Since this is the first 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 "Shoach" (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.
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.
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