I am finally back in my hotel room, leaving a long day behind. My room is sparse and quiet, but as I close my eyes, it is quickly filled with vivid voices, faces and stories that I have collected throughout the day.
A little boy approaches me in the hall and stretches out his hand. “Hi, my name is David.” His voice breaks with excitement but his handshake is surprisingly manly and strong. “I’ve been waiting for you, Americans, for so long, and finally you are here!” A little girl suddenly joins in. “I am happy too, and my name is Lili,” she says shyly in broken English, while her little ponytail is jumping with excitement.
Classes begin, and we are playing math Jeopardy. Two teams of students answer a question at exactly the same time, but one of the answers is missing a negative sign. I try to be kind and award partial credit – 10 points instead of the full 40 – as a consolation prize. But one of the boys gets very upset with my decision, “This is Hungary, not America. We have to earn our points, not be politically correct!”, he insists.
Another class starts, and after what feels like moments, the bell rings, and the lesson is over. “Please can we stay with you? We want more!” the students cry out. It’s comforting to hear the same exact words that I am used to back at BT.
A music teacher appears in one of my classes. He is full of ideas. First, he describes a Hungarian Jewish folk song about a bird that he wants all of the BT and SSG’s kids to sing together with a visiting gypsy group. I read the lyrics, but don’t get the meaning. Undeterred, he switches topics and tells us about his life, how he almost immigrated to America a few decades ago, only to change plans at the last minute because he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving his motherland.
A group of students gives us a tour around the school, and one of the boys points out the collection of images of alumni spread on the walls of the hallway, “Look, here is my father as an alumni,” and a few steps apart “and here is my grandma, she used to teach here, and next year it will be a picture of me”.
We’re now outside. One of the students, Abel, leads a tour of the Jewish quarters, ghetto, and synagogue. He is just 
a teenager but is as passionate, knowledgeable and poetic as a professional guide is. We stop by the shoe memorial. Everyone is shivering from the cold Danube wind. Abel’s voice is shaking as retells the story of the last walk when many Jews were forcefully escorted from the ghetto and then thrown into the river in the middle of winter. I see some kids’ lips moving in prayer. Others are hugging, their eyes wide and dark. Some kneel down next to the shoes, wiping tears. As we continue walking, BT students begin sharing their own family stories about extermination, atrocities and survival.
“Have you been to the House of Terror Museum?” I ask one of the teachers. (The museum commemorates the victims of both the Communist and the Nazi regimes in Hungary.) “No, never have, and never will. I’ve lived through that terror; I don’t need any more reminders of it”.
We are now in a flat synagogue. It’s just a small apartment, turned into a shul. We are all at the table, and suddenly a girl is singing a song about a bird. Papers with lyrics are spread at the table so everyone can join. The girl’s voice and melody fills your souls. It’s hard to breathe, my skin is crawling with goosebumps, and suddenly the meaning of the song is so clear. The whole room breaks into song, louder and louder.
I drift off into sleep, as the melody plays over and over in my head.
