28 Jan TELL THE STORY

This week’s parsha, Bo, tells us of the mitzva
of V’higadeta l’vincha, and you shall tell
your son…” (Shemos 13:8). The story of
the Exodus. The story of a people that, with
HaShem’s strong hand, were miraculously
liberated after years of enslavement and
oppression. The story that repeats itself
time and time again. As we say in the
Pesach Haggada, “Bechol dor v’dor, In
every generation and generation, omdim
oleinu l’chaloseinu, they rise up against us,
to annihilate us.”
This past Monday, January 27, was
International Holocaust Remembrance
Day. A day that marks the liberation of the
Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camps.
A day to tell the story.
How sad it is that the story of the Holocaust
is being forgotten, and even worse, at times
denied. An Axios survey reported that 48%
of Americans aren’t able to name a single
concentration camp. In another survey of
1,000 college students, the majority didn’t
know that 6 million Jews were murdered by
the Nazis during World War II.

It is now eighty years later. Sadly, the
Holocaust survivors amongst us are
dwindling, their numbers diminishing every
year, their voices slowly dying out. We can’t
allow their stories to die with them.
As the daughter of Holocaust survivors, I
didn’t need a designated day to remember
the Holocaust. Every day was Holocaust
Remembrance Day. My mother would share
with us children her life experiences during
that dark time. There are some stories that no
matter how many times I heard them, they
touched my neshama. They brought tears to
my eyes. Stories that made me feel the pain
of our people.
When my granddaughter Miriam completed
her seminary year in Israel, she went to
Eastern Europe on a Holocaust tour. The
group went to Auschwitz. An Auschwitz that
is a far cry from the Auschwitz that once
was. It has been “cleaned up and sanitized”.
Grass and bushes have been planted where
there was once cold, hard earth and weeds.
A gift shop sells souvenirs and art materials,
not far from buildings that once housed gas
chambers and crematoria. Even a restaurant,
where visitors can indulge on their way out.
How sad that for many, this has become just

another tourist attraction.
For Miriam’s group, this visit had a far
different meaning. “Kol demei achicha
tzo’akim eilai, Your brother’s blood is crying
out to Me.” (Bereishis 4:10) The understood
that the land they were standing on was
soaked with the blood of our people. They
saw encased piles of hundreds and hundreds
of shoes, suitcases, eyeglasses, and even hair,
that made it so real.
There were also books on display. Big books
filled with the names of those who perished.
Page after page – thousands of them –
countless names the Nazis systematically and
meticulously listed. Amongst them, Miriam
was able to locate pages and pages listing
Jungreis names. Lives all brought to an end
by the Nazi war machine. My family, and
so many others. Klal Yisroel’s family. As
the navi Yirmiyahu cried out upon seeing
the ruins of the Beis HaMikdash,”Al eileh
ani bochiya, For these I cry”. V’higadeta.
For these neshamos, we must tell the story.
Eli Weisel so eloquently said, “When you
listen to a witness, you become a witness to
continue the story.” It is us, the children of
survivors, who must continue speaking for
those who can no longer speak.
My mother spoke of the Nazis invading her
home town, shutting down shuls, desecrating
sifrei Torah, and torching room after room
of seforim. Then came ghettos, more
restrictions, and finally deportations. The
Jewish community of Szeged, Hungary, was
forcefully gathered to the town square. Where
they were going to, what was to happen next,
no one knew.
My mother, just a little girl then, stood with
her family, holding on tightly to her favorite
doll. The non-Jewish locals came by to laugh
and jeer at their Jewish neighbors. From the
corner of her eye, my mother saw Bridgie, the
daughter of the super from the building my
mother lived in. My grandmother had always
gone out of her way to be kind to the super.
Surely, Bridgie, who had been her friend, was
coming to say goodbye, my mother thought.
But that was not the case. Bridgie stood in
front of my mother, and with a quick grab,
the doll was hers. “But that’s mine”, my
mother protested. “Ha” laughed Bridgies’s
father, “where you’re going to, you will have
no need for dolls”. And with that, the two
walked away.
A little story, but a telling story. A story that
tells how hate can be taught from father to
child.
My mother and her family were taken to
Bergen-Belsen. The Germans would
distribute hard, moldy pieces of bread. A
far cry from anything tasty. Each day, my
zeide would put aside a tiny piece of his

ration. Come Shabbos, zeide would place
the pieces of 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.
Mama 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, an angel.
At the Bris Bein Habesorim, HaShem gave
Avraham a glimpse into the future.
Yodea teida… You should know, your
children will be strangers in a land that is
not theirs. They will be worked, and they will
be oppressed. The story of our nation’s life
in Egypt. The story of the Holocaust. Made
to feel like strangers in the land. It began by
denying Jews access to public transportation,
schools, shuttering Jewish businesses. Forced
labor. Just think of the “welcome sign” at
Auschwitz and Dachau: “Arbeit macht
frei, Work makes you free”. And they will
be oppressed. People tormented, starved,
enduring inhumane conditions.
It’s happening again. Another year of
horrifying suffering for the hostages in Gaza.
Taken into a land not their own. Forced to
live under terrible conditions. Physically
tortured, emotionally tormented, denied
basic sanitary needs, deprived of nutrition.
It is a story we dare not allow the world to
forget. It is another chapter in the obligation
of V’higadeta.
Let us daven for the day to come very soon
when we can tell the closing chapter of our
story, the chapter of the coming of Moshiach.