I decided to borrow the title "Introductory Remarks" from Korczak's book "Educational Moments," published in 1919. Why? I don't know. I think I was enchanted by the simple instructions he gave teachers and educators, in which he suggested writing down their observations and discussing them with others. A few years later, this was done in the dormitory at the Orphanage, which Korczak created.
Korczak wrote: "The outcome wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to set a model for a seminary student on how to note down observations and add comments. Instead, I wrote a model for myself on how to move from a small, perceived moment – a child's question – to multiple and general issues."
The first edition of these memoirs was published in 1996 in the form of the short story "Seven Good Years." Reading them then, I was most interested in my father's childhood and youth, his life until his final high school exams. Over the years, my father's writings revealed more and more to me. Discovering the people and events he wrote about brought me great emotion. I was moved by the letters from the children from the Orphanage and Korczak's letters, in which they fondly remember Mr. Misza. I felt a warm feeling in my heart when I found in the GFH archives the pink notebook of the bursary student Jakub Kutalczuk. My father kept the same notebook, also pink. Korczak wrote about such notebooks in Momenty Wychowawcze.
That's why I needed to re-publish "With Korczak Through Life" (2012), because with hindsight, I see how much his presence has marked my life. The introductory remarks I'm posting here are a reflection and a response to this need. I still feel a longing for my parents and Korczak's presence. In my family home in Warsaw, this presence is my parents' memories, their emotions. It's conversations about pedagogy and meetings of the "committee," of course, the Korczak Committee. Korczak's books, from King Matt to Slava, have always surrounded me. This presence is a photo of Korczak, the only framed photo in our home. For many years, I thought Janusz Korczak was my grandfather.
My first direct encounter with the "Orphanage on Krochmalna Street" was in the mid-1950s. My father and I went there together. Construction, or perhaps reconstruction, was underway. Children playing among the building materials instantly surrounded my father. They looked at me as if I were an intruder. On that land, my father belonged to them. My father told me these were orphans. I didn't understand. I had a father and a mother, and I had their love and attention. Over time, I began reading Korczak's works. I researched documents in the Archives of the "Korczak Heritage Association" in Stockholm and searched for more in other places. I met with former pupils. These children were connected to my father. Friendships with some of them lasted a lifetime. After my father's death, the friendships and contacts continued, although only with me, but we were still very close. This is also my legacy from my father and Korczak.
I'm including colorized black and white photographs with this edition.
Previously opposed to colorization, I've now saturated them with color, remembering the great impression I felt looking at the photographs from the Różyczka summer camp and the yellow tulips and other flowers that appeared in front of the main building in Gocławek.
These colors also represent the tanned and smiling faces of the children and teachers; to some extent, they represent a restoration of that world.
Through the photographs and their descriptions, I invite you to Mr. Misza's private space.
With his memories, I would like to encourage you to "note your observations" and "see the moment." They are important and do not allow you to forget Korczak.
I would also like them to be read by future generations. In time, they are increasingly distant from Korczak and Mr. Misza, but close in feeling.
Roman Romuald Wasserman Wroblewski
Aware of my financial difficulties, Mrs. Stefa recommended me as a paid tutor for the "Hipolit Wawelberg Summer Camp for Polish Children of All Faiths." A beautiful idea, but not an easy task. The poorest children in the capital, both Jewish and Christian, were to vacation together. How much mutual prejudice came to the fore! A difficult problem remained: how to quickly overcome distrust, sometimes reluctance? How to teach mutual understanding and harmonious coexistence? A group of older boys was placed under my care. Initially, I lost faith. But these street children weren't bad people at all. I somehow managed to gain their trust. I think working with them was very beneficial for me. I suspect my boys also benefited greatly from our time together. Several times, our mutual interest in each other blossomed into something resembling friendship, or—to put it more modestly—likeliness, kindness, and promises to meet and help each other when needed.
When I returned to Krochmalna Street at the beginning of the school year, Korczak would inquire with great interest about my daily routine at the summer camp, about my observations, difficulties, and even my minor achievements, which he placed particular value on. We usually sat next to or across from each other. And the Doctor was a great listener! He didn't interrupt. Only then would he ask substantive questions or make a comment. I enjoyed these conversations immensely. I honestly admit that I wasn't a fan of even the most pleasant "standing" conversations. I would then experience a strange sense of embarrassment. The Doctor would raise his head, as I was taller than him. And yet, with him, and even in his absence, I felt so small, unimportant, and insignificant in comparison, even though he often tried to awaken my sense of self-worth. He was and remained an intellectual and moral authority for me.
The term "authority" is so at odds with the personality of the Doctor, a man who never even used statements like: "I believe," "I have reached a conclusion," "in my opinion," or "in my opinion." It's characteristic that in similar situations he used to say: "I think," "I have the impression," "it occurred to me." He would also often ask: "What do you think?" And you had to think for yourself, not resort to platitudes or generalizations, and formulate your opinions concretely, even if tentatively, but honestly. And to this day, when I'm faced with a difficult problem that I'd rather avoid, convinced that it will somehow work out, the figure of the Doctor emerges before me. He looks me in the eye and asks: "What do you think, Mr. Misha?"
Hitler came to power in Germany. The dark clouds of anti-Semitism fell in a heavy rain on the unfortunately fertile, in this respect, Polish land. This was quickly reflected not figuratively, but literally, in our own backyard. A group of teenagers from the neighboring tenement house threw stones at the playground where our children played. Our pupils were called names. They were attacked in groups when they returned from school. Fierce fights broke out because our children "wouldn't give in." Violent conflicts escalated. Doctor Doc often tried to calm the situation himself. Sometimes he delegated me to those at Krochmalna 90. I often managed to reach them with words. I then invited the neighbors to join me for games and sports competitions. They even came more and more willingly. They behaved decently. How I longed to believe that these weren't just short-term effects.
