Korczak and Sharpening Pencils from Both Sides – Standing on Guard for the Fleeting Thought

 Korczak and Sharpening Pencils from Both Sides – Standing on Guard for the Fleeting Thought

[Caption for Photo 1]
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.

[Caption for Photo 2]
The collision of ink and graphite. The first page of an original letter from Janusz Korczak to Józek Arnon (Halpern), dated December 7, 1933 (from the collection of the Beit Lohamei HaGetaot). In the penultimate line of the text, precisely within the word "energicznie" (energetically), the rich black ink abruptly runs out. Unwilling to interrupt his train of thought ahead of his upcoming journey to Palestine, the Old Doctor abandons the pen without a moment's hesitation and concludes the page using a pre-sharpened soft pencil. Thanks to the pliability of the graphite, the calligraphic line retains its thickness and shading, rendering this transition nearly invisible to an untrained eye.

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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 fluidness. No interruptions: when one graphite 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 pencil sharpener.

Korczak wrote most often with a fountain pen (ink). Reading his original letters, 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 correspondence: a sudden transition from ink to pencil graphite. These transitions are almost invisible because Korczak perfectly maintained the size of the letters, the variable line thickness, and the beautiful shading reminiscent of a traditional fountain pen.

I have described these specific transitions from a fountain pen to a pencil 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 these 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 graphite to leave a thick, dark line. Korczak, writing in great haste, could press down heavily on the pencil even during sideways or upward strokes, exposing the delicate core to fracturing. It was precisely in those moments that he was saved by flipping the double-sided pencil by 180 degrees.

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. What exactly did this look like in the 1930s? In the ghetto in 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 pencils, 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. They appeared entirely different from today’s flimsy plastic standards. 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 Ink Hypothesis

It is highly telling that the sudden depletion of ink in the pen occurred precisely on the very last line of the first page in both his letters to Budko and to Arnon. The synchronization of this running dry with the lowermost margin of the first sheet in letters written a decade apart (1923–1933) prompts a fascinating technological hypothesis. A conventional, non-modified dip nib barely provided a reservoir large enough to scratch out a few sentences. Could Korczak have been using a specialized calligraphic nib equipped with an attached clip-on secondary sheet-metal fluid reservoir underneath, which held just enough ink from a single, heavy dip into the inkwell to spread text over exactly one sheet of letter format?

Or—as is equally plausible—was a temperamental early fountain pen responsible? The letters were, after all, written exactly ten years apart (1923–1933). At such a breakneck, frantic pace with which the Doctor chased the flow of his racing thoughts, the pen's early capillary feed system might simply have failed to keep pace with delivering an adequate volume of liquid to the tip. Every single one of us recalls that instinctive childhood reflex of shaking a fountain pen when the split tip suddenly begins to break the line on the paper. Rather than wasting precious moments violently shaking a drying instrument and running the immediate risk of throwing severe ink blots over the correspondence, Korczak, upon crossing into this technological "danger zone" at the foot of the page, preferred to abandon the fountain pen altogether without a second's delay and deploy the double-sided graphite pencil waiting in reserve. The absolute continuity of his inspiration was, above all, the primary imperative.

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** Hadaska is likely Hadasa Kaufman. Hadaska was an older ward, and in time, a close female collaborator of Janusz Korczak at the Orphans' Home. She possessed exceptional pedagogical predispositions, due to which the Old Doctor treated her with immense trust. A long letter from Korczak to Hadaska dated March 25, 1942, remains preserved in the archives.

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Korczak during the Memorable Days of September 1939, as Bombs from German Aircraft Fell upon Besieged Warsaw - The tragic evacuation of "Nasz Dom" to Wolność Street and the return of the Old Doctor's voice to the airwaves.

German Junkers Ju-87 (Stuka) dive-bombers in formation

On September 4, 1939—the fourth day of the war—Janusz Korczak published a powerful piece titled "Letter to the Editor" on page 11 of the daily newspaper "Nasz Przegląd".

Fela Moszel remembers Korczak and September 1939: It turned out that one boy, on his way back from somewhere, noticed three metal cylinders lying on the roadway. Not knowing what it was, but suspecting it to be something valuable, he ran at full speed to the "Home" and told the Doctor. They went and found those cylinders filled with oxygen. "Now, this is a precious thing," the Doctor declared. "It will save many sick people in the hospital."

