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Helen Keller’s The Story of My Life was nestled in Zofia’s bag, another read inspired by the list of books Hitler had banned in Germany.
This was Warsaw, a city of culture and learning, not a doorstep for the Nazi war machine.
But as they slunk deeper into the alley for a way to escape, they didn’t just leave Maria behind; they also left their childhood, their innocence. It had been sloughed off, a husk which was now too small to ever fit again, leaving them raw and vulnerable in this dangerous new world of war.
No more birds filled the morning air with their bright, cheerful songs, and the trees they once rested upon were broken and denuded.
The force of his wrath came in with the cry of an air raid siren as the early rays of dawn colored the smoky sky with streaks of violent crimson.
Zofia hated the relief of knowing they had survived yet another assault when it likely came at the expense of someone else’s demise.
Cries rose in the air, of injury, of loss, of madness for this scene that lay before them.
These books were Poland’s legacy. Generations of learning and foundational ideas were penned in these pages. The centuries of fighting for freedom, names of heroes that might have been lost to history were they not painstakingly written down. What might be forever erased from the world’s knowledge with the destruction of just a single book?
“It soothes a part of my soul that would otherwise be left wild and bereft.”
“Books are the perfect conduit to convey a message to the world. It could be an idea that blossoms into a way of life. It could be a new theory for mankind to explore. It could be a journey of life that few have trod. When you have something to tell, it will simply burst from you and you won’t be able to stop it.”
“When one has experienced the rawest sentience and passion, when you have died a thousand deaths and have learned to tame that agony into prose, that is how great emotion is written.”
If the war could be won on bravery alone, Poland would have been victorious.
She recognized a few titles, ones that promoted socialism, and acceptance of all, books that encouraged fraternity and love. Without that, what was left? Hate.
It had been borne of indignation, from witnessing the suffering of others and blazing with impotence at the injustice of it all.
“This is a story about making the choices you know are right, even when the rest of the world feels confusing and disorienting. It’s knowing who you are and choosing kindness and love; like the Time Traveller did.”
But she didn’t have to tell them; her ebullition and the shine of her delighted tears said more than words.
“I want to feel everything we’ve been through.” Zofia fisted her hand. “I want to be enraged by injustice and let myself mourn for those who are lost. How can we see wrong if we let ourselves go numb?”
The walls between Zofia and Matka came down for a brief interlude, a moment of holding one another, bodies shaking with grief as they mourned the loss together.
Their occupiers meant to see all Poles blunted with insufficient education and stripped bare of their heritage by robbing them of their history and culture.
It is impossible to tell how old they are without the plumpness of youth. Their faces are those of old men and women, their eyes flat from hunger and witnessing the horrors of this new life.
One little girl told me the books make her forget the gnawing ache of cold and hunger.
If Hitler continued to take over the world, there would be no books left to read at all.
But books were more than a means of escape for these children; they offered another life to live. They offered hope.
Rather than focus on their ugliness, or casting judgment on these characters, Hugo gives us the rare insight to see what they’ve done and why they should be forgiven.”
“I may seem like a sweet old woman, but I refuse to follow rules that don’t suit me.”
The offending family had been slain there on the street and the rest of the building’s inhabitants had been arrested or executed as accomplices.
“I regret nothing I’ve done,” Mrs. Mazur shouted, her voice strong and defiant.
She wore her fear like a cloak for all to see. That fear reached inside Zofia and seized her in its grip.
The notes undulated over her like the shifting waves of the river.
The best way to write a character is to know who he is at his core. Thornton Wilder does a wonderful job of this in his exploration of what connection truly means to mankind.
“Hitler was given lists of men and women with higher education, ones who might be perceived as a threat to the occupation,” Danuta explained. “Dentists, lawyers, professors, like my parents. And doctors.”
Good books were like amazing sunsets or awe-inspiring landscapes, better enjoyed with someone else. There was no greater experience in the world than sharing the love of a book, discussing its finer points, and reliving the story all over again.
“No man is above fate and the natural turn of events, no matter how much they try to manipulate things no one can control.”
It was beautiful and heartbreaking in one bittersweet wrap and each of the bandits spoke with the passion of their soul.
But no joy in this broken existence came without cost, and the way they cared for one another would likely exact a heavy toll.
“I love you, Zofia.” He reached for her, cradling the back of her head, his wide, expressive brown eyes looking at her with a sorrow that brushed her soul. “Now run.”
It whispered to her in the silence, a promise only a book can make to a reader, to offer a journey unique to them, tailored to the path that life had led them.
There was power in literature. Brilliant and undeniable. Books inspired free thought and empathy, an overall understanding and acceptance of everyone. In the pages of books that were burned and banned and ripped apart for pulping, Zofia had found herself. These were the parts of her that were human and strong and loving, parts that understood lives she had never led.
This reading room not only represented the beginning of a rebuilt Warsaw, it also encapsulated books and memories and love all bundled into one perfect gift.
The stories had cradled them through difficult times, offered light and hope when all felt dark and lost.
They were there to celebrate reading and a community brought together by a love of those books.
We cannot let the atrocities and persecution of the Jews slip between the cracks of history. We cannot allow education to be stifled or cultures to be erased or books to be banned. Nor can we let the memory of those brave men and women who fought for freedom and what is right disappear in the turning pages of time. The world also needs to remember to never take for granted what has been gifted to us through the sacrifice of others: the right to an education and learning, the power and luxury of freedom, and the beauty to appreciate the routine of simple, everyday life.
Nazis implemented Intelligenzaktion—the murder of Poland’s intelligent and/or influential people in an attempt to quell any potential uprisings before they could start.
One hundred thousand doctors, lawyers, professors, scientists, politicians, and other social elites were put to death.
