Holocaust stories II

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The Holiest Generation Who could define what it meant to be a survivor? I learned the answer from Rabbi Moshe Feinstein. by Isaac Steven Herschkopf I could not have been more than four or five when I asked her. It seemed to me, at the time, to be an innocent, straightforward question: “Mommy, when do I get my number?” I was, of course, upset when she burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen, but I was also confused. This was Washington Heights in the 1950s. It was an enclave of survivors. Every adult I knew had a number. Even my teenage sister had one in blue ink tattooed on her forearm. They were as ubiquitous on the benches of Riverside Drive as they were on the footpaths of Fort Tryon Park. If you saw an adult with some sort of hat on his head, he invariably also had a number on his arm. In the summer, when the community traveled en masse to Catskill bungalow colonies, or to Rockaway beaches, the numbers came too. I presumed it was a ceremonious part of becoming bar mitzvah, or perhaps graduation from Breuer’s or Soloveichik, our local yeshivas. No one appeared to be embarrassed by their number. ARG! I never saw anyone try to cover it up when they went swimming. It seemed to be a matter of fact part of life. When, as children, we would ask our parents why there was a “Mother’s Day” and a “Father’s Day,” but no “Children’s Day,” the automatic response was “Every day is ‘Children’s Day’!” In Washington Heights, in the ’50s, every day was Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. Related Video: And You Shall Tell Your Children Click here to receive Aish.com's free weekly email. Ironically enough, at the same time, no day was Yom HaShoah. The commemoration, as it exists today, was not around then. Breuer’s and Soloveichik consisted almost exclusively of children of survivors, yet neither school had any assembly, or recognition of any type, of the Shoah. The very word Shoah didn’t exist. The word Holocaust did, but it was never invoked. When on rare occasion our parents would make reference to the events that led them to leave Europe to come to America, they would label it “the War.” I was already bar mitzvah when I first realized that my parents had been previously married and had prior children.They spoke nostalgically of life “before the War”; they never spoke of what happened during “the War.” They spoke reverently of their parents and siblings who were “lost in the War”; they never spoke of their spouses or children who perished. After all, they had new spouses and new children who didn’t need to be reminded that they were replacements. I was already bar mitzvah when I first realized that my parents had been previously married and had prior children. Years later I was shocked to discover that my sister with whom I was raised was not my father’s daughter. When I finally came to understand that not every adult was a survivor, and people would ask me what survivors were really like, I never knew what to answer. There was Mr. Silverberg, our seatmate in shul, as jovial as Santa Claus, who always had a good word for everyone. On the other hand, there was Mr. Grauer, our neighbor whose face was indelibly etched in a frown and was always threatening to hit his wife or his children. In retrospect, as a psychiatrist, I could understand both, but who truly defined what it meant to be a survivor? Did anyone, or anything? I learned the answer from Rabbi Moshe Feinstein. This gadol hador, the greatest sage of his generation, was so renowned he was referred to simply as “Rav Moshe.” The closest I came to this legend was at Yeshiva University High School, where my rebbe was his son-in-law, Rabbi Moshe Tendler. Rabbi Tendler, and every other rabbi, would speak of Rav Moshe in awe-stricken tones usually reserved for biblical forefathers. One summer I was spending a week with my aunt and uncle in upstate Ellenville. Uncle David and Aunt Saba, survivors themselves, as the doctor and nurse in charge of the concentration camp infirmary, had managed to save the lives of innumerable inmates, including my mother and sister. After “the War” they had set up a medical practice in this small Catskill village, where, I discovered, to my amazement, they had one celebrity patient - Rav Moshe. My aunt mentioned casually that Rav Moshe had an appointment the next day. Would I like to meet him? Would I? It was like asking me, would I like to meet God. I couldn’t sleep that night. I agonized over what I should wear. Should I approach him? What should I say? Should I mention that his son-in-law was my rebbe? Should I speak to him in English, or my rudimentary Yiddish? I was seated in the waiting room, in the best clothing I had with me, an hour before his appointment. It seemed like an eternity, but eventually he arrived, accompanied by an assistant at each side. He didn’t notice me. I was frozen. I had intended to rise deferentially when he entered, but I didn’t. I had prepared a few sentences that I had repeatedly memorized, but I sensed that my heart was beating too quickly for me to speak calmly. My aunt was addressing him irreverently. I was mortified. Then it got even worse.My aunt had heard the chime when he entered and came out of the office to greet him: “Rabbi Feinstein, did you meet my nephew Ikey? Can you believe a shaygitz [unobservant] like me has a yeshiva bochur [student] in the family?” Rav Moshe finally looked at me. I was mortified. My aunt was addressing him irreverently. She was joking with him. She had called me Ikey, not Yitzchok, or even Isaac. Then it got even worse. She walked over to him. Surely she knew not to shake his hand. She didn’t. She kissed him affectionately on the cheek as she did many of her favorite patients. She then told him my uncle would see him in a minute and returned to the office. Rav Moshe and his attendants turned and looked at me, I thought accusingly. I wanted to die. In a panic, I walked over to him and started to apologize profusely: “Rabbi Feinstein, I apologize. My aunt, she isn’t frum [religious]. She doesn’t understand…” He immediately placed his fingers on my lips to stop me from talking. He then softly spoke two sentences