We Remember: Creative Martyrology
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Yom Kippur Martyrology Concert 5773 By Rabbi Steven Moskowitz Introduction Before we begin I would like to thank our cantor, Talya Smilowitz, for her creative efforts in fashioning this service and concert and for leading us so expertly in prayer during these High Holidays. It is a delight to lead services with our cantor. What a joy to have our hearts lifted by her voice. I would also like to thank our musicians, most notably Natalie Tenenbaum for not only accompanying us on this Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah but for writing all the musical arrangements, in particular those for this service. Natalie, as well, has found her way into our hearts. She is a blessing to the JCB. One day when this afternoon’s original compositions reach an ever-‐larger audience we will be able to say, “We first heard them here at the JCB.” And to our cellist, Wendy Law, and clarinetist, Vasko Dukovski for adding the voices of their instruments to our prayers, we thank you. For those who attended the past year’s creative martyrology services you will notice that the structure of this year’s service is similar, but all of the contemporary stories, and most of the musical selections differ. We begin our service. We begin as our tradition does with the story of Rabbi Akiva. Ele Ezkarah—these I do remember. With these words the Mahzor opens the traditional Yom Kippur service in which we remember the martyrs of our people, in particular Rabbi Akiva. Rabbi Akiva was martyred nearly 2,000 years ago. He died with the words Shema Yisrael on his lips. As he was tortured by the Romans, his disciples asked, “Even now you sing praises to God?” He responded, “All my life I have sought the meaning of b’chol nafshecha—love the Lord your God with all your soul. Now I understand.” His voice rang out as the flames engulfed his body, “Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad.” His last breath co-‐mingled with the verse’s final letter, the dalet. A powerful story. Yet remote and far removed from our own modern experiences. Still in our own age there have been too many who have died with these words on their lips. In our own time we have seen countless martyrs of our people. Too many to recount by name. And so in this service and concert we have sought to add contemporary voices to Akiva’s. We have rewritten our tradition’s service as well because today the very word martyr has become defamed. When someone murders men, women and children it is not martyrdom. So we seek as well to recover the ancient meaning of kiddush hashem—sanctifying God’s name, dying for the sake of heaven. The meaning of martyrdom is not to cause death but to inspire life. Sacrifices are meant to inspire, to call us to do better. These deaths and the retelling of these stories are intended to rekindle our faith and in particular our Jewish faith. This was the Mahzor’s original purpose. This is our purpose as well.
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We remember our history when we recall individual stories. And so this afternoon, we will remember a few of our martyrs’ names in order to rekindle our memories and rekindle the flame in our Jewish souls. Each and every life is equally cherished. Certain names find their way into our hearts. 1. We remember Isaac Babel. The modern era is marked by questions. Isaac Babel lived a life of questions. Even his death is shrouded in uncertainty. We know only that Stalin’s secret police executed him. But why? Was it because of his relationship with the former police chief, a man who had fallen into disfavor with his superiors and who was executed two years before? Was it because he no longer wrote and published works, fearing perhaps that his writing would become part of Soviet propaganda? Or was it because of his Jewishness? Isaac Babel is considered one of the greatest of Russian writers and perhaps the greatest Russian Jewish writer ever. Much of his writing disappeared with him on the day that he was arrested. His published words are few but are considered classics to this day: Red Cavalry and Odessa Tales, both collections of short stories. In Red Cavalry especially he mixes first hand experiences with his fictional imaginations. Babel himself fought for the same Communist cause that eventually claimed his life. In earlier years he fought in the ranks of Cossack horsemen. His life was marked by deep incongruities. Though he was not religious he went to synagogue on Yom Kippur and always celebrated a Passover seder. His writing is steeped with Jewish feeling. He was born in Odessa, then the center of Yiddish and Hebrew literature. He received a traditional Jewish education in Hebrew, Bible and Talmud provided mostly by private tutors. His first literary efforts were in French, yet his mastery of the art of literature was realized in Russian. Throughout his works his Jewish sensibilities emerge. They hover about his characters, battling with their desire to become a part of the wider culture. But it appears a wild culture. The Jewish ethic prevents one of his characters from learning the ways of violence. In one of his harrowing tales, the narrator begs Providence to grant him “the simplest of all proficiencies, the ability to kill fellow men.” The Jew within stays his hand. It his Jewish heart, always beating just beneath the surface, that holds him back or perhaps keeps him anchored. All he wants is to become like them. He cannot. Babel is in many ways the first modern Jewish writer. And then he falls silent. His execution remains a mystery. His writing abbreviated. His life, and death, become a metaphor for countless other Russian Jewish lives. He was among many Jews who lost their lives in Soviet prisons, or who were tortured mercilessly by the Communist authorities throughout their years of rule. It was not so long ago that we marched on Washington to demand the release of Jewish refuseniks,
