Piles upon piles of pebbles line the block that stretches in front of me. No shape is identical to its co-inhabitants, yet the stones remain inconspicuous and anonymous. Each one is overcome by the next, reaching onwards until they are forcefully stopped by towering trees that line the forest’s edge. The little rocks are stripped of description, just like my grandfather and the thousands that slept upon straw mats atop those stones not so long ago. They, too, were forced to blur into the next. Reduced to ever-growing numbers as the arms that bore them were forced into camp after camp. One step closer to death. These people straddled the line between survival and an existence that barely resembled life.
Twenty-three. The square slab of cement marks the row where Jakob slept for three months as the war neared its end, where he sat amongst bodies crammed into barracks and where he wolfed down whatever meager scrap he was given in order to awake again. I trace the outline of twenty-three; its ridges jut upwards. My fingers brush this tangible concrete connection to him. Tiny bumps protrude from the surface. The cement refuses to be completely smooth; each minuscule bump claims its identity in the universe, unwilling to conform here. I never knew that he lived in row twenty-three. I didn’t know that his daily task was to dig tunnels or that Nazis herded him to the Austrian Alps as winter descended upon the world and hope crept eastward in the form of Allied trucks. Then, wind probably raged and snowflakes obscured the clouds, shielding prisoners and captives alike. Today, a vast blue sky blankets my three friends, Bernd and me. Bernd: the guide who I just met today but who voluntarily began mapping out my grandfather’s murky past. Before I set foot here, unbeknownst to me, Bernd unraveled the details surrounding Jakob’s proximity to this place. Dachau is one of many stretches of time about which Jakob scarcely spoke during his life — so I am told. Bernd physically has handed me maps and dates, routes and figures: the puzzle pieces that construct an identity my father could not fully unwind while his father lived, nor throughout the twenty-five years that have marked his absence. Face-to-face with row twenty-three, I choose to believe that one’s identity can evolve but cannot really vanish. Violence, terror and fear can crumple someone’s sense of self. But even such demons cannot completely erode it. Souls cannot disappear, but perhaps they may become lost for a time until allowed to exist freely. Experiences do not erase us, but they can form us again with different strokes. Sometimes, these strokes are disjointed or broken. As I walk along the grounds, I am overcome by the unlikelihood of Jakob’s survival. Statistically, there were innumerable reasons that he should not have made it. So many chances of death shaped Jakob’s daily life — more chances than the few that engendered his perseverance. And as a result, here I am. Even when humanity closes its eyes, I think identity is the interminable matter that endures, hidden in cellars and masked by skinny bones, kept alive by some burst of tenacity which allows me to walk these fields and this earth.
2 Comments
I rest against the rusted post, legs outstretched on the pavement. My eyes scan the receding bridge as my hand flits across the page in quick bursts, trying to capture the curves of the bridge and sloping bend of the river. The air is still and the water’s surface remains unmoving. Leaves fall over the crumbling marble, which appears white against the darkening tones of the dusk sky. Light blue fades to a soft pink, followed closely by a hazy grey that settles in and blankets the horizon.
My gaze measures the angle of the staircase as it meets the bike path. Every few minutes, the patter of lone footsteps or smooth rustling of bicycle wheels punctuate the stillness. I own this stillness. I work it into the surface of my sketchbook, trying to align its character with my charcoal marks. The shadows shift as the sun sinks behind the bridge; my scene changes. They dance with my eyes, teasing me. They always win. I accept it. A man clutching a large Canon approaches, asking if he may photograph the scene. After a quick chat, I agree and return to my page, surrounded by clicks. The speed of his snapshots fluctuates, swift and then slow as he roams the vicinity. He thanks me and continues on his way. Moments later, a young couple interrupts my solitude again. They sit beside me upon steps that dangle over the water. They laugh into each other’s eyes as another photographer orchestrates — then promptly captures — their bliss. We exchange hellos and I try to decipher their story by the curves of their posture. Soon, they too pass. Leaving me and the river and the bridge: our stately and towering sentinel. A soft wind rustles over the water. My hand keeps dancing, and for the first time today I can hear myself think. In the evening, my backyard in Rome comes to life.
Our second night in Italy, my roommates and I wandered out of our apartment to slip into the cobblestone labyrinth that is Trastevere to find a spot for dinner. One quaint street blended into the next, seeming to slip into anonymity to our overwhelmed senses. Map in hand, we got lost amongst the maze of outdoor restaurants. Vines climbed the sides of worn-looking buildings washed over in soft pastel hues. We emerged from a long meal to meander into a Piazza that had been empty hours earlier. People spilled over onto the street, chatter ringing throughout summer air. A violin and cello echoed, the sounds fighting to climb higher and higher over one another. Children clustered upon white marble steps that marked the center of the large square. They squealed as they shot blue lasers soaring into the night sky’s dark blanket. Fleeting bursts of color streaked upwards, as swift to fall and vanish as they were to appear. We approached a woman in billowing black pants who grasped four different torches, fire alight from each. She tossed them from hand to hand, appearing like some sort of mysterious sorceress enveloped in a swirling mass of darkness and light. The flickers mesmerized me as they circled and danced. My eyes could not stop following the route of the flames. They demanded my gaze. She was a part of the night. Moments later, the song ended and so did her fire. We wandered onto another winding street. The feeling of magic and mystery passed as my sense of time resumed. This scene lingers with me — a glimmer of mystique. One captivating moment amongst ordinary hustle and bustle. More and more, I find that Rome’s ordinary-looking streets hide such beauty. The whole city whispers of an enticing mix of enduring and ephemeral: its ancient columns remain unmoving, but the dynamic streets with passing crowds also can create moments of permanence. Written 9/13/16 |
Carly Stern
ArchivesCategories |