Translated with permission from the author of "Nifl'osov
Livnei Odom" vol. II, Stories of hashgocha from
our times, stories of midos taken from the lives of
everyday Jews.
This is a true teshuva story about a piece of paper, a
ticket to a receptive heart.
A book well worth the effort of reading in the beautiful,
heartwarming, rich prose-poetry of the original Hebrew. The
author says, however, that it will soon appear in English.
*
Absolute happenstance, or chance, is activated by Heaven
to save precious Jewish souls from perdition. Divine
Providence arouses us to treasure every soul of Jewish seed,
descendants from Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov -- and our own
souls included. So important are they in the eyes of Heaven
that the very fine details of circumstance are manipulated in
this world so as to illuminate every pure soul.
He was there, too, in the March of the Thousand Youths on the
ground of Auschwitz, organized by some secular youth movement
-- on the day they have dubbed Yom Hashoa, Holocaust
Day. "The March of Life" they called it, as if to cry in
defiance against those who led the millions in the March of
Death, to the slaughter, to be murdered; as if to fling in
their faces a revenge that declared: "So there! You schemed
to annihilate us, but this March proves that you failed. We
are still alive, and we intend to remain alive!"
They entered the gates of the camp. Possibly, according to
plan, he was supposed to feel the sweetness of revenge,
entering -- as a free man -- that place which his fellow Jews
had entered as prisoners and captives; possibly, they
expected him to march now like a victor -- head erect, body
upright; perhaps they were interested in seeing youth
marching with vigor and power, feet firmly pounding that
ground that seethed with fraternal blood. All that was
missing now was for them to break out in some anthem to put a
lively beat to this March of Life of theirs...
But Tomer was too honest to surrender himself to the dictates
of that forum. He felt no sweetness, only a terrible
bitterness, a suppressed rage roiling in him and gripping him
in a suffocating clamp of distress. His spirit was downcast;
he felt that he could no longer face the terrible horror that
had been perpetrated here, on the very site upon which his
quaking, faltering feet were now standing. He felt no free
man. His emotions were closer to identifying with those
youths of his own age who had been brought here stripped of
all they held dear, orphaned, bereft, suffering, beaten and
robbed. Not with head held high or body erect. Without the
vigor and power. Steps almost stumbling. A dreadful sadness
descended upon them all.
As if there were an object for their vengeance, as if this
March of Life fifty years after the tragedy was able to
diminish the tragedy, to dull the injustice that had been
perpetrated here in broad daylight, which pierces and shrieks
ceaselessly throughout the earth's atmosphere. As if it were
at all possible to protest this travesty, or to somehow erase
it.
Thousands of thoughts leap about in his head, a maelstrom of
images. In his mind's ear he can hear a vast conglomeration
of shouts and cries in Yiddish and in other assorted mother-
tongues, crescendoing in increasing decibels up to the heart
of heaven. Abruptly cut off by the barking of dogs in
German... He imagines his innocent people, tens upon
thousands of men, women and children being transported here
with a fury, straight into the gaping, ravenous, murderous
maw of the incinerators. He stares dumbly, spirit wrenched,
at the bludgeons pounding down upon the heads of this holy
folk, tangibly feeling in the very air the beastiality and
the demented, inexplicable hatred.
He almost lifts his two hands to ward off a fiend in boots
polished to mirrorlike shine who dares to kick a hunched over
old man; almost screams in protest at the stinging, ringing
slap landing upon the cheek of a cherubic, so- innocent
little boy. But the bright sun is shining upon the wide
spaces; the old man is gone, and also the child...
Someone is lecturing about the selektzias, the
separations, death showers and the incinerators. There are a
thousand young people here; some of them listening, some of
them smiling at cameras and shooting pictures in turn. He
also has a camera, but it is silent, deep inside his kitbag.
It is attuned to his sentiments and wouldn't dare snap its
garish flash in these unbearable moments he is experiencing
for the first time in his life.
Tomer is fully equipped with sunflower seeds, bags of sweets,
packaged treats, all kinds of nosh -- but seeks rather to
empathize, to feel that gnawing sensation of starvation-on-
the-brink-of-death, thirst-to-the-point-of- dehydration,
blows and degradation to the last vestige of self, as did his
brethren who were tortured here, raked with iron tongs till
their souls expired. He is prepared to ravenously bite into
the heel of a rotten potato, to drench it with tears of woe
and hunger, and to leave over some of it for a little
brother, prostrated on the ground, belly swollen with famine,
too weak to budge...
They all proceed towards the death-shower rooms. Here, in
this very place, Jews breathed their last, throttled breaths
before departing this world. Tomer stands himself in a
corner, passes his hands over the walls and shudders. Here,
in this very place, Jews whispered their very last words.
Here, daily, thousands took leave of a life-unlife; here was
their finish line.
Silence. The pain is silent and dismal, palpable; a pall
settles in the air. Tomer feels as if the fleshly hunk of his
heart is about to burst. He seeks to weep and weep; he is a
Jew, too. He is also a member of this persecuted nation,
persecuted yet persevering, surviving, never perishing, and
he feels that he will not exchange this privilege for
anything in the world: he will weep and he will feel
depressed, and will be grateful that he is on the side of the
victims of these death-showers, and not on the side of the
murderers.
