Then and Now

Fifty-one days ago, I left home for my grandparents' hometowns. Going back was important to me, because it was just that--going back--not just visiting, or seeing, but actually going back in time the best that I could. What (and who) was still there I could only imagine, and traces of my grandparents' lives there I could only hope to see. But somehow I knew that going back wouldn't be for nothing. I just had a feeling that I would find something.

Over the course of the trip, I learned to trust that feeling, and I learned to trust signs. I had a feeling that Mama Manya's house would still be there, and when I noticed the stairs and flowers on the house, I knew that it was hers. When we went to visit Szczebrzeszyn and the sun came out when we found the synagogue, I knew that there was more to discover. As I found, there always was more to discover. But I didn't discover anything just by chance--I do believe I was very lucky, but I think a lot of it had to do with persistence. The fact that my grandparents' names and the names of their family members were in books and files in Ukraine and Poland was the strangest feeling for me, and it was what drove me to open every book and check every file, even to find the smallest details. With every detail, the pictures grew clearer, and the stories made more sense. While new information raised new questions, I found so many answers. I feel so much closer to not only my grandparents, but also their families--my family--because of all of the new information I've learned about them, and that's probably the greatest souvenir I could have received.

In a way, going back to my grandparents' hometowns was like visiting Israel for the first time--it was that same sense of going back to an ancient homeland, a place so connected with Jewish heritage and history. Visiting the synagogues and cemeteries in Europe felt just as sacred and important to me as visiting similar sites in Israel. That's why it was such an interesting experience to visit Israel again after being in Europe. While Europe today is obviously not what it once was in terms of Jewish life and culture, I think that to some degree, Israel's open, "on-the-streets" Judaism is probably reminiscent of what it would have been like to be Jewish in pre-war Europe.

Following in my grandparents' footsteps, I came to appreciate their lives in the context of the rich, diverse, and thriving Polish Jewish community of the 19th and early 20th centuries. That community is often painted in the light of Fiddler on the Roof, as small groups of poor people living in modest wooden homes with cows in the backyard--what people typically think of as the shtetls. But it's important to recognize that it wasn't all like that, and people lived very good lives in Poland. Jews were involved in culture, business, politics, and for the most part, weren't set apart from their non-Jewish peers. If anyone asked, they were Polish, as much as their Roman Catholic neighbors down the street. I think that people too often think that just because we feel so safe and successful here in America, that it couldn't have been like this anywhere else. But that's not true. Jewish life in pre-war Poland was just as vibrant, if not more vibrant, than American Jewish life today, and I think that it's important to remember that when thinking about what was lost in the war.

But after visiting my grandparents' towns, where I got a sense of what it was like for them growing up, then seeing and learning about where they experienced wartime, then experiencing what post-war life in Europe must have been like, and then being in Israel, a major destination of post-war immigration, I can safely say that it's true: there's no place like home. With my grandparents' backgrounds in mind, it makes sense why they all chose to come to America--because of opportunities for work, success, safety, and happiness. It's easy to take all of this for granted, to be born into a time and place where everything is neatly placed on a silver platter. But I can't take it all for granted, because that would be forgetting the years of hard work that my parents, but especially my grandparents, put into creating this world for me to live in. I'm sure it was Mama Manya who taught me that before going forward, it's important to look back at where you came from. This summer was more than a look back, it was an experience back in the past, an exploration of where I came from. Going forward, I can be confident in my family's past as something beautiful and meaningful. The Holocaust shattered that life, but not completely. Physical structures survived, and more importantly, memories survived. For me, this trip was about learning to preserve those memories as best I could, whether through learning about my grandparents' families in the archives, seeing where they lived, or imaging their footprints on the same cobblestones streets where I walked. I've experienced a lot, and so I've learned a lot.

Last, I want to thank you, reader of my blog. I can't tell you how many times I've been excited and honored to hear about all the different people who've been following and reading, whether from the beginning or from somewhere along the way. It's been a pleasure to share my experiences with you, and I hope you've gotten a sense of the kind of appreciation I have for my grandparents' lives. I hope that you'll be able to pass on what I've learned and shared with you, now as witnesses to my grandparents' stories.

