Within the Pages

Jerusalem, Israel

Four American kids scurried across the wet stones of the Jerusalem streets as the November rains began to fall in earnest. That bookstore on the left looked to be our best bet for shelter so we hustled ourselves through the door to escape the pouring rain.

The modest little shop was overflowing with books of every kind covering every subject imaginable; many shelves were double and triple stacked with titles in both Hebrew and English. Piles of books standing waist-height and higher lay on the floor and in the aisles, making navigation between the bookcases a task and an adventure in itself. Aside from the shopkeeper, an old man hidden behind a sagging desk piled high with more books, we were alone in the shop.

As the storm continued, the four of us each settled into his own spot somewhere within the intimate confines of the shop and began to explore the magical realm of words on pages as we waited for the rain to pass. For the next hour or so, the sleepy bookstore fell into silence once again, except for the soft swooshing of pages being turned and the occasional gentle thud of a book being re-shelved. Outside, the streets continued to flow with water as we swirled around in the pages of forgotten books.

The downpour began to let up and we were eager to return to what further adventures awaited us in the City, but some of us had found books that we just couldn't put back on the shelf.

"Do you give student discounts?" I had to peer over the stacks of books on the desk to find the old man behind it.

"Everybody is student these days," he muttered. We laughed.

"I sell for almost the same price I buy so no discount," he said, "but it is good price." Fair enough.

Jared got a Hebrew bible and Jenny bought a siddur, a Jewish prayer book, all purchased with New Israeli Shekels.

"Jewish humor, eh?" the old man peered over his glasses at Luke's book of choice. "I thought you were student."

"Yeah," Luke said. "It's for my dad."

"My father had bookcases full of Jewish humor books. He loved Jewish humor."

We smiled and chuckled politely.

"Humor," he went on, almost to himself. "That is how my father survived the Holocaust. The guards wanted to kill him but he always told them jokes so they let him live."

He slid the humor book back across the desk to Luke. The store was quiet again except for the inaudible swooshing of black and white photos racing through my mind.

We thanked the man and quietly filed back into the unprotected street. The downpour had given way to a light drizzle but there was something else in the air as we continued down the soggy streets of Jerusalem, clutching newfound treasures both in hand and heart.

Number the Stars

My eyes flew open, and to my disappointment I found myself in an awkward and rather painful position in my seat. Only a few of the overheads were still on, splashing soft light into various corners of the cabin. The rest of the cabin was dark and quiet, and I was aware of the low rumble of the engines again. The guy seated next to me had fallen asleep in the middle of his movie and the images continued to flash silently in front of him.

I pulled out my Ipod to check the time but I caught myself. We were currently time traveling east to west at roughly 500 miles per hour over the Atlantic Ocean--there was no real time, no concrete point of reference to pinpoint exactly what time it really was. All I know was that we still had hours to go before the sun would roll over the horizon at our backs to overtake the speeding aircraft, and a few hours after that I'd finally trade this glorified can of sardines for another one bound for Los Angeles.

I was lucky enough to get a window seat for this flight home (because it's not everyday I get to see the world from 40,000 feet) and only hours before I'd watched the lights of Tel Aviv recede into darkness as the plane ascended into the night sky. I was a bit bummed that I wasn't able to get a seat with any of my friends but I had the sights of the window to keep me company.

I wonder what's outside now? I've never seen the sky at night--from for the sky. I quickly rebuked myself--it's dark outside; there's nothing out there to see. But now my late-night curiosity needed to be fed its midnight snack so I lifted the shutter a few inches and peeked outside.

I was right; it was dark. I could see the right wing jutting out into the darkness; the lights on the wingtip flashing steadily. Somewhere in the void I could just barely make out a dark line separating sky from sea, darkness above from darkness below. The faceless ocean below me was rather terrifying to look at, and even scarier to think about the absurd amount of water I was suspended above right now. I leaned further into the window to look upwards instead.

I let out a small gasp, my eyes widening to drink in the sight. The sky was smothered in stars. All I could see for as far as I could see was nothing but stars; bright, burning, frozen in the sky. I pressed my face further into the glass. The darkness above was teeming with countless little lights clustered in the overpopulated sky like beach-goers on a crowded beach. I tried to pick out the few constellations I knew but it was impossible to tell them apart, all lumped together like barnacles on a rock. It seemed like half the universe had stopped by my window just to say hello. It's no wonder the sailors of old could navigate by celestial lights. Twinkle twinkle everybody.

