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 10: Alone in the world

Today, we meet with Gita. When we arrive, she greets us downstairs at the entrance to her block of flats. She is effusive with her hospitality and walks us upstairs to her flat. When we enter, I can see that she has laid out a spread on the dining table, with her best teacups and saucers. She starts apologising for the condition of her flat, saying how in the Soviet times, the flat was drab and without colour and how by the time she can redecorate, she doesn't have the energy to put in the necessary effort. It is a lovely, well-kept flat, sparse and clean. She is obviously quite house proud.

We go about setting up our equipment. Ruta starts to ask her a few questions for a biography brief; the name of her parents. Gita starts to sob as she tells Ruta the name of her parents. I don't know where to look. I busy myself plugging in the mics to the audio recording equipment. I am thinking that she may not be up to an interview. But I am wrong.

Gita tells her story with great simplicity and honesty, in a moving narrative enhanced with specific details and memories. I am thinking that she really wants to tell her story and maybe even thought about what she was going to tell us. She tells her story in a collection of vignettes. How Jews, Poles and Russian POWs are shot in Baruk forest. How the ghetto was liquidated; the German soldiers strafe the ghetto with machine gun fire, then go door to door searching for survivors. Her parents are killed. How she and 7 other survivors escaped through a hole in a fence as the ghetto was set alight. How they crawled through a potato field on their bellies. Gita sobs as she tells her story; I am finding it very hard to listen to her and not be caught up in her pain.


Gita

An hour into the interview, I am finding it increasingly painful to listen to her story. I look at her face and notice little things; like how thick her earlobes are. How to the Chinese this is considered a sign of good fortune, and I wonder if she had lived in a different time, would she have had a different life?

She tells us after the war, she went home but she "had nothing, no shoes." She wanders about the town, looking to see if she can recognise neighbours. She has on her feet socks made out of parachute fabric... On her back, she has her father's jacket, which she took down into the basement the day he died. She cries when she talks about how she felt she had no home to return to.

I cannot reconcile this story with the gracious hostess who tries to feed us coffee and cakes and biscuits and cold water. She is a proud woman and she insists we eat, eat, eat and when we leave, she stuffs apples into plastic bags and makes us take them with us.


"Eat, eat, eat!"

I take away with me her caution that differentiation is something to be wary of; she says she does not divide people into nationalities, only good and bad, and that "goodness is the best nationality." I don't think she has reconciled for herself why the holocaust befell her and her kind. She says she thinks it is important to tell her story - "I think people should know, what was done, and for what? To remember… children were thrown into pits, the earth was mourning, the forest had streams of blood...” Her faith in humanity has not been destroyed, I don't think; only that she has been disappointed and baffled. She recalls fondly how at the factory where she worked, people of all nationalities were kind to her. Again, I am awed by the ability to forgive and yet not forget.

Later that night, I scan photos that Gita has lent to us. I see the carefree joy of youth; it is hard to imagine the suffering in the smiles. I look at the photos of her I took today and see the contrast. Does age reveal what youth hides?

Day 9: Leaving a legacy

It occurs to me today, while listening to Josef, that from those we have heard from, it is possible to characterize their life stories in a few words. (As you can imagine, my mind tends to wander as there's usually a gap between when the interviewee speaks and the translation; pockets of time to think about my response.) These words would be deceptively simplistic of course and won't do justice to their experiences. However, I suppose they may be useful to provide a sense of the main 'theme' of their lives. With Berl, I think of 'regret'; with Dobke, 'beauty'; Cholem, 'humour'; Isroel, 'loneliness and longing' and Chasia 'resigned.'

When we ask Josef to start wherever he likes in telling us about himself, his narration is peppered with his successes, at school, at work (where he was an engineer and rose to a prominent level in the Soviet administration) and so on. This makes me think of the words 'achievement' and also 'legacy.' This is because Josef, in his later years, has made it his life work to commemorate the holocaust in Lithuania. He has written and collaborated on 2 books, The Shoah (Holocaust) in Lithuania published in 2006, and Skausma Knyga: The Book of Sorrows in 1997. Of his books, he says, "memorials may be destroyed but this book will last for centuries." What drives him it appears is the fear that the suffering of those in the holocaust are forgotten because "what if evil returns?"


