Following their June 22, 1941 invasion of Lithuania, German forces implemented a unique method of systematic extermination. Unlike the concentration camp model employed elsewhere, the Lithuanian operation utilized existing forest landscapes as execution grounds. The Germans commandeered local Jews from towns and villages, transporting them to nearby forests where they were forced to dig their own graves or, as in Ponary's case, utilized pre-existing pits.

The Ponary killing site, situated approximately 6 miles from central Vilnius, exemplifies the brutal efficiency of this approach. German forces appropriated eight large pits originally intended for fuel storage, each spanning 98 feet in diameter and reaching the depth of a two-story building. The site's strategic value stemmed from its railway access and natural concealment from Allied reconnaissance.

Between 1941 and 1944, these pits became mass graves for approximately 100,000 victims, including 70,000 Jews. The scale of this atrocity becomes particularly stark when considering that the death toll equals the population of a medium-sized Israeli city, all murdered within an area comparable to a shopping center parking lot.

The killing process followed a chillingly methodical pattern. After the liquidation of the Vilnius ghetto, victims arrived by train at Ponary station. In a cruel psychological manipulation, German authorities forced some Jews to write postcards describing the site as a pleasant labor camp before leading them to their execution. These messages, reaching families after their loved ones' deaths, served as a devastating form of deception.

Lithuanian collaboration proved particularly extensive. Local auxiliaries managed victim lineups at the pit edges, where German forces conducted the executions. Journalist Kazimierz Sakowicz documented not only the afternoon gunfire but also the systematic looting of victims' belongings by local residents, who established impromptu markets for stolen clothing and possessions.

As German military defeats mounted, authorities initiated "Order 1005" to eliminate evidence of their crimes. This operation forced approximately one hundred Jewish prisoners to exhume and burn corpses. Physical evidence of this gruesome task remains visible today in the form of a conveyor-like apparatus used to raise bodies from the pits.

Yet amid this darkness, research reveals that approximately ten percent of Lithuania's wartime population actively assisted Jews. Yad Vashem has recognized 900 Lithuanians as Righteous Among the Nations, the second-highest per-capita rate globally. This figure represents only those who risked their lives to save Jews, excluding thousands who provided food, medicine, or temporary shelter.

Lithuania's contemporary relationship with this history proves complex. While it stands as the only nation outside Israel to establish a formal Holocaust commemoration day (September 26, marking the Vilnius ghetto's liquidation), local attitudes remain mixed. Reports indicate that Ponary village youth have repurposed some killing site paths as bicycle tracks, while other pits serve as recreational areas, highlighting ongoing tensions between memorialization and normalization.

Today's Ponary Forest presents a deceptive tranquility. A three-story monument, augmented in 2005 with a plaque commemorating Israeli President Moshe Katsav's visit, stands amid the towering trees. The site's profound silence, broken only by visitors' footsteps, belies its horrific history. Memorial stones in Lithuanian mark various pits, while the 984-foot distance between the village and killing grounds raises enduring questions about civilian complicity and witness.

For contemporary visitors, particularly Jewish tourists to Vilnius, Ponary represents not merely a historical site but a moral imperative. Its grounds demand witness not only during formal commemoration days but as an essential testament to both humanity's capacity for evil and the critical importance of remembrance.

This sacred obligation to remember transcends traditional tourism, establishing Ponary as a crucial pilgrimage site for understanding the full scope of the Holocaust's devastation.

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In a powerful demonstration of Jewish continuity, a 17th-generation descendant of the legendary Rabbi Judah Loew, known as the Maharal, was circumcised in Prague's historic Altneuschul (old-new synagogue), while photos of Israeli hostages held in Gaza adorned its medieval walls.

The infant is the grandson of Prague's Chabad emissary, Rabbi Manis Barash. Following the ceremony, during the celebration, it was revealed that the baby would be named Shneur Zalman, after the founder of Chabad Hasidism, known as the Alter Rebbe, who was himself a seventh-generation descendant of the Maharal.

