Let me begin with a personal story, a story that was told to me after my mother passed away.
My dear grandfather, my mother's father, was the last rabbi of the Romanian holy community in Merkulesti, a town that is now in Moldova. Before he died, so the story begins, he was given a golden opportunity to save himself and the community he headed just before the Romanian fascists and the German Nazis, who wanted to exterminate all the Jews from teff to old man, set foot in the town. The Jewish Agency, staunch Zionists, offered to smuggle him and other Jews from his community into Eretz Israel, a few years before the establishment of the State of Israel. My grandfather, who was ultra-Orthodox and anti-Zionist, refused. "I'd rather be with the Nazis than with the Zionists," he told them.
When the fascists and Nazis finally reached the gates of Merkulesti, he greeted them with bread and salt, as is the custom of welcoming kings. In response, they emptied their rifle bullets on his head and took his children, who were in town, and his wife, my grandmother, to the river near the town. When they reached the river, they threw the children alive into the flowing river. Boy after boy and girl after girl. After her loins drowned before her eyes, they shot my grandmother and threw her body into the river.
That's the story.
Is this story true? And is there even a river in Marcoleşti?
My mother, who was born in Marcoleşti, a town that for some reason is called a city, never shared with me her early years during the Holocaust. Not a word. Her childhood language was Romanian, but from the day I came I never heard her speak that language, and not a word came out of her lips about what happened to her and her family during the Holocaust. Everything I know about this period of her life, and of course about her parents, brothers and sisters, steals to my ears after her return to heaven.
What does the word Merkulesti mean? "Apples," says Madalina. Yoon, who is both a farmer and mayor, says Marcoleşti and apples are not related at all. Merkulesti is "Marco's City". He calls Merkulesti a city, not a town. So be it
On the occasion of the important Jewish holidays, as on the next Sukkot holiday, we are commanded to recall what happened to our forefathers and mothers thousands of years ago, and it seems to me that this is also the most appropriate time to remember what happened to our grandparents decades ago.
With Mayor Merkulesti, photo: Izzy Tenenbom
Yes, believe it or not, only decades have passed since then. In the distant past we were slaves, in the recent past we were corpses. Sit in the sukkah and listen.
We were hungry, that's why
I'm currently in Romania, wandering its streets in a rental car, slowly making my way towards Moldova. After wandering through these and other mountains, where cute bears move leisurely on the roads, I stop my car in a village whose name I cannot even pronounce. Here, it turns out, everyone speaks Hungarian. Why? "It's a Hungarian region," they tell me, "here we are all Hungarians." What do you do in Romania? "This is Hungary." Really? Where is the border? When did I leave Romania? No, they say, you're still in Romania. So what are you doing here? "We are here hundreds of years before the Romanians. They stole our land."
How do you get along with the Romanian thieves? "It depends. Until a few years ago, there was tension all the time, but now it's okay."
What made it okay? "Until a few years ago, Romanian leaders were racists, and then there were a lot of problems, but now the racists are in the minority and we get along. Today we are Hungarian-Romanians. First Hungarians, then Romanians, and everything is fine. More or less."
Two or three hours of driving and I find myself in a monastery, and German is spoken in this monastery. We are Romanian-Germans, Antony, a tall monk, tells me. He made a vow to the Lord of all, he tells me in pure German, that he would remain single all his life and be poor as long as his spirit was in him. Yes, like that.
The music changes, and Egyptian Omar Diab sings to him in Aslan Arabic. How did this Egyptian get here? All I'm missing now is my uncle Amsalem, the minister of regional cooperation, who will cooperate and drum my tune to Arab love music
"The Jews are very rich, the richest in the world," he explains to me, but not him – he is poor and eternally single. "I'm never allowed to get married, but I look at women all the time. It's allowed." Why, I ask him, did Romania join the Nazis in World War II and its soldiers murdered hundreds of thousands of Jews? He doesn't know what I'm talking about. Romania has never participated in the murder of anyone, let alone Jews. Those who murdered, if I really want to know, are the Jews. They murdered Jesus, and from their beautiful mansions they constantly complain that they are being murdered.
Suddenly a bear on the road, photo: Izzy Tenenbom
"We massacred more than 700,1982 Jews during the war, Romanian Jews and other Jews that the Germans sent us to murder them," Dimi, a cultural figure I meet at a restaurant serving authentic Romanian food, including mameliga and papanaş, tells me. "We were hungry for a piece of bread and had nothing, and our spiritual leaders told the people that the Jews have money and eat well, so they slaughtered the Jews. This is also the reason, if you didn't know, why we murdered Ceauşescu, our leader. From 1989 to <>, people here didn't have food. There was everything but food. Ceauşescu ordered that the best food we had created in the country be sent to countries like Libya and to the Palestinians. We have almost nothing left. The shops were empty. And that's what hunger does to people."