I've already mentioned that the students of the Dormitory came from poor families. It's no wonder, then, that we were drawn to revolutionary slogans. I joined the teachers' and educators' union. It was a left-wing organization. I remember finding myself in a very difficult situation when a strike was called against exploitation by employers. Doubts arose. I was thinking about the exploited, about the need to fight for a classless society, for justice, but was the Orphanage – my employer – truly an exploiter? That day, I had a predetermined shift in the dormitory: evening, night, and morning. And I didn't leave the children unattended, my Dawids and Dawideks, Jakubs and Jakubeks. When the children shared the same names, various diminutives were used. And so, Dodiuk, who had lived in Paris for years, was always Jakubek, even as he grew older. Adults were addressed as: Mrs. Stefa, Miss Różyczka, and Mr. Jakub. Only Korczak was addressed not by his first name, but simply as "Pan Doctor" (Mr. Doctor). Outside of the Home, he was called variously, depending on his surroundings: Dr. Henryk Goldszmit, Janusz Korczak, or the Old Doctor. And he was in his fifties at the time.
Time measures change. This year I'm turning 80, and I don't feel old at all, and I don't want to be treated like one. You could call me a veteran of the Korczak movement. After Jakub Czuk left for what was then Palestine, I took his place as a paid educator, earning 100 złoty a month. For comparison, Dr. and Mrs. Stefa probably received no more than 150 złoty each. The salary wasn't high, but the satisfaction, at least for me, was considerable. This also allowed me to go on my first real vacation at a student summer camp in Krościenko nad Dunajcem. Lunia was there too. Before the anniversary of the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, she taught me to recite Mayakovsky's Left March. Along the Dunajec River, we read Bertrand Russell's Thoughts on Education together. I don't know if any of what I was reading resonated with me, because during frequent breaks in our reading, we hugged and kissed... We'd be late returning to the university cafeteria for lunch, and along the way, I'd joke—prophetically, as it turned out—that "this study will bring grandchildren."
People of all kinds—years ago, as well as today—often ask a simple question: Did Korczak prepare his pupils for life? He realized, after all, that life demands claws, that he must not raise meek sheep...
This was and remains a dilemma! In general, such seemingly easy questions pose the greatest difficulties when one strives to give a reliable answer. Therefore, without omitting the substance of the matter, I will allow myself to pose a different question to contemporary people: who today, at least in Europe, believes that a 14-year-old child can truly be prepared for life?
And here I return to the disagreement between Korczak and Wilczyńska, which I am familiar with. The practical Mrs. Stefa believed that after completing fifth grade, children should be sent to a master craftsman to learn a craft. They would continue to live in the Orphanage for two years, and once they left Krochmalna, it would be easier for them to find work, because their acquired skills would be taken into account.
The Doctor, concerned, listening to her serious arguments, countered with his own. Children's inclinations and interests haven't yet crystallized, and we're already forcing a profession on them? Artisans often use children for various menial tasks, yet they don't teach them at all. Why steal two more years of their recently regained childhood from their pupils? And then an argument, also looking to the future, but with a greater weight to the species. Primary schools were set up so that if any child wanted to return to school after two or more years, they would already be "overgrown." This would permanently close off the possibility of further education for our children, because they are orphans. No, no! Unless... the child "has no head for learning" and already wants to. But that's only in exceptional cases.
Korczak was clearly aware of the reality, but he couldn't change everything. He focused on providing the children at the Orphanage with the best possible experience and wanted to give them at least a good start into a future full of uncertainties. What happened to our pupils when they left Krochmalna after turning 14? Life wasn't easy for them because, above all, conditions in Poland at the time were incredibly difficult, and even more so for Jewish children. Our management, often taking advantage of the willingness of the Orphanage Aid Society, helped them secure a "job" that also offered the opportunity to acquire specific skills, such as carpentry, metalwork, tailoring, photography, shoemaking, or a hairdressing salon. According to the Constitution, youth work was permitted from the age of 16 (starvation was not subject to an age limit).
Let me tell you about Jakub. This little boy once told Józek Amon that he wanted everyone to admire him, that he dreamed of performing in the circus. He didn't become a circus performer. Instead, he was employed in a fabrication shop, mainly as... a dog. At night, he was locked in the shop to keep watch. He had a roof over his head and slept on a folding camp bed. When the shop assistant opened the shop, the boy would run to the owner, climb up the kitchen stairs, and receive a cup of coffee and two slices of bread with butter. Then he would "walk" the boss's daughter to middle school. More precisely, he would follow her a few steps away and carry her briefcase so the young lady wouldn't get a twisted spine. The return journey was similar. In the meantime, he acted as an errand boy. A modest dinner was eaten in a hurry in the owner's kitchen. Then more work. Cleaning the shop, waiting, and finally resting. Sometimes, through the closed blinds, he would talk to his mother, who came to visit. She worked as a maid "for people" and lived with them. His mother convinced her son that he was "lucky" with this job. He tried hard to believe that he was actually... very happy.
Some children fared a little better. Others fared even worse. Particularly gifted children continued their education, working on Krochmalna Street as boarders. These were the rare exceptions, and they came from different age groups. A former pupils' association operated at the Orphanage. They came there to share their stories, meet former friends, and gaze at the old walls. Sometimes they sought advice or help, and often received it. At one such meeting, in the presence of the Doctor, Władek Kwas leveled a series of accusations against the upbringing at the Orphanage: honesty, truthfulness, and diligence (in whose interests? the capitalists'!). Meanwhile, these children of the proletariat needed to be prepared for the revolutionary struggle against exploitation. "The Wind from the East" swept the young man away. Convinced that anything that served communism "Made in the Soviet Union" was right and moral, he constantly leveled other accusations. Only on the ruins of the capitalist world, "when our brotherly union embraces the human race," will it be possible to build a just society, without the exploitation of man by man, without national discord, without anti-Semitism, without injustice, without hunger, etc., etc. And Korczak didn't harden them, didn't even point them to the one true path. The Doctor didn't share the young man's views, but he, too, had long been plagued by serious doubts, a sense of responsibility that haunted him. How bitter and difficult it must have been for him at that moment, listening to the accusations... Over thirty years later, I met Władek in Sweden. The same wave had swept us out of the Polish People's Republic, that is, out of Polish land, into a foreign land. He found me and asked for a few moments of conversation, to unburden himself of what had long been troubling him. Korczak is gone, so he asks me to listen. The charges brought against the Doctor, the accusations leveled against him, weigh on him like a nightmare. Enriched by experience, not only his own, he would like to withdraw these accusations...