Suddenly I was thankful for my privileged position. I wasn't chained to the ground by gravity or confined to a bright, luminescent city full of artificial lights blocking out the beauty above; I was suspended between heaven and earth, between space and sky. Ocean and aircraft faded into the foreground as stars hung in nothingness, watching over me with bright and eager eyes as if they'd been there all along. Nobody moved--neither distant lights hanging in empty space nor speeding observer hovering above the small spinning rock hurtling through empty space. Instead we gazed and stared--I at them and them at me, through millions and billions of light years and galaxies and space dust and God knows what else.

At any moment, I half expected the burning spheres in the sky to stretch and elongate before my eyes and we would go hurtling through space at the speed of light just like in the movies. We would be home in an instant.

It all lasted but a few moments--one small soul on an airplane peering into deep space. I closed my mouth for the first time and whirled around in my seat but the guy next to me was dead asleep. He probably wouldn't have cared anyway. The entire cabin was asleep.

I sat there in the dark, my eyes full of light as I tried to harness the energy of the cosmos in that little chair by myself. Everyone around me was away in their own worlds and dreams, ignorant of the galaxies that lurked just outside of the window. I peeked under the shutter one more time to preserve the image in my mind for safekeeping. When I looked again the stars were still there, silent and watching, just like me.

I reluctantly bade my little slice of the universe goodbye. I slid the shutter closed, curled up in my seat as best I could, and slowly retreated back to the familiar world beneath my eyelids.

First Light

Mahktesh Ramon, Negev, Israel

My alarm goes off. Why am I awake right now? The sun's not even up.

Oh, that's right. The sun's not up.

Fun fact: the sun has risen 7,665 times (plus a few) in my twenty one years of life (yes I googled it)--yet I've never physically seen the sun rise with my own eyes.

I've seen my share of sunsets though. The big ball of orange quietly dips beneath the distant rise of the mountains or the sparkling expanse of the ocean or the steel towers of the city, falling so slowly you can sometimes see the dark line of earth consume the light little by little. Even in death, the sun paints the sky with a beautiful farewell to its patron Earth, a goodbye we might take more seriously if we weren't aware of the return that inevitably takes place a little less than twelve hours later.

I've seen the sun die many times, laid to rest with a beautiful eulogy stained in the sky above. But I've never seen its birth. Sunset isn't the same as sunrise. There's no commitment in a sunset.

It's five-something AM Israeli time. I should've worn actual pants--it's gotta be 40 degrees in this desert right now. But, tired and cold, I will myself to stay, weary eyes expectantly fixed on the horizon as I shiver with the few brave souls who have made this commitment with me.

A few minutes later, there it is--the first speckle of light climbing over the dirty mountains in the distance, like the first cry of life from the womb. Cameras and Iphones appear out of thin air to capture the moment, beeping and chirping as little machines try to do justice to an already perfect picture. After a couple attempts, I put my camera away.

And just like that, it's done. The Lion King-looking ball of light has freed itself from it's mother horizon and begins the day-trip across the sky that it has completed every single day since the beginning. I sacrificed three hours of sleep to witness five minutes of sun that I'd never seen before--five minutes of sun that happens every single day. 

I've been to a couple funerals; I've known people who have died. I think we all have--and if we haven't, we will. But I have never cried the way I cried when I laid eyes on my little sister for the first time. There's something about the way a bud opens into a flower, the way the soft shell of a robin's egg is slowly cracked and broken by the little bird inside, the way the sun appears over the earth for the first time that day. Out of darkness, light; out of nothing, something.

I didn't shed any tears while watching the sun ascend over the desert horizon that morning--and I've only seen one other sunrise since (it was also in Israel... because morning commitments are tough). But, as cliche as it sounds, I will never forget the first time I saw the birth of a day.

As I walked back to the hostel with the newborn sun warming my back, someone pulled up their Instagram. At the top of the feed were sunset pictures of the same sun from friends back home--from the other side of the world.

Sunrise, sunset.

History of a Hat

“That’s a fantastic hat you’ve got there!”

I was surprised he noticed it.

“Thanks!” I said.

“You’re probably too young to remember the cartoon,” he added. “It’s a bit before your time.”

I was walking out of a backstreet coffeehouse in Jerusalem when a random guy noticed my red and blue cap. We talked for several minutes about the cartoon and about his move from the States to Israel before we parted ways. During my three months in Israel, he was the only Israeli who commented on my hat. But that’s okay; I was wearing it for a more significant reason than style.

