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LIFE, RECONSTRUCTION, AND CREATIVITY 139
I had not returned to celebrate my country's
liberation. I had not come hoping to be greeted
with hugs and kisses and pats on the back. I had
returned to visit one large cemetery; my town was
one big grave. I came to gather the ashes of my
beloved family. I came looking for my adolescent
years. I wanted to engrave in my memory all that
happened in the past; to remember all those that
had been tortured and consequently murdered,
and whose lips were whispering the names of
their loved ones.
I had come to see the ruins of my hometown,
to bury my soul in the pain and heartache: to
mourn those friends and relatives who perished
needlessly.
That autumn morning a light drizzle wet my
face as my lonely footsteps echoed down the
middle of Railroad Street on my way to the town
square. The time was nine in the morning. Luboml
was a ghost town. There was not a live soul
anywhere. A dog was not to be seen. There was
not even a cat crossing the road as a sign of bad
luck. The animals had disappeared along with
the citizens of Luboml.
When I reached the old cemetery, the town
lay before me. It had been completely flattened. It
looked like an empty lot. From the far-removed
corner near the cemetery, where I now stood, I
could see the flour mill that had belonged to the
Grimatlicht family, the Great Synagogue that was
now partially destroyed, the stores on the town
square, and the home of the Polish pharmacist.
Silence shrouded my town during these early
morning hours, which in the past had been alive
with sound from sunrise to sunset. There was
only the sound of the rain falling on my backpack
and the sound of my footsteps echoing in the
empty space that was once my hometown.
I stopped at the central square. The old stone
stores that had once housed linens, pots, clothing,
materials, etc., stood with their mouths open,
blackened with soot, holes in the walls, just
remnants of doors and windows and empty
shelves once loaded with all kinds of merchandise.
I turned toward Chelm Street, and there I
came across a sign of life on that rainy morning.
It was a young man standing across the street. We
were both weak in body and spirit, and we stood
facing each other in wonderment that we had met
on this massive grave in which all our friends and
family were buried. Suddenly, we both felt as if
we were brothers and that fate had brought us to
this place at this time. We began to run toward
each other, mustering all the strength that our
numb bodies allowed us, and we fell into each
other's arms in total silence.