DANCING AROUND GRAVES by Yossi Berktin

       My Zayda let out a boisterous laugh disturbing the peace of those aboard flight 740 to Warsaw. He was indulging in a classic Marx Brothers film, Horse Feathers. I turned to face the aisle in a sad attempt to deny relation. But he did deserve to laugh. Our plane could be passing over Auschwitz, for all I knew, my grandfather deserved to laugh.

He was a good laugher.

He never went without a smile.

I adored hearing him laugh.

When he laughed, his eyes closed tight and his shoulders lifted to his ears. He had so much joy.

"Heh heh," he chuckled as he tried to catch his breath, "these old movies are superb. Better than any comedy team today!"

"Oh for sure," I agreed.

"They were Jewish you know, the Marx Brothers. The best comedians are."

"Oh, no contest," I humoured him.

My Zayda was proud to be Jewish, so much so that anyone who double-crossed him was an anti-Semite. But I guess he deserved to think that way, they all do, all the survivors.       

We were on our way to Warsaw, en route ultimately to a small historic city named Chelm.

Chelm was famous for two things: silly tales, my Zayda's favorite to tell, about ludicrous goofball rabbis who led the equally zany Jewish community and a mass expulsion and extermination of all Jews during the holocaust, something my Zayda never spoke a word of.

"Zayda, tell me a story."

“Well, the city of Chelm was founded by a group of wise rabbis. First, they decided to build themselves a synagogue for public prayer and worship. The strongest of the group set to digging out the foundation. Upon completion, the diggers were distressed to find a large mound of dirt next to where the synagogue would be. “We cannot just leave this mound of dirt here!” they said. Promptly, they traveled to the head Rabbi to ask his advice on the matter. He answered, “You fools! The solution is simple. Dig another hole beside the mound of dirt and transfer the mound into the new hole!” You know, the city was actually named from this story, Chelm means hill or mound.”

The plane landed gracefully in Warsaw but our journey was far from over, we now had a four hour car ride to survive. I was sure my Zayda would be fine in that long of a car ride, though he was 75. He never complained about his health.

We were soon standing on a moving sidewalk as we made our way toward the baggage claim.

"Look at these idiots! Damn Pollacks!" he blurted.

"Zayda! Shah!" I tried to subdue him, we were not in Canada sitting in his house around the Shabbat table, we were in Poland!

"Feh!" he responded, "these meshugoyim don't know a blessing when they see it! G-d gives them a moving sidewalk and they just stand still on it. You're supposed to walk with the blessing, that way you get the full effect. This is just a waste!"        

We collected our baggage and waited outside for a taxi that could take us all the way to Chelm. We were part of a larger group, mostly from New York, who were meeting in Chelm to re-dedicate and celebrate the renovation of the old Jewish cemetery. Amongst its buried were my great-grandparents. I do not know anything about them and my Zayda only has one picture of his parents that he brought with him when he left Chelm some sixty years ago.

Zayda let out a sigh of relief as he sat down on a bench by the taxi lane. I went to request a long-distance taxicab.

“Ok, they said they would find someone,” I assured my Zayda.

“Thanks G-d.”

What about thanks me?

I stood next to him, placed my hand on his shoulder and took delight in the warm summer breeze that stroked my face.

“It’s a beautiful day, eh Zayda?”

“Yes. Thanks G-d. The Polish springtime was always gevldik.”

I thought to myself: a memory?

He strained his eyes and let out another sigh.

“So where is this shmerel. Carrots grow faster!” Zayda always had some brilliant allegory to describe any situation. If someone was slow he described vegetation growth, if someone was inconsiderate he paralleled an animal and if someone was just plain stupid he would use some Yiddish insult that no one can accurately translate.

Finally, after what my Zayda timed at half-an-hour, a driver arrived. He pulled up in a small panic-button-red hatchback car that looked to be at least fifteen years old, a Polish Fiat. This car looked like it could barely fit my Zayda and I in, let alone our luggage.

