The entrance to the Children’s Memorial at Yad Vashem descends into a darkened room. You see images of children, they look dated and very Jewish, floating in space behind glass. The images reflect like faded echos into the distance, as a voice calls from down the dark corridor. An endless litany of names, ages, places. Following the voice, you enter a star lit space that extends to infinity, above, below and beyond. There are more names. Dawid Nagler, age 10, Czechoslovakia. Esther Gertz, age 9, Frankfurt. Avraham Meckler, age 5, Poland. The lights resolve to candle flames, endlessly reflected. You are suspended in space, in a universe of pinpricks of flames, and the names, the endless names. It is abstract, it is relentlessly real. You weep, deeply, without restraint. In the darkness, in a timeless beyond, you weep not for the abstract millions. You weep for the name you just heard, the name you are going to hear. You weep your own grief.
Comments