Signing off,

Ricky

Act IV close

I'm about to leave for the airport to fly back home to Chicago. I'm excited to go home, but I can't believe that this means my trip is over. Both at the same time, it feels like I've been traveling for 7 days or 7 years. But now it's time to go. I promise I'll write more when I get home. Next time...from America!

Guest post - Around the world

So, Ricky and I have switched blogs for the day. For those of you who don't know me, I'm Abby. Ricky and I go to school together, but also know each other from Chicago (er, I'm from Chicago, he's from the suburbs). A quick catch-up for those who are new to this: I've been in Jerusalem for the past two months interning at the Shalem Center, where I've mostly been working with three other interns editing the book that Daniel Gordis is currently working on. If you're interested in reading more about that--and how a college-student occupies herself in Jerusalem for the summer--and in seeing lots of pictures, check out the permanent location of my blog at http://aklionsky.blogspot.com.

I'm just going to write this as if it was a regular blog, so bear with me.

My roommate, Leah, and I went to the tayelet (Promenade) overlooking the Old City a few days ago to film a segment for a film called Connected, about the increasing universality of the world and interdependence of communities around the world. We translated the script into Hebrew, and taped ourselves reading the "Declaration of Interdependence" overlooking the Old City, which you can see here. Hopefully we'll make it into the movie!

Although we had to refilm a number of times because we (mostly I) kept giggling in the middle, one of the times we had to pause because there was a huge (~100 person) segway tour coming by!

Today, for the first time, I successfully* skyped with Naomi while she's in China *"successfully" is a relative term, meaning that we saw each other's faces, and she could hear my voice, but I had no idea what she was saying since her voice was all distorted. Probably the Chinese government listening in or something like that... Oh, and Ricky took this picture today. It's approximately the millionth time he's been at our apartment in the past week, and it's been a lot of fun every time! Thanks, Ricky. And thanks for the Orange Cake, it was delicious :)

A national family

After a short trip to the Old City of Jerusalem this morning, I got together with our family friends, Yitzhak and Yael Hoffman, who live in Israel during the summers and in Chicago the rest of the year. Before I got to their house, Yitzhak pulled over his car next to a tent and a small area of fence surrounding the Prime Minister's home's property that was covered in posters, banners, yellow ribbons, and bumper stickers--all having to do with the release of Gilad Shalit. Gilad Shalit is an Israeli soldier who was kidnapped by members of Hamas in June, 2006 (when we were last here with the whole family), and who, although has been said to be alive, has not seen the daylight since his capture. Gilad's parents and friends, as well as anyone who wishes, sit in the tent outside the Prime Minister's home in protest of his delayed release and in support of actions towards his release. When I visited the tent, Gilad's mother was there, talking to a couple--likely strangers. In a way, the tent felt like a Shiva house--the place where a deceased person is mourned for a week after their death. We sat on plastic chairs, there were pictures of Gilad everywhere, and the awkward "what am I supposed to say" feeling was overwhelming. In the end, I ended up telling Gilad's mom that I came from America, and that we all know what happened to Gilad, and that we'll hope, pray, and show our support until he comes home.

Visiting the tent was another "only in Israel" moment--I can't even begin to imagine something like that happening in America without hoards of security and the media. Gilad's parents have chosen to sit in this tent in protest, and the people here have respected that decision by supporting them with banners, ribbons, and visits to their temporary "living room." I find that sensitivity to his parents' feelings and the cross between protection of their privacy and public, national recognition of their emotions to be something amazing.

Too comfortable

I didn't know what visiting the actual museum part of Yad Vashem would be like after my trip. I knew that specific places and pictures would be much more real to me, and I knew that going into the museum, I would feel more confident about the general history and also about how my grandparents' histories fit into the larger picture of the war. But what I came away realizing was instead something so simple, so disheartening, but something I've probably been ignoring for the past 6 weeks: not everyone cares as much as I do.

Yad Vashem's main museum is set up along a long, wide glass and cement hallway, but to get to the end of the hallway, you must follow the exhibits as they wind left and right and cross through the central hallway where you can look both back and forward in "time." At one point while walking through the exhibit, I looked ahead to see a big group of people (who looked about my age) standing around talking, laughing--one guy was even dancing. To say the least, I was disgusted, but I said to myself that I would try to avoid that group.