in Yiddish that I will remember to my dying day: “She has numbers on her arms. She is holier than me.” Rav Moshe had understood what I had not. Our holiest generation was defined by the numbers on their arms. ________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________ The Trains The Killing Squads could not deal with so many people, so they were shipped off to more "efficient" death camps. by Rabbi Eliyahu Ellis and Rabbi Shmuel Silinsky http://www.aish.com/ho/o/48970811.html The Killing Squads could not deal with so many people, so they were shipped off to more "efficient" death camps. by Rabbi Eliyahu Ellis and Rabbi Shmuel Silinsky Click to Enlarge End Of The Line – Auschwitz photo courtesy of Yad Vashem The Final Solution could not have happened without the railways, without the trains making the mass transport possible. Jews Being Deported photo courtesy of Yad Vashem The people were lulled into a false security. They were told that they were going to different places, better conditions, work camps, on and on and on. Read an eyewitness account. The transports were usually cattle cars. At times, the floor of the car had a layer of quick lime which burned the feet of the human cargo. Click here to receive Aish.com's free weekly email. Click to Enlarge Being Transported To Death Camps In Cattle Cars photo courtesy of Yad Vashem There was no water. There was no food. There was no toilet, no ventilation. Some boxcars had up to 150 people stuffed into them. It did not matter if it was summer, winter, boiling hot or freezing cold. And an average transport took about four and a half days. Read a personal account. Read a moving commentary on this. Sometimes the Germans did not have enough cars to make it worth their while to do a major shipment of Jews to the camps, so the victims were stuck in a switching yard – "standing room only" – for two and a half days. Women Prisoners Inside A Train photo courtesy of Yad Vashem The longest transport of the war, from Corfu, took 18 days. When the train got to the camps and the doors were opened, everyone was already dead. __________________________________________________________________________________________ THE RUSSIAN INVASION http://www.aish.com/ho/o/70446272.html#13 I was nineteen when Russian tanks arrived in Chorostkow. That day, September 17, 1939, marked the end of an era and the radical beginning of another. It would be the watershed moment that closed the chapter on centuries of Jewish life in Poland; it marked the day that everything familiar to me, and to all the hundreds of Jewish shtetls in Galicia, would be forever transformed. The invasion and division of Poland by the Germany army in the west and the Soviet army in the east had begun two weeks earlier, on September 1, 1939. Everyone in Chorostkow remained within earshot of the radio throughout the day. Many people gathered at the café in town to hear the frenzied news reports of the bombing of Polish cities by the German Luftwaffe. We wondered how far east their vicious tentacles would reach. Shocked at this blatant aggression and hopeful that the Western nations would not tolerate it and that the war would be short-lived, we nevertheless trembled in anticipation of what might happen. From the moment that Hitler had been elected chancellor of Germany in 1933, we heard about the hateful anti-Semitism contained in his book, Mein Kampf. We had also listened to venomous speeches on the radio and knew he wanted to rid Europe of Jews. After all, he said so straight out. But how far could he carry this hatred? How much of this threatening diatribe was rhetoric? And how much could he actually accomplish? In retrospect, had we taken this book and speeches literally, we might have acted differently. Still, the obsessive anti-Semitism seemed so extreme that many of us dismissed it as irrational, unbelievable. Even after the invasion of Poland had begun, few suspected the disaster it would bring for the entire country or the consequences it could have for Jews. Facing little military opposition from the Polish army, the German Wehrmacht took over western Poland. The country was divided between the Soviet Union and the German Third Reich, in fulfillment of the infamous Molotov-Ribbentropp pact that had spelled this conquest and sharing the spoils. The socialists in town were shocked that the Russians had entered into such a deal with the fascist Reich. They had made a deal with the devil. If only the shock and dismay could have ended there, but the atrocities that were to follow made this initial betrayal seem tame. Until the Russian tanks arrived, I had thought of myself as a young man living in a traditional society, the way my father had before me and his father before him, in a lineage stretching back for centuries. We were concerned with making a living in a family-owned business, with hoping for good weather on market day, with praying three times a day, with creating a Jewish, G-d-conscious home where Mitzvot were more important than anything else and where wives and children could prosper. With the start of the Russian occupation, everything had changed. Overnight, I became an adult facing the challenge of a frightening reality. No one could guess at that point what the outcome of a large-scale European war might be. Neither did we know what kind of life Jews would have under the Soviet secular, anti-religious regime. The air-raid sirens, which began to shriek throughout the town, ended, in one instant, hundreds of years of peaceable Jewish existence and relative security in Chorostkow. Since there were no bomb shelters, people merely left their homes and sought safety in the fields or down by the pond. When the high-pitched wailing of the sirens suddenly stopped, an eerie silence descended over Chorostkow. Today I count that time as the moment when I grew up On Friday night, two weeks after the war started, our family gathered around the Sabbath table, and everyone did his or her best to fulfill the mitzvah of greeting the Sabbath Queen with joy and song. Underneath, though, we were wondering how long it would take for the Germans to show up. We hadn't then considered that it might be the Russians. We were forbidden to discuss such grim