Understanding the past (in spitting distance)

March of the Living hits a raw note

By Rachel Blady

Issue of May 1, 2009 / 7 Iyar 5769

I knew three things when I departed for Poland. I knew that all four of my

grandparents are Holocaust survivors. I knew that I knew barely anything at all. And I knew that I wanted to know everything.

It is difficult to describe the feeling of knowing how important something is, but not absorbing the power of it. Arriving in Poland for the March of the Living was like returning to the place I would have called home. The nostalgia was not quite there, but the personal significance of the place made the trip worthwhile. I spoke to my grandpa twice while in Poland. Hearing him ask me, “How is my homeland?” made me realize that were it not for the Holocaust, I might just as easily have been the one to say that.

I was shocked to go from Auschwitz 1 to Birkenau to Majdanek with barely any emotion, only breaking down into tears in my cousin’s arms in Majdanek out of frustration about not knowing anything about what our shared grandparents had been through. It seemed that the trip would not touch me unless I knew exactly how to relate to what had happened. Unfortunately, my grandparents have refused to discuss and rarely acknowledge what they went through. Perhaps all of the Holocaust education I have received –– the speakers, the stories, the movies, museums, statistics –– had taken up all of the tears and left me raw.

Several days later it finally hit me, after all of the concentration camps and memorials, while taking a tour of the Warsaw ghetto. We had been told that the city was completely destroyed during the war, with very little left to see that was of Jewish significance. Our tour guide showed us an apartment building that was home to many Jews during the time of the ghetto. We walked into the courtyard of the building, surrounded on four sides by the windows of Polish residents.

After standing in this courtyard for about five minutes, witnessing life going on normally as people walked into their apartments and dogs barked

out of windows, we were surprised to hear some music. A catchy song was being played in one of the apartments, and the volume was slowly being raised. It was not until we were all enjoying it that we realized the song was proclaiming “Heil Hitler!”

In shock, I knew this was a situation I needed to get out of. Deciding to go with passive resistance, I immediately left the courtyard, joined by only three other people. One of the chaperones thought it would be a better idea to respond, and began clapping and trying to sing a Jewish song. As I stood outside with the other people who seemed to possess the common sense that I believed was appropriate in this situation, I saw something sprinkle down between us. I soon realized that this was not, in fact, someone watering their plants, but rather an apartment resident pitting on us.

The experience was the most powerful one I felt all week. Though I do not really know my grandparents’ stories, I do know how to relate to their experiences. Growing up in America, I never once felt my life threatened by anti-Semitism. But these Poles were visibly uncomfortable with Jews interrupting their daily lives. It is debatable as to what would have been the correct reaction. But I certainly understand how the people who opted for clapping and singing felt at the time. Later in the day, we visited memorials for the people who organized the Warsaw ghetto uprising –– young people about my age who decided to be active in a situation filled with passivity. It made me wonder what kind of response I would have had if my life were really in such danger. The truth is, I really don’t know.

I do not know if those apartment dwellers were armed or if they really did agree with what Hitler did. But I did know, finally, what it was like to know that there are some people out there who hate you not for what you look like or what you believe in, but purely because of the blood that runs through your veins.

March of the Living was slightly disappointing, in part because the organization that ran it seemed to be emphasizing putting an end to genocide, rather than focusing on the past. Sitting in a ceremony listening to worldwide dignitaries, I expected some attention to be paid to the gas chamber and crematorium standing in shambles right beside their stage. I sat in Birkenau that day not for the future, but because of the past. I came to learn about my family, my history, and my culture. This March was relevant to me, finally, because now I understood.

Rachel Blady is a senior at North Shore Hebrew Academy and an occasional contributor to The Jewish Star. She lives in North Woodmere.