On the Mount of Olives
June 23, 2006
American cousins arrive in Jerusalem on a brief trip with their Jewish
Federation. Ed, a cousin-by-marriage, mentions that he's only recently
learned that his great-grandfather was buried on the Mount of Olives.
He's not sure of the year, but estimates between 1905 and 1915. Is
it possible to locate his grave?
According to Jewish tradition, the Redemption of the dead will begin on
the mountain ridge east of Jerusalem which has consequently been a preferred
place of burial for Jews. The name might mislead you: this is not a cemetery
with abundant fruit trees, neat rows, abundant flowers and grass. The
graves occupy stark, dusty hillsides, some in rows, and others in asymmetrical
patterns. There are 150,000 of them. Among the better- known of
those interred on the Mount of Olives are the prophets Zechariah, Hulda,
Haggai, and Malachi; Rabbis Ovadiah of Bartenura, Yehuda HaChasid, Shalom
Sharabi and Haim Ben Attar; modern leaders like Rabbi Isaac Abraham
Kook, and Henrietta Szold. But my cousin's great-grandfather isn't
famous and our information is sketchy. They'll only be in Jerusalem a
few days.
Nonetheless, I'm willing to give it a try. That's because I have great
faith in a feature of Israeli life: the informal information network.
A side-effect of our tumultuous national history is the willingness of
strangers to go out of their way to find old friends and relatives. This
turns out to be true for relatives who have passed away as well.
My first source is the burial society, one of a dozen in Jerusalem, whose
good and kind services I've used personally. But their records only go
back to the 1940's. They direct us to a municipal office where there's
a copy of Helkat Mehokek, a hand-written docket of names and sketches
created between 1906 and 1913 by Rabbi Asher Leib Brisk. Although his
ledger has recently been transcribed, the city doesn't have the search
index. Another tip leads us to the General Burial Society, also known
as Prushim, established in 1855 by the new immigrant students of the Vilna
Gaon. It was headed by the legendary rabbis Shmuel Salant and Yosef Haim
Sonnenfeld, whose great-grandson Shmuel Gelbstain answers the phone. The
Society had enough walkie-talkies in 1967 to lend them to the army, and
they've had computers since the early 1980's. The records and notes of
their activities in Jerusalem have been computerized. Within minutes,
the computer produces the section name, row and plot number of Cousin
Ed's great-grandfather. Also the year: 1913.
This is thrilling news, but now we have to find the grave. I warn my cousins
this won't be easy, but they're game. My personal connections include
the phone number of the caretaker of Henrietta Szold's grave, but it's
Friday, a day of prayer for Abed, and he doesn't answer. Early in the
morning, we drive through the Old City and reach the foot of the cemetery.
A booth marked "information" is shuttered. I approach Palestinian
workers in the cemetery for help. A lad responds with alacrity and transverses
the hillside making numerous inquiries while we wait. He agrees to
show us the way and we climb roads so slim that even in my diminutive
Toyota Yaris we are forced to pull over to the side of the road for downhill
traffic to pass. He gets us to the correct area where two Jewish young
men are guarding, and returns to join the work crew. The guards suggest
we consult the Burial Society, available even on an early Friday morning.
This time, Shmuel's brother Yaakov answers when I call back on my cell
phone. He directs us back to the main road, to enter the cemetery exactly
across from the gas station and to call back.
"Now what do you see?� he asks. I describe the closest grave, reading
the name on the tombstone. "Excellent," he says, and directs us through
right and left turns, until we arrive at a row of graves abutting a metal
fence.
These graves have no tombstones. Even nine centuries ago, travel writer
Rabbi Binyamin of Tudela records desecration on the Mount of Olives. Crusaders
used the tombstones to build houses. The desecration of the graves before
us is more recent. Between 1948 and 1967, the tombstones were used
for home construction, the section plowed under to make way for a Jordanian
road. After the Six Day War, Shmuel and Yaakov's grandfather Rabbi Mendel
Gelbshtain gathered 50 men to dig out the graves. It took four years of
working with old maps and records to put the puzzle together. They think
they got it about ninety percent right.
"The grave you are looking for is either the first or the second in the
row," Yaakov tells me.
My cousins have followed the morning procedures with fascination. We experience
a moment of triumph, but it yields quickly to the piercing poignancy of
this moment, as Ed stands before his great-grandfather's grave. I have
a psalter in my purse. "In Jerusalem, you can never tell when you need
one," I explain.
King David's offspring are buried in this cemetery, too. His words are
a balm as Ed reads "Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of
mine enemies, Thou anoint my head with oil, My cup runneth over."
The sun is coming out from behind a cloud. The scent of Jerusalem, a mix
of thyme, pine and yes, olives, fills the air. I check my watch.
The morning journey has taken less than an hour. My cousins can catch
up with their tour group.
Ed doesn't know much about his ancestor. That is another trail we to explore.
Shmuel Gelbstain later tells me that the cemetery is a frequent source
of connectedness. Ours is one of some 30 calls a day he receives. Visitors
often link up with other unknown living relative who make inquiries. �We're
the end of the thread," he says, translating a Hebrew expression � �Or
maybe the beginning.�
