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Since this is the second night of Hanukkah, I thought that this would be a good story to share, perhaps it is a bit of fiction in a non-fiction background. A time of sadness, of the "Shoah" (The Holocaust) This is one of my short stories from my ebook "God Tales, An Anthology" So, enjoy it, if you can, or just meditate on the meaning and may we all learn from mistakes of the past, of unwarranted hatred which will have eternal consequences, as the promise made to Abraham, "I will bless those who bless you and curse those who curse you" there are two Hebrew words for "curse" one is "To make light of, or not consider a big thing, or to ignore" and the other is "to utterly destroy" So, What God is saying is "I will bless those who bless you and to those who make light of you, or to not consider you important, I will utterly destroy"
ONE HANUKKAH IN AUSCHWITZ
It was a very cold and snowy late afternoon when the prisoners of barracks 9 returned from their work. The bitter cold frost made the scrap metal stick to the men’s hands as the job required the prisoners to move mountains of metal from one place to another.
At times, it rained and the mud made it even harder to maintain a firm footing while pushing and pulling the giant scraps of iron that would be melted down to make more weapons for Hitler’s war machine. Some were sent to I.B. Farben’s factory to work, but even that meant slave labor.
The men were marched through the icy wind and snow flurries, clad in striped uniforms, ill-fitting shoes, thin jackets and caps while the bitter Polish cold numbed their arms, hands, legs, and feet.
Rabbi Faerman thought back a few years prior to his fateful transport from Kiev to the hell hold of Auschwitz. He pondered on the memories of family around the Sabbath Table, the lighting of the Shabbos candles, the prayers, his wife’s borscht, cholent, or fish with rich farm butter with black bread and cheese.
His old synagogue came to memory, with the rustic wooden benches, the wooden ark with the Torah scrolls, and the people who attended faithfully on the Sabbath and high holy days.
All these were just memories now. He looked around at the men in this marching group from barracks 9 and recognized a few from his town near Kiev. They had also attended the synagogue faithfully, celebrating the high holy days, enjoying life as they could in spite of the war. Now, they were all together in this place of suffering and anguish, where future dreams went up in smoke, where thoughts of family turned to ashes and dust as many became in this camp of death called Auschwitz.
The weary group of men passed under the iron gates with the words “Arbeit Macht Frei” above, with sneering guards and capos on the right and left. Those words just echoed another Nazi lie. Yes, work would indeed make them free, free from the land of the living, free to return to the dust of the earth from which they were made.
As the men marched passed the gates, rabbi Faerman looked to the right at the railroad tracks that lead him and his family to this place of suffering and woe. He looked at the platform where he was separated from his dear wife and children, amidst growling, snarling dogs and screaming guards.
He looked toward the crematorium chimneys that belched black smoke, where so many lives and dreams soared upward toward heaven. If only the God in heaven would someday bring justice to this act of human slaughter.
The group finally stopped in front of barracks 9. The guard counted the group and gave the report to the officer in charge. For rabbi Faerman and the others of barracks 9, it would be so easy to hate these monsters who called themselves “soldiers of the Reich” but hate would eat away at their hearts and souls, and in the end, they would be just like them. No better than a capo with a truncheon, or guards and officers with mousers and lugers, or Dr. Mengele in his clinic of horrors. Either hate would conquer love, or love would conquer hate. The choice was theirs.
Rabbi Faerman remembered the teaching of Torah. After all, did not God love the children of Israel, even when they were rebellious after having received the law? God could have rejected his people, and selected another. But no, the God of the universe chose to both forgive and keep on loving his children. Yes, he knew that love was better than hate, in the end; justice would be in the hands of the Almighty one of Israel.
The hard thing to do in a place like this would be to put love and forgiveness into action. He knew what he had to do. He would not allow hate to conquer his spirit. He was a rabbi and represented the Torah of Adonai, he had to remember that.
