Central to Jewish life in Lizhensk was its beautiful domed synagogue, adorned with pillars, stained glass windows and artwork depicting scenes from Psalms. The Germans chose Rosh Hashanah to make their entrance and burn it to the ground.
Toward the end of the war, when the Nazis could no longer find any live Jews to abuse, they attacked the cemetery, felling all the tombstones and using them to pave the marketplace. Miraculously, Reb Elimelech’s tomb survived and stands alone in its cave at the top of a hill.
I felt the aircraft slow and dip into its descent into the late afternoon clouds. As we neared the ground I could see Polish farmers and townspeople staring up in wonderment from snow-covered fields and rutted tracks. The whole town seemed to have turned out to see this first Boeing 747 ever to have landed in their tiny airport of Rzsesow.
Braking hard on the short runway, the captain steered toward a red-suited ground man beckoning him toward an apron crowded with other chartered planes. Excitedly waving his fluorescent paddles, he fussed over Boeing’s behemoth like a fisherman landing his biggest catch of the day. It was estimated that well over 3,000 Jews from America, Israel and continental Europe would pass through this little airport on this, its busiest day of the year.
On disembarkation, and under the watchful eye of Polish police and army personnel, there was a rush to the fleet of buses. Everyone needed to get to the grave in Lizhensk before the anniversary formally closed at nightfall.
On arrival in Lizhensk, I saw villagers transfixed by the scene of hundreds of chassidim emerging from fleets of buses that filled the narrow lanes of the former shtetl. They watched as long lines of dark-coated figures shuffled up the muddy track towards the burial cave which was aglow with the light of a thousand candles. Flanking the track were collectors for various charities and vendors of chassidic texts and sundry ”Melech Memorabilia.”
I imagined the scene as it had been described in old Lizhensk: ”Numerous stalls selling holy books and holy objects were set up both inside and outside. They also sold food and beverages in order to provide for the needs of the numerous visitors. I remember in particular the good taste of the traditional drink called ‘Yapczszik,’ which was a sort of fruit soup which was very tasty and overflowing. I always ran after my father and asked him to buy me cup after cup of this special drink. The entire city glowed with peacefulness during the course of these several days, as it absorbed the crowds of Jews who came from near and far.”
At the perimeter gate, a group of cohanim (descendants of the priesthood) stood in prayer by torchlight. Forbidden to enter any cemetery, it seemed unfair that they had traveled so many thousands of miles only to stop short of the last 20 yards. They would have to ask others to post their personal requests into the Rebbe’s tomb.
At the cave, hundreds of chassidim struggled to squeeze into an area not much larger than a double garage. The heat of all those candles was almost as fierce as the jostling for position. In spite of the pushing and shoving, everyone was good-natured and the only raised voices were those wailing Psalms. The grave itself is enclosed in what looks like a giant golden birdcage. Bodies pressed against the bars and fingers poked through the gilt wire mesh. The interior was already stacked high with scraps of paper inscribed with private pleas for the Rebbe to intercede in heaven to cure the sick, help with monetary needs or find worthy spouses for sons and daughters.