Josef is animated when he describes the history of his birthplace, Veiseijai (pronounced vee-see-yeh)

Josef was in the Lithuanian Division of the Red Army during the war. At the end of the war, he returned to find that his family had been killed; his father in Katkiske village. He says he was frozen in place when he heard of what took place in his village. He says he knew that horrible things were taking place when the Nazis occupied Lithuania but it did not prepare him for the scale of the tragedy. He made himself a solemn vow then, "I have to do something to make it known to others." He is doing what he can to honour that vow. On his first book; he spent about 6+ years researching massacre sites and working with local officials to erect or refurbish existing memorials. The 200+ sites are meticulously recorded in Skausma Knyga.

Today, he takes us back to his hometown, about 2 hours drive from Vilnius. He says much has changed but is able to point out the main square; the streets where Jewish families lived; the area beside the lake where his grandfather's home was (he remembers learning that the house was dismantled and the bricks distributed to build other homes); the synagogue building which is now a baptist church. How there was a fire in 1924 and it was burnt down but later rebuilt by funds from the Zimmerman family. His memory is very clear and sharp. As we drive into town, he anticipates what is ahead of us, "there is a church on the right; on the left is the square..." They are still there.


Main street in Veisiejai


The road leading to his grandfather's house, taken from our van


Town square


Heading towards what used to be the synagogue (green building at end of road)

I walk around and take photos of the town. An elderly gentleman smiles at me. A younger man in a tractor slows down and turns in his seat; I wave to him and he waves back with a smile. I look for the team.

Shiv waves excitedly at me and I join them. A woman whom they meet on the street has taken offense to us, strangers in her town. For some reason, she decides that Jesse and Dan are Jews and that we are there to record or suss out what used to be Jewish property. She says she had a bad experience with Jews before and she seems convinced that we are part of some project that involves restitution. She is afraid that if the Jews come back, they will take everything and they will be out on the streets. She says that Jews are bad people, cursed people. Josef is wearing a pinched smile; he shrugs off the comments by the woman but seems somewhat distressed. Her fellow town member is more compassionate; he tells Josef that as a child, he remembers playing with his Jewish friends and what happened was sad.


Different folks, different experiences and memories. Some townsfolk share their opinions with Josef.

We head away to the massacre site where Josef's father was among the 1535 people killed there. There is a sign on the main road which points out the exit. We enter a narrow road and there are fields all around. It is quite isolated, we aren't sure when we come to a fork in the road whether to keep going. We stop and ask a man for directions. We drive on and see a marker; we are on the right path. When we get there, I see that it is a small enclosure in the forest; maybe 25 feet by 20 feet. Without the two 3 feet high pillars and the monument in the centre of the field, it could be a lawn anywhere. He is surprised he says, positively surprised, to find it well tended; the grass has been cut and there are candles on the memorial there. Quite unlike the fate of some, he tells us.





It is late now; we have to head back to Vilnius. We should arrive about 8-ish. Josef may be 91 but he puts the rest of us to shame. I look behind me in the van; Ruta is resting with her eyes closed, Shiv has dozed off, Jess and Dan are quiet - I can't see if they have dozed off or not. But Josef stares straight ahead at the road in front of him; his eyes are bright and his face is set in a stoic, dignified pose. We drive back in silence.

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.

Day 4: A Hard Day

Today is the most difficult day of all since we arrived. We meet Ruta, an academic who will be our guide and translator for the following days we are here. We have a team meet at 9.30am to discuss the possible line-up of interviews and schedule for the next few days. We will meet two Holocaust survivors today, Berl and Chasia.

Today has turned out to be the most difficult day for me. I don't know whether fatigue has caught up with me or what, but I am exhausted. I think it has to do with trying to focus on what's being said without understanding what's being said, reading the expression on faces and trying to match it with what the translator is saying, or whether it's about taking notes and trying hard to catch as much as possible down on my notepad. It's also our schedule of course. Waking at 7 or 8am, getting ready for the day, and being on the move until evening. Today, we got back only at 10pm as we returned to the apartment, dropped off our equipment and went to dinner immediately.

