Ignorance and forgetfulness

We have been back in London now for two days. I have been on a self-imposed moratorium of sorts, to not do anything and basically chill out for a few days. Today, I will start work again. The 'to do' list is fairly long, so I will need to devise an action plan and get a sense of my bearings. But before I do that, there is something weighing heavily on my mind and I need to write it down, lest I too forget and by my act of omission condone genocide.

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One of the things I have learnt most from this trip is the importance of not forgetting as a means of honouring those who have survived and those who have been murdered. No matter how many times we hear these stories, they must be retold again and again. At one point during this trip, Shiv and I felt we were 'holocaust-ed out' and we even asked if what we were doing would add further value to an event that has been analysed, revisited and commemorated before. But I am now convinced that yes, even if it is told a hundred thousand times, it must be told again.

I was reading The Guardian newspaper yesterday about the Labour government's perceived meltdown and the current economic crisis. It was titled "If a week is a long time in politics, it's an entire career in economics." It makes me think that when it comes to history, especially of the sordid kind, the timeframe for memory is just as short.

To hear Chasia, Cholem, Fania... all those people we spoke to on our recent trip to Lithuania, is to have the words "never again" etched in the back of our minds. As such, while this may not be the forum, and I must say upfront that I do not intend to dilute this blog journal with its main focus and objective on the Jewish Holocaust in Lithuania - something is niggling at me and as such, I am compelled nevertheless to put it down. The topic I wish to raise is that of the Asian Holocaust, as a sidebar and food for further thought for readers that may have chanced upon this blog and abhor the thought of genocide and mass murder in all its forms.

Why am I compelled to mention this tragedy? For two reasons. Please bear with me as I try to explain the complicated emotional response I feel.

1) When I visited The Green House, there was a room dedicated to Righteous Gentiles - those who had, at their own personal risk, saved Jews during the war in Lithuania. One of those given prominent space is Chiune Sugihara, the Japanese Deputy Consul in Lithuania, who issued visas to save the lives of Jews. (Read more here.)

My first response, to be honest, was surprise, then shock, and then, a sense of rising anger and cynicism within me. (Those of you who have read my earlier entries will know that I am Chinese, hence my involuntary response.) However, after I had time to consider my response, I realised that I had made the fatal error of feeling revulsion towards Sugihara for the simple fact that he is Japanese. I had to consciously bypass my emotional response and reason to myself - he may be Japanese, but he and those who committed murder in Asia are not one.

I look back now and realise what a supreme effort of reasoning and compassion survivors like Fania embody. As Fania kept reminding us, she cannot forgive those who perpetrated those horrible crimes but she does not hate nations. (If you want to read the previous entries on Fania, look under "Labels" on the right and click "Fania".)

So, why did Sugihara's display in the museum evoke this need in me to include a mention of the Asian Holocaust? Because when I mentioned to a few people in the museum that it was ironic that a Japanese official showed such compassion, all I got in return were blank stares. No one asked what I meant by that. Perhaps they were not interested, perhaps they felt it would detract from the memory of Jewish experience. Whatever the reason, I am convinced that there is a dearth of knowledge about Japanese war-time atrocities. Therefore, I feel I must at least make space to mention this.

2) Below you will see a picture of a chopstick sleeve I saved from my trip in Lithuania. I won't mention which restaurant I got it from. You will see that it is a photo of a Japanese pilot, probably a kamikaze pilot, who knows? The characters on the top left means "sushi". Now, I want to ask you a question. If you went to a German restaurant and they gave you a serviette or napkin with a photo of a Nazi SS officer printed on it, what would your response be?



When I showed this chopstick sleeve to my companions, they shook their heads in sympathy and said, "it must be ignorance." Yes, it is ignorance. Ignorance because revisionism is alive and well when it comes to Japanese atrocities in Asia. And so, for the record, I am compelled to do something, anything, rather than merely shake my head and say 'it is ignorance.' So please get educated and share with your friends that there is such a thing as an Asian Holocaust, where an estimated 3 to 10 million Asians were massacred by the Imperial Japanese forces. For further reading and to be informed, you will find a list of sites under the heading "Asian Holocaust" on the right. Share this information. We must not forget. There is no competition among victims. Only the need for equal acknowledgment and recognition.

