I almost replied—to hold on to the sun, but controlled myself immediately and asked for the old Prayer Book.
“What do you need that book for?” the bookseller asked angrily.
I mumbled something about the research I had been conducting for years, but he cut me short and announced firmly, “You have no need of that book!”
“You’re right, sir,” I agreed in order to appease him, and with my heart beating, I inquired, “Is the gentleman himself familiar with the Prayer Book in question?”
Never before had I yearned so hungrily to read that marvelous interpretation of the evening prayer, never before had I believed so fervently in the possibility of penetrating its secret intentions, of grasping the meaning of the Everlasting Light. And from a vast distance, from beneath layers which seemed to me to have been deadened a long time ago, at that moment I felt a fierce excitement, perhaps hope awakening in me and piercing me like a burning ember. Me, the scholar of liturgical sources, who knew nothing all these years but notes and old manuscripts.
Making no attempt to conceal his hostility, the bookseller repeated, “You have no need of that book!”
“But are you familiar with it, sir, do you have it in your shop?”
“You have nothing to look for here!” he almost shouted. “We’ve been closed for hours.”
With one step he crossed the dark, paper-filled room and slammed the iron grill down over the door through which I’d entered. Then he returned, removed the album from the wooden stand, pushed it back hastily onto its place on the shelf, and pointed to the door to the inner room, “Through here, through here,” he said, hitting me roughly on the back to hurry me up, and disappearing through the dark doorway.
In the inner room, too, the stacks of books reached to the ceiling, and here, too, old brochures were scattered over high wooden stands.
“Through here, through here,” the bookseller scoldingly indicated the back door, and this time, too, he hurried through it before me.
In this way we passed through a number of inner rooms without stopping in any of them, all of whose walls were covered with rows and rows of black books, tightly crammed together. Finally we crossed a little paved courtyard at the far end of which the bookseller impatiently opened an iron gate.
Before I had time to ask the bookseller where we were and how to find my way out of the neighborhood, I heard the gate barred behind me. The long square on whose edge I was standing was already almost completely dark, and the full moon commanded it like a petrified monarch. In the middle of the square a lamp suspended from a high wooden post cast a small circle of light around it. As I stood there wondering which direction to take, a few children in black caftans ran past me tugging a black cloth canopy, which flapped in heavy folds behind their heads. They rushed toward the lamp without noticing me as they ran.
I began walking, without turning my head to look back at the gate from which I had emerged. A man in a broad-brimmed hat passed me, his head bowed. I hurried after him to the far end of the square, where he disappeared into the depths of a dark alley. For some time I strayed through unfamiliar passageways and empty courtyards, until suddenly, without any change in the silence shrouding the houses, I found myself outside the neighborhood. A bus standing in the road started its engine. I hurried to climb on before it moved off, and was carried away by its swaying motion.
Once, and only once, I returned to that old neighborhood and tried to retrace the steps which had led me to the shop selling old books and engraved postcards. Despite all my efforts, I could not find the narrow, paved passage leading to the marketstalls, nor the stairs of the alley which led to the quadrangle. For hours I wandered through the alleys, but all in vain. A number of times I imagined that I was nearing my destination, only to realize my mistake. But at the bottom of my heart I was not in the least surprised at my failure to find what I was looking for. For I had always been prone to the peculiar sensation that these old neighborhoods were nothing but figments of my imagination, memories which materialized only when I passed through them and then vanished behind my back.
In the deep night, darkness descended fully. And when I stood outside the neighborhood, I groped my way past the black hills of a region where I had never been before. I did not even know the number of the bus that took me through the labyrinth of crooked roads back to the street where I live.
In the days that followed, days which I spent at the printers correcting and recorrecting the proofs of my study, I felt like a guilty man whose days were numbered. I concluded the final preparations for the publication of my book with a heavy heart, and without saying a word to anyone about what was distressing my soul. Even in the book’s preface, I did not mention the name of the old Prayer Book, nor the existence of another, different interpretation of the meaning of the evening prayer.
Many years have passed since then. My book came out long ago and its pages are bound and gray. The living memory has grown increasingly dimmer, and with it that unexpected hope, like a passionate dream, which I have never dared to call by its name. Only this tale is left to me. Buried among my notes.
FACING EVIL: THOUGHTS ON A VISIT TO AUSCHWITZ
(ESSAY, 2006)
Discussions are currently underway about restoring the Auschwitz Museum, which was established on the grounds of the concentration camp two years after World War II. I visited the museum last summer as part of a writing journey in which I followed in the footsteps of my mother. When I returned to Israel after the visit, bewildered by what I had seen, I was asked to share my thoughts with the Auchwitz museum’s advisory committee.
My first visit to Auschwitz was thirty years ago, alone, as a young Israeli doctoral student living abroad in Paris. That was before I began to cope with the past of my mother, Rina Govrin, who went on the death march from Auschwitz to Bergen-Belsen; and it was before I began to come to terms with the short life of her son, my half-brother Marek Laub, who was sent to the gas chambers at the age of eight after his father was murdered. That was back when Communist Poland was largely closed off to the Western world. In the empty, abandoned spaces of Auschwitz-Birkenau, I found only a small group of Polish schoolchildren in the late autumn chill, as if time had stopped. And there, in the heart of the menacing silence of the biggest cemetery in the world, echoed the rage to shout that which lies outside the human capacity for language and imagination.