To be a Romanian, a Romanian Israeli once told me, means "a hand washing a hand and both your face."
The heart finds it hard to believe
Time is running out, and I sit down for a conversation with a Romanian Holocaust researcher in her spacious office, a nice woman familiar with the ins and outs of the Holocaust in Romania, and she swam to me from what she knows about Merkulesti, not Ceauşescu.
After the Jewish inhabitants of Merkulesti were massacred one by one, she tells me, "the town became a transit camp, and it was the cruelest transit camp in Moldova, where thousands of Jews were held in the summer of 1941. Their conditions were terrible. They were surrounded by armed soldiers and held without shelter or food or water for several weeks."
How could they survive like this for a few weeks?
"Sometimes they got food from the non-Jewish locals, and sometimes they risked their lives by going out in search of food. The rest died."
In many cases, I learn, the locals didn't give away free food, and knew exactly what to demand in return. What? A loaf of bread for a hat, a coat with fur for a roast chicken.
This is what Merkulesti, if you wanted to know, looked like in the summer of 1941, after the massacre and murder: the intestines and other internal organs of the Jewish dead were scattered next to their bodies scattered in the streets, and some of the dead and naked bodies of the Jewish women had wooden pegs stuck in the hidden organs.
With Medalina, Photo: Izzy Tenenbom
The abuse of the bodies of the dead was carried out not only by Romanian soldiers, but also by civilians from nearby villages who came to Merkulesti to loot the homes of the murdered or those who were about to be murdered. Can a human heart believe that this is indeed what it was?
A Moldovan lady I meet later volunteers to show me my mother's testimony, as documented in a memoir that my mother never showed me: "In the town there were lying in various places behind the houses and in the field the severed organs of the local Jews, and floating skulls were also visible across the (river) of the riot."
Short description, long sights.
Stealing on this city
If I want to cross into Moldova I will not be able to do so in my rental car, so I return the car and board a train. The ride takes about five hours and costs $6, at the end of which I get off in Chisinau, the capital of Moldova. This is Chisinau, if you ask, known to the Chosen People since the "Kishinev pogroms" took place there.
Almost every person I meet in Chisinau, a city with many of its stunningly beautiful buildings, speaks Russian. There are those for whom Russian is their only language, and there are those who mix Russian and Romanian. This is the place to hear how great and mighty Vladimir Putin is, although half the people here, from what I have been told, actually hate him. Part of the Moldovan people is poor and rebellious, as far as I can see, and some of them travel on the roads in the most expensive vehicles in the world. How do these two parts get along? I have no idea.
What do Jews look like? I ask. They don't know that either. Could it be that I, the one who sat down next to them without asking permission, was Jewish? "You don't look Jewish." What do I look like? Who am I? "German". Nazi? "Yes"
There are also those here who speak Hebrew. Really. Not much, but there is. I meet one of them, a man more or less 70 years old, who was formerly a senior officer in the IDF, according to what he tells me. He is deeply in love with Moldovan, who he says is 50 years old. He's crazy about "the girl," as he calls her. He even bought an apartment in Chisinau, so he could be as close as possible to a girl. Can I see a picture of her? I ask him.
He shows me some pictures of her, from all sorts of angles. In the pictures she looks well over 50, but what difference does it make? For him, she's at least 20 years younger than him, and he's really good with her. After he takes a shower, he tells me, she wipes him off. "Who would spoil me like that in Israel? There's not even one Israeli woman who would do that!"
The apartment in Chisinau, he tells me, will belong to the wipe after his 120. But she, for her part, is not the most satisfied with the business. She, if I understand correctly, wants the apartment now. And she wants money, too. A few? A lot. When? Now. If not, she will leave him. And for several days, maybe even longer, she has refused to meet him. He doesn't know what to do. "I have money, a lot of money, and I have apartments and plots here and there, but I have an illness. I can't spend money. Can't! I will walk 7km in the heat and not buy myself a single Coke. I can't. Something is banging in my head."
This senior officer has a car, but he prefers to get around by public transport. A bus "costs a penny and a half", which is really good. On the one hand, he tells me, the girl might agree to meet him in the village where she lives. "I can't do without her." I hope there's a bus in a penny and a half that goes to the village of the Mengevet, and that maybe she'll have a Coke for him too.
