ADOLF BERMAN. W GŁÓWNYM NURCIE HISTORII

Żydowski Instytut Historyczny

Dziś mija rocznica urodzin Adolfa Bermana, którego zasług i bohaterstwa nie sposób kwestionować.

Ceremonia nadania imienia Domu Dziecka w Otwocku. Pierwszy z lewej: Adolf Berman / Źródło: Archiwum ŻIH

Nazwisko Berman nie kojarzy się w Polsce dobrze. Ponura sława Jakuba organizującego zbrodniczy aparat represji w czasach stalinowskich przyćmiła pamięć o jego młodszym bracie, którego zasług i bohaterstwa nie sposób kwestionować. Dziś mija 112. rocznica urodzin Adolfa Bermana, warto więc z tej okazji przypomnieć jego postać.

Urodzony w 1906 r. w Warszawie Adolf Berman studiował psychologię, historię i filozofię. Jego pracę magisterską, przedstawioną do obrony w połowie 1931 roku, uznano za rozprawę doktorską i od razu nadano mu odpowiedni tytuł. W następnych latach pracował w szkole, prowadził własne badania oraz wdrażał pionierski w Polsce system poradnictwa zawodowego. Postawa, jaką przyjął wobec dramatycznych wyzwań stających przed Żydami po inwazji hitlerowskich Niemiec na Polskę, spowodowała, że nieznany szerzej naukowiec stał się jedną z najważniejszych postaci społeczności żydowskiej w Warszawie.

Od 1940 roku pełnił rolę zastępcy dyrektora, a następnie dyrektora Towarzystwa Opieki nad Dziećmi Żydowskimi „Centos”, jednej z najważniejszych organizacji w getcie. Wspominając po wojnie swoją działalność, napisał:

Drogą ogromnego wysiłku udało się stworzyć wielką sieć placówek opiekuńczych i objąć nimi stosunkowo wielką liczbę dzieci. Rzecz jasna, że proces ruiny gospodarczej i pauperyzacji ludności odbywał się znacznie szybciej, niż rozwój akcji opiekuńczej, która w skutek tego nie mogła żadnej z bolączek nie tylko rozwiązać, ale nawet w sposób wydatny załagodzić. Opieka nad dziećmi nie była w stanie objąć wielotysięcznych rzesz nowych sierot, ofiar straszliwej śmiertelności, głodu i epidemii, ani rozwiązać palącej bolączki „dzieci ulicy”.

Berman, członek lewicowego odłamu syjonistycznej partii Poalej Syjon, należał do grona organizatorów powołanego w getcie w marcu 1942 roku Bloku Antyfaszystowskiego. 22 lipca tego samego roku Niemcy rozpoczęli wielką akcję likwidacyjną, podczas której 300 tysięcy warszawskich Żydów, a wśród nich niemal wszystkich podopiecznych „Centosu”, wywieziono do obozu zagłady w Treblince. Po trwającej dwa miesiące akcji Berman, który sam kilkakrotnie cudem uciekał z Umschlagplatzu, zdecydował się wyjść wraz z żoną z getta i ukryć po „stronie aryjskiej”.

Po drugiej stronie muru Berman reprezentował w kontaktach z podziemnymi władzami polskimi Żydowski Komitet Narodowy, polityczne przedstawicielstwo szykujących się do walki zbrojnej mieszkańców getta. Namawiał dowództwo AK do wysyłania żydowskim bojowcom broni, a po wybuchu powstania informował Delegaturę Rządu o sytuacji w walczącym getcie.

