A New Haggadah:
Retelling the Shoah
A Message for
Holocaust Memorial Day
April 28, 2014
By Rabbi Boaz D.
Heilman
Today we observe Yom Ha-Shoah
V’ha-G’vurah—the Day of Remembrance of the Holocaust and Heroism—the single
greatest catastrophe to befall the Jewish People in 2000 years.
On this day, once again as she has for 70 years now, my
mother is reliving her memories of the Shoah.
Not unscathed, she managed to escape, reaching Israel (then called
“Palestine” and under the British mandate) on March 5, 1944. Growing up, I heard bits and pieces of these
accounts. But it wasn’t until a few
years ago that I finally heard the entire story of her harrowing journey. What strikes me most is two things: 1) her recollection, sometimes triggered by
the waning light on a late afternoon, of wondering where she would be sleeping
that night; and 2) that of the four times that she managed to escape the
clutches of the Nazis, twice she was let go by a Gestapo officer.
It’s a story of heroism, but also a story of
friendship. My mother was member of a
Zionist youth group that banded early during those fateful years. It was a tightly knit group, as close as
family, if not closer. They helped one
another as well as each other’s friends and relatives. Working together, they established an
underground railroad that enabled most of them to survive.
Not all survived. But
those who did vowed never to forget.
They started new lives and new families.
They established homes and communities.
Many of them were among the first fighters for the State of Israel. Some became members of K’nesset (Israel’s
parliament); supreme-court justices; prominent lawyers, professors, teachers
and business entrepreneurs. But every
year, on the 29th of November, they have been gathering for a joyful (and,
often, tearful) reunion. This was the
date on which two members of this exceptional group were slated to be executed
by the Nazis. Coincidentally also the
birthday of one of the two, they both survived because that very day, the
prison they were held in was liberated by the Soviet Army. Their annual get-together has become a
tradition that now continues with their children, grandchildren and even
great-grandchildren.
At first, the survivors’ stories were slow to come out. Many wanted to leave those terrible times
behind, preferring to live in the moment, not in the past. Many found that what they told was received
with disbelief (the ultimate insult) and so they stopped telling.
But as time marched on and as more and more survivors passed
on, the need to tell the stories of heroism and survival became more and more
compelling. Even those who wished to
forget found that they could not escape the past. It came upon them stealthily, in fitful
nightmares and in daytime terrors.
Many saw it as a sacred mission, a mitzvah, an eleventh
commandment: Never forget!
Each person is a story. Every survivor has a harrowing tale to tell
of miracles and unspeakable loss, of horrors only the most evil and corrupt of
human hearts could devise and execute.
Six million souls can never tell their stories. Of the two million who survived in Europe,
too few have spoken, and for many it is now too late.
And what of us—the 2nd, 3rd and 4th generation
survivors? What is our obligation
today? What commandment must we uphold?
I would say there are two:
Never forget and Never again.
Like the story of our Exodus from Egypt, every year we must
tell and retell the miracle of our survival.
Unlike Passover, however, we must tell our children that this modern-day
miracle was wrought not only by the outstretched arm of God (and the Allies),
but also by our own determination and heroism.
To live another day in the ghetto, to survive another night in the
forests or to live in constant fear, cared for by courageous strangers, was an
act of resistance, hope and resilience that bespeaks volumes. To learn how to make a Molotov cocktail and
use it well against a German tank; to smuggle a rusty gun through sewer tunnels
and learn how to fire it accurately because there were only so few bullets you
could buy, steal or beg; to share a single bowl of watery soup with your baby
brother—these were daily acts of courage and heroism, no less miraculous than
the Parting of the Red Sea.
We must never forget
the people who made these miracles happen.
And never again must we allow such a catastrophe to befall
our people. Never. For too long we have
depended on others to protect and defend us; for too long we have wandered from
country to country, saddled with memories and tragedies and little else. We must now take upon ourselves the
responsibility of defending ourselves.
To live in peace—that is our dream.
To live, to remember and to never let a Holocaust happen again—that is
our sacred obligation.
Never again. It’s an oath of holiness we must take upon
ourselves, a covenant we must observe with all our heart, with all our soul,
and with all our might.
© 2014 by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
No comments:
Post a Comment