This shocking "confession" lasted quite a while, from a man who would gladly repeat after Korczak that there is no harmful truth, only an inconvenient truth. He concluded by assuring me that, despite what he had accused the Doctor of in his youthful ecstasy, in his later life, perhaps without fully realizing it, he was guided primarily by the values and ideals he had learned at the Orphanage, because they had become ingrained in him. Contact with this man made a strong impression on me. Correspondence and numerous meetings at various times with former pupils who had miraculously escaped the "Shoah" provided me with much knowledge and food for thought. I met many of them in Poland, but also later. They live in Israel, France, Denmark, the USA, and Australia. I hosted some of them in my apartment in Stockholm. Our conversations always turn to topics related to Krochmalna Street, which has suddenly been renamed Jaktorowska Street.
Naturally, former pupils tell me how they coped after leaving the Orphanage. Relatively many, in line with their interests and abilities, pursued vocational education, and some even pursued higher education. In most cases, "our children" have already retired. But I also met our charges while they were still dedicatedly to working professionally and raising their children. What brave people they have become! In honest conversations, everyone emphasizes the precious values the Orphanage discovered in them and reinforced. They speak of life on Krochmalna Street as if it were their seven good years. I suspect this stems not only from memory's natural tendency toward optimism, which selects memories, emphasizing the role of positive ones and rejecting unpleasant and sad ones. They assure me that, alongside valuable moral principles, they were shaped there with traits of mind and character that did not, and still do, allow for the blindfolding of their eyes, but facilitate independent, objective judgment.
In May 1942, the Doctor arranged an unusually attractive work for me and three older pupils: Moniuś, Jankiel, and Dawidek. We went out to work on a construction site with a group of German Jews (who, incidentally, still considered themselves Germans). We worked on the Aryan side, and most importantly, we could buy some supplies there and smuggle them into the Home. On Wednesday, August 5, 1942, Mr. Doctor said goodbye to us as we left for work at dawn. We returned to the Home on Śliska Street in the evening, proudly carrying the food we had purchased beyond the wall. And the Home was empty. Empty... A few days earlier, the elderly and disabled had been taken to the Umschlagplatz... Today, the children – an unproductive element... Everything was planned, with German precision and fascist cruelty.
Did we experience even a moment of relief that chance had saved us from death? I doubt it. Boundless despair, a humiliating helplessness, dominated. We exchanged a few words. We grabbed the suitcase with papers from under the Doctor's bed and left the house on Śliska Street. The instinct for self-preservation told us to sneak into the large ghetto under the cover of night. We found accommodation with Felek Grzyb in an apartment whose windows overlooked the Krasiński Garden. The details are unimportant...What's important, however, is that in some strange, almost tangible way, the Doctor was always behind me. And I was, and am, with him. He always accompanied me on the tangled paths and off-roads of my struggle with fate. Escape from the ghetto, Aryan papers; then Lviv – a greater chance of survival, because I could pass for a Ukrainian there. Then, Kyiv was under Nazi occupation. Working as a "Polish Facharbeiter Maurer von Beruf" in a German construction company. The liberation of Kiev, the Soviet Army, the Polish Army – a gun-toting fight against fascism, for what I deeply believed would be a free, democratic Poland. "Nowe Widnokręgi" – a Polish-language magazine published in the USSR – published my article about the fate of Korczak and the children from the Orphanage. I suspect, not without reason, that it was the first public report on the subject. Factual, economical, and truthful. I knew this firsthand, after all. And I considered it my sacred duty to tell the story of what I saw and experienced. I only had to construct one scene from my imagination. Unfortunately, it wasn't difficult:
"Without warning, during breakfast, a gang of Nazi thugs burst into the orphanage. Everyone out! The children, barefoot and in their summer clothes, descended into the yard. Arranged in columns, under a convoy of SS, German youths, and police units, they set off towards the station. The doctor, cane in hand, leading the smallest girl, walked in front. In a green military uniform, bareheaded, he strode slowly, majestically. At the station, 100 people were loaded onto train cars. The doctor himself placed each child. He begged for some water for the fainting ones. And then, in turn, his shining head disappeared into the dark depths of the merchandiser. It vanished, never to return among the living."
At dawn on January 17, 1945, I crossed the frozen Vistula River with my unit into a completely deserted, nearly destroyed Warsaw. My mission: to establish an east-west route for the army, which, under cover of darkness, would advance through the city toward Berlin. I knew the capital well, but not in this appalling state—no bridges, no roads, no sidewalks. Rubble and ashes everywhere. When I set up the last checkpoints, I wandered to Krochmalna Street... It was an inner need. An encounter with the past and a sense that, fighting for a just cause, we stood on the threshold of a better future, and thus, of those human values that were the guiding force in Dr. Janusz Korczak's life. The next day, the streets of Warsaw were filled with people. Displaced residents of the capital were flocking from suburban neighborhoods to their homes. At the intersection of Marszałkowska and Aleje Jerozolimskie, I stood in uniform, rifle slung over my shoulder and a flag in my hand. I directed the flow of military vehicles. My soldiers stood on all four street corners, helping to relieve major traffic jams.
