia. Zawiadomiłem, że mnie pobili. Prosiłem o interwencje.
A co pan chce, żebym ja się z nimi bił? - odpowiedział obojętnie posterunkowy.
Kulejąc, przyszedłem do domu, gdzie już zaopiekowała mną matka.
Czy byliście kiedyś bici dlatego, że to innym sprawia przyjemność, że twarz wasza programowo przeznaczyli do bicia? No, w takim razie nie warto pisać, - nie zrozumiecie, co ja czuję w tej chwili.
Jestem synem przeciętnego żyda i obywatela polskiego. Mój ojciec miał zakład przewozowy. Zrujnował go podczas wojny 1918-20 roku, bo zabrał wszystkie konie i poszedł z transportem wojskowym. Najstarszy brat, mając lat 16, wstąpił na ochotnika do armii Hallera, z której już nie wrócił. Może poległ obok brata któregoś z moich napastników? Ja uczyłem się wpierw w szkole powszechnej, potem w żydowskiej szkole rzemieślniczej. Bili mnie więc bracia kolegów mego brata i ojca z czasów wojny. przyszli rzemieślnicy jak i ja, bo uczniowie polskiej szkoły rzemieślniczej. Za co bili?
Jestem synem przeciętnego żyda i obywatela polskiego. Mój ojciec miał zakład przewozowy. Zrujnował go podczas wojny 1918-20 roku, bo zabrał wszystkie konie i poszedł z transportem wojskowym. Najstarszy brat, mając lat 16, wstąpił na ochotnika do armii Hallera, z której już nie wrócił. Może poległ obok brata któregoś z moich napastników? Ja uczyłem się wpierw w szkole powszechnej, potem w żydowskiej szkole rzemieślniczej. Bili mnie więc bracia kolegów mego brata i ojca z czasów wojny. przyszli rzemieślnicy jak i ja, bo uczniowie polskiej szkoły rzemieślniczej. Za co bili?
Leon Glatenberg.
English Translation
A. It happened on Wednesday, May 23rd, at 6 o'clock in the evening.
I left my friend's place, who lives on Browarna Street, next to Karowa. Because the evening was nice, I headed towards the Vistula River; besides, the Vistula is closer to our apartment.
I walked along whistling cheerfully, as it seemed to me that I had a good idea, and would finally fix the cancer (radio?) apparatus that my colleague had been puzzling over in vain. I was about to unpack and look into the box one more time when I heard steps behind me. I looked back. Several dozen bright shirts with Chrobry's swords, a few pupils from the Konarski school, and a couple of gymnasium caps were walking behind me. What to do? Run away? No point. They'll catch me anyway. Besides, chasing only fuels the desire to catch the prey. I quickened my pace. If they don't have bad intentions, I thought, or if they haven't decided yet, they will trip up and let me go. But one of them blocked my way and, with a practiced apaché move, pulled my hat down over my eyes with all his strength, a second one flicked my nose, at the same time a third one tripped me up, while the others threw me to the ground, started beating and kicking my face, my back, my stomach...
I lost consciousness. When I lifted my head, I saw a laughing crowd above me. They were laughing and joking about my helplessness.
I stood up, dripping with blood. I was swaying on my feet, so I had to lean against a tree. I saw everything as if through a fog. I wanted to pick up my glasses, but one of the assailants beat me to it. He picked up the glasses and calmly, methodically broke the horn frame into small pieces, then smashed the lenses against the stones.
Bloody, I dragged myself to the policeman by the Kierbedzia Bridge. I informed him that I had been beaten up. I asked for intervention.
"What do you want, me to fight them?" the indifferent constable replied.
Limping, I came home, where my mother took care of me.
Have you ever been beaten because it gives others pleasure, because your face was systematically designated for beating? Well, in that case, it's not worth writing, you won't understand what I feel right now.
