Letter from Lodz—A Guest Column Page I of III About a month ago, Sonia Pressman Fuentes, whose book is profiled on this site, asked me to answer the forwarded letter of a Professor who is teaching a course in Jewish-American literature in Poland. Professor Crust wanted to know if a few young American writers were Jewish. I wrote him back and found out that he was teaching in Lodz. Lodz is a large, industrial city in Poland (to pronounce Lodz, say the word "Ludge" so it rhymes with "judge"---that's not quite it, but close). I told him that part of my mother's family was from Lodz and that they, like most of the Jews of Lodz, did not survive the holocaust. I asked him if he would write something for Jewhoo about what it is like to be a Jew in Lodz today. He told me he had recently written a piece on that very subject for a Canadian Jewish newspaper. What follows is Professor John Crust's piece on Lodz. Professor Crust, who is American and Canadian, tells me that his course in Jewish American literature is "popular, very popular."   Nate Jewhoo Editor Dear Nate: So, how do you try to understand -- let alone, explain -- a Polish city that has hundreds, if not thousands, of swastikas, vulgar depictions of Stars of David, and other seemingly ugly, hateful anti-semitic scrawls all over its buildings?  And yet you have to say it's been an incredibly wonderful experience working in Lodz, that you've met some truly special people, and you do like this place. And if you happen to be Jewish, you just know this is not going to go over too well with the folks at home.  Last summer, when I accepted an English teaching post at the University of Lodz, the forewarnings and dire predictions came from one person after another: It's so anti-semitic. They hate Jews in Poland. Don't go to Poland. I went anyway. That's where the job was, and, surely, I thought, the place couldn't be that bad.  It was a long over-night flight -- all this talk of anti-semitism left me foolishly scrutinizing everyone through much of the flight -- and as I tried to stay awake to talk literature with the doctoral student that escorted me from the airport, we slowly made our way into Lodz. My eyes perked open to the buildings that passed by: walls and walls spray-painted with lurid smears of Stars of David.  Upon arriving, I dropped my bags in the apartment, paced the floor, contemplated this mega-mistake I was sure I just made, then I ventured out. This graffiti -- wild scribbles everywhere. Jude here, a swastika there, Stars of David hanging from gallows. I figured out what Zyd meant, this Polish word, strewn all over. Jew this, Jew that. And in one spot -- a call to gas the Jews? Meanwhile, it turned out I was housed in an inconspicuous area that lingered as the ghetto, and the eerie connotations --ghetto, old Jewish ghetto -- amplified things that much more.  To my relief, I found a Jewish community. "Stupid . . ." was the fragmented English thrown my way in an explanation, "Young people . . ." as one person hurried to find someone else who might know more English. They seemed a bit dumbfounded a Canadian Jew would move to Lodz. The looks on their faces said it all -- I had to be crazy. I, of course, couldn't figure out why they were living here in the first place -- they had to be crazy. Mutual insanity, no doubt, can really bring people together, and I was welcomed whole-heartedly for Shabbat.  Well, Symcha Keller's Shabbat service isn't just another Saturday morning service. From his seat and from his bimah in a humble little sanctuary in the Jewish community office, Keller's repertoire, a preserved Hasidic Galician Hebrew, rolls with poetic grandeur. Jewish legends and Jewish color, so profound in the Yiddish folklore of the land, permeate this cantor's Shabbat song.  Following the service, I was initiated, so to speak. The vodka was flowing, I was gagging. Amid yet another "L'chaim, l'chaim," a mixed gathering of a pre-war generation and a post-war generation downed shots of this stuff, poking fun, as I choked on the littlest dribble. "Hey," I pleaded, "I'm a Manischewitz wine kind of guy." They wouldn't hear of it. "Polish Jews drink vodka!" they intoned, anxious to top my glass once more.  "It's difficult to be a Jew here," Keller said, "but Poland is a very special place for Jews." Jewish Lodz, once 230,000-plus, officially numbers some 200, though people generally suspect the real figure to be at least a few thousand. Stories abound of closet Jews and those that just don't know. Over at the Lauder Jewish Club, where Hebrew and Yiddish classes are offered, young people show up -- in some cases, against their family's wishes -- after having discovered The Secret.  Continue Additional Information If you have any additional questions, please contact: editor@jewhoo.com.