The cemetery was fenced in, the six foot wrought iron doors locked. It sat in the midst of an open field on a hillside overlooking the Mosel River. We weren’t searching for it. We had simply left the house to take a walk. But upon discovering it, it was too good to simply pass by.
Our family had a strange affinity for graveyards. They were thought of as wonderfully peaceful areas to walk through and picnic at. Places to wander among the headstones and look upon the names and dates and wonder about the life that had been lived. They were the location of regular summer outings and annual gatherings to plant flowers and reminisce. But here in Germany, they were exotic. Full of names that were foreign and dates so old, they were beyond our comprehension.
The small, enclosed plot spoke to us. Aunt Joanne was the first to wander off the path towards the fence. She leaned in close, peering between the bars.
“The Star of David is on each of these headstones.”
Our curiosity erupted. A Jewish cemetery on a German hillside.
Aunt Joanne turned and looked back at us. “We have to get inside.”
Within minutes and without much hesitation, each of us were suddenly on our backs and stomachs, pushing and sliding ourselves underneath the iron gates. Any sense of decency had scampered off into the wild grass, afraid to be seen with us. Some of us flattened our boobs, trying to stuff them under the bottom rungs. Others spread their legs, trying to flatten their butts, their back pockets getting caught on the low hanging rods. Still others, squished and squirmed, throwing their arms out in order to be pulled through. None of us escaped without stripes of dirt and dust up and down our bodies and in our hair. Our faces were streaked with tears from laughter. We looked like children who had put on clean clothes and then purposely found every dirt pile around to play in.
Breathing hard and still laughing at ourselves, we began to wander around the old gravestones, talking to one another at each discovery. Our intention was never to disregard the dead. Indeed, it was the opposite. Although it was not a solemn procession, our curiosity was a way of bringing life back to those who had passed on. To pay tribute and give thought to the lives before us.
We continued on for some time, passing through each row, slowly and orderly, bending over to get closer, occasionally wiping away dirt or pulling up weeds. At some point we forgot that we were Americans inside a private, locked, Jewish cemetery in the middle of Germany. That was until, reality was swiftly brought back to our attention. Far ahead on the path, was a man on a bicycle, riding towards us. We froze until someone spoke the words on each of our minds.
“It’s a German man coming to yell at us. We shouldn’t be in here.”
We raced to the gate and one by one we again shoved ourselves under the wrought iron bars. Boobs were squished and poked. Butts spread flatt and shoved under by the person behind. Pockets ripped, shirts were torn. And again our faces were dusty, our hair full of debris and our clothing a different shade from when we began. The man rode closer and closer as one by one we made it out of the gated area. He did not call out to us though. He did not yell or wave his arms to get our attention. He rode quickly and methodically until he was close enough for Carleen to recognize him.
“Justin!” and she ran to her husband, laughing hysterically.
My mother popped her head up from underneath the gate where Aunt Anne had been pushing her from behind.
“Wait, it’s only Justin?” she called out.
Justin hopped off his bike and slowly looked over the scene.
“I just thought I would join you. But it looks like I already missed all the fun.”