Children in the Holocaust: Music and Letters from Poland

Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David;
my daughter is severely oppressed by a demon.
– St. Matthew 15:22

​Faithful readers of “Lifted Voice” know that October is the one month when I depart from the usual rhythm of the church year to recognize Child-Loss Month. Since this year marks eighty years since the liberation of the concentration camps of World War 2, and inspired by Laurel Holliday’s excellent volume, Children in the Holocaust and World War II: Their Secret Diaries (hereinafter Diaries), I would like to focus on the music of the Polish composer, Henryk Górecki  (1933–2010), and his expansive choral work, Miserere. I invite you to give the work a careful hearing as you read letters (including some grammatical oddities) from Polish children who survived the Holocaust, following the topical order in Diaries. This column is designed as a thirty-minute read, but I have no doubt that Górecki’s music and the children’s letters will make it worth your time. Now press “play” and join me to journey into the hearts and minds of those who cry, “Lord, our God, have mercy upon us.” 

Lord, our God, have mercy upon us.   Domine Deus nostri, miserere nobis

​Letters

Janine Phillip, Age Ten                                                                  Warsaw, September 1939

​Hitler has invaded Poland. We heard the bad news on the wireless a few minutes after spotting two aeroplanes circling around each other. Just before breakfast, about ten minutes to ten, I was returning from the privy when I heard aeroplanes in the sky. I thought it was manoeuvres. Then I heard some machine-guns and everybody came out from the house to see what was happening. Grandpa said, “My God! It’s war!” and rushed indoors to switch on the wireless. The grave news came in a special announcement that German forces have crossed the Polish border and our soldiers are defending our country. Everybody was stunned. With ears glued to the loudspeaker we were trying to catch the fading words. The battery or the accumulator, or both, were packing up. When we could no longer even hear a whisper from the wireless set, Grandpa turned the switch off and looked at our anguished faces. He knelt in front of the picture of Jesus Christ and started to pray aloud. We repeated after Grandpa, “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . . ” – Diaries, p. 3

Ephraim Shtenkler, Age Eleven                                                          Bialisk, Not Dated

One day we heard that the Germans were coming and we broke through the walls of the ghetto and some escaped. And my father heard that they had broken through the walls of the ghetto and he took me and gave me to a certain Polish woman and said to her, “After the war I’ll come back and fetch my son.” And the Germans came to our house and my mother lay in bed and they said to her, “Get up!” And she said, “How can I get up? I haven’t any strength left.” And they killed her in her bed and the neighbors heard of this and told my father and my father told it to the Polish woman, and the Polish woman, when she sent me away, told it to me.
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And, meanwhile, when my father went with me to the Polish woman, he was delayed among our neighbors and I went by myself to the Polish woman. I don’t know what was said between my father and his friends, but the next day my father came and told me that they had killed my mother and murdered women and babies and that now the Germans were seizing those children that remained and were putting them into tarpaulin bags and putting them on the train in a closed wagon and there they were stifled. And my father said, “It’s good that my only son doesn’t suffer as the other children suffer; but it’s bad that all the Jews suffer; for why are the Jews to blame?” – Diaries, pp. 22-23

Music

​Górecki is no stranger to music related to World War II. His Symphony No. 3 (1976) catapulted him to international fame in 1992 with the recording by David Zinman, Dawn Upshaw, and the London Sinfonietta. Nick Strimple is certainly correct in noting that his musical style “was influenced more by inwardly troubling nonmusical occurrences, such as World War II, persecution by the Communist government, and ill health, than by any teacher or other composer” (Choral Music in the Twentieth Century, p. 129). Miserere is no exception, as it was written in 1981 to protest government intervention against the Polish Solidarity trade union. After martial law was enacted, performances of the work were forbidden. The work was revived in 1987 (two years before the fall of Communism) at the site of a 1984 assassination of a priest by state police. The government forbid the performance, but every seat was occupied. The extended plea for God our Lord to have mercy upon us, especially in the face of persecution, was here to stay.

Letters

Janina Heshele, Age Twelve                                                               Lvov, Not Dated

The day for deportation arrived. We knew our end was near. The anticipation was unbearable. We wished it were over. We knew we were doomed. I lost all control of myself and wept without stopping. I did not fear my own death as much, or even the shooting of the children, but the terror of seeing children buried alive was too great. Some prayed and chanted in Hebrew. A number of us prayed to be shot immediately. Mother calmed me down and promised that she would blindfold me when the shooting began. My panic subsided and I joined in chanting with the other victims.
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About three in the morning a policeman came and asked Mother to come out with him. He inquired if there was a child with her. We both went out into the corridor and were taken to another cubicle. Here we were prohibited from loud talk and not allowed even to sneeze. On Saturday, at seven in the morning an automobile arrived to remove those condemned to die . . . . Periodically, five of us were taken to the basement, where we heard shots. We were saved. When they led us outside and I breathed fresh air, I fell to the ground like one intoxicated. – Diaries, p. 12

