06 Aug A TALE OF TWO FATHERS

The Nine Days. Tisha B’Av. A time to
remember the churban Beis HaMikdash, the
devastation of Yerushalayim, the pain and
persecution of our people.
Tragically, that was not the last churban to
befall our nation. Churban Europa, the horrors
of the Holocaust left an indelible mark upon
our people. An unfathomable loss of six
million kedoshim, six million holy souls, by
the hands of the barbaric Nazis.
I am the child of Holocaust survivors. Like
countless others, I was denied the gift of
paternal grandparents, aunts, uncles, and
cousins. I can only dream of what my bubby
Chaya Sora – after whom I am named – must
have been like.
While I was blessed to have Mama and Zeide,
grandparents from my maternal side, there
were so many others from my mother’s family
who perished.
The Torah commands us, “Zachor es asher
osoh l’cha Amalek”, Remember what Amalek
did to you.” So too, it is incumbent upon us to
remember what befell our people during the

Holocaust. Zachor, to remember. Lo tishkach,
to not forget.
It is now eighty years since the Holocaust. The
survivors are dwindling, the memories are
fading. It is up to us to keep the memory of the
kedoshim alive. To share their stories, to make
sure the world never forgets.
It is with that spirit that I share with you, my
dear readers, glimpses of my mother’s
Holocaust story.
My mother a”h, never hesitated sharing stories
of the war with us. I remember a school friend
coming to our home for Shabbos. Friday
night, my mother spoke of life under Nazi
occupation. My friend, also a child of
survivors, confided how she wished that her
parents would speak of their past. While she
understood it was painful for them, she longed
to hear of how they survived. To hear about
the family and relatives she never knew. “How
fortunate you are”, she told me, “your mother
shares her past with you”. “Z’chor yemos
olam”, how important it is to remember the
days of our past, our history.
I know there will always be someone who
says “they’re only children…. I don’t want to

give them nightmares. I only want
to share happy memories.” With
time, I came to realize that even
though the stories told of pain and
suffering, they also spoke of
warmth and love, of emunah and
bitachon, of endurance even in the
darkest of times.
There are some stories that are
embedded in my heart. Stories I can
hear over and over again. One such
story was of leil Shabbos, Friday
night, in Bergen-Belsen. Each day,
my zeide would put aside a tiny piece of his
ration of dry, stale bread. Come Shabbos,
zeide would place the bread together for my
mother and her brothers. Zeide would gather
the children together, saying “My kinderlach,
my dear children…close your eyes…we are
back home, sitting around the Shabbos table.
Mamma baked the most delicious challah.
The table is covered with a white cloth. The
Shabbos candles are burning, the kiddush cup
is filled. The Shabbos malochim, the Shabbos
angels, are surrounding the table.” Zeide
would sweetly sing Shalom Aleichem,
welcoming the angels of Shabbos.
One Friday night, my mother’s younger
brother, my uncle Brudy z”l, innocently
asked, “Tattie, ich zeh nisht kein malochim,
I don’t see any angels! Where are the
Shabbos angels?”
“You, my lichtege kinderlach, my children
full of light, you are the malochim, the
angels of Shabbos.”
To tell a child that no matter where life takes
you, you can be a malach.

My mother also told us of the cruel anti-
Semitism and atrocities inflicted upon her

and our people. Of Jewish children not being
allowed to attend school. Of Jewish stores
and businesses forced to close. Shuls
shuttered, Jews not being allowed to travel,
confined to living in overcrowded and
cramped ghettos, and having to wear a
yellow star. Stories of how sadistic Nazis
desecrated Torah scrolls and holy books.
How they forced rabbis to stand in the town
square, cruelly pulling their beards out, until
their skin would bleed and they would
collapse in pain.
We also learned of my mother’s final days
prior to deportation. One night, the family
was awakened by shouts from the Germans.
Their apartment door was forced open, and
the entire family was marched off to a local
brick factory. That became their “home” for
the next two weeks, together with all the
Jewish townspeople. Two weeks of living in
a cold brick factory. Two weeks without
hygienic facilities. Two weeks of torture.

My mother’s family had lived in an apartment
building, and my grandparents were always
extra kind to the super and his family. The
super had a daughter, Bridgette, about the
same age as my mother, and at times they
would play together. When the Jews of
Szeged were dragged from their homes, my
mother, who was a young girl at the time,
grabbed a little doll to take with her. To a
child, it was something to hold on to.
Something to give comfort.
Just before being deported, the Jews of Szeged
were put on display in the center of the town.
The town residents would come to jeer and
spit upon them, all with the Nazis approval.
My mother noticed Bridgette approaching
with her father. Naïvely, she thought they
were coming to say goodbye. But that was not
to be. As Bridgette approached my mother,
she snatched the doll out of my mother’s arm.
When my mother protested, Bridgette’s father
laughed at her, saying “where you are going,
you won’t need that”.
How quickly children can learn from their
parents. How easy it is to learn hate, to take
advantage of someone, to take what is not
yours, even a doll from another girl.
Stories of two fathers. One, telling his children
that they are malochim, encouraging them to
strive and reach great heights. Another,
laughing as his child bullies and causes pain to
another child.
To be a Jew means to live one’s life as a
kiddush HaShem, to aim to be an angel.
We are now experiencing yet another churban,
the ongoing Holocaust of October 7. As Tisha
B’Av approaches, we must remember the pain
of our people. We must increase our tefillos
and mitzvos, especially as the threats from
Iran loom over us.
As we sit on our low chairs and recall the
tragedies of the past, let us hope that we will
realize the words of Yeshyayahu… “U’mocho
HaShem dimah mei’al kol ponim, May
HaShem erase tears from all faces…”
(Yeshayahu 25:8), and we will see the
rebuilding of the Beis HaMikdash in our own
days.