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ordinary men who were jailed on trumped up charges, everyday Jews who were marched to Siberia for no crime other than they were Jews. For years I wore a metal bracelet with Yosef Begun’s name on it. My wrist became blackened by the metal. I continued to wear the bracelet. We marched. We sang with our brothers and sisters, “Am Yisrael Chai! The Jewish people lives!” A Jewish heart forever beats in our souls. Just beneath the surface it beats within Babel’s. Soon some were allowed to leave. Some escaped to Israel. Others to the United States. Russian Jews built their lives elsewhere. Shaul Tchernichovsky was also born in Russia. He was a prolific Hebrew poet. He also made his way to Palestine. Among his poems is the famous Sachaki, Sachaki. Laugh, laugh at all my dreams! What I dream shall yet come true! Laugh at my belief in man, At my belief in you. Freedom still my soul demands, Unbartered for a calf of gold. For still I do believe in man, And in his spirit, strong and bold. And in the future I still believe Though it be distant, come it will When nations shall each other bless, And peace at last the earth shall fill. The Jewish soul is filled with hope. Modernity mocks its realization. This poem is set to an original arrangement by our cantor. With this poem we remember the martyrdom of Isaac Babel. We remember Isaac Babel, a Jew murdered by the Soviet regime. SINGING OF “Laugh, Laugh” 2. We recall the memory of Etty Hillesum. For modern Jews our tragedies are framed by the Holocaust. Our contemporary stories of martyrdom must include these names. There are too many to recount. There are too many names we do not know. Still there are stories we know better than others. Many wrote of their experiences. For a precious few their words were somehow saved.
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Etty Hillesum is one such person. Etty was born in 1914 to a middle-‐class, assimilated Jewish family living in Middleburg, Netherlands. She was the oldest of three children. Depression and mental illness plagued her family. Her brothers and mother suffered from these diseases. At the University of Amsterdam Etty studied law, Slavic languages and psychology. She earned a law degree in 1939. She was strongly influenced by Julius Spier, a psychoanalyst from Berlin who became her mentor and then lover. In 1940, after Germany’s invasion of Holland, her studies ended. Soon the Nazis began rounding up Dutch Jews. The Hillesum family was taken to the transit camp of Westerbork. Here Etty began working for the Jewish Council, the organization charged with deciding their fellow Jews’ fate. Her position gave her some measure of freedom of movement and she was able to travel back and forth to Amsterdam. She steadfastly refused offers of safe haven outside of the camp. Given her position she could have prevented her own name from appearing on the list of those to be departed. Some believe she purposely chose to board the train to Auschwitz, knowing full well what fate awaited her. How could she not accompany her family—even to her own death? How could she not accompany her fellow Jews? She wrote intensely throughout these excruciating years. She sought to be the “thinking heart” of the camp. She struggled to find a way to understand the horrors she saw with her very own eyes, to accept the choices that people make, both the evil and the good. She hoped to maintain a sense of meaningfulness even in the face of death. She filled eight notebooks with her most intimate thoughts. She entrusted them to a friend. In 1981 a selection of her writings was first published. It was entitled “An Interrupted Life.” The book received popular and critical acclaim. She writes on July 12, 1942: Dear God, these are anxious times. Tonight for the first time I lay in the dark with burning eyes as scene after scene of human suffering passes before me. I shall promise You one thing, God, just one very small thing: I shall never burden my today with cares about my tomorrow… Each day is sufficient unto itself. I shall try to help You, God, to stop my strength ebbing away… But one thing is becoming increasingly clear to me: that You cannot help us, that we must help You to help ourselves. And that is all we can manage these days and also all that really matters: that we safeguard that little piece of You, God, in ourselves. And perhaps in others as well. Alas, there doesn’t seem to be much You Yourself can do about our circumstances, about our lives. Neither do I hold You responsible. You cannot help us but we must help You and defend Your dwelling place inside us to the last… I am beginning to feel a little more peaceful, God, thanks to this conversation with You. I shall have many more conversations with You. You are sure to go through lean times with me now and then, when my faith weakens a little, but believe me, I shall always labor for You and remain faithful to You and I shall never drive You from my presence.
