For example, I spot the words "morbida convenienza" on a bag of toilet rolls. How can one guess what that means? I think 'morbid convenience'? Can't be. 'Mobile convenience' doesn't sound right either. So I give up. Anyways, it's humid here and very hot. Jesse says he didn't imagine a Eastern European country to be so humid, like Miami. My geography isn't very good and I am not sure if there is a distinction between the Baltic states and East Europe but I suggest maybe it has to do with Lithuania being near the Baltic Sea.
Since some streets in town are closed for the festival, the driver finds it hard to get to us. We end up being late so we ditch the idea of returning to Cholem to give him back his photos; we will do that next week instead. So we head to Dobke's instead.
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Dobke is 94 years old. She likes to draw and shows us her paintings. There are paintings of everyday scenes; people walking in the forecourt of the flats where she lives and cars parked in the bays next to the flats. There are also paintings from memory of past experiences. We find it quite hard to get specific answers from her as she tends to veer off on various tangents and disregards direct questions. But she is animated and seems to enjoy telling stories, so we listen attentively anyway. Of her family - she has seven brothers and two sisters - only she and one brother survived. In her village, one other boy survived. He was later killed after the war by their neighbours.
She tells us that before the war she was a seamstress, how she loved fashion, how beautiful she was. We look at her photos and there are a few of her looking very fashionable. I like the one of her posing in knee-high boots - she looks very dapper!
She tells us that when the war began, she had just gotten married; they'd bought an apartment, she'd spent all her money furnishing it. But by the grace of God, she felt compelled to "run, run, run" and she did, to Russia. When she narrates her paintings, it is almost as if she can't stop. Everything seems to be tumbling out of her; her stories are tripping over each other - one moment she is talking about massacres, next of her hometown, and suddenly, it is a vignette of a specific moment, like when she met a friend in a street and tried to get her to run away with her. We don't get a clear sense of chronology but it can't be helped.
Dobke, her daughter Frida and Shiv
We want to understand if painting is a catharsis for her, also a means of not forgetting. But I guess today is not the day to ask; she is too involved with telling us the stories of each picture. There are two from the 40+ paintings she shows us which stand out for me. The first is of a synagogue. It is unlike the rest. It has a black border around it. All of Dobke's paintings and sketches are drawn with little regard for perspective and framing. It is as if she starts from the middle and whatever spills over the edges are unrecorded; as if an A3 watercolour paper is insufficient to contain her memory. When she runs out of room - as in one drawing of her visiting her son in the hospital - she draws on another piece of paper and tacks it on to the original picture.
Back to the drawing of the synagogue... I like this one particularly because it has a mix of symbols and metaphors in it. The synagogue is plonked in the middle of the drawing. From two of its windows, there are streams of red. On the roof, two birds stand; she draws them disproportionately big - at first glance I thought they were gargoyles. They are shedding tears. Dobke tells us that this picture is of women and children massacred in a synagogue; the streams of red is their blood pouring out into the street. The birds? Because there is no one to cry for them, only the birds.
The second picture which makes an indelible impact on me is of a flatbed truck in what looks like a street with a field behind it. A soldier is standing to the left of the drawing, in front of the truck; I cannot tell from the uniform if he is meant to be a Nazi or a Russian or a Lithuanian partisan. Another man is poised over the back of the truck, throwing a child into the back. The flatbed is already full of children. Dobke points to this area of the painting, and her finger rubs against the gaping mouths, and says "look, they are all crying." She tells us of how children were "tossed into trucks like old cabbage" and when they were brought to the pits, they were thrown in. Women were thrown in after them. They were buried alive.
We ask her to please look straight into the camera and observe a moment of silence. She simply can't do it. She keeps talking and motioning to things. She admonishes Shiv for not teaching her sons Yiddish. She comes from a religious family and despite the "unfortunate incidents" she is proud of being Jewish and will be till "the end of days."
She is very unusual. She is obviously proud of her heritage yet there are few signs in the house. I don't see the customary menorah on a shelf or any other Jewish artifacts. I do find a Santa Claus figurine in the top shelf of one of the cabinets though. We almost can't leave, because she holds on to my hand and starts squeezing it and saying something. Ruta tells us we have to go. I wish I could understand what she was saying. i don't know what to say back to her so I use the only Russian word I know - "dosvidanya" ('goodbye'). I think she is giving us advice but I don't know what. I look around to make sure I have everything with me. I say goodbye to the pets - a cat, a kitten and a dog. We will be back again.
Santa tucked away on a top shelf
Kitty emerging from under the TV cabinet, while its mum hides in the background
I forgot the name of this dog but she was really friendly
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