Day 22: Countdown

It's about 10.30am now. About one hour to go before we hand over the keys to the apartment and head off to Cholem's to say goodbye and then, it's the airport. (See previous blog entry - the last time we met Cholem, he told us he wanted to send us off at the airport.) Apparently, Cholem fell down the day before at the cemetery. However, when Ruta called him yesterday, he still insisted on coming. But we suggested that it would be better if we just dropped by at his place on the way to the airport. Shiv has her gear ready now; we'll pop to the local cafe for some breakfast before Vy, the landlord, comes.

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12.00 nn. We meet Cholem at his flat. He is excited to see us. He meets us on the landing one floor before his flat and ushers us upstairs. As soon as we get through the door, I can see that he has coffee cups and a plate of biscuits on the dining table. Ruta and I make eyes at each other - we are thinking the same thing; how do we tell him that this is a flying visit and that we can't stay for too long as we have a flight to catch?



He tells us that he called the airport to check the flights. He was afraid he had missed us and that we had already left. Shiv tells him that we promised to drop by and here we are. He seems satisfied and trundles to and fro from the kitchen, boiling water, bringing out honey and jam he made himself. He wants us to eat.

Ruta tells him about our plans for the items he has given us and how we will exhibit it. He gets all animated and wants to share more; he goes to his cupboard and pulls out papers, cards; he digs through tins and containers... 'This one?' he motions, and passes them round for us to see, 'that one? Take, take, take."

This one?

Maybe that one?

Huh? Cholem deliberates over his choices.

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We take a few more photos. I like these two in particular (see below), because I think they capture how playful he is. In one photo, he looks a little cheeky, in the other he has an austere dignified pose.




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We tell Cholem we have to go. He wants to go too. In the van, on the way to the airport, he points out buildings and landmarks to us. 'This is the bank I deposited the money the German government gave us.' 'There is the hill where bodies were buried.' 'This is where blood was taken from children before they were killed.' He tells us all this in an assured manner, that of a man who has confronted his past and made peace with it.

At the airport, we say goodbye. The queues are long, so we suggest that Cholem and Ruta leave us there instead of waiting with us while we check in. Cholem seems a little disappointed. He thinks they should wait for 15 minutes, just to make sure that all is okay. We assure him that everything is alright. We hug him and he gives me a long peck on the cheek. We promise we will see him again the next time we come back to Lithuania. I don't know when that will be. But I know for certain that when we do, we will keep that promise.

Day 20 and 21: Tying up loose ends

We spend yesterday and today tying up loose ends and unfinished business. Yesterday, we visited Josef again and he was kind enough to give us a few pages of his notes he had worked on when he wrote his book Shoah. See previous entries (Sept 6 and Sept 13) He also let us look through his photo albums and scan a few pictures. There are some photos of his family - his wife and children and himself together; they are a beautiful family, happy and comfortable as a unit. In fact, they look like they could be perfect models for a breakfast cereal commercial. He tells us of how deeply affected he was when he read the documents he had researched and unearthed. How he used to do this at night; in a way, they kept him company as he wrote most of his book after his wife had passed.

We also drop by at The Green House. While waiting for an appointment, I look through some of the exhibits and information on the panels. There is one that catches my eye. It is a letter, written by a Jewish couple, and handed in by a Polish woman to the director of the pre-war Jewish Museum at the end of the war. It begins with the line "26, VI. A Request to Brother and Sister Jews." It goes on to describe in horrific and graphic detail scenes of rape, castration and murder, and an account of 'help' rendered by a woman to Jews by confiscating/extorting everything they owned. It ends with the demand that justice be meted out to those who committed these crimes and took advantage of the situation to plunder and enrich themselves.

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Last night, I dreamt of spirits. Ghosts. They were trying to talk to me all at the same time. For no apparent reason, I suddenly realised my forearm was over my forehead. For some reason, I thought, I shouldn't cover my third eye.

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Today, we drop by the synagogue before 9am to see if we can catch up with some of the people we interviewed like Berl and Isroel. We want to say goodbye. While Shiv joins the prayers, I sit in the waiting area and take photos of my surroundings, more for something to do than anything else. The man who locks and unlocks the gates whenever we visit tries to make small talk with me but since I don't speak Lithuanian or Russian, we are limited to talking about the weather and swapping photos. I take one of him and he returns the favour by taking one of me with my camera (see photos below). But my picture turns out to be too dark. Dissatisfied with the quality, he switches to using his mobile phone. We end up taking a photo of both of us together on his phone.




