“The Hall of Names”
Claire Rostov
Over 3.5 million tourists visit Jerusalem every year. They come on spiritual pilgrimages, with church groups, on birthright. They come to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to shed tears where Jesus laid after his crucifixion, to pray at the spot where Muhammad rose to Heaven at the Dome of the Rock, to ask God to answer their prayers at the Western Wall. They come from every corner of the world, looking for something. Looking for God perhaps? Or maybe a sense of affirmation, of truth?
I can’t really say because I did not come to find my faith. I came to study religion, to ask academic questions, to find answers rooted in history, politics and theology. My faith had long been lost somewhere amidst the confusion that comes with having a Christian mom and a Jewish dad. It had been lost somewhere between my secular education, boring religious services, and a God I could not relate to. I certainly did not come to Jerusalem to find my Judaism.
***
On one of my first days in Jerusalem I found myself joining the throngs of tourists cascading down the narrow alleyway that cuts through the heart of the Old City. Conquered by the biblical King David in the 11th century BCE, ruled by the Muslims of the Islamic Arab Empire, captured by the Christians during the First Crusade, destroyed by neighboring rebel armies, rebuilt by the Ottomans, fought over in the 1948 Arab-Israeli War and annexed by Israel in the war of 1967, the ancient walls have witnessed a conflict 30 centuries in the making.
Confined by the ancient walls to a single square kilometer, the Old City is made up of a complex web of alleyways that weave in and out of the four distinct quarters of the city. Small shops line every inch of the walk, their ceilings so low you can barely fit inside. The shopkeepers perch outside their shops in folding chairs, waiting to lure their next victim inside. “Come. Come look. I offer good price.” They leave the tourists thinking they may in fact need a Cross made with wood from ancient olive trees or perhaps a bottle of Holy water from the Jordan river. The ‘authentic’ menorahs reflect the sunlight onto the hot pavement and for a moment I’m back home, my dad lighting the menorah as he tells the story of the Hanukkah miracle for the thousandth time while my siblings and I roll our eyes at one another. I’m pulled back to reality as a large tour group almost tramples me. A shopkeeper smiles slyly as a few old ladies with their matching “I Travel Israel” hats become his next victims. I chuckle to myself; at least religion is good for business around here.
***
I step out into the large plaza and the sign reads: Welcome to the National Holy Site of the Jewish People. I’ve made it, the Western Wall, the remnants of the Second Temple built by King Herod, the holy site of the Jews. The massive wall towers several stories high, the ancient, weathered limestone remarkably preserved for all these centuries. And here I am, standing in perhaps the exact same spot where Herod the Great—the King of Judea, the man who built the Second Temple, the Herodium, Masada and Caserea—stood some 3,500 years ago. My moment of awe is short lived as I glance around at the few hundred people milling around the plaza. I immediately pull down the hem of my skirt, hoping I’m not offending the religiously observant. Even my most modest clothes make me feel embarrassed as women dressed in long sleeves, full-length skirts and hair wraps walk past me. The men make me even more uncomfortable dressed in their long black robes and fur hats despite the insufferable heat. They disappear behind the giant dividing wall that runs its way perpendicularly through the center of the plaza, separating the women from the men.
I edge around the dividing wall and make my way to the women’s section. Opting to sit in an inconspicuously placed plastic chair off to the side, I position my bag over my now exposed kneecaps. From where I sit I can’t see the men but I can hear their voices, raised in prayer, chanting Hebrew in unison. Their song drowns out the women’s whispers nearby. Rocking back and forth, the women’s eyes scan across their prayer books, their lips move quickly but no sound escapes. A few women press their foreheads to the wall’s weathered stones, tears running down their cheeks as they shove tiny pieces of paper into the wall’s crevices. I watch a paper prayer fall to the ground as its resting place is disturbed by the addition of more prayers. I opt out of adding my own. I can’t help but wonder what they do with all the paper prayers that fall from the wall. What if someone comes along to clean them up, throw them out, or perhaps shove them back in.
***
The rabbi stands at the front of the room, chanting Hebrew prayers I can’t understand. I look up towards the ceiling and begin counting the number of ceiling lights. And suddenly I’m twelve years old, back at synagogue services. Ceiling Lights: 36. Windowpanes: 14. Smoke Detectors: 6. My parents trying to be good, observant Jews on my right, my sister napping on my left and my brother, having already given up, out in the hallway reading a thrilling mystery novel filled with violence, lust and suspense.
But today I’m alone in Jerusalem, trying to convince myself I’m experiencing culture by experiencing religion. I wonder how many people have sat in this seat before me. I wonder if they perhaps counted the ceiling lights. 17. Maybe they found one I missed. The congregation seated around me stands again, I inwardly sigh and follow suit. My feet aching from the uncomfortable heels I’ve been forced to wear for the occasion. Maybe it’s time for a bathroom break. I slip out the side door and inhale a big breath of freedom.
***
On one of my last days in Jerusalem I had resigned myself to visiting Yad Vashem. I’d put it off for months, leaving it looming ominously at the bottom of my Jerusalem checklist because there is little to look forward to about spending a day at a Holocaust museum. But I’d visited just about every other tourist site and I couldn’t leave without a visit. So finally, on one clear December morning, I boarded the light rail and took the short ride across the city to visit the museum.
The museum itself is a huge, triangular concrete prism that cuts its way through the mountainside. Ten exhibition halls connect to one another via a long corridor, allowing tourists to weave back and forth as they experience the horrors of the Holocaust. Sparing nothing, Yad Vashem contains over 2,500 personal items. Nazi paraphernalia, burned Torah fragments from the pogroms, children’s portraits, letters to loved ones, concentration camp uniforms, confiscated wedding bands, photos of emaciated Jews and hundreds of shoes of those who were gassed in the chambers. After several intense hours of making my way through the museum, I reach the final room. The Hall of Names.
I step out onto a suspended walkway into a large circular room. From the floor beneath my feet all the way to the ceiling, shelves line the walls, filled with hundreds of black binders. Millions of recorded testimonies fill the pages, each binder a tombstone to those who were lost. In the center of the room a thin glass railing is all the separates me from tumbling down into a deep, black hole filled with water, reflecting the stories of all the unknown victims.
I tear my eyes away from the hole and look upwards into a glowing dome with hundreds of old photographs, faces of those who were lost. And suddenly they are no longer the faces of strangers, of the long dead, they are the faces of my ancestors, they are me. A lump grows in my throat. I look around, my face turning red as I become increasingly self-conscious at my display of emotion.
A sense of relief washes over me as I realize there is only one other person in the room, an older woman. Her bony hand grips the railing stabilizing her as she too glances upwards. Wrinkles dance across her forehead as the golden light illuminates her face. A singular tear leaks out of the corner of her eye, falling gently into the folds of her knit sweater. I too grip the railing and let the tears fall, unashamed. I do not know who this woman is but I know that we are bound together by the same history. The history of our people. The history of the Jews.
