What my eyes have seen

A journey to Poland

April 16, 2009

I see a fog, so I see nothing, and therefore see everything. That’s all there is to see at most of these places anyway. With few exceptions, all that’s left are the monuments, because no proof could be left behind. Nothing conclusive anyway. Only a few of two things survived: People and Paperwork. Together they tell a complete story.

I see a lone boxcar in Lodz, trying to tell its tale to whomever will listen. Who would believe you held people, that human beings could be stored this way? You, who were forced to carry Jews to places even worse than the ghetto, to whom a flicker of light was a flicker of hope, I will listen to your story. For soon, like all the others, you will be gone and no one else will be left to talk of what you have seen.

I see a dome on the ground in Bialystok, mangled and burnt. It, all that remains of a great synagogue, sits bent in prayer for its children, even in the condition it is in. All year it prays, sitting on the grass, in rain or sun, heat or snow, wondering what became of all those who sang beneath it while it stood proudly watching. But there is no one to watch anymore; all that is left is to lie humbly on the ground.

I see a field and a river in Krakow. The field and the river look ordinary, their secrets hidden beneath the surface. And the silence might mislead you, but listen closely, and here too you will hear cries attesting to the cruelty that once was here. The river runs throughout this country, collecting greedily the ashes and bones given to it. Now it wants you to believe that it knew nothing, but do not, because everything is a lie in Poland.

I see a city in the distance, that of Lublin. From there they can easily see the Jews being marched here to Majdanek; the train tracks don’t stop in the camp but in town.

Here I see a bike path and a shortcut past the entrance. Here I see still-standing bathhouses with special showers, and the shoes of those who walked around here, for a short while at least.

I see a field, wide open and inviting, but surrounded by barbed wire and with prisoners’ blocks on both sides. And on top of the hill, I see the crematorium, smokestack rising high, visible to all of the city. They all saw — just ask the Jews. They’re in the pits in the ground and in the mound of dirt next to the ovens. They’ll tell you.

I see a horse stable in Birkenau. There is a small oven in the middle of the building, but they don’t use it. If it had horses in it they might, but the current occupants don’t need it. I see the bunk beds people slept on — for a while at least. I see train tracks, leading to a tower. From there I can see the entirety of the camp, stretching massively from one side to another. And I can see the rubble remaining where the train tracks stop.

I see the mounds of rocks in Belzec, spread across the whole camp, or where it used to be. Piles and piles of rocks, and in the center a path. As I walk down this path, the walls grow higher and higher, until I reach the end. Here there is a wall with names of people who died here, and around the outside are all the towns people were taken from. The piles looked so expansive, but the path is so short. It was all taken so quickly from them, the realization of where they were growing on them, until they too reached the end. And it didn’t take very long.

I see a forest. Each forest has its own story, the same as and different from all of the others. They are all hidden, hard to find and not well marked. But they are all there, all of the trees standing tall, as if to conceal what they witnessed. Here too you can feel the screams.

I see a graveyard in Warsaw. All of the history of this place can be felt here. There are great writers and great rabbis. Chasidim and Mitnagdim. The wealthy and the socialists. There are Zionists and those who believed in Yiddish culture.

And then there is the ghetto wall. There is the sewage pipe, a way out of the ghetto and landmark in the Uprising. There is a bunker where people hid away, trying to escape deportation. And there is a public grave, where the ghetto Chevra Kadisha buried people after they ran out of space, trying to afford the dead at least the slightest bit of dignity, more than they would have been given at other places.

I see a pool at Auschwitz, next to the brick buildings and grass lined walkways, in between the towers and the barbed wire fences. The officer’s children need a place to play in the summer, don’t they? And in the winter, they don’t even have to close it; after all, it’s not far off from block 10, where they did their scientific experiments. Maybe now they want to see how long the twins can swim.

I see willows at Treblinka. Bent over in sorrow, the only trees remaining where the great and upright used to stand, shaking uncontrollably, weeping unconsoled, spreading their tear-soaked leaves in the breeze, mourning until they can mourn no more, until the next spring’s rebirth starts the mourning anew.

But the worst part of what I see are the things I don’t see.

And when I return to Israel, I see the Kotel, exactly the same as the last time I saw it, but also completely different. Nothing is really different here, but really everything is.

I see signs in Hebrew, groups of people walking around, soldiers and restaurants and stores, and all of it is unlike it was even a day before, even though no one may notice. They don’t have a clue that yesterday they were just regular citizens, but today they are all Jews. Yesterday it was another nice country, but today it is ours. It belongs to us and we belong to it.

Josh Fluss, 18, attends Yeshivat HaKotel in Israel and will be attending Yeshiva University in the fall.