Adolf Berman przemawia podczas przyjęcia. Za plecami rabin Treistman, obok Salo Fiszgrund
źródło: Archiwum ŻIH

Jako przedstawiciel ŻKN wszedł do prezydium Rady Pomocy Żydom „Żegota”. Wraz z żoną pomagał żyjącym po „aryjskiej stronie” Żydom wyszukując dla nich kryjówki, pośrednicząc w załatwianiu fałszywych dokumentów i przydzielając zapomogi. Był też w stałym kontakcie z Emanuelem Ringelblumem, twórcą Podziemnego Archiwum Getta Warszawy, który od lutego 1943 roku ukrywał się wraz z rodziną w podziemnym bunkrze przy ul. Grójeckiej 84. 7 marca 1944 roku schron w wyniku donosu odkryło gestapo i rozstrzelało 30 ukrywających się tam Żydów oraz opiekującą się nimi rodzinę Marczaków. Wcześniej Ringelblum przekazał Bermanowi część napisanych w bunkrze prac, wśród których znalazł się obszerny esej o stosunkach polsko-żydowskich w czasie II wojny światowej. Tekst ten przechowywany jest w Archiwum Żydowskiego Instytutu Historycznego.

Z racji pełnionych funkcji Adolf Berman dużo jeździł po Warszawie. Dla żyjącego po „stronie aryjskiej” Żyda było to niezwykle ryzykowne, nawet jeśli, tak jak Berman, miał „dobry wygląd”. W styczniu 1944 roku małżeństwo Bermanów wpadło w ręce szmalcowników.

Na rogu Alej Jerozolimskich podeszło trzech drabów – pisała w dzienniku Basia Bermanowa – z rewolwerami i z okrzykiem: „pan jest dr Berman”, obmacali go, a potem, szturchając, zawlekli do komisariatu. Tam wyglądało to już na ostatni akt. Mieli zabrać go na Szucha, obrewidowali, straszyli, ale po półgodzinnych awanturach zmiękli i gdy zaproponował forsę, zaczęły się targi.

Okup wpłaciła „Żegota” i ŻKN. Mieszkanie Bermanów zostało – nie po raz pierwszy zresztą – „spalone”, a oni, ze względów bezpieczeństwa musieli ograniczyć na jakiś czas skalę swojej pracy konspiracyjnej. Pół roku później Adolf Berman wziął udział w Powstaniu Warszawskim.

Działacze CKŻP przed pomnikiem Bohaterów Getta z okazji rocznicy wybuchu powstania w getcie warszawskim. Adolf Berman trzeci od prawej.
źródło: Archiwum ŻIH

Po wojnie Berman pełnił funkcję wiceprzewodniczącego, a następnie przewodniczącego Centralnego Komitetu Żydów w Polsce, organizacji reprezentującej Żydów, którzy przetrwali Holokaust. Był także posłem do Krajowej Rady Narodowej. W 1950 roku, wobec coraz dalej idącej marginalizacji CKŻP i ograniczenia jego autonomii, Berman zdecydował się na wyjazd do Izraela. Działał tam jako polityk i publicysta. Zmarł w 1978 roku w Tel Awiwie.

The Japanese Man Who Saved 6,000 Jews With His Handwriting

David Wolpe

What the astonishing Chiune Sugihara teaches us about moral heroism.

Foreign Minister Fumio Kishida of Japan at a tree planted in memory of Chiune Sugihara in the garden of the Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem.CreditCreditGali Tibbon/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

NAGOYA, Japan — “Even a hunter cannot kill a bird that flies to him for refuge.” This Samurai maxim inspired one gifted and courageous man to save thousands of people in defiance of his government and at the cost of his career. On Friday I came to Nagoya at the invitation of the Japanese government to speak in honor of his memory.

The astonishing Chiune Sugihara raises again the questions: What shapes a moral hero? And how does someone choose to save people that others turn away?

Research on those who rescued Jews during the Holocaust shows that many exhibited a streak of independence from an early age. Sugihara was unconventional in a society known for prizing conformity. His father insisted that his son, a top student, become a doctor. But Sugihara wanted to study languages and travel and immerse himself in literature. Forced to sit for the medical exam, he left the entire answer sheet blank. The same willfulness was on display when he entered the diplomatic corps and, as vice minister of the Foreign Affairs Department for Japan in Manchuria in 1934, resigned in protest of the Japanese treatment of the Chinese.

A second characteristic of such heroes and heroines, as the psychologist Philip Zimbardo writes, is “that the very same situations that inflame the hostile imagination in some people, making them villains, can also instill the heroic imagination in other people, prompting them to perform heroic deeds.” While the world around him disregarded the plight of the Jews, Sugihara was unable to ignore their desperation.

