He recited entire pages from the Talmud, arguing with himself, asking and answering himself endless questions. He was always praying, in the block, at work, in the ranks. He was old and bent, his lips constantly trembling. I knew a rabbi, from a small town in Poland. He was not alone in having lost his faith during those days of selection. His eyes would suddenly go blank, leaving two gaping wounds, two wells of terror. He just kept repeating that it was all over for him, that he could no longer fight, he had no more strength, no more faith. It's over …" We tried to raise his spirits, but he wouldn’t listen to anything we said. Lately, he had been wandering among us, his eyes glazed, telling everyone how weak he was: "I can't go on. Because He caused thousands of children to burn in His mass graves? Because He kept six crematoria working day and night, including Sabbath and the Holy Days? Because in His great might, He had created Auschwitz, Birkenau, Buna, and so many other factories of death? How could I say to Him: Blessed be Thou, Almighty, Master of the Universe, who chose us among all nations to be tortured day and night, to watch as our fathers, our mothers, our brothers end up in the furnaces? Praised be Thy Holy Name, for having chosen us to be slaughtered on Thine altar? (5.4-11)Īkiba Drummer has left us, a victim of the selection. How do You compare to this stricken mass gathered to affirm to You their faith, their anger, their defiance? What does Your grandeur mean, Master of the Universe, in the face of all this cowardice, this decay, and this misery? Why do you go on troubling these poor people’s wounded minds, their ailing bodies? Blessed be God’s name? Why, but why would I bless Him? Every fiber in me rebelled. Some even insinuated that he only wanted their pity, that he was imagining things. But people not only refused to believe his tales, they refused to listen. He no longer mentioned either God or Kabbalah. He was wounded in the leg and left for dead… Day after day, night after night, he went from one Jewish house to the next, telling his story and that of Malka, the young girl who lay dying for three days, and that of Tobie, the tailor who begged to die before his sons were killed. How had he, Moishe the Beadle, been able to escape? By a miracle. This took place in the Galician forest, near Kolomay. Infants were tossed into the air and used as targets for the machine guns. Without passion or haste, they shot their prisoners, who were forced to approach the trench one by one and offer their necks. When they had finished their work, the men from the Gestapo began theirs. The Jews were ordered to get off and onto waiting trucks. The train with the deportees had crossed the Hungarian border and, once in Polish territory, had been taken over by the Gestapo. He told me what had happened to him and his companions.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |