I am very raarely up this early. Today, I felt extra strength and endurance and a bit of tenacity. We arrived at our synagogue before 6:30 this morning. My Yiddish teacher sat in the pews waiting for his turn. His family had been able to flee from Poland before Hitler invaded it.
I was escorted to a chair by a colleague of mine from Hadassah and she pointed to a sheaf of papers. These were the names of some of those who had lost their lives in the Holocaust. Some were as young as 1 years old. Many of the names were children–3, 5 8, 11 13, 17 years old. These numbers stand out in my memory. I recognized the city name “Chernowitz”–my Dad’s father came from there. Warsaw, Lvov,, Minsk, Paris–some cities names were very hard to pronounce,as were some of the first names and surnames. Yet they were familiar to me– so I continued to read their names undaunted.
Suddenly, I felt a tremendous wave of sorrow come over me. My friend from Hadassah was very concerned and caring. I could stop if it was too hard for me. I took a deep breath–”No, I said. I was alright. Suddenly as I read each name I could feel each child and grownups’s presence urging me on, encouraging me, thanking me –for giving life to his or her name again. Each of these individuals had a life before they were imprisoned and exterminated–no matter how short some of their existences were. They had laughed and cried. Some were old enough to perhaps have fallen in love like I had. Some were young enough to hopefully have been held and cuddled and loved by their parents and zaydehs and bubbehs. 30 minutes went by so quickly, page after page completed, names pronounced for not only the 4 or 5 of us in the sanctuary, but for all those eternal spirits who listened in as we read.
This is not the ending. I want to find out more about some of the names I read.