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Lea Goldberg, a Hebrew poet, was born in Eastern Prussia but spent much of her childhood in Russia. After the revolution she and her family returned to their home in Kovno, Lithuania. While still in school she began to write Hebrew poems. Like Hillesum she attended university and studied in Berlin. In 1935, at the age of 24, she immigrated to Tel Aviv. She is among the most well known Hebrew poets. Israeli school children read her verse. She writes of her new home: The masts on the housetops then, were like the masts of Columbus’ ships, and every raven that perched on their tips announced a different shore. Lamdeini Elohai Teach me, O God, a blessing, a prayer on the mystery of a withered leaf, on fruit so fair, on the freedom to see, to sense, to breathe, to know, to hope, to despair. Teach my lips a blessing, a hymn of praise, as each morning and night You renew Your days, lest my day be today as the one before; lest routine set my ways. It seems fitting that this poem be our remembrance of Etty Hillesum. Again this is an original composition by our very own cantor and Natalie. Etty HIllesum and Lea Goldberg were two women born only a few years apart. One lived a full life, although she died before even turning 60. The other a life cut far too short. Both women were creative spirits. Lea Goldberg died in 1970. Etty Hillesum and her family were deported in September 1943. Etty was murdered in Auschwitz on November 30, 1943. No one from her family survived the war. Etty Hillesum was 29 years old. We remember the martyrdom of Etty Hillesum. SINGING OF “Teach Me” 3. We recall the memory of the Israeli athletes murdered at the 1972 Munich Olympic games.
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Their story will be set to words and music. I thank Natalie Tenenbaum for her efforts in writing this original composition as we strive to give melody to their lives. We pray that this musical piece helps to give meaning to their sacrifices. In 1972 the German authorities were adamant that they paint a different picture of Germany with these games. The world still remembered the 1936 Berlin Olympics. People remembered how the Nazis had exploited those games for propaganda purposes. The Munich games were going to be different. Security was purposely kept to a minimum. The picture Munich wanted to present was carefree. Athletes did not go through security checkpoints. Many hopped the fence in the Olympic village. Mark Spitz dazzled spectators with his seven gold medals in swimming, breaking world records in all seven events. The Israeli team was housed in an isolated part of the Olympic village. The head of the delegation expressed concern that the location made the team particularly vulnerable to terrorist attack. The German authorities assured him that extra precautions were taken. It now appears that no such precautions were ever taken. In fact the German police were tipped off about a potential attack three weeks prior to the Olympics. Again the information was ignored. Der Spiegel even reported that German neo-‐Nazis assisted the Palestinian terrorists. Nothing would be allowed to interfere with the image of this new Germany, a Germany with no need for police and most especially a heavily armed military. It was supposed to be carefree. It was intended to be about competition and the grand spectacle of the Olympic games. MUSICAL INTERPRETATION, Part 1 On the evening of September 4th the Israeli delegation went out to see a performance of Fiddler on the Roof. Lalkin, the head of the delegation, denied his son’s request to stay overnight with the athletes, a decision that probably saved his life. The games were well into their second week. The Black September terrorists easily found their way into the village and the buildings where the Israelis were housed. It was reported that athletes even helped them over the fence, lifting for them their duffel bags filled with weapons. Yosef Gutfreund, a 300-‐pound wrestler, was the first to be awakened. He attempted to prevent the terrorists from forcing their way into his room. His efforts allowed his roommate to escape. Wrestling couch Moshe Weinberg fought with the intruders. He struggled with them again and again until he was finally killed. Weightlifter, and veteran of the Six Day War, Yosef Romano, fought with the attackers before he too was killed. The gunmen managed to capture nine hostages.