We catch sight of Isroel, who pulls out a wad of papers when he sees us. He has some documents he wants to show us. One of them is an English language translation of a civil judgement confirming that his mother was imprisoned in Minsk ghetto between July 1941 and October 1943. Shiv and I feel touched that Isroel is keen to share more information with us. As we did not tell him that we would be dropping by, he must have decided to carry these documents with him since after our last meeting (see previous entry) in the off-chance we would meet again. We say goodbye; he kisses Shiv's hand and mine.

We then drop in to the Vilnius Yiddish Institute to say goodbye to Fania and thank the team there for their assistance. I give Fania a big hug; she has been so warm and open, I feel that we can't thank her enough. After we grab some lunch, we head to The Green House to do likewise. We say goodbye to the team there and split up with Ruta near Traku Str. We will touch base again later in the evening. Shiv and I check out the post office en route to the apartment. We are thinking of sending some of our luggage back by post. We've accumulated quite some books, paper documents and other literature which weigh a fair bit.

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Back in the apartment. Over the last few hours, I have been scanning documents. It's almost 6.30pm now. Shiv decides to take a shower before we go out for dinner. I don't look forward to packing. I have, so far, only packed the exhibit items into a carry-on bag. They're all wrapped in bags and look like contraband.



Our last night in Vilnius. I am looking forward to London. Here's where the next stage of our journey begins...

Day 18: Strangers and forgiveness

Today, we drop by the Vilnius Yiddish Institute to speak to Fania some more. (Click here to read previous entry on 12 Sept and 13 Sept.) She tells us more about her experiences of how she ended up with the partisans in the forest.


A bookend at the Vilnius Yiddish Institute library shelf

Hers is an amazing and remarkable life journey, full of unexpected twists, helped along by the kindness of strangers. A friend and her narrowly escape the Vilnius ghetto liquidation on the 23 September 1943. On that very same day, they meet with their units and the leaders decide that there is "something hanging in the air." Fania tells is that the Germans attempted to keep up the pretense of normalcy by trucking in piles of clothes and instructing these to be mended. But something did not feel right. The leaders decide that 6 pairs of women should be chosen to leave the ghetto and make contact with the partisans in the forest. It is too risky to form units of men to attempt this contact as it may raise suspicion.

Fania tells us how she waits for nightfall by returning to her family. Her mother gives her a purse and a bag of green peas. But her friend shows up not long after and suggests they try and leave now as one of the smaller gates has been left unattended. They leave and in the street, they see that there are militia policemen closing in on the perimeter of the ghetto. They avoid capture by walking in circles and when they look back, they see soldiers and trucks arriving at the gates of the ghetto. They are not German and have dark green uniform, Fania thinks they are Estonian...

They sleep in the forest at night, wander through the villages in the daytime trying to get their bearings. At one village, a woman gives them bread and milk. They lie about heading to their aunt's to help harvest potatoes. They cross themselves as they have been told to every time they see a cross. They come across German soldiers and do their best to act nonchalant as they go on their way. In another village, a Polish man warns them that German soldiers raped and killed a woman in their village; he leads them to a hut to stay the night for their safety. He susses out that they are escaping to join the partisan without being told. He returns the next morning and puts them on their way with more bread and milk and directions.

Fania says she has no idea why they trusted these strangers but when they find themselves in the thick of the partisan stronghold and are intercepted, they do not give the password but laugh hysterically out of relief; a release of pent-up fear. Throughout her retelling of the story, Fania recounts all these incidences with humour and a practised lightness. But there are moments, not so much in words, but in her facial expressions and in her eyes, I can feel the depth and weight of her emotions. I almost cry openly when she tells us about what happens after liberation. For example, how a woman tells her that her sister is alive. So Fania waits at the train station every day for a month in the hopes of seeing her. How when she meets the woman again and tells her she still has not seen her sister, the woman - perhaps deranged or unstable - says, "who told you she was still alive?" How when the concentration camp survivors returned, she hugged strangers in the street. Her learning about the fate of her father and mother. She tells us she cannot forgive the murderers but she does not blame nations for what happened.

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Later, we meet an official who advises on Jewish affairs at the Ministry of Culture. I contrast the policyspeak about national integration and tolerance with the survivor accounts I have heard. They feel remote and worlds apart. The question is, I ask myself, how can we merge the two, so that history stays relevant, so that survivors are not viewed as relics of a bygone era, but living reminders?



