There’s an old peasant in Radautz. He seems to live near the Jewish cemetery. According to my nephew E., who knows the Bukuvina a lot better than anybody I know, this man actually spends his days in the cemetery. And sure enough, as we get there, the gate is not locked and as we enter we hear distant hammering. He is hear, repairing headstones, re-coloring letters, pulling out some of the weeds that are overgrowing the place.
We are searching for my great-grandmother’s grave; Pessie Rennert, née Katz. Though she lived in the nearby village of Putna she was buried here. There is no jewish cemetery in Putna.
And the man comes up to us, unsure at first, then smiling friendly. I tell him my name. He tries to remember. Then his eyes lighten up and he shows us the way. At the request of my cousin G., he himself has mended this headstone just four or so years ago! We place a pebble each on her grave.
Later, after several hours of searching, finding, reading inscriptions, comparing notes in this peaceful, quiet place, as we pepare to leave and bid goodbye, he offers water to wash our hands. Unassuming, modest, smiling kindly he pours water from a plastic bottle: left hand, right hand, left, right, left, right. First for me, then for my brother.
I don’t know his name. I know nothing of him, except that he has a good soul. It is good to know that he is taking care of my ancestor’s grave.
