WASHING MY HANDS AT THE CEMETERY

Until today, because of my adherence to a specific Jewish law, I had never visited a cemetery.

When my Grandma (my Mum’s mother) died, I stood in the doorway of the funeral building and participated, at a distance, in the short prayer service. When my family walked down to the cemetery for the funeral ceremony, I stayed behind. I sat on a wall, overlooking a flower garden, waiting. My Grandma would have laughed and rolled her eyes at the absurdity of the archaic rules.

A year or so later, when the mother of my good friend passed away, I wanted to attend the funeral. My Mum was upset by the idea. “But you’re a Cohen,” she said to me, “ —please don’t go.” I attended the prayer service—I stood in a separate section, away from everyone else—but, respecting my Mum’s request, I didn’t enter the cemetery for the burial.

Cohen is my family name from my father’s side. Cohanim—with lineage passed through males—are considered to be the descendants of the biblical Aaron, the first high priest (and the brother of Miriam and Moses). In ancient times, Cohanim performed the duties of the Temple, including overseeing holy sacrifies of animals and grains. In many Jewish communities today, these priests continue to hold a special status.

As a teenager, during high holiday services, I removed my shoes, I held out my hands to be washed with cool water, and, at the front of the synagogue with the other Cohanim, I stood beneath my talit—my white and black prayer shawl—with my arms and clean hands and fingers outstretched to transmit a blessing onto the congregation.

Because of this and other responsibilities, Cohanim must follow specific rules to remain spiritually pure. One emotionally difficult rule is the prohibition of a Cohen to enter a cemetery. The only exception to this is for a Cohen to attend the funeral of his own parent, sibling, child, or spouse.

On school trips, while my classmates toured cathedrals, because the buildings contained tombs, I waited outside. In my late teens, during visits to Jerusalem, when my friends visited Israel’s national cemetery on Mount Herzl, I stayed on the bus. And I didn’t attend my Grandma’s burial or the burials of my uncles or the burial of my friend’s mother.

As I grew older, I began to adhere to the Reform Jewish position on the status of Cohanim: Since biblical lineage is impossible to determine, and since the notion of Cohanim contradicts the value of egalitarianism, I let go of my priestly identity.

A few weeks ago, I called my Mum. I explained to her that I’d be traveling to Poland for my work. I would be visiting sites of Nazi concentration camps and extermination camps and mass graves and cemeteries. I am a Cohen, but I’m also a Holocaust educator. I have obligations. To witness. To explore and to ask questions. And to teach. My Mum understood why I wanted to break the rule.

Today, as I took my first steps into the centuries old Remuh Cemetery in Kraków’s Jewish quarter, I whispered to my colleague that this was my first time in a cemetery and I briefly explained why. The Remuh Cemetery had been practically destroyed by the Nazi occupiers, our guide told us. We were now looking at a field of rescued gravestones that had been placed somewhat haphazardly over mostly anonymous Jewish graves. Assuming correctly that I wouldn’t know much about the rituals of visiting Jewish cemeteries, my colleague explained to me that it was customary to wash one’s hands when leaving such a site, as a symbol of spiritual cleansing.

We wandered along the pathways between the graves. At the back of the cemetery, broken pieces of gravestones had been pieced together to form part of the cemetery’s wall—a monument to the dead, a metaphor for the Nazi destruction, a reflection of Holocaust survivors’ attempts to rebuild their lives, a symbol of the re-emergence of Jewish life in Europe.

In the afternoon, we visited the site of the Nazi concentration camp at Płaszów (pronounced Pwashouv). The Nazis murdered thousands at Płaszów, mostly with bullets, including Polish Christians and Clergy, Polish Jews, political opponents of Nazism, and a group of Hungarian Jewish women originally destined for Auschwitz-Birkenau. Destroyed by the Nazis at the end of the war, Płaszów is marked by a handful of monuments. But the site looks like—and seems to be used as—a public park. Our guide pointed out a grass-covered dip in the landscape right in front of us—an unmarked mass-grave. We watched parents stroll around the “park” with their children. We watched one couple sitting on the grass taking photographs of their baby.

Earlier, by the exit of Remuh Cemetery, I noticed the sink for ritual hand washing. But I didn’t use it. “I'll wash my hands when I leave Poland,” I said to my colleague. “Or maybe never.”