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The terrorists demanded the release of 234 Palestinians jailed in Israel. Golda Meir, prime minister of Israel, refused to negotiate with the terrorists. The Germans offered an unlimited amount of money as well as the substitution of high-‐ranking Germans in exchange for the Israelis. The terrorists refused and threw the body of Weinberg out the front door to demonstrate their resolve. The German authorities were ill prepared for such a terrorist attack. As police prepared to storm the apartment building television crews broadcast their preparations, alerting the hostage takers and thwarting this first rescue attempt. Andre Spitzer was clubbed in full view of international television cameras. The authorities agreed to provide safe transport to an airport from which the attackers and their hostages would fly to Egypt. The plan was then to attack them at the airport. But Munich had no SWAT teams or specially trained snipers. A hastily, ill conceived plan, was devised. The hostages and their attackers landed in helicopters at the airport. Two terrorists boarded the plane that was to fly them to Egypt. There they were to be overwhelmed by German police disguised as the flight crew. But the police had earlier abandoned their posts thinking the plan posed too great a risk. When the terrorists saw that the plane was empty they realized that it was a trap. They sprinted across the tarmac to the helicopters. The police opened fire. The terrorists found cover behind the helicopters. The police lacked even proper communication between their officers. The gun battle lasted several hours. Armored personnel carriers, called in as the gunfight continued, were delayed by traffic. At some point the terrorists turned their weapons on the hostages bound to seats in the helicopter. They tossed grenades into the helicopters. MUSICAL INTERPRETATION, Part 2 All nine hostages were killed. Jim McKay announced to the world: “We just got the final word… you know, when I was a kid, my father used to say “Our greatest hopes and our worst fears are seldom realized.” Our worst fears have been realized tonight. They’ve now said that there were eleven hostages. Two were killed in their rooms yesterday morning; nine were killed at the airport tonight. They’re all gone.” Even during the Munich games the IOC insisted that the competition continue. American marathon runner Kenny Moore wrote: “You give a party, and someone is killed at the party, you don’t continue the party. I’m going home.” Mark Spitz went home. A hastily planned memorial was held at the Munich games. Flags were flown at half-‐mast. Arab nations protested. Their flags were restored to the tops of their flagpoles. Only King Hussein of Jordan denounced the attack as a savage crime against
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civilization. Then again Black September was his enemy as well. The group was formed a year earlier in response to the killing of thousands of Palestinians by Jordanian security forces. It was then that the growing and increasingly militant PLO was expelled from Jordan to Lebanon. The bodies of the five gunmen killed in the gun battle where delivered to Libya where they received heroes’ funerals with full military honors. The three captured terrorists were soon released after a West German Lufthansa jet was hijacked and their release was demanded in return for the hostages. They were welcomed as heroes in Libya. Ankie Spitzer, the widow of fencing coach Andre, made it her mission to have the Munich massacre properly remembered. Forty years