I was the first person in my family to come back here in three generations and the only person in my family ever to come here willingly. I began to reread the letter that my great-grandmother, Bubbie Hilde, had sent to me for the dozenth time since my plane took off. “Your mother told me about your forthcoming trip to Poland. To begin with, I must tell you that I am so proud that you are undertaking what is not an easy or pleasant experience. You are going to see lots of graves and, unfortunately, also the ones of many of our family members. It is a somber experience, but also a very important one, since you are representing yet another generation that is returning to the place of their destruction to say loudly: We are here! You have not defeated us!”

I stepped out of the Warsaw airport and almost dropped the letter which was clutched firmly in my knit gloves; never before had I been completely enveloped by a single color. The buildings were all emotionless grey, the way they were left from the country’s communist era. The snow covering the ground had just begun to fade into a bleak grey, the only lasting imprint of the many commuters that left the airport before me. Even the sky itself was an indecisive grey to the extent that I could not tell if the day was destined for a bitter storm or to merely be a peacefully breezy winter day. I slowly made my way onto the tour bus to join the rest of the group on our eight-day trip around a Jewish cemetery the size of a country.

I marveled at the German ingenuity when our bus—I can’t recall if it was a Mercedes or a Volkswagen—burst to life. At that point, though, I was unaware just how efficient German engineers could be; I just sat comfortably oblivious, casually gazing out the window. I was amazed to see the snowflakes swing dancing to the ground with such peace and harmony. As each one approached the ground, it allowed itself to become enveloped by pure white snow blanket that was eagerly waiting for them. Without making any noise, without putting up any fight, without even stopping to dance, the countless snowflakes just disappeared forever while the pile of now kept on growing bigger.

The bright snow began to hurt my eyes and I refocused on the letter in my hands. “I would like you to remember especially the town of Lodz,” my Bubbie wrote, “That is the place where my dear parents were sent to from Vienna, Austria. My beloved father, your great-great grandfather Yehudah Weidenfeld, died of typhus in the Lodz Ghetto.” I carefully folded the letter along its familiar and well-defined creases. I did not have a mirror, though I am certain that if I had, I would have seen a face that was just as pale as the snow surrounding the bus; I could not believe where I was about to go.

The Lodz cemetery initially looked like a seemingly endless maze of snow-covered tombstones. Our tour guide, who had obviously been here before many times, carelessly walked in a straight line without looking or even attempting to avoid stepping on any graves. “Zev, I don’t think any of us would mind walking a little bit slower if that meant we could show a little more respect to the souls resting here,” I told him, wondering to myself if I was especially nervous knowing that my great-great grandfather could be one of the graves that might be trampled. Zev turned to face me with understanding eyes, speaking slow enough that it became evident that he was carefully thinking about each word. “Daniel, I used to feel the same way. The sad reality of the situation is that almost anywhere here that you walk, you’re walking on a grave. Most families could not afford and bodies were often unrecognizable after being left out on the streets to decay.” I am almost certain that Zev continued to speak though I have no idea what else he said. The soft snow in my ears cushioned his words and stopped them from reaching me. Coming to the realization that I would likely be unable to find the resting spot of my great-great grandfather was dreadful. One of the main reasons I embarked on this morbid trip was to visit my family patriarch and matriarch on the behalf of my Bubbie who was never able to bring herself to come. When I then realized that I might not be able to do that, I started sprinting like a mad-man, rapidly scanning the names on each of the tombstones within distance trying my best to will one of them into proudly displaying “Yehudah Weidenfeld.” But none of them did. Unwilling to bear the mockery, I turned around and trudged slowly back towards the group, my head bent down low in defeat. With each heavy step, I felt myself sinking deeper into the snow with no intention of pulling myself out.

Zev greeted me—a doctor with the cure for my anguish—and handed me a Yartzheit Candle, a candle used by Jews to commemorate the death of a loved one. Lighting the candle and saying the prayer for the deceased, I hoped that my great-great grandfather would know that I came back for him, that I did not forget him, and that his family continues to survive. When the last tear rolled off of the side of my cheek, it fell to the floor, and, as it met the snow, made a small but noticeable indent. I slowly got up and walked with as much composure as I could back to the bus, preparing myself for what would be the next emotionally draining stop in the trip.

“From Lodz, my sweet mother, your great-great-grandmother, Yehudith Geller Weidenfeld was sent on the first day of Rosh Hashanah 1941 to the extermination camp of Chelmno. She was murdered on that same day.” Each time I put down the letter, I felt as though I had actually been talking to my Bubbie in person. Each word had the magical power to jump off of the paper to greet me with her heavy Austrian accent and made me miss home that much more.

