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