Historical Note
In 2008, my family and I were privileged to travel and see a Holocaust survivor tell her story. Sitting in a large auditorium with perhaps 150/200 other people, we saw this (then) 85-ish-year-old woman tell us of the horrors she went through–and we saw she was not ordinary. She knew three languages, and so she translated in and out of Spanish and English for the audience. She was remarkable. Her testimony and what she represents inspired me.
In my online AP class, we read, discussed and heavily analyzed the book, “Anne Frank: The Diary of A Young Girl.” I was given the opportunity to pretend I was Anne Frank, and the rest of my group interviewed me, pretending that they were able to talk to Anne shortly after she was released from the camps, had she survived. To answer them as accurately, I did a lot of research, reading and watching documentaries and movies on Anne and her times. I found the Jews, their plight, the hardships they’ve been through, their culture and status today to be evermore, and continuously, intriguing.
Upon doing my research, I came across many, stories from Holocaust : an overwhelming amount of them. The accounts of Helga Weiss and her best friend Terezin, of Lucille Eichengreen, and Gloria Hollander Lyon, and of course, the story of Corrie Ten Boom especially influenced and guided me. Just like Sebastian, I marvel at how watered-down we can pretend to present the Holocaust as. I marvel at how many hidden facts there are within the Holocaust. Kidnapping and Germanization is one of them. Deportation is another. Displaced Persons camps are yet another: and the list goes on.
Note: I want it to be realised is that, while I followed true events, there are still some factors I did not integrate, for instance:
The majority of kidnapped children were Polish immigrants.
Those kidnapped would usually have been heavily examined and tested to be sure they were not Jewish–to be sure that instead they were of pure Aryan blood.
General Motors (GM) helped supply Nazis with trucks–for the money.
Not all Germans lived in luxury, unlike suspicions. They, too, had ration cards, etc.
The levels of evil and abuse in Dachau were only bested by Auschwitz.
Some transit camps were worse than others: they were not the same as labor camps.
The Rabbi’s parents, if taken by the Nazis, would have records somewhere of where and when they died in the camps: Nazis kept precise records.
Some families today are just now realizing and reuniting with survivors, even 70 years later.
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Rabbi Jacob Abdiel’s Holocaust Account
By Aliia Matthew
The busy market place and neighborhood of “Machane Yehuda” in the city of Jerusalem buzzed with activity. People from countless countries hurried to find souvenirs, meet friends, or simply buy the weekend’s food. Amongst the varieties of aromas in the air, vibrant colors and the excitable sounds, a wrinkly, disheveled man sat, bent over in his chair. Rabbi Jacob Abdiel watched it intently with nothing but his enjoyment of the market on his mind.
Soon, however, the Rabbis’ eyes revert to a boy struggling under the weight of the groceries his mother had just given him. Anxiously trying to keep the groceries from falling, he searched for a place to sit. The Rabbi, seeing that there was another old, plastic chair near his own, motioned for the boy to sit in the better of the two. The kid rushed up with new energy, realising he could finally rest.
Soon, the dirty-haired boy was setting down his things. Upon glancing up at the rabbi, and realizing his status, he quickly straightened up and managed to say, “Good day to you, sir–I mean, Rabbi! Uh, thank you for the chair.” The Rabbi smiled kindly, said a “Good day”, also. After the formalities of introducing themselves, they soon resumed their scanning of the crowd. At least, the boy did, because after a while, the Rabbi noted the boy’s fidgeting with a blue-and-white cap, much like the one he wore when in the camps. This brought many memories back to him, and so in the spur of the moment, he started to reiterate them aloud.
“I remember being around your age,” said the wrinkly old man. “And I used to have a cap like that, a long time ago. You look quite like I did, you know. The same blond hair and blue eyes you have got me into deep trouble,” he scoffed. “Ah, that was how all of my troubles began!”
Sebastian cocked his head questionably. “How is that, Rabbi?”
“Pft, it’s a long story, my boy,” he said, looking around pensively. “…Long story. But basically, the Germans thought I was one of them. They were mistaken! But they kidnapped me, and gave me to a German family for it!”
“Really? Tell me about it,” said the excited Sebastian, wiggling in his chair, longing for a good story.
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“I was born in 1933: a fateful year, if I might say. The time of year was around when Shoah#3 (the Holocaust) began. My family’s neighbors hid us as soon as we realized that a war was happening.
