I hadn't been to Israel in 12 years. The last time I went I had to ask my rebbe permission to go. Ah, to have a rebbe to tell me what to do. How nice that was. This time, after weeks of agonizing, by the time I finally decided to go the cheapest ticket was through LOT air, a Polish airline, and featured a nine hour layover in Warsaw. I knew I was in for an experience when I called them to request a kosher meal. 45 minutes on hold listening the same three minute loop of a hearty-voiced male choir singing Polish folk music to orchestral accompaniment.
On the day of the flight, I got there two and a half hours early to find a line of about three hundred people snaking around the airport terminal while three harried LOT employees tried to handle them all. I started to imagine a plane held together with masking tape and superglue, with burlap covered seats and octogenarian stewardesses ignoring all the passengers and reading their newspaper.
None of that happened (I'd have to wait til the toilet paper in the bathrooms at the Warsaw airport for anything resembling burlap). I did see a few extravagant mustaches, but that's about it as far as filling in my Polish sterotypes went.
When we landed, the plane broke out in applause. When I landed in Tel Aviv the next day, nobody applauded. What the hell? Looks like Poland is the new Israel. Who knew.
Warsaw looked very much like the city in Kieslowksi's Decalogue (that was Warsaw, wasn't it?) -- depressingly gray and beige cement socialist-era apartment buildings everywhere. The overcast weather only added to the impression.
My first stop was the only surviving synagogue from before the war. The building was either amazingly maintained or extensively restored -- a pristine interior with echoing acoustics, beautiful masonry, and, like so many other old shuls I'd visited, not a soul in site.
That changed when a tour of Israeli bais-yaakov (very religious) girls came chattering into the space. They were reluctant to enter the ground floor at first, gravitating to the women's section upstairs, until one of the girls asked their rabbi, a rumpled looking rabbi type with a kint kippa, untucked shirt, and tzitzis flying free. He answered with a shrug, and the girls descended into the main sanctuary and took the place over. One stood on the amoud and shuckled like a chassid, others went to the ark and kissed the curtain, others sat on the wooden benches and bent over texts. Then they started davening. I felt like the intruder, like I should have been upstairs. It was cool to see these very frum girls taking over a synagogue.
After that, I went to the umschaglplatz, the place where Jews were sent to be put on the trains from the ghetto to the camps. The memorial, appropriately enough, evoked a train station, and was very small. It's interesting the relationship between memorials and scale. I think I've come to associate a powerful memorial with a big memorial. This one didn't make much of an impression.
Wandering towards the next ghetto memorial (there are at least four of them), I heard the strains of a trumpet playing Hatikva, the Israeli national anthem. I arrived to find a squad of Israeli soldiers, about a hundred of them, in full dress uniform, milling about, shmoozing and taking pictures of each other. I asked what they were doing there, and It turns out the anniversary of the ghetto uprising had been that week, and they were there for various ceremonies -- they were about to go do one in conjuction with the Polish army. I, of course, asked if I could get on the bus and come along, and they, being Israelis, didn't find it such a strange request. The soldier I asked went to his commanding officer, a guy wearing a very snappy khakhi jacket, who in turn asked his commanding officer, a guy in a snappy charcoal jacket, who then asked the guy in charge of everything, who was some guy in street clothes with an impressive facial scar. He told me to take a taxi. Which I did.
The ceremony was at the memorial to the Polish uprising against the Germans, which was set in a large open square. The Israelis got there and started to mill about again -- a few people were actually doing something, but most were just hanging out. Then the Polish contingent came, about twenty soldiers, and as soon as they got off the bus they started marching in lockstep, marching in well-practiced formation into the square, flanking either side, their boots stomping in unison. The Israelis stared at them.
I guess the Israelis and the Poles hadn't coordinated very well. The Polish soldiers were expecting the Israelis to be as well-prepared as they were, which they weren't, so they ended up marching back to their bus while the Israelis got their act together. Which took about half an hour. Their commanding officer kept having to shush them. When he started calling for "sheket, bevakasha," it struck me that they looked more like kids at summer camp than soldiers in an army. Summer camp with guns.
Maybe it's just that the Israelis could give a shit about marching in formation, are more concerned about results than an impressions. Or maybe they just can't spare top soldiers for cermonies.
At any rate, they finally got into something resembling a formation, the Poles came marching back in, and the ceremony got under way. A wreath was laid, a speech was made, and the Israeli trumpeter played Hatikva again. And when she did, the entire unit sang along. Okay, it felt even more like summer camp, but it still gave me goose bumps. The Polish folk brought their own trumpet player, who played taps and the Polish anthem, a peppy little number but nothing to write home about.
