Korczak and the Secret of Two Pens: Standing on Guard for the Fleeting Thought - How time turned a calligraphic nib into a pencil imitation. A new look into the manuscript secrets of the Old Doctor.

Korczak and the Secret of Two Pens: Standing on Guard for the Fleeting Thought - How time turned a calligraphic nib into a pencil imitation. A new look into the manuscript secrets of the Old Doctor.

Precision in the service of inspiration. A 1930s mechanical desk pencil sharpener with a hand crank, enclosed in a black bakelite housing, alongside a cult-classic soft graphite pencil (the A.W. Faber "Bonanza" 1329 series), symmetrically sharpened on both sides. This straightforward, reversible technical solution guaranteed Janusz Korczak uninterrupted focus, allowing him to instantly safeguard the flow of his thoughts a fraction of a second after a core snapped or his fountain pen nib ran dry.

Pan Misza, my father, who was an educator under Korczak, told me that Korczak used pencils sharpened on both sides. I hadn't thought about it for years, although a few years ago I took a photograph of a pencil prepared in this way. Sharpening pencils on both sides is a popular practice used to increase efficiency and workflow fluidity. No interruptions: when one point breaks or dulls, you simply flip the pencil over. Perhaps the most critical aspect of this for Korczak was the continuity of his focus. He did not have to interrupt his writing to search for a tool.

Korczak wrote most often with a fountain pen (ink). Reading his original letters and drafts, those left untranscribed in books, I always admire his style, the varying thicknesses, and the distinct shapes of his lines. Only recently did I discover a highly peculiar situation within his manuscripts: a sudden transition from a dark, rich black stroke to a faint, grayish line. These transitions are almost invisible because Korczak perfectly maintained the size of the letters, the variable line thickness, and the beautiful shading reminiscent of traditional calligraphic writing.

The Traditional View: The Fear of Losing a Thought

I previously described these specific transitions as the Doctor's fear that his thoughts would escape him. That is why Korczak always kept well-sharpened pencils ready at hand. The graphite in those pencils was pliable, soft enough to draw a variable line—meaning one that becomes thicker under pressure and thinner when released. Such pencils are designated by the letters HB, B, and 2B.

This technique was directly influenced by the classical rules of pressure in pencil calligraphy: when moving upward, no pressure is applied—the line is then thin and delicate. A downward stroke meant a firmer pressure, causing the soft core to leave a thick, dark line. Korczak, writing in great haste, could press down heavily even during sideways or upward strokes.

Behind this reliable piece of machinery, however, were the children of the Orphans' Home, who regularly took charge of sharpening the Doctor's pencils. In his journals, the figure of "poczciwy Felek" (the good-natured Felek Grzyb) emerges, who along with other monitors ensured that a freshly sharpened reserve of tools always lay by the inkwell. Later, in the ghetto in May 1942, Korczak described his writing conditions in his Diary. The final two sentences are particularly intriguing: A groove has been worn into my finger by this pencil. Only now has it occurred to me that it could be done differently, more comfortably, that it is easier with a pen. This confirms that Korczak was accustomed to pressing down heavily on his writing tools, and that even within the ghetto, he remained in possession of two fountain pens.

Now it is the year 1942. May. A chilly May this year. And tonight is the quietest of the quiet. Five o'clock in the morning. The kids are asleep. There are truly two hundred of them. On the right wing is Madame Stefa, I am to the left in the so-called isolation room.

My bed is in the middle of the room. Under the bed, a bottle of vodka. On the nightstand, coarse rye bread and a pitcher of water.

Good-natured Felek sharpened the pencils, each from both sides. I could write with a fountain pen; one was given to me by Hadaska*, the second by a certain papa of a mischievous little son.

A groove has been worn into my finger by this pencil. Only now has it occurred to me that it could be done differently, more comfortably, that it is easier with a pen.