matters on the Sabbath lest they spoil the sanctity of the day, and so we refrained from mentioning the war, despite the fact that each of us could think of nothing else. Finally, my father turned to his family and guests, and said in a halting voice, "My dear ones, we all know that there are difficult times ahead of us. But we must trust in the Rock of Israel, who has never allowed His people to suffer destruction. With His help, this too shall pass." Some around the table murmured, "Amen," and others nodded in agreement. On Saturday evening, after the Third Meal of Shabbat, as my family was preparing for Havdala, the ritual at Sabbath's close, we heard airplanes in the distance. Silence fell over us as we waited for the bombs to fall. But there were no explosions. We waited some more, and when the airplanes seemed to recede, my father filled the cup with wine, opened the box with incense, and lit the special braided candle used only for Havdala. Over the blessings marking the difference between the sacred and the profane, between the Sabbath and the regular weekday, we prayed to the Almighty to protect our family and our nation, to usher in an era of peace and to help us find our way. This was to be the last Sabbath we would celebrate freely as Jews. The next day I rose early to prepare for Monday's market. I heard an unfamiliar rumble and ran to the window to see what was happening. Strange vehicles with red stars painted on the sides filled the streets. They had tracks instead of wheels, and each was fitted with what looked like a cannon. They were Russian tanks. I knew then that there would be no market that Monday. The Red Army had crossed the Polish border during the night, and since Chorostkow was so close to it, they reached us early that morning. Russian soldiers in khaki uniforms began distributing leaflets to the frightened population. They read: "We have come to liberate the population from the Polish yoke." Jews who had been hiding in cellars and attics started to appear on the streets, happy to see Russians instead of the murderous German soldiers. Some went over to the Russian tanks and kissed them with gratitude, not only for saving them from the German onslaught but also from the Ukrainian neighbors who were waiting for the first opportunity to attack Jews. There was good reason to fear the Ukrainian peasants. They had appeared from the countryside, armed with axes, pitchforks, and knives, waiting for the moment when they could begin assaulting the Jewish population and plundering homes. Their very presence struck fear in the hearts of Chorostkow's Jews. It soon became clear, however, that Jewish life in Chorostkow and, for that matter, in the rest of Poland was not going to remain the same under Soviet occupation. Zionist organizations were declared illegal and forced to disband. With them went many people's hopes of emigrating to Israel. In addition, the Soviets were anti-religious and did not look favorably on Jewish life, its practices and education. Finally, as Communists, the Soviets were against any private enterprise, no matter how small. After two years of the Russian occupation, on June 22, 1941, Germany declared war on the Soviet Union. As German tanks began rolling toward the new Russian border, Stalin drafted all able bodied men into the army to fight the Nazi fascists. My two brothers and I were strong, young and healthy candidates for Stalin's army. My oldest brother, Avrum Chaim, was also drafted into the Soviet army on June 24, 1941, a Sunday - two days after Germany attacked. Officers came into town and told him and about a thousand other young men to come with them. The Germans were approaching Chorostkow and there seemed little time to waste. The soldiers kept the young men congregated at the soccer field and remained there for the entire day. Not for a moment did I leave Avrum Chaim's side. When finally the young men were shepherded to the railroad station, I accompanied them. I said goodbye to Avrum Chaim with a heavy heart as though I had a premonition that I would never see him again. I held him close to me and cried openly when the train pulled out. His warm smile and waving hand are my last images of him.... Hoping against hope that when Hitler was defeated we would all be reunited, I left the station when the train was out of sight and walked slowly and sadly home. But Avrum Chaim and his platoon were captured by the German army, and, despite his status as a prisoner of war, he was brutally murdered for the crime of being a Jew. _________________________________________________________________________________

THE POISONOUS MUSHROOM http://www.aish.com/ho/o/70446272.html#13 This story is from a Nazi children's book designed to teach hatred of Jews. It was put out by Julius Streicher, who specialized in anti-Semitic propoganda. He was convicted in the Nuremberg trials, 1946, and executed for his role in the Holocaust. Jewish Toadstools photo courtesy of German Propaganda Archive A mother and her young boy are gathering mushrooms in the German forest. The boy finds some poisonous ones. The mother explains that there are good mushrooms and poisonous ones, and, as they go home, says: "Look, Franz, human beings in this world are like the mushrooms in the forest. There are good mushrooms and there are good people. There are poisonous, bad mushrooms and there are bad people. And we have to be on our guard against bad people just as we have to be on guard against poisonous mushrooms. Do you understand that?" "Yes, mother," Franz replies. "I understand that in dealing with bad people trouble may arise, just as when one eats a poisonous mushroom. One may even die!" "And do you know, too, who these bad men are, these poisonous mushrooms of mankind?" the mother continued. Franz slaps his chest in pride: "Of course I know, mother! They are the Jews! Our teacher has often told us about them." The mother praises her boy for his intelligence, and goes on to explain the different kinds of "poisonous" Jews: the Jewish pedlar, the Jewish cattle-dealer, the Kosher butcher, the Jewish doctor, the baptised Jew, and so on. "However they disguise themselves, or however friendly they try to be, affirming a thousand times their good