If you are you because he is he,
and he is he because you are you.
Then, you are not you and he is not he.
BUT, If you are you because you are you,
and he is he because he is he.
Then, you are you and he is he.
-The Kotzker Rebbe.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Little Jerusalem
A half-hour from the Hungary - Slovakia border lives a small Slovakian city called “Dunaszerdahely.” Before the war this city inhabited six thousand people, three thousand five hundred of them being Jewish; more Jews than non-Jews. It also had two large synagogues, a cemetery with over two thousand Jewish graves and seven Baatei Medroshim where Bochurim from all over Europe came to study. This is how a small check Slovakian city acquired the nickname “little Jerusalem.”
Today only fifty Jews live there. Both synagogues have been destroyed and only one of the seven Baatei Medroshim still stands, and serves as the Shull today.
I traveled from Budapest to Dunaszerdahely with another student from the Budapest Yeshiva. We came to lead the Yom Kippur services. To help a community who has not had such services in more then ten years.
Standing in the area where the Orthodox synagogue once stood, I stand numb as the Rosh Hakahal tolls us “on this exact plot of land, more than three thousand Jews were sent off to their deaths, in one day, in one transport.” He shows us the memorial, which can be looked at in two ways. From one angle it is the Luchos with a hole burnt through it. From the other angle it is a gate to a concentration camp. “Look on the ground, there are many foot prints entering, but only one exiting.”
Kol Nidrei.
There are twenty men in Shull, all ready to pray. The Rosh Hakahal introduces us, and the congregant’s bursts into applause. My friend says a few words about Yom Kipur in Hungarian. They can’t believe he learnt such a difficult language in only one year.
Maariv.
“Slach Na” to the tune of Hava Nagila. “Yaleh” to the tune of Dovid Melech. The men are all humming along. I can here a few reading slowly in Hebrew.
Maarive is coming to an end and for the final part “Avinu Malkeinu,” I see an elderly man is being helped with putting on his Tallis, and then being helped to the Aron Kodesh. The Rosh Hakahal tells me “This man is ninety years old. He lived here before the war, and was deported with the rest of the Jews. All of his family was killed in Dachau, but he survived and returned. Tonight is very important to him.”
After hearing this, I ask myself. Who am I to be the one to announce “Do it for the sake of those who were slaughtered in your name”? What have I seen to proclaim “Do it for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of your name”? What do I know to ask, “Avenge the spilled blood of your servants”? In this old mans presence the meaning of the words became too real. In this survivors presence I forgot how to read. The rest of avinu malkeinu was just an embarrassing mumble.
After services the few who are still in Shull sit around a table to talk. One man informs us “As a child I learnt here in cheder, but it’s the Teachers slaps I remember more then anything else.” There is another older man sitting amongst us. He to is a survivor and he wants to know if we speak Yiddish. His face lights up as we answer “zicher ken men yiddish ”. In Yiddish he tells us “I was in the ghetto, but my mother and I escaped. We went to Budapest where for a large amount of money, a non Jewish family hid us through the war.” I wonder when the last time he spoke Yiddish was.
Shachris.
We arrive to Shull and there are six women here today. The only problem is they are all sitting in the men’s section. So we ask in a respectful manner for them to please sit in the women’s section.
Before kriah I bring the Sefer Torah to the women for them to kiss. One lady walks up to me, mumbles a few words in Hungarian, then pinch’s my cheek. “What did she say”? I ask my friend. He laughs and translates her remark. “You may tell me to sit in the women’s section, but you can’t stop me from pinching your cheek.”
Neilah.
The fast has been over for more then twenty minutes now, and we are still praying. Nobody is complaining, no nervous glances at the clock. The next time these people will have a chance to pray as a community will only be next year, so what’s the rush? But all good things must come to an end. It is now time for “Napoleons march.” As we all hold hands and dance in a circle, the Rosh Hakohol whispers in my ear “today dunaszerdahely was once again little Jerusalem.
Today only fifty Jews live there. Both synagogues have been destroyed and only one of the seven Baatei Medroshim still stands, and serves as the Shull today.
I traveled from Budapest to Dunaszerdahely with another student from the Budapest Yeshiva. We came to lead the Yom Kippur services. To help a community who has not had such services in more then ten years.
Standing in the area where the Orthodox synagogue once stood, I stand numb as the Rosh Hakahal tolls us “on this exact plot of land, more than three thousand Jews were sent off to their deaths, in one day, in one transport.” He shows us the memorial, which can be looked at in two ways. From one angle it is the Luchos with a hole burnt through it. From the other angle it is a gate to a concentration camp. “Look on the ground, there are many foot prints entering, but only one exiting.”
Kol Nidrei.
There are twenty men in Shull, all ready to pray. The Rosh Hakahal introduces us, and the congregant’s bursts into applause. My friend says a few words about Yom Kipur in Hungarian. They can’t believe he learnt such a difficult language in only one year.
Maariv.
“Slach Na” to the tune of Hava Nagila. “Yaleh” to the tune of Dovid Melech. The men are all humming along. I can here a few reading slowly in Hebrew.
Maarive is coming to an end and for the final part “Avinu Malkeinu,” I see an elderly man is being helped with putting on his Tallis, and then being helped to the Aron Kodesh. The Rosh Hakahal tells me “This man is ninety years old. He lived here before the war, and was deported with the rest of the Jews. All of his family was killed in Dachau, but he survived and returned. Tonight is very important to him.”
After hearing this, I ask myself. Who am I to be the one to announce “Do it for the sake of those who were slaughtered in your name”? What have I seen to proclaim “Do it for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of your name”? What do I know to ask, “Avenge the spilled blood of your servants”? In this old mans presence the meaning of the words became too real. In this survivors presence I forgot how to read. The rest of avinu malkeinu was just an embarrassing mumble.
After services the few who are still in Shull sit around a table to talk. One man informs us “As a child I learnt here in cheder, but it’s the Teachers slaps I remember more then anything else.” There is another older man sitting amongst us. He to is a survivor and he wants to know if we speak Yiddish. His face lights up as we answer “zicher ken men yiddish ”. In Yiddish he tells us “I was in the ghetto, but my mother and I escaped. We went to Budapest where for a large amount of money, a non Jewish family hid us through the war.” I wonder when the last time he spoke Yiddish was.
Shachris.
We arrive to Shull and there are six women here today. The only problem is they are all sitting in the men’s section. So we ask in a respectful manner for them to please sit in the women’s section.
Before kriah I bring the Sefer Torah to the women for them to kiss. One lady walks up to me, mumbles a few words in Hungarian, then pinch’s my cheek. “What did she say”? I ask my friend. He laughs and translates her remark. “You may tell me to sit in the women’s section, but you can’t stop me from pinching your cheek.”
Neilah.
The fast has been over for more then twenty minutes now, and we are still praying. Nobody is complaining, no nervous glances at the clock. The next time these people will have a chance to pray as a community will only be next year, so what’s the rush? But all good things must come to an end. It is now time for “Napoleons march.” As we all hold hands and dance in a circle, the Rosh Hakohol whispers in my ear “today dunaszerdahely was once again little Jerusalem.
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