Letters to the dead

We are at the old Jewish Remuh cemetery in the Kazimierz district of the Polish city of Krakow. For a moment, he turns to us with a friendly smile. Then, with touching devotion, he does what has come for: a prayer at the grave of Rabbi Moses Isserles, known as Remuh, a famous Ashkenazi rabbi who lived in the sixteenth century and after whom this cemetery is named. His tombstone is one of the few that survived the ravages of the Nazi terror. Other stones were traded, or used as paving stones in concentration camps.

That Remuh's headstone survived the destruction is seen by many as proof of his holiness and the interference of higher powers. The friendly man with the big beard attentively folds a note in his old hands. From a distance we see that it is lined paper, probably torn from a school exercise book, written in the Hebrew alphabet with blue ink. His wrinkled hands tremble slightly as he bends a paperclip so that it will clamp his note firmly against the pointed bar of the thomb. What is written on the note remains between him and God. Like many faithful pilgrims before him, he probably asks Remuh to mediate between them. He lights a candle and nods us again with that irresistibly friendly face. Then, he visits to the small synagogue, once used by the Nazis as a storage place for, among other things fire extinguishers. Now, once again, it is a peaceful place with people engrossed in silent prayer.