Free Judenstaat by Simone Zelitch Page A

at the way she’s dressed. No one with money wears clothes like that. ”
    Kravitz ignored her, and said to Judit, “ I can show you his whole collection. It’s right here. ” He pointed to a box in plain sight, an overwhelming assortment of reels and videos, some in cases, some loose and clearly broken, and because she wasn’t sure what else to do, Judit sorted through the pile. Old habit overcame her, and by examining even the loose material she could estimate the age and country of origin: French, Soviet, American, and a few Bundist standards.
    Then she pulled out a canister that was clearly marked. She held it in her hand for a little too long.
    Shaindel peered at the label. “What’s that?”
    â€œ Shaindel, that’s not for you! ” Kravitz said. “ You shouldn’t see that kind of movie.”
    â€œ Is it dirty? ” Shaindel asked.
    â€œ The gentleman in question, well, let’s just say it must have been his favorite. He looked at it all the time. ” Then, to Judit, “ You want me to set up the projector? ”
    â€œI can run the film myself,” Judit said. She’d spoken German, but Kravitz had no trouble understanding her. He backed off, and studied her again.
    â€œ Experienced at this, lady? What’s your business, anyhow? ”
    The film was Monument. Judit had conducted the interview and edited the footage in 1980, four years before Hans died. It was a documentary about the Churban.

 
    5
    [Firebombing of Dresden by British and American forces as seen from the air. White flame pouring from collapsed dome of the Cathedral, ash and fire and blackened stone, then empty roads, strewn with rubble. A woman’s voice:]
    You begin with nothing. When I saw the bombs fall from the sky, it was like looking at the face of God.
    [A woman appears, standing underneath an awning, as rain falls on either side of her. She is past middle age, well dressed, with animated features and a nervous smile, a lot of gray in her curly brown hair.]
    No. It was more like looking at myself, like I was flattened. All that confusion behind us, during those days when we were marched, half-naked, starving, marched for miles through the snow in Poland, with liberation at our backs—the Soviet gunfire we heard everywhere—and then packed into that railroad car that took me, took me, of all places, took me back home.
    [Speaker identified. Caption: “Leahla Abramowitz.” She gestures towards the door.]
    This was my house in Dresden. My parents came here from Lodz after the Great War, and my father had a little optical business in the center of the Altstadt. I knew this neighborhood.
    [Photograph of a young girl holding a parasol in front of that same entrance, her face almost crazed with that same enthusiastic animation. Cut to the same old woman, holding an umbrella as she leads us down that same street where rain continues to fall.]
    This was the way I walked to school. It was just around the corner.
    [Building appears, blurred by rain, not in good condition, ramps extending from both sides, the windows dark. She approaches, and hesitantly opens the door. There’s a little wan sunlight spreading across the black and white tiles.]
    I think it’s a hospital or a nursing home now, but it was a Jewish school back in the ’20s and ’30s. I remember everything. And back across the railroad tracks—
    [Abramowitz makes a sweeping gesture.]
    That’s where we had our club. The Bundist club, where we met every afternoon.
    [Amateur footage with a hand-held camera, children banging pots and pans and wearing paper hats, as a young man, wearing a sandwich board with Yiddish writing, steps forward and recites something forcefully. A series of still photographs of exteriors, in grainy black and white, identifying structures as Abramowitz speaks.]
    Of course there were dozens of those clubs. The sports club, the craftsmen’s club, a