A Grave, a Part of Me
I emerge from our dimly lit office. That’s what we called it, though we often interchanged, “Office,” and “Computer Room.” My mother and I were the only two to frequent the regal, dark-wood space.
I amble toward the living room, but my mother finds me near the tiny alcove just before our kitchen. Mothers, they have a tingling sixth sense when it comes to such things.
Suddenly, my careful stream of tears lapses into full-blown sobs. I can’t stop. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, until realization dawns on her. I had just surfaced from my personal home screening of Schindler’s List, a film rooted in the darkest wells of the Holocaust.
“Don’t cry,” she consoles. But where as a child, many analogous tears surfaced as a result of supernatural thrillers and larger world fictions, this situation differed. She couldn’t offer her usual solace, the turn of phrase all parents so deeply depend on: “It’s not real.”
For as long as I could remember, I had been learning about the Holocaust. Entire words in my vocabulary were conceived in its comprehension: “genocide,” and “Hitler,” and as I grew older, “Auschwitz,” “World War II,” “Nazis.” I constantly mulled over the Swastika, which in rotated form was a holy, staple symbol of my very nonviolent religion, Jainism. My learning spanned language arts curricula: an elementary reading unit on Number the Stars; an 8th grade assigned reading on Summer of My German Soldier. Some of this education even came unwittingly, perhaps a product of my own subconscious. Voracious reader that I was, I hand-selected a formative novel in my reading career: Freefall by Anna Levine, a novel about a young woman’s conscription in Israel, post-Holocaust. Beyond the learned classroom, etched in my memory: a visit from fellow 6th grader Avital’s grandmother, a Holocaust survivor who lived out the war in a concentration camp.
Guest speakers, personal interfaith contemplations, social studies and language arts curricula, comprised the media through which I understood this singular human enormity. Cinema, however, would be the most profound.
Extra credit cinema in high school AP World and European History class enabled me to acquaint myself with Hollywood classics and earn a couple of spare points. Schindler’s List happened to be the latest installment. Busy as I was attending to a host of extracurriculars, I asked Mr. Dean if I could finish up the film on my own time.
Of the infinite foundational experiences culminating in a robust education on this subject, none resounded so deeply as Schindler’s List. Days after my well of tears, I lost myself in a Wikipedia-spurred internet black-hole, working to understand Spielberg’s vision, the film’s finale, and mythos himself, Oskar Schindler. I discussed the film at length with teachers and mentors alike, including my Jewish, former second grade teacher, Mrs. Rosenberg. Months later, I resolved to enshrine the impact of the film on my 11th grade Bucket List, a creative homework assignment rendered as an ode to the Morgan Freeman’s Bucket List.
The iconic denouement of the film pictures the descendants of the “Schindler Jews,” honoring Schindler by laying stones atop his tomb.
Hence emerged, Number 39: Visit Oskar Schindler’s grave.
Truth be told, I neglected my Bucket List there on out. It was haphazardly made, often vaguely ambitious, with “Change the world,” or a pure reflection of vapid Internet searching, “Learn CPR.” Yet, some judicious piece of my mind locked away its core line items for safekeeping.
Five years later, I’m strolling through Yad Vashem, Jerusalem’s museum-memorial tribute to the victims of the Holocaust. I pass Holocaust-era exhibits housed among gray-scale walls in an architectural idiosyncrasy. I’m enthralled, but my legs threaten to give out from travel fatigue. I pine for every bench within spitting distance. But resting in a place so hallowed seems wrong.
We near the conclusion of the long hallway and our tour. I spy a chest full of drawers, each dedicated to an intrepid hero, a defender of the Jewish people. I peruse the names and discover the one I’ve been looking for: Oskar Schindler.
Instinctively, I open the drawer, drawing my attention from our museum curator. The relics inside the glass encasement are captioned with a nostalgic portraiture of the man and his work. I know this story: a German industrialist and titular Nazi who saved over a thousand Jewish lives.
I keep reading anyway, unearthing an unexpected reality: his body rests atop Mount Zion, right here in Jerusalem.