“You go to Chelm?” he called out.

“Yes, that’s us,” I responded.

The driver was a Polish man. He came out of the car to help with the luggage and to figure out the seating. Upon opening the trunk a big black garbage bag full of clothes poured out onto the street. As I helped him collect the clothes, I stole a glimpse of his well adorned fingers. I counted three rings; the two on his index fingers were thick and made of solid gold and the third was gold with an emerald stone set in the middle which he fittingly wore on his left ring finger.

“Hello, I am Piotr,” he introduced, “come in, come in.”

I estimated that he must have been about fifty. His cheeks were well carved and aged, his skin pale and chalky. From his stench I could tell he was an avid cigarette smoker, a habit that had left his skin cracked and teeth yellow. He had unshaven stubble on his chin and the smell of smoke was well transported in his thick greying blond hair. He wore a blue turtleneck sweater, too warm for a day like today, his jeans were old and tattered and his once white sneakers were now faded beige and covered in dust. He coughed a thick, wet cough resulting in a need to spit out a heavy wad of saliva to the ground.

“Watch your wallet Eli,” my Zayda whispered to me.

I already was.

We packed into this sardine can of a car. I forfeited the front seat to my Zayda and I wedged myself on the edge of the restrictedly narrow back seat. I could at least place my suitcase on the empty seat beside me and luckily my Zayda’s bag was small enough to stow in the trunk, weighing down on the bag of clothes. There was also a large black instrument case; I think tuba, in the trunk. The car smelled of cigarettes, a smell I will have to get used to for the four hour drive to Chelm and then back again.

But we did not move.

“Piotr, are you waiting for something?” I queried.

“One more.”

“One more what?” I asked.

 “One more,” he repeated.

 “What are we waiting for, the farshtunkiner sea to part?” Zayda was getting impatient, so was I.

“I think he wants to pick someone else up Zayda.”

“Vay Iz Mir, shechted fleish iz pekelt mer rachvesdik! 

“Yes Zayda, slaughtered meat is treated better!” 

We had to pass the time somehow so I asked, “Zayda, tell me another Chelm story.”

“One day a calamity befell the community: someone had broken and stolen from the charity box! This matter was immediately discussed amongst the rabbis. They proposed a very simple solution: the charity box should be placed on the roof of the synagogue. That way no thief would be able to reach it. On the very same day the solution was put into effect another problem arose: the worshippers couldn’t reach the charity box. Another discussion was held amongst the rabbis and a new solution was decided upon: they will install a ladder under the roof for those that want to give charity.”

We sat for another five minutes until, finally, Piotr decided to leave the airport and start our journey.

“Finally,” I thought to myself.

Unexpectedly someone from outside yelled out, “Piotr! Zatrzymas!”

It was a man from the taxi company signalling Piotr to pull over. He stood on the curb next to a sharp-dressed man holding his suitcase and a jacket.

Piotr pulled the car back to the terminal curb and put the car in park.

“Oh G-d!” I muttered. “Why is this happening?”

Zayda turned his head slightly to the left and said, “Eli, everything is by Divine providence. G-d has a plan.”

The plan was that we would now be taking another person who, coincidentally, is also on his way to Chelm.

He was middle aged man with poorly dyed jet black hair, his face was round and his nose and ears were significantly disproportionate to the rest of his face. His medium build was hidden beneath the clothes of a successful business man. He wore newly shined laced-up shoes, a tailored, newly pressed blue dress shirt with the initials MGS on the cuffs and a black pair of dress pants. He held the matching black suit jacket in his left arm leaving his right arm in the task of rolling a solid, shiny, light green Victorinox travel case.

He crouched down by the rear car window to look at the interior of his ride to Chelm. Piotr fit the hard suitcase into the trunk by taking the tuba case out. The tuba case now rested between our new passenger and me, his suitcase in the trunk and mine on my lap. We set off for Chelm. 

“Hello, Michael,” he introduced and reached his hand over the tuba case.

I shook his hand.
“I’m Eli, and this is my grandfather, Abraham.”

