The slip of paper at the back of this journal in the pocket labeled Tekas, was the script I and 3 other people wrote. We preformed this in the middle grounds of Treblinka, no longer a campsite, but now a vast openness of nothing surrounded by trees. There are various sections of memorials, symbols, and rocks with community names on them, they represent the 870, 000 Jews whom were gassed alive and then set on fire to remove the evidence of the bodies. In 1943, the entire camp was burned and destroyed as inmates had escaped and they didn't want anyone to know about the camp if knowledge leaked, so they removed all evidence that it ever existed.
This doesn't mean it wasn't eerie, and that I couldn't imagine what once occurred here, once filled this space. It was just as easy to imagine the piles of dead bodies and the line-ups of people for the gas chamber, the countless lifeless bodies walking without destination, their gaunt eyes like black orbs. Our tour guide told us after the bodies were burned, the mass graves were dug up by the locals in search for treasures that may have been left on the bodies of prisoners. I know now that anti-Semitic, valueless people own the houses I saw on my way to Treblinka. If there is anything more disgusting than digging up the graves of charred bodies in a forest from a Nazi death camp, than it's being able to live with yourself afterwards, and not think that anything is wrong.
Coming back from the camp, I saw a train full of people load off and walk back in the direction opposite the bus, all going home from which job they have from wherever. They all looked normal and happy, as if unaware of their cities past, of the souls that wander only a few KM away.
Treblinka, a death camp.
[Though looking back now, it would make no sense to plague oneself years later with the horrors of WWII, if one lives in a land previously at war, one must understand what the land and its people went th
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Entry 9, 16:41, Bus
We're on our way to the death camp, and it's already dark at 4:41, the houses are thinning out and the trees are getting wider, large black trees spread in a single row against the road. Every once and awhile the row is joined by a thick forest, much thicker trees than the other forests, these ones are black and dense, and you can't see through them. The road is getting eerier, the idea of stopping here is terrifying in itself, it's all very dark and looming, demonic one could say. I can imagine the absolute fear rising if one were to ever be in a cattle car driving through this. Each and every one of the houses within the forest at the edge of the road looks like it was taken straight out of a horror film; I would never even want to visit one, even if I was invisible. How can someone live so close to one of the most inhumane, disgusting camps to ever take place, eat and breathe so close to death, to have been able to smell and see the thick black smoke, to drive down the same roads as millions of wandering souls, how? It repulses and terrifies me, was I made of different blood and flesh? Did I grow up with different values and beliefs, [Of course!] from different home life? Different heart?
How can one be so obviously cruel and demonic, inhumane and insensitive? Live and do nothing, absolutely nothing? To stay living in a home which has breathed in the ashes and the soot of the death camp. Soil that has had pain and cruelty seeped into the very wood that holds it together. Who are these people that continue living here? Do they have children? Grandchildren? Do they tell stories of what happened? Of what they've see and heard? Or do they keep it quiet; living on ignorantly, keeps their grandchildren innocent and unknowing. Maybe they were affected, so much so that they can no longer sleep and night, perhaps it is their home which plagues them, chains them down, where they can not leave for they have no money, or sell their home for no one will buy it, perhaps it is a nightmare, and they would do anything to change their situation...but this can't possibly be true, because if they were that horribly affected, they'd be long gone by now.
The electricity poles look like mini watchtowers; this is getting to be so real, so very close to home.
People live here?? HOW?? How can people live here??? It is, beyond, me!!
Treblinka 9
7
6
5
4
3
2
...I'm scared, I’m so scared, we're going into a forest, curving the road, going deeper, we're climbing a hill, f***, f***, we're getting off.
-Netanya Bushewsky
How can one be so obviously cruel and demonic, inhumane and insensitive? Live and do nothing, absolutely nothing? To stay living in a home which has breathed in the ashes and the soot of the death camp. Soil that has had pain and cruelty seeped into the very wood that holds it together. Who are these people that continue living here? Do they have children? Grandchildren? Do they tell stories of what happened? Of what they've see and heard? Or do they keep it quiet; living on ignorantly, keeps their grandchildren innocent and unknowing. Maybe they were affected, so much so that they can no longer sleep and night, perhaps it is their home which plagues them, chains them down, where they can not leave for they have no money, or sell their home for no one will buy it, perhaps it is a nightmare, and they would do anything to change their situation...but this can't possibly be true, because if they were that horribly affected, they'd be long gone by now.
The electricity poles look like mini watchtowers; this is getting to be so real, so very close to home.
People live here?? HOW?? How can people live here??? It is, beyond, me!!
Treblinka 9
7
6
5
4
3
2
...I'm scared, I’m so scared, we're going into a forest, curving the road, going deeper, we're climbing a hill, f***, f***, we're getting off.
