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Keybot 14 Résultats  warsze.polin.pl
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Następnie udałem się do Biura Paszportów, które mieściło się w Pałacu Mostowskich przy ulicy Nowotki (obecnie Andersa). Wchodziło się tylnym wejściem. Zostałem skierowany do jakiegoś ponurego pokoju, gdzie powitał mnie wyraźnie zadowolony oficer milicji.
Then I went to the Passport Office, which was located in the Mostowski Palace at 2 Nowolipie Street. The entrance was in the back of the building. I was directed to a gloomy room where I was greeted by a police officer, clearly very pleased. Apparently the Passport Office did not have many visitors interested in going to Israel.
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Gazety pełne są zdjęć transparentów z licznych wieców wzywających syjonistów, by wyjeżdżali do Izraela. Podobno widziano nawet transparent „Syjoniści do Syjamu”, ale nie udało mi się znaleźć żadnego świadka.
The absurdity of this narrative begins with the swapping of the word “Jew” to “Zionist”. Newspapers were full of pictures of banners from numerous rallies urging Zionists to go away to Israel. Reportedly, one bore the slogan “Zionists go to Siam”, but no actual witnesses have been found. A popular joke at the time was: “Daddy, how do you spell Zionist? I don't know, son, but before the war it was spelled J-E-W.”
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Królował tam prezes Rozenbarg, okrągły mężczyzna w średnim wieku, bardzo porządny człowiek. Miał bardzo ładną żonę, Polkę. Po Marcu ‘68 wyjechał – jak większość pracowników spółdzielni Optima – do Izraela. Razem z innymi próbował odrodzić tam swój biznes, ale się nie udało.
Another office was located on Senatorska Street and that one I visited quite often to leave my mother's products, which I handed to a very short man. He told me once that during the war he had belonged to the French underground organization Maquis and specialized in “dirty jobs”, i.e. executing traitors. I never had a chance to find out if that was true.
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W marcu 1964 roku, gdy ukończyłem 18 lat i poczułem się samodzielny, udałem się na ulicę Krzywickiego, do Ambasady Izraela. Była akurat niedziela, ale dla instytucji izraelskiej to żadne święto. Po wypytaniu przez zamknięte drzwi, kim jestem i czego chcę, wpuszczono mnie do środka i od jednego z pracowników ambasady uzyskałem rady oraz wsparcie finansowe, bo wyjazd nie był tani.
In March 1964, when I turned 18 and felt independent, I went to the Embassy of Israel at 24 Krzywickiego Street. It happened to be a Sunday, but that is not a holiday for Israeli institutions. After answering questions through closed doors, saying who I was and what I came for, they let me in and one of the embassy staff gave me advice and financial support, because the trip I was planning was not cheap. In 1964 emigration was not a popular choice.
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Moi rodzice wrócili z Iraku, brat był nadal w wojsku, czekał na wyjście, a złożył pismo na wyjazd do Izraela jesienią 1968 roku. Wszyscy chcieliśmy wyjechać, ale nie od razu to się udało. Ojciec poszedł do swojego głównego szefa w Polserwisie, skąd już został wyrzucony, ale jeszcze miał legitymację partyjną.
My parents returned from Iraq and my brother was still in the army, unsure when he would be discharged, nervous because he had applied for an exit permit to Israel for the autumn of 1968. We all wanted to go, but that was not possible right away. My father approached his chief boss in Polservice; he had been fired by then, but still had his party membership card. He tore it up into tiny pieces and threw it in the boss's face, saying: “You sons of bitches!”. That's the kind of man my father was! He knew we would get to Israel eventually.
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Gina mieszkała w kamienicy Leszno 56, naprzeciwko gmachu sądów, a ja wystawałem pod bramą, licząc na to, że może uda mi się ją zobaczyć. Jeśli wychodziła z domu, szedłem za nią aż do Świętojerskiej. Był maj 1939 roku, kiedy podszedłem do niej na ulicy.