later this massacre was still not marked by the International Olympic Committee. Deborah Lipstadt writes: Never before or since were athletes murdered at the Games. Never before or since were the Games used by terrorists for their evil purposes. Never before or since were those who came to participate in a sports competition murdered for who they were and where they came from. The proper place to acknowledge such a tragedy is not in a so-‐called spontaneous moment… but in a purposeful action by the entire Olympic “family.” Still there was no memorial. Despite all the pageantry and competition the IOC insists that such a remembrance would politicize the games. The Olympic games continue. A proper remembrance for these Israeli athletes forgotten. For 20 years Israel hunted down those responsible for the massacre. It was not so much out of vengeance as the movies would have us believe but instead as a deterrent. Anyone who had a hand in the attack was targeted. Only one terrorist died of natural causes. Abu Daoud died kidney failure at the age of 73 in Syria. We know now that Yasir Arafat endorsed the operation and that Mahmoud Abbas, the current president of the Palestinian Authority, provided the necessary funds. When will Jewish deaths be accorded similar standing among the dead of other nations? When will Israel’s mourning be akin to that of other countries? We wait. Until then we will remember. We will forever mourn our people’s loss. We remember Moshe Weinberg Yosef Romano Zeev Friedman David Berger Yakov Springer Eliezer Halfin Yosef Gutfreund Kehat Shor Mark Slavin
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Andre Spitzer Amitzur Shapira. MUSICAL INTERPRETATION, Part 3 4. We remember Simon Weiser and William Bernstein. Eleven years ago our very own city was struck by terror. The memories of that day still haunt our dreams. On September 11, 2001 Simon Weiser and William Bernstein lost their lives on that terrible and dark day. Simon and William never met face to face. But their fates came together in the twin towers ten years ago. Two American Jews, martyred on 9-‐11. On that day the skies of our city were blackened. It was a beautiful early fall day. The sky, a perfect blue. By 9:03 am the sky was darkened by clouds of smoke and ash. By 10:28 am the twin towers were no more. If you were not a New Yorker on that day, you became one after. 9-‐11 continues to shape our world and our worldview. 2,976 souls were murdered. Fathers, mothers, sons, daughters. Jews, Christians and Muslims. Who can forget the photos and stories detailed for one year in the Times? Who can forget the pictures of firefighters filling rows upon rows in our newspapers? Nearly 3,000 murdered. Millions more terrorized. Many of those who lost their lives on 9-‐11 frantically called loved ones before they died. They left voice mail messages on answering machines and cell phones. As Ladder Company 13 rolled out of its firehouse towards the World Trade Center, Captain Walter Hynes called home. He left a voice mail for his wife. “Honey, it’s real bad. I don’t know if we’ll make it out. I want to tell you that I love you and I love the kids.” Melissa Hughes was trapped on the 101st floor. She called home. Her husband of one year was asleep in their bed in San Francisco. He never heard the phone ring. He occasionally listens to the message. “Sean, it’s me. I just wanted to let you know I love you and I’m stuck in this building in New York. A plane hit the building, or a bomb went off. We don’t know, but there’s lots of smoke and I just wanted you to know that I love you always. Bye.”
