The year was 1990. On the outskirts of Minsk Mazowiecki, the town in eastern Poland where my mother was born, we trod gingerly amid high thorns, stepped on garbage of various sorts, and stood next to headstones and fragments of headstones, looking for a vestige of my mother’s father, possibly even the remains of a headstone. We were four: my sister, my mother, me and a local taxi driver. Until we flagged down the driver and he surprised us by saying he could take us to the Jewish cemetery, we had spent a long time wandering between the living Poles and searching in vain for the place and the memory of the dead Jews.
Paid by Ulpan Bayit