The evening count was given to the commandant. After that, the men formed a line and their dinner of watery potato or turnip soup was poured into small bowls, together with a few ounces of stale bread and cold coffee. The lucky ones were in the back of the line. They would receive a bit more substance than liquid gruel, as the bottom of the pot revealed more potato or turnip substance which ended up in their bowls.
Sometimes, the camp cooks would boil the rotten potatoes and turnips, making the soup somewhat rancid and bitter. Those who were “unlucky” to be at the end of the line got the rotten mush. Many who were hungry enough to eat it ended up getting sick. The sick could then report to the camp infirmary, thus skipping a day of work. At times, it was a fateful decision, because the sick many times received a very bitter medicine, a trip to the gas chamber and up the crematorium chimney in smoke.
Yes, it was a hard life in camp, and many of those who would survive, ended up with embittered souls in skeletal bodies. Others decided to end it all on the electric fence by their own hand.
The men entered barracks. One by one they found their way to their bunks. The bunks were three high. Usually, three men slept in each bunk not to mention the lice that made their home in the men’s' flesh and hair. Fortunately, in barracks 9 there were only 50 men at that time, making the barracks less crowded than usual.
The exhausted men sat down on their bunks. Some lay back and stared off into that seemed nothingness, trying to remember the pre-war years gone by, of family members gone by the way of ashes and dust. Some hoped of survival after this nightmare would be over. Others still held on to the hope of seeing loved ones again.
Rabbi Faerman looked around at the men. Most were Russian Jews, but some were Bulgarian, Hungarian, and Polish Jews. In spite of the language difference, they all had Yiddish in common which made a common linguistic ground. The other common ground was the misery and suffering they all shared. They also shared the faint hope of survival. Would they survive this camp of hell and see an end to this war?
“Where was God in a place like this?” they all seemed to wonder. The Spirit of God was indeed here, as it was in the brick and mortar pits in Egypt, as well as in the Babylonian captivity, and with each and every Jew in every corner of the world.
Faerman turned to look out of one of the barrack’s dusty windows. He saw three stars in the now darkening sky. It was the first night of Hanukkah, the 25th of Kislev.
He remembered many Hanukkah evenings at home. His wife would prepare a special dinner. His children, brothers and sisters would sit around the old wooden table. They would then take turns lighting the candles of the special menorah. His wife would light the middle candle, the Shamash, and would then take the first candle and allow the flame of the Shamash to give it light. All would then say a prayer and a blessing. There would always be a “story teller” who would retell the story of the Maccabees and how they drove out the Greek-Syrians from the land of Judea, and how the temple was cleaned and rededicated to the service of God.
After dinner which always included potato latkes fried in schmaltz, the children would play games and search for pieces of chocolate hidden around the house. The special Hanukkah menorah was also lit in the synagogue. Families would often stop by in the evening to pray and read the Psalms. Some brought special gifts to the rabbi and his family. The eight days of Hanukkah were very special indeed.
Now, barracks 9 was Faerman’s synagogue, with 50 men who lost all hope. Battered and torn, souls ripped to shreds, living skeletons which were once robust and full of joy. He would be the shepherd of these men, whose job would be to comfort and give hope to these 50 sheep in midst of the wolves of the third Reich. Somehow, he would have to restore their faith. Yes, Hanukkah would be celebrated, and tonight, somehow, some way.
He looked at the table which sat in front of the window. It was a large, long, wooden table where the men often sat, and talked about home. Some would just sit and stare into space, taking small bites out of small morsels of hard biscuits, which often times they would have hidden inside their ragged clothing.
The rabbi would often look out the window, his thoughts taking him back to Kiev, to his family, home, and humble synagogue. Auschwitz, however, was now reality. He needed only to look at the numbered tattoo on his arm, and at the men around him, the remnants of once strong, healthy children of Abraham.
