Korczaka "Wieczory Rodzinne".

Współpraca młodego Henryka Goldszmita (Janusza Korczaka) z tygodnikiem „Wieczory Rodzinne” w 1901–1902 roku to fascynujący moment, w którym narodził się „Janusz” jako autor piszący bezpośrednio dla dzieci. Korczak studiował wówczas medycynę na Wydziale Lekarskim Cesarskiego Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego (III kurs medycyny, czwarty rok jego studiów). Główny kampus oraz prosektoria zlokalizowane były przy pobliskim Krakowskim Przedmieściu. Spacer z wykładów lub laboratoriów anatomicznych na ulicę Mazowiecką zajmował mu zaledwie kilka minut.

Janusz Korczak bywał w redakcji tygodnika ul. Mazowieckiej pod numerem 8 (zgodnie z Warszawskim Rocznikiem Adresowym) oraz pod numerem 10.

W 1901 roku Janusz Korczak opublikował na łamach tego pisma 4 utwory. Wszystkie były krótkimi formami beletrystycznymi (opowiadaniami, powiastkami, miniaturkami), przeznaczonymi bezpośrednio dla najmłodszych czytelników i podpisanymi skróconym pseudonimem „Janusz”.

Choć ilościowo dorobek Korczaka w „Wieczorach Rodzinnych” był skromny (w tym samym czasie znacznie więcej tekstów publicystycznych pisał dla dorosłych do „Wędrowca” czy „Głosu”), pismo to miało fundamentalne znaczenie dla jego biografii. To właśnie tam student medycyny z Mazowieckiej przeszedł praktyczny chrzest bojowy w pisaniu dla dzieci. Doświadczenia te bezpośrednio utorowały mu drogę do stworzenia późniejszych arcydzieł literatury dziecięcej.

Oto kompletna lista tych tekstów:

1. „Co mówią zabawki?” – (Nr 4, str. 13) – Przełomowa miniaturka, w której autor oddaje głos przedmiotom z dziecięcego pokoju, pokazując, jak dziecięca wyobraźnia ożywia świat.
2. „Najmilszy podarek” – (Nr 16, str. 43) – Pouczające opowiadanie o empatii i bezinteresowności.
3. „Pogawędka” – Krótka forma dialogowa, ucząca dzieci wzajemnego zrozumienia i uważności.
4. „Przeprowadzka” – (Nr 52) – Lekkie, a zarazem psychologiczne opowiadanie o dziecięcej zabawie imitującej dorosłe życie.

Mnie jajbardziej spodobala sie Przeprowadzka i Ignac.

PRZEPROWADZKA.