Zayda said hello with closed eyes, he was already drifting to sleep as we began driving through the Polish countryside. I entertained myself by looking out the window. Michael did the same.

After a little while, Piotr disturbed the quiet.

“You are from America?” he asked, looking back at me through the rear view mirror.

“No, Canada. Toronto.”

“Ah, Canada. It is nice?”

“Yes, very nice, very clean. And you Piotr, you are from Poland?”

“Yes, Poland. Varshava.”

“Varshava? Where is that?”

“Varshava? It is here, Varshava is here. You fly to Varshava.”

“Oh, Warsaw, we call it Warsaw.”

He smiled at me in the rear-view mirror.

“You are American?” he asked Michael.

“No, I’m actually from London, England,” he responded.

“What brings you to Chelm?” I queried. I figured four hours was too long a time to avoid conversation.

“Well, they are rededicating the Jewish cemetery there; I’m acting as proxy for my Mum.”

“Oh, you’re Mom has roots in Chelm?”

“Yeah, that’s right. She escaped during the war and went to England.”

“Wow, how old was she?”

“Well, let’s see. If she’s 79 now, that would have made her fourteen, fifteen about.”

“Wow! How did she escape?”

“I’m not quite sure. She doesn’t like to talk about it, actually not at all.”

“Anything about her family?”

“Not much, but she does keep a picture of her family on her bedside table. It’s the only picture she took with her when she escaped.”

“Sounds like my Zayda. But I’m sure there are hundreds of survivor stories like that.”

“Indeed. So you and your Zayda are going to Chelm too?”

“Yeah. He wanted to pay his last respects before, you know, he can’t. My parents thought it would be a good idea if I went with him.”

 “That’s nice. My Mums the only family that I’ve got since my late Dad passed. I just want to connect with some of my roots.”

I nodded and, when the pause was long enough, slowly turned my head toward the window to take in the scenic drive.

The Polish landscape was breathtaking. So much open greenery, tall thick grass and just enough trees so as not to obstruct the view. Every patch of grass had a different dominant flower, from remarkably radiant red and white corn poppies to blankets of yellow spring kneecap flowers. The sky was blue without a cloud and the terrain was so flat that you could see for miles around. I took out my camera to snap a few pictures of this enchanting countryside. It was dreamy.

“Cheszie Koka Kola?” Piotr said.

“Sorry?” Michael said.

I assumed he was asking if we wanted a Coke.

“You like Coca Cola?” Piotr translated.

“Yes, thank you, uh, Jen Kuje.”

“Yeah, I’ll have one thanks,” added Michael.

Piotr stopped the car and bought four glass bottles of cokes and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. We seemed to be making good time and I was getting a bit thirsty. I hoped there would be a meal waiting for us in Chelm.

Zayda woke up when Piotr got back in the car. Piotr handed us each a coke, lit up a cigarette and continued driving towards Chelm.

“Does any of this look familiar to you Zayda?” I asked.

“Familiar? I haven’t been to this G-d Farlozen place in over sixty years.”

“Yes, but surely you remember this scenery. You were a teenager then. Look how beautiful the landscape is.”

“Feh, it’s all fake to me. The flowers cover the mass graves and demolished concentration camps.”

I handed him a bottle of Coke.

 “So, you’re from Chelm?” asked Michael.

“Yes,” answered Zayda. “Chelm was a magical place once.”

He took a sip and changed the subject, he hasn’t been in Poland since the Holocaust and I could not know what he was going through inside.

“This coke reminds me of a great Chelm story,” Zayda said. “There were once two Jewish whisky merchants who were travelling from Chelm to Lublin to sell their wares. While on journey one of the partners got thirsty and asked if it was alright for him to take a drink of whisky from their supply. The other merchant explained to him that he couldn’t take any because they had to sell it for a profit, one Polish Zloty. Upon hearing this, the first merchant took one Polish Zloty from his pocket and gave it to his partner, thereby ensuring a profit and having a drink at the same time. The second partner became thirsty at the sight of his friend having a drink and also wanted to buy a shot. Whereby he took the Polish Zloty from his pocket and gave it to his partner, thereby ensuring a profit and having a drink too. They continued buying drinks the whole way to Lublin until they discovered that all their whisky was “sold”. Satisfied that they had done well at selling all the Whisky, they turned their wagon around and returned to Chelm with their profits.”