She lived in a tenement house in 56 Leszno Street, across from the Courts building, and I hung around the gate, hoping to see her. Whenever I saw Gina go out, I would follow her all the way to Świętojerska Street. It was May 1939 when I finally approached her in the street. I wanted to give her some photos that I had a street photographer take at the ceremony of students paying tribute to the memory of Józef Piłsudski at the anniversary of his death. She said we needed to meet again, she wanted to pay me back. But I – I am not sure if I felt she insulted my honour or if I suddenly stopped liking her – I said: “I have no financial troubles!”. In “Nowolipie Street” I mention how Gina's picture helped me get past a German border guard as I was crossing to the Soviet side – she looked very “Aryan”. “The love paid off”, I concluded at an author's meeting.
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Widziałam, jak studenci wpadali do kościoła Świętego Krzyża, myśmy tam nie weszli (potem była tam masakra), tylko uciekliśmy w ulicę Sewerynów, gdzie była jadłodajnia studencka. Było pusto, cieszyliśmy się, że się nam udało, mieliśmy stamtąd blisko do domu na Górskiego.
I stumbled upon Marek, and together we ran from the police into a crowd of people. I saw students burst into the Church of the Holy Cross, but we did not go in (it turned into a bloodbath later), instead we ran towards a student cafeteria on Sewerynów Street. It was empty. We were glad we had made it, and it was just a short way from our home on Górskiego Street. Suddenly, we heard terrible wails and cries of a man being beaten. On the ground we saw a scrawny guy. Afterwards we learned that he was a student from our university's history department, Eugeniusz Temkin. He never left Poland, became a historian and worked at the Lenin Museum. Born in a prison camp in Siberia, brought up by his mother, he was fatherless, almost a cripple, and he wore hearing aids. That small, frail boy was being tortured by a band of Golędzin militia. Terrified, we started to scream at the top of our lungs: “Gestapo! Gestapo!”. After that, we were both arrested; I was detained briefly, Marek was released two days later.
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Pierwszy pomnik ustawiono w latach pięćdziesiątych, przede wszystkim na cześć Anielewicza, a drugi – pół wieku później, gdy udało się odnaleźć nazwiska kilkudziesięciu innych spośród około trzystu zabitych w tym miejscu.
Following the route of remembrance along Zamenhofa Street, you reach monuments at the site of the former Miła Street No. 18. They mark the command bunker of the Jewish Combat Organization, where a group of insurgents, under the command of Mordechaj Anielewicz, held off German attacks. Most of them died in the bunker on 8 May 1943. The first monument was erected at the site in the 1950s, primarily to honour Anielewicz. It was joined by another monument half a century later, when several dozen insurgents out of the approximately 300 who died in the bunker were identified. Standing in front of it, groups of Israeli youth visiting Warsaw may find parallels with the ruins of Masada, an ancient fortress overlooking the Dead Sea, where Jewish rebels decided to commit suicide rather than surrender to the Romans in 73 A.D. The site of the bunker is truly a grave: the bodies were never exhumed.
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Dopiero w 2007 roku cały szereg zbiegów okoliczności spowodował, że – dzięki bardzo wielu osobom i instytucjom! – udało się wspólnie z architektem Tomaszem Lecem zaznaczyć na ulicach Warszawy linię przebiegu granic getta, które istniało tu przez trzy lata, a tak bardzo wpłynęło na losy miasta.
In Iron Gate Square you come across a marker indicating the limits of the ghetto between November 1940 and May 1943. A total of 21 such markers have been installed at the maximum perimeter (the limits of the ghetto were changed repeatedly) of the largest involuntary urban concentration of people in German-occupied Europe. Hardly anyone today can imagine what life was like in the Warsaw Ghetto, or even show it on a map. Apart from a few buildings, there are no traces of it; along with one-third of the population of the city, a large part of the downtown district was destroyed. The area was covered with a new grid of streets and new buildings. The markers were installed in order to help those interested in history find their way. We are going to see several more along this route.