intentions to us, one must not believe them. Jews they are and Jews they remain. For our Volk they are poison." "Like the poisonous mushroom!" says Franz. Little Franz Gets A Lesson photo courtesy of Yad Vashem "Yes, my child! Just as a single poisonous mushrooms can kill a whole family, so a solitary Jew can destroy a whole village, a whole city, even an entire Volk." Franz has understood. "Tell me, mother, do all non-Jews know that the Jew is as dangerous as a poisonous mushroom?" Mother shakes her head. "Unfortunately not, my child. There are millions of non-Jews who do not yet know the Jews. So we have to enlighten people and warn them against the Jews. Our young people, too, must be warned. Our boys and girls must learn to know the Jew. They must learn that the Jew is the most dangerous poison-mushroom in existence. Just as poisonous mushrooms spring up everywhere, so the Jew is found in every country in the world. Just as poisonous mushrooms often lead to the most dreadful calamity, so the Jew is the cause of misery and distress, illness and death." ___________________________________________________________________________________ http://www.calvin.edu/academic/cas/gpa/thumb.htm Background: Der Giftpilz, the German word for toadstool, was a publication of Julius Streicher’s publishing house. It was aimed particularly at kids, and was sometimes used in the schools. In each case, the caption under the picture is translated to the right. In several cases, there is a link to a translation of the story that accompanied the picture. For more information on Julius Streicher and his anti-Semitic propaganda, see my book on Julius Streicher. For more on Nazi anti-Semitic propaganda directed toward children, see an essay by Mary Mills titled Propaganda and Children during the Hitler Years. Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels did not think a lot of the book. In his diary entry for 29 May 1938 he writes: “Streicher has published a new children’s book. Terrible stuff. Why does the Führer put up with it?” The source: Ernst Hiemer, Der Giftpilz (Nuremberg, Stürmerverlag, 1938). Der Giftpilz -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poisonous Mushroom: This is the cover of the book. The Poisonous Mushroom: “Just as it is often hard to tell a toadstool from an edible mushroom, so too it is often very hard to recognize the Jew as a swindler and criminal...” How to Tell a Jew: “The Jewish nose is bent. It looks like the number six...”* How the Jews Came to Us: “Just look at these guys! The louse-infested beards! The filthy, protruding ears...”* What is the Talmud?: “In the Talmud it is written: ‘Only the Jew is human. Gentile peoples are not called humans, but animals.’ Since we Jews see Gentiles as animals, we call them only Goy.” Why the Jews Let Themselves be Baptised: “Baptism didn’t make a Gentile out of him...”* How a German Peasant was Driven from House and Farm: “Daddy, someday when I have my own farm, no Jew will enter my house...”* How Jewish Traders Cheat: “Farming woman, have I got something special for you today. Look at this material! You can make a dress from it that will make you look like a baroness, like a countess, like a queen...”* The Experience of Hans and Else with a Strange Man: “Here, kids, I have some candy for you. But you both have to come with me...”* Inge’s Visit to a Jewish Doctor: “Two criminal eyes flashed behind the glasses and the fat lips grinned.” How the Jew Treats his Domestic Help: “A man was waiting for me at the station. He tipped his hat and was very friendly to me. But I could tell immediately that he was a Jew...”* How Two Women were Tricked by Jewish Lawyers: “Well, Colleague Morgenthau, we did a good piece of business today.” “Splendid, Colleague Silberstein. We took the lovely money from the two Goy women and can put it in our own pockets.”* How Jews Torment Animals: “The animal fell once more to the ground. Slowly it died. The Jews stood around and laughed.”* What Christ Said about the Jews: “When you see a cross, remember the gruesome murder of the Jews on Golgotha...”* Money Is The God Of The Jews: “The God of the Jews is money. To earn money, he commits the greatest crimes. He will not rest until he can sit on a huge money sack, until he has become the king of money.”* How Worker Hartmann Became a National-Socialist: The Jew cries: “We don’t care about Germany... The main thing is that things go well for us...”* Are There Decent Jews?: “People are always saying that we Jews cheat other people, that we lie and deceive. Not a word of it is true. We Jews are the most decent people in the world.”* Without Solving the Jewish Question No Salvation for Mankind: “He who fights the Jews battles the Devil.” Julius Streicher.* ____________________________________________________________________________________

The Survivor Despite my grandfather's reluctance to talk about his miraculous survival, a remarkable story of Divine providence emerged. by Mirish Kiszner http://www.aish.com/ho/p/The_Survivor.html Without exception, every person who endured the tremendous trials and tribulation of the Holocaust has a story to tell. Yet through all those years since liberation, my grandfather could hardly bring himself to tell of his own painful accounts of survival. Gradually, despite his reluctance to talk and through little bits and pieces, a remarkable story of Divine providence emerged. The sun was ironically shining on Europe that day. The calm skies were colored a beautiful shade of blue. That such a phenomenon was possible seemed inconceivable to the weary group of inmates who were placing one foot in front of the other in their desperate march for survival. Yet the clear skies served as a small reprieve to their exhausting ordeal. For days it had snowed relentlessly on their shivering thin-clad backs, their striped uniforms their only protection against the elements. Still, it was hard to believe that the sun was capable of shining, that the world continued to exist, and that humanity was capable of going on with their carefree lives. It seemed as though the Death March passing before their very noses was just a pesky nuisance to their own peaceful lives. Each agonizing step a triumph, with the