We returned to the Catholic cemetery where I, against the advice of my guide, walked up to a worker and asked him where the Jewish cemetery was. He didn’t know English and as my question was translated, his eyes widened. He looked me up and down and when he heard me addressed as “Edward” he let out a laugh. He then pointed down the road to the fire station and mimicked the smashing of something. I looked back and him and saw him thrusting the cross hanging from his neck toward me and said Polish words with a certain passion that seemed to violate the sanctity of the cemetery.

I turned to my guide for the translation but he was already walking toward the fire station. When I caught up, he pulled me back so I would not step onto the gravel that lined the driveway to the outdated fire truck. He explained that there was no Jewish cemetery. Around the time of World War II, the locals had uprooted the Jewish headstones and crushed them into the gravel that now lined the driveway.

I scooped up a handful of pebbles but time had smoothed away any trace of the Jews.

I noticed the worker still watching us. He pantomimed the smashing of what I now understood to be the smashing of headstones and laughed again. It took me a moment to adjunct to the realities of this Polish land: he was an antisemite. I asked my guide for confirmation and he made a face as if what I said had been glaringly obvious all along.

“But there are no Jews here anymore,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s part of our culture, my family, too. That’s why I study in Israel.”

“What did he say back there?”

“The killers of Christ don’t deserve a resting place.”