Most institutions, schools, and presumably the Orphans' Home as well, utilized large, crank-operated sharpeners bolted to the desktop or the wall. In the 1930s, these were massive mechanical apparatuses constructed from heavy metals (such as cast iron, steel, or brass) or elegant desktop items crafted from black bakelite. Inside, there was no simple, flat blade. Instead, they housed two counter-rotating steel cylindrical core-cutters (milling cutters) that shaved the wood and graphite with extreme precision and gentleness. These machines featured a specialized, extendable spring-loaded front panel feed mechanism. One simply had to pull out the front plate, lock the pencil inside the aperture, and the machine would automatically feed and perfectly point the core as the handle crank was spun, leaving the delicate 2B lead completely intact.

Students, fine artists, and boarding scholars who did not have regular access to these heavy desk-bound office machines relied on small pocket-sized pencil sharpeners instead. These were straightforward, conical brass or aluminum implements equipped with a single, replaceable small screw securing a flat blade—a mechanical layout that has survived into the modern era completely unchanged. Razor-blade handles were also immensely popular at the time—flat metallic holders in which an adult or an older student could clamp a conventional shaving razor blade to meticulously carve away the wooden sheath by hand.

For the Old Doctor, this double-sided pencil meticulously sharpened by the children and the bakelite cylindrical cutter machine were integral components of a deeply integrated, mechanical system. Much like the system of duplicating writing using carbon paper and onionskin sheets that I described in an earlier post, all of this was engineered toward a single paramount objective: preserving human thought before it had any chance to vanish forever.

The New Revolution: The Two-Pen Hypothesis

However, a closer, microscopic analysis of Janusz Korczak’s original manuscripts and the sudden changes in script style on the exact same page forces us to expand our understanding. Looking at these documents, a new, revolutionary technological theory emerges: The Two-Pen Hypothesis.

The fainter, grayish sections of writing—traditionally assumed to be pencil graphite—might in fact be the chemical footprint of a completely different type of ink, dispensed by a secondary, backup fountain pen. We know from his May 1942 journal entry that the Doctor actively kept multiple fountain pens on his desk ("one was given to me by Hadaska, the second by a certain papa"). These pens possessed radically different nib characteristics.

The first pen utilized a rigid, firm nib—likely a standard office or accounting nib designed for rapid, unyielding script. It delivered a uniform, deep black iron-gall line, but required an immense manual downward pressure from the writer. This was the exact instrument responsible for wearing that famous physical groove into the Doctor's index finger.

When this primary pen sputtered or ran dry of its heavy ink at the foot of a page, Korczak refused to waste precious moments shaking it or refilling the reservoir. To safeguard his racing train of thought, he instantly grabbed his secondary, backup fountain pen. This instrument was equipped with a remarkably soft, flexible nib (flex).

The physics of a flexible steel nib allowed Korczak complete calligraphic and artistic freedom mid-sentence. Under the momentary downstroke of his hand, the tines of the flexible nib spread apart, depositing a wider, richer flow of fluid; upon the upward or sideways stroke, the tines closed, drawing lines as thin as a single hair. This accounts for why the script on these pages suddenly becomes more expressive, slanted, and beautifully shaded.

Over nearly a century in the archives, the water-based organic dyes inside this secondary pen succumbed to photo-degradation and oxidation. They faded and grayed differently than the permanent black ink of the first pen, leaving a modern observer with the deceptive illusion of a soft graphite pencil.

A Crucial Scientific Caveat

While digital scans and close-up images provide us with a powerful, logical hypothesis regarding the rigid and flexible nibs, scientific honesty demands a strict methodology. Only a direct, on-site physical examination of the original manuscripts in the archives under raking light and stereoscopic magnification will yield a 100% definitive answer.

A laboratory inspection would immediately resolve the mystery: pencil graphite leaves microscopic crystalline carbon flakes that create a distinct metallic sheen and physically indent the paper fibers across the entire stroke. Faded ink, by contrast, flows into the celullose rills, concentrating its remaining pigment at the outer edges of the line. Until that laboratory autopsie takes place, the technical secrets of the Old Doctor's manuscripts remain a living, breathing field of research.