The Maharal is traditionally believed to be a descendant of King David. The Alter Rebbe's seminal work, the Tanya, explicitly acknowledges its intellectual debt to the Maharal's writings. The ceremony marked a profound historical circle: the last circumcision performed in the Maharal's synagogue was 27 years ago – when the current baby's father was circumcised in the same location.

I stood moved among the congregation near the reading platform where the grandfather and the baby's father stood, with the grandfather seated in Elijah's Chair. Above the synagogue seats, photographs of the hostages held in Gaza lined the walls of the Altneuschul. The atmosphere was deeply affecting – we were participating in an event of profound historical significance beyond just a private family celebration.

Standing there, I physically felt the meaning of "Am Israel Chai." Four centuries have passed since the Maharal stood in this exact spot, and here, his descendants and his people continue to maintain the same traditions, ceremonies, and commandments in the very same place. The past 400 years have seen countless historical events, both positive and negative – pogroms, the Holocaust, the October 7 tragedy – yet our people continue to live and observe the same customs. What other nation would persist like this for 400 years?

Two legends are associated with this place. The first is that stones from the ruins of the Temple in Jerusalem were brought here and incorporated into the synagogue's foundation. The second is that the remains of the "Golem" created by the Maharal to protect Prague's Jews rest in the synagogue's attic.

Some say the name "Altneu" means "on condition" in Yiddish. The synagogue was built on the condition that when the Messiah came, they would remove the Temple stones and bring them up to the Land of Israel. But the truth is less prosaic. "Alt-neu" simply means "old-new" in Hebrew. Initially, it was called "The New Synagogue," but as more synagogues were built in the Jewish quarter, one was named "The New." They added the word "old" to the older one to distinguish between the two synagogues, hence its name "Old-New."

The building is rectangular with a high, pointed Gothic-style roof. The ceiling soars high above, composed of six pentagonal vaults supported by two columns. The walls feature 12 windows representing the tribes of Israel. The ark is made of marble, topped by a pointed arch with stone ornaments. In the center of the synagogue stands an elevated platform surrounded by iron railings. Biblical verses and acronyms adorn the walls. The wall separating the main hall from the women's section has narrow windows to allow the cantor's voice to reach the women's area.

This is the only synagogue in the world where "A Psalm for the Sabbath" is recited twice. One Sabbath evening, the Maharal forgot to deactivate the Golem, which went out into the street and began to rampage. The Maharal was informed of this during the "Psalm for the Sabbath" prayer. He immediately left for the street, returned the Golem, and deactivated it. Afterward, the rabbi returned to the synagogue and recited the "Psalm for the Sabbath" from the beginning. Since then, this synagogue uniquely maintains the tradition of reciting the Sabbath psalm twice during Friday evening services.

Just a minute's walk away stands the Spanish Synagogue, considered Prague's most beautiful. Its interior is breathtaking. The Spanish Synagogue has no connection to Sephardic traditions or Spanish exiles  – it earned its name because the Alhambra Palace inspired its interior design in Spain. The walls are covered with Moorish-style mosaics featuring pure gold ornaments weighing two kilograms.

Glass cabinets line the walls, displaying religious artifacts, Holocaust exhibits, Jewish soldiers who served in the Czech army, and prominent Jewish families. Franz Kafka and Sigmund Freud once prayed here during Jewish holidays. Today, the synagogue serves as a museum of Bohemian Jewish history and the Holocaust rather than an active house of worship.

Another stunning synagogue is the Jubilee Synagogue, inaugurated in 1906 following the clearing of the Jewish quarter. It was named "Jubilee" in honor of Emperor Franz Josef's silver jubilee. After the fall of the Iron Curtain, it was renamed "Jerusalem Synagogue" due to its location on Jerusalem Street.

Built-in Art Nouveau style with Moorish design elements, its facade features a large blue arch inscribed with the verse "This is the gate of the Lord through which the righteous may enter," with a large window centered by a Star of David. The facade's ornaments and carvings are painted gold.

The prayer hall is divided into two rows of seats, above which seven arches support the women's gallery. The arches and gallery railings are painted in vibrant colors and adorned with biblical verses. Large windows with colorful stained glass illuminate the space. The ark is decorated with a relief of the tablets of the covenant and grape vines. This is one of the most magnificent synagogues I've ever seen. Despite its distance from the city center, it's a must-visit site.