The only bit of happiness left that I remember was when my mother used to sing to me a song telling of God’s faithfulness to the Jewish people. It told of how He loved and valued us, of how he had plans for us… But I could not understand it at the time, and did not until much later…”
“So…where did your neighbors keep you?” inquired Sebastian.
“They kept us in the damp, dark cellar, deep under their house. The cement walls were green with mildew and mold, and black bugs crawled around all the time. There was usually only candlelight from a kerosene lamp they had.
My delicate mother was disgusted by it, and often became sick there. My father hardly complained; he only found ways to show us to be thankful–telling us many people weren’t as privileged as us. I remember the place because we hid there for five years. I cannot believe God kept us together, safe, for that long! We lived very, very near the ghettos of Katane; it was about an hour and twenty minutes away from here, in Jerusalem.
But it seems too often all good things must come to an end for me, because one day, being only eight and five years old, my brother and I escaped our safe cellar. And why? Because as young as we were, we knew we didn’t want to be in there any more; we were restless, we were stir-crazy, after all.
We would never both see safety like that with our parents and never see that cellar again. I…I don’t really know what happened to them, but they’re gone now, I’m sure.” The rabbi’s face became very distraught-looking and almost as if he was puzzled, almost as if he was battling within himself about the fact. He knew there had to be someone who knew what happened to them.
“We should’ve never left,” The he said after a pause, slowly enunciating the words. “Perhaps we would have all lived…” The rabbi remained silent for a couple of painful minutes, and then he finally continued.
We found a stray puppy, and it wanted to play–thus, no sooner than we were happily romping in the grass with the mutt when two men in dark uniform (whom I later realized were the SS) came, roughly picked us up, looked us over, and pushed us to walk with them. They tried to keep us from shouting out, but, knowing these were not our parents, coming to scold us, we protested, especially my brother- he cried out to them in Hebrew. Yet, I, even at 5 years old, never said much, having been taught by my mother to be very quiet most of the time; so I only shed many tears onto the SS guard’s pant leg and looked up at him entreatingly.
The stern, sharp face soon softened a bit, and he said something to the other in German. By some miracle, my small knowledge of German, taught to me by my well-learned father, kicked in, and I understood something like, “Friedrich, he looks German! Blue eyes, see, blonde, and he’s light skinned. The other one is obviously a horrid Jew, and sickly, he probably is mental. Ship him off. This blonde one goes to Germany. He looks about seven years old, ja?” They agreed that I looked seven, but I was still only five years old.
I knew not, at that time, what it meant to have “mental problems”, but it was apparent they favored me over my brother, and so, as soon as I realised this, I quickly kicked one of the men fiercely in the shins. They laughed, playfully mocking me and remarking that I was definitely a healthy, strong-willed one. They thought that that character would be beneficial to bringing up a ruthless, giant, German soldier.
That is a horrible, bitter thought to me now–the way they made up all of these scenarios. But I wasn’t old enough to know that I was a Jew and not a Nazi German.”
“So how did you get out?” Piped up Sebastian.
“Ah, my boy,” said the rabbi, “It wasn’t as easy as you think! It took me the longest time to get to where I am now,” he sighed. “And sadly, my boy, it wasn’t without its terrors and trials. I can’t say anyone I knew then is living, or has stayed by me. Besides, I’m eighty-two already! I’m old enough to outlive my family and friends two times over.”
“What do you mean?” said the ever-inquisitive boy. “How did you escape?”
“Well, first,” said the Rabbi, settling in again to become more comfortable for his storytelling, “I saw them kick my brother into one of those big old SS trucks, and nearly knock him unconscious right in front of me because he kept resisting them as they separated us. He yelled out something incoherent as they closed the doors, probably something intending to be a threat to them–and a rushed goodbye to me. They drove off faster than I’d ever seen anything go.”
Once again he paused, looking suddenly distant and deeply saddened. Sebastian reached out and put his hand on the rabbi’s, in a compassionate gesture. The rabbi was surprised at this, to see that the child seemed to want to understand. So he kept telling his story.
“I was treated like a German boy. The family was happy to have me because they had just lost their only son in the war. I made them happy for a while. I quickly learned quite a bit of German. I was like a replacement to them….We lived in Bavaria, Germany.”
The rabbi groaned in distaste. “…I was loved, you see. Until I started looking Jewish, that is. I had a strong nose, and soon enough, and my hair darkened. Not that no Germans look or looked like that; only that they feared I wasn’t all the men had said; only that they feared what would happen if I really was Jewish and ended out looking like one.