Korczak’s Calligraphy and the Treble Clef

Korczak’s Calligraphy and the Treble Clef

The fragment of the text above comes from Janusz Korczak’s letter to Estera Budko, dated March 7, 1926. Four letters in this passage stand out as the most intriguing elements of his handwriting. Korczak wrote in a specific variation of nineteenth-century cursive, highly individualized, which was shaped both by the classic pre-war school penmanship (and likely the Cyrillic alphabet from his gymnasium days) and the sheer haste of recording a torrent of crowding thoughts.

These four intriguing letters are, above all: the capital letter "P" which resembles a treble clef, the letters "m" and "n", both written with overhead bars, and the letter "ż" which looks like a crossed-out section sign (§).

Anatomy of These Four Letters, Their Execution, and the Fascinating History of the Mysterious Bars

The Capital Letter „P” (Like a Treble Clef)

The letter „P” as executed by Korczak resembles a dynamic, expressive calligraphic gesture. Korczak would begin writing this letter precisely from its center—the loop or the "belly". The movement of the pen started with a small central loop, after which the nib arched upward and to the left, forming a wide, rounded crown. Only from there, with a swift downward stroke, did he draw the vertical stem (the shaft) of the letter, concluding it with a sweeping lower flourish. Korczak routinely used this simplified, capital sign „P” in the middle of words (which is perfectly visible in the sample word "Pani", but also in his other manuscripts, where it replaces the lowercase „p”). This stemmed from pure pragmatism and the ergonomics of writing with a steel nib—the fluid movement of the "treble clef" allowed him to write faster without lifting his hand, whereas the traditional lowercase „p” required more angular changes of direction. So much for using a capital P instead of a lowercase letter.

The Letters „m” and „n” with Horizontal Bars (Macrons)

The horizontal bars (macrons) over the letters „m” and „n” are neither an accident nor a personal whim of the Doctor. It is a classic element of ancient paleography and chancery abbreviations. This mark derives directly from medieval manuscripts and the Renaissance and nineteenth-century bureaucratic practice. In old scripts (both in Latin, German, and Polish), a horizontal bar over a vowel or consonant indicated an abbreviation (a so-called suspension)—most frequently signaling that a double letter had been written as a single one (e.g., a bar over „m” originally meant „mm”).

With time, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, the macron over „m” and „n” began to serve a legibility function. In fast school cursive, written with an elastic steel nib, letters composed of vertical downstrokes (such as u, n, m, i) would blend into an illegible sequence of wavy lines (the so-called "picket fence"). Placing a horizontal bar over „m” and „n” was meant to immediately signal to the reader’s eye: “Attention, this is specifically the letter m/n, not a cluster of i/u letters.” Korczak, as a doctor and a writer creating at an immense pace, used this technique instinctively to ensure his dynamic handwriting remained legible to the recipient.

The Letter „ż” as a Crossed-Out Section Sign

This letter is further evidence of Korczak succumbing to the influences of old calligraphy, especially the German bureaucratic script (Kurrent/Sütterlin), which he encountered as a student and medical doctor during the partitions and his internships in Berlin. When writing it, the movement began from the upper loop, which descended in a wavy, vertical line, creating the shape of an elongated letter „S” or a section sign (§). At the very end, Korczak would lift the pen and, with a decisive stroke, cross out the stem of the letter with a horizontal bar. Why did he write it this way? In classical Polish script, the dot over the „ż” required lifting the pen high above the baseline. A single crossing stroke across the letter (instead of placing a dot) was far faster and more natural. This shape also eliminated the risk of the dot bleeding into a blotch or going unnoticed.

In my view, the letter „ż” in Korczak’s execution is a direct hybrid of the Polish character, nineteenth-century calligraphy, and the lowercase, written letter „з” (z) from the Russian Cyrillic alphabet.

The sample of the entire letter perfectly demonstrates this phenomenon, which in Korczak’s case had deep biographical and historical roots. Presumably, the traditional Polish lowercase „ż” (or „z”) required drawing a broken, zigzag shape, which during rapid writing with a pen indeed turned into an illegible "picket fence", blending with other letters. Meanwhile, written Cyrillic offered a far more ergonomic solution. The Russian lowercase „з” is drawn in one fluid motion: an upper rounding, followed by a lower loop descending below the baseline. Korczak, instead of placing a dot over the Polish „z”, borrowed this rounded Russian shape with the bottom loop, and for total clarity that it stood for the Polish „ż”, he cut through its center with a horizontal bar.

