The Jewish Cemetery on the Marjan

Sometimes I dream of a landscape in the east - I see plumes of oily pungent smoke rising up from a wicked city - I dream that I am half walking, half running, down the road to heaven - I can hear hoarse voices, in a language I do not understand -

I remembered these dreams when I went with Anne to the Marjan - from this wooded hill, you can look down upon Split - you can see the whole city, with its convents and palaces, its cathedral, its scorched squares - the hazy mountains beyond - the blue sky, with its vague clouds - the turquoise sea -

We'd climbed up a steeply rising street, then up many steps - we passed small stone houses with shuttered windows - within one garden, there was an old boat, resting upon a nest of dry reeds - there was only a thin ribbon of shade, for it was almost noon -

We gulped icy Oranginas in the cafe at the top - two pale English girls studied their Rough Guides - a young Croat with a brutal face told us that the cemetery gates were unlocked -

We'd come here to visit the Jewish cemetery - the tourist information we had said it was one of the oldest Jewish cemeteries in Europe - 

We walked amongst the pine trees growing over the tumbled graves - our boat shoes sank into a thick layer of pine needles - yellow butterflies zig zagged over the needles and patches of grass - all was silent - I felt immensely thirsty -

There were no graves after 1936 - I suppose the Ustase had got down to their vile work after that date -

At the far end of the cemetery, near the encircling wall, there was a tall pale stone - at its top was the  name, Rifka Finzi -

I realized that this stone must have been erected after the war - I felt my eyes fill with tears when I looked at the two tender naked figures - one raised his slim arms heavenwards - the other, smaller, head bowed, clasped his companion round the waist -

I wondered what story was remembered here - I thought of how ferocious winds had swept across Europe, blowing away mountains of ashes -