In 2003, when I was studying in Berlin, I took a course on Berlin in literature. It was a German lit course on literature written about Berlin, mostly 20th century, both prose and poetry. And because we were in Berlin, we would frequently take our lecture outside. We would wander the streets of Hackesher Markt, sit in cafes around Oranienburgerstrasse, and talk about Brecht and Nabokov writing about 'their' city. We would also go to cemeteries.
Walking around cemeteries, as i learned, is a thing in Europe. People go and visit famous graves, take strolls in the peace and serenity, have candle parades on the day of the dead (something i witnessed in Slovenia). A completely weird idea at first, i got over it during our class field trips. We would walk around quiet and empty alleys of some old Berliner cemetery, wet and cold from the rain. we would talk literature and history, and how history was literally laid out in front of us: famous poets, merchants, speakers. old abandoned gravestones, old inscriptions in literary german. it was always serene and fascinating, and a bit voyeuristic, like we were intruding, breaking in on someone else's quiet and abandon. but it brought things that were far and forgotten into now, through the cold and wet, through the things we were reading.
today i am reminded of that, walking through the past, through the old jewish cemetery. Just like then, it is chilly and wet. the gravestones stand like a forest of trees, with the real trees taking over, intertwined, obstructing, adn destroying any last remnant of order. i'm walking on a thick layer of leaves and the ground is soft, carpeted with shed life. it's eerie since i dont know if the soft is just the leaves, or if the ground is caving and your foot is about to go through an old grave. i look at the gravestones, some of the inscriptions in yiddish, some half erased with time. unfamiliar names, dates going back to 1924, 1938, 1976, and i can't help but think if those before 1941 are the lucky ones. some of the graves have added place-holders: empty name plaques for those 'killed on the front'. tombstones are in various stages of broken, victim to fallen branches. it's quiet, there is no one here, haven't been here in decades, occasional visitor stumbling and climbing to find one's path. the nature has been taking over for years, life is taking over the dead.
and suddenly, it's real, and it's now. her grave, brand new, fresh, and unblemished by the elements sticks out. there is no name or picture, just fresh flowers--yellow, purple, white mums. seasonal and they remind me of chrysanthemums i got her two years ago from an old lady in the subway, just because. i take out the stone from my pockets and lay it down. she would always yell at her mother: "jews don't bring flowers! jews bring stones! flowers die, stones are eternal!" it's weird to know she's here among these flowers in the cold. and for the first time, i'm crying.
No comments:
Post a Comment