People, seeing the Polish military uniforms, couldn't believe their eyes. They laughed and cried with joy. Suddenly, a shout came from behind me: "Every spirit praises God! Michał, is that you?!!" And my dear friend, Tadeusz Błażejewski, a famous Warsaw boxer, threw his arms around me. He was overjoyed and hugged me. I experienced a wonderful feeling of being home, among my own people. And along Aleje Jerozolimskie, trucks, tanks, and cannons were moving westward... Everything westward... Fighting in the ranks of the Polish Army, I reached the Elbe River. The decimation of the Polish nation, the planned, brutal murder of the Jewish people... The number 6 million - this wasn't just a horrific statistic. In my eyes, every adult killed bore the face of Korczak, my father... Every child killed bore the face of one of my wards from the Orphanage on Krochmalna Street...
Almost immediately after the end of hostilities, I joined the organizational work of the "Committee to Commemorate the Memory of Janusz Korczak," which was being formed under the leadership of Igor Newerly. Over time, as our activities gained greater momentum and broader reach, we transformed this organization into the Korczak Committee. It wasn't just about remembrance itself, but also about the Doctor's pedagogical thought and concepts, his ethical ideals, and the coherence of his stated postulates with his own life. To the very end! And I believe, not without reason, that the Committee's work was noteworthy, although later, for various reasons, it was passed over in silence. I was a member of the Board, then Vice-Chairman, and from 1963, Chairman of the Committee. It was thanks to our initiative and efforts that during the post-October thaw, the two-volume Selection of Janusz Korczak’s Pedagogical Writings was published in 1957 by the State School Publishing House, and in Nasza Księgarnia – in four volumes – Selection of Writings, edited and with a beautiful introduction by Igor Newerly.
A survey addressed to teachers and caretakers in orphanages yielded interesting results. The publication, "What Did Janusz Korczak Give Me?" based on this material, generated considerable interest. Along with Hanna Mortkowicz-Olczakowa and Igor Newerly, I appeared on Polish Radio several times - naturally, we touched on topics related to the life and work of the Doctor. Besides various ad hoc events, we also regularly organized seminars and solemn commemorations marking the anniversary of Janusz Korczak's martyrdom. We oversaw two Korczak centers in Warsaw – on Krochmalna Street and in Bielany. We've often been asked whether such facilities could exist without such a unique personality as the Doctor? In keeping with my deep conviction, I answer affirmatively. Only if the orphanage is run not by overseers—policemen or officials—but by educators dedicated to the child's cause and gifted with a vivid imagination. How much Korczak himself constantly changed, tried differently, and was taught by his own experience. How many new ideas does he come up with, drawn directly from life, from observation? Take those "institutions" I've already mentioned. With what seriousness, insight, and understanding, Korczak approached these children, eager to change, to improve. The official would simply take diligent notes; the overseer—policeman would command, suspect, and verify. And the Doctor experienced right alongside the delinquents. He understood and advised insightfully, so that no "never again" could be heard, because that is extremely difficult. He talked, listened, and consulted with the children, truly seriously.
Our family life was harmonious. My wife, Zofia, worked as a teacher. She completed her studies at the University of Warsaw, which she had begun before the war. Later, she persuaded me to continue my studies as well. We both worked professionally and volunteered, primarily for the Korczak Committee. We were raising three sons. Despite our many activities, we devoted a lot of time and, most importantly, attention to them. We often had to be incredibly patient (because, as the Doctor used to say, "having a child isn't easy at all"). We took into account our boys' likes and dislikes, their dreams, desires, and aversions, as well as their outside interests.
We ate breakfast together, but in a hurry. Dinner, however, was leisurely. It was a time for conversation, chatting, and telling stories. Everyone helped themselves to their plate, mindful of the others' appetites. It wasn't polite to leave leftovers on their plates. We, the parents, recounted the events of the previous day and the people we met. The boys also began to share what made them happy, worried, or problematic. They didn't hide their "sins." They weren't afraid of punishment. We took their various matters and activities seriously, even though to many other adults they would probably seem ridiculously trivial. When it came to taking a stance on their problems, we were cautious but honest. For example, the teacher wasn't always right. Not all adults were wise and kind. Children had the right to respect and... protest. A few examples. Our Marian was interested in chemistry and had above-average knowledge in the subject. However, he received only a passing grade for the semester. He wanted us to discuss this with the teacher. I suggested he try it himself. And then, after dinner, he recounted his conversation with the chemist. The teacher's main objection was the student's poorly kept notebook. I told him – our son reported – that if a fire broke out and all the notebooks kept by the girls, kept in perfect order, were destroyed, perhaps the most important thing would be what remained in our heads. We agreed with the boy's arguments, but regarding the notebook, we had a slightly different opinion.
Third-grader Gabriel repeatedly claimed that his new "teacher" was bad because she was unfair. One day, he came home from school pale with anger. During lunch, he told us that someone had broken a window in the classroom. The teacher declared it was definitely Marek Jurgaś. And Marek had just been to the school dentist. The children gathered around the teacher, shouted, "Yes, it's Marek, it's Marek!" he recounted indignantly. "But you, son, didn't shout like that, and why are you practically crying about it?" Gabryś replied, "No, I didn't shout like that, but I didn't scream that it wasn't Jurgaś at all..." The child felt guilty and had a sensitive conscience. We chatted for a long time about wrongs, justice, injustice, and also disgusting hypocrisy.
My youngest son, Romek, had a beloved teddy bear. He would lie in bed with it and cuddle it. One day, the distraught child told us that Teddy Bear had lost his eye. We searched for the eye for a long time—but in vain. We tried in vain to comfort the distraught Romek. Finally, my wife said, "Don't worry, son, we'll buy you a new teddy bear tomorrow." At this, the little one, looking at his mother with utter amazement, gasped, "But it's mine."
To defuse the awkward situation, I suggested Romek take a bike ride in the nearby Saxon Garden. He forgot about the bear for a while, but that evening he went to sleep with his Teddy bear, cuddling him tenderly. Once the children were asleep, my wife and I returned to the bear issue. Zofia confessed that the child simply annoyed her.