— Chcesz się bawić w przeprowadzkę?
— Ach, dobrze, dobrze.
— No, to ty bądź panią, a ja będę przewoźnikiem.
Kazio plecami przywiązał konia na biegunach do krzesła. Krzesło — to fura do rzeczy.
— Dzień dobry pani. To pani kazała mi przyjść, żeby przewieźć meble?
— Tak, to ja was zamówiłam. A ile chcecie za to?
— Trzy ruble.
— O, to bardzo drogo. Może dwa ruble będzie dosyć.
— Nie, proszę pani, za dwa ruble ja nie mogę podjąć się tej pracy.
— No, to dam trzy ruble. Ale żeby się meble nie zniszczyły.
— Niech pani będzie spokojna. Alboż to ja pierwszy raz przewożę rzeczy?
Kazio kładzie na furę szafkę, stolik, dwa krzesełka, pudełka, lalki, wózek. Helenka mu pomaga, bo rzeczy są ciężkie.
— A ze szkłem co będzie?
— Szkło trzeba osobno ułożyć.
Garnuszki, talerzyki, podstawki i filiżanki — wszystko to związano osobno i ułożono w wózku z pościelą.
— Teraz już się nie stłucze.
Kazio siada na konia.
— Wio! wio! Prędzej koniku. Zarobimy trzy ruble, dostaniesz owsa i siana. Ty lubisz owies. Wio! wio!
Konik pędzi kłusem.
— Prrr! stój!
Zajechali.
Helenka jest już na nowem mieszkaniu i czeka niepokojna.
— Myślałam, że już nie przyjedziecie.
— A cóż jabym zrobił z rzeczami?
— Mogło wam się stać coś złego.
— E, co się miało stać? Koń zdrów, fura mocna, ja także nie gapa, patrzę dobrze, gdzie i jak jadę.
— Nic się nie złamało?
— Nic.
Kazio ostrożnie zdejmuje z wozu meble.
— Gdzie szafę postawić?
— Tu, koło okna.
Kazio ustawia wszystko na miejscu.
— Niech pani Bóg błogosławi na nowem mieszkaniu.
— Dziękuję wam. No, macie tu trzy ruble, a tu jeszcze 15 kopiejek na pierniki dla dzieci.
— Dziękuję pani. A to się dzieciaki uradują. O bo dzieci lubią słodycze, tylko nie zawsze można je kupować. Trzeba zbierać grosze na komorne, potem na życie, na siano dla konia.
— A ile zarabiacie na to wszystko?
— Chwalić Boga, człowiek zawsze pracę znajdzie, ale na zbytki niema. I żona mi pomaga, pierze bieliznę. Syn jeden w terminie u stolarza, za rok już będzie dostawał parę rubli na miesiąc.
— A córkę macie?
— Jest jedna, ma sześć lat dopiero, umie trochę czytać.
— A kto ją uczy?
— Rozmaicie, proszę pani, czasem ja mam trochę czasu, czasem żona, a nie, to mała sama weźmie elementarz i czyta a czyta.
— Dajcie jej ode mnie tę lalkę. Ja mam dwie, to mogę jedną oddać.
Kazio rozśmiał się.
— Co ty pleciesz, Helenko, taka pani, co się przeprowadza, to przecież nie bawi się lalkami.
I Helenka rozesmiała się.
— Ale dobra zabawa, co?
— Dobra.
— Jak przyjdzie do nas Józio z Manią, to oni będą niby mojemi dziećmi. Prawda?
— Tak.
— Dzieci! chodźcie na obiad! — woła mama z drugiego pokoju.
Kazio prędko odprzęga konia, stawia krzesło na miejsce, Helenka wyjmuje z wózka swoje gospodarstwo i ustawia w szafce.
— Dzieci! waza na stole!
— Jesteśmy, mamusiu.

Janusz.

 Wieczory Rodzinne : tygodnik ilustrowany dla młodzieży i dzieci. R. 23, 1902. [Dodatek dla Dzieci] nr 16

Nadine, the last female Holocaust survivor in my family, left us. Her brother wrote: "She and I together survived hell, being hunted like animals in Paris during the war".

Nadine, the last female Holocaust survivor in my family, left us. Her brother wrote: "She and I together survived hell, being hunted like animals in Paris during the war".

                                Tonight I got this sad message from my American cousin.

My sister Nadine (Simone) died last Friday after a long stay in an assisted living facility near her son Alex's home in Phoenix AZ. She was 96 years old. I can’t begin to convey the impact. She and I together survived hell, being hunted like animals in Paris during the war, and went on to lead interesting and hopefully valued lives. For whatever we disagreed on, she loved me dearly, and I will miss her beyond words.

    Bertrand

My "French family". Eleonora Noz was one of my grandfather Gabriel's sisters. She, her husband Sascha, and little son Albert (standing on the right) were transported separately from France to Auschwitz. At the same time, my grandfather Gabriel Rozental and my grandmother Helena were transported to Treblinka and murdered there.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011. Managing to find my mother's cousins between 1945 and 1996. Where are you? France? USA? Australia? Sweden?

My "French family". Eleonora Noz was one of my grandfather Gabriel's sisters. She, her husband Sascha, and little son Albert (standing on the right) were transported separately from France to Auschwitz. At the same time, my grandfather Gabriel Rozental and my grandmother Helena were transported to Treblinka and murdered there. Deportation History: During 1941, the anti-Semitic legislation applied in both zones of France (the German-occupied zone and the Vichy-controlled zone) was severely tightened. The French police carried out the first mass arrests in Paris in May 1941, during which 3,747 men were interned. Two more sweeps took place before the first deportation train (freight trains provided by the French state railways, SNCF) began rolling in March 1942. On July 16, 1942, the French police in Paris arrested 12,884 Jews—including 4,501 children and 5,802 women—during a raid that became known as La Grande Rafle (The Vel' d'Hiv Roundup). Most were temporarily interned in a sports arena under miserable conditions. After a few days, the prisoners were sent toward Germany in cattle cars, and some became the very first Jews to die in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. Many historians believe that a worse crime was committed in Vichy-controlled southern France than in the north. In August 1942, gendarmes were sent out to hunt down foreign refugees. However, as evidenced by the deportation lists compiled by the French police, children with French citizenship were deported in the exact same manner as those with Polish citizenship or those who were stateless. Approximately 11,000 Jews were transported to Drancy, which served as the primary transit camp on the way to extermination in Auschwitz. During 1942, officials sent 41,951 Jews toward Germany, though the deportations came to a temporary halt when certain religious leaders warned the Vichy government of potential public backlash. Afterward, the arrests were carried out more discreetly. In 1943 and 1944, the regime deported 31,899 people—the last train left in August 1944. This occurred despite the fact that the Allies had landed in Normandy on June 6, 1944. Allied troops eventually liberated Paris on August 25, 1944. Of the total 75,721 people deported, fewer than 2,000 survived.

