Making a Difference in Macedonia - Part Four
By Alexandra J. Wall
We drove to Blace, the Kosovo border. From the road there, we got a good view of a Kosovar village only a few miles away. If it hadn't been for the mosque, whose silver dome and minarets seem to dominate, it would have looked like a small Swiss village nestled in the Alps. But with the aid of binoculars, we saw that its windows were entirely shot out, and there was absolutely no movement. It was completely deserted.
A group of the latest Albanians to be expelled were standing at the border, waiting to be processed. There was a smaller camp there, intended for 2,000, but Jessica Pearl, a relief worker from Catholic Relief Services, told us it was filled with 5,000 to 6,000. Camera crews from around the world were also there. Pearl is from East Windsor, N.J., and had to be evacuated out of Belgrade when the bombing started. She said she does this work for personal satisfaction, but that most relief workers sign on in one-year increments because the burnout rate is so high.
We left the border and went to the infamous tobacco factory. A man on the grounds figured out why we were there, and led us to a plaque, upon which was written in Macedonia's Cyrillic script that Skopje's Jews were held here before being sent to their deaths in Treblinka. Some of the workers came out for their cigarette break (very appropriate) and offered us cigarettes. From there, we drove back to Thessaloniki. At the border with Greece, we were hit with a massive rainstorm, and we couldn't help thinking of our friends back in Stankovic I. The largest rainbow I had ever seen extended from the Greek to the Macedonian side. It was perhaps a mile long, and its entire expanse was visible.
Goldin told me that the question that had always troubled him the most about the Holocaust was not how he would have survived it but, had he been a gentile, would he have had the courage, fortitude, craziness even, that it took to put one's family at risk to save a Jew. He said that while what we'd done could not compare, it is important to extend a hand to someone -- anyone -- in need. "No matter what the historical antecedents are, people have to stand up and say we don't accept it, and stand up for people in pain," he said. Zuroff of the Wiesenthal Center said, "This shows how far the Jewish people have come -- that despite everything we went through, we've risen from the ashes and are in the position where we're able to give."And being our resident expert on the history of the area, he added, "Here we have children of survivors giving to people with no natural connection. We don't share a language, or fond historic memories, as the Kosovar Albanians joined the SS in World War II."
And 19-year-old David Galdi of Hackensack, N.J. said, "I thought that we were coming and that we were doing something great. But when we got there, I realized we are doing nothing at all." Everyone seemed to be experiencing these same contradictions. That as dismal as what we'd seen was, it was not like what our families went through. But it is horrifying, nevertheless. And on the one hand, we felt a sense of accomplishment, we felt that our day and a half there did have an impact. But at the same time, we knew it was not enough. I am no different. But I think back to Nuredin Tahari, the architect whom I spoke with at length. At the end of our conversation, as we were saying goodbye, we shook hands. I wished him good luck, and then he said, "Thank you for speaking for us."
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