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 11: Recording a personal history

This morning, we catch up with Isroel at the synagogue again. We tried to give him a call first but did not manage to get him, so we chance it by showing up at the synagogue at 9 am. We wanted to ask him to talk through some of the items he has given and/or lent us for the exhibition. I unwrap the items and place them in front of him one by one. When he gets to his wife's silver spoon, he tears up. I don't think he has gotten over the shock of her passing so suddenly. But he is in a hurry; we get to talk for only 20 minutes or so. He tells us to come back again the next day. Isroel has taken a shine to us, I think. He seems to enjoy talking to us, even if each time we meet, we get to speak for only a limited time. He is a gentle man and very soft spoken. I look forward to meeting him again. However, he only has an hour for us tomorrow at the most, as he has to go home and get dressed for a funeral. He works almost like a freelancer; at funerals, he recites and sings the prayers in Hebrew.

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It is just pass noon when we get to Margarita's. What an unusual name, I think to myself, doesn't sound very Jewish. Her daughter and granddaughter greet us at the flat and we settle down to the interview. Margarita was born in 1919. She is the sixth child among seven siblings. Her dad was a shoemaker and her mom, a seamstress. She was a teacher and got married two-and-a-half months before her husband was drafted to the war. The last letter she received from him was dated 16th June 1941; he was killed after that.



As I listen to Margarita's story, the words 'resourceful' and 'sharp wits' come to mind. Her story contains moments which highlight her chutzpah - how she brazenly denies being a Jew so she can escape from a convoy of captives being marched away; her attempts to doctor her identity documents; hitching a ride with a German; to her efforts to keep herself, her teenage brother and young daughter alive.



What's really cool though, I think, is that her family seems to have been involved in helping her preserve her memories - as if they have been on a quest together with her to create a personal archive of what she has lived through. Her grandson was involved in helping her write a book; this is neatly typed and bound. She shows this to us; the hard cover book is carefully preserved in a cardboard case. Also her photo album. I wonder how long it took them to retrieve or collect all those photos from neighbours and other sources? They are carefully documented with names and dates. Not just of family members but extended relatives and neighbours and so on. It is clear her family are intent on preserving her memory and the events of that time.



I am also glad to see that the photo album doesn't just contain photos of those who suffered or lost their lives in the war. They also include happy memories of celebrations and of her children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. It seems befitting somehow; these items suggest to me that Margarita has not allowed the war or the holocaust to strip her of her personal sense of self or her belief in deserving happiness - she is not a victim, but a survivor.

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Jesse tells me today that a friend checked out this blog and was moved to find out the fate of his grandparents. It's good to know that our work here resonates with others and gives meaning. This reaffirms my faith in being part of this project. That telling personal stories is not only inspiring but also uplifting. It makes me think of what an official we spoke to last week said. He paraphrased Stalin (though I am not sure whether he meant to quote Stalin, which makes this all the more ironic considering Lithuania's history as a Soviet satellite): "the death of one is a tragedy while the death of many is a statistic." He of course was trying to illustrate a point - that the war claimed so many lives that it is difficult to bring the perpetrators to justice as much has been lost - mass graves do not lend themselves to easy answers. But it is the individual stories, like the ones we have heard here so far, that 're-humanises' and re-instates those who were numbers into people again. Well, at least I'd like to think so...

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 3: An Interview and Returning to Ponar

Last night, when we returned, I bagged some items taken at Ponar - some soil, some tealight, a flower. We had to go to a supermarket to find Ziploc bags but there was none, so we make do with freezer bags and masking tape. I am wondering how the flower will survive. I pressed it in my note book as a means of preserving and keeping it. Back at the apartment, I looked about and decided to tear a strip of carton box, and fold it over to use as a makeshift hard envelope. Shiv says it is a 'fighting flower.' She found it at the escape pit. It is scrawny and fragile looking. I hope it makes it to an exhibition. One of the ideas is to collect everyday items - things that speak to the Jewish experience - and host them as exhibits at an exhibition we hope to put together eventually at some point. I don't know if Fighting Flower will make it...


Soil from Ponar, pit # 1

We return to Choral Synagogue to speak to the caretaker, Isroel. It becomes an hour-long interview. He speaks articulately. About how he comes from Minsk, Belarus. How they dived flat on the ground when the Nazi bombs fell. How his dad enlisted in the Soviet army. How he went to the hospital to visit him. How they sang a song about soldiers in a convoy meeting a cat on the road. About his children, his wife, a friend who passed away 3 years ago. About the Jewish cemetery that keeps him in Vilnius. About how he would like to die in Israel. About learning to read Hebrew. About how he was ashamed to be a Jew when he was younger. How the swastikas on Jewish buildings makes him sad. When the interview concludes, he prays. I like his sing song voice; it is very melodious.


Isroel

We have lunch at a place call Belmonto. It is a resort of sorts; looks like a theme park with restaurants, cafes and bars and a watermill and waterfall and stream. I have the boiled cabbage stuffed with mince, in a light broth and a dollop of sour cream on the side. It is very good. My choices are paying off.


Cabbage and mince

It has occurred to me that some may find it incongruous or disrespectful that I am writing about food even as I speak of the holocaust. But I do not think these experiences are misplaced or out of sync. Living and dying are two sides of the same coin, are they not?

