Empty field
March 2nd, 2024
I knew I was being watched. It was this kind of neighborhood. There was traffic along the main street there, and some new builds among the old and dirty and falling apart old industrial buildings, and you could tell there was some charm in it. But it was enough to step into side streets full of potholes and no sidewalks to notice the eyes watching my steps. There was a guy who was getting into his car as I passed, and suddenly he opened the hood and stood there, sneaking glances at me. There was another man, who just stood in the corner of an old wall, motionless and seemingly looking away, but constantly keeping an eye on me. Dereliction and uneasiness were in the air as I stood in front of what is an empty field now.
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This is what is left of the old Jewish cemetery in Kaunas. An empty field with only a few gravestones on the steep hill all the way back. Nothing is left as a memento or a memorial. Even the information sign is only in Lithuanian, without any English or Hebrew or Yiddish translation as is customary in places like that. Not many people go there, I guess. Not many people want or can brave the current coldness and menacing indifference of the place and the watchful eyes of people who live around there now. The empty place can be solemn, but this one wasn’t. There was painfully plastically nauseating smoke from chimneys and physical overall delipidation of the place and a lack of breathing room for a visitor like me. Still, this place is there. Still, someone comes to this place once in a while, like me today. Still, a few stones left there are well rooted in the ground and seemingly unmovable. Still, the bones of generations of Kovne Jews are there, mixed with the native soil now, being all the testimony of belonging that is required.