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 https://jimbaotoday.blogspot.com/2011/02/att-hinna-att-hitta-min-mammas-kusiner.html

Albert and Bertha were my maternal grandfather's parents. My grandfather's name was Gabriel, and he had several siblings. Among them was Eleonora (Lola). Eleonora married Alexander (Sascha) Noz and eventually moved to Paris. She maintained contact with the family in Warsaw and returned for major family events, such as weddings. On one occasion, Eleonora brought her eldest daughter, Simone, with her. Simone and my mother were cousins. When Simone came from Paris to Warsaw, she would mix several French words into her speech when speaking Polish. Then came the Holocaust! In 1945, my mother contacted the IRC, the International Red Cross, searching for her family in France. As for the Polish branch of the family, she had been an eyewitness to their deportation to the Treblinka extermination camp. My mother's father, Gabriel Rozental, and her mother Helena, were murdered in Treblinka. All of my mother's paternal aunts and her uncles were murdered in Treblinka: Aunt Irena (Rothaub) and her husband, Aunt Zofia and her husband, Aunt Eugenia with her husband and children, and Uncle Piotr.

In 1993, I conceived the idea to build a Name Monument in Stockholm to the memory of our closest relatives murdered in the Holocaust.

In 1994, I began asking my parents directly if they had any biological aunts or uncles. Personally, I only knew of one maternal and one paternal aunt, and I had never questioned what had happened to their siblings. I asked my mother how many there were and where they lived. Only then did I learn that she had an aunt who lived in Paris, and that there was a cousin whom she had met in Poland, with whom she used to play in the Saski Park.

In 1995, I was in Washington D.C., partly to study the design of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, which was renowned as a name monument. I took the opportunity to contact the Holocaust Memorial Museum there, which has a massive research department. I asked them how I should go about searching for my missing relatives. Regarding my father's side of the family in the town of Pinsk, they provided an immediate answer: All residents of the ghetto were murdered in the final aktion of Oct 28 - Nov 1, 1942. It was Einsatzgruppe B that murdered my father's entire family there. Did Albert Noz possess the same type of documentation as Anny Horowitz?

In 1996, I began searching for my French family, since everyone who had lived in Warsaw and Pinsk before the war had been murdered. During that summer, I contacted a French organization in Paris and asked them for help. After six months, I received an email. My mother's aunt, her husband, and a younger cousin—10-year-old Albert—had been arrested by the French police. The family was sent to three different camps in France: the father, Sascha, to Compiègne; the mother, Lola, to Pithiviers; and their 10-year-old son to Drancy. All three were subsequently deported from the camps in France and murdered in the Auschwitz extermination camp during the summer of 1942.

They arrived at Auschwitz in freight cars on trains with convoy numbers 2, 14, and 20 (see the list). Simone, my mother's cousin whom she had met in Warsaw just before the war, was not included on those lists compiled by the French police for the German SS. Exact lists accompanied every train transport from France to the death camp in Poland.

Years 1995–1996. The last thing I did during that period was to publish a book, 6 tusen av 6 miljoner – ett requiem (6 Thousand out of 6 Million – A Requiem). The book contains unique documents collected from survivors in Sweden, as well as several articles describing both personal memories and Sweden's immigration policy from the time Hitler came to power in Germany. However, the largest part of the book consists of the names I collected as a foundation for the Holocaust Monument in Stockholm.

Included are Lola and her husband Sascha Noz, and their two children, Albert and Simone.

Simone will not let me sleep! The Germans and the French kept significantly better order of their deportations when it came to lists of the deported, and Simone was not on those lists.