Yes, that's how life is, and I keep walking around city streets.
Only my uncle Amsalem is missing here
A Romanian-Moldovan television company, stealing to its ear that your faithful slave is moving through the homeland, volunteers itself to drive me from Kishinev to Merkulesti.
Will I say no? Of course not.
And when the next morning comes, a television company car picks me up from my hotel, populated mostly by European men dressed and tailored from every knee and built of their houses from the fancy fertilizations of pleasure, and with the help of the Master of the World watching from high we move along the roads of Moldova.
A house that belonged to Jews, photo: Izzy Tenenbom
The driver plays Romanian music, without words, while a chorus of novels sings "La La La" and "Te Ta Ta" in the background, melodies that are very similar to those I heard in the Vizhnitz Hasidic movement about a year ago. I feel, if I may share, as if I am in the van of the Vizhnitz Rebbe, who travels to visit the graves of the righteous in the Holy Land. All we're missing here is a group of dancing Hasidim, and of course the songs.
Oh, who will give me Gefilte Fish right now, or Jerusalem kugel, or Yapchik!
Suddenly, lo and behold, the music changes, and the Egyptian Omar Diab, one of my favorite singers, sings to him in Aslan Arabic. How did this Egyptian get here? I have no idea. No matter what, I feel more and more in the Holy Land. All I'm missing now, really, is my uncle Amsalem, the minister of regional cooperation, who will cooperate and drum for me to the sound of Arab love music, and peace be upon Israel.
לפתע, איני יודע למה, לפני שאני נפרד ממנה, דמעות מתחילות לזלוג מעיניה. היא בוכה. היא מצטערת מאוד על כל מה שקרה, היא אומרת לי. זה היה אסור לקרות. זה נורא, זה איום
אמסלם, לצערי הרב, לא מגיע. פה כולם אשכנזים, ועמר משתתק אף הוא. ואז, מעשה שטן, שיר חדש מתנגן לו, הנשמע כאילו הוא מושר על ידי קבוצת שיכורים קוזאקים. מי הם? איזו שפה זו?
רוסית.
השלום לך, ולדימיר.
משיר לשיר ומהון להון, אנחנו מגיעים למרקולשט. מהו הפירוש של המילה מרקולשט? "תפוחים", אומרת מדלינה, כתבת הטלוויזיה. "אתה יכול לקרוא לי מדיסון", היא אומרת, "אם קשה לך לבטא 'מדלינה"'.
מולדובני שכמותי, עם שם כמו טוביה, יודע בחסדי שמיים לבטא מדלינה.
מדלינה, שם ממש יפה לעניות דעתי, לא יודעת בדיוק למה התפוחים צצו דווקא פה.
יון, שהוא גם איכר וגם ראש העיר של מרקולשט, גבר נחמד שמדלינה מכירה לי, אומר שמרקולשט ותפוחים בכלל לא קשורים זה לזה. המילה מרקולשט, הוא אומר, משמעה "העיר של מרקו".
הוא קורא למרקולשט עיר, לא עיירה.
שיהיה.
הדמעות של לידיה
רחוב ראשי יש במרקולשט, ובו אני הולך לאיטי לאחר שאנחנו יורדים מהרכב המנגן. אני מנסה לדמיין את אמי, סבי, סבתי, דודיי ודודותיי ושאר בני משפחתי שגמרו את חייהם בנהר או מאחורי ביתם מתהלכים ברחוב זה ממש. חלק מהבתים פה לא השתנו - הם אותם הבתים שבהם גרו יהודי מרקולשט בעודם בחיים.
והנה גברת לידיה, הגרה בבית שפעם גרו בו יהודים. איך אני יודע שפעם גרו בו יהודים? ובכן, לפי מה שנאמר לי, בבתי היהודים לא היה גן יפה בכניסה והיו להם חלונות שפונים לרחוב. ככה. אל תשאלו יותר מדי שאלות.
וזה בדיוק איך שהבית של לידיה נראה.
לידיה, אישה נאה באה בשנים, היא פרופסור. מה זה בדיוק "פרופסור" במרקולשט? אין לי מושג. יכול להיות שבצעירותה היא היתה מורה בגן או מדענית אטום באוניברסיטה. יהיה אשר יהיה, היא עכשיו פה לידי, יוצאת לה מביתה היהודי ובוהה באורח השמן.
אנחנו משוחחים.