I was furiously packing my things the day before I flew to Israel when my dad came into my room.

“You still need a hat for Israel, right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. I was advised to bring an old hat to keep the Israeli sun off my head.

“You can wear this.” He handed me a faded red and blue Underdog cap, the one I’d seen him wear since I was small, almost as far back as I could remember. The hat could be as old as me, but cartoon was from the 1960s and 70s; he had watched the cartoon as a kid. I was in a bit of shock for several seconds. That was his hat. And he was letting me wear it.

I wore his hat every day I was in Israel, never going outdoors without it. I tried to be gentle with it but the tears in the fabric grew a little bigger every day and the plastic binding in the back was beginning to break; soon I had to hold it together with tape. When I would wear it, I always told my companions that it was my dad’s hat; it was like I was carrying my dad and my family with me wherever I went. There were several times I thought I lost the hat and my heart leapt into my throat each time until I found it again. I can’t lose my dad’s hat.

As I sat on the plane on the return flight home, I still had the hat. It was dirty, dusty, sweaty, and discolored from our travels—but Underdog had dust from ancient civilizations clinging to its threads. I begin to recall all the places Underdog had travelled with me: Hezekiah’s Tunnel, the Bar Kokhva caves, Jericho, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Megiddo, the Jordan River, the Sea of Galilee—all of these places still lingered somewhere on this hat, mixed in with my sweat. The dirt and grime were physical stamps on my invisible passport; badges on Underdog’s cape. I was never going to wash this hat again.

When I got home, my dad let me keep his hat. Underdog now resides in my room on a peg where I can see it every day and every time I see it, it reminds of me of all my adventures in Israel. I still wear it from time to time; and if I ever get the chance to travel again, he’ll be right back on top of my head where he belongs. I plan to pass that hat on to my children and tell them all the stories of each stain on the brim. I don’t exactly know where the hat came from (I still need to ask my dad when and where he got it), but I do know where it has been—to Israel and back. Just like me.

L'shana Habaah

Old City Jerusalem, Israel

How does one say goodbye to a place as special as Jerusalem? My four friends and I stood just inside Jaffa Gate scratching our heads, wondering what to do. We had four more hours of in the city remaining before we boarded a plane for the States, and we needed an appropriate way to say goodbye to Israel.

During our ninety days in the country, we spent more time in Jerusalem than anywhere else. In the first three weeks of study we went on three all-day field trips to the Old City to get acquainted with its history, geography and culture. We experienced iconic and historic places like the Temple Mount, the Western Wall, tunnels under the Western Wall, Hezekiah’s Tunnel, Zedekiah’s Cave, and many churches and other sites. In addition to all this, every Saturday morning we would go to Shabbat service at a congregation that was composed of believers of all nations, speaking twenty different languages in the same service. After service we would spend the rest of the afternoon shopping, eating, and exploring the Old City. By the time day 90 rolled around we could navigate the narrow, winding streets of the four quarters of the city without the need of a map.

How do you say goodbye to a city so rich in history, so full of character and life, and so full of culture? How do you say goodbye to a city that funnels millions of travelers and pilgrims through its gates every year? How do I say goodbye to the most educational and adventurous ninety days of my life?

There was one more activity in the Old City that I hadn’t done yet. We paid fifteen shekels to pass through a gate and climb a couple flights of stairs to emerge on top of the Old City walls that we had walked past so many times. These old walls held their own sense of character at this point in our relationship, but walking the perimeter of the city on the walls themselves was an uncharted level in my friendship with ancient stones.

We walked on walls that were 500 years old, built in the mid 1500s by the Muslims. Surprisingly, looking down into the Old City was far more interesting than the view outside of the walls. Looking down, we could see in the backyards of churches and monasteries, young Arab kids playing soccer after school, women hanging up laundry from lines on rooftops. We could see the golden top of the Dome of the Rock glistening in the evening sunlight; and church steeples were abundant against the evening sky.

But as we walked atop stone walls that we had walked around for the past three months, I realized how much my perspective had changed since the first time I laid eyes on these stones.

Coming to Israel and leaving Southern California for the first time in my life, I was the outsider looking in; I was outside the walls—especially as an American who has never been overseas.