“Very funny,” I approved.

“Yes, those Chelmites were something,” chimed Michael. “My mother used to tell me these stories when I was a boy. I particularly like the one about the mirror.”

“Oh yes,” Zayda laughed. That one is my favourite too.

“Maybe you’ll tell it, some other time,” I interrupted, feeling a bit out of the loop.

The last stretch of our trip was quiet; tranquil. Zayda Michael and I looked out our windows at the Polish landscape. I, with my window down to avoid inhaling the second hand smoke from Piotr’s cigarette, relished in the sublime scenery of the Polish landscape. My Zayda, with his window up, probably envisioning all the mass graves buried beneath the beds of bogus flowers.

Finally, a Polish sign I could read appeared that said: Chelm. 

“This Chelm,” said Piotr. “Where we go?”

“Zayda, do you have the address for the cemetery?”

“Oy, a Broch! No I don’t have anything with the address,” he turned to Piotr, “Piotr, ask someone where the Jewish cemetery is.”

“I think I have it somewhere,” assured Michael. He searched through his pockets for the information.

Piotr began circling around the town looking for a public area. We came upon a large square with a shopping plaza encircling a public park with a broken down merry-go-round and a working water fountain with a wading pool beneath. We pulled up to an old lady carrying a bag of groceries.

Piotr spoke to her in Polish and she angrily responded back and walked away. My Zayda cringed at whatever it was the lady said.

“Oy vay, these bloody Pollacks are the worst anti-semites. That stupid farshtinkine shiksa!” He said.

“Michael, did you find it yet?” I asked.

“Sorry, no. I must’ve misplaced it. Maybe it’s in my bag.”

“Piotr, ask another person.” I said.

I pointed out a man painting over the front door of a butcher-shop. “There, by the meat store.”

Piotr pulled the car around, tried his luck again and this time with a better outcome. The man pointed out the direction of the cemetery with his red painted hands telling Piotr the streets he should take. Piotr and I thanked the man and followed his directions. We drove for another ten minutes through the town of Chelm and passed by something that made my Zayda perk up in his seat.

“This is where the Shul was,” he said pointing to a building that seemed to be out of commission. “And this was the Shamesh’s house.” My Zayda was strolling down remembrance road as the memories became unearthed in his mind. I sat on the edge of my seat, this time in figurative terms.

“Eli, you know the Shamesh story right? Each day in Chelm would begin with the town Shamesh knocking on people’s doors and windows rousing them to come to the synagogue for prayers. But one winter morning, as he was about the begin his rounds, he was greeted by the beautiful sight of freshly fallen snow which covered the town in a white blanket. It was so pretty that the man did not want to tread on the snow and ruin its divine splendor. Luckily, he lived next door to the rabbi and carefully made his way over there. After explaining his predicament the rabbi gave him the solution: “Sit on a chair and my three eldest sons will carry you around the town to each house.””

“Zayda, where was your house?” I enquired. I was enjoying these memories my Zayda was expressing, this was the first any of us had heard any of them.

“My house?” Zayda paused to think, “No. So much has changed.”

“Here Cemeterium,” said Piotr. He pulled the car around and drove through the open iron-gate leading into the cemetery.

Piotr parked the car along the side of the road that led through the cemetery and turned the car off. We all got out and stretched our bodies in multiple positions.

My legs were both stiff and began tingling with pins-and-needles, and that farshtunkine tuba case gave me a charley-horse that could slow a cheetah (hey, I was trying to fit into this old world Jewry).