בתחילת שיחתנו היא אומרת לי שהיא לא יודעת כלום על מה שקרה אי־פעם לפני שנים, ושמעולם לא שמעה דבר. האם נכון הדבר שפעם גרו פה יהודים? והאם היא יודעת למה הם עזבו ולאן הם הלכו? לא. מאיפה שהיא תדע?
חלק מהבתים פה לא השתנו, הם אותם הבתים שבהם גרו יהודי מרקולשט. איך אני יודע? ובכן, לפי מה שנאמר לי, בבתי היהודים לא היה גן יפה והיו להם חלונות שפונים לרחוב. ככה. אל תשאלו יותר מדי
אך לפתע, איני יודע למה, לפני שאני נפרד ממנה, דמעות מתחילות לזלוג מעיניה. היא בוכה. היא מצטערת מאוד על כל מה שקרה, היא אומרת לי. אסור היה שזה יקרה. זה נורא, זה איום.
מה קרה? את זה היא לא אומרת.
היא יודעת הכל, כפי שמסגירות עיניה הבוכות, הרבה יותר ממה שאני אדע אי־פעם בימי חיי, אבל פיה משתתק.
אני ממשיך ללכת עם מדלינה ועם יון.
אם היהודים היו נשארים פה, אומר ראש העיר, מרקולשט היתה היום לוס אנג'לס.
כן, כמובן. יהודים, הלא ידוע הדבר לכל תינוק של בית רבן, יודעים לעשות כסף, הרבה כסף, ולבנות גורדי שחקים.
במרקולשט, כמה עצוב, אין אפילו גורד שחקים אחד לרפואה. רק בתים עם חלונות, ללא גינות.
פעם, בפינת רחוב צדדי שלידו אני צועד ברגע זה ממש, היה בית כנסת, אומרים לי. עכשיו אין כלום, רק עשבים שוטים ועצים. הלך הבית כנסת, הלך ולעולם לא ישוב.
אני ממשיך ללכת.
אני פוגש אישה נחמדה הגרה בבית עתיק יומין, והיא מזמינה אותי לביתה. הבית חשוך, כי חבל לבזבז כסף על חשמל, והיא מציגה אותי לחברתה, אישה עם מטפחת על ראשה, משל היתה חרדית כשרה למהדרין ממאה שערים. היא נולדה ב־1935, היא מספרת לי, והיא זוכרת. מה היא זוכרת?
המשפחה שלה גרה עם משפחה יהודית לפני המלחמה, ואז היהודים הלכו.
בבית הזה, איפה שהיא גרה כיום, גם בו גרו פעם יהודים, היא אומרת לי. מי הם היו? לאן הם הלכו?
זה היא לא יודעת. אולי עמר דיאב יודע, לא היא.
After the war, the mayor who listens to our conversation tells me, Gypsies came and took the homes of the Jews. And a few years later the gypsies were gone. Where did they go? He's not sure. Then others came - Romanians, Russians and Ukrainians, and settled here. That's how they came and sat down. What happened to the Jews? The Germans murdered them, he tells me. Only the Germans, not the Romanians? Only the Germans, on the orders of the then Romanian governor, General Ion Antonescu. I heard, I tell him, that it was the Romanians who murdered the Jews. Isn't that true?
Inside a house that belonged to Jews, photo: Izzy Tenenbom
Oh, yes, indeed. The Romanians also murdered the Jews, he changes his mind at lightning speed. But it wasn't just the Romanians who murdered Jews, he adds, the Poles did the same. Isn't it?
Well, so be it.
The most Jewish place in town
I want to see the river, if it exists, where my family drowned. The mayor immediately agreed to show it to me, and within minutes we arrived. Next to the river, which is currently quite dry, wasteland. Here, Yoon points to the green wilderness by the river, there were Jewish homes, but over the years they were destroyed. That's how life is. A generation is coming and a generation is coming, and the earth is forever standing.
We go to the Jewish cemetery, a place that the locals guard and cultivate, according to what they tell me. But as in many other cases, hearing is not the same as seeing.
The Jewish cemetery is almost completely deserted and destroyed, and there are many thorns in it. Some of the tombstones, as well as the graves, are shattered. The place looked like it had gone through a war of its own, in which the dead shot each other and their graves shattered each other. Dead Jews, it seems, are capable of anything
The cemetery, the only place still Jewish in Marcoleşti, is a sad and abandoned place, desolate and almost completely destroyed, but with many thorns. Some of the tombstones, as well as the graves, are shattered. This cemetery looked like it had gone through a war of its own, in which the dead at one point shot each other and their graves shattered each other. Dead Jews, it seems, are capable of anything.
The sight before my eyes reminds me, for some reason, of Ezekiel's vision of dry bones.