 I’ve seen Jerusalem in the news, read about it in my Bible, knew a lot about biblical events that took place there; but there is nothing like being there and experiencing it for myself over and over like I had for the past three months. On the ninetieth day, after all my new knowledge and experiences, I’d made it to the top of the wall—but not necessarily into the city; I am by no means more Jewish or more Christian just because of my travels. But I understand more and I can see more, just as my perch from the top of the wall gives me a better view of the city, both inside and outside of the walls.

In the last half hour before we left, I had one more stop to make. A friend led me through the back alleys of Jerusalem, climbing fences and jumping across rooftops until we came to a spot over looking the Western Wall.  Yes, it’s just a wall, just like all the other hundreds of stone walls I’d seen in Israel; but for all the millions of people who travel from around the world to stuff their prayers into the cracks of the historic site, it’s not just a wall.

I stood there drinking it all in for the last time. Odds are I’ll never be in the Middle East again. It was like leaving a good friend that I’ve started to get to know really well. I’m going to miss walking past one of the holiest sites in the world.

I kissed the stones on Jaffa Gate as we walked beneath the old stones for the last time and turned our backs on the city. Who knows when I’ll be back—if ever? But now my prayer echoes those of Jewish people around the world who pray for their return to the Holy Land:

“L'shana habaah b'yerushalayim.”

Next year in Jerusalem.

Mountain Fortress

Masada, Israel

My eyes flew open as my alarm startled me awake. I didn’t have to squint at the bright red numbers on the clock to know that it was far too early to be awake. But I threw on my clothes, strapped on my knee brace and headed out anyway. The moon still shone brightly over the mountain fortress as our group assembled into smaller groups to head up the mountain.

I had heard about this Masada hike long before I ever set foot in Israel. It’s one of Israel’s most popular tourist attractions because of the arduous trek to reach the top, the large ruins at that sit atop the fortress, and the account of its fall to the Romans. It’s also sort of a rite of passage for our class and our semester; coming nearing the end our time in Israel, it’s the last hike of the last field trip of the year. If you don’t climb Masada, I’m not sure if you actually went to Israel or not.

Atop the plateau is the goal: an ancient fortification overlooking the Dead Sea to the east. The fortress was built by Herod the Great but its most notable occupants were the rebels that fell to the Romans in dramatic fashion. Nearly all of the historical information about the story of Masada comes from the Roman Jewish historian Josephus

Atop the plateau is an ancient fortification overlooking the Dead Sea to the east. It was built by Herod the Great in 31 BC but the fort is most famous for its fall to the Romans in the First Jewish Revolt. Josephus the Historian is responsible for penning the fall of Masada and keeping the fortress in the history books. In 73 AD, the First Jewish Revolt was nearly at its end—the Temple had been destroyed and Rome was mopping up the rest of the resistance. However there was a sect of Zealots that fled Jerusalem and took residence in this fortress after defeating the Roman garrison that was stationed there.

The path up the face of the plateau was winding and steep; for this reason it is known as the “Snake”. We climbed the Snake by the light of the moon as the stars twinkled in the sky. It was fairly cold but the physical strain of walking the arduous path kept me warm. My knee injury began to burn under the knee brace and I gritted my teeth to keep going. I tried to keep the history of this place in mind as I continued to struggle up the face of the plateau.

In 73 AD, the Romans sent 15,000 men to take Masada and put down the Jewish revolt for good. Because of the fortress’s position on top of the plateau, it is extremely difficult to approach, as I was learning firsthand. I couldn’t imagine trying to carry 80 lbs. of gear up the face of this mountain. Neither could the Romans. They built a massive siege ramp of earth on the backside of the plateau as they camped at the base. The remains of the Roman camps can still be seen at ground level surrounding Masada.

I had to stop and rest for a few minutes; my muscles were aching and my knee was in real pain. The dark sky was showing hints of pink daylight at the horizon. With the dark fortress looming in front of us, and dawn approaching behind us, we continued on. We were nearly at the top.

The Roman siege lasted a couple months. As the siege ramp steadily grew taller and the Romans neared the top of the plateau, the rebels knew the end was near; they had nowhere to run. Outnumbered 15 to 1, Josephus writes that the leader of the rebels named Elazer ben Yair made a famous speech atop the plateau in which he spoke of their resolve to fight for freedom. As the Romans approached, he urged the rebels to do what needed to be done.

