Poland 4, or Horseradish

Warning: Offensive Content. There are a number of Holocaust jokes in this entry that may be very difficult to take.

Pesach is fast approaching. I'm reminded of this for several reasons, but mostly, I know Pesach is coming because Poland is flooded with Israeli kids on their pre-Pesach spring break. Ever since Poland joined the European Union in 2004, the local governments and overseas Jewish foundations started pouring money into Holocaust memorials. Where once there were only a few plaques, there are now full-fledged memorials, museums, tributes and preserved sites. And the tourism is absolutely booming. Auschwitz is one of the biggest, if not the absolute biggest tourist site in Poland.

So, of course it would make sense for the Israelis to send their pre-army high school kids here for spring break heritage trips. Not only that, they are also sending American kids who are doing their year-after-high-school-in-Israel experiences to Poland. I hear more Hebrew in Poland than I do English. But what follows is some of my thoughts on Israeli kids at Auschwitz. It is really exhausting to write these entries, so forgive both the shortness and the incoherency.

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Auschwitz is flooded with Israeli kids. They travel in packs, herded along by chaperones trying to speak as quietly as possible while still being heard. Some of them wear matching sweatshirts - there's an entire group in white hoodies emblazoned with stars of david that look like they're made out of barbed wire. Some of the groups are full of kids who are clearly religious, girls in skirts over sweatpants (it's a cold day), boys in suit pants instead of jeans. But the one binding factor is the presence of flags.

Every single kid coming from Israel, whether American or Israeli, has a full-size Israeli flag prominently displayed somewhere. Some kids tie them around their necks like capes. Others wrap their backpacks in them, or wear them around their waists like sarongs. Still others have attached their flags to branches or sticks, and carry them in two hands like a color guard. Girls wrap their hair in them, groups carry them in groups like banners.

Israeli groups make Auschwitz I, the morning stop, a crowded place, but the effiencicy with which the guides conduct all the people is astounding. I walk in and out of exhibits, trying to sift through the voices to find the one of my guide, trying to filter out the bits of Hebrew I keep overhearing. I say slicha when I bump into an Israeli, excuse me when I step on the toes of an American, and prosim when the crowd jostles me into Polish tour guides. The Israeli kids want to know where I am from, and I don't want to talk to them.

What is your point? I want to ask. Do you intend to conquer Auschwitz in the name of the Holy Land?

Bitterness fills me like horseradish. It is a new feeling; I am used to the exhaustion, the heaviness, the desire to sleep and cry. My brain comes up with the darkest jokes, the most bitter statements, and I long to share them with someone.

Look at how efficient these Polish guides are. You'd think they were Germans.

This is such an excellent memorial. Lovely, really. I think I'll go beat up some puppies now, to cheer myself up.

The Israelis make this place so crowded, soon they'll have to start performing selections on the visitors.

I stay out of the hardest parts of the tour. I do not go into the torture chambers, the gas chambers, the isolation cells. These are all rooms without windows, and I feel myself beginning to suffocate before I reach the doorways. Instead, I wait outside, sitting in the grass, thankful that today, the grass is green. Life exists inside the barbed wire, and while I don't feel very alive, the wet grass under my backside is absolutely alive.

Marjorie comes stumbling out of Block 11, where the torture cells line the basement. She looks steady enough, but I ask her if she wants a hug anyway. She takes me up on my offer, and starts sobbing into my shoulder. Suddenly, the scene is familiar - someone is crying, and I am holding them, and I don't have to cry. Only the hordes of Israelis add alienation, friction.

Picture the most famous view of Birkenau: the imposing main gate, with the train tracks going through it. This is where we spend the afternoon, wandering around the barracks at Birkenau. We've beaten the Israelis here by about twenty minutes, and are morbidly savoring the emptiness. It's all I can do to keep walking, try to make my mind stop being so awfully bitter. It's as if every tear I should cry has turned into some wisecrack. I say Kaddish next to a small pool, beside a memorial stone inscribed in Yiddish. "Nazis dumped crematorium ashes in this pool," it reads. "The victims never recieved a proper burial. May their souls be at peace."

Time to go. I sling my burdens over my shoulder and start walking down the tracks towards the gate, slipping every so often on the railroad ties. Suddenly, I hear music. I look up, and see one of the most startling things I've ever pictured:

At least five hundred Israelis are marching down the tracks. From this distance, the appear to almost be walking in rank. The flags are whipping around in the heavy winds, but the marchers seem undisturbed. The source of the music is a boombox, carried on the shoulder of one of the leaders. I think it's playing Hatikvah. As we get closer, I realize that I need to step off the tracks and walk on the uneven gravel to make way for them...

Fascinating, thinks my unrepressed brain, they brought the Salute To Israel Parade to Birkenau.