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I have been ribbing Shiv for being so hard working; when we get in each day, she's at the computer immediately. Last night, she acts silly. I ask her what's up and she starts giggling and then laughing hysterically - she has been reading up on the fate of some of the partisan members - "One hung himself, another killed herself, they all suicided!" It's not that she finds this funny; I think this project is finally getting to her. I feel the same. It's like an accumulation of feelings. Even I can't explain it... but it's an exhausting/sapping mix of feelings; of despair mingled with disbelief, compassion and anger, and... I don't even know what.

Day 17: Community centre visit

This morning we met up with Ruta, the Lithuanian consultant on our project, to run through what information we still needed and what we would be able to gather from the archives here over the next few days before we leave. For some reason, I felt dead tired and my brain has gone on strike. So many names, so many places... It is hard to keep tabs of what we have experienced and learnt. Shiv asked me, "So what's your take?" and I said, "Persevere and get through this week." I know that this is only the start of the journey. When we get back, there will be much more to do.

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Persevere we must. We head off to the Central State Archives but it turns out that we arrive smack in the middle of lunch hour. Strike that off the list for today, we will have to come back another time. So we amble up Pylimo 4 to the Jewish Community Centre instead. I am carrying my laptop, audio recording gear, mic cords, spare batteries, and notebook in my backpack. I feel like a soldier on training; the only thing missing is a rifle slung over my shoulder :)

We meet the President of the Jewish Community. He has been dedicated to the centre's work for the last 25 years.



He shares with us the centre's plans for organising the next World Litvak Congress in 2009. We discuss current issues and recent events - like the community's response to the outstanding case of restitution, the recent decision by the prosecutor's office to question partisans, anti-semitic graffiti at community centres in Vilnius, Klaipedia and other locations throughout the country, as well as the debacle over the cemetery site in Shnipishok which gained international media attention. His answers are even-handed and he provides a well-rounded analysis of the various perspectives involved. Things are never as simple as they seem, I guess. But there is no mistaking his alarm at what he views as a rise in incidences involving anti-semitic overtones. He shares with us a reported anecdote of what a teacher supposedly said to a student in class; it is a crass joke which I shall not repeat here. It made me want to gag.

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We have also made an appointment with Chasia at the centre. (See previous blog entry here.) She volunteers at the Union of Second World War Veterans. This is located in a single room in the centre. We tread carefully; after our last interview, Chasia was not feeling well. It is very clear to us that the stress of retelling a painful past can take its toll; we don't want to cause anyone unnecessary pain. I console myself by thinking that it is an honour that those who have spoken to us agreed to do so, and we must treat their accounts with the respect and care they deserve.

So we had planned to make this meeting as stress-free and painless as possible; we ask her beforehand if she is okay to meet so that we can caption some of the photos she gave us to scan. Also to record her reason for choosing the gift she gave us the last time we met as an object to represent her. (It is an amber stone pendant shaped like a tear.) She welcomes us at the door of the office with much warmth.

The office is sparse and functional. There are posters of veterans on the walls. We find Josef's picture there too. Here, we meet a gentleman by the name of Mejeris. Like Chasia, he volunteers his time at the centre. His work is to compile and record the activities of the union, including photo albums of meetings, annual remembrance events etc. The work of this association is to keep the network and community of veterans alive, by staying in touch, by providing a place for them to meet or come to for help, and volunteers are dispatched to visit those who are ill or need assistance. All this work is funded through donations to the centre.


The office of the Union of Second World War Veterans

I ask Mejeris if his photo is on one of the posters on the walls. He asks me to guess which is him. I fail. He points to a picture of himself. He looked so very young then. But then again, he was only 19 when he was enlisted to the front. I take a photo of him next to this picture.





After feeding us chocolate centred biscuits and coffee, Chasia suddenly tells us that she would like to give a gift of a song to Shiv for coming all the way to Vilnius. She tells us she will sing a lullaby in Yiddish. It is about remembering home, mother, and all that is precious. I am surprised and think, is she going to burst out in song with all of us present? She does. She sings in a soft voice, heartfelt and full of longing. Ruta sways in her seat to the tune. I feel Chasia is singing of her own longing for her past; I don't know how to describe how tenderly she sings it. The air is heavy with emotion. Shiv cries. I retain my composure but can feel the hot tears welling up in my eyes. Shiv tells her she is truly moved and it means a lot, especially as she lost her mother only recently. Chasia nods and places her hand over her heart; I imagine she is telling Shiv, 'be brave.'