My fellow Trekkers, a group of Harvard peers, and I return to our hotel after an extensive sightseeing venture in Jerusalem. I ponder the revelation for the rest of the evening: a five-year-old dream at my fingertips. Given the rarity of circumstance, I ask Lauren, our group leader, if I can make an unscheduled excursion to Schindler’s grave.
Permission in hand, the next morning, I veer off from the group, equipped with a few Shekels and Jerusalem Google maps. A cab driver murmurs to me in Hebrew, leaving me in a parking lot outside an extensive cemetery, a quarter of the way up Mount Zion.
I’m overdressed for the Middle Eastern heat, outfitted in a floral tunic, fleece tights, and leather boots. I search for an entrance to the terraced cemetery, its design reminiscent of Incan agricultural landscapes. I decide to further climb the hill, hoping for an entrance around the bend. Soon, I find myself crossing uninhabited fields of green and descending steep concrete steps in search of an opening.
A fear of trespassing overcomes me, as I walk unpaved paths, little country houses flanking me on all sides. I wonder if his grave is a popular tourist site; there must be a more seamless route if so.
Thirty minutes in, a clear entry point still eludes me. After another round about the complex, I find myself overlooking the bottom of the road, the base of Mount Zion, utterly lost.
I retrace my steps, ascending the mountain. Suddenly, I find a human face and a gate leading to a worn, brick building that seems to house the cemetery.
A man disappoints me with a critical notification: Oskar Schindler’s grave does not lie in the cemetery at his rear. He climbs onto a motorcycle, and welcomes me to Israel. He says if I ever consider working abroad there, their day school would love to have me. He apologizes for not knowing the whereabouts of Schindler’s grave.
Google maps has failed me.
I find my way back to the road, dejected. An hour has gone by, but I refuse to return empty-handed. I turn on my cellphone data and search the inter-webs to find a blog suggesting Zion Gate as a possible lead. I hail a cab and ascend the mountain much further up.
This section of the Western Wall is familiar, given our visit two days prior, upon landing in Israel. I press nearby shopkeepers about the whereabouts of Schindler’s grave. The directions are contradictory, but I push forward anyway, hoping for a lucky break.
In front of me, a group of tourists flood the cobblestone walk. I pray for English when I spot their guide.
“Do you know where I can find Oskar Schindler’s grave?”
“We’re headed near there, follow me, and I’ll point you there,” she smiles.
The group happens to be from Georgia, my home state. I offer a “Go Dawgs!” which is met with great enthusiasm. The globetrotters bid me good luck and farewell as their leader points me to an unadorned gate just down the parking lot.
A single, square sign with blue lettering heads the entrance, “To Oskar Schindler’s Grave.” I make my way down two levels, through a tunnel, passing mammoth-sized wooden crosses. Fear and anticipation course through my veins — so close, but in a crowded Franciscan cemetery: What if I can’t find it?
I laugh when I see it.
It is un-missable.
Rocks cover every inch of the stone grave, save for the inscriptions; wreaths and flowers settle at its helm. The tomb emanates sanctity, a magnetic force field of symbolism beyond worldly comprehension. I am elated, but there is a bitter sweetness to the significance of this place.
Though I stand alone, I feel the kinship of a thousand.
I ensconce a tiny stone of my own to honor Mr. Schindler.
The journey, both the two-hour long and five years’ worth, was its own catharsis. As I stared into the sun, periodic zephyrs ruffling my hair, overlooking all of Jerusalem, I knew I had stumbled upon much more than Oskar Schindler’s grave.
I am not Jewish, but in those moments, I reclaimed a piece of my identity, one that had been marinating in a piece of history for many years. I left that grave with much more than a tribute to my 10th grade tears, an Israeli adventure story, or a check on my Bucket List. Atop that hill, standing in front of Oskar Schindler’s grave, I retrieved a forgotten version of myself: one impassioned and inspired by the world before her.
Only now do I discern that my visit to Schindler’s grave was an apotheosis, a pilgrimage owed to a lifetime’s worth of learning. Sharing in this tiny but immense history, the world seemed big again, my life’s work more important, reaching far beyond the insular walls of my privileged existence.