We return to Ponar to speak to people who live near there; to record their thoughts. Some young people tell us that they have heard of the word 'genocide' but they don't really know what it means. An elderly Polish gentlemen is lonely; he knows nothing about Ponar but would like to tell us about how lonely he feels, about how he lives everyday and how those he knows are "dropping like flies." He is 81.

Jess and Dan decide to take more footage in Ponar. The weather isn't cooperating. It starts to drizzle. We wait. Later, the sun comes out but it's only a brief respite. We speak to a postgrad student who is also a guide; she is visiting Ponar to brush up her knowledge about the place. We speak to a man who manages the museum; he asks for a lift to the station.


Jess and Dan in action.

Day 1: Getting a Sense of the Place

Today, we decide to venture off to The Green House, one of the museums operated by the Vilna Gaon Jewish State Museum of Lithuania. There is a Holocaust exhibition there. Shiv has spoken to the director there before. We decide to visit her to discuss a possible collaboration and to see if she is willing to set an appointment for an interview.

Shiv has been here, but the rest of us haven't. We decide to cab it as we aren't sure how far away it is. Turns out that it isn't too far. The cab drops us off on a nondescript street. I am surprised. I didn't imagine a museum to be housed here. It's hard to describe except that it looks like a suburban area with some shops nearby. There is a small sign mounted on one of the buildings which reads "Jewish Museum." (See picture below: can you spot it?)


The road leading up to The Green House

We walk up the hill and I see now why it is called The Green House. I imagined it was a glass building resembling a horticultural greenhouse. It is wooden and painted green.


The Green House

We spend a few hours there talking to the director and a volunteer from Austria. We get a tour and a history lesson. I learn some things about the Second World War and the holocaust in Lithuania I had never heard of before. Like how the war began for Lithuania on 22 June 1941. Where I come from (Malaysia), and as a Chinese descendant, the war began in 1939 (maybe even earlier, when I think about it, as the Japanese invasion of China began in 1937). How segregation of the Jews was swift - by 6 September 1941 the first ghetto was set up; and how, six weeks later, the first smaller ghetto was liquidated. Liquidated. That word; it has a fluid quality to it. It's not a word that was meant to apply to human lives. Makes me think of how water condenses and becomes air. Poof. A split second. The bat of an eyelid. Liquidated. 100,000 Jews were killed in Ponar alone. Of the 240,000 Jews in Lithuania, only 20,000 survived. The Jewish community today numbers 2,000. A far cry from the days when Vilnius was known as the Jerusalem of Lithuania or the Jerusalem of the North.

The director suggests we visit the Tolerance Center about 10-15 minutes walk away. She is busy and asks us to come back later. We head off. On the way, we decide to head for the Choral Synagogue, the only remaining synagogue in the city. We meet two caretakers; one of them, Isroel, agrees to be interviewed on Sunday. Saturday is off limits as it is the Shabbat.


Exterior of Choral Synagogue


Interior of Choral Synagogue

We head off, we are hungry now. We duck into a cafe. I order a Spanish sandwich. When it comes, I find I have the wrong one. Dan is eating my order. I get his cheese and tomato, melted in a panini roll. The food doesn't agree with us. Mine is odd. It has mayo in it. Globs. We eat a few bites and vow to look for 'real' food. I don't think we have gotten used to the flavours yet. Dinner last night was equally forgettable.

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At the Tolerance Center, we buzz a doorbell and are allowed in. I am not quite sure if the center is open to the public. I don't really understand about the need to be buzzed in. Did we come at the wrong time? The lady in attendance there is very nice. We tell her that we have been directed to the center by the director of The Green House. She unlocks the steel mesh on the upper floor so we can see the exhibit and allows us to take pictures. We take a few. Physical evidence of Jewish culture. Some are from the 18th century, salvaged from the remnants of the Vilnius Great Synagogue. [Below: Fragments of Reader's Table (Omed) and Prayer Shawl (Tallit) and Torah Ark's Doors]



It is almost time to head back to The Green House. We walk briskly and pass a park, where I can't resist taking this photo of a lady having a quiet lunch moment. The pigeon at her feet seems like a lunch companion.


Lunch for two

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The staff at The Green House are really nice. They welcome us warmly. We chat with Rachiel, the director. The conversation veers off to her personal story. She talks about the Nazi invasion and how she, like other children, were at a youth/children's resort by the sea when it happened. How among the children, there were Jewish kids too. How some went off to Sweden by sea, how some went off to Russia. Like her. To an orphanage. I am curious. Who told them to do so? How did they go without adults? Did their parents send money to them and organise passage? I guess we will hear more when we have a proper interview with her. We set a date and a time to do so.

It has only been day 2 but it has been very productive. We are all knackered and can't wait to get back, shower and have some dinner. I check my mobile. No news from Vy about the internet. I text him. I get a reply back that he is too busy and can't come. He suggests Saturday evening. I say okay and ask him to keep me posted. We will be meeting a historian and guide tomorrow. I know we will be out all day. I tell Vy that he needs to let me know sooner when he will come so we are in to let him into the apartment.

That night, we eat at an Irish place. Or at least a place owned by an Irish person. It is a mixed cuisine menu; there is pasta, there is Thai soup, there is fish. I order the Thai soup. It blows my socks off - all heat, no other flavour. I vow to myself to go with the safer option in the future.