She walks us to the lift to send us on our way and say goodbye. She says, 'after you leave, we still have much work to do.' She says she hopes to continue to have the strength to keep doing what she does. She is 87 years old; may God grant her many more years.

Day 16: An author and a partisan

Saturday morning. We drop by Josef's again. He has written two books on the holocaust in Lithuania and participated in erecting and restoring memorials to the victims throughout the country.(See earlier entry on previous meeting.) The last time we met him, we understood that he may have some notes or records at home. (He gave away the bulk of his materials and research notes to the museum archives.) We had hoped to have a chance to examine some of these, discuss his experiences and understand what drove him to undertake such a mammoth task.


Josef gives Shiv a warm hug - when he met her last week, he said to her, "You have a kind face"

So instead we have a little chat and he gives Shiv a copy of his book Shoa. (We have the English version, but this is in Lithuanian.) He wants to write a message to Shiv on a piece of paper and slip it in between the cover and first page. We protest and encourage him to write it on the inside of the book itself - he relents, smiles and writes in a slow, measured hand. I forget that he is 91; he looks so sprightly. His writing is neat, legible and strong, but there's no mistaking the slight tremor and unevenness in the lines.



Josef's son, Aleksandr, arrives and brings chocolate and cookies; we settle down to have a chat with him. He has been very kind to drop by and allow us to do so. Shiv wanted to get a deeper insight into Josef's story by learning about him through the eyes of his family. After the interview, Alex - he says to call him that - says he'll ask his daughter if she's up to meeting with us next time round. Apparently, she had read her grandfather's books and discussed much with him. It would be interesting to understand her perspective too. On Friday night, we had the opportunity to speak to Margarita's daughter and grandson, the one who helped her put down her memories into a book; it was very enlightening to understand the impact of the holocaust on successive generations through them. (I didn't include this session in the blog notes, but you can read about our visit with Margarita here).

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After lunch, we visit Fania at her home. (To see earlier entry on Fania, click here.) The moment we walk through the door, she says we must stay for a meal as she is making soup. At this point, I am still full and I am not sure I could eat a thing. However, one thing I do know is that it is rude to not at least eat something... I steel myself to have another lunch. Thankfully though, she is okay when we explain that we have just had lunch; so she's alright with us eating later.

I set up the audio recording gear. Fania continues where she left off from the previous interview and relates details of how her family moved from Kaunas to Vilnius, and later, as the war progressed, how she became involved in the partisan movement in the ghetto, the difference between active and passive sabotage.

She also tells her about her daily life. She currently works as a librarian at the Yiddish Institute and also as deputy chairman of the Committee of Former Concentration Camp and Ghetto Survivors. The number of survivors have dwindled to 107. (When we first arrived two weeks or so ago, we were told there were 108.) Fania tells us that one of the women passed away a few days ago.



It is obvious that this is a woman who is proud of her achievements and grateful for the ability to keep doing what she feels is meaningful and contributive. She has the certificates to prove it too! From the Irish Consulate, from the American Embassy and also from the Yiddish Institute, recognizing her services.

She lives alone but her home suggests to me that this is a woman who continues to feel vital, enjoys herself and looks forward to each brand new day. When she speaks of her memories, they are not tinged with regret but cast in the light of a purposeful present and dare I say it, an optimistic sense of the future. Hers is, if anything, a life of a woman who knows she has a part to play and revels in the role that history has assigned her.

For example, she shows us, with much pride and glee, her collection of corsages and brooches which her husband bought for her on his multiple trips abroad. (She has been a widow for 23 years now.) She also talks about her children and grandchildren with joy; in fact she gets a call in the middle of the interview (apparently, her daughter calls everyday). There are flowers in pots and vases on the windowsills, on the balcony, and on the coffee table; she tells me she prunes the orchid plant her daughter gave her - they have undergone a second pruning recently. Her bathroom is filled with the usual things you may expect to see in any woman's toiletries collection - facial cleansers, anti-ageing creams, moisturisers. Obviously,she enjoys treating herself.

There are printed materials on the walls, books and collections of collectibles in the cupboards. Of these, there are two things that strike me. One is that among her books, there is a substantial number of titles dedicated to the holocaust. She is obviously an avid reader. When she tells us her story, it is punctuated with historical facts - dates, places, names. It is as if she has contextualised her own story within the larger canvas of history.

