They walked along endless rows, peering at the names of the dead, looking for the tall matzeivah of Reb Yosef HaKohein

Sixty-three years after the war, my grandfather and an uncle got a chance to go back to the Hungary that was.

My grandfather was born in America, after the war, but he’d grown up on the stories. He knew the who, what, and when of the world that was before. He could tell you about the rich family tree, every last leaf. He could emphatically declare where your talent for singing, oratory skills, or whatnot, came from.

Going back was always on his agenda, and the opportunity finally arose when his rebbe made a trip to Eastern Europe, and a grandson from Eretz Yisrael was going to go to have his tefillin leigen. They would spend a beautiful Shabbos together with the Rebbe, but first take their own long-anticipated trip. He, my grandmother, and a son would land in Budapest Wednesday morning for a day and a half of exploring the places where our ancestors had lived and died.

They were going to do Oberland and Unterland, but he left the itinerary to his son, Moti. They had just a small window of opportunity, and Moti would figure out distances and what made sense.

As it happened, however, my grandfather wasn’t too pleased with Moti’s plans. Moti had decided on Unterland for Wednesday afternoon, and Oberland, from where it was easier to get to where the Rebbe was, for all of Thursday. The problem was that the bulk of the kevarim they wanted to visit were in Unterland and they really should’ve given Unterland the full day. But my grandfather only explained this when they were already in the car, driving from the airport, and there was nothing much to do about it. They’d see what they could get out of the afternoon.