They went back to the people who gave me to them, charged them of fraud and lying–sent them off somewhere. They realized I must be Jewish. This was after about two and a half years of living like one of them, you see! I didn’t think there was anything wrong. I was clueless. But they made it clear that I was not one of them, that I was a “wretched Jew”–they called me all kinds of names.
So they sent me off to the camp in Bavaria, Germany. It was Dachau. They forced me to work for them there; they knew not that I was only seven years old, a bit young to be working this hard; but they didn’t care and I looked old enough, anyway. We were made to build a large complex building in the same area under horrible–no, terrible conditions.They also did medical tests on me there…by some miracle I survived them….but let me not get into that, because by some miracle I lived–for three years–in Dachau. I’m not quite sure why I was kept alive all that time, but I suppose God had favor on me.
I remember those electric barbed-wire fences… I remember the seven guard towers all around us, the tops of their towers looking like my highest zenith… I became used to the horror.. I remember the thousands of people who died around me, but the trauma and evil around me became normal to me…” Tears began to stream down his face, his age once again becoming evident.
Sebastian saw, within Rabbi Jacob’s face, the sorrow marked upon him, the deep emotional wound that was so clearly imprinted upon this innocent man forever. He spoke up.
“I can’t really understand how that was for you. I don’t think anyone can fully understand Shoah quite the way you do…but what I do know is that I’m glad you’re here.”
Sebastian didn’t expect a response to that. He could see how much it hurt the old man to talk about all of this. He just looked out into the crowd. Hundreds passed them, most hardly even giving a glance their way. Had they any idea that this Holocaust survivor was sitting next to him? Had they any idea how hard it had been to go through Dachau? That one camp could impress this man in this way…it had to have been horrific beyond his imagination. But how had he survived in the end if thousands around him had died?
“There was…there was…an old man who realised how young I was…he knew he was bound to die, so he gave any nourishment meant for him to me…I wouldn’t have survived without it…
And then there was an error, somehow, in the system that caused me to be shipped off to the Westerbork transit camp in the Netherlands. I was about 11 ½ by then; it was 1944. I was there for a treacherous year…and I wouldn’t have lasted any longer, I’m sure. But then, in 1945, the next year, the blessed Allies came and set us free–the 876 of us left in the camp, that is. I remember the day–it was April 29, 1945.
We were free! Do you understand, my boy? We were free from the Nazis. Free from the camps. Free from what looked like we were going to all die off. We were free to live….
But I was only 12 years old. I had no one in the world to turn to in the Netherlands. Probably not even here in Jerusalem. So many of us were killed…I don’t think any of my family is alive…Just me.
The day after I was liberated from Dachau, that is, April 30th, 1945–Adolf Hitler committed suicide in his Berlin bunker, along with his wife. That same day, the Allies freed 33,000 from the camps in general. The next month, May 7th, we found out that officially, the Germans ended up, through the signing of General Alfred Jodl, that they had unconditionally surrendered. The signing was done in Reims, Germany.
Many Nazis were executed–shot or hung–and quite a few major generals committed suicide–perhaps because of Hitler’s example, because they saw very quickly that they were defeated and were doomed to be executed anyway.
May 8th, 1945 was V.E. Day, or, for the longer name, it was “Victory in Europe Day”. There was much celebration thereafter–and not just in Europe, but in the United States, and almost anywhere where the Allies were. It was glorious and bitter at the same time…” The Rabbi pulled at his scraggly beard and looked about again, then back at Sebastian. He suddenly started as if surprised.
“Ah! But I didn’t tell you what I did after I got out, now, did I? I got ahead of myself!”
“No, but that’s okay, Rabbi Jacob,” said Sebastian.
The rabbi sighed and raised his eyebrows. “But, haven’t I bored you yet, little boy?”
“Oh, no, you haven’t! No one has ever told me a story as good as yours.”
“The thing is, it is not a story. Many others have walked a similar path as mine–some surviving, some not–and it was not a make-believe story…it was, and is, our reality…And has continued to be our reality, even after it was “all over”.
From there, I went to a displaced persons camp, a DP camp, for a couple of months near Dachau, and they taught us some jobs so that we could support ourselves. That time I don’t remember much of because it hadn’t even completely become clear to me what had happened–most of what I knew was limited only to that I was free, I