I was embarrassed. "Yes, I can adapt to the concepts children use," she said, "but I couldn't, as Korczak said, rise to their feelings so as not to offend, not to touch. I failed as a mother and as a teacher." It's not without reason that I claim that Korczak played a significant role in our family home. As I mentioned, my wife, Zofia, forced me to complete the studies I began before the war. It was no coincidence, then, that when the Minister of National Defense, Marshal Spychalski, congratulated me, a graying top student, on my promotion, he primarily honored her contribution to my academic achievements.
Absorbed in our studies, busy with professional and social work, and raising our own children, we did indeed notice many disturbing phenomena in political and social life, but for a long time, we focused on the individual trees, missing the forest. After periods of exposed "errors and distortions" and solemn assurances that things would be completely different, many people began to trust again. For too long, I, too, had lived under illusions.
Since 1967, fierce factional infighting within the party has resulted in a brutal crackdown on political opponents and mass repression. The warring factions vied with each other in their use of anti-Semitic slogans. I will not engage in politics. Fortunately, it is not my domain. However, the "side effects" soon became apparent. It was suggested, and then emphatically pressed, that I, as chairman, convene a general meeting of the Korczak Committee and resign my position under any circumstances. In times of rampant anti-Semitism, true Poles can do more in this field. I firmly refused. For my part, Kazik Dębnicki, a member of the board, declared that if I were to convene such a meeting to transform the Committee into a "judenfrei" association, he would at least not participate. I assured him that I would have no hand in this disgusting machination. And what happens next, we'll see... The security authorities soon suspended the Committee's activities, and the premises were sealed. "Życie Warszawy"—a widely read daily newspaper—called Korczak a Polonized Jew. He was no longer a great Polish educator, as I was a few years after the war. Not even a bourgeois, unsuitable for educating the younger generation in the spirit of "socialist morality." Just a nobody. Everything that was happening around me, what the newspapers were constantly writing about, what was persistently repeated on television, completely shattered my false hopes; I stopped feeling "at home and among my own people." A desperate decision was made: to leave this country. At the "non-emigration" age, we decided to emigrate. I was 58 years old. Is it possible to start over? Yes, there is no other way!
Sweden welcomed us. We emigrated – as my wife put it, not without bitterness – and took Dr. Janusz Korczak with us… And the only capital we brought with us was our established family. In Stockholm, after a six-month Swedish language course, we found employment at the Institute of Pedagogical Research at the Higher School of Teacher Training. It turned out that none of the serious academics working there even knew Korczak by name. The university library was dominated by American pedagogical works.
My wife and I, taking advantage of the generosity of others, began our Korczak activities. Talks, press interviews, a Swedish translation of King Matthias ("King Matthias I"), radio programs of a theatre of imagination for schoolchildren based on the work, and signs of interest among my colleagues at the university. A significant obstacle was the lack of fluent Swedish. In any case, the Korczak Committee was formed and exists, and not just on paper.
It's difficult to accurately translate the name of our association into Polish: "Föreningen för Janusz Korczaks levande arv," but loosely translated it would be: "Association for the Promotion of the Living Heritage of Janusz Korczak." We published Korczak's "The Child's Right to Respect" (Barnets rätt till respekt) and "How to Love a Child" (Hur man älskar ett barn) in Swedish. They became required reading for students at both the Higher School of Teacher Training and Stockholm University. In this way, Korczak—to my delight—entered the world of higher education, and I hope he will continue to pave his own path there. Doctor Sven Hartman plays a crucial role in animating and promoting our work. I'm thinking, among other things, of his work. His insightful approach to the issue, appearances on radio and television, as well as the valuable article Korczak seen through the eyes of a Swede - included in the brochure Korczak - a humanist pedagogue published by our association.
Aware of my financial difficulties, Mrs. Stefa recommended me as a paid tutor for the "Hipolit Wawelberg Summer Camp for Polish Children of All Faiths." A beautiful idea, but not an easy task. The poorest children in the capital, both Jewish and Christian, were to vacation together. How much mutual prejudice came to the fore! A difficult problem remained: how to quickly overcome distrust, sometimes reluctance? How to teach mutual understanding and harmonious coexistence? A group of older boys was placed under my care. Initially, I lost faith. But these street children weren't bad people at all. I somehow managed to gain their trust. I think working with them was very beneficial for me. I suspect my boys also benefited greatly from our time together. Several times, our mutual interest in each other blossomed into something resembling friendship, or—to put it more modestly—likeliness, kindness, and promises to meet and help each other when needed.
When I returned to Krochmalna Street at the beginning of the school year, Korczak would inquire with great interest about my daily routine at the summer camp, about my observations, difficulties, and even my minor achievements, which he placed particular value on. We usually sat next to or across from each other. And the Doctor was a great listener! He didn't interrupt. Only then would he ask substantive questions or make a comment. I enjoyed these conversations immensely. I honestly admit that I wasn't a fan of even the most pleasant "standing" conversations. I would then experience a strange sense of embarrassment. The Doctor would raise his head, as I was taller than him. And yet, with him, and even in his absence, I felt so small, unimportant, and insignificant in comparison, even though he often tried to awaken my sense of self-worth. He was and remained an intellectual and moral authority for me.
The term "authority" is so at odds with the personality of the Doctor, a man who never even used statements like: "I believe," "I have reached a conclusion," "in my opinion," or "in my opinion." It's characteristic that in similar situations he used to say: "I think," "I have the impression," "it occurred to me." He would also often ask: "What do you think?" And you had to think for yourself, not resort to platitudes or generalizations, and formulate your opinions concretely, even if tentatively, but honestly. And to this day, when I'm faced with a difficult problem that I'd rather avoid, convinced that it will somehow work out, the figure of the Doctor emerges before me. He looks me in the eye and asks: "What do you think, Mr. Misha?"