After dinner, I spent the last hour scanning photos and recording items we have been given as exhibits. Such amazing gifts - Ben gave us a yamulke and a medal; Chasia an amber pendant. They gave it to us and don't expect it back, though we are happy to do so.

But I think what's worn me out most are the stories. I can't even watch a World Vision ad without feeling angry and sad and everything else in between. Today, when Berl and Chasia shared their stories, I was consumed by both.

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Berl is 84. He lives alone. He is blind on account of his diabetes and glaucoma. He proudly serves boiled eggs, matzo crackers and wine. He speaks about losing his family; his bike ride to his father's 30 kms away to warn him of the Nazi invasion. His dad didn't leave. He was killed. He talks about how he joined the Soviet army when he was 17; he unexpectedly unzips his trousers and shows us a deep long scar where he was wounded in the hip. He recalls that this was "good" because he was off duty for 6 months. He relates tales of moving from place to place, living on food rations dispensed to veterans, of his first wife and his second; also his children. He tells us, "I am 84 years old and close to God." He is waiting, waiting, it seems to me. What he hates most is his blindness because he can no longer work or drive a taxi; his time is spent with his mind. And it is turning against him.


Berl

Berl tells us he is sad; sad when he learnt that there was a Neo-Nazi march this year and it was escorted by the police. Sad that it dishonours those who died. He starts telling us about people being lied to; asked to dig a hole to store food, then buried alive. I think he has lost faith in people. We ask him if he will lend us something for our exhibition or something he can give us; anything representative of him. He gives us a medal he gets for being a model Soviet worker and a yamulke.


Berl's gift

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After lunch, we meet Chasia. She is sprightly and elegant; she has make up on to welcome us. I feel intrusive; her flat is small and we have taken up all the space. Her son has to move into the kitchen to make way for us. I park myself on the door frame between the living room and the balcony; there is no room for Chasia, the camera, Jess and Dan, Ruta, Shiv and I.

She tells us of her Zionist fervour in her younger days. Her first husband, her son, her in-laws, the ghetto. How they had 25 people in a room and one bottle of milk for her 6-month-old son when they first got to the ghetto; how they somehow adapted. How her husband joins the partisans in the forest. How they all die.


Chasia

She shares how she was shot in the arm by a comrade testing a weapon. How she later remarried after the war. She has two children now; she named her son the same name as her first. How she carries the burden of blood lost that she may live. Her story is too steeped with pain to relate much here, too rich in detail to give it justice in a short paragraph, and too harrowing to feel and absorb at one sitting. Her brother has moved to Israel but she has stayed because "this is where my children died."

I am at once awed when she speaks of the joy she has at work - in a community center which used to be the college she spent her youth in - and humbled. I don't know where she finds the strength to forgive and yet not forget.

I am not sure I am looking forward to hearing more of these stories. I am not sure if I feel inspired or angry or frustrated. It all seems so unfair.

Day 2: A Visit to Ponar/Panieri

This morning, we meet our guide Chaim. We decide to plan our day over breakfast in the old Jewish quarter. Chaim tells me his name is pronounced "Ha-im" with a strong inflection on the "h" like a cross between "k" and "h". It makes me think of the "(k)hreme cheese" joke that Shiv told me once, about the Jewish pronunciation of "c" which sounds more like "(k)h". He points to the Hebrew lettering on his cap and sweatshirt. He tells me it means 'guide.' (Later, I am told by Jess that it also means 'the learned one.')


Chaim

We decide to visit Ponar, also known as Panieri. It is the site of the memorial to the largest killing field in Lithuania. At The Green House yesterday, we saw a video clip of a survivor describing one of the pits there. The narrator was choking back tears when she described how she tried to scramble 'under' the Nazi guards, hoping to escape. She said, 'On left grandmother, on right aunt, when we were there, we were no longer father, grandmother,' something to that effect. I took it to mean that it was everyone to themselves at that point, at the precipice, on the brink of death. Shiv thinks she meant that they were all just bodies, nameless, without identities; pieces of meat...