David Rubinowicz, Age Twelve                                                          Bieliny, April 1942

​They’ve taken away a man and a woman from over the road, and two children are left behind. Again it’s rumored that the father of these children has been shot two days ago in the evening. The woman, very ill, was transported to Kielce. The militia was in Slupia and arrested three Jews. They finished them off in Bieliny (they were certainly shot). Already a lot of Jewish blood has flowed in this Bieliny, in fact a whole Jewish cemetery has already grown up there. When will this terrible bloodshed finally end? If it goes on much longer then people will drop like flies out of sheer horror. A peasant from Krajno came to tell us our former neighbour’s daughter had been shot because she’d gone out after 7 o’clock. I can scarcely believe it, but everything’s possible. A girl as pretty as a picture—if she could be shot, then the end of the world will soon be here. If only you could have one quiet day. My nerves are utterly exhausted; whenever I hear of anyone’s distress I burst into tears, my head starts aching and I’m exhausted, as if I’d been doing the hardest possible work. It’s not only me, everyone feels the same. Not enough that in the previous war the Cossacks shot Papa’s father, and he was a witness, and only 11 years old at the time. That’s why nowadays he only needs to see a German and he’s so scared he starts shivering in his shoes. – Diaries, pp. 85-86

Music

Miserere was written specifically for 120 singers, in eight parts (SSAATTBB), and usually lasts about thirty-five minutes. The grand scale, however, is not apparent in the opening. It begins with a simple motif based on Polish chant, A-B-C-B, and repeated several times with slight variations. The entire work only uses the white keys on the piano, maintaining the sound of the minor mode on A-natural. As you listen to each movement in conjunction with the letters you are reading, you will notice that the composer generally adds one voice to each section. The second basses maintain a foundation and each section adds something new. For example, the seventh section is especially striking in texture and harmony, as the alto, tenor, and bass hold an E-natural for nearly the whole movement while the second sopranos sing a cantus. All eight voices join in the ninth movement, before the texture thins in the tenth movement and the text finally resolves to “Have mercy on us,” so that the titular word (Miserere) is not sung until the last few minutes of the piece. Even a few minutes into the work, you might agree with Paul Hillier’s assessment that Górecki’s choral music shows four essential qualities: directness of feeling, transparency of form, austerity of mood, and economy of gesture (Oxford Study of Composers: Arvo Pärt, p. ix). All four qualities are fitting in this context. It is as if the children of the Holocaust are gradually adding their voices to this musical litany for God’s mercy in Christ. No longer able to depend on their own strength or resources, they lay everything at the foot of the cross, the ultimate expression of God’s mercy. 

​ Letters

Mary Berg, Age Fifteen                                                                      Warsaw, October 1939

In Warsaw we found women standing in the doorway of the houses, handing out tea and bread to the refugees who streamed into the capital in unending lines. And as tens of thousands of provincials entered Warsaw in the hope of finding shelter there, thousands of old-time residents of the capital fled to the country.

Relatives in the heart of Warsaw’s Jewish quarter gave us a warm and hearty welcome, but constant air attacks drove us to the cellar during most of our stay with them. By September 12 the Germans began to destroy the center of the city. Once again we had to move, this time to seek better protection against the bombs. . . .
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[One night] we listened to a broadcast in which an American reporter described the Nazi methods of warfare to his American listeners. 

​I stood in a field and from a distance saw a woman digging potatoes. Beside her was a little child. Suddenly a German plane swooped down, firing at the unarmed woman, who fell at once. The child was not hit. He bent over his fallen mother and wept heart-rendingly. Thus another orphan was added to the many war orphans of Poland. “President Roosevelt!” he exclaimed in a deep voice, “I beg of you, help these mothers who are digging potatoes for their children; help these children whose mothers are falling on the peaceful fields; help Poland in her hour of trials.” But no help came. – Diaries, pp. 214–215

Sarah Fishkin, Age Seventeen                                                            Rubzewitz, July 1941

It is difficult to believe that the good times are gone, that our moments of joy, the hours of studying and enjoying ourselves are past, that I must give up forever my thoughts of future goals and the fantasies I hoped to see realized. I would never have believed that it would all disappear so soon, but cut down, burned out, orphaned in so short a time. Emptiness and desolation, saddened aching hearts, are our present constant companions. There seems to be no future for the Jewish population.