Mr. Zalewski managed to find a wheelbarrow, and we covered the cylinders so they looked as if we were taking a sick child to the hospital. Two boys took turns pushing the wheelbarrow along Towarowa Street, toward Złota Street. I walked on one side of the wheelbarrow, and the Doctor, in his Polish military uniform, walked on the other.

The Doctor joked and poked fun a bit, probably wanting to give us courage, and though we walked boldly, fear gripped us. Fortunately, it went off without any incidents. Undetected by anyone, we unloaded our cargo onto the hospital courtyard pavement, and with the empty wheelbarrow, we returned to the "Home."

Up until that event, I had been carrying a hidden grievance toward the Doctor. It seemed to me that he had been somewhat cold to me since the incident with the bread. But this latest event completely erased all doubts. Suddenly, an immense trust and great adoration for the Doctor appeared in my heart. Back then, when he risked his life for the children, that was understandable—he was a father to them. But to think of the wounded and sick in the hospital and, without a moment's hesitation, to walk into such danger—that already reaches the heights of extraordinary courage and true humanity; it is something higher and unique.

During the memorable days of September 1939, as German bombs devastated besieged Warsaw, the capital became a symbol of heroic resistance. Citizens and soldiers fought under extraordinarily difficult conditions, treating the wounded and extinguishing fires under continuous enemy shelling. German aircraft dropped bombs daily on hospitals, residential buildings, and historical monuments. Severed water mains forced people to draw water from a few remaining wells. Civilians built makeshift barricades and aided in civil defense.

Korczak, a major in the medical reserve corps, donned his Polish military uniform and wore it with pride throughout September (and later on, until his arrest by the occupier in 1940). Although friends urged him to take off the uniform due to the immense risk, he firmly refused, viewing it as an expression of loyalty to the state and an officer's duty. Utilizing his authority and the instantly recognizable voice of the "Old Doctor," he spoke on Polish Radio, appealing to residents to remain calm, explaining the reality of war to children in a way that did not provoke panic, and offering guidance to parents on how to shield the minds of the youngest from wartime trauma. He was active across all media channels. On September 4, 1939—the fourth day of the war—he published a powerful piece titled "Letter to the Editor" on page 11 of the daily newspaper "Nasz Przegląd" (which would run its final issue on September 20), in which he taught wartime pedagogy, ordering that a supply of books and toys be secured alongside food, and asking for a spirit of serenity instead of gloomy faces.

Organizing Rescue and Supplies for the Orphans

As the director of the Orphans’ Home at 92 Krochmalna Street, Korczak had to contend with a permanent lack of food, water, and medicine. The building itself possessed a severe architectural vulnerability in the face of total war—it lacked deep, reinforced concrete cellars, having only functional semi-basements (sutereny) with rather large windows. It was there, in these partially underground rooms, that Stefania Wilczyńska (who had returned from Palestine in May) and the staff established an air-raid shelter and an official dressing station. As eyewitness Fela Tetelbaum-Moshel recalled in his memoirs: 

"The wounded and the homeless came in from the street. Madame Stefa and the Doctor provided first aid, calmed people down, and offered advice. In those first days of the war, every child performed some function. The boys brought water in buckets from somewhere. The sewage system was not functioning or was damaged, and water was worth its weight in gold; everyone received an allotted small mug of water, and this amount had to suffice for washing teeth and hands. The girls distributed buckets of dry sand for protection against fire."

At the same time, Korczak, alongside the older wards and educators, maintained a non-stop, day-and-night vigil on the high roof of the Orphans’ Home, manually extinguishing falling German incendiary bombs with sand. It was during these terrifying roof duties that Józef Sztokman—a beloved former ward, bursar, and faithful assistant to the Doctor—tragically lost his life. In those first days of September, intense deliberations took place: whether to stay or return the children to their families. Stella Eliasbergowa, in her memoirs "Days of Destruction", preserved Korczak's unyielding response: "If by Saturday I do not receive a call-up to the army, I take the Orphans' Home under my own responsibility, and we endure." As an officer, Korczak sought to save his young, capable staff members. It was precisely during this dramatic period that the Old Doctor sent my father, Pan Misza, across the Vistula River to the east, to the newly forming Polish military mobilization points. This command split their paths in that wartime nightmare.

