The Great Action
By: Ashleigh Morris
Content Warning: Depiction of a Holocaust Event
“It wasn’t a human grave. The field of massacre turned into a mass grave. The western side of the Ninth Fort became the victims’ eternal resting place.”
– Mindaugas Kuodys
I was born on a cursed day. What are the odds that my birth would coincide with the same day that marks the horrific demise of several of my ancestors – people whom I cannot even name? If the God my people worship truly exists, he must have a bone to pick with me. Today marks another year of me growing older. Instead of celebration, those very ancestors come to haunt me. My Dear Adonai, if you exist, why must you torment me with my family’s restless phantoms? Is my existence that much of an insult to you?
As the only daughter of an Orthodox, Lithuanian-Jewish family, I should be thankful for the life I have: a roof over my head, my own room, a family. But as I look around each and every wall, I see the colors of a flag to a country I feel no connection to. I detest these colors. Such
hideous shades of yellow, green, and red. They should be sacred to me, as they represent home. Under no circumstances would I ever consider Lithuania my home, for I am forced to live through the atrocities that were brought forth to those who came before me. I dread the moment they come to me.
Within this decaying house, old fragments of my wretched family line every nook and cranny. Crumpling portraits hang in ornate brass frames, a stark contrast to the muted wallpaper. The faces of these people are filled with gloom as though they knew something horrific awaited
them. The men and women alike are adorned in black uniforms and head coverings, and the young children filled with naiveté. As I walk down the hall, the floorboards creaking with every step, I flit past many faces I should know. Their hair and eyes are dark as charcoal, the look of a
typical Jew. Right at the center of the hall is a large, oval mirror with gilded cracks. I cannot help but pause every time I near it. The face looking back is unlike those I should call my family.
Where they are shrouded in dark, distinct features, I have blonde hair and blue eyes. I see nothing of myself in any part of this house. At the end of this hall is my compact room, the only form of solace I have. Surrounding my rickety old bed are wooden bookshelves. Most of these tomes are written in Yiddish and Lithuanian, languages I hardly know. Such a shame! Perhaps if I had paid more attention to my parents’ language lessons, I may have learned something about my clairvoyance.
Are the answers to my problems written somewhere in these very tomes? Aside from moldy books, I possess a rather odd item passed down to me from my parents: a mossy-green jar filled with dirt. But not just any dirt. It comes from the Ninth Fort, the site of my ancestors’ brutal deaths, smuggled from Kaunas. How they managed to bring it across through the United States borders I do not know. Is this what my parents think of me? Something dirty, a disgusting reminder of what happened to their ancestors. Were they grandparents? Great aunts? Great uncles? I could not be bothered to memorize the family tree. I try not to ponder about such things too much, not lest they come to me.
I catch myself staring endlessly at my appalling wallpaper, eyes itching to blink. I am tired, but I cannot bring myself to close my eyes. As my vision becomes distorted, I begin to see hazy-grey mists. These specters start off with obscure features, only to turn into faces I do recognize. A man, a woman, and a little girl, a family I always assumed. Their clothes are ragged
and torn all over. I see them in shades of black and grey, save for one crucial detail. Sewn onto their clothes, right by their hearts, is a large, muted yellow star—the mark of a Jew.
“Adonai,” I say with contempt. I watch the ghoulish faces in front of me recoil in disgust.
They must hate that I use that word so freely.
I chuckle at them, “you have finally made them appear.”
The little girl, no older than six or seven, drifted toward me. Her eyes are permanently enlarged, having developed premature wrinkles around them. I detest how she always looked at me; those eyes have seen it all. And yet, I cannot look away. Now she floats beside me and
reaches out with tiny hands. I should have stepped back, but I am frozen in place. The specters have their hold on me, my room becoming harsh with cold air. When the little girl’s foggy hands reached my face, I felt a single tear fall. I touched her face, or at least I tried to do so. I cannot
touch these ghosts, but they sure can touch me. I hate these rules surrounding the restless undead. I closed my eyes at last. I do not see a void of nothingness. Instead, I am met with a day of carnage, coinciding with my ironic birth.
October 29, 1941. Kovno (Kaunas), Generalbezirk Litauen.
Kaunas was in shambles. A once thriving community of Lithuanian-Jews ruined by Nazi control. I watch thousands of somber faces, eyes dark and empty. The light that would be found in a living eye is nonexistent in my people. They may move in unison, but their minds and bodies want to—are begging to—give up. Little do they know that they are being led to the setting of
their violent massacre: the Ninth Fort.