The printed materials on the walls, the collectibles in the cupboards (figurines dressed in fancy and exotic national costumes from across the globe), and the fridge magnets; collectively, they represent an eclectic mix. There is a print of two Chinese women in ancient costumes hanging on the inside of the bathroom door. On another door, there is a disturbing drawing of what seems to be a man wailing and drowning in darkness; it is a poster for what appears to be an exhibition by Harry Kagan. There is a Vietnamese doll dressed in an ao dai standing on top of the cupboard in the living room. These make me think of what she said the other day about not letting history repeat itself, of the importance of people as individuals rather than the prioritisation of nationalities. Very similar sentiments to many of the survivors we have spoken to; there is a sense of needing to embrace all peoples and be colour blind.

It appears to me that those who have experienced what it means to be dehumanised are converted into ardent supporters of humanity. It is a pity, I think to myself, that such compassion was born from such dire tragedy. It also makes me ask myself if such genuine compassion can exist without having to undergo such lessons. The Chinese have a saying - "until the needle pierces your skin, you will not know pain." I think about people I know who take freedom for granted, who see rights and opportunities as entitlements. I think also of people I know for whom these are not automatic.. I believe that it is those who do not have, or have to struggle for it, that cherish more.

We soon break for lunch. Fania lays out a yummy spread of chopped herring with apples and hard-boiled eggs, salad, salmon and bread. I enjoy it so much I forget that she has also made soup - I am almost full. She tells us it is her mother's recipe, 'she is gone but this I still have'. In fact, this is the only time I see her appear a bit more wistful, when she tells us this.



We end up spending close to 5 hours at Fania's but her story is so eventful we can't possibly absorb all at one or two interview sessions. We agree to set a third date.

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Below, Fania's collection of knick-knacks and collectibles. A common wish we have heard from many of the holocaust survivors we have interviewed is that people should get along, love one another and see beyond colour, nationalities or race... At Fania's, this expressed itself, I feel, in the beautiful things she collected and displayed, indeed surrounded herself with; almost like a shrine. I would like to think that this is her way of affirming her belief in the goodness of humanity.

Day 15: The Vilnius Yiddish Institute and The Green House (Vilna Gaon Jewish State Museum)

This morning, we meet with Fania at the Vilnius Yiddish Institute. She was a partisan during the war and now works as a librarian at the institute. We ask her about her life before the war. She shares this photo with us:



She has a very sharp memory and tells us of about her family - her dad was an electrical engineer who ran a workshop/store and also taught at a college; her mum was a stay-at-home mother who took on odd jobs to supplement the family income. When she tells her story, she paints a picture that is full of details, texture and colour. Of her mum and her bob-sledding; of the people who lived in their block of apartments; the workshops in the complex which made candy, cotton and tobacco... I can almost see, hear and smell the scene - children playing in the courtyard, mums and dads concerned with ordinary daily life; of making a living, making sure their kids did their homework, and families around dinner tables.

And then, one day, the German soldiers came. The children were playing as usual when the Nazis showed up in their idyllic world. They take our their guns and order the children to sing. Fania says her younger sister started to 'sing, scream, anything.' I imagine how petrified the children must have been, and for what? Perhaps just to humour the soldiers, on a whim. One theme that keeps recurring when I hear these stories are the attempts to humiliate and to remove free will. For some reason, I think of Viktor Frankl's book, Man's Search for Meaning, and of Cholem's identity number in Dachau. It is easier to humiliate when you have rendered someone persona non grata; or removed degrees of their human-ness.

Despite the conditions, she gives an example of how defiant she was. For example, speaking Yiddish in the street with her husband. It is understandable, I think, why she became an active partisan during the war years. Even now, she has a twinkle in her eye. I can well believe her wilfulness; to not allow her spirit to be crushed, even in those desperate times. We are running short of time today but we want to hear more about her experience, so we make another appointment with her for the weekend. I am looking forward to hearing more of her story.

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We head to the museum known as the Green House again. (See previous entry). We interview Rachel there, who tells us about her work at the museum.



Her story is one of struggle and keeping the past alive. She talks about the Soviet times, about the fate of Jewish artifacts, culture and people following those times to the present day; of how she rediscovered her roots and the importance of perpetuating the memory of those lost. We look around the museum exhibits and take a few photos, with her permission.

I found this poem by Mark Dvorzhetski, hanging at the entrance of the museum, to be particularly apt. The line that stands out for me is: "...may the memory of this catastrophe be the salt of your bread, may it become a part of your own being..." Another theme that has struck me most of all speaking to the interviewees so far is that the holocaust isn't just a crime against one group of people; it is a crime against humanity. The phrase "a part of your own being" reminds me that collectively, we are all a part of a larger body.