Year 1996. What to do, Quo Vadis, where am I heading in my search?

Year 1997. Back to Paris and back to the Jewish research institute near the Seine. Back to boxes of documents regarding L'Enfant Caché (The Hidden Child).

Bingo!

I found a document stating that on September 29, 1942 (thus after the worst deportations to Auschwitz), Madame Moskowicz (with a Polish-Jewish-sounding name), who lived at Rue d'Angoulême, No. 101, Paris XI, applied for support for textiles and clothing for Simone. Simone spent one month in the children's home on Rue Lamarck, which was run by a Jewish organization (UGIF).

In 1997, my wife at the time, Joanna, called all the Moskowiczs in the Paris region. None of them knew anything about Simone and declared that they were Frenchwomen (with a capital F) and that it was their husbands who were Jewish... and were now deceased.

On the advice of L'Enfant Caché *, I place a missing person notice, No. 319, in their magazine: Simone Noz où êtes-vous? (Simone Noz, where are you?)

On the front page of issue No. 20 of the magazine, there is a picture of a girl who took the same train as Albert and met the same fate in Auschwitz. In issue No. 21 of the magazine, published in December 1997, my notice appeared in French...*

In 1998, I turned to the French archives, which held documents from the general census of 1946. Two addresses and the surrounding buildings were of interest:

Rue d'Angoulême, No. 101, Paris XI, and
Rue Bissone, No. 42, Paris XII.

Despite spending several days at the Archives de Paris, I found nothing! Did Simone not survive the war? Perhaps she married before 1946 and changed her name? If so, several extra days in the French archives awaited me to go through the marriage records. In those days, there was no data accessible for searching through computers.

I received a response to my notice. Unfortunately, it is completely anonymous. Finally, I got in touch with Jean, who claims to have been a boyfriend (friend) of Simone between 1945 and 1948. He also said that Simone's brother survived the war. Can I believe him? After all, I have Albert's name in black and white on the SS list, which meant certain death in the Auschwitz gas chambers.
I am given Simone's address and phone number in Palo Alto. Jean is a bit difficult to talk to, abrupt!
Palo Alto is a city in California, far away from Europe. Why there? No answer at the number I received from Jean, but a referral to another. My heart pounds anew!
However, I have reached a nursing home. None of the current staff (who sounded very young) had heard anything about Simone Noz.
Did Simone die at that home? I refuse to be convinced by what is perhaps the most realistic conclusion.

Meanwhile, I searched for all Noz families via the internet in the USA and wrote to all of them. No luck.

I returned to Paris and recounted all of my searching. Jean does not answer his phone, but the people at L'Enfant Caché manage to get in touch with him. He announces that in a month, he is going to meet a friend who knows for sure where Simone is located. He also promises to write to her himself (but will not give me her current address).

During the last week of November 1998, on Tuesday, November 25, I received a letter from Simone (Nadine). Short and without the slightest emotional involvement, as if she thought I was engaging in some sort of scam. I feel immensely hurt. That same day, I wrote a rather bitter reply.

On Saturday, November 29—it was a sunny day—the phone rings early in the morning. It is a weeping Simone-Nadine. She apologizes for her letter. But she had thought there was no one left alive from our family after the Holocaust. Soon we are both crying. The rest of our family reunion is just as sunny as this November day.

The story of a brother who survived the Holocaust is also cleared up. There was, you see, another, younger brother, Bert, whom we did not know about. We get to meet him that same year in December. My mother says he reminds her of his father.

In the summer of 1999, my mother met Simone (Nadine).

Albert Noz, 10 years old, born in Paris, a French citizen, was imprisoned in the Drancy camp by the French police. On August 17, he was taken to the Auschwitz extermination camp along with other Jewish children, some of whom held Polish or German citizenship. It was the French police who also handled the deportation, alongside the French railways, SNCF. Granted, SNCF apologized for its role in the World War II Jewish deportations (76,000 Jews). SNCF's CEO expressed his "deep sorrow and regret" for the consequences of their actions (though this was in connection with a lucrative US contract).

The youngest person in carriage No. 8 of deportation train No. 20 was a girl, Rotman Helene, 4 years old, born in Paris, a French citizen. She traveled with her older sister, Rotman Lisa, who was 8 years old. All the children were murdered immediately upon arrival at Auschwitz!