This is perfectly visible in the third and fourth lines of the letter in the word „że” (written as „że porozmawiałem”) and (written as „nie leżało w niej”). This letter looks almost identical to the written Russian „з” or the aforementioned section sign.

My other observations concern letters with long lower elements (p, j, g, y) and the specific „ę”, which strike perfectly at the core of this script's psychology. In graphology, the rightward direction represents the future, the goal, reaching out to another human being, and the realization of thought. In Korczak's writing, this momentum is almost organic. When we look at the lower loops of the letters p, g, j, y, instead of the classic, school-taught return of the loop upward to close it on the left side, Korczak abruptly cuts off the movement at the bottom and flings the nib (or pencil) sharply at an angle to the right, toward the next letter. This is perfectly visible in words such as „zorganizować” (the letter g) or „tygodni” (the letter y). Korczak is in a hurry; there is no time to close the form—the letter is meant to be merely a signpost for the running thought. Similarly, the lower stroke of the letter p (e.g., in the words „imprezą”, „powróci”, „sprawa”) does not stop vertically. It escapes to the right, creating a dynamic, oblique vector that literally pushes the entire word forward.

The Ogonkek-Bearing „ę” as an Integrated Flourish

I paid special attention to the letter „ę”. It is so characteristic of Korczak's rapid writing. In traditional Polish calligraphy, the diacritic hook (the ogonkek) was appended as a separate element after completing the main body of the letter. For Korczak, however, such lifting of the hand from the paper was a waste of time and an unnecessary brake. Therefore, his ę features an ogonek that is an integral, and most importantly, fluid downward continuation of the line. The nib performs only one uninterrupted motion: it creates the somewhat incomplete arch of the letter „e”, descends smoothly beneath the line, and concludes with a small, hurried, semicircular flourish—naturally to the right, toward the next letter in the word. Korczak’s script is the writing of a man who eliminates every superfluous gesture from his notation to synchronize the hand with the workings of the brain; this is evident, among other things, in the spelling of the word „się”, where he does not lift the pen from the paper!

Anatomy of Three More Letters: r, K, and u

My recent return to the unpublished manuscripts from the archive brought further striking graphological discoveries. To the existing "big four" (P, m, n, ż), we must append three more highly specific elements that definitively seal the unique calligraphic profile of the Doctor.

Korczak's capital letter R (here in the girls´ name Ruchcia). The latter R resembles a V.  Please observe as well that under every lowercase „u” Korczak consistently placed a characteristic lower arch or underline stroke - u. In the same way, he consistently placed horizontal bars (macrons)  over „m” and „n” . Korczak also uses a capital P instead of a lowercase letter p, he writes "Pracy" instead of "pracy".

The Lowercase Letter „r” as a Dynamic „V”

In Korczak's dynamic, hurried script, the lowercase letter „r” almost completely lost its traditional, school-taught shape with a loop or a horizontal flag. The Doctor drew it with two swift, straight lines that converged sharply at the bottom. As a result, throughout the text, the lowercase „r” looks virtually identical to the Latin letter „V”. This is the classic habit of a man whose speed of writing is desperately trying to keep pace with the hurricane momentum of his own thoughts.

The Capital Letter „K”: The Dualism of Broken and Continuous Movement

The construction of the capital letter „K” in Korczak's writing is another absolute graphological anomaly, which, depending on the context and haste, manifests in two entirely different motor forms:

• The Capital „K” Drawn with a Triple Movement: In the dense, hurried flow of continuous text, the movement of the pen began with drawing a dynamic shape resembling the letter „V”. Then, instead of an angular transition to the right, the Doctor abruptly broke the nib away from the paper, after which he placed a short, entirely autonomous, curved tail (a hook) just below the right arm of that original sign. This broken, triple rhythm of constructing the letter within sentences is a permanent motor signature of Henryka Goldszmit.
• The Capital „K” Drawn with a Single Movement: The construction of the capital letter „K” drawn with a single movement without lifting the pen has a completely different, integrated character. It appears consistently in the Doctor's official signature at the end of documents, as well as at the very beginning, in the salutations of letters written by him. Perfect examples of this are intimate or direct address forms, such as „Kochany Józku” (in letters to Józef Halpern) or in the presented letter to Arie Buchner: „Kochany Panie”. Here, the capital „K” is sweeping, fluid, with a wide starting loop that, without a second of hesitation, moves downward and immediately connects with the following letter.

