I start out as a tourist and photograph the colorful fruit stands of the pedestrian street. I can do it without risk; the sellers don’t mind it, unlike at the markets of Ecuador. The tourist office is really helpful and diligently point out all sights on the map, even a city bus that would take me to the beach. I won’t have time for all that, thus ask the direct question about WWII history. She shakes her head. No museum, no archives. “But you can see the Holocaust Monument,” she says and marks it on the map. It’s on the sea, not far from the bus she suggested me to take for sightseeing. I can do at least that much for them. Would they really want me to do that? That’s a mystery. They never told us we were Jews. Controversially, we grew up in our father’s religion (Catholic) that he never practiced, and that we (my sister and me) didn’t practice, either, as soon as we reached adulthood. My grandparents’ marriage certificate, performed by a rabbi and the aunts and uncles birth certificates with the “Israelite” entry were found by accident, when we were past middle age. I knew I had an uncle whose family died in Auschwitz, but learned that from my father, and he was told that only the wife was Jewish.
We grew up overprotected and by the time we were teens, our efforts were directed at getting rid of the control. We didn’t watch for signs and reasons, and didn’t ask questions anymore. Now we would, but there is nobody to ask. We can only guess. Why did they deny us the truth? Our roots?
I reach the see at a beach. Maybe this is the one they talked about. This new part of Montevideo looks great, modern high-rises overlook the sea. I walk along the Rambla, the avenue between the sea and the city. At one point I try to make a shortcut and walk through a residential area, with elegant villas like in the California Coast. I ask for directions, and surprisingly, both persons I ask, know the place. I walk, the buildings disappear, the traffic is light, and I see mostly runners, roller skaters and bikers on Rambla’s sidewalks. I must be there, and don’t see the Memorial. I ask once more, this time without luck. It’s another tourist, who doesn’t even speak Spanish. Then I discover. I’m standing almost on top of it. It’s a low wall, almost invisible from the city side. There are two memorial plates towards the sea, with almost illegible text. For a moment I blame it on neglect, but then realize that it might be intentional. Memory is fading. I find plates with legible text towards the city. A bit further there is a train track, just a segment, not leading anywhere. At the end there is a symbolic grave, of a girl who returned to Hungary just before the war and died in Auschwitz. Thus not only my relatives did the unthinkable. I wonder whether they knew each other.
I wonder what would they say now, seeing me at that remote Montevideo beach with black rocky shore in the background? I cry for them there, as I never did before. We were alienated in my teen/young adult years; I couldn’t handle their wish that they expected us to make sense of their life. Nobody can make sense of another person’s life. It’s already an achievement to make sense of your own.
It’s getting late. I have to make a mad dash back for my luggage. EGA bus is already boarding by the time I get to the Tres Cruces terminal. Why didn’t I opt for two more days??
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