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1 I grew up in a small Polish town named Tyczyn. It was close to Rzeszów, a larger city and our county seat. In Tyczyn were the grade school that I attended and the local court where my father practiced law. The high school, county court, railway station, fancy restaurants, and movie theaters were all in Rzeszów, about six miles away. Three thousand people lived in Tyczyn, and a third of them were Jewish. Most were either quite poor or of modest means. They lived simple and quietly religious lives. Some families owned small shops, or the men worked as tailors, shoemakers, or other tradesmen. A few made a living peddling their wares in nearby villages. Few Jews in our town were professionals. Our lives were comfortable, and we felt a welcome part of the community . Tyczyn was an ideal place to grow up. Its smallness allowed me to know every corner, house, and alley, every bend in the river, grassy place to play, and hills to sled in winter. As I grew, I grew to know and love my town. My father, Dr. Henry Salzman, practiced law in the local court in Tyczyn and the county court in Rzeszów. He was born in the neighboring town of Lańcut, on a farm estate owned by my grandfather, after whom I was named. My father had three brothers and five sisters. My mother’s name was Anna. Her parents, the Hutterers, owned a sawmill in a wooded village fifty miles east of Tyczyn, on the bank of the river San. My mother had one older sister, Pauline, and two brothers, Henry and Benek. Pauline married a doctor and moved to Vienna with their two children. Henry became a businessman, and Benek studied dentistry in France. We were a large close-knit family and gathered on many festive occasions. When my father met my mother, she was a young widow with an infant son, Manek. Her first husband had died before the baby was born. My 5 mother cared for the baby alone until she married my father. She lovingly nicknamed my father Henryk, and he called her Andzia. I was born on January 7, 1928, when my brother was six. I was named Lucjan Salzman and nicknamed Lucek. Ours was a close and loving family. I brought my endless questions and youthful problems to my strong and wise father and my bruises and bad dreams to my tender and loving mother. As a teenager, Manek was tall, blond, and handsome. He was a talented artist and musician and very popular. He helped me with my homework and taught me to how ride a bicycle and how to swim in the river. My early years passed, and I flourished in the warm circle of family. I worked hard to be a good student and earned high marks in school. I had many friends, both Catholic and Jewish. I loved books and especially those about the brave Polish army that defeated the Russians in the great battle of Warsaw and the Polish knights who rescued Vienna during the Turkish siege. My father was a reserve officer in the Polish army and captivated me with his tales of war. But some painful and sobering incidents reminded me that, to my Catholic friends, I was a Jew first and not a Pole. On the playground they called other children fools and ugly. I was called a dirty Jew. Our teacher led our class in morning and afternoon Catholic prayers. The Catholic students stood with their hands clasped, looking toward heaven, while we Jewish students were required to stand with our arms folded and eyes downcast. These were reminders that we were not only different but also less in the eyes of the Gentiles. One day my teacher told our class that all people, except Jews and Gypsies, had ethnic origins. “What about the Jews?” a Catholic student asked. “Where do they come from?” “No one knows,” my teacher answered . “They come from nowhere and they have no roots. They are mongrels.” During recess some boys called me a dirty mongrel Jew. That night I asked my father why Jews had no roots. He explained that it was not true and that we were from an ancient biblical people, the Semites. I told him what my teacher had said. He was furious and determined to speak to the principal, who was his old high school classmate. A few days later my teacher...
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