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 18: Strangers and forgiveness

Today, we drop by the Vilnius Yiddish Institute to speak to Fania some more. (Click here to read previous entry on 12 Sept and 13 Sept.) She tells us more about her experiences of how she ended up with the partisans in the forest.


A bookend at the Vilnius Yiddish Institute library shelf

Hers is an amazing and remarkable life journey, full of unexpected twists, helped along by the kindness of strangers. A friend and her narrowly escape the Vilnius ghetto liquidation on the 23 September 1943. On that very same day, they meet with their units and the leaders decide that there is "something hanging in the air." Fania tells is that the Germans attempted to keep up the pretense of normalcy by trucking in piles of clothes and instructing these to be mended. But something did not feel right. The leaders decide that 6 pairs of women should be chosen to leave the ghetto and make contact with the partisans in the forest. It is too risky to form units of men to attempt this contact as it may raise suspicion.

Fania tells us how she waits for nightfall by returning to her family. Her mother gives her a purse and a bag of green peas. But her friend shows up not long after and suggests they try and leave now as one of the smaller gates has been left unattended. They leave and in the street, they see that there are militia policemen closing in on the perimeter of the ghetto. They avoid capture by walking in circles and when they look back, they see soldiers and trucks arriving at the gates of the ghetto. They are not German and have dark green uniform, Fania thinks they are Estonian...

They sleep in the forest at night, wander through the villages in the daytime trying to get their bearings. At one village, a woman gives them bread and milk. They lie about heading to their aunt's to help harvest potatoes. They cross themselves as they have been told to every time they see a cross. They come across German soldiers and do their best to act nonchalant as they go on their way. In another village, a Polish man warns them that German soldiers raped and killed a woman in their village; he leads them to a hut to stay the night for their safety. He susses out that they are escaping to join the partisan without being told. He returns the next morning and puts them on their way with more bread and milk and directions.

Fania says she has no idea why they trusted these strangers but when they find themselves in the thick of the partisan stronghold and are intercepted, they do not give the password but laugh hysterically out of relief; a release of pent-up fear. Throughout her retelling of the story, Fania recounts all these incidences with humour and a practised lightness. But there are moments, not so much in words, but in her facial expressions and in her eyes, I can feel the depth and weight of her emotions. I almost cry openly when she tells us about what happens after liberation. For example, how a woman tells her that her sister is alive. So Fania waits at the train station every day for a month in the hopes of seeing her. How when she meets the woman again and tells her she still has not seen her sister, the woman - perhaps deranged or unstable - says, "who told you she was still alive?" How when the concentration camp survivors returned, she hugged strangers in the street. Her learning about the fate of her father and mother. She tells us she cannot forgive the murderers but she does not blame nations for what happened.

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Later, we meet an official who advises on Jewish affairs at the Ministry of Culture. I contrast the policyspeak about national integration and tolerance with the survivor accounts I have heard. They feel remote and worlds apart. The question is, I ask myself, how can we merge the two, so that history stays relevant, so that survivors are not viewed as relics of a bygone era, but living reminders?



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I have been ribbing Shiv for being so hard working; when we get in each day, she's at the computer immediately. Last night, she acts silly. I ask her what's up and she starts giggling and then laughing hysterically - she has been reading up on the fate of some of the partisan members - "One hung himself, another killed herself, they all suicided!" It's not that she finds this funny; I think this project is finally getting to her. I feel the same. It's like an accumulation of feelings. Even I can't explain it... but it's an exhausting/sapping mix of feelings; of despair mingled with disbelief, compassion and anger, and... I don't even know what.

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 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 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 8: Festivities and Art

The air is filled with festivities, the smell of grilled meat and smoke from barbecue pits. It is Vilniaus Festivalia time; the signs along the Gedimino promenade says "Sostines dienos." I have absolutely no clue what it means. For some reason, I guess it to mean 'summer dining' since most of the makeshift stalls serve food of some kind or another; however, of course I am totally making it up. When in France or Spain, I find that I can usually guess at what the words mean; however, here in Vilnius I find that I can't decipher much of anything.

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

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.

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.