Hitler came to power in Germany. The dark clouds of anti-Semitism fell in a heavy rain on the unfortunately fertile, in this respect, Polish land. This was quickly reflected not figuratively, but literally, in our own backyard. A group of teenagers from the neighboring tenement house threw stones at the playground where our children played. Our pupils were called names. They were attacked in groups when they returned from school. Fierce fights broke out because our children "wouldn't give in." Violent conflicts escalated. Doctor Doc often tried to calm the situation himself. Sometimes he delegated me to those at Krochmalna 90. I often managed to reach them with words. I then invited the neighbors to join me for games and sports competitions. They even came more and more willingly. They behaved decently. How I longed to believe that these weren't just short-term effects.
I've already mentioned that the students of the Dormitory came from poor families. It's no wonder, then, that we were drawn to revolutionary slogans. I joined the teachers' and educators' union. It was a left-wing organization. I remember finding myself in a very difficult situation when a strike was called against exploitation by employers. Doubts arose. I was thinking about the exploited, about the need to fight for a classless society, for justice, but was the Orphanage – my employer – truly an exploiter? That day, I had a predetermined shift in the dormitory: evening, night, and morning. And I didn't leave the children unattended, my Dawids and Dawideks, Jakubs and Jakubeks. When the children shared the same names, various diminutives were used. And so, Dodiuk, who had lived in Paris for years, was always Jakubek, even as he grew older. Adults were addressed as: Mrs. Stefa, Miss Różyczka, and Mr. Jakub. Only Korczak was addressed not by his first name, but simply as "Pan Doctor" (Mr. Doctor). Outside of the Home, he was called variously, depending on his surroundings: Dr. Henryk Goldszmit, Janusz Korczak, or the Old Doctor. And he was in his fifties at the time.
Time measures change. This year I'm turning 80, and I don't feel old at all, and I don't want to be treated like one. You could call me a veteran of the Korczak movement. After Jakub Czuk left for what was then Palestine, I took his place as a paid educator, earning 100 złoty a month. For comparison, Dr. and Mrs. Stefa probably received no more than 150 złoty each. The salary wasn't high, but the satisfaction, at least for me, was considerable. This also allowed me to go on my first real vacation at a student summer camp in Krościenko nad Dunajcem. Lunia was there too. Before the anniversary of the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, she taught me to recite Mayakovsky's Left March. Along the Dunajec River, we read Bertrand Russell's Thoughts on Education together. I don't know if any of what I was reading resonated with me, because during frequent breaks in our reading, we hugged and kissed... We'd be late returning to the university cafeteria for lunch, and along the way, I'd joke—prophetically, as it turned out—that "this study will bring grandchildren."
The Doctor, concerned, listening to her serious arguments, countered with his own. Children's inclinations and interests haven't yet crystallized, and we're already forcing a profession on them? Artisans often use children for various menial tasks, yet they don't teach them at all. Why steal two more years of their recently regained childhood from their pupils? And then an argument, also looking to the future, but with a greater weight to the species. Primary schools were set up so that if any child wanted to return to school after two or more years, they would already be "overgrown." This would permanently close off the possibility of further education for our children, because they are orphans. No, no! Unless... the child "has no head for learning" and already wants to. But that's only in exceptional cases.
Korczak was clearly aware of the reality, but he couldn't change everything. He focused on providing the children at the Orphanage with the best possible experience and wanted to give them at least a good start into a future full of uncertainties. What happened to our pupils when they left Krochmalna after turning 14? Life wasn't easy for them because, above all, conditions in Poland at the time were incredibly difficult, and even more so for Jewish children. Our management, often taking advantage of the willingness of the Orphanage Aid Society, helped them secure a "job" that also offered the opportunity to acquire specific skills, such as carpentry, metalwork, tailoring, photography, shoemaking, or a hairdressing salon. According to the Constitution, youth work was permitted from the age of 16 (starvation was not subject to an age limit).
Let me tell you about Jakub. This little boy once told Józek Amon that he wanted everyone to admire him, that he dreamed of performing in the circus. He didn't become a circus performer. Instead, he was employed in a fabrication shop, mainly as... a dog. At night, he was locked in the shop to keep watch. He had a roof over his head and slept on a folding camp bed. When the shop assistant opened the shop, the boy would run to the owner, climb up the kitchen stairs, and receive a cup of coffee and two slices of bread with butter. Then he would "walk" the boss's daughter to middle school. More precisely, he would follow her a few steps away and carry her briefcase so the young lady wouldn't get a twisted spine. The return journey was similar. In the meantime, he acted as an errand boy. A modest dinner was eaten in a hurry in the owner's kitchen. Then more work. Cleaning the shop, waiting, and finally resting. Sometimes, through the closed blinds, he would talk to his mother, who came to visit. She worked as a maid "for people" and lived with them. His mother convinced her son that he was "lucky" with this job. He tried hard to believe that he was actually... very happy.
Some children fared a little better. Others fared even worse. Particularly gifted children continued their education, working on Krochmalna Street as boarders. These were the rare exceptions, and they came from different age groups. A former pupils' association operated at the Orphanage. They came there to share their stories, meet former friends, and gaze at the old walls. Sometimes they sought advice or help, and often received it. At one such meeting, in the presence of the Doctor, Władek Kwas leveled a series of accusations against the upbringing at the Orphanage: honesty, truthfulness, and diligence (in whose interests? the capitalists'!). Meanwhile, these children of the proletariat needed to be prepared for the revolutionary struggle against exploitation. "The Wind from the East" swept the young man away. Convinced that anything that served communism "Made in the Soviet Union" was right and moral, he constantly leveled other accusations. Only on the ruins of the capitalist world, "when our brotherly union embraces the human race," will it be possible to build a just society, without the exploitation of man by man, without national discord, without anti-Semitism, without injustice, without hunger, etc., etc. And Korczak didn't harden them, didn't even point them to the one true path. The Doctor didn't share the young man's views, but he, too, had long been plagued by serious doubts, a sense of responsibility that haunted him. How bitter and difficult it must have been for him at that moment, listening to the accusations... Over thirty years later, I met Władek in Sweden. The same wave had swept us out of the Polish People's Republic, that is, out of Polish land, into a foreign land. He found me and asked for a few moments of conversation, to unburden himself of what had long been troubling him. Korczak is gone, so he asks me to listen. The charges brought against the Doctor, the accusations leveled against him, weigh on him like a nightmare. Enriched by experience, not only his own, he would like to withdraw these accusations...