I am the son of an average Jew and a Polish citizen. My father had a transport business. He ruined it during the 1918-20 war because he took all the horses and joined a military transport. My eldest brother, aged 16, volunteered for Haller's army, from which he never returned. Maybe he fell next to the brother of one of my assailants? I studied first in a general school, then in a Jewish trade school. So I was beaten by the brothers of my brother and father's colleagues from the time of the war. They were future craftsmen just like me, as they were students of a Polish trade school. What did they beat me for?
Leon Glatenberg.
I left my friend's place, who lives on Browarna Street, next to Karowa. Because the evening was nice, I headed towards the Vistula River; besides, the Vistula is closer to our apartment.
I walked along whistling cheerfully, as it seemed to me that I had a good idea, and would finally fix the cancer (radio?) apparatus that my colleague had been puzzling over in vain. I was about to unpack and look into the box one more time when I heard steps behind me. I looked back. Several dozen bright shirts with Chrobry's swords, a few pupils from the Konarski school, and a couple of gymnasium caps were walking behind me. What to do? Run away? No point. They'll catch me anyway. Besides, chasing only fuels the desire to catch the prey. I quickened my pace. If they don't have bad intentions, I thought, or if they haven't decided yet, they will trip up and let me go. But one of them blocked my way and, with a practiced apaché move, pulled my hat down over my eyes with all his strength, a second one flicked my nose, at the same time a third one tripped me up, while the others threw me to the ground, started beating and kicking my face, my back, my stomach...
I lost consciousness. When I lifted my head, I saw a laughing crowd above me. They were laughing and joking about my helplessness.
I stood up, dripping with blood. I was swaying on my feet, so I had to lean against a tree. I saw everything as if through a fog. I wanted to pick up my glasses, but one of the assailants beat me to it. He picked up the glasses and calmly, methodically broke the horn frame into small pieces, then smashed the lenses against the stones.
Bloody, I dragged myself to the policeman by the Kierbedzia Bridge. I informed him that I had been beaten up. I asked for intervention.
"What do you want, me to fight them?" the indifferent constable replied.
Limping, I came home, where my mother took care of me.
Have you ever been beaten because it gives others pleasure, because your face was systematically designated for beating? Well, in that case, it's not worth writing, you won't understand what I feel right now.
I am the son of an average Jew and a Polish citizen. My father had a transport business. He ruined it during the 1918-20 war because he took all the horses and joined a military transport. My eldest brother, aged 16, volunteered for Haller's army, from which he never returned. Maybe he fell next to the brother of one of my assailants? I studied first in a general school, then in a Jewish trade school. So I was beaten by the brothers of my brother and father's colleagues from the time of the war. They were future craftsmen just like me, as they were students of a Polish trade school. What did they beat me for?
Leon Glatenberg.
Here is a summary of the powerful personal account by Leon Glatenberg:
Summary of the Account
This narrative is a firsthand description of a brutal, unprovoked, antisemitic attack that took place in Warsaw.
- The Incident: The narrator was walking home on a Wednesday evening when he was ambushed by a group of youths, some wearing specific school insignia (Chrobry's swords, Konarski school caps).
- The Attack: After being cornered, he was violently thrown to the ground, beaten, and kicked until he lost consciousness. The attackers laughed and joked about his helplessness.
- Destruction of Property: When he came to, one of the assailants meticulously broke his glasses before smashing the lenses on the ground.
- Police Indifference: Bloody and injured, the narrator sought help from a policeman nearby, who indifferently refused to intervene, asking if the narrator wanted him to "fight them".
- Personal Reflection: Glatenberg reflects on the pain of being attacked purely for the pleasure of others.
- Context of Identity: He identifies himself as the son of an average Jewish citizen and a Polish citizen. He highlights his family's history of Polish patriotism (his father served in the 1918-20 war, his brother died volunteering for Haller's army).
- The Perpetrators' Identity: He realizes his attackers were likely the brothers of his father's and brother's former wartime colleagues—fellow Polish trade school students (future craftsmen like himself). He ends by questioning the motivation for the attack: "What did they beat me for?"