When the Nazis seized control of Lithuania, the Ninth Fort became a place of mass
murder. Most Lithuanian-Jews were not sent to the traditional concentration camps; they awaited their deaths in large, crowded pits dug into their home dirt. I hover above one of those very pits. I cannot touch anything around me, but I feel some connection to the ground below me. Not a soul
can see me. I become the ghost here much like my ancestors are to me. My heart is racing as I watch three Schutzstaffel officers lead the way to the pits after they forced everyone out of the Kovno Ghetto.
I have seen what transpired a multitude of times, pressed upon me by restless ghosts. The anticipation stings every time. This is where multiple people I cannot name met their deaths, those who would become the ghouls that haunt me day and night. I cannot look away. I want to look away. I beg my eyes to look anywhere else. But alas. My body always forces me to turn to the scene of forthcoming atrocity. Thus began what the Nazis call The Great Action. After several long, painstaking hours, the forceful march of nine thousand Jews, an even split of adults and children, took a halt. Each of their bodies trembled. The men tried to hide their immeasurable pain, only to wail from the fatigue in their legs from marching at the start of dawn.
The women shrieked like banshees while trying to calm their children. The only source of comfort for these victims was being grouped with each other’s families. Perhaps the Nazis wanted to express a touch of generosity for once. Such kindness was short-lived.
Invited to watch the humiliation of their neighbors, a large spectatorship of non-Jewish Lithuanian citizens made their presence, many of whom were collaborators with the German soldiers. I stare at them all with contempt.
“Filthy cowards.” I muttered under my breath.
The part I dreaded most has come. A German speech I had the words memorized (I did not know it in English) was announced to the Lithuanian-Jews. One by one, each person was called forward, including my three ghostly kin. They looked out into the crowd, at me; can
they sense my presence? Men, women, and children alike are pushed into these pits. I cannot hear their cries anymore, for they have become so crowded they muffled each other’s attempts at desperate pleas for help. My body flinched for each person who fell.
Blood, blood of the Lithuanian-Jew, was shooting up my esophagus. I cough. I choke. I cannot say anything to stop the horrors in front of me. Machineguns lined the pits, and a series of gunshots howled through the air. One gunshot, one person dead. Thousands more echo, covering the sky with their smokey aftermath.
The cries have silenced, and surviving prisoners begin to clean out the pits of the new corpses. I try to distinguish my ancestors’ faces from the pale-dead horde, but to no avail. No matter how many times I am forced to recollect these events, they are lost to me.
I open my eyes at last, my body feeling heavier than ever. My face is still covered in the same tears I cried out while watching the massacre of my people. I may resent the existence of the specters in front of me, but I understand why they ended up this way. Within my disdain is
some semblance of sympathy, but that disappears once my tears dry out.
When I am finally able to speak once more, I yell, “Why must you all torment me like this?”
The three ghosts gawk at me with their empty eyes. They cannot understand me, but I
knew that already. The little girl was still right in front of me, with the man and woman right
behind. They each try to put their hazy hands on me.
“Palik mane ramybėje!”
I bellowed out in their native tongue, fortunate to know that basic command. My pronunciation must have been atrocious, for they refused to step away. In one last attempt to drive them out, I grabbed the jar of dirt on my bookshelf, wielding it like a two-handed weapon. Each of the ghouls flinched, floating away from me.
“After all this time,” I said, a small smile curling on my face. “This is all it took for you to flee?”
The ghosts looked at me with somber expressions. Are they mocking me? I poured a small amount of the dirt into my hand and threw it at the little girl, who was still the closest to me. She squealed incomprehensibly. I could not help but smile even bigger. I grabbed more dirt from the jar and threw it at the much larger phantoms. They too started to scream like a pathetic couple, grabbing onto each other and moaning endlessly. I threw even more dirt at the ghouls. More to the point where there was nothing left in the jar. Their screams became louder and louder until they were no longer here.
A grey haze surrounded my room. It made a soft, quiet hum. The peace was interrupted by me throwing the jar against the wall, glass shards scratching at the decrepit wallpaper. I stare at where the ghosts once floated. My breath may have been heavy, but my body was no more.
For the first time in years, I felt free.
“At last!” I shout with joy. “I am free from a haunted heritage I did not choose! This great action of mine has saved me from the excruciating pain of my family history!”