The hunger in Warszawa grew by the hour. A deeply moving picture is preserved in the memoirs of Ida Halperin-Merżan (1907–1987). Having been wounded in the head during an air raid, Ida sought refuge at Krochmalna as her wound began to fester. The Doctor and Pani Stefa immediately laid her down in the bursars' room and sat by her bed completely "idle"—a rare phenomenon born of pure physical exhaustion. Believing that the wounded Ida was unconscious, these two pillars of the Dom Sierot began whispering about the paralyzing problems of the institution: 

"Pani Stefa told the Doctor that they only had two sacks of potatoes left. I understood then that they had nothing to feed the children with."

Returning to September 1939. In his so-called Appeal No. 3, Korczak provides an update on the situation at the Orphans’ Home, noting: 

"Difficult, wise, rich, and beautiful weeks are passing: When a shell struck the Orphans' Home, the children moved down three floors from the dormitory to the shelter without a hint of panic…"

Educators from Nasz Dom (Our Home), which had been hastily evacuated from the Bielany district to 14 Wolność Street in Wola due to heavy bombing, also turned to him for desperate help. Choosing Wola as a safe haven proved fatal, as it became one of the most heavily bombarded quarters of Warsaw. An educator from Nasz Dom, Mrs. Wira-Irena Wiewiórska, described marching shoulder to shoulder with Dr. Janusz Korczak from Okopowa Street to distant Mokotów through a burning, deserted city under heavy artillery fire just to beg the military authorities for food. Thanks to Korczak's bravery, they succeeded. 

An educator from Nasz Dom in Bielany, Mrs. Wira-Irena Wiewiórska, describes how, during the siege of Warsaw in September 1939, she sought help alongside Korczak from the Polish military authorities in distant Mokotów:

"One of my heaviest experiences from the 1939 war is marching with Dr. Janusz Korczak from Okopowa Street to distant Mokotów to reach the military authorities in order to obtain food for the evacuated wards of Nasz Dom. It was a terrifying march through a burning city, amidst fire and war, with bombs and artillery shells relentlessly exploding around us. Dread, fear, and determination accompanied our march through streets deserted by people. The doctor remained composed; he walked forward bravely—a courage that was somehow passed on to me—thanks to which we managed to reach our destination and receive the means to survive the worst days of 1939."

A ward, Helena Wróbel, recalls the hunger and one of the educators of Nasz Dom, Mrs. Oleńka Staszewska:

"The hunger was dreadful. Mrs. Oleńka rationed us one herring from a tin and two iris candies each."

Another ward, Maria Żurawska, remembers how Mrs. Oleńka went to the Orphans’ Home at 92 Krochmalna Street (also located in Wola) to beg for help. She later recalled:

"One day, Doctor Korczak appeared at our place. His silhouette was heavily bent toward the ground; he was carrying a large sack of bread."A ward, Maria Żurawska, later recalled the moment of salvation: "One day, Doctor Korczak appeared at our place. His silhouette was heavily bent toward the ground; he was carrying a large sack of bread." 

Following the capitulation of Warsaw late in September, the children returned on foot from Wolność Street back to Bielany. The Germans considered the street name "Wolność" (Freedom) to be provocative, so during the occupation, they renamed it Uhrmacherstrasse (Zegarmistrzowska). 

As Editor Adrian Czermiński beautifully summarized years later in "Życie Warszawy": "Only the sound of receding footsteps could be heard amidst the rattle of bursting shrapnel... We knew that the Old Doctor was rushing to his children." And finally, as my father, Pan Misza, so profoundly noted at the end of his own memoirs: “And yet life itself showed that Korczak was not a ‘program of resignation’.”

Editor of Antena newspaper, Adrian Czermiński, one of the journalists participating at the time in the Information Service and Emergency Response of Polish Radio, recalled Korczak years later (in the daily newspaper “Życie Warszawy”) exactly as he remembered him during those days:

"Our task was to bring help to the population, provide medical care, find shelter for those who lost their homes, locate the missing, and inform the residents of their needs through Radio and the press. We were in constant contact with all the authorities of the besieged city; furthermore, we had our own informants who came to Mazowiecka Street regardless of the looming danger. One of them was Janusz Korczak. The voice of Korczak, silent for several years, returned to the airwaves during the tragic days of the siege.