We hiked down a path that steered through a lightly forested area. It directed us towards a large group congregated in front of hundreds of newly chalked gravestones. The graves were organized neatly. There were three sections of graves beside each other. Each section had about ten or eleven graves per row and they reached back about twenty rows.

Beside the congregation stood a table with an open sign-in book. It seemed most had already checked off their names and signed in. I checked off and signed my name and my Zayda’s and we made our way to see the graves. Michael did not notice the sign-in book and walked straight towards the graves ahead of us, camera in hand.

A woman dressed in a modest blue dress with a pink and yellow flower pattern spoke to the group about the renovations. I found out later that she was Ruth Gruber, the coordinator of the whole project.

Michael and Zayda gave her no notice as they each trekked past her to find what they had come here to find. Michael decided to search from the left, Zayda took to the right. I followed my Zayda.

We waltzed through the graves, scanning the stones for the names of my Zayda’s parents: Moishe and Zlateh Feiglin. There was not a specific order to the graves, so, if we had to, we would walk past them all.

I tired quickly but kept by my Zayda’s side, he was focused on his mission. Once we had ruled out the entire first section we immediately set our sights to the middle one.

We stepped slowly through the first few rows.

Zayda was getting tired.

“Let’s keep going Eli,” he said, out of breath.

I held his arm in mine.

As we walked down the inner row of the middle section I could see Michael coming from the other end.

“No luck?” he asked.

“Not yet, but there are so many graves,” I said.

“Zayn nisht farfallen,” said Zayda.

“Maybe we could help each other out,” I suggested to Michael. “What names are you looking for?”

“Moishe and Zlateh Feiglin, you?”

My Zayda raised his head. His eyes fixated on Michael’s.

“Feiglin?” repeated Zayda, “What is your mother’s name?”

“Chana, why?” Michael

“Chana?” Zayda said. “This was my sister’s name.”

“What names are you looking for?” asked Michael.

“The very same,” I said.

Michael smiled from ear to ear and said, “No!” Obviously delighting in the happenstance.

My Zayda grabbed hold of Michael’s hands and looked into his eyes with a sparkle of hope and elation, still breathing heavily. They turned together to continue their search but walked no more than two steps. For the very graves upon which this Divinely inspired moment of discovery took place was that of Moishe and Zlateh Feiglin.

I faced the graves with a dumbfounded expression. I had nothing to say and Michael stood silent but my Zayda would not let a moment like this go by. He took hold of my left hand and Michael’s right, pulled us both in and began singing a heartfelt joyous melody. I took Michaels free hand and we began to dance in a circle.

A few moments into the dancing, onlookers from around the other graves gathered around us. They had no knowledge of what had just transpired but the joy was palpable. Slowly, people began joining in on our celebration; forming a chain throughout the graves. G-d truly had a plan that day and that plan was crowned with this group dancing around graves.

  

APPENDIX A

Glossary:
Farshtunkiner: Stinking

Farlozen: Forsaken

Gevaldik: Wonderful

Meshugoyim: Crazies

Oy, a Broch!: Oh Hell!

Shamesh: A Caretaker

Shiksa: Non Jewish Woman (derogatory)

Shmerel: Idiot

Vay Iz Mir: Woe to Me

Zayn Nisht Farfallen: Don’t give up.

APPENDIX B

The Mirror Story:

“Once, upon returning from a month-long business trip to the big city, a husband gave his wife a beautiful antique hand mirror which he had wrapped-up in paper. Back then, mirrors were very rare and expensive. Before opening the gift, the wife asked her husband what it was. He responded, “It’s a picture of the woman I love!” She immediately opened the gift and looked into the mirror. Seeing her reflection, for the first time, the wife suddenly began to cry and ran to her mother’s house. “What is it my dear?” the mother asked. Sniffling, the woman said, “My husband has found someone prettier than me and is going to leave me!” The mother was shocked! “Give me the picture,” said the mother and she grabbed the mirror and looked to see what this woman looked like, “ugh,” she grunted, “you’re jealous of this ugly old hag!?””