The Archaic Bar UNDER the Letter „u”

While Korczak placed horizontal bars above the letters „m” and „n” to improve the readability of the "picket fence", under every lowercase „u” he consistently placed a characteristic lower arch or underline stroke. This deeply rooted habit served to unmistakably distinguish „u” from „n” in old, nineteenth-century bureaucratic and medical calligraphy.

The construction of the capital letter „K” drawn with a single movement without lifting the pen has a completely different, integrated character. It appears consistently in the Doctor's official signature at the end of documents, as well as at the very beginning, in the salutations of letters written by him.

Wide Corridors (Interline)

In many letters, Korczak maintains large, gigantic distances between lines, which I have written about previously when mentioning his patchwork of capital P letters. These wide, bright spaces between the rows of pencil show that this haste was not chaos—it was a magnificently organized haste.

Korczak’s manuscripts are a fascinating record of an era—on one hand, full of rigorous habits carried over from a nineteenth-century school, on the other—supremely dynamic, subordinated to the need for immediate recording of thoughts on paper.

Korczak’s way of drawing digits and dates is also highly distinctive, looking at the number 7 in the upper right corner.

Graphology as a Form of "Failed" Stenography, or the Drama of the "Too Slow" Hand

What I analyzed in Korczak's letters to Estera Budko—those abruptly severed loops of the letters p, j, g, y escaping to the right, and the integrated hooks in the letter ę—is nothing less than a subconscious attempt to create his own shorthand system. Korczak did not know official stenographic signs, but his brain worked at the speed of a hurricane. Therefore, traditional, calligraphic school script with its embellishments was a terrible brake for him. His graphology is in reality a struggle with matter: he deliberately simplified letter forms, joined them into a single line, and shortened hand movements, if only to get closer to the running speed of his own thoughts. This "sweepingness" was his private, intuitive shorthand.

Igor Newerly – The Doctor’s Human „Seismograph”

Since Korczak himself could not write as fast as he thought (which is proven by this ink abandoned in haste in favor of a pencil), employing the 22-year-old Igor Newerly was a salvation for him.

Jarosław Abramow's recollection reveals a brilliant paradox: Newerly, thanks to his proficiency in stenographing the proceedings of the Sejm, became the only man who could keep up with the „Old Doctor”. By hiring a secretary who knew shorthand, Korczak gained freedom; he no longer had to tire his hand with a nib or a pencil. He could walk around the room and pour out torrents of sentences, while Newerly, using lightning-fast, geometric shorthand symbols, froze those thoughts on paper. For Newerly, as he himself recalls, it was a "writing school"—he learned the structure of a text straight from the living, pulsing mind of the master.

„Every educator should know shorthand” is a quote by Korczak from the weekly Pion (October 19, 1935), which represents an absolute revolution in thinking about pedagogy. Why did Korczak insist so heavily that this tool is indispensable for an educator? Korczak knew that a child speaks under the influence of impulse and emotion, in an abrupt and unfettered manner. Traditional notation using traditional script causes the adult to lose half the words, filtering and distorting them. Shorthand allowed the pedagogue to literally, photographically record the living word of the child, without losing its unique dynamics.

The Stenographer in „Mały Przegląd”

This symbiosis found its finale on Nowolipki Street. The fact that a professional stenographer from Nasz Przegląd came to the editorial office of Mały Przegląd once a week so that children could dictate their texts to him was a brilliant move. Korczak removed the technical barrier from the children. Young children, who wrote poorly, made mistakes, or wrote terribly slowly, gained a "superpower"—they could speak as fast as they wanted, and a professional adult system recorded their thoughts as fully fledged articles.

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