Diminutive, in a faded overcoat, when he entered the premises which were devoid of window panes, he instantly brightened everything with his humor and infectious faith in a better tomorrow—no! a better evening, if he spoke with us at noon, and a better morning when he arrived at night. Disregarding exploding shells and whistling bullets, he appeared several times a day, bringing news about those who needed help and about those who were willing to provide it to others. (...) When we attempted to hold him back upon hearing the intensifying artillery fire, he would break away:
— 'No, no, I cannot. I must go now, I have no time'—and would quickly vanish past the door.

Only the sound of receding footsteps could be heard amidst the rattle of bursting shrapnel and the sound of shattering window panes. We knew that the Old Doctor was rushing to his children and charges, that he was going to bring aid to the suffering and unfortunate, to pour courage into the hearts of those who had already lost spirit."

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During the heavy bombing of Warsaw in September 1939, the decision was made to evacuate Nasz Dom to 14 Wolność Street, where it was thought to be safer. The building previously housed a night shelter for homeless boys run by the Society of Youth Hearths (Towarzystwo Ognisk dla Młodzieży). Choosing the Wola district as a safer haven proved fatal, as Wola became one of the most heavily bombed quarters of Warsaw. The children of Nasz Dom described those nightmarish days of bombardment spent in the cellar, and how the food hastily brought from Bielany quickly ran out.

Following the capitulation of Warsaw late in September 1939, the children returned on foot from 14 Wolność Street back to Bielany, where a Polish military hospital was still operating.

The Germans considered the street name "Wolność" (Freedom) to be provocative, so during the German occupation, the street was renamed 

Uhrmacherstrasse

Zegarmistrzowska (Watchmaker Street).

The Hidden Critic: The Unknown Film Reviews of Janusz Korczak.

The Hidden Critic: The Unknown Film Reviews of Janusz Korczak

From free cinema tickets for children, through "Pass to Life" (1931) and "Sabra" (1933), to tears over "Little Lord Fauntleroy" (1936).

Most historians and biographers confine Janusz Korczak to a sanitized, monumentalized matrix of the "Old Doctor" permanently bending over a child's bed. Few people know that this great educator was deeply fascinated by cinema. Moreover, he created a unique system in Warsaw where cinema became a window to the world for his wards. Thanks to special postcards and complimentary admission tickets sent by Warsaw cinemas, children from the Orphans’ Home on Krochmalna Street and young teenage reporters from Mały Przegląd (The Little Review) enjoyed constant access to screenings. Cinema cost them nothing because Korczak believed that modern human beings—even the youngest ones—must know how to read the moving image.

Yet, the true "hidden object" of this history lies in his own, incredibly intimate, and hitherto undescribed film reviews. Korczak did not write them for official newspapers. Instead, he smuggled his impressions into private letters to friends and late-night conversations with educators, treating the silver screen as a mirror reflecting his own soul and his tragic mission.

A heartbreaking cinema escape. Korczak’s most profound and shocking film review was discovered in a private letter to Ester Budko dated December 9, 1936, shortly after his return from Palestine. Beset by rising anti-Semitism in Poland and exhausted by the daily struggle to keep his institution afloat, the Doctor went alone to a Warsaw cinema to watch the Hollywood super-production “Little Lord Fauntleroy”.

1. A Review in a Letter to Ester Budko: “Little Lord Fauntleroy” (1936) and a Painful Ledger

Korczak’s most profound and heartbreaking film review was discovered in a letter to Ester Budko dated December 9, 1936, written shortly after his return from Palestine. Beset by rising anti-Semitism in Poland and exhausted by the daily struggle to keep his institution afloat, the Doctor went alone to a Warsaw cinema to watch the Hollywood super-production “Little Lord Fauntleroy”. He watched the story of a pure, young boy whose unconditional love melts the icy heart of his bitter, tyrannical grandfather, an earl. The next day, he wrote to Ester with words of critical affirmation:

“I was yesterday (for the first time since my arrival) at a beautiful film: ‘Little Lord’. The child will play a significant role in the spiritual rebirth of man. Of this, I am certain.”