In 1939 Sugihara was sent to Lithuania, where he ran the consulate. There he was soon confronted with Jews fleeing from German-occupied Poland.

Three times Sugihara cabled his embassy asking for permission to issue visas to the refugees. The cable from K. Tanaka at the foreign ministry read: “Concerning transit visas requested previously stop advise absolutely not to be issued any traveler not holding firm end visa with guaranteed departure ex japan stop no exceptions stop no further inquires expected stop.”

Sugihara talked about the refusal with his wife, Yukiko, and his children and decided that despite the inevitable damage to his career, he would defy his government.

Mr. Zimbardo calls the capacity to act differently the “heroic imagination,” a focus on one’s duty to help and protect others. This ability is exceptional, but the people who have it are often understated. Years after the war, Sugihara spoke about his actions as natural: “We had thousands of people hanging around the windows of our residence,” he said in a 1977 interview. “There was no other way.”

On Friday I spoke at Sugihara’s old high school in Nagoya, during a ceremony unveiling a bronze statue of him handing visas to a refugee family. After the ceremony, in front of some 1,200 students, I spoke with his one remaining child, his son Nobuki, who arrived from Belgium to honor his father’s memory. He told me his father was “a very simple man. He was kind, loved reading, gardening and most of all children. He never thought what he did was notable or unusual.”

Most of the world saw throngs of desperate foreigners. Sugihara saw human beings and he knew he could save them through prosaic but essential action: “A lot of it was handwriting work,” he said.

Chiune Sugihara, in an undated photograph./ CreditThe Asahi Shimbun, via Getty Images

Day and night he wrote visas. He issued as many visas in a day as would normally be issued in a month. His wife, Yukiko, massaged his hands at night, aching from the constant effort. When Japan finally closed down the embassy in September 1940, he took the stationery with him and continued to write visas that had no legal standing but worked because of the seal of the government and his name. At least 6,000 visas were issued for people to travel through Japan to other destinations, and in many cases entire families traveled on a single visa. It has been estimated that over 40,000 people are alive today because of this one man.

With the consulate closed, Sugihara had to leave. He gave the consulate stamp to a refugee to forge more visas, and he literally threw visas out of the train window to refugees on the platform.

After the war, Sugihara was dismissed from the foreign office. He and his wife lost a 7-year-old child and he worked at menial jobs. It was not until 1968 when a survivor, Yehoshua Nishri, found him that his contribution was recognized. Nishri had been a teenager in Poland saved by a Sugihara visa and was now at the Israeli embassy in Tokyo.

In the intervening years Sugihara never spoke about his wartime activities. Even many close to him had no idea that he was a hero.

Sugihara died in 1986. Nine years earlier he gave an interview and was asked why he did it: “I told the Ministry of Foreign Affairs it was a matter of humanity. I did not care if I lost my job. Anyone else would have done the same thing if they were in my place.”

Of course many were in his place — and very few acted like Sugihara. Moral courage is rare and moral greatness even rarer. It requires a mysterious and potent combination of empathy, will and deep conviction that social norms cannot shake.

How would Sugihara have responded to the refugee crisis we face today, and the response of so many leaders to bolt the gates of entry? There is no simple response adequate to the enormity of the situation. But we have to keep before us the image of a single man, overtaxed, isolated and inundated, who refused to close his eyes to the chaos outside his window. He understood the obligations common to us all and heard in the pleadings of an alien tongue the universal message of pain.

On Friday, I told the students that one day in each of their lives there would be a moment when they would have to decide whether to close the door or open their hearts. When that moment arrives, I implored them, remember that they came from the same school as a great man who when the birds flew to him for refuge, did not turn them away.

David Wolpe (@RabbiWolpe) is the rabbi of Sinai Temple in Los Angeles and the author of “David: The Divided Heart.”

New Off-Broadway Play Examines a Fascinating Jewish Story

Alice Burdick Schweiger

A scene from ‘My Parsifal Conductor.’ Photo: provided.