When we climbed the final staircase into the fortress, we were greeted by other brave souls from the group who had run the Snake to get to the top. One by one, the rest of our group ascended the mountain and we sat to await the sunrise. About twenty minutes later, the sun crept over the Jordanian mountains and glistened off the Dead Sea below in beautiful hues of orange and pink. I was glad I’d made it; the pain was worth the view.

The ruins of the fortress were enormous. There were two palaces, a massive bathhouse, a synagogue, and one of the largest ancient cisterns ever found. We spent another hour exploring the fortress before descending back to the bottom.

When the Romans reached the top however, the fortress was as lifeless is it as today. The Romans entered the fortress to find a “citadel of death”. The rebels has set all the buildings on fire and committed mass suicide to keep from disgracing themselves and falling into Roman hands. Josephus writes that the rebels casted lots and killed each other and their families (because suicide is forbidden in Judaism) with the last man killing himself. Only a few women and children survived.

Masada now stands as a symbol of Jewish heroism to many people, although others would disagree. Masada was the most memorable hike for me because of hype surrounding it and the history that accompanies it. The beauty of the sunrise, the pain in the climb and company of my companions made the trek worth it. I climbed Masada to find it just as dead as the Romans, but I wasn’t here to conquer; I was here just to see.

I came, I saw, I climbed.

Masada.

Reverse Archaeology

Beit Guvrin, Israel

I stopped army-crawling for the first time in fifteen minutes and tried to catch my breath, nearly choking on rocks and dust. If I had been in this tunnel about 2,000 years ago, I would probably be very Jewish and I would probably be very afraid.

Jewish rebels dug out these underground tunnels and caves during the Third Jewish Revolt, also known as the Bar Kokhva Revolt in the early 130s AD, in which the Jewish people rose up against the Roman Empire for the third time in 70 years. These tunnels were used as supply caches and living quarters as the rebels successfully held off the Romans for four years from 132-136 AD. The entrances to these underground living quarters were purposely made to be small and tight fitting so that a Roman soldier in full armor and gear would be unable to fit in the tunnel. The rebels covered the entrances with brush and foliage; during raids or ambushs, the rebels would emerge from the ground and surprise-attack the Romans, and then disappear into these tunnels where the Romans couldn’t follow them. The Bar Kokhva rebels did this for several years before the Romans were able snuffs out the rebellion completely.

The tiny entrance of this cave featured a thirty-foot tunnel that revealed a large central cave that held entrances to other tunnels, which led to smaller spaces where two or three bodies could live and sleep. My merry band of rebels and I entered these caves and explored the adjoining tunnels for nearly an hour. Many of the tunnels were almost too small for even a small guy like me to get to my hands and knees so I dragged myself along on my stomach to squeeze through the rocky confines of these dark corridors.

After an hour of crawling around in the dark, my flashlight nearly dead, I ready to get out. I’m not claustrophobic but being thirty feet underground, closely surrounded by solid earth for a solid hour is a little disconcerting to say the least.

The exit tunnel was a little slit of space in the earthen floor that thoroughly tested one’s proficiency with the army crawl. One at a time we slithered through the opening to climb upwards towards the surface, squirming through narrow openings that I forced me twist and turn in all directions just to get my shoulders through. My arms ached from inching those first twenty feet but from what I was hearing from my comrades crawling ahead of me, I still had a long way to go.

My heart began to pound a bit harder, and it was already difficult to breathe in such tight spaces. Digging upwards, I began to crawl at the walls with renewed urgency. No Roman threat could heighten my desire to escape—not even Hamas could make me crawl faster through this tunnel than I was right now.

Soon I could see plant roots dangling from the rocks overhead, and the tunnel grew warm and steamy. I could see light ahead—real, natural light. One final push, one last tight opening to wriggle through. Covered in the same dust and dirt of the rebels who carved the caves, I pulled myself out of a hole in the ground into blinding light.

The relief and celebration that ensued was as if we’d found buried treasure. In a sense, we had. Sunlight. 

A Place and a Name

Mount of Remembrance, Jerusalem, Israel

We all knew we were going to go at some point; not because it was clearly marked on the schedule, but because this is one of the things you do when you go to Israel.

Yad VaShem is Israel’s official memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, built in 1953 by Israel’s parliament. The name Yad VaShem is taken from a phrase in Isaiah 56:5 meaning "a place and a name". The memorial Yad VaShem revolves around the idea of providing a place to carrying on the names of those who were killed. After the Western Wall, it is the second most-visited tourist site in Israel, with over a million visitors a year. After seeing the Western Wall many times during our three-month stay in Israel, it was time to experience Yad VaShem. Today, it was our turn.