This shocking "confession" lasted quite a while, from a man who would gladly repeat after Korczak that there is no harmful truth, only an inconvenient truth. He concluded by assuring me that, despite what he had accused the Doctor of in his youthful ecstasy, in his later life, perhaps without fully realizing it, he was guided primarily by the values and ideals he had learned at the Orphanage, because they had become ingrained in him. Contact with this man made a strong impression on me. Correspondence and numerous meetings at various times with former pupils who had miraculously escaped the "Shoah" provided me with much knowledge and food for thought. I met many of them in Poland, but also later. They live in Israel, France, Denmark, the USA, and Australia. I hosted some of them in my apartment in Stockholm. Our conversations always turn to topics related to Krochmalna Street, which has suddenly been renamed Jaktorowska Street.
Naturally, former pupils tell me how they coped after leaving the Orphanage. Relatively many, in line with their interests and abilities, pursued vocational education, and some even pursued higher education. In most cases, "our children" have already retired. But I also met our charges while they were still dedicatedly to working professionally and raising their children. What brave people they have become! In honest conversations, everyone emphasizes the precious values the Orphanage discovered in them and reinforced. They speak of life on Krochmalna Street as if it were their seven good years. I suspect this stems not only from memory's natural tendency toward optimism, which selects memories, emphasizing the role of positive ones and rejecting unpleasant and sad ones. They assure me that, alongside valuable moral principles, they were shaped there with traits of mind and character that did not, and still do, allow for the blindfolding of their eyes, but facilitate independent, objective judgment.
Did we experience even a moment of relief that chance had saved us from death? I doubt it. Boundless despair, a humiliating helplessness, dominated. We exchanged a few words. We grabbed the suitcase with papers from under the Doctor's bed and left the house on Śliska Street. The instinct for self-preservation told us to sneak into the large ghetto under the cover of night. We found accommodation with Felek Grzyb in an apartment whose windows overlooked the Krasiński Garden. The details are unimportant...What's important, however, is that in some strange, almost tangible way, the Doctor was always behind me. And I was, and am, with him. He always accompanied me on the tangled paths and off-roads of my struggle with fate. Escape from the ghetto, Aryan papers; then Lviv – a greater chance of survival, because I could pass for a Ukrainian there. Then, Kyiv was under Nazi occupation. Working as a "Polish Facharbeiter Maurer von Beruf" in a German construction company. The liberation of Kiev, the Soviet Army, the Polish Army – a gun-toting fight against fascism, for what I deeply believed would be a free, democratic Poland. "Nowe Widnokręgi" – a Polish-language magazine published in the USSR – published my article about the fate of Korczak and the children from the Orphanage. I suspect, not without reason, that it was the first public report on the subject. Factual, economical, and truthful. I knew this firsthand, after all. And I considered it my sacred duty to tell the story of what I saw and experienced. I only had to construct one scene from my imagination. Unfortunately, it wasn't difficult:
"Without warning, during breakfast, a gang of Nazi thugs burst into the orphanage. Everyone out! The children, barefoot and in their summer clothes, descended into the yard. Arranged in columns, under a convoy of SS, German youths, and police units, they set off towards the station. The doctor, cane in hand, leading the smallest girl, walked in front. In a green military uniform, bareheaded, he strode slowly, majestically. At the station, 100 people were loaded onto train cars. The doctor himself placed each child. He begged for some water for the fainting ones. And then, in turn, his shining head disappeared into the dark depths of the merchandiser. It vanished, never to return among the living."
At dawn on January 17, 1945, I crossed the frozen Vistula River with my unit into a completely deserted, nearly destroyed Warsaw. My mission: to establish an east-west route for the army, which, under cover of darkness, would advance through the city toward Berlin. I knew the capital well, but not in this appalling state—no bridges, no roads, no sidewalks. Rubble and ashes everywhere. When I set up the last checkpoints, I wandered to Krochmalna Street... It was an inner need. An encounter with the past and a sense that, fighting for a just cause, we stood on the threshold of a better future, and thus, of those human values that were the guiding force in Dr. Janusz Korczak's life. The next day, the streets of Warsaw were filled with people. Displaced residents of the capital were flocking from suburban neighborhoods to their homes. At the intersection of Marszałkowska and Aleje Jerozolimskie, I stood in uniform, rifle slung over my shoulder and a flag in my hand. I directed the flow of military vehicles. My soldiers stood on all four street corners, helping to relieve major traffic jams.
People, seeing the Polish military uniforms, couldn't believe their eyes. They laughed and cried with joy. Suddenly, a shout came from behind me: "Every spirit praises God! Michał, is that you?!!" And my dear friend, Tadeusz Błażejewski, a famous Warsaw boxer, threw his arms around me. He was overjoyed and hugged me. I experienced a wonderful feeling of being home, among my own people. And along Aleje Jerozolimskie, trucks, tanks, and cannons were moving westward... Everything westward... Fighting in the ranks of the Polish Army, I reached the Elbe River. The decimation of the Polish nation, the planned, brutal murder of the Jewish people... The number 6 million - this wasn't just a horrific statistic. In my eyes, every adult killed bore the face of Korczak, my father... Every child killed bore the face of one of my wards from the Orphanage on Krochmalna Street...
