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 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...

Day 7: Photos and Prayers

Today, for no apparent reason, I decide to look at the Tarot card application installed in my Facebook profile. Today's card is The High Priestess and reads: "The High Priestess is the mysterious one and counterpart to the Magician. She symbolizes all that we are unable to perceive or comprehend, as she travels in dimensions that we can only imagine exist. She is able to uncover the infinite potential that exists within all humans. Her patience is perhaps her greatest virtue." How befitting, I think to myself, for the more I learn about the interviewees, the less I comprehend. The two words which keep occurring to me are 'incomprehensible' and 'inexplicable.'

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We visit Cholem again in the morning. He is a jolly and sociable man. He has photo albums and documents ready for us. He shows us the letter from Stutthof which confirms his mother's death. He has a card confirming he was at Dachau; his number was 81679. No names when he was in the concentration camp; people were numbers only. I ask him if he has a number tattooed on him. He says no, only those at Auschwitz.



He thumbs through the photo albums and narrates them. Here he is, at Zwingereck while visiting Dachau, with other fellow survivors. Here is a photo of his father's grave covered in snow. That one, that's him at Jerusalem. This one, with a lady from South Africa, also a survivor. And so on. Between all these, old photos, of his brother (he was shot in the street before the family was moved to the ghetto); his uncles playing in a band in Kaunas... Also, more recent ones, of him with his wood sculptures. I can see Cholem ageing before my eyes; a young man, an older man, a son, a tourist. I think, photo albums shouldn't be like this. They shouldn't be 70 percent full of graves and tombstones and visits to concentration camp memorials. Where are the happy holiday photos; the ones at a beach, of birthday celebrations and weddings? I wonder when I am dead and someone looks at my photo albums, what will they say of me, of the life I have led?

Yesterday, when we asked him if he would lend us one of his wood sculptures for the exhibition, he was relunctant. Today, he presses into our hands a number of sculptures. This one? he asks, or this one? We say, oh no, just one. But we end up with two. We ask him if he wants to give us something personal to him, it doesn't have to be precious; just representative of him. He gives us a button. He lifts his shirt up and we see breeches underneath holding up his pants. He jokes he will give us the breeches and motions that his pants will fall down. He goes to his room and brings out two other breeches - one is striped, the other an austere black. He gives us the black one.



We go for lunch and almost have an emergency. He is eating steak, and chokes on a piece. He turns blue and gags. I was smoking and away from the table. When I get back, the team says they didn't know whether to thump him on his back, and debated for a moment to get me as I know the Heimlich manoeuvre. But he is okay, thankfully; his nose is red and he coughs, but he is okay. He jokes about it afterwards, indicating with his thumb and index finger how big the piece was. How horrible if he were to expire on a piece of meat, after all he has gone through. We joke that it would be terrible to have this inscription on the grave - "survived Dachau, died from choking at a restaurant."

We drop Cholem off at the entrance to his flat and take some photos together. A neighbour is at the door too and she looks at me curiously. In these parts, I don't imagine they see many Asians. I smile at her and ask her to take a photo with me. She seems pleased. She stands around and we take photos of her and Cholem together.

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Isroel, whom we had interviewed at Choral Synagogue days ago, has invited us to film him when he goes to the cemetery. He wants to say prayers at his wife's grave. We meet him there. He has thoughtfully brought two umbrellas as it has begun to rain. He tells us about how his wife died, how she did not get treatment for her cancer until it was too late, how she did not listen to his advice to go to the doctor sooner. Suddenly, his frame is racked with sobs. He cries for a few minutes. Then, he stops, wipes his nose and eyes, and narrates again. I feel his loneliness. It is so palpable, it hangs in the air.

The last time we met Isroel, he did not want us to visit him at his home. We think he was embarrassed about it. But today, unexpectedly, as we are about to leave the cemetery, he invites us to his home.

His flat is a little more spacious than Cholem's but small nonetheless. There are bookshelves full of books. He shows us his photos, including one of him with his dad and his twin brother (see below).