We exit the restaurant. Out on the street, Chaim walks us up and down and points out places of interest. A passerby overhears us and she and Chaim exchange a few words. Chaim translates. She takes offense at his use of the word "Vilna" instead of "Vilnius." Later Chaim explains to us that to Jews, he uses the name Vilna; to others, he uses the Lithuanian name, Vilnius.


Chaim narrating on Stickliu Street


We arrive at Ponar, also known as Palnieri. I am a bit confused. The stone carving marking the entrance to the site is Panieru Memorialas. I can't tell what is Lithuanian, what's in Russian, or Polish. There are also Hebrew letterings.


Entrance to Panieri Memorial

The landscape is dotted with stone monuments. One to Russian Jews. One to Polish Jews. One to Lithuanian Jews. There is a small museum but it wasn't open. I stick my camera lens through the grid of the gate to take a picture of the map on the wall. I can't see clearly what it is, but it looks like a map of Lithuania with icons to mark the killing fields.

We see a lady trundling by with a shopping bag on wheels. She looks like she's off to the market, as if she lives in the forests of Ponar and is off to the local Maxima supermarket. She looks incongruous with the landscape.

There is a lone grave. It is the only grave in this vast forest of pits and monuments and trees. One solitary grave to mark one person - Helinus Fegius (1888-1944). We are told that his family erected this tombstone in this doctor's honour. The rest, all 99,999 remain nameless and unmarked. They have to make do with stone monuments and wreaths to the collective.


Solitary gravesite

Dan and Jesse have the camera out and the boom pole and they are trailing beside, behind and around Shiv and Chaim. I am still waiting for Vy to confirm when he can come today evening to set up the modem, and also to see if Andreas, a volunteer at The Green House, can still meet us for an interview later. I have kept my mobile on and I don't want the signal to interfere with the audio taping so I stay a fair bit away from where the action is; going close every now and then to catch Chaim's narration.


Shiv looking pensive

I busy myself recording photos behind them. It will be a way for me to archive what we have seen and video-ed with the transcripts that will follow. I need visual cues. Besides, I know that Shiv eventually wants a record of places, things and people.

We follow along the paths and come to a circle of stones. It is the first pit. People were lined up around the rim and shot; their bodies falling into the pits and piled high on top of each other.

We walk along some more. The second and largest pit. I guess it is about 100 feet or so in diameter and about 15 feet deep. I imagine how many bodies can fit in here. I also wonder what it would be like to be alive and under 15 feet of bodies... I can't help but think these thoughts. And yet... when I look around me, it is strangely quiet and scenic. We walk further on, a third pit. Opposite, what resembles a pit, but we are told it is the escape pit, where prisoners created a tunnel using spoons...


The largest pit at Ponar

I can hear the sound of a train passing by. Apart from that, all is quiet. I don't see or hear any birds. I only feel the cool breeze brush past me and over me; the sound of gentle rustling of trees. The forest is deep. I imagine what it must have been like to walk here, before there were paths, when it was all woods. I wonder how many trees are in this area. I fancy that each tree is a life that was taken, rebirthed. I wonder if there are 100,000 trees in this forest.


How many trees are there?





The day passes quickly. We speed off to interview Andreas at The Green House. It is almost 4.30pm. We are tired. We return to the apartment. Dan downloads the day's footage and photos. I download the photos I have taken and start recording them. Still no internet. Vy sends me a text. He says he can only come at 10pm unless it is too late. I ask him to come. We all desperately want to check our emails. Besides, during the course of the day, it comes to me that it will be useful to journal my thoughts down. It will help me keep track of daily events. I have seen and heard so much in such a short space of time. If I don't record them, I will surely forget something. While waiting for Vy to arrive, I start archiving and scanning documents. I have taken 153 photos. I have to sort them to see what to keep, what to discard and how to keep track in a way that makes sense and will be easily retrievable. At 10pm, Vy shows up. By 10.30pm, we are able to get online. Thank goodness.