A survey addressed to teachers and caretakers in orphanages yielded interesting results. The publication, "What Did Janusz Korczak Give Me?" based on this material, generated considerable interest. Along with Hanna Mortkowicz-Olczakowa and Igor Newerly, I appeared on Polish Radio several times - naturally, we touched on topics related to the life and work of the Doctor. Besides various ad hoc events, we also regularly organized seminars and solemn commemorations marking the anniversary of Janusz Korczak's martyrdom. We oversaw two Korczak centers in Warsaw – on Krochmalna Street and in Bielany. We've often been asked whether such facilities could exist without such a unique personality as the Doctor? In keeping with my deep conviction, I answer affirmatively. Only if the orphanage is run not by overseers—policemen or officials—but by educators dedicated to the child's cause and gifted with a vivid imagination. How much Korczak himself constantly changed, tried differently, and was taught by his own experience. How many new ideas does he come up with, drawn directly from life, from observation? Take those "institutions" I've already mentioned. With what seriousness, insight, and understanding, Korczak approached these children, eager to change, to improve. The official would simply take diligent notes; the overseer—policeman would command, suspect, and verify. And the Doctor experienced right alongside the delinquents. He understood and advised insightfully, so that no "never again" could be heard, because that is extremely difficult. He talked, listened, and consulted with the children, truly seriously.
Our family life was harmonious. My wife, Zofia, worked as a teacher. She completed her studies at the University of Warsaw, which she had begun before the war. Later, she persuaded me to continue my studies as well. We both worked professionally and volunteered, primarily for the Korczak Committee. We were raising three sons. Despite our many activities, we devoted a lot of time and, most importantly, attention to them. We often had to be incredibly patient (because, as the Doctor used to say, "having a child isn't easy at all"). We took into account our boys' likes and dislikes, their dreams, desires, and aversions, as well as their outside interests.
We ate breakfast together, but in a hurry. Dinner, however, was leisurely. It was a time for conversation, chatting, and telling stories. Everyone helped themselves to their plate, mindful of the others' appetites. It wasn't polite to leave leftovers on their plates. We, the parents, recounted the events of the previous day and the people we met. The boys also began to share what made them happy, worried, or problematic. They didn't hide their "sins." They weren't afraid of punishment. We took their various matters and activities seriously, even though to many other adults they would probably seem ridiculously trivial. When it came to taking a stance on their problems, we were cautious but honest. For example, the teacher wasn't always right. Not all adults were wise and kind. Children had the right to respect and... protest. A few examples. Our Marian was interested in chemistry and had above-average knowledge in the subject. However, he received only a passing grade for the semester. He wanted us to discuss this with the teacher. I suggested he try it himself. And then, after dinner, he recounted his conversation with the chemist. The teacher's main objection was the student's poorly kept notebook. I told him – our son reported – that if a fire broke out and all the notebooks kept by the girls, kept in perfect order, were destroyed, perhaps the most important thing would be what remained in our heads. We agreed with the boy's arguments, but regarding the notebook, we had a slightly different opinion.
Third-grader Gabriel repeatedly claimed that his new "teacher" was bad because she was unfair. One day, he came home from school pale with anger. During lunch, he told us that someone had broken a window in the classroom. The teacher declared it was definitely Marek Jurgaś. And Marek had just been to the school dentist. The children gathered around the teacher, shouted, "Yes, it's Marek, it's Marek!" he recounted indignantly. "But you, son, didn't shout like that, and why are you practically crying about it?" Gabryś replied, "No, I didn't shout like that, but I didn't scream that it wasn't Jurgaś at all..." The child felt guilty and had a sensitive conscience. We chatted for a long time about wrongs, justice, injustice, and also disgusting hypocrisy.
My youngest son, Romek, had a beloved teddy bear. He would lie in bed with it and cuddle it. One day, the distraught child told us that Teddy Bear had lost his eye. We searched for the eye for a long time—but in vain. We tried in vain to comfort the distraught Romek. Finally, my wife said, "Don't worry, son, we'll buy you a new teddy bear tomorrow." At this, the little one, looking at his mother with utter amazement, gasped, "But it's mine."
To defuse the awkward situation, I suggested Romek take a bike ride in the nearby Saxon Garden. He forgot about the bear for a while, but that evening he went to sleep with his Teddy bear, cuddling him tenderly. Once the children were asleep, my wife and I returned to the bear issue. Zofia confessed that the child simply annoyed her.
I was embarrassed. "Yes, I can adapt to the concepts children use," she said, "but I couldn't, as Korczak said, rise to their feelings so as not to offend, not to touch. I failed as a mother and as a teacher." It's not without reason that I claim that Korczak played a significant role in our family home. As I mentioned, my wife, Zofia, forced me to complete the studies I began before the war. It was no coincidence, then, that when the Minister of National Defense, Marshal Spychalski, congratulated me, a graying top student, on my promotion, he primarily honored her contribution to my academic achievements.
Absorbed in our studies, busy with professional and social work, and raising our own children, we did indeed notice many disturbing phenomena in political and social life, but for a long time, we focused on the individual trees, missing the forest. After periods of exposed "errors and distortions" and solemn assurances that things would be completely different, many people began to trust again. For too long, I, too, had lived under illusions.
My wife and I, taking advantage of the generosity of others, began our Korczak activities. Talks, press interviews, a Swedish translation of King Matthias ("King Matthias I"), radio programs of a theatre of imagination for schoolchildren based on the work, and signs of interest among my colleagues at the university. A significant obstacle was the lack of fluent Swedish. In any case, the Korczak Committee was formed and exists, and not just on paper.
It's difficult to accurately translate the name of our association into Polish: "Föreningen för Janusz Korczaks levande arv," but loosely translated it would be: "Association for the Promotion of the Living Heritage of Janusz Korczak." We published Korczak's "The Child's Right to Respect" (Barnets rätt till respekt) and "How to Love a Child" (Hur man älskar ett barn) in Swedish. They became required reading for students at both the Higher School of Teacher Training and Stockholm University. In this way, Korczak—to my delight—entered the world of higher education, and I hope he will continue to pave his own path there. Doctor Sven Hartman plays a crucial role in animating and promoting our work. I'm thinking, among other things, of his work. His insightful approach to the issue, appearances on radio and television, as well as the valuable article Korczak seen through the eyes of a Swede - included in the brochure Korczak - a humanist pedagogue published by our association.
