Aleph

I was born in eastern Europe in the late seventies. Communism ruled the land and I was blissfully ignorant of all its history.

The ruins of the war have been mostly covered and in its place grew blocks of flats and brutalist concrete buildings. We played in the leftover husks of burned out factories not really caring why they were still next to our apartments.

When they started to dig a trench behind our building for new steam pipes, we were drawn to the heavy machinery like moths to a flame. As soon as the workday was over we climbed all over the machines and in the trenches that were left uncovered.

As a 10 year old this trench was our Dunkirk. Sticks were bayonets, stones were grenades and just about anything could become a gun if you used the right sound effects.

In the quiet times on the front we dug around and noticed layers under the dirt. Rocks, bricks, clay, unrecognizable detritus and a distinct black line on top of it. The black layer sometimes became thicker and the middle of the line was brown. Almost like a black snake swallowed some burned phylo dough.

Using my bayonet I started digging. At first it crumbled and turned into dust, but slowly bigger chunks fell on the sticky clay. They were caked together pages. I couldn't read them. There were symbols I didn't recognize, they looked ancient. I got very excited - an archeological discovery! Hieroglyphs here in eastern Europe? What a miracle.

I showed parts of my find to my mother. "Zsidó" - she said as she went about her business in the kitchen. It was Hebrew. I was beyond myself, surely the town and state or a museum will have to come out and investigate. I was ready for excavations and interviews from the press regarding my priceless find.

As I kept showing off my treasure to anyone who would look, I was met with silence and indifference. I didn't understand why they were not excited to see something so precious. I didn't know why, maybe even they didn't. All covered up and buried deep in their collective memory.

Back in my bedroom I would use an old magnifying glass to scan the fragments. I copied the characters, made notes. The bag I kept them in smelled smoky and a bit like an old library.

No one wanted to educate me. No one wanted to talk about it. How did these fascinating pages end up behind a 5 story apartment block in eastern Europe? Why were they buried so deep?

Slowly, year by year I learned the history of my town - It had one of the bigger synagogues in eastern Europe.

I grew up as a weed without parental guidance with the exception of corporal punishment to stay in line and earn good grades. Our history classes glossed over atrocities and praised the victorious Soviet army. I had to find out what happened, to try to make sense of the reluctance of my own family to talk about it. I can only guess what their reasoning or motivation was.

Eventually the steam pipes were laid and the trench was covered, and the only thing I had left were questions, a brittle collection of burned pages, and a human tooth.