He feels an affinity to his people, his flesh and blood, who
were sacrificed at the stake of their Judaism. He identifies
with them and cleaves to their spirit with an internal oath:
an impromptu vow that rises up suddenly from deep inside --
to be a Jew as they were, at all costs, and to be proud of it
to the very last moment.
And then, at this very moment, Tomer feels the urge to
pray.
"How does one pray?" he asks, forcing his way to the guide.
"What does one say when one prays?" Tomer had never felt the
need to pray, nor had the guide... His voice trembles like a
lost child. "What does one pray? What does one say? Tell me!
I want to pray!"
"Shema Yisrael..." some voices offer. "Yeah, I read about
that," the guide is in charge again. "It goes something like
... `Shema Yisrael... Shema Yisrael...'"
"Shema Yisrael," Tomer mouths with burning lips. "Shema
Yisrael... Shema Yisrael..." O, G-d, listen to me. Listen O
Israel. I am listening.
He huddles in his corner, many looks following him, wondering
what he is undergoing just then. Cameras click, documenting
the scene, but Tomer is altogether dejected. He murmurs,
"Shema Yisrael... Shema Yisrael..." His glance rises to the
ceiling of the room, encompasses its walls, its floor. He
cannot bear it.
A slip of paper rustles at his feet. He bends down
absentmindedly to pick it up. It might be a tour map or
something... It's a closely written page, voweled and typeset
well. A bold title captures his attention, "The Prayer of the
Rebbe R' Elimelech..." His heart stops beating for a moment.
Here is his prayer!
"May it be the will before You, Hashem Elokeinu v'Elokei
avoseinu... Who listens to the voice of the prayer of His
people, Israel, with compassion... that You prepare our
hearts and structure our thoughts and familiarize the prayer
in our mouth, and attune Your ear to hear the voice of Your
servants' prayer, who plead to You in a piercing voice and a
broken spirit..."
A tremor rippled through his body. Our G-d. The G-d of our
Fathers. A piercing voice... a broken spirit... What
precise imagery. This must have been composed right here,
upon this very site! He read further: "And You, with Your
plentiful mercy and Your great kindnesses, pardon, forgive
and atone for us... for it is revealed and known before
You... therefore, Merciful and compassionate G-d, do to us
what You have promised... `And I shall have mercy upon those
Whom I shall pity,' even though we are not worthy and
meritorious... Woe unto our souls. Woe unto us, ever so much.
Our Father in Heaven..."
Tomer weeps. Tears rinse away the dust of his life. He does
not want to continue on; he only wishes to repeat, a thousand
times, "...that You arouse our hearts... to banish and
extirpate the evil inclination within us, and rebuke it that
it leave us and go elsewhere." A fountain of tears gushes
from his eyes. "Purify our hearts, sanctify us, sprinkle pure
water upon us, and purge us through Your love and
compassion." Here, of all places. At this terrible climax, to
be reminded of the actuality of Your love... Your compassion.
Oh, how poignant, how expressive! "Guard me, and envelop me
with the spirit of Your holiness, so that we may yearn for
You always, more and more. Lift us up from one level to a
higher one. To the level of our saintly forefathers. May
their merit stand us by... that You hear the voice of our
prayers and always answer them."
If only it were possible to express what was going on in his
heart -- these words, repeated, again and again. The
chevra filed out, leaving Tomer with his back to them,
leaning against the wall, immersed in the printed page before
him. Trembling with emotion. "Remember not our sins. Convert
our sins to merits and draw upon us power from the world of
teshuva, always, the yearning to return to You with a
whole heart." His head rested upon his arm, riveted to the
wall by his sobbing. His heart seethed with an emotion
completely strange to him and boiling tears spilled over,
drenching the stone which had once absorbed blood-tears,
terminal Jewish tears.
The `shower room' emptied out. It reverberated with Tomer's
pleading voice. He knew not what, why, to Whom -- but the
pain and the wrath and the cry that had been strangulated
here seemed to mingle with those words, so well phrased, so
apt: "And strengthen our bond with You... And if we lack the
wisdom to direct our hearts to You, teach us how..."
Whistles blew, calling everyone back to the ramp. The tour
was carrying on. Tomer kisses the prayer fervently and buries
it in his bag. Bleary eyed but light of heart, he floats his
way outside. Strange. He had never heard of an author by the
name of Rabbi Elimelech. What a prayer! What words! He had
never been so emotionally aroused in his whole life. A good
thing that they had bothered to write an address on the
bottom: "Biala Institutions, Ramat Aharon, Bnei Brak." Even a
phone number. He was determined to get there, to make contact
when he returned home. He was eager to meet the author of
that marvelous prayer...
*
Tomer kept his self promise and found his way to Mosdos
Biala, which had printed the prayer which is distributed at
the gravesite of the Rebbe R' Elimelech in Lizensk. The good
people there were not surprised at the `coincidence' of this
prayer falling, as if from Heaven, in Auschwitz, at the
opportune time of Tomer's spiritual arousal and
receptiveness. This was, after all, part of Reb 'Meilech's
legacy -- to spread teshuva throughout the world.
