Having recently visited the small city of Drohobych in northwestern Ukraine to see the places inhabited by its most famous son, the writer and artist Bruno Schulz, Edward Serotta reflects on his strange life and stranger legacy.
Things would go horribly wrong later. But during the 1920s and 1930s a newly reconstituted Poland threw itself into a flowering of art, literature, music, film, and culture, not dissimilar to what was happening in Weimar Berlin and interwar Vienna. Jewish men and women were painting and sculpting, others were publishing poetry and fiction in Yiddish and in Polish.
Of all the writers I had been chasing down and looking up in my journeys through Ukraine, none is as enigmatic as Schulz. He published only two slim volumes of short stories of less than 300 pages, and rarely ventured long from Drohobych. Yet his writing, which probably holds more metaphors and magical descriptions per page than just about anyone’s, manages to draw you into the imaginary world of a family much like his own while casting its peculiar spell.
Schulz was murdered by the Nazis after producing a set of murals for an SS officer’s children. These murals, and their postwar fate, have a story of their own.
More about: Holocaust, Jewish literature, Polish Jewry, Ukraine