heavens itself a silent witness applauding his victory, lauding him on. Amongst this forlorn group of shattered victims was David, a mere youngster of 16, precariously clinging to life. Stumbling along, weak from hunger and exhaustion, he felt his strength beginning to ebb. David felt that he had been walking throughout eternity, as if the only thing he had ever done in his life was walk. One foot forward and the other following numbly. One foot, and then the other foot. Step by step. Each agonizing step a triumph, with the heavens itself a silent witness applauding his victory, lauding him on. His bloodstained imprints on the snow mingled with the bloodstains of the age old Jew in Exile treading down the long road in a prolonged history of adversity. The bestial shouts of the S.S. troops blended with the cacophony of the sounds of their tormentors all through the ages. The crackling of the auto-da-fe and the gleeful cries of spectators, the drunken peasants, axe and torch in hand and shouts of a blood libel in the air, and the barbaric shouts of the mounted Cossack wildly stampeding through villages and towns -- all combined into a deafening crescendo. The perpetual dance of hatred, of anti-Semitism and bloodlust. ANGELS ALONGSIDE HIM ALONG THE DEATH MARCH-THE MIRACLE In quiet contrast, David was struggling to overcome his hunger pangs, and transcending painful sensations of human suffering. His lips were uttering the eternal words of Mincha, the Afternoon Prayer Service, as he forged ahead. He didn’t know it at the time but those were moments so sublime, so divine that many years later he longed to catch hold of that incredible feeling of elevation. Yet, despite his inner strength, the physical reality was threatening to take over. He felt himself succumbing to the ravages of his tortured body. His body simply failed to respond to the lofty aspirations of his mind, which was impelling him to keep going. Unexpectedly, he suddenly felt the strong presence of two escorts, each standing by his side, protecting him, supporting him and encouraging him on. He knew at once, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that those guards were true heavenly angels -- direct messengers from God. Though he couldn’t explain the phenomenon, neither then nor later, the experience was unmistakably real. The words of "For He commands His angels concerning you to protect you in all your paths" flashed across his mind. Suddenly it became distinctly clear to him that these guards had been there beside him throughout the entire grueling experience, assisting him and aiding him all along. COMMENTS OF THE BELZE REBBE Indeed after the war the Belze Rebbe remarked that every single survivor of the Holocaust had been protected by two ministering angels who were standing by his side and guarding him throughout his ordeal/ OTHER MIRACLES-HEAVEN'S PERMISSIION DREAM FROM FATHER There were other miracles, too, which David encountered during those traumatic times and of which he strongly felt the unseen hand of God leading him and directing his every move. One frightful episode occurred when David left his barracks briefly in order to daven Mincha behind a tank standing outside. He returned to a dreadfully eerie silence. Gradually his mind registered the appalling sight greeting his shocked eyes. As comprehension set in, his entire body gave way to violent trembling when he realized that every one of his fellow inmates was lying dead before him. The Nazis, it seemed, had paid them a visit while he was outside conversing with the Almighty. Another incident took place in Auschwitz. There had been a selection and he had been unceremoniously shoved to the left, slated for the gas chambers. It came as no real surprise. David was rather a frail looking lad, his slender frame and delicate appearance was not very likely to proclaim him a worthwhile resource for the Nazi work machine. Soon afterwards he found himself in the dreaded Block 25. Block 25 was notorious as the tail end in the tragic saga of Auschwitz. From this final stop the external layers of life were stripped from those holy martyrs, to be extinguished deliberately by a brutal nation, while the intrinsic vitality of their sacred souls departed for eternal life sanctifying God's name. Now David was among those condemned to await his end, fully resigned to the fact that within the next 24 hours he would be a part of the smoke curling up from the crematorium. David felt no fear, no dread and no anguish, only a strong sense of serenity. He was completely at peace with himself. That evening David thought about his young life and his mind led him back, over the dismal moments and past the dark tunnels of his recent past carrying him in sweet nostalgia to the memories of his beautiful childhood. His father’s kind face, his mother's loving smile, the laughter and happiness of days gone by. He was entirely swept away from his morbid and melancholy surroundings to an enchanting setting created by delightful reminiscence of the past. He inhaled the heavenly aroma of freshly baked delicacies, the sweet smell of wine at the resplendent Shabbos table and he heard the now distant echoes of the melodious strains of Torah in a home filled with peace and harmony. In a few hours, every one of his youthful hopes and aspirations would become yesterday’s dreams, when the showerheads would emit their poisonous chemicals. From the time he had been wrapped in a blue blanket, David, the youngest in a family of Jewish scholars, had been nurtured with kavod HaTorah, great respect for Torah and surrounded with the melody and song of Torah study. He had been imbibed with a passionate love for God's mitzvot and the meaning of faith and trust in God. Every bone and sinew was infused with a powerful combination of love and fear of God, coupled with a deep longing to serve Him with joy. The words "Vechai bahem," -- and you shall live by them, the Torah's mitzvot -- were an intrinsic part of his essence. Torah was life and life was Torah. The very walls of his home bespoke of a higher purpose and reverberated with the sounds of Torah, Service, and Acts of Kindness. A well-defined sense of pride in this prestigious family of Torah scholars was the lush