I didn’t know what to expect. I had seen pictures, read stories, seen movies—but I didn’t know. This was no longer a story in a book or a portrayal on a screen; it was about to become a reality to me, and I was not ready. None of us were.

Endless books and media has been written and created about this event, but it will never be enough to do it justice. Reading my inadequate attempt to show you what I saw is not enough. Nothing will be enough until you see for yourself this glimpse of the shadow of the darkness that nearly extinguished an entire race of people; a darkness that has overshadowed an entire culture, leaving an everlasting scar on the hearts and minds of the people to this day.

The first third of the museum concerned Nazi Germany’s rise to power and Hitler’s strategy to bring about his Final Solution. First, German Jews were publicly persecuted and humiliated as anti-Semitic policies were put in place. Jewish people were labeled and set apart from German communities, forced to wear the yellow stars and publicly display their nationality. Their citizenship and passports were revoked as they lost all civil and legal rights; government-approved progroms like Kristallnacht became commonplace as terrorism and violence against Jewish property became the norm. As the Second World War broke out in 1939, German Jews were forcibly removed from their homes and sent to labor camps and starved to death; their belongings either became property of Germany or were burned in massive bond fires.

At this point in the museum, displays ceased to be newsreels of Nazi soldiers parading through the streets and became cases of belongings that were left behind by the millions who were removed from their homes. Words on a screen became real items owned by real people.

There were piles of books in both German and Hebrew that were supposed to be burned in a case to my left; metal instruments and contraptions to measure facial features in a time when racial purity was law and the fate of far too many were decided by the width of the nose or the roundness of the head. There were piles and piles of old trinkets—watches, hair combs, earrings, small toys—all left behind, each one representing a life that was reduced to a statistic. There was a child’s doll that caught my eye. It was old and dusty, hollow and empty with no stuffing or filling left in its limbs; there were black holes where the eyes used to sit—empty and lifeless.

I’ve seen photographs of rooms filled to the ceiling with shoes of prisoners who entered the gates of concentration camps; many never made it out, and none got their shoes back. I saw a small sample of aged leather shoes, small in number compared to the photographs. But if every two shoes was one person… I stopped counting.

In one display there was a lock of braided hair, golden brown, ribbon still intact. Lily was twelve years old when the Nazis knocked down her door. She had never cut her hair before so her mother cut one of her braids and gave it to the neighbors for safekeeping. Lily’s hair was here, but Lily didn’t make it.

Sprinkled between the displays were video screens showing survivors telling their stories, recalling horrendous things they saw and experienced firsthand. The museum was silent except for these survivors telling their stories in Hebrew. I stared at the screen and tried to imagine things I couldn’t imagine; when the video finished and started its loop again, I walked away in silence. What else could I do?

There were canisters of pebbled gas, some unopened, that never got the chance to empty their deadly payload on multitudes of innocent human being huddled together in some concrete chamber in the backwoods of Poland. I was looking at canned death, and probably hundreds of lives that were spared because these cans were never used.

I walked through the Hall of Names, a large circular room with bookshelves that covered every inch of the walls from floor to ceiling. The shelves were full of books that were all titled with the Hebrew word yizchor: “remembrance.” Each book was full of names.

The Children’s Memorial sits in an underground tavern as a tribute to the one and a half million children murdered during the Holocaust. Inside the memorial is completely dark, except for memorial candles suspended in the air and multiplied by mirrors, giving the effect of countless stars burning in the night sky. These candles serve as a burning reminder of the lives that had been mercilessly snuffed out. In the background a voice reads the names, age, and birthplace of young ones whose memory still burns bright in my mind: “Isaac Olberstein, Poland. Five years old.”

Three hours later when I walked out of the museum, my throat was dry and my hands trembled. Visitors huddled around each other in the courtyard, hugging and comforting those who wept for the millions. The clouds mercifully covered the sun and biting breeze whipped through the courtyard, sending more shivers down my spine. No one spoke. It was too painful to speak. There are no words. There was nothing to say.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to shed tears for all the names I’d read and all the stories I heard; I wished I could’ve cried. I should have. But I didn’t.

It took our group three hours to walk through exhibits full of little pieces of hell, preserved and locked behind cases of thick glass for the world to see. What I saw and what I heard, I will never forget.