For the Jew the light of day is covered with a thick veil: his road is overgrown with tall wild grasses. Every horizon upon which his eye rests is stained with the tears of lost children searching for their mothers in the dense woods. Convulsed with sobbing until their little souls expired, the youngsters are now lifeless, at eternal rest. Only the quivering trees know of their death and will later on bear witness about the sacrifice of these little ones.
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No human heart can remain untouched and unpained by all this. It is beyond human endurance to see so much trouble and so much suffering experienced. It is painful to see people tortured by people until life is ended. Where is human conscience, to demand the truth, to cry out? – Diaries, p. 338

Music

​Nick Strimple writes that Górecki’s music “is easy to describe but difficult to define.” Moreover, Strimple claims that “[Górecki’s] sounds, even in the midst of great chord clusters, are traditional and unthreatening. Often, an immense sadness is almost palpable” (Choral Music in the Twentieth Century, p. 129). At this point in the work, you might be inclined to heartily agree with Strimple. The score of Miserere is surprisingly simple and unthreatening. After the simple opening chant in the bass line, parallel thirds between the bass and baritone create a dark yet steady foundation through most of the work. Even when the texture reaches eight voices, the music is surprisingly transparent, remarkably expressive, and always transcendent. As for the palpable sadness, consider the tempo markings: Lento for the first and final sections, and some variation of Lento (e.g., Lento molto tranquilo, molto lento, lento maestoso) for sections two through ten. “Lento” is usually defined as slow, but there is more in this context. In the composer’s Roman Catholic faith, Lent is a season of the church year and implies a lengthy (lencten in Old English) period of repentance. Is that not what he has beautifully painted in Miserere? Here the faithful ceaselessly pray, “Lord, our God! Lord, our Lord!” in the sure and certain confidence of God’s merciful deliverance in Christ.

Letters

Unknown Girl, Age Twelve                                                                 Lodz Ghetto, July 1944

            Childhood, dear days,
            Alas, so few they were!
            That dimly only I remember them.
            It is only in my dreams that I’m
            Allowed to imagine days bygone.
            Short indeed is human happiness
            In this world of ours! – Diaries, p. 397

Unknown Boy, Age Unknown                                                            Lodz Ghetto, May 1944

I committed this week an act which is best able to illustrate to what degree of dehumanization we have been reduced. Namely, I finished up my loaf of bread at a space of three days, that is to say on Sunday, so I had to wait till the next Saturday for a new one. [The ration was about 33 ounces of bread a week.] I was terribly hungry. I had a prospect of living only from the resort soups [the soup ladled out to forced laborers] which consists of three little potatoe pieces and two decagrams [three quarters of an ounce] of flour. . . . I was lying on Monday morning quite dejectedly in my bed and there was the half loaf of bread of my darling sisters. . . . I could not resist the temptation and ate it up totally. . . . I was overcome by a terrible remorse of conscience and by a still greater care for what my little one would eat for the next five days. I felt a miserably helpless criminal. . . .
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[Am I incapable of] describing what we suffer, what we sense, what we experience, what we are living through? Is it humanly possible? . . . It is as possible to describe our suffering as to drink up the ocean or to embrace the earth. I don’t know if we will ever be believed . . .
Will you, O God, keep silent?

Miserere Nobis

After nearly thirty minutes of the address, “Lord, our God,” the music finally arrives at the eleventh section and the titular petition, “Have mercy upon us.” The text is bolded in the composer’s own hand: MISERERE NOBIS. Each voice moves within at most a four-note range, with minimal harmonic range, resulting in a gentle plea for God’s mercy and clarity of text. In the video of the performance by the Danish National Concert Choir which I have chosen to accompany this article, there is a brief picture of a statue of Jesus in the Copenhagen Cathedral, with His arms stretched out toward the people— a rare departure from pictures of the choir, coordinated with the final petition.

The prayer for mercy is found throughout the Scripture, but one instance in Matthew’s Gospel is especially fitting as we consider the youngest victims of the Holocaust. In Matthew 15, the Canaanite woman addressed Jesus in distinctly Jewish terms with her plea, “Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David; my daughter is severely oppressed by a demon” (v. 22). Recall that Jesus initially ignored her and the disciples asked that she be sent away. Then Jesus reminded her that he was sent “only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel” (v. 24) and that he should not cast the children’s bread to the dogs, that is, to the Gentiles (v. 26). But the woman persisted until Jesus said, “O woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire” (v. 28) and her daughter was healed instantly.
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Will God keep silent in the face of suffering? From the Canaanite woman to the children of the Holocaust to the composer’s original context for Miserere, God will answer the cry for mercy because it is written in Jesus’ shed blood. The Old Testament term “Son of David” reminds us of God’s own self-description: “The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin” (Ex. 34:6-7). As theologian Paul J. Grime has written, “Like a golden thread running through the Old Testament straight toward the cross, this description of a merciful and gracious God was repeated generation after generation” (Lutheran Service Book: Companion to the Services, p. 478). From God’s mercy in the Old and New Testaments to the cross as the ultimate expression of His mercy to every child who suffered in the Holocaust, God’s mercy continues to drop down to the lowly in the flesh and blood of the most important Jewish boy of them all, Jesus of Nazareth. Perhaps the opening verses of Psalm 56 put it best for David, for Christ, for children in the Holocaust, and for all: 

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​Be merciful to me, O God, for man would swallow me up; Fighting all day he oppresses me. My enemies would hound me all day, For there are many who fight against me, O Most High. Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in You. In God (I will praise His word), In God I have put my trust; I will not fear. What can flesh do to me? – Psalm 56:1-4 (NKJV)