groundwork for his ceaseless striving to follow in their illustrious footsteps. He knew well the legendary tales and accounts related about his forebears and they served as the backdrop in his iron determination to remain steadfast in the high standards of serving God set by those distinguished ancestors. Now it was all over. In a few hours, every one of his youthful hopes and aspirations would become yesterday’s dreams, when the showerheads would emit their poisonous chemicals. He had no misgivings; if that were the will of the Master of the Universe, it would be his will as well. Like a faithful soldier, he was ready, standing in command to serve his Creator by returning his life to His Maker with love and acceptance. The sudden skirmish for the slush of watery mixture called soup shook him from his reverie. He sat still, regarding his fellow inmates as if he were viewing the scene from behind an invisible curtain. He suddenly recalled the story he had heard repeated again and again throughout his youth. It was the story of how his grandfather and uncles had abstained from eating food so that they would appear sick and thus manage to avoid conscription in the army and the consequent spiritual demise. They had kept themselves alive by breaking their fast in the evenings on some dry crusts of bread and black tea, keeping to this austere regimen for an entire year! How he had dreamed of carrying on that great legacy… David sat in silent rumination about his own current circumstances. He was a mere youth, yet he had tried hard to remain loyal to whatever possible vestige of Jewish traditions he was able to uphold in this hell. He had considered the problem about kosher food and he had, up to this time, determined that he would allow himself to eat what he was able to in his attempt to stay alive. However, now that he was slated to be exterminated the following day, this reasoning was no longer valid and he preferred to forgo his non-kosher ration of soup. Softly he whispered the Viduy prayers [confessional prayers recited before death] and went to sleep in peace. He felt ready for his beautiful journey to meet his Creator. Soon he would be together again with his dear father and mother, his sisters and his brothers…. It was the astonishing dream that jolted him awake, shaking him from his calm passivity and galvanizing him to act. In uncharacteristic urgency his eyes darted quickly around the room searching for a way out. His dear father had appeared to him in a dream. "Run, my child!" he had urged. "Escape!" One by one, the boys grasped at their last chance for life. Suddenly amidst the stillness of the sleeping inmates, he made out some whispering sounds of a small group of boys huddled together in hushed conversation. Silently he inched his way closer to where he was able to catch some snatches of their anxious consultation. "The chimney…" "How can we succeed…?" "…the guard?" Slowly he managed to form a clear picture. Apparently the watchman had unexpectedly fallen asleep and those dauntless boys were planning their escape through the chimney! Spurred on by the image of his father, now fresh in his mind, he felt compelled to join them in their risky venture. He reckoned there was nothing to lose. It would be either the bullet or the gas, he supposed. One by one, the boys grasped at their last chance for life. Each boy climbed deftly in surreal silence, up through the narrow chimney of the formidable Block 25, while the next one in line waited for his turn in a conflicting mixture of trepidation and courage beating in his heart. Each individual made his narrow escape skyward through the roof and then the daring leap down to the ground. Then they fled into the neighboring barrack and mingled with the other striped-pajama clad inmates. Seven boys made it out on that fateful night. Seven boys received a new lease on life. Sadly, the eighth one was shot. David was the seventh boy. His holy father had received permission from the Heavens to come to his son in a dream to rouse him and drag him from the ashes. When the Holocaust was finally over, David married a wonderful woman who was also a survivor, but hers is a story for another time. Together they left for the friendlier shores of America. Eventually they went on to raise a large family of 6 sons and 4 daughters -- their own particular answer to the Final Solution. My father is their second son, a successful businessman in his own right who recently realized his own dream and made aliyah to Israel with his entire family. __________________________________________________________________________________ http://www.aish.com/ho/p/53394802.html Miraculous Rescues Any survivor has at least one miracle story. My father has several. by Tova Younger

“My dear, precious child.” That’s how my father would always greet me every day when we spoke. One of my strongest childhood memories is of our weekly walk to shul on Shabbat morning. I used to love to get up early and go with him, hearing stories and riddles with a few math problems thrown in. When our conversations ended with his painful passing, I wondered: How did he survive such horrors of the Holocaust, and maintain such a positive approach? It seems that my father's love of Torah and Judaism -- implanted in his youth -- sustained him, especially as he saw God's hand rescuing him again and again One-way Trip Shmuel Stimler was born in Rzeszow, Poland in 1923, into a chassidic family. Rzeszow's pre-war population was 50 percent Jewish. He studied in the local one-room “cheder” (Torah school). From among all the schools in the area, my father and one other student were selected to be tested for the famed Chachmei Lublin yeshiva, a prestigious post-high school academy for Torah study. In the summer of '39, my father passed the entrance exam. But his dreams were crushed by the outbreak of World War II. My father was snatched from death many times during the war years; in retrospect, he realized that this series of personal miracles began when he was quite young. As a young boy, he once tried to fix a cigarette lighter. In those days, it was a small container filled with kerosene, with a bit of cotton and some type of flint attached. He didn't realize that while