When we arrived at Chelmno, we were met by piercing winds and a dense snowfall as if the weather was mimicking my rattling anticipation. This time, I knew before we arrived that there would be no tombstone bearing my great-great grandmother’s name. Just rows of mass pits that stuffed with countless lifeless corpses. Some of them were even dug by the very tenants residing in them to this day. For once, I was grateful for the endless shell of snow since it covered these pits of death and allowed me to get off of the bus without my stomach surrendering my lunch. As we approached the memorial, it felt like we were pushing down the temperature with each step, making me more and more grateful for each of the layers that were engulfing me—layers that I know my great-great grandmother never would have had. I imagined her walking beside me, a skeleton wearing only a thin grey prisoners’ outfit that was clearly three sizes too big for her. On her feet were two shoes of different sizes whose leather was borrowed from the scroll of a Torah. Through some of the larger holes in her lice-infested shirt, her ribs were visibly pushing out against her skin.

Zev had asked me the night before if I would be able to lead us in a song to commemorate the fallen so I had taken along my ukulele with me. The group got in a circle and started singing the words to the Hebrew song, “Kol Berama” (“A Voice is Heard” – Jeremiah 31: 14-6). In order to play, I had to take off my heavy gloves, and, in doing so, allowed the unforgiving winds to feast on my skin. Trying to distract myself from the searing pain, I started singing with a commanding intensity: Thus said the Lord: Restrain your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears; for there is reward for your accomplishment—the word of the Lord—and they will return from the enemy’s land. There is hope for your future—the word of the Lord—and your children will return to their border. Though my bare hand was strumming up and down, I soon noticed that no music was coming from my instrument. I quickly realized that my fingers had gone numb from the white, burning cold and were unable to bend fast enough for the tempo of the song. As disappointed as I was that I couldn’t play, I quickly realized that this was a much more appropriate tribute to the dead; the ukulele is known to many as the instrument of peace. A grave site hosting hundreds of thousands of soulless bodies does not deserve to hear its uplifting melodies. Upon return to the bus—and the slow, painful, return of feeling to my fingers—I firmly grasped the letter in my hands, eagerly anticipating my return to New York where I would be able to tell Bubbie Hilde of the way I honored her parents. But I had one more stop to make first.

After leaving the bleakness of Poland, landing in Austria felt like diving head first into a rainbow. Colorful cottages seemed like the ubiquitous choice, themselves encompassed by patches of vibrant flowers. This is where my family was from before World War II, before they were mercilessly torn from their homes. It seemed kind of fitting to end my trip of seeing the way that my ancestors died by seeing the way that they had lived. I was pleasantly surprised when I realized that my stay in Austria happened to coincide with the Jewish holiday of Passover. Passover celebrates the freedom that Jews have today after our persecution in ancient Egypt. There are a lot of parallels between the Passover story and the Holocaust and it felt more than appropriate to celebrate my freedom as a Jew in the very place that threw out my family just for being Jewish. Going into the first night of Passover, my Bubbie’s words played on repeat like a broken record player stuffed into my head, “you are representing yet another generation that is returning to the place of their destruction to say loudly: We are here! You have not defeated us!”

After the second night of Passover was over, I turned my phone back on which immediately palpitated with countless buzzes of missed calls. I immediately felt a wave of guilt: I forgot to call my family before the holidays! I quickly dialed my mom’s familiar phone number. My mother didn’t even let the phone ring once before answering it, as if she had been waiting, phone in hand, for the call. “Mom, I’m so sorry I forgot to call you, I know you’re….”
“Daniel, it’s ok,” she cut me off abruptly and asked nervously, “How is Austria?”
“It’s beautiful Mom, you would really love it. How were the holidays at home?”

“Daniel…. On the first night of Passover…. Bubbie Hilde had a stroke. She’s gone, Daniel. She died peacefully in her sleep in the hospital surrounded by family.”

Or at least, that’s how I imagine she would have said it. After stroke slivered out of my mother’s mouth, my phone leaped out of my hand as if the floor was a giant magnet forcing it away from me shattering the screen upon impact. I had embarked on this whole journey for her sake. Now that she was gone, what was it all for? Did I visit the graves of her parents just to tell her own grave of the story? I opened up the letter which had guided me for the last week to seek guidance once more from my Bubbie. “How happy and proud my parents would have been to have met you. How they must delight looking down from Heaven seeing how their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren have not forgotten them and are seeking them out to honor them. How assured they must be that you walk in the path that they could hardly have envisioned during their inhumane suffering.”

Of course, it’s my duty to continue her legacy, to make sure she is remembered in our family just as she wanted me to do for her parents. It’s my duty to live the lives they never could, to finish celebrating Passover, the holiday of freedom, in a country that offered them none. I closed my eyes, imagined her next to me, and finished the letter for the last time.

 

Love, and a big hug,

Bubbie Hilde