-Netanya Bushewsky
Entry 8, 15:26, Bus, Lopochea
walking down the long dirt road, turning deeper into the forest, surrounded by the tall, skinny, swaying trees, we walk towards three mass graves, stopping before to read a survival story. The graves are heaped up only slightly higher, the grass growing longer, thicker, taller, a sapling tree having already sprouted from the middle grave, nature benefitting from the blood and bones. The polish citizens who covered up the pits, an order from the Nazi's, noticed the heaps of dirt rising and falling with the eventual end of suffering as the Jews who still lingered
twitched and moved silently, unheard.
Covered are the graves I pray for now,
sitting close to the edge, not really sure when the dirt in the ground ends and the bodies begins. The hardening of the dirt, the acceptance of naked bodies into the earth, flesh and soil becoming one, the light of the day forever covered over.
The last words they sung were forced upon them, Hatikva, a version meaning Hope, that one day we will have our own land, which now has been adopted as Israel's national anthem. I sit here visualizing the screams, the bodies, man, woman, child, undressed and shot individually into this pit already filling up.
Falling onto their brothers, mothers, sons, cousins, Rabbi, aunt, nephew, grandfather. The tall thin trees around them, swallowing them up, standing in rows, a forest a couple km away from town. A town there once was. Once full with a vibrant Jewish community, who went to a beautiful large synagogue, one which is painted intricately inside, the prayers scrawled on the walls in delicate writing, cream, red, blues, yellow, gold, arch ways and large windows. Once upon a time a full Jewish community of 500 lived in Zagrodski in the Pinsk district, they lived normal lives, came together for Shabbos, their children went to school, rode their bikes, families listened to record players, and attended musicals. They tended to their apple trees, on weekends and after school the children played together, the mother's swapped recipes. Once upon a nightmare they were all taken away, loaded in trucks, or sent running behind, running and riding down the long road, vast fields on either side, until eventually it turns to forest. Fear, I’m sure, rising higher and higher, breathing becoming hyperventilation, bodies become shaking. The truck turns off into the forest, deeper still. Truck loads coming every 10 minutes, the panic rising. There awaiting them are three pits, and no hope. What’s left is a community of 500 wiped off the face of this earth, and all that's left over are polish families who were allowed to stay. What is left? What do they know? These poles walk around, looking at our group, watch us watch them. What did or didn't they do when the Nazis's came for the Jews, when all hope was gone, when the houses were empty and the children were cold. What do these Polish teenagers think when they see us? What are we to them? What are they to us? The hardest part to take is seeing that the neighborhood is still beautiful and alive, people still live here, unaware or uncaring, unaffected, unwavering. The apple trees still grow, the houses still stand, the synagogue, though stopped and enwreathing, still takes up space, dead, but standing.
We’re on our way to Treblinka, the death camps, where like this last incident, the Jews were given no hope, and only lasted 45 min.
I hope it's not too awful, up until now, I quite liked humanity.
-Netanya Bushewsky
twitched and moved silently, unheard.
Covered are the graves I pray for now,
sitting close to the edge, not really sure when the dirt in the ground ends and the bodies begins. The hardening of the dirt, the acceptance of naked bodies into the earth, flesh and soil becoming one, the light of the day forever covered over.
The last words they sung were forced upon them, Hatikva, a version meaning Hope, that one day we will have our own land, which now has been adopted as Israel's national anthem. I sit here visualizing the screams, the bodies, man, woman, child, undressed and shot individually into this pit already filling up.
Falling onto their brothers, mothers, sons, cousins, Rabbi, aunt, nephew, grandfather. The tall thin trees around them, swallowing them up, standing in rows, a forest a couple km away from town. A town there once was. Once full with a vibrant Jewish community, who went to a beautiful large synagogue, one which is painted intricately inside, the prayers scrawled on the walls in delicate writing, cream, red, blues, yellow, gold, arch ways and large windows. Once upon a time a full Jewish community of 500 lived in Zagrodski in the Pinsk district, they lived normal lives, came together for Shabbos, their children went to school, rode their bikes, families listened to record players, and attended musicals. They tended to their apple trees, on weekends and after school the children played together, the mother's swapped recipes. Once upon a nightmare they were all taken away, loaded in trucks, or sent running behind, running and riding down the long road, vast fields on either side, until eventually it turns to forest. Fear, I’m sure, rising higher and higher, breathing becoming hyperventilation, bodies become shaking. The truck turns off into the forest, deeper still. Truck loads coming every 10 minutes, the panic rising. There awaiting them are three pits, and no hope. What’s left is a community of 500 wiped off the face of this earth, and all that's left over are polish families who were allowed to stay. What is left? What do they know? These poles walk around, looking at our group, watch us watch them. What did or didn't they do when the Nazis's came for the Jews, when all hope was gone, when the houses were empty and the children were cold. What do these Polish teenagers think when they see us? What are we to them? What are they to us? The hardest part to take is seeing that the neighborhood is still beautiful and alive, people still live here, unaware or uncaring, unaffected, unwavering. The apple trees still grow, the houses still stand, the synagogue, though stopped and enwreathing, still takes up space, dead, but standing.
