The New Yorker - USA (2022-04-18)

32 THENEWYORKER, APRIL 18, 2022

went on to explain that the holes matched
the calibre of the bullets used by the
executioners, and that the low-grade
background hum matched frequencies
that involved the numerical expression
of the letters that made up the names
of the dead. I couldn’t follow the ex-
planation, and wasn’t convinced that
Khrzhanovsky understood it, either.
Our footsteps on the mirrored plat-
form made the sound of breaking glass.
I have visited most Holocaust monu-
ments and memorials in Europe: the
small ones and the big ones, the elegant
ones and the inept ones. I had tried to
keep an open mind on my way to Babyn
Yar, but the ride, in a luxury car, and
Khrzhanovsky’s boastful tour had made
this difficult. Now, though, I found my-
self moved. This monument was unlike
any other: it was constructed of light,
temporary material; it pulled you in
without telling you exactly what to think;
and it made you feel alone in a fragile,
crackling, howling, grieving world. The
woman’s voice was now replaced with
that of a cantor in prayer.
Khrzhanovsky led me a short dis-
tance away from the mirrored platform

and pointed to a boulder with a tiny

viewfinder in it. I saw a rotating gallery

of prewar photographs of some of the

dead. We walked into an alley that runs

along the edge of the park, and I heard

something new: the sound of prayer had

faded, and a woman’s voice, half whis-

pering, said a name, then another. I now

noticed that a speaker was mounted on

every lamppost along the alley.

The next day, I went to Babyn Yar

again, without Khrzhanovsky. I rented

an electric scooter and rode around the

park. Somehow, amid the young fami-

lies with baby strollers and the teen-

agers hanging out after school, the ef-

fect of the audio installations was more

striking. In the alley, I felt that I kept

overhearing names said just over my

shoulder. Where once there had been

silence, now you could hardly come to

this park without being reminded of the

massacre. It was like walking around

Berlin, where the eye is always happen-

ing upon reminders of the Second World

War: an information stand telling you

that this was the site of Hitler’s bunker,

or the Stolpersteine—the “stumbling

stones” inlaid in sidewalks in front of

the last residences of Holocaust victims.

Khrzhanovsky told me that he planned

to create fifteen museums: of the Babyn

Yar massacre itself, of the Holocaust in

Ukraine and Eastern Europe, of local

history, of the lost world of Ukrainian

Jews, of the 1961 mudslide catastrophe,

of the history of oblivion, and some oth-

ers—he trailed off. More than half a

dozen permanent installations had al-

ready been completed at the Babyn Yar

site, including a tiny but fully functional

wooden synagogue, designed by the Swiss

architect Manuel Herz, built to open like

a giant crank-operated pop-up book. The

most controversial installation was Ma-

rina Abramović’s “Crystal Wall of Cry-

ing,” made of local coal interspersed with

large, protruding crystals, a work that

makes clear yet awkward reference to the

Western Wall, in Jerusalem. In her art-

ist’s statement, Abramović proposed that

visitors lean against the wall and medi-

tate on the tragedy of Babyn Yar. The

crystals were positioned to align with the

faces, chests, and bellies of people of dif-

ferent heights. The wall was ostentatious

and tone-deaf, unlike her best work. It

gave Khrzhanovsky’s detractors a sym-

FROM “THE TREES WITNESS EVERYTHING”

DISTANT MORNING

Another morning.

The trees always look the same.

I am different.

Each day, I am greedier.

How do trees refuse evening?

THAT MUSIC

Once, I fell in love

with the music, not the man.

When the music played,

my heart moved like paper boats.

When it stopped, I was eighty.

IN A CLEARING

My whole life, I thought

to mourn leaves falling. Now I

marvel at all the splitting.

TOTHE HAND

Someone is turning

the earth with wrenches, each turn

a bit closer to the end.

The earth is warmer.

The crickets are still singing,

rehearsing for the last day.

TOOL

We make tools to fix

everything—hammers, nails, wires

that we twist to hold

down or bend into beauty.

We make a small tree

into the shape we want, to

be slanted, silent.

The wire on my wrists cut in,

I take the shape of desire.

—Victoria Chang