Dazed, I walked among the blocs of Auschwitz and across the grounds of Birkenau. And there, facing the silence of the place, I understood that I couldn’t go on denying the past, though it had seemed so easy in the Tel Aviv of my childhood, or in the Paris of the 1970s. From then on, much of what I wrote was, in some way, an echo of my mother’s story.
Last summer, I returned as part of a “delegation of two” with Rachel-Shlomit, my older daughter, who had lost her grandmother when she was a baby. It was a full twenty years after my mother’s death, but I traveled with the voices of the women who had survived alongside her and who had conveyed to me, one by one, several strands of the story she had silenced. On that summer morning, the museum was teeming with masses of visitors from all over the world, both individuals and groups, only a few from Israel. This time, when we were swallowed up among those congregating at the museum exhibits, what was most apparent to me was the mighty process of erasing. Then and now.
Among the other tourists, who were divided into groups, we were led by a Polish guide on an official tour. Following now in my own footsteps as well, I passed through the museum exhibits for the second time in my life. As the visit progressed, I was confronted by a sense of internal paralysis. I felt the renewed shock of facing the trap of destruction—the ramp where the transports arrived straight to death, and its alternative: forced labor, starvation, human experimentation laboratories, and only then to the gas chambers with cans of Zyklon B and the ovens. And the remains, heaps of remains: the shoes, the eyeglasses, the brushes, the hair. But at the same time, I was seized by another emptiness that grew stro
nger: the silence of millions of human beings who were murdered and tortured here. During the visit, they were once again swallowed up in the anonymity of mass numbers, in the facelessness of collective identity, in the deceptive glory of martyrdom. And they were swallowed, too, in the compressed piles of remains that stood as holy relics in glass display cases. Among the masses of visitors, their absence reverberated.
Auschwitz is a graveyard without a grave. The Nazi death factory murdered a million and a half people here, systematically wiping out their ashes and their memory.Those who were murdered have left no personal traces, and even in the museum, they practically do not exist—not as human beings. Not in their previous lives and not as they lived between the fences of the camp, in the blocs, the huts, the lines to death. The names of the dead or of the survivors aren’t mentioned, and their photos are hard to find. Few have voices, and most of their stories remain untold. The museum doesn’t show us the complexity of their responses, and they remain frozen for the most part as they appear in Nazi documentation. And so, facing the detailed exhibition of the face of evil, there is almost no echo in the Auschwitz Museum of the human experience in the camps. This is not at the center of the exhibition, nor are the many ways in which human beings stood tall or collapsed in the face of evil.
Feeling dizzy, I retreated from the groups of visitors. Despite myself, I felt like a collaborator. As if with a one-way gaze, the visitor to Auschwitz continues to wipe out the humanity of the inmates, reducing them to a pile of organic matter that will decay over the years. And so it wasn’t just the heaps of hair that dismayed me, but also their graying color (even though, according to the museum’s documents, the hair underwent preservation in the museum labs in 1968, when a hundred kilos of dust were removed from it, and its “natural color” was restored).
When confronted with the itinerary of our tour through the torture blocs and the paths that led to death, I felt like I was waiting in line with the crowds that had thronged, all throughout history, to take part in the macabre tradition of the spectacle of death—from the medieval scenes of hell to the curio tours of the torture chambers, up to the thrill of the haunted house ride in amusement parks. The deep fascination with the culture of horror shows still lives on even after Auschwitz, after Rwanda and Darfur, and also after September 11 (which won Stockhausen’s praise for its “aesthetic force”).
I sat helplessly at the side of the path between the blocs, and I knew that, as with the tradition of the macabre, so on the visit to Auschwitz, the good ones would come out better and the bad ones worse. When confronted with evil, some will whisper a vow of justice and others will repeat the wicked catechisms of the grand executioners.
Can it be that, despite its noble intentions, the Auschwitz Museum is essentially a memorial to the Genius of Evil? Will it contribute to the unbearable dizzying swirl of terms such as holiness, victimhood, martyrdom? Will it enhance the vertigo which, perhaps, began with the victimizing sacred concept of “Holo-Caust” (burnt offering; burnt whole), coined by François Mauriac in his introduction to Eli Wiesel’s Night, and which has since become the “desired term” in the global “contest” of blood for the status of victim, and for the venal sanctification of martyrdom and death (including that of suicide bombers)?
But Auschwitz was not established by God or created by Satan. Man built Auschwitz, and man tortured human beings to death in it. The victims of Auschwitz didn’t die for the “Sanctification of the Name,” but struggled for the “Sanctification of life,” as Rabbi Isaac Nussbaum declared during his last months in the Warsaw Ghetto. In the camps, man was revealed, in his depths and his heights.