We’re on our way to Treblinka, the death camps, where like this last incident, the Jews were given no hope, and only lasted 45 min.
I hope it's not too awful, up until now, I quite liked humanity.
-Netanya Bushewsky
Entry 7 11:48, Juduabe, Bus
We just walked the same path as 1,600 Jews ran down as they were chased and abused by Polish hooligans carrying home made weapons into a barn. There, the barn was covered in Kerosene, and lit on fire, an entire community left to burn and smoke away, including the town's 90 year old Rabbi. Polish bystanders stood watching as the Juduabne Jewish community scratched and clawed the inside of the barn walls, screamed in agony, profusely whispered prayers, and held their babies close. The hooligans went back into town to make sure they didn't miss even one lonely Jew, and grabbed all remaining children, tied roped onto their legs, and dragged them kicking and screaming. They were out on pitchforks and lofted into the fire. Other women with their babies drowned themselves before, not wanting to endure such a grotesque death. The souls and bodies of these Jews curdled and evaporated, rose up with the thick black smoke and blew away in the wind, the soot and ashes of their clothes never got the chance to sink down, deep into the ground, as their bodies were later hacked and torn apart by the hooligans and townspeople, ripped apart for any left over valuables, their dismembered bodies and limbs were thrown into a pile and lit on fire.
Other Jews were also brutally murdered with homemade weapons, bats with nails sticking out on the ends, axes, and anything imaginable. We stood in commemoration in the invisible barn, envisioning vividly the sight of terrified, chaotic men and demon running in horror towards this very spot, turning around the corner and being pushed, shoved, squished against one another all around us. Pushing me out of their way, hearing the spark of flames, the crackle of hot red wood turning black, feeling the overwhelming smoldering heat and fire, hurling their bodies, screaming in agony. We stood around the memorial grave, a large rock with the remains of a charred barn door melded in front. We listened to Beshame Hashem, walking back down the road, so yielding to visibly imagine all that had happened. I looked around at the houses and various old people walking on the streets and I knew it was the same. The same families and homes, which had lived there during this massacre, perhaps a few generations down, but the history the same. These windows of the few houses lining the road, of the neighborhood surrounding, witnessed something awful and inhumane. These windows with eyes peering through, hands pressing up against glass, stood by standing, lent not one finger, covered their ears instead of helping their neighbour Jew. Covered their eyes instead of watching the 90-year-old Rabbi pant for air. Looking into those windows, I know they've seen terrible things, but looking out those windows, I know they did nothing.
Netanya Bushewsky
Other Jews were also brutally murdered with homemade weapons, bats with nails sticking out on the ends, axes, and anything imaginable. We stood in commemoration in the invisible barn, envisioning vividly the sight of terrified, chaotic men and demon running in horror towards this very spot, turning around the corner and being pushed, shoved, squished against one another all around us. Pushing me out of their way, hearing the spark of flames, the crackle of hot red wood turning black, feeling the overwhelming smoldering heat and fire, hurling their bodies, screaming in agony. We stood around the memorial grave, a large rock with the remains of a charred barn door melded in front. We listened to Beshame Hashem, walking back down the road, so yielding to visibly imagine all that had happened. I looked around at the houses and various old people walking on the streets and I knew it was the same. The same families and homes, which had lived there during this massacre, perhaps a few generations down, but the history the same. These windows of the few houses lining the road, of the neighborhood surrounding, witnessed something awful and inhumane. These windows with eyes peering through, hands pressing up against glass, stood by standing, lent not one finger, covered their ears instead of helping their neighbour Jew. Covered their eyes instead of watching the 90-year-old Rabbi pant for air. Looking into those windows, I know they've seen terrible things, but looking out those windows, I know they did nothing.
