Below should be my words from todays journey, specifically our visit to Track 17:
“Today was the start of a heavier part of our journey in Germany. One of the spaces we visited was Track 17, one of the main train tracks in Berlin used to deport Jews to concentration and death camps during the Holocaust. Knowing this moment would be heavy for me, I took my book of Tehillim (Psalms) with me. I take my siddur (prayer book) or book of Tehillim with me whenever I travel. It is a comfort, a spiritual guide, a way to call out, to reach out, to find light during dark moments. As we stood at Track 17, our group became quiet. The energy from the icebreaker on the bus left, and a silence of mourning and reflection slowly swept over us. The clouds slowly came to coat the sky as our guide honored the last moments of life that took place on the tracks. It’s as if the universe knew we needed some time to be sad. The sunshine could return later.
I always need time to be alone with my thoughts, with my sadness, to reach for G-d’s presence and light in the darkest of spaces. I was given a glimpse of this divine energy when speaking to one of my peers. I mentioned, “Hey, isn’t it interesting how the S-Bahn tracks are just past those trees on the other side of the tracks? When these tracks led people to their deaths.” There’s a lot to unpack here, and I felt I needed to speak honestly. Both tracks are so close. It felt uncomfortable. Different. They agreed that them being so close is an interesting thing. Their response to my inquiry was to mention the trees, and how trees growing all around us, even on Track 17, spoke to how much life is still in the space. This abundance of green gives life back to the place where the Nazis took it.
I stood at the tracks, my book of Tehillim in hand, and took in that moment. I thought of the memories that exist on Track 17, the ways Germans, Germany, and folks who visit honor the lives taken by the Nazis. How Tehillim for me are a simple yet powerful comfort. For others it was hugs, or lighting a candle, or reciting pieces of writing for a brief memorial service.
As I stood with our group and took a moment to lead folks in reciting Mourner’s Kaddish (the mourner’s prayer), I looked for comfort in the pages of my book of Tehillim. I felt the energy of our space, how each person reacted differently to the heaviness of the place. In the moments after Kaddish, when I looked at the darkened sky, I knew we needed some time to be sad. I needed to stand in the loud silence. When we left to go about our evenings, the laughter and joy returned and I tucked my book away. The memories remain, the emotions are still deeply felt. Though stepping away from a site of such trauma is difficult beyond words, I know that the prayers and voices we brought to the land will last. The light returns with the trees, with our voices, and with our continuous honoring of their memories.”