My grandfather told me his hometown no longer existed. But I found it—and finally came to appreciate my own heritage.
By David Kalis for Tablet MagazineYet two years later, I was there, standing inside the dilapidated synagogue in Shepetovka. I stood face-to-face with four elderly men wearing loose-fitting suit coats, slacks, fedoras, and button-down shirts. The lines on their drooping faces were pronounced, their movements tentative, and their eyes curious. Realizing that these men might have had a shared experience with my grandfather, or could have known his family, I asked eagerly if they knew if I had any relatives still in the area.
“Young man, the synagogue you stand in today used to be filled with many worshipping Jews,” one of them told me. “It was a beautiful place with new scrolls, ornate walls, stained glass, and prayer books. You see what has happened? Today, we are a very small community. We once had 40,000 Jews in the region. Now we have maybe 500. There was a long history here, and now it is gone.”
He paused and I looked down, saddened and ashamed at my ignorance. What I had learned of the Holocaust in school was their reality. They had lived through more than I could comprehend. While I had taken my Judaism for granted, these men had struggled to exist as Jews. I took my backpack off and placed it gently on a wooden chair beside me. Suddenly, an unfamiliar feeling of pride, belonging, and Jewish identity overcame me. I was 23, but this was the first time I had ever felt such a connection to my religion.
I had come to Shepetovka hoping to find out more about my grandfather’s life. Instead, I discovered more about my own.
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