For years, playwright and screenwriter Allan Leicht had wanted to tell the story of composer Richard Wagner — a known antisemite — and his Jewish friend who conducted his opera, Parsifal. (Parsifal is a three-act Christian opera based on the 13th-century poem “Parzival” by Wolfram von Eschenbach, about Arthurian knight Percival and his quest for the Holy Grail.) But Leicht was busy with his acting and writing career, and had to put creating his dream play on hold.

But five years ago, the time seemed right, and Leicht penned the play My Parsifal Conductor. After teaming up with a production company, and putting together a stellar cast and director, the play is now running Off-Broadway in New York City at the Marjorie S. Deane Theater through November 3.

Leicht, a native New Yorker who has written for numerous television shows including Kate and Allie, Mariah, The Thorns, and Ryan’s Hope, and who wrote the acclaimed TV film Adam, about the kidnapped Adam Walsh, had been curious about Wagner growing up. “Years ago, I read about Hermann Levi, who was the son of a rabbi and one of Wagner’s most important conductors,” he says. “I was fascinated about their longtime friendship. Some thought Levi was disloyal becoming one of Wagner’s conductors, but the relationship between Wagner and Levi was complicated.”

When King Ludwig ll of Bavaria insisted that Levi conduct Wagner’s final masterpiece, Parsifal, Wagner’s wife, Cosima, was very much opposed. Levi was a huge star in the 19th century, a very fine pianist and composer himself, comparable to Leonard Bernstein, but Cosima felt strongly he should not be the one to conduct it. “Cosima didn’t mind that Levi conducted her husband’s other operas, but Parsifal was different,” says Leicht. “Cosima was a deeply religious woman and was tormented by the idea of having a Jew conduct an opera that she considered to be an expression of the mysteries of Christianity. It was no mere music-drama, but ‘a festival play for the consecration of the stage.’”

In the end, in 1882, Levi did wind up conducting the opera. When writing the play, Leicht, who is Orthodox, thought the best way to portray the story was through humor. “I thought because of its incongruity — antisemitism, Judaism, and German opera — that’s the stuff of comedy: a comedy about antisemitism, about the irrationality of antisemitism,” says Leicht, who has won Emmy and Writer’s Guild awards.

In Leicht’s play, Wagner and Cosima find themselves in a moral, political, and musical dilemma, and Cosima spends her last night on earth reliving her past and contemplating her after-life. Levi causes Cosima and Wagner to try and control their antisemitic views.

When asked what he hopes the audience will walk away with after seeing his play, Leicht says that he hopes they ask questions. “I hope audiences leave with questions. What is prejudice? Bigotry? How do we tolerate it? In this case it’s antisemitism, but it could be any kind of prejudice. It’s very difficult to admit that we admire people like Wagner or Dostoevsky, or poets Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, who were gifted artists and at the same time genuine antisemites. We like bad guys to wear black hats. But in this case, we have Mr. and Mrs. Wagner, who were both very intelligent, sensitive people. He was arguably the most important artist in the Western world, but had this bad side. Where did it come from?”

When Leicht, who lives in New York City and is also an Israeli citizen, isn’t working, he is busy with his family. He has three children and two grandchildren. His wife, Renee Lippin Leicht is an actress who appeared in the Woody Allen films Stardust Memories, Celebrity,and Radio Days, starred in the 1972 film Portnoy’s Complaint, and was on the Bob Newhart Show.

After the Off-Broadway run, Leicht hopes his play will get moved to a production in a larger theater. “I think it’s a fascinating story that people can relate to today,” he says. “For one thing, Richard Wagner was not exactly monogamous and left many an affair in his wake. He would be a candidate for the ‘Me, Too’ movement, except that most of his conquests seem to have been quite willing. It may not be for me to say, but My Parsifal Conductor is a very funny play. Look, two unapologetic antisemites in close friendship with the descendant of a long line of rabbis. As Cosima says, ‘Twelve rabbis conducting Parsifal.’”

My Parsifal Conductor runs through November 3 at the Marjorie S. Deane Theater at the West Side YMCA (5 W. 63rd St). Tickets for My Parsifal Conductor are available here.