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Coming back to the apartment, I decide to chill out for a half hour and just read the newspaper I bought yesterday. The only English language paper I can get my hands from the nearest kiosk to our apartment is the International Herald Tribune. I read about the anniversary of 9-11, the US military interventions in Pakistan, the European Union at logger heads with Russia over the situation in Georgia. It reminds me that once upon a time, those who named World War I the 'Great War' believed it to be 'the war to end all wars.' So why do wars and genocide keep occurring? I ask myself. Somehow, I don't think it's about the fading of memories. I think it is because people think of these memories as belonging only to specific groups of people; the holocaust and the Jews, the Rape of Nanking and the Chinese, Darfur and the Sudanese. If we stopped thinking of memories and histories as being yours or mine or another's, would things be different? Can we embrace and embody the injustice perpetrated throughout history -- make it the salt in our bread, a part of our own being -- and be genuinely disgusted and digustingly disappointed that such crimes have been committed and continue to exist on our watch?

Day 14: Ziezmariai

Today, we drop by Dobke's to pick up her daughter Frida for a visit to Ziezmariai. This is the village where Dobke is from, and where the events she described took place (see blog post)Since her stroke a few years ago, she hasn't been very mobile, so her daughter Frida will act as our guide. Dobke tells us that the last time she visited, things had of course changed but in her memory, 'the houses, the streets and the people - I see it all very clearly still.' Reportedly, she was very distressed when she last visited.


Dobke

Frida will show us where the massacre sites were outside Ziezmariai. Growing up with the legacy of her mother's memories, she is well aware of the events that occurred even though she was only a baby during the war. We expect it to be about an hour away, and Frida sits in the back of the van with the rest of us. However, as we near our destination, she suggests she sit in the front of the van as we do not want to miss the exit off the highway. Supposedly the sites are not clearly marked.



Site 1
We soon get lost. Frida isn't very sure but she thinks a dirt road off the highway is the route to the first site, where 1,800 women and children were murdered. We drive down this dusty road and soon come to a fork. The driver takes a left turn and we head across a field. It doesn't look right; so he reverses and we drive down the other road. We soon come to a dirt clearing with a sign that says no entry for vehicles on the left; sand is being mined from this land or something like that. On the right, we see a path ahead. Frida ventures on on foot and comes back to us - she has found the route. Here, I will let the photos tell the rest of the journey.

This sign points towards the site...



But it can be quite easy to miss... (can you see it? hint: left foreground)



This clearing marked by a fence is the site of the murders.





This incline opposite the site is where the Nazis situated the firing squad...



Because the memorial stone has faded somewhat; Frida traces her hand over it to read the inscription...



Site 2
Next we head for site 2, where 2,200 men from the town of Ziezmariai were killed. This proves even harder to find than the first site. It is off a small road that's off the highway. I am surprised that Frida finds it or remembers it from her last visit. I don't think I could have found this place or lead you back to it if my life depended on it...





We walk into the forest...



We walk some more...



Finally, some light as we turn the corner into a clearing...



The site. On the left, a stone marker which marks the site is broken.



The memorial stone.



These sites remind me of our visit to Ponar, in that it is deep, deep in the forest. I think, such cowards to try and hide their crimes. It makes no sense when I think about how the majority of the killing spree was conducted so wantonly and openly at the concentration camps.

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Ziezmariai

We head into Ziezmariai village proper. We find the church and the town square, just like Dobke had painted in her pictures. We also visit the wooden synagogue.

There is a plaque on the door - it reads:



It seems a little odd, I think to myself, to put this synagogue on the European Cultural Route but do so little to preserve it. The doors and windows are boarded shut - almost haphazardly, with nails sticking out here, rusty padlocks there and one edge of the structure seems to be floating haphazardly above a pile of exposed bricks. This is obviously a structural hazard. I wonder how long it will last? I would imagine if I were a tourist, this would annoy me, to come all the way and see a shell of a supposed cultural icon. I stick the camera lens between some gap in the planks and try to shoot what's inside.







After this visit, we ask Frida to bring us to the Jewish cemetery in the village. Dobke has about five relatives buried here. It is hardly surprising to see that it has been unattended to; there are no Jewish families in this village. But I am surprised to find that I can't even see tombstones - the grass and weeds have completely overtaken the plot. The only stone we can see is the one closest to the entrance.