Then, in another section of the museum, I encountered two members of that group sitting on chairs (meant for those who want to listen to recorded testimony) with their feet up, talking like they were in any coffee-shop down the street. They didn't bother to whisper, instead, were loud and disrespectful. I decided to say something to them because I was becoming extremely distracted, so I told them that if they wanted to talk, that there's a place for that--outside the museum. The two apologized and got up, but that wasn't the end of it.

In the next room, the room that began to describe the transports from the ghettos and the first death camps, I encountered two guys sitting right at the entrance, sharing headphones and bobbing their heads along to music on an iPod. Then, after turning the corner, I saw two circles of people from the same group, talking and laughing and using their cell phones--right in the middle of the exhibit! I looked for a security guard before talking to them myself, since I felt that it wasn't my responsibility to keep chasing after this group--that's not why I went to visit the museum. After seeing that the three security guards of the museum were at the other end of the building also standing in a circle and talking, I decided to say something. I stood behind one of the circles, and the people didn't even notice I was there until I spoke. They were totally in their own world. I told them that if they weren't interested, that they could leave the museum. There was no point in being disrespectful and disturbing other people who came to the museum to learn. One guy asked if I worked there, and I said no, that I came because my grandparents were all survivors and it's something that I care about. They called me disrespectful for interrupting their conversation. Only after most of them walked away did one girl come up to me and apologize, saying that the group was tired and "needed a break." Later, one of the guys also apologized, saying that he understood where I was coming from, but "the girls talk too much."

I honestly don't know if they understood what I was trying to tell them, and that's a little scary. If I was in their position, I would never make up bad excuses, and no matter how embarrassing, I think the least I would do was admit I was wrong. It's frustrating that I had to tell people my age how to act in a Holocaust museum--like it's not totally obvious. I just find it so hard to believe that not one member of their group had the sense to tell the rest what I was trying to tell them. I don't know if this group was an exception, but I know it's not the first time I've had to deal with disrespectful visitors to a Holocaust museum--I just hope it's the last.

Moving on

Today was my last Shabbat of the trip--I can't believe it! I also can't believe that I'll be home this time next week.

Anyway, a quick note about something I noticed today. Throughout the trip in Eastern Europe, we would encounter places where the pre-war Jewish community was an extremely high percentage of the total population, but it was always hard to imagine what it would be like to live in such a place before the war. We would visit areas of town that were almost completely inhabited by Jewish people, and it would be hard to imagine how house after house was a Jewish home. With that in mind, being in Jerusalem, I think I can get a taste of what that life must have been like--especially on Shabbat. With few cars driving, it's quiet, and walking outside, one mostly sees groups of people walking to and from synagogue, walking to others' houses, or just enjoying the day off. I think this must be what Shabbat in the Jewish areas of towns had been like. Definitely a (comfortable) change from old men reading newspapers and high security to get into synagogue!

Tomorrow will be my last day at Yad Vashem--I'll look if they have any information about the Partisans that would have been around where Grandma Esther was from, and I'll also fill out pages of testimony (with names of people who were killed, and the way I found Sima)--something that I should have done a while ago. I'm also going to go through the museum, which should be an interesting experience, especially at the end of this trip. Then it's time for kippah (yarmulke) shopping for my brothers. More later!

!שבת שלום

I always forget how early Shabbat starts in Jerusalem, so I only have time for a really quick post!

This morning I went to our family friends' house for brunch--the Bergsons if any of you know of them. Their oldest son was home from the army so I got to see the whole family, and after we ate we went to the weekly Jerusalem street party. This week it was just outside the big mall and was beach themed, which meant sand, water from the air, and beach balls. There was music, but for two specified hours, you were only able to hear it if you wore noise-canceling headphones that they were giving out. Meaning...if you didn't have the headphones, it just looked like a lot of people were dancing to nothing! It was strange and funny to watch. The party was a lot of fun, but now it's time for Shabbat. Dinner's at one of Renee's friends, and I think I'll (finally) get a chance to sleep late tomorrow.

Shabbat Shalom from Jerusalem!