Albert Noz, 10 years old, born in Paris, a French citizen, was imprisoned in the Drancy camp by the French police. On August 17, he was taken to the Auschwitz extermination camp along with other Jewish children, some of whom held Polish or German citizenship. It was the French police who also handled the deportation, alongside the French railways, SNCF.

https://artistsacha.com/celebrity-gallery

For  more information about  the  Hidden  Children  Foundation,  go   to www.adl.org/education-­‐outreach/holocaust-­‐education/hidden-­‐children-­‐ foundation.html.

Did Janusz Korczak ever have vacations?

Nałęczów, where Korczak, as a child, rowed a boat with his father and met his favorite Polish writer, Bolesław Prus. 

A description of Korczak's last vacations before WWII can be found in his letters to former bursars—among others, to Józek Halpern-Arnon.

In Playful Pedagogy, which carries the subtitle "My Vacations." Korczak describes his holidays in Mężenin.

This morning, upon waking, I was thinking about my vacations. A wave of warmth washed over me as I recalled my first holidays in Dziwnów in the mid-fifties. I was 6-7 years old at that time. First, the railway station in Warsaw, the suitcases, my father's (Pan Misza's) bicycle, and the whistle of the locomotive, which signaled not only that the train was departing, but also that we could start eating—beginning with hard-boiled eggs. Then, images of Dziwnów like something out of a children's book: Mosquito Avenue leading to the beach, fishing, the concrete road to the neighboring settlement, and my mother telling stories or reciting poems. All of this in slow motion. Slowly, without stress or rushing—now I look back at it with wonder! In some way, that locomotive whistle connected me to Korczak's departures for his first summer camps—not as a child, but as an educator. Then, with a smile, I thought of his vacations in Playful Pedagogy (Pedagogika żartobliwa).

Did Janusz Korczak (actually Henryk Goldszmit), known as the "Old Doctor," ever have vacations?

Yes and no. Korczak treated his work as a life mission, which meant he rarely and reluctantly took extended time off. The fact that he went away on summer camp shifts as an educator was actually paid work (for example, in Michałówka or Wilhelmówka). There, he combined childcare with the writing of his works (including fragments of books and pedagogical notes). However, he did consider his later summer trips to Gocławek together with his wards from the Orphanage as a vacation.
There were occasional trips for recuperation, although in his writings (such as in Playful Pedagogy), Korczak wrote that taking a break from the children and the daily worries of the orphanage was difficult for him. Playful Pedagogy carries the subtitle "My Vacations." There, among other things, he describes his holidays in Mężenin. Another connection between Korczak and vacations is his own story from the summer resort in Nałęczów, where, as a child, he rowed a boat with his father and met his favorite Polish writer, Bolesław Prus. Other descriptions of Korczak's vacations can be found in his letters to former bursars—among others, to Józek Halpern-Arnon (below).

                                                                                                            2/VIII.39

            Dear Józek,

For the past two months, I have lived outside of space and time. I decided to refresh myself /brine baths in Druskienniki and spend a month at a summer camp in the role of a young /once again/ educator. I devoted my treatment month to a Palestinian novel, but only to the extent that the conversation takes place between a father and a son in Palestine: about the child. I will only need Palestine for the second part: so if funds allow, for four months: October – January, of which two months /a month?/ in old Jerusalem /I saw an interesting cheder there/, or at the Beit Midrash in Tiberias.

I am afraid of rheumatism, bedbugs, and a little bit of the Arabs – least of all/. Nothing more, nothing less, than the plan for a new Bible.—I am struggling with how to arrange it.

July was charming. 20 new children to read, like 20 books written in a half-familiar language, moreover damaged, with missing pages.—Once again, just like years ago, what mattered was: lost slippers, a splinter in a leg, a dispute at the swing, a broken branch.—A walk in isolation with children sick with measles; when, exhausted to the bone, I finally had to fall asleep, I would tell myself: "what a pity, just 10 more minutes,—to listen to the breathing, the coughing, the moaning." How much wisdom there is in their coughing during sleep,—the struggle with infection, with fever, growing up, and the flies. 

This morning, upon waking, I was thinking about my vacations. A wave of warmth washed over me as I recalled my first holidays in Dziwnów in the mid-fifties. I was 6-7 years old at that time (here, first on the right). First, the railway station in Warsaw, the suitcases, my father's (Pan Misza's) bicycle, and the whistle of the locomotive, which signaled not only that the train was departing, but also that we could start eating—beginning with hard-boiled eggs.