William Bernstein was the oldest of four sons. He was three minutes older than his fraternal twin Robert. His younger brothers, Steven and David, were also twins. He grew up in Brooklyn. Billy, as he was known, was a late bloomer physically. This posed some challenges for him in his competitive household. At his bar mitzvah he was a foot shorter than his twin. Eventually he caught up, growing to be a 6-‐foot-‐2, 220-‐pound man devoted to bodybuilding and karate. He and his twin were very close. They went to the same camp, same high school, the same Syracuse University. They lived in the same co-‐op building and both worked in downtown Manhattan. Billy worked for Cantor
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Fitzgerald, the firm that lost so many of its employees on that day. He was 44 years old. To be honest he could be slightly reserved but once you got to know him you discovered a genuineness and kindness. Simon Weiser was born in Kiev, Ukraine in 1936. For most of his years in the Former Soviet Union he tried to leave. Finally, in 1972, when some Jews were allowed to leave he immigrated to Israel and then in 1974, with his wife and son, moved to the United States in 1978, to Canarsie Brooklyn. Given that he was an engineer by training he eventually found a job with the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, working in power-‐distribution at its offices in the World Trade Center. He was quiet the avid reader and history buff. He especially loved medieval history. He was particularly enamored of crossbows and their trigger mechanisms. Over the years he built over 40 fully functioning crossbows. Most of his designs won patents. He wanted his son Anatoly to become a patent lawyer. He did. While living in Kiev he would often listen to Voice of America and dream of coming here to build a better life for his family. His son said, “Even in the Soviet Union my father was an American.” The song we dedicate to Simon and Billy was written by our cantor. Its chorus is structured around the biblical book of Lamentations. 2,500 years ago, the prophet Jeremiah lamented the destruction of Jerusalem at the hands of the Babylonians with the words: Alas! Lonely sits the city Once great with people!... Bitterly she weeps in the night, Her cheek wet with tears. There is none to comfort her Of all her friends. All her allies have betrayed her; They have become her foes…” Words spoken millennia ago. Still they touch a chord within our souls. With the words of this song we remember Simon Weiser and William Bernstein. SINGING OF “Bitterly She Weeps” 5. We remember Michael Levin. Michael Levin made aliya to Israel from Philadelphia in 2002. He was killed in Lebanon in the summer of 2006 at the age of 21.
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He first fell in love with Israel at Camp Ramah. It was there that his Zionist passions were sparked. Many fall in love with Israel during their summer adventures, but Michael’s commitment was different, his passion unparalleled. As soon as he could, at the age of 18, he made aliya to Israel. The shaliach who processed his immigrant application in New York said, “In my entire career, I’ve only seen one other person so determined.” As soon as he arrived in Israel he fought for permission to enlist in the army. Once in the IDF he fought to get into the elite Paratroopers Brigade. There he had to fight other disadvantages. He was so slightly built that the first time he parachuted he drifted far off course. After that the instructors attached weights to him. Everyone loved Michael. You never saw him without a smile. He always had a funny story or a quip to lighten the mood. He loved to sing. He used to say, “You gotta sing! You can’t feel Shabbat unless you sing. Then he’d start another song.” Everyone called him a friend. Even his commander considered him a friend. In July of 2002 Michael received special permission to go back to Philadelphia to visit his family. Soon the Israeli soldiers Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev were captured along the Lebanese border. It was unclear at the time but they were killed in the ambush. The second Lebanon War began. Gilad Shalit was captured along the Gaza border. Michael rushed back to Israel to be with his unit. He said, “If I didn’t come back to fight with my unit, I wouldn’t have any life anyway.” His commander offered to let him go to Hebron where soldiers were needed in case fighting broke out there. Michael insisted that he be sent to the North in order to be with his comrades. On August 1 his unit engaged Hezbullah in an intense firefight in a southern Lebanon town. Hezbullah hit the house where Michael and his unit were taking cover. Michael was wounded in the initial attack. In all 25 were wounded. 3 killed. It took three hours before reinforcements were able to reach his unit. The wounded were treated during the attack. Rescue vehicles could not reach them. Shlomi Singer carried the injured Michael back to the rescue station. It was too late. A friend recalled, “Michael ran ahead to do everything with enthusiasm, happy to serve Israel. He was just the most remarkably upbeat, positive, kind and caring person I’ve ever met.” On August 2nd, the day before Tisha B’Av, the day that marks the destruction of the first and second Temples, his parents and sisters gathered along with 2,500 others at Har Herzl, Israel’s military cemetery in Jerusalem, to bury their son and brother, friend and fellow countryman. Thousands of Israelis had traveled to the funeral to honor the young man who had made their dreams his own. They call immigrants who come to Israel without family, and serve in the IDF, lone soldiers. But staff Sergeant Michael Levin was never alone. He found his way into the hearts of too many.