Yet, how to make the human voice heard in the pit of hell? How to memorialize the ways they stood facing evil? How to listen to the many facets of meaning revealed in the heart of evil? How to recall the despair, the weakness, the strength, the cruelty, the brotherhood, the compassion, the heresy and the belief in God, in man? How to learn the extreme lesson of the camp, of what Victor Frankel termed “man’s search for meaning”?
On that afternoon at Auschwitz, I didn’t return to the groups of visitors. Through the exhibitions, the blocs, and the huts, I tried to hold on to my mother’s story—the story that she, refusing to be a victim, was determined to erase when she came to Israel in 1948. And so she underwent an operation to remove the number from her arm, and her story was silenced until she died. I held on to the threads of that story that had been hidden in my childhood and that I had pieced together in recent years from relatives and from the nine women, the zenerschaft, as they were called in the camps, with whom my mother had survived Plaszow, Birkenau, Auschwitz, the death march and Bergen-Belsen. How, after their families were murdered, they strengthened one another amidst the torture, the forced labor, the hunger; and how they helped one another, lit Hanukkah candles in bloc 24, shared their bread, tried to go on laughing, to go on maintaining a human image. I pictured my uncle, Tovek Poser, who threw himself onto the electrified fence of Auschwitz, and eight-year-old Marek who was sent to death with the children’s transport from Plaszow.
My legs buckling, next to my daughter, I came to the birches behind the chimneys of the crematoria. In the distance, the voice of an Israeli teacher could be heard reading excerpts of personal testimonies to her students. Without a word, I searched for a moment for a sign carved in a tree. My mother’s friend had told me that as they were waiting at the entrance to the gas chambers, when some were saying their final confessions, my mother had walked among the birches. She was seeking a sign that Marek might have left for her. I looked for a sign, too. A personal one. When I found none, I marked on one of the trunks the letter M—the first letter of our names: Marek. Michal. And then, in this place steeped in smoke and ashes, I said kaddish.
When the Russian army entered the gates of Auschwitz in January 1945, the camp was almost completely empty. Most of the prisoners had been sent on a death march to labor and extermination camps throughout Poland and Germany. What remained in Auschwitz were the silent remnants of the machinery of annihilation, and the Nazi lists, photos, and other forms of documentation.Those were the artifacts that comprised most of the original exhibition.
The Auschwitz Museum was established in 1947 by the Polish government. A group of Polish survivors fought to preserve the remnants so as to thwart the Nazis’ attempt at complete obliteration, and to collect evidence of the crimes that were committed at Auschwitz. Later on, it was decided to make no changes in the site—to respect it as a graveyard, and to preserve it as it was at the time of the Liberation. The piles of personal items, the hair, the blocs, the huts, the remains of the crematoria became silent witnesses, and Auschwitz-Birkenau Camp became a place of memory. A place of testimony and condemnation. But, presenting the machinery of death and torture is only half the story. The other half is the story of human beings facing evil.
The stories of the inmates were revealed very gradually. Only years later were diaries of the members of the sonderkommando23 dug up out of the piles of ashes in the chimneys of the crematoria and added to the exhibition. The voices of the survivors were late in being heard too, either because of all those who were unwilling to listen, or because the survivors were trying to put the past aside and establish a new life for themselves. “Your mother didn’t have to talk about Auschwitz, she was there,” one of her survivor freinds told me recently.
In the first years, society could bear to listen only to the bold voices of the underground fighters and the rebels. They resonated clearly in a world that had fought the Nazis, and in a nascent State of Israel in the midst of its own war for existence. It was years until the concept of heroism could also echo in a piece of bread given by one prisoner to another, in a prayer of the “Days of Awe” handwritten by memory in the absence of prayer books, in the ability to love in the camp, in the gallows humor, or in the voice of Primo Levi, who recited Dante on his way to pick up a pot of soup. Years passed until the stigma of “like sheep to the slaughter” bega
n to fade—we had to first endure the murder of the Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics to prove that hostages, even able-bodied ones, may actually be helpless vis-à-vis their captors. Years passed until the rage of survival gained recognition and appreciation—the hasty marriages, the astonishing number of babies born in the DP camps, and the survivors’ obstinate will to live.Years passed until the guilt of the survivors vis-à-vis the killed, and even more the guilt of society vis-à-vis the survivors, gave way to listening and documentation. At the last moment.
For sixty years, material has been collected in archives, libraries, and courts.We have testimonies, video interviews, conversations with children and grandchildren. Slowly the names of the dead were gathered, and the solitary voices coalesced into a great chorus of personal stories disassembling the anonymous mass of people-turned-numbers and restoring the faces to the millions who filled Auschwitz. Writing the mighty story of the human face.
The founders of the museum stopped the systematic suppression of all traces of Nazi atrocity. But the exhibits didn’t stop the impulse of denial—as is demonstrated by the speeches of Iranian president Ahmadinejad culminating in the recent Holocaust Denial Conference in Tehran, or the many websites devoted to this cause which play saccharine music as they present Auschwitz as “a model work camp” with a “sauna” and an “orchestra” and a “hospital” . . .
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