Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

This year, I am once again the chairman of our local Yom HaShoah Liturgy Committee. It is a task I give considerable thought to whenever the committee appoints me. Carefully, each member of my committee offers a variety of different readings that we sift and ultimately assemble. After doing this for many years, the challenge always makes me reflect about the Holocaust and why it is so important to remember it. One of my well-known Hassidic friends, whose name I will not mention, once wrote an article blasting the Jewish community’s obsession with the Shoah. Well, in an age where Al-Queda and thug nations seek to proliferate nuclear weapons, we had better remember the legacy of the Shoah.

Lately, I’ve been reading a remarkable book about a brilliant Talmud scholar who survived the death camps. Breaking the Tablets: Jewish Theology after the Shoah, by Daṿid Weiss-Halivni tells a remarkable story about his journey through the “valley of death” mentioned in Psalm 23. Here is the passage  that  I will use for this year’s Yom HaShoah Service:

I was in the forced labor camp at Wolfsberg, one of the camps of Gross-Rosen from May 1944 until February 1945. In the camp, we were given a day off every second Sunday, during which we could remain in the camp and, ostensibly, tend to our own needs. But, since the SS were looking for “volunteers,” for work outside the camp and such “volunteering” consumed the entire day in hard labor, whoever could, would hide from them.

On Sundays, unlike regular days of work, the SS did not call names according to their lists but would seize people as they found them. Whoever was not caught this way was able to avoid the claws of the SS. But, when there was a shortage of workers, the SS went searching, and whoever was caught could anticipate a whipping, if not more. One time I was among those caught. I was hiding under the bed, and an SS trooper entered the room. The room was supposed to be empty, but, like a dog, he smelled the scent of flesh. When he raised his whip, I pleaded with in him in German, and I began saying, “Herr Ubsersturmfuher, Merciful One (HaRachamim).” And I escaped by the skin of my teeth.

I cannot judge how much this supplication helped me stay alive and not collapse under the lashing. But every day I grieve for having used this holy word, “Merciful One” (HaRachamim)—which appears in the sources only in relation to the Holy One—to pray for mercy from this villain. I simply knew no other words of entreaty. I drew them from the prayer book and translated them into German.  Perhaps, subconsciously, I thought of the SS, as it were, as God. They ruled over the camp with absolute authority, life and death—literally remained in their hands, and I unconsciously used an expression appropriate to God.

May it be Your will that, by virtue of my having understood the correct meaning of the prayer, meloch al kol haolam kulo bekh’vodecha, “Rule over all the world in Your full glory,” that all the world comes to eradicate the condition that ruled in the forced labor camp. May it be Your will to repair the damage I caused by substituting the profane for the Holy. And may we be worthy of beholding the fulfillment of the prayer, “And His dominion rules over all.”

Postscript:

Daṿid Weiss-Halivni’s experience reminded me of an incident that once occurred to my father, Leo Israel Samuel, when he was in the Auschwitz concentration camp.  I will never know how he found the inner strength and will to survive. One day after backbreaking work, my dad received 40 lashes for insubordination. The Nazis found my father’s stoic demeanor amusing, and so they gave him another 40 lashes. At the end of the beating, the commandant went up to him and punched out his front teeth.

My Aunt Miriam told me about the story last summer. She recalls that when she saw him after the camps were liberated, he told her about the beatings. After hearing the story from her, I decided to write a new poem in honor of Father’s memory. I realize poetry is not one of my strengths, but the words came to me in a moment of inspiration.

THE GOLDEN SMILE

When I was a young boy
Father possessed the beauty of the golden smile
He had grace, laughter, and style.

I will never know the degree of his pain,
Even as tears from Heaven, dripped like rain
When the Nazis whipped him while he stood immobile,
With character intact and with dignity ennoble.

Wincing in pain they gave another forty lashes,
He felt the lashes cut into his body, but not into his soul,
Father stood strong and defiant, determined to survive
Still feeling fortunate, to still breath and be alive.
Afterward, the commandant punched him in the mouth,
Knocking his front teeth, from north to south.

So after the war, he had his teeth capped,
He always demonstrated a strength that evil could not sap.
Father, I miss your strength and wisdom,
But memory of your smile etched in my soul,
Will forever remain beautiful and winsome.