Rabbi Faerman once again looked up at the night sky, the few stars that were out seemed to look down upon the camp of doom, offering a spark of hope, hope to see an end of this madness and hell, an end to needless suffering and pain. Somehow, the lights of Hanukkah would offer hope and triumph over this darkness and evil. As the Maccabean army triumphed over the forces of Antiochus Epiphanes, they would triumph over the forces of the third Reich, and an end to the Antiochus of Germany. The re-dedication of the temple in Jerusalem offered hope to the Judeans back then. It would be no different now, even now in this time of agony and strife under the iron cross of the Reich. (keeping on reading, scroll down, the story continues)
ONE HANUKKAH IN AUSCHWITZ
It was a very cold and snowy late afternoon when the prisoners of barracks 9 returned from their work. The bitter cold frost made the scrap metal stick to the men’s hands as the job required the prisoners to move mountains of metal from one place to another.
At times, it rained and the mud made it even harder to maintain a firm footing while pushing and pulling the giant scraps of iron that would be melted down to make more weapons for Hitler’s war machine. Some were sent to I.B. Farben’s factory to work, but even that meant slave labor.
The men were marched through the icy wind and snow flurries, clad in striped uniforms, ill-fitting shoes, thin jackets and caps while the bitter Polish cold numbed their arms, hands, legs, and feet.
Rabbi Faerman thought back a few years prior to his fateful transport from Kiev to the hell hold of Auschwitz. He pondered on the memories of family around the Sabbath Table, the lighting of the Shabbos candles, the prayers, his wife’s borscht, cholent, or fish with rich farm butter with black bread and cheese.
His old synagogue came to memory, with the rustic wooden benches, the wooden ark with the Torah scrolls, and the people who attended faithfully on the Sabbath and high holy days.
All these were just memories now. He looked around at the men in this marching group from barracks 9 and recognized a few from his town near Kiev. They had also attended the synagogue faithfully, celebrating the high holy days, enjoying life as they could in spite of the war. Now, they were all together in this place of suffering and anguish, where future dreams went up in smoke, where thoughts of family turned to ashes and dust as many became in this camp of death called Auschwitz.
The weary group of men passed under the iron gates with the words “Arbeit Macht Frei” above, with sneering guards and capos on the right and left. Those words just echoed another Nazi lie. Yes, work would indeed make them free, free from the land of the living, free to return to the dust of the earth from which they were made.
As the men marched passed the gates, rabbi Faerman looked to the right at the railroad tracks that lead him and his family to this place of suffering and woe. He looked at the platform where he was separated from his dear wife and children, amidst growling, snarling dogs and screaming guards.
He looked toward the crematorium chimneys that belched black smoke, where so many lives and dreams soared upward toward heaven. If only the God in heaven would someday bring justice to this act of human slaughter.
The group finally stopped in front of barracks 9. The guard counted the group and gave the report to the officer in charge. For rabbi Faerman and the others of barracks 9, it would be so easy to hate these monsters who called themselves “soldiers of the Reich” but hate would eat away at their hearts and souls, and in the end, they would be just like them. No better than a capo with a truncheon, or guards and officers with mousers and lugers, or Dr. Mengele in his clinic of horrors. Either hate would conquer love, or love would conquer hate. The choice was theirs.
Rabbi Faerman remembered the teaching of Torah. After all, did not God love the children of Israel, even when they were rebellious after having received the law? God could have rejected his people, and selected another. But no, the God of the universe chose to both forgive and keep on loving his children. Yes, he knew that love was better than hate, in the end; justice would be in the hands of the Almighty one of Israel.
The hard thing to do in a place like this would be to put love and forgiveness into action. He knew what he had to do. He would not allow hate to conquer his spirit. He was a rabbi and represented the Torah of Adonai, he had to remember that.
The evening count was given to the commandant. After that, the men formed a line and their dinner of watery potato or turnip soup was poured into small bowls, together with a few ounces of stale bread and cold coffee. The lucky ones were in the back of the line. They would receive a bit more substance than liquid gruel, as the bottom of the pot revealed more potato or turnip substance which ended up in their bowls.
