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?
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