And I have to say, not only did the Israeli trumpeter kick the Polish guy's tush -- she was pretty hot to boot.
When we landed, the plane broke out in applause. When I landed in Tel Aviv the next day, nobody applauded. What the hell? Looks like Poland is the new Israel. Who knew.
Warsaw looked very much like the city in Kieslowksi's Decalogue (that was Warsaw, wasn't it?) -- depressingly gray and beige cement socialist-era apartment buildings everywhere. The overcast weather only added to the impression.
My first stop was the only surviving synagogue from before the war. The building was either amazingly maintained or extensively restored -- a pristine interior with echoing acoustics, beautiful masonry, and, like so many other old shuls I'd visited, not a soul in site.
That changed when a tour of Israeli bais-yaakov (very religious) girls came chattering into the space. They were reluctant to enter the ground floor at first, gravitating to the women's section upstairs, until one of the girls asked their rabbi, a rumpled looking rabbi type with a kint kippa, untucked shirt, and tzitzis flying free. He answered with a shrug, and the girls descended into the main sanctuary and took the place over. One stood on the amoud and shuckled like a chassid, others went to the ark and kissed the curtain, others sat on the wooden benches and bent over texts. Then they started davening. I felt like the intruder, like I should have been upstairs. It was cool to see these very frum girls taking over a synagogue.After that, I went to the umschaglplatz, the place where Jews were sent to be put on the trains from the ghetto to the camps. The memorial, appropriately enough, evoked a train station, and was very small. It's interesting the relationship between memorials and scale. I think I've come to associate a powerful memorial with a big memorial. This one didn't make much of an impression.
Wandering towards the next ghetto memorial (there are at least four of them), I heard the strains of a trumpet playing Hatikva, the Israeli national anthem. I arrived to find a squad of Israeli soldiers, about a hundred of them, in full dress uniform, milling about, shmoozing and taking pictures of each other. I asked what they were doing there, and It turns out the anniversary of the ghetto uprising had been that week, and they were there for various ceremonies -- they were about to go do one in conjuction with the Polish army. I, of course, asked if I could get on the bus and come along, and they, being Israelis, didn't find it such a strange request. The soldier I asked went to his commanding officer, a guy wearing a very snappy khakhi jacket, who in turn asked his commanding officer, a guy in a snappy charcoal jacket, who then asked the guy in charge of everything, who was some guy in street clothes with an impressive facial scar. He told me to take a taxi. Which I did.
The ceremony was at the memorial to the Polish uprising against the Germans, which was set in a large open square. The Israelis got there and started to mill about again -- a few people were actually doing something, but most were just hanging out. Then the Polish contingent came, about twenty soldiers, and as soon as they got off the bus they started marching in lockstep, marching in well-practiced formation into the square, flanking either side, their boots stomping in unison. The Israelis stared at them.
I guess the Israelis and the Poles hadn't coordinated very well. The Polish soldiers were expecting the Israelis to be as well-prepared as they were, which they weren't, so they ended up marching back to their bus while the Israelis got their act together. Which took about half an hour. Their commanding officer kept having to shush them. When he started calling for "sheket, bevakasha," it struck me that they looked more like kids at summer camp than soldiers in an army. Summer camp with guns.
Maybe it's just that the Israelis could give a shit about marching in formation, are more concerned about results than an impressions. Or maybe they just can't spare top soldiers for cermonies.
At any rate, they finally got into something resembling a formation, the Poles came marching back in, and the ceremony got under way. A wreath was laid, a speech was made, and the Israeli trumpeter played Hatikva again. And when she did, the entire unit sang along. Okay, it felt even more like summer camp, but it still gave me goose bumps. The Polish folk brought their own trumpet player, who played taps and the Polish anthem, a peppy little number but nothing to write home about.
And I have to say, not only did the Israeli trumpeter kick the Polish guy's tush -- she was pretty hot to boot.
3 comments:
f-ing hysterical, with a little bit of real emotion thrown in for leavening.
My trips should be so well narrated!
This blog is awesome. I love Israelis and their chronic nonchalance! Man, I want to go back. Have a fantastic trip, and keep writing!
Very nice piece.
The Israeli army is like summer camp, with guns, where the campers kill and get killed (last summer for example.)
They all call mom from the field using their cell phones.
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