Palm trees surrounding this sacred space, allowing for privacy
The sound of water gushing into a small pool,
The manicured quadrangle allowing for the sun’s rays
To cause a kaleidoscope of shadows on the perfectly set stones.
In the cloistered sanctuary of this spa for the wealthy,
A Bodhisattva is placed in the center,
Presumably to provide an air of serenity,
In a sitting posture, the Buddha clasps two bowls in his lap
I gaze at the idol, in the center of the quadrangle,
Jealous that it sits, still, beyond time and history,
Having lived a life and taught how to escape “dukka”
The sorrow and suffering of this world.
I however cannot escape history,
My soul is ashen,
Infected by a white powdery substance
That was released some 70 years ago
When millions were cremated,
And the smoke and ash billowed heavenward.
Whereas the blood-soaked earth and mass graves of Europe
betray the genocidal numbers who cannot speak from the earth.
What of those consumed by the fire?
Those who went up in smoke in a fine powdery haze of ash
What happened after?
Where are they now?
The ash returned to earth
To contaminate everything
“no one living would ever be able to escape them, these ashes would be contained in the milk that will be drunk by babies yet unborn and in the breasts their mothers offer them: the ashes will linger in the flowers which will grow out of them and in the pollen with which they will be fertilized by bees, they will be in the depths of the earth too, where rotted woodlands transform themselves into coal, and in the heights of heaven, where every human gaze, equipped with a telescope, encounters the invisible layers which envelop this wormy terrestrial apple of ours. These ashes will be contained in the breath and expression of every one of us and next time anybody asks what the air he breathes of is made of. He will have to think about these ashes; they will be contained in books which haven’t been yet written…”
(Arnold Lustig, A Prayer for Katerina Horovitzova, trans, Jeanne Nemcova, New York: Harper and Harper Row, 1973, 1973)
The white ash settled on the grassy Bavarian meadows
and forever daisies bear some guilt for not having refused.
Nature accepted what the heavens refused.
The Bodhisattva looks down avoiding my gaze
What is there to say?
It’s an idol after all
And Halachically forbidden to describe its beauty.
So why did the ash fall back to earth?
Why did heaven refuse it?
Why didn’t God suspend the laws of gravity?
Not lovingly inhale every one of the million babies.
Let’s say he was out of touch
(for how we could go on living and worshipping Him
had he been present to History’s worst horror?)
What about Michael, Rephael, Uriel and Gabriel- surely our archangels
should have received them lovingly?
Even Mamale Rachel could not be found.
Silence.
Only one angel who was a quite willing accomplice- Samael/Satan.
So the ash fell back down to earth obeying His natural laws
And infects my soul.
It is the frosted lens by which I see everything.
Even joy is contaminated by this white powdery gloss.
הַאֲזִינוּ הַשָּׁמַיִם “Listen O heavens!”
No longer are you a valid witness!
You let the ash rain back down
No longer are you a valid witness
You are summarily disqualified
וְתִשְמַע הָּׁאָּׁרֶץ “Let the earth give ear”
It cannot-its ears are filled with ash, you cannot bear witness
You hide too much blood
Moses our teacher no longer has eternal witnesses to rebuke Israel
When it sins,
Case is now dismissed for tainted witnesses
Even the judge is absent.
The Bodhisattva promises escape
But a luxury I simply cannot indulge
Memory and history do not end
Men went on living
But the idea of man did not survive.
Terumos Ha-Deshen
The scooping of ash from the Temple altar
And its cleansing after the sacrifices of the day,
-The priests would compete for this ritual-
Seeing it as the choicest of tasks.
What High Priest would dare approach the ashes of the crematoria
Seeing the same sacred task a millennia later
Vying for the job,
Scooping the holy powder of a generation
From the altar consecrated by human not animal sacrifice.