he was working on it, he was getting drops of kerosene on himself. With his clever mind and capable hands, he was able to ignite it -- but when he did, he himself burst into flames. His mother was nearby and she grabbed a quilt and pushed him onto the floor, smothering the flames. Miraculously, he wasn't hurt. Any survivor of the war has at least one story to tell of being rescued. My father had many such miracles happen. At one point when he was in a concentration camp, there was a call for all-able bodied men. Everyone assumed that whoever was not included would be killed off or, at the very least, that the stronger men would receive better treatment or working conditions. My father joined the line of men hoping to be selected, but was told to go back, as he was too weak. Determined to join, he tried once more to pass the selection. Again, no luck. To the horror of all, the selected group of strong men were taken and murdered. My father's life had been spared. Click here to receive Aish.com's free weekly email. The bunkmate pulled a knife out and slashed my father in the knee. Everyone in the camps knew that going to the hospital was often a one-way trip. Only very desperate people went in. My father was climbing into his bunk bed one night. Conditions were very crowded, and the fellow in the lower berth didn't appreciate the disturbance. He pulled a knife out and slashed my father in the knee. My father tried to stop the bleeding and care for it on his own, but infection had set in and he was frightened. He was afraid to enter the hospital, and afraid not to. As his knee got worse, he decided to go in. To his great relief, the nurse greeted him warmly. "Shmulik! You are here? Don't worry. I was a good friend of your mother's. I'll take care of you and watch over you until you regain your strength." The next miracle came in a hidden way -- initially, he didn't know what had happened. He was standing among a group of prisoners, and his number was called. He went to join the group he was directed to, not knowing what he had been selected for. He saw someone he recognized and inquired, "What will become of us? Where are we being transferred to?" "You don't know?" his friend was taken aback. "We have been selected to work for Oscar Schindler. Didn't you pay to get here?" My father was added to the now-famous 'Schindler's List'. He found out that others had bribed, fought and done whatever they could to get in. But for him, his number had just been called. To quote my father, "I was selected from out of 25,000 people! Truly a miracle." On another occasion, Schindler personally saved my father's life. One day, my father and a few inmates were sighted committing the “crime” of cooking some potatoes. A Nazi guard came over, and all managed to escape -- except for my father. The Nazi began to beat him, when suddenly Schindler saw and quickly called the Nazi over. Reluctantly, the Nazi stopped, promising my father that he'd return and “finish him off.” Thank God, he never did. Post-War Miracles After the liberation, my father was snatched from death one more time. He returned to his hometown of Rzeszow with some friends to see if any Jews were left. A kindly neighbor saw him, and exclaimed, "What are you doing here? There are no Jews. The townsfolk will kill you if they see you! Run away!" So he and his friends headed for Krakow, thinking that in the big city, matters were under control. Initially, they appeared to be; the group was given a house, albeit a dilapidated one. On Shabbat morning, after the prayer service, they heard shouts and screams. The building was surrounded by what seemed like thousands of Poles -- men, women and children. They were screaming out murderously, "You gassed all the Polish people in Auschwitz -- now you have returned for our children's blood to bake your Passover matzah! We will murder you!" The Klausenberger Rebbe nurtured thousands of broken souls.My father was in shock. "Did I survive the war, only to be killed here?" He and his friends ran up to the top floor, as the crowd threw bricks and rocks and prepared to storm the house. This time, God's life-saving messengers were the Russian soldiers. They came with guns and dispersed the crowd. The soldiers also guarded the house for the next few weeks, after which my father and his friends made it across the border to the safety of the American side. To his good fortune, he was able to be in the DP camp of the Klausenberger Rebbe, a saintly man who nurtured thousands of broken souls. All his life he retained fond memories of the time there and how it had lifted his mood and outlook. At this point in time, my father's aunt had a dream where she was visited by her dead sister -- my father's mother -- who had come to ask her, "Please take care of my son!" When the aunt told her husband, he was not impressed. "You keep thinking about the entire family, so you had such a dream. It's nothing." Imagine their great surprise when they received a letter from my father a few days later! They wanted to take him in, but at that time it was very hard for refugees to enter Belgium, where the aunt and uncle were living. This aunt, a clever woman, contacted a smuggler, telling him, "I cannot afford to pay you cash to bring in my nephew, but I can give you names of former residents of Belgium to use in your smuggling operations." A deal was struck, and my father was brought in and welcomed into their home. Rebuilding in America My father's years of suffering were finally over, but he never forgot them, and never forgot the memory of the family he lost, all so brutally murdered. Despite all he went through, his faith in God stayed firm. This faith gave him the strength both to survive and to rebuild his life afterwards. My father married, and dreamed of living in Israel, but when the opportunity came to emigrate to America with its greater opportunities for earning a living, he took it. My father worked long, hard hours as a butcher for close to 40 years. Suppliers, customers and employees all appreciated his friendly, easy-going nature. When I got married and moved far away, our relationship was restricted to the phone lines; but we kept in touch regularly. Years passed, and my family decided to