The former Jewish quarter is now called "Josefov," named after Emperor Joseph II, who granted emancipation to the Jews. Many Jews acquired education and property, allowing them to advance in life and move to new neighborhoods. The crowded Jewish quarter was left with the poor and elderly living in harsh, unhygienic conditions. At the beginning of the last century, authorities decided to demolish the quarter's buildings to install a sewage system. Only the Meisel, Klausen, and Pinkas synagogues were preserved.

Mordecai Meisel was the wealthiest Jew in 16th-century Europe. He helped the emperor finance wars against the Ottomans. Among Jews, he was known as a philanthropist who donated to the needy and established synagogues, study houses, and a hospital. In 1592, he built a private synagogue adjacent to his home, which bears his name. The original building burned down and was rebuilt. What we see today is the structure after a thorough renovation in 1905. Since the Holocaust, it no longer serves as a synagogue, but functions as a Jewish museum. Its walls display Torah ark curtains and covers for Torah scrolls. Opposite the entrance, a tall partition features a large screen showing a virtual tour of the Jewish quarter before its demolition.

The Pinkas Synagogue was built in the 15th century by Rabbi Aaron Meshulam Horowitz and named after his brother Pinchas. Only the ark and platform remain from the original synagogue, with the benches removed. The walls bear 77,297 names of Bohemian Jews murdered in the Holocaust.

The women's gallery on the second floor houses an exhibition of children's drawings from the nearby Theresienstadt concentration camp. The community tried to maintain normal life even in the camp, operating kindergartens and schools. The walls display children's drawings expressing feelings of fear and anxiety – justified, as all the children who created these drawings were murdered within months. Some of the drawings are heartbreaking.

From the Pinkas Synagogue, there is an exit to the Jewish cemetery, on the other side of which stands the Klausen Synagogue, the largest in the Jewish quarter, occupying the area of three houses. Mordecai Meisel built a complex of two synagogues adjacent to the cemetery for the burial society, alongside a yeshiva of the Maharal. The entire complex burned down in 1689, and the Klausen was built on its site in Baroque style.

Between these two synagogues lies the ancient Jewish cemetery, where great Jewish scholars are buried. A path winds through the cemetery, where we see simple tombstones alongside grand and large monuments. Several tombstones have explanatory plaques. It's worth pausing for prayer at the Maharal's grave.

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In this election, the undecideds are more important than in any other, because they will decide who becomes prime minister. Generally, undecided voters are only the fringes. This time, they're the main story.

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Generally speaking, at the start of an election campaign, about a third of voters are undecided. During the campaign most of them make a decision based on campaign propaganda and discussions with friends. Worldwide, only about 10% of voters are usually undecided by Election Day. About half of them will make their final decision only when they step into the voting booth, and half won't be able to decide. That's how it's always been in Israel.

Studies conducted in the US present a psychological profile of voters who are still undecided at the time of an election. They show that the hesitation isn't between two good candidates. The opposite – undecided voters find it hard to make a decision between who they see as bad politicians. Undecideds are predisposed against politicians. It's very hard for candidates to persuade them that their opponents are worse, because they already think so. If a campaign causes undecided voters to loathe the opponent, they won't vote for him or her, meaning that their default choice becomes to vote for the politician behind that campaign. This is the professional reason for election mudslinging.

An analysis of undecided voters in the US indicates that they are mostly white, non-college-educated women. Most African Americans, Hispanics, and college graduates make their decisions, and vote Democratic. We can assume that the situation in Israel is similar, that residents of the periphery hesitate less than the citizens of Tel Aviv.

Israeli left-wingers seem to be hesitating more this time. On one hand, they are disappointed by Blue and White leader Benny Gantz, who isn't laying out a path or an ideology, but they will never vote for Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Their lack of decisiveness is restricted to the left-wing bloc.

US studies can teach us about undecided Israeli voters, but only to a certain extent. This is because the parliamentary system in Israel cannot be compared to the US two-party system. The late Republican political consultant Arthur Finkelstein once told me, "When I look at two candidates, I'm happy that only one of them will be elected."

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