Sometimes, the camp cooks would boil the rotten potatoes and turnips, making the soup somewhat rancid and bitter. Those who were “unlucky” to be at the end of the line got the rotten mush. Many who were hungry enough to eat it ended up getting sick. The sick could then report to the camp infirmary, thus skipping a day of work. At times, it was a fateful decision, because the sick many times received a very bitter medicine, a trip to the gas chamber and up the crematorium chimney in smoke.
Yes, it was a hard life in camp, and many of those who would survive, ended up with embittered souls in skeletal bodies. Others decided to end it all on the electric fence by their own hand.
The men entered barracks. One by one they found their way to their bunks. The bunks were three high. Usually, three men slept in each bunk not to mention the lice that made their home in the men’s' flesh and hair. Fortunately, in barracks 9 there were only 50 men at that time, making the barracks less crowded than usual.
The exhausted men sat down on their bunks. Some lay back and stared off into that seemed nothingness, trying to remember the pre-war years gone by, of family members gone by the way of ashes and dust. Some hoped of survival after this nightmare would be over. Others still held on to the hope of seeing loved ones again.
Rabbi Faerman looked around at the men. Most were Russian Jews, but some were Bulgarian, Hungarian, and Polish Jews. In spite of the language difference, they all had Yiddish in common which made a common linguistic ground. The other common ground was the misery and suffering they all shared. They also shared the faint hope of survival. Would they survive this camp of hell and see an end to this war?
“Where was God in a place like this?” they all seemed to wonder. The Spirit of God was indeed here, as it was in the brick and mortar pits in Egypt, as well as in the Babylonian captivity, and with each and every Jew in every corner of the world.
Faerman turned to look out of one of the barrack’s dusty windows. He saw three stars in the now darkening sky. It was the first night of Hanukkah, the 25th of Kislev.
He remembered many Hanukkah evenings at home. His wife would prepare a special dinner. His children, brothers and sisters would sit around the old wooden table. They would then take turns lighting the candles of the special menorah. His wife would light the middle candle, the Shamash, and would then take the first candle and allow the flame of the Shamash to give it light. All would then say a prayer and a blessing. There would always be a “story teller” who would retell the story of the Maccabees and how they drove out the Greek-Syrians from the land of Judea, and how the temple was cleaned and rededicated to the service of God.
After dinner which always included potato latkes fried in schmaltz, the children would play games and search for pieces of chocolate hidden around the house. The special Hanukkah menorah was also lit in the synagogue. Families would often stop by in the evening to pray and read the Psalms. Some brought special gifts to the rabbi and his family. The eight days of Hanukkah were very special indeed.
Now, barracks 9 was Faerman’s synagogue, with 50 men who lost all hope. Battered and torn, souls ripped to shreds, living skeletons which were once robust and full of joy. He would be the shepherd of these men, whose job would be to comfort and give hope to these 50 sheep in midst of the wolves of the third Reich. Somehow, he would have to restore their faith. Yes, Hanukkah would be celebrated, and tonight, somehow, some way.
He looked at the table which sat in front of the window. It was a large, long, wooden table where the men often sat, and talked about home. Some would just sit and stare into space, taking small bites out of small morsels of hard biscuits, which often times they would have hidden inside their ragged clothing.
The rabbi would often look out the window, his thoughts taking him back to Kiev, to his family, home, and humble synagogue. Auschwitz, however, was now reality. He needed only to look at the numbered tattoo on his arm, and at the men around him, the remnants of once strong, healthy children of Abraham.
Rabbi Faerman once again looked up at the night sky, the few stars that were out seemed to look down upon the camp of doom, offering a spark of hope, hope to see an end of this madness and hell, an end to needless suffering and pain. Somehow, the lights of Hanukkah would offer hope and triumph over this darkness and evil. As the Maccabean army triumphed over the forces of Antiochus Epiphanes, they would triumph over the forces of the third Reich, and an end to the Antiochus of Germany. The re-dedication of the temple in Jerusalem offered hope to the Judeans back then. It would be no different now, even now in this time of agony and strife under the iron cross of the Reich. (keeping on reading, scroll down, the story continues)