Day 13: A slower pace today

Yesterday, we decided to have a bit of a break. We caught up with Isroel in the morning just to round off our interview - verify some facts and so on. When we got back, Jesse and Dan were packing and getting ready to leave for London. So it was a bit of a slow day. Did some housekeeping - photocopying documents, scanning, archiving and some research.

I also tried to burn some of the audio records on to CDs but realised that most of them exceeded the 700MB space on the CDs. I have been kinda worried since the beginning of the trip when I realised that the external hard drive wasn't working. I have had to store things on the second internal drive on my laptop but felt we should have another external storage. Imagine if my laptop goes kaput for whatever reason? I have 1,291 files so far on this project - about 13 GB of information, from photos,audio files to index files on the interviews, things collected and so on. I dread to imagine what would happen if I lost these.

When Shiv got back from seeing the guys off at the airport, we decide to go watch a movie. We get ripped off by a cabby who charges us twice to get there compared to the fare we are charged to get back. We end up watching Get Smart 15 minutes after it'd started. I don't think Shiv cared about the movie at all; when we left the cinema, she pronounced that the popcorn was good.

Later, she called the guys. Apparently, the case holding the camera and videos appeared to have been opened, perhaps for inspection, somewhere between here and London. The latches on it were not re-secured properly. When it came off the conveyor belt and was picked up, it opened unexpectedly and the camera and videos fell onto the floor. We are hoping that they're all okay. We'll know later when the guys download them. Fingers crossed.

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Today, we go back to Cholem. He seems excited to see us and asks where Jesse and Dan are. He's such a social being and seems to enjoy company and larking about. He reminds us of how he choked while at lunch with us; how he thought it would be a disaster to spoil our lunch when he had visitors from abroad. (See blog entry)

We talk a bit more about his family; how prewar life was like. They weren't wealthy or anything but he says they were content; dad would try and get work daily - he was a casual labourer, while mum took great pride in making sure there was food on the table and that whatever earned was carefully spent. When Shiv asks him if he was happy and felt safe then, his answer reminds us how subjective those terms are and mean different things to different people. He says, 'Mum was there, and there was potato on the table,' and shrugs. For him, that his parents made sure that he and his brother were fed, had clothes, went to school, was proof of affection and love and a happy family; who can argue with that?



He tells us more about the events that led up to the 'Big Action' of October to November 1941, when about 13,000 Jews were killed at Kaunas Fort IX. He was there, with his family, during one of the 'selection processes.' They were assembled in the town square and the Nazis divided the people into groups and despatched them to the forts. By a stroke of luck, his father pleaded with a Jewish collaborator and his family was spared. (The activities at Fort IX is documented in the Jaeger Report (This link also provides a scanned copy of the original document created by SS-Standartenfuehrer Karl Jaeger, who commanded the murder spree of Einsatzkommando 3. It is a chilling document, where human lives are recorded like numbers on a spreadsheet.) He tells us of the many moments when it could have all ended for him; how he felt his life had hung by a thread. He believes that he was fated to survive, that for some reason, God had watched over him.


1995 Dachau commemorative badge.

Cholem wants to know when we are leaving. He says 'I may never see you again.' He says he would like to send us off at the airport. We promise to pick him up when we go, so we can say our goodbyes then. We feel honoured that he has taken us into his home and shared his memories; certainly, we hope the journey does not end at the conclusion of this research trip.

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We drop by at Berl's to ask a few more questions to verify some information from the first interview. He is in a blue ironed shirt and striped pajama bottoms.


Shiv and a box of matzo at Berl's

Berl seems in a good mood and is fairly chatty. He tells us about his medals, including receiving the Order of the Patriotic War First Class for his participation in the battle at Oryol with the Lithuanian 16th division of the Red Army. He tells us the snow was so deep it came up their armpits. They could barely move, let alone fight. So they stood and slept leaning against each other. How unlike the Germans, they had no tanks and no planes. They were 'like meat' he says; little more than cannon fodder. He concludes that he received that medal because he survived; he doesn't think they did much fighting or advancing. All they could do was stand their ground.

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A slower pace today but we got quite some done. Including get an external hard drive and some CDs with larger storage space - thank goodness! We also drive by Shnipishok.

Ruta points out to us that this used to be a shtetl and these were Jewish homes. Looking around, it's surprising to see how these wooden houses have survived. They look a little dilapidated but apart from that, seem sturdy still. Unfortunately, the weather isn't great for photos. But I take a few anyway...