Budapest Day 3: Ghosts Of The Past

Today, in the morning, we went to Hungarian Parliament, followed by a brief stop at the Raoul Wallenberg memorial, and a visit to the Lauder School where we learned about the renewal in Jewish education programs in Hungary. Then, after a short rest at a café, we visited the Holocaust museum.

I have never been to a Holocaust museum before. It is something I have been putting off my whole life. I skipped out on Yad Vashem. I never went to the museum in DC either. And I think, for the most part, it is because the Shoah, like a mantra, has been beaten into my head by my mother since before I was old enough to understand it. When I was in high school my friends called her “Mrs. Holocaust”. And for me, despite my intense awareness of the issue, it was never a subject that I invested myself in, perhaps because of my emotional sensitivity and the gravity of the subject, but perhaps also because it may have been my way of rebelling. In that I have also been reluctant to pursue my family history, because, as a grandchild of four Holocaust survivors, my history routes straight through the Holocaust (on my father’s side, stopping there, as my grandmother has practically no recollection of any experience or family history prior to the war), and the subject is incredibly painful to deal with.

Now, of course, I know a little something about my family history. I know my mother’s family extends from the Muncacks hasidic dynasty of what is now Ukraine. In fact, the only phrase in Yiddish I know concretely is “Ich bin a Muncackes einekle.” And so when I entered the museum and was informed that the current exhibition was focused on the Jews of Carpo-Ruthenia, I knew that that was where my family was from, and that in itself was a heavy feeling. However, when I walked into the theatre showing the eight minute introductory film segment, I did not expect to encounter the man my mother describes as my “great great grandfather”, The Minchas Elezar, aka The Muncacker Rebbe, wagging his finger and shouting at throngs of chasidim surrounding him about the value of Shabbos. No, I did not expect to actually see pictures of my family on screen. But there he was. I knew his face immediately though I had only seen it once before in a painting. It was the first time I had ever seen a moving picture or heard the voice of the man whom I had been told countless times that I shared in the yiches of.

I went up to the Executive Director who was guiding our tour and I asked, “Do you know who that rabbi is?” And he said, “Yes, that is the great Rabbi of Muncacks.” And I said, “Yes, that is the Minchas Elezar. I am his great great grandson.” Factually, I realize, this was incorrect. He is my great uncle, and I his great nephew. My grandmother’s brother married the Minchas Elezar’s daughter and succeeded him as the Muncackser Rebbe. Today my grandmother’s nephew is the Muncackser Rebbe. But nonetheless, the man may as well have been my great grandfather: This was quite factually my family, this was their village, this was my grandmother’s home. And this is the community in which I would have been born and lived had the Shoah never happened. And upon leaving the screening room, the very next portion of the exhibit were photographs (taken by SS soldiers and discovered in another camp far away) of these people arriving at Auschwitz, being stripped of their belongings, sorted out into work brigades, or otherwise sent to “the showers.”

I was overcome with grief and horror. I felt as though I was witnessing my family’s execution. I cried like I have never cried before. I stood in the corner sobbing and went back again and again to watch the Muncackser Rebbe preaching to the elated crowd. It was overwhelming. Shtetl life, as unattractive as it may seem to the sabra-inspired, has always held a certain allure for me — it is undeniably in my roots. To see it thriving in such a manner (and in such a personal sense at that), if only for a moment, and then, subsequently, to see it destroyed, fills me with incredible sadness, for I have not only lost a part of my heritage which I can now never know, but I have lost a family and a community which at one time was populous enough to fill a town itself. And that is just incredibly profound.

It took me a while to get a grip. I’m still trying to sort out my ideas and what all of this means to and for me. I know now for certain that I can not run from the past, and in fact, I am now rather inclined to investigate it and learn about my family’s history thoroughly. And perahps this experience was essential to come to that realization: That it is important to be aware of these things, as they more fully inform our individual and communal understanding of who we are. Coming to terms with this, however, has clearly not been an easy process. And at the moment, I am fucking wiped.

The rest of the day was spent in intense conversation with my fellow Dorotniks on the subject of modernity in the European Jewish experience. I learned a great deal about myself and about Hungarian Jewry today. But it is too much to get into right now as it’s getting late and I have to be up early. I’m certain to revisit these subjects at a later date, perhaps even tomorrow if I find the time. I have another 85 photos to upload as well, but no time to crop and retouch for now.