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Although he was a lover of Israel we thought to remember him with an American standard. Slumber My Darling is a song written by Stephen Foster, the 19th century songwriter and considered by many the father of American music. It is he who wrote such classics as Swannee River and Oh Susanna. During the years that he wrote his songs Zionism was only a glimmer of a dream. Stephen Foster died in 1864. Theodor Herzl, the founder of Zionism, was born in 1860. Yet, there is something both deeply American and deeply Israeli about this young dreamer from Philadelphia. We imagine that his mother would welcome any opportunity to sing such a lullaby to her son, just one more time, the lone soldier who sacrificed his life in the pursuit of the grandest of Jewish dreams. “To be a free people in our own land, in the land of Israel and Jerusalem.” Slumber my darling Thy mother is near Guarding thy dreams From all terror and fear. With the words of this American song we remember Michael Levin. SINGING OF “Slumber My Darling” 6. Ani Maamin And now at the conclusion of this service, Eleh Ezkerah—These I do remember, we sing the song that best exemplifies our faith, Ani Maamin. Centuries ago Moses Maimonides penned these words as part of his thirteen principles of faith, “Ani maamin—I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the messiah, and even though he delays, I still believe.” Even these words are tinged with the pain of loss. It is said that the tune to which these words are most often sung was composed by the Hasidic rebbe, Reb Azriel David, in a cattle car as he was transported to Treblinka. The tune was taken up by other Hasidim. They too sang this song as they were being herded into the gas chambers. Soon the song came to be adopted by other Jewish prisoners and became known as the Hymn of the Camps. We believe with perfect faith. The question of our generation lingers. Perfect faith?, we ask. Isaac Babel embodies our questions. These deaths spark even more questions. For in our generation the very nature of martyrdom has been transformed. No longer do people knowingly go to their death. The Jewish philosopher, Emil Fackenheim, remarked that the Holocaust even robbed Jews of the choice to be martyred. Our heroes were not told like prior generations, “Convert or die.” They were instead marched to the gas chambers. They were walked to their deaths. Can they properly be called martyrs? They did not going
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willingly, or even knowingly, into the fire. They were thrown in. These fires cast them as accidental martyrs. None knowingly chose Kiddush hashem. None chose death to sanctify God’s name. If martyrdom is only a matter of choice then indeed our generation has witnessed both its transformation and defamation. If the meaning of this term is instead about those who died because of their faith, because they were Jews, then our generation has too many martyrs to enumerate. If the intention of our tradition’s service is that we gain inspiration, then let these deaths not be in vain. Let us grant meaning to their sacrifices. Let our faith gain renewed inspiration and vigor. May our commitment never waver. Intentional or not their sacrifices can indeed provide us with strength. We believe. Again and again we say, we believe with perfect faith. We stand with generations before us. We remember those who died in order to sanctify God’s name. SINGING OF “Ani Maamin” 7. Yizkor We turn now to the Yizkor service, when we recall our own personal losses. There are two types of tears. There are the tears of pain. These tears burn our cheeks when death stands before us, when the weight of the heartache and loss feel crushing. These are the tears of despair when we feel like we will never be able to live without our loved one. We look back at these tears and wonder how we ever summoned the strength to place a shovel of dirt into our loved one’s grave. Later the tears of memory begin to roll down our cheeks. These tears do not sting. Instead they are sweet. We find that we laugh and smile when recalling stories of our father or mother, husband or wife, brother or sister, child or grandparent. These tears bring with them the memories of loved ones. They hurt, but do not sting. Their taste is not the salt of bitterness but the sweetness of memory. There will always be tears. Some will sting. Others will be sweet. These later tears will bring with them memories, stories, images, pictures, words and values. We cry when we remember.
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But we also gain strength from these tears. Our tears are no longer incapacitating, but ennobling. May God help us transform all of our bitter tears into the sweet tears of memory. SINGING OF “Wanting Memories” We turn from the contemporary to the songs and prayers of our tradition.
Jewish Congregation of Brookville September 26, 2012