And I, who am not a prophet and never will be, leave the cemetery.
In those days, a local woman tells me, Merkulesti was a Jewish town that was also founded by Jews, with 3,000 Jews living there. How many residents live in Marcoleşti now? About 2,000, and not a single Jew.
Two young girls, aged 12 and 14, sit on a bench not far from the cemetery and talk about Da and Ha. I sit down next to them.
They live here, they tell me.
Yes, they heard that Jews used to live here, but they don't know more than that. What do Jews look like? They don't know that either. Could it be that I, the one who sat down next to them without asking permission, was Jewish? No, they tell me, "You don't look Jewish." What do I look like? Who am I? "German". Nazi? "Yes."
What shall I say and what shall I speak?
This Merkulesti, I say to Madeleine, where we now set foot, was in the not-so-distant past a huge slaughterhouse, a large butcher shop, where countless Jews fell. Can you imagine that? Madeleine-Madison doesn't know how to react, and all that comes out of her mouth is a short, very short sentence: "This day is very important to me." She stares at me, the Jew whose family was part of her people, and doesn't know what to say.
And before the sun sets and another day passes, we make our way back to Chisinau.
Contact instructions
Chisinau, unlike in Marcoleşti, has Jewish houses of worship, a local journalist tells me. Would I like, he asks, to take me to a Jewish house of worship on Friday night?
My pleasure.
He shows up with his car and takes me to a synagogue. What synagogue did he find for me? Chabad, why not?
I haven't been here in my life, but Chabad is Chabad, and everywhere they look more or less the same, like all the McDonald's in the world that are similar to each other, and I feel like I was here just yesterday.
The cemetery in Marcoleşti, photo: Izzy Tenenbom
But here, I am slowly discovering, this Chabad House is a little different. In Chisinau, far from Israel and America, these Chabadniks are a little more open. Yes. Here is a young, innocent and pure Chabadnik, and she opens her heart. "The Rebbe is not dead, God forbid to say that. It is alive and well. In Brooklyn. I talk to him every day at least once. I don't move without consulting the Rebbe first. If Chabadnik tells you that he doesn't believe the Rebbe is alive, it's because he doesn't want you to ridicule him. All Chabadniks believe that the Rebbe is alive. Of course he's alive! You can try for yourself. Write quitel and put in the epistles. It's amazing! You'll see it with your own eyes!"
Have you seen the Rebbe with your own eyes lately?
"It's not yet, I haven't won. Only those who are virtuous see Him really, the truly righteous ones. But talk to him anyone can. It's a reality."
How do you talk to the Rebbe?
"It's really simple. All you need is a pen and paper, and of course one of the Rebbe's 'holy letters' books, which are found in every Chabad house in the world."
On the table next to me, I see a Shabbat leaflet with instructions for an intimate conversation with the Rebbe, who I foolishly thought had passed away some 30 years ago. He's not, of course not. The Rebbe is not dead, he will not die; He will live forever, even if the whole world dies.
Here are the instructions:
"First wash your hands. The request for the blessing is written on a blank page, in the letter that opens with the appeal "In honor of the Rebbe Shlita (may he live through the good days, Amen) King Moshiach." Of course, we note the full name and the mother's name, and also add a good decision to make as a "blessing tool" - a decision that will continue the blessing. After giving a few coins in the cash register or reciting a chapter of Psalms, the letter is randomly inserted into one of the volumes of the Holy Epistles, declaring 'Long live our Lord Moreno and our Rabbi, King Messiah forever and ever,' and read the answer that has been opened."
Is. Want to know who to marry, or whether to get divorced? It doesn't get any easier. Want to know whether to have surgery or not? Bingo. Any questions will be answered, immediately. Believe it or not, you can do without Google and without an iPhone.
A small piece of paper is smarter than everyone else. You also don't need a doctor, lawyer or matchmaker. All in epistles.
In the holy crowd around me are two Israelis and a small group of Moldovans and Moldovans, almost all of them adults. They speak Russian and know how to say "Shabbat Shalom" in Hebrew.
Is.
Is this what Moldovan Jewry would look like today had it not become a slaughterhouse?
Don't answer.
But happy ending all good. The "girl," the senior officer tells me, invited him to stay in her village on Sunday. And when I leave Moldova I don't think about the river - I think about the towel. Happy holiday!
Tuvia Tenenbom is a journalist, playwright and writer.
His book "Haredi and Good for Him" was published this year by Sela Meir
Wrong? We'll fix it! If you find a mistake in the article, please share with us