Photo Series: Introduction

7 a.m. Moshav Shoshana, Israel

I sit cross-legged on the woven rug. Around me are boxes filled with photographs of various sizes, black and white images with cracks running through faces. There are also leather bound albums- black paper layered with photos of children, weddings, friends- all held in place with tiny transparent corners. Notes in my mother’s careful handwriting are scribbled in silver ink next to each photo. Names, dates, places. Some are snapshots of my childhood. But others, the photos I truly treasure, are of times before my own, when my history began. Some faces look like mine; others will forever remain unnamed.

Now I am surrounded with the past, with no clear place to begin. It is a late winter morning, the kind that tricks the heart into thoughts of spring and evening walks. The low hanging clouds outside my windows, the thick smell of coals coming from the potbelly stove, my heavy eyelids, all cast the dreamy mood of early evening although the day has just begun.

My grandparents have all passed away. I am sitting on my living room floor, in our homeland, yet far away from the beginning. My family began in the countries of Eastern Europe, where my grandparents lived and loved and dreamed like all other teenagers around the world. I pull out one photo at a time, study the faces, and look for traces of my father’s eyes, my mother’s tense smile.

In my family history is not easily passed along to younger generations. My paternal grandmother diligently taught me the recipes of her childhoods- goulash and sauerkraut, brisket in dark tomato sauce, golden soups with dense dumplings. As a young child, I would watch my grandmother cook, sitting quietly in the corner of her tiny kitchen. The warm air slowly filled with the scent of rising yeast and sizzling onions. She would explain how hot the oil should be before it was ready for the small ground beef patties to be dropped in for frying. She would demonstrate her careful technique, bent over the stove like a question mark, the oil hissing in the pan. I was instructed in the art of forming the perfect matzo balls to plop into hot bowls of chicken soup, but I was not told the real stories of my grandmother’s youth, suddenly destroyed by hatred and war.

So now I am left to piece together history through these tiny black and white fragments in a cardboard box.