However, this Hollywood fairy tale likely ripped open a devastating wound within him. It reminded him of his own 1923 novel, King Matt the First. Matt, too, was a child who desperately wanted to reform the adult world, only to suffer a tragic defeat. Even the kind, empathetic Queen Campanella (whose name echoes the mournful tolling of a bell and the sorrowful botanical Campanula) ultimately bowed to the adult system. She signed his sentence and banished Matt to a deserted island, granting him only one minor mercy—a double imprisonment: allowing him to keep his beloved canary in a cage inside his prison cell.

Watching the triumph of the Little Lord, Korczak felt like a dethroned King Matt. He penned a devastating self-review:

“I wanted to, but I did not know how to play a role in this most vital question of life. – A painful ledger of my own efforts.”

Rehabilitation through labor and trust. A scene from the legendary Soviet film “Pass to Life” (1931), which Janusz Korczak watched together with my father, Pan Misza (Michał Wasserman Wróblewski). The movie triggered a stormy, late-night professional debate between the two educators on their long walk back to the Orphans’ Home on Krochmalna Street.

2. Pan Misza’s Account: The Soviet “Pass to Life” (1931)

A starkly different, raw, and professional review was delivered by Korczak five years earlier in a conversation with my father, Pan Misza (Michał Wasserman Wróblewski). They had taken the older children to the Kometa cinema to watch the first Soviet talkie, “Pass to Life” (Путёвка в жизнь), a film about the bezprizornye—the feral street children orphaned by civil war—and their rehabilitation through community labor.

When the movie concluded with the dramatic frame of a ruined factory and the educator's stark words: “Well, we must start from the beginning!”, Korczak took my father by the arm on the way back to Krochmalna Street and asked: “Panie Misza, what would you do?” When Pan Misza replied that he would do exactly the same, because old habits and temptations always linger within children, the Doctor sighed deeply:

“That is good, that is good. Because as for me—no. I have experienced too many disappointments. By now, I am a program of resignation.”

This was a critique shared between two hardened practitioners. They spoke of the mechanics of rebellion, the limits of rehabilitation, and how a hostile world relentlessly dismantles an educator’s labor.

The fear of a mute screen. The first page of Janusz Korczak’s letter to Józek Arnon dated December 7, 1933. This unique document from the Beit Lohamei HaGetaot collection captures his chłodna (cool) review of Aleksander Ford's film “Sabra” and contains the sudden transition from fountain pen ink to a graphite pencil in the middle of a word.

3. A Review in a Letter to Józek Arnon: “Sabra” (1933) and the Fear of a Mute Screen

In 1933, while preparing for his journey to Palestine, Korczak was gripped by a paralyzing fear. For a master of pedagogy for whom the spoken Polish word, a whisper, a joke, and vocal intonation were everything, the prospect of meeting children in the kibbutzim without knowing Hebrew was terrifying. He feared he would be reduced to communicating with these precious souls through mere "signs and gestures."

To grasp this new world, he went to a Warsaw cinema to see the highly publicized Polish-Palestinian docudrama “Sabra”, directed by Aleksander Ford. He wanted to glimpse the new generation of children born in the desert—the "Sabras," tough like the prickly pear cactus on the outside, but sweet within. Yet his review, sent in a letter to his former bursar Józek Arnon (Halpern), proved cool and distant:

“Apparently you call those born there by the name of the plant ‘Sabra’. I went to see this film and I did not understand.”

Ford's ideological propaganda disappointed him; it failed to locate the psychological truth of the child. This unfulfilled longing pushed him to travel to Eretz Israel to study that soul firsthand.

These three hidden, sorrowful movie reviews penned by Korczak collide beautifully with the roaring optimism of the younger generation. While the Old Doctor was sinking into despondency, the young people he raised viewed the future with clarity and hope. They saw an unquenchable fire in him that he could no longer discern within himself, and they were right. When the war and the ghetto struck, the Doctor cast away all his cinematic melancholy and found superhuman energy to protect his children until the very end. The ultimate proof lies in the enduring words preserved by Pan Misza:

“And yet life itself showed that Korczak was not a ‘program of resignation’.”

Conclusion: The World is No Small Purse

These three threads form an extraordinary, closed circle. Korczak gifted children free postcards (valued as tickets) to the cinema so they could learn about the world, yet he sat in those same dark theaters searching for answers to the most agonizing questions about the meaning of his own life. 

The front page of “Mały Przegląd” (No. 12, January 11, 1929) with the bold headline KINO (CINEMA) proves how important it was for Korczak to convey this type of message to children and youth.

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