In those days, especially after the first World War, even if
you were well-off and settled, you knew that things could
change overnight: revolutions, wars, pogroms were all in the
back of one's mind, but no. Not this. Till then, golus
meant a piece of hell landing on earth. This was hell
itself.
Imagine a respectable man walking down the main street. He
trips and falls flat on his face, gets up as quickly as
possible, picks up his briefcase, puts on his hat, brushes
the dust off his coat and moves away from the peering eyes,
as fast as he can. But if a car knocks him down, he knows
that he can't get up.
The Nazis woke up many sleeping dogs all over Europe. At the
beginning, we managed to get up. We had to wear the yellow
star, weren't allowed on subways. We lost our jobs. But we
swallowed our pride, brushed the dust off our coats and
stayed home, away from danger, and prayed for the madness to
end. We were being pushed down a long, dark corridor, step by
step. First a broken window, then a broken nose. They took
your gold and silver; they stole your husband and sons. The
lucky limped home, beards torn off; the others lay in the
bullet-ridden forests.
Every step was more humiliating. They pushed us past the
bloodstained steps of the Cossacks, Crusades, Spanish
Inquisition and the Roman Empire. Walking for the very last
time down the main square with a bundle on our backs, we
tried to look proud as the People we were. Down we went into
the windowless, overcrowded building, resting our aching
limbs on a rotting floorboard, falling in and out of a sleep
to the sound of crying children. Woken by shiny boots and
snapping jaws, chasing us to the cattle train.
*
Six days, six nights have passed; no food, no water. This
is it. This must be it. This must be the bottom of the
stairway. The biggest tragedy known to mankind. More than one
million murdered: Babi Yar, Kovno, the Ninth Fort, the pits,
the ghettos, the sewers, the hunger, the old and the young. I
am sure that when the train comes to a halt, the doors of
freedom will slide open.
We are no longer cattle; we are tattooed logs of wood,
counted and whipped, counted and beaten. Wandering around
aimlessly, waiting for the furnace.
*
Then they came and liberated us. We left the camps, but the
camps never left us. Slowly I moved back up — branches
and leaves blossomed but the roots never came back, never
grew back. Up I went from a number to a living creature, a
human being, a person with a name.
A few months ago, I was rushed to the hospital after a heart
attack. My family watched over me with love and care, day and
night. My breathing grew heavy and suddenly, I found myself
on a stairway. When I looked down, it reminded me of
somewhere I'd already been. I looked up and was blinded by a
magnificent light. All I wanted to do was to climb towards it
but the steps were big and wide. Each step had a gate and
every time I tried to go up, there were bad angels blocking
my way. But there were also good angels helping me
through.
Suddenly I slipped and the number on my forearm, which I was
always careful to hide, was uncovered. The bad angels moved
aside at once. My blue number was now shining so brightly
that the bad angels just melted away from its heat. I was now
being pulled up towards the Light. And now, here I am,
sitting under the wings of the Shechina with many other
`numbers.'
*
Daily, we pray not to be subject to trials and to shame.
While difficult trials may bring their huge rewards, not
everyone can pass those tests, and then he will feel immense
shame. And so, we must proceed along the regular path.
Still in all, life is full of trials and we must pray
for them to end. But when they do — don't jump for joy.
Look back and ask yourself, "Did I use it to get to the next
step? Did I squeeze out as much as possible [from myself,
from the situation]?"
*
Ah! Who would have thought? Who could have imagined that
as they were bolting the train door shut, that this was my
Journey to Paradise?