Isroel and his books


Isroel, his dad and his twin brother. This photo makes me think of the cat song they sang to their dad, who was with the Soviet army, when he was hospitalised. (See blog entry)

We learn something new about Isroel today. He is a chess champion. He shows us photos of him at a chess board. When we ask him what he would like to lend or give us for an exhibition, he gives us a silver spoon which he says belonged to his wife. Also a pair of spectacles and accompanying leather case. Plus a chess piece. As he hands the white queen to me, he says, "very strong" - the most powerful piece on the board. We leave. Everyone else has headed down the stairs. I am packing up my bag. I I say "aciu" the only Lithuanian word I have learnt since we arrived here, which means 'thank you.' He points to a silver mezuzah on the door frame; he kisses his finger and touches it. I imagine he is telling me that he is blessed. I am glad for him. I remember his story that he told us, when he felt ashamed at one time to be a Jew. "Shalom," I say to him in lieu of good bye; I don't know why. It just seemed appropriate. Again, I feel the loneliness wafting in like a draft. He seems relunctant to see us go.

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I see how listening to Isroel, Chasia, Berl and Cholem speak about the past, no matter how horrible, is a way to honour their lives and their pain. I am overwhelmed by sadness as I suddenly think of my grandmother; cowering under her dining table, naked. She is in her 90s and dementia has overtaken her. I am sorry no one has asked her to tell her story - not like this. Her story is lost.

All I remember or can gather about her and what it was like to live through the war came by way of what seemed, at that time, to be inconsequential moments. Like when we were booked on a tour in Hong Kong. For some reason, everyone in that small group were elderly folk and survivors of the war. They swapped stories and I listened in. Like how they scavenged for food in the forest, stripping the bark off trees and boiling them for food. How their family members were carted off in trucks to no one knows where; most probably to Burma to build the railway there. I wonder why I did not ask more.

Another incident I remember occurred when I was studying in Australia. We were in my uncle's home in a Sydney suburb. Hirohito had just died and we were watching the news. I looked at my grandmother's face to see her reaction. There was none; her expression was stoic and unperturbed. She just said matter-of-factly, "The Japanese emperor is dead." She never spoke of her experiences during the war. Each time I visit her, she spoke only of the goings-on of Hong Kong film stars and updates of the latest Chinese soaps on TV. I wonder if she has lost her capability to engage in even such trivia now.

Day 6: PM

It's odd, almost serendipitous. This morning, I wrote about waiting for time (see blog entry). Tick tock. Tick tock. When we visit Cholem's, he has clocks everywhere in his flat. I wonder why...? I tell Shiv we must ask him when we next visit. This time, we have a short interview. Later, we will return to conduct a more thorough session.

Cholem is 82 years old. He was born in Kaunas. His flat looks like it has received the treatment of a woman's touch. It is full of knick knacks displayed behind glass cupboards - china figurines, wood sculptures, teacups and teapots. There are lace curtains in the kitchen, a glass bowl of fruit on the table, a basket of medicine, plastic trays for more knick knacks... I figure he likes to be organised. Everything appears to have a place. And those clocks. There are 2 digital clocks and 4 quartz in the living room, a cuckoo clock in the corridor, and 3 plastic ones in the kitchen.

He used to be a carpenter, so he has many pieces of wood sculpture in his flat. He caresses them as he explains them to us. He tells us about the ghetto. The trip there in a cattle wagon. How people were "hunted like animals." He tells us about Dachau. About his father giving him his last piece of bread. About the march through fields and snow on the eve of liberation. About receiving a document recently from Poland confirming his mother's death; her number is on the list of those who died in a concentration camp but he doesn't know how. He points to a picture of himself in his younger days; he is a handsome man.


A younger Cholem watching over porcelain collectibles

He tells us he does not know how to explain the joy bursting through him when he learnt he was liberated. He expresses how he thought he was finished, how he was sure his heart would stop, when he realised he was trapped in the ghetto. He says he cannot understand why anti-semitism exists. How simple lives are turned upside down. He asks, why do neighbours turn against each other? Why do they deface public buildings with swastikas? Why do people steal tomb stones from cemeteries? Why do they strip bronze plaques from graves? I watch him tell his story and I don't know what to think. The only thought that goes through my head is this: because there is evil in the world; because there are cruel, cruel, cruel, selfish people... It is inexplicable otherwise and incomprehensible to me.

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Later on, we speak to a journalist. We ask him what his views are on the Jewish holocaust within the context of a contemporary Lithuania. He tells us that we have to remember the past and not forget it. However, that when one is reminded too often, it can grate on the nerves.

I think of Cholem, who continues to have nightmares; sometimes he even falls out of bed. Unfortunately, he does not have the luxury of not being reminded. He lives with these memories everyday.