move to Israel. My father was very enthusiastic about our decision and told us, "You go, and we will follow!" In the summer of 2005, they surprised everyone when they fulfilled their dreams and made aliyah. To say they never regretted their decision would be putting it mildly. Once they came, I saw my father regularly, and we spoke daily, learning Torah together on the phone. My father loved people of all ages, and enjoyed sharing his knowledge. Snatched from death several times, I can only imagine that God wanted to grant us the benefit of his inspiration and guidance until his passing, at the age of 85. His example lives on through his kindly words and deeds in the hearts of all those who knew him. 21) Terrie, January 29, 2010 7:56 PM 46 and still learning I am a forty six year old American Christian woman. I have been privately studying the holocaust. Every story I have read here and else where have filled me with such emotion that it's hard for me to express. I feel such respect for you and your people. I feel honored to learn from you. I feel such horror that such things could be done by people who claim to be Christians to the people of God. The more I read, the more I question my own religion. I know that your father was blessed by God, just as the other survivors were. But I also think that we were blessed to be able to read your stories, question WHY and HOW this could happen. Question WHO we are and question God's purpose in our own lives. Thank you for this forum and for sharing your father's story. I wish I had an hour to ask the questions that I need so badly to ask. After studying for a few months, I'm so confused about who I am, who I want to be, and most importantly how I should worship and honor God. Your strength and faith are amazing to me. I hold you in the highest regard. God bless you all. _________________________________________________________________________________ http://www.aish.com/ho/p/The-Survivor.html The Survivor As a child of survivors, I am the pain, fear and atrocities, once removed. by Naomi Lobl

I am known as "the second generation." As everyone knows, that means: a child of survivors of Hitler's concentration camps. Yes, I am the pain, fear and atrocities, once removed. My parents were both survivors of Auschwitz. They were not left with scars from their experiences in the war; they were left with open, gaping wounds that would not heal in their lifetimes. One cannot recover from losing five wonderful children, parents, brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors, and to a lesser extent, from losing one's home, possessions, and means of livelihood. I was born from those ashes, but of course, could never make up for this -- a pain that I couldn't even understand. My parents, who had been married to each other and were reunited after the war, had very different styles of reminiscing about it. My mother would tell me stories about the concentration camp, but tried to present it in a lighter vein. She told me how they would sleep ten in one bed, and when one person had to turn over, they all turned over. At some point, it began to sound like fun. My father never spoke about personal experiences -- rather, he talked about aktionen, military and work experiences. My eyes frantically followed that Sefer Torah, in an effort to learn the names of my dead brothers and sisters.They never spoke of their lost children. I don't remember how old I was when I became aware of their existence and subsequent deaths, but it was at a very young age. At some point, I found pictures of them, and from conversations overheard, I pieced together their story. This opened a world of speculation and fantasy that fed the imagination of a very lonely only child. I would dream over and over about how we would meet. I knew that I could never speak to my mother or father about them. Even their names were a mystery. Until one year, at Simchas Torah, I discovered that my parents had dedicated a Sefer Torah in their memory. Their names were embroidered on the mantle of that Sefer Torah. As the men danced around and around, my eyes frantically followed that Sefer Torah, in an effort to learn the names of my dead brothers and sisters. As I became older, I learned that my parents had had twin boys, who had been taken to Mengele's camp for "experiments." A cousin told me that a friend of my father's had seen them alive at the end of the war, and that my parents searched for them for years all over the world. To this day, I harbor a faint hope that they will someday miraculously appear in my life. Click here to receive Aish.com's free weekly email. THE STORY GOES ON AND ON My childhood, as a child of survivors, was not a conventional one. "Second generation" implies that there will be more to follow, and for me the story goes on and on. As my children and, later on, my grandchildren filled my life, there was always the specter of children like these who were wrenched from their mothers' arms and slaughtered, only because they were Jewish. There is a sadness, born of my parents' sorrow and pain, that permeates and colors my life. But there is another side to this story. My parents were survivors. They survived conditions and circumstances that few human beings could. They were sustained by their strong belief in God, and by a spirit that couldn't be squelched. When my mother died, at age 93, and my husband eulogized her, he used the verse from that week's Torah portion: "Vayidom Aharon -- and Aaron was silent." Aaron had no complaints to God about the loss of his children. My husband said that in all the years that he knew my mother, he never once heard anything emerge from her mouth that could, in the slightest way, be construed as a complaint about her terrible loss. Such indomitable strength cannot go to waste, and my parents somehow bequeathed it to me. Lo and behold, they produced another survivor. Throughout my life, when faced by even the greatest adversity, I have always felt an inner wellspring of strength that never fails to amaze me and see me through. Surely, along with everything else, this is part of my legacy from my parents -- the survivors. ____________________________________________________________________________________