Thoughts & Teachings
Heller Kreshtool
It was on Yom Kippur, 1942, that the Nazis began to liquidate the ghetto of Czestochowa Poland. On that holiest of days, approximately 7000 Jews were sent to Treblinka, 200 were killed on the spot, and 350 were selected for work. Czestochowa was the city of my parents birth. Although their homes were blocks apart, it was only after 9 slave labor and concentration camps that they met in a displaced persons camp in Sweden. I found out about the Shoah by accident. One day while visiting the library in the rural central Pa town where I grew up, I happened to look at a book that had photographs from the camps. As I stood in the library on that day I saw the word Holocaust for the first time in my life. I read that 6 million Jews were murdered only because they were Jews. I left the library and quickly rode my bicycle home, anxious to tell my mother what I had just learned. Growing up in a home where the welfare of the Jewish people was always stressed, I was sure my mother knew nothing about this great tragedy. Certainly if she knew she would have told me. It was on that day that I learned that my grandparents, great aunts, uncles and cousins had not been as lucky as my parents and they had perished in the Shoah. But that was all I learned. There were no stories shared about the war years, no names or faces attached to my murdered relatives. I was told not to ever tell anyone in our small town that my parents had been victims of the Nazis, and I never did. I often wondered why my parents did not share stories with me, and more importantly why I never questioned my parents for their stories. Now, as a parent myself, I feel this was an act of love and devotion on both of our parts. I believe my parents wanted me to be carefree and happy. And for my part, I knew the great pain that was their past. By remaining silent we were protecting each other. I visited their city and saw for myself that nothing remained of the 30,000 Czestochowa Jews and their vibrant lives. What would we think if one day we returned to Baltimore and found no evidence of Jewish life? What if the family sitting next to us year after year on the High Holy Days simply vanished and was gone forever? I thank you G-d for giving my parents the tremendous mazel and strength needed to survive. Thank you for giving them the courage to rebuild their shattered lives and have faith in the future. Thank you for their showing me the beauty and greatness of Judaism, and always reminding me that my being Jewish was their most special gift to me. And thank you G-d for the ongoing blessing of waking in a safe and loving home each morning, and returning to the same peaceful home each night. Amen
