Agnieszka Holland was six years old when she heard the word “Jew” for the first time. It was in Warsaw in 1954 — several decades before one of the films she directed was first nominated for an Oscar. She was playing with the local toddlers and one of the gang called her a “dirty Jew.” The children were gamboling, as they always did, in the ruins left behind by the war. She had not yet been taught the word for the hatred of Jewish people — the foul indulgence which facilitated so much of the horror to which the rubbled playground testified. The destroyed and dilapidated buildings were the physical manifestation of the post-war anxiety which was as ordinary to Agnieszka as her mother’s smile and her father’s booming voice. Upon returning home she asked her mother: “What is a ‘Jew’? Is it true? Am I a dirty Jew?”
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