Netanya Bushewsky
Entry 6, 10: 08,
when we first landed in Poland, got off the plane with a hundred other young teenage Israeli’s, got onto the trolley and walked into the airport, I distinctly felt a tinge of hate. Hundreds of Jewish people walk into the airport, hand the Polish worker their passport, and with obvious intention that passport control officer knows the exact reason why we're here. He looked uneasy and possibly guilty, I thought at the time, but looking back now, a day later, playing it over in my head, I don't see guilt, but rather systematic boredom of repetitive motions. His eyes looking over reach passport, scanning it, comparing it to the live face in front of him, his eyes shifting slightly, his head wavering. He knows the exact reason why we're here, why there's a growing crowd of throbbing teenagers pushing their way through the front door, utterances of Hebrew hovering above their heads. He knows we're not here for happiness or a joyous vacation at the beginning of the school year, because he knows the history behind this land 60 years prior. When we hand him our passports and he reads Naftali Greenberg, Chana Wiseman, Ann Milner, Guy Shaplinsky, when he scans each Jewish name over and over from behind his glass protection, he knows we're here in remembrance. This is the exact reason why when we make eye contact I don't think, "what a nice looking man," I think what does he know? How does he feel about us? What involvement did his family have? I can't help but not smile when I see his face, can't help from staring, take my passport back without saying thank you. I’ve laid the guilt of 6 million Jews onto the first Polish worker I see, fully knowing he had absolutely nothing to do with it, but looking into his eyes I see 6 million others.
-Netanya Bushewsky
-Netanya Bushewsky
Entry 5 Oct. 30, 9:15, Warsaw to Bialystok
There's something in the way the trees stop. Large sections of infinity tall skinny trees with graduating bark from dark brown to light, the branches stop miles from the ground and even then only short twigs protrude from either side, oddly mangled or perfectly straight pointing out. The leaves only cover the upper tops of the trees, creating the effect of a densely filled forest, but when driven by closely one might notice from the bus window that you can see right through them, from one end to another, you can see the next field and forest without even squinting an eye. The colors are bright like newly fall, yellows, orange, light green and dark green, sometimes the odd white as a ghost tree can be seen slightly hidden behind all the others. What had been here before? 60 years ago, had this been the same image an individual would of seen driving down these roads or walking through a field, running through a field. There’s something to be said about the way the trees stop, and the cast, empty fields begin, the sea of mulched bright green grass. Have people once sprinted or crawled, jogged, or walked into these forests? Taken cover behind the tall skinny trees which offer hardly any coverage, which can been seen through from one end to another, with their mangled branches which protrude only slightly from either side of their skinny bodies, of the stark non threatening, unmoving planted to the ground, roots firmly spread through the soil, trees.
There's something to be said about comparing a Jew to a tree in the holocaust, standing in rows, in crowds, in sectioned off areas which eventually just stop, bodies in a line standing still, standing tall and skinny. Their mangled arms and legs clinging pathetically to their body, hanging limp at the sides of their ribs. Their sunken eyes looking out, looking straight through, looking at nothing and everything, their eyes, dark brown to black, their clothes a gradient from muddy brown to off grey stripes. Their roots once firmly placed in the ground, their families once densely scattered across the land, coming together once a week, or five times in a year for the holidays, for Passover, Sukkot, Rosh Hashanah, Chanukah, and Yom Kippur. Please pass over them. Please give them three and a half walls to take cover in. please give them a new year. Please light 8 candles for all they once knew. Please break their fast. Please notice the way the trees stop; the way their bodies stand tall, and skinny, the leaves only covering the upper tops; the way they stand helpless and stuck, strongly rooted in the ground, the way you can see straight through them, from one end to the other, straight through to the next forest, straight through to the next body. Straight through to the hearts and souls and prayers of every one of them. 60 years back from now, did they see this? Did they see what I see now?
-Netanya Bushewsky
There's something to be said about comparing a Jew to a tree in the holocaust, standing in rows, in crowds, in sectioned off areas which eventually just stop, bodies in a line standing still, standing tall and skinny. Their mangled arms and legs clinging pathetically to their body, hanging limp at the sides of their ribs. Their sunken eyes looking out, looking straight through, looking at nothing and everything, their eyes, dark brown to black, their clothes a gradient from muddy brown to off grey stripes. Their roots once firmly placed in the ground, their families once densely scattered across the land, coming together once a week, or five times in a year for the holidays, for Passover, Sukkot, Rosh Hashanah, Chanukah, and Yom Kippur. Please pass over them. Please give them three and a half walls to take cover in. please give them a new year. Please light 8 candles for all they once knew. Please break their fast. Please notice the way the trees stop; the way their bodies stand tall, and skinny, the leaves only covering the upper tops; the way they stand helpless and stuck, strongly rooted in the ground, the way you can see straight through them, from one end to the other, straight through to the next forest, straight through to the next body. Straight through to the hearts and souls and prayers of every one of them. 60 years back from now, did they see this? Did they see what I see now?
-Netanya Bushewsky
Entry 4 Oct 29, 7:18, bus
I keep expecting to see some anti-Semitic lingo spray painted on walls or scrawled over billboards. We just got out of the Jewish cemetery of Warsaw, which is in a forest; tall skinny black and white trees extend forever upwards. Old eroded gravestones, densely strewn together. Every bit of land is covered from either tombstones flat against the ground, or protruding straight up, tall like pillars pointing towards something they all had in common, their belief in God.
-Netanya Bushewsky
-Netanya Bushewsky
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