An Unfinished Memory: Jewish Heritage and the Holocaust in Eastern Galicia
A Permanent Exhibition at the Galicia Jewish Museum, Kraków, Poland
A Permanent Exhibition at the Galicia Jewish Museum, Kraków, Poland
Artist’s Statement
To speak of the Jewish in Galicia––and in eastern Galicia specifically, the subject of this exhibition––is to speak of both a legacy and an enigma. It is to speak of a past that is not past, a thousand year old civilization whose recognizability largely belongs to them, the ancestors, and whose unrecognizability largely belongs to us, the inheritors. It is to speak of an annihilated world that is not pulseless, an actuality of devastation that can be traced but not quite followed, whose relics can be found but not recuperated. To speak of the Jewish in eastern Galicia is to make a path into the paradoxical condition of an unfinished memory. It is to speak of remembrance and brokenness both endowed with a quality of inertia, and to speak of a special kind of imagination apart from imaginariness. The things of the imagination are, after all, precisely what is most real in matters of love and grief.
The work here is part report and part meditation, a factual account of and also a contemplative encounter with the Jewish past as it exists today. The project's guiding problem, as I have given it to myself, is to infuse perception of what exists with an imagination of what no longer exists––to seek and receive the Ukrainian social geography of contemporary eastern Galicia for the sake of its destroyed Jewish civilization. The result is a visual dialectic on social, historical and moral levels simultaneously. The picture sequence in this room moves between traces and tracelessness, ruined presence and the absence even of ruins, the Jewish something and the Jewish nothing.
The most common kinds of Jewish something in eastern Galicia are synagogue structures in various states of dilapidation, and cemeteries with a least some headstones standing. Beyond this, there are various examples of Jewish heritage repurposed for other uses, Holocaust memorial tablets here and there, a handful of memorials honoring specific Jews, and a few modest museological displays honoring Jewish communities. The Jewish nothing exceeds all of the above in scope and in number: once-Jewish buildings, streets, districts, individual and communal properties denuded of Jewish recognition, uncommemorated Jewish killing sites, unmarked Jewish mass graves. The Jewish something and the Jewish nothing are irreducible to each other. Both are equally important expressions of the Jewish as it exists now in eastern Galicia––a great civilization in its still-tangible destroyedness and its incomplete forgottenness.
I made the photographs here using a large-format analogue camera, a tool that forces a slow and contemplative observational process. Just as the English language (and no other language either, as far as I know) does not have a verb that fuses looking and reading––visual poetics with socio-historical scrutiny––so too English has no good word to describe the mercurial combination of imagination-of-what-was and perception-of-what-is that characterizes the use of a large camera. The most common contemporary metaphor for the photographic act––capture, holding captive, immobilizing––strikes me as particularly deficient, owing to the indeterminacies of narrative, cause and effect, and time itself in images like the ones here. Better, perhaps, is the metaphor of release, which asks us to look for the ways that photographs circulate feeling, information and insight from place to place, moment to moment, predicament to predicament. To photograph in eastern Galicia for the sake of such release means undertaking a reading of the Jewish scars marking the Ukrainian lifeworld, and also a reading of the ashes––the formless Jewish losses––strewn through that lifeworld.
I am a photographer with a deep love of pictures and little faith in them. If photographs mostly show us what we are already prepared to see, sometimes they provoke us to ponder what we are not prepared to understand. In such situations, we stand to receive memory not just as an anterior truth but a future possibility, a force of change and renewal as against the forces of indifference and oblivion.
Jason Francisco
Kraków, 2018
Kraków, 2018
Historical Context
The Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria first appeared on maps of Europe following the First Partition of Poland in 1772, forming one of the the largest and most populous provinces of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. For the previous four and a half centuries, it had been part of the Polish Crown and later the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and widely known simply as Galicia. Galicia’s capital was the multinational, multiethnic city of Lemberg, known variously as Lwów (Polish), Lemberik (Yiddish), Lvov (Russian), and Lviv (Ukrainian). With the dissolution of the Dual Monarchy in 1918, the western half of Galicia came quickly under the control of the newly created Republic of Poland, while the eastern half was contested by Poland, Soviet Russia, Soviet Ukraine and fighters for an independent Ukrainian state, finally becoming part of interwar Poland in 1921. After 1919, the name “Galicia” ceased to be used officially, but the region has informally retained the name to the present day.
On the eve of the First World War, eastern Galicia’s 5.3 million residents (two-thirds of Galicia’s total population) broke down demographically into three major groups. Ukrainians formed 65%, Poles 22%, and Jews 13%. Poles and Jews formed the majority in most cities and towns, with Jewish town populations sometimes reaching 50%-70%––making eastern Galicia a legendary region of shtetl life and culture in eastern Europe. 150,000 Poles and 100,000 Jews lived in Lviv during the interwar period, forming half and a third of the great city’s population respectively.
The events of the Second World War, both during the Soviet occupation of eastern Galicia (1939-1941) and especially during the Nazi German occupation (1941-1944), were catastrophic for Jewish life. Without exception, every Jewish community was wrecked. The Germans and their collaborators killed Jews in myriad ways: some died by gas and some by bullets, some in deportations and some in roundups, some by disease and some by hunger, some by exhaustion and some by fighting. The Jewish minority accounted for over 70% of total non-combat related deaths in eastern Galicia during the war, and almost 95% of eastern Galician non-combat deaths when factoring out the city of Lviv itself. Altogether, of the 656,000 Jews living in eastern Galicia in 1939, over 85% were murdered during the Holocaust. In the years following the war, most surviving Jews emigrated, so that the Jewish population in eastern Galicia in 1959 was just over 4% of what it had been twenty years earlier. Today, the Jewish population in eastern Galicia is estimated at fewer than 10,000 of a total population of approximately 5 million, or .2%.
The mass killing of Jews mostly occurred in the 18 months following the German invasion of the Soviet Union on June 22, 1941. The Jews of eastern Galicia were subjected to two distinct types of genocidal actions. First, they fell victim to the massacres of the specially designed mobile killing squads, principally comprised of German SS and Order Police units––known collectively as Einsatzgruppen––working in collaboration with local civilians and Ukrainian police. These squads fanned out behind the German advance and murdered Jews in their own communities. Second, the Jews of eastern Galicia were subjected to the system of ghettoization and deportation to industrially-designed extermination camps. The Germans established thirty-three such ghettos in the eastern Galicia, plus at least 55 forced labor camps, including the infamous Janowska Street camp in Lviv. From these ghettos and camps, approximately 345,000 eastern Galician Jews were shipped to the Bełżec death camp in western Galicia. Of the half-million Jews murdered at Bełżec during its brief but lethal existence from March-December 1942, eastern Galician Jews accounted for 70-80%. Altogether, while the Nazis failed in their plans for global domination, nowhere more than in eastern Galicia did they realize the most consistently articulated element of their ideology and policy, namely the physical elimination of the Jewish people.
After the Second World War, most of eastern Galicia became part of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, and since 1991 has formed part of independent Ukraine’s western region. In the Soviet period, the Holocaust was suppressed and indeed dissimulated as a historical subject, its victims folded into the encompassing, state-sponsored narrative of Soviet sacrifice. In many locales, Jewish communal property––synagogues, cemeteries, hospitals, schools, the readiest things we call Jewish patrimony today––was appropriated for public works, and further destroyed or modified beyond recognition. In the post-Soviet period, Jewish history and heritage in eastern Galicia has been likewise marginal, and at points antithetical to the new, urgent project of creating a workable Ukrainian national identity. In western Ukraine this tension is especially acute, as eastern Galicia and Volyn are the widely regarded as the heartland of Ukrainian nationalism in independent Ukraine. Practices of and discourse about Jewish history and heritage remain significantly within the province of private Jewish initiatives, bracketed off as the concern of Jews themselves, or the Ukrainian intelligentsia. Only in recent years, and mostly in Lviv, are Jewish history and heritage beginning to appear as a point of focus in more complex conception of heritage, linking the local to the transnational, and tracing the circulation and adaptation of the Jewish, the Ukrainian and the Polish in time and in place in eastern Galicia.
After the Second World War, most of eastern Galicia became part of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, and since 1991 has formed part of independent Ukraine’s western region. In the Soviet period, the Holocaust was suppressed and indeed dissimulated as a historical subject, its victims folded into the encompassing, state-sponsored narrative of Soviet sacrifice. In many locales, Jewish communal property––synagogues, cemeteries, hospitals, schools, the readiest things we call Jewish patrimony today––was appropriated for public works, and further destroyed or modified beyond recognition. In the post-Soviet period, Jewish history and heritage in eastern Galicia has been likewise marginal, and at points antithetical to the new, urgent project of creating a workable Ukrainian national identity. In western Ukraine this tension is especially acute, as eastern Galicia and Volyn are the widely regarded as the heartland of Ukrainian nationalism in independent Ukraine. Practices of and discourse about Jewish history and heritage remain significantly within the province of private Jewish initiatives, bracketed off as the concern of Jews themselves, or the Ukrainian intelligentsia. Only in recent years, and mostly in Lviv, are Jewish history and heritage beginning to appear as a point of focus in more complex conception of heritage, linking the local to the transnational, and tracing the circulation and adaptation of the Jewish, the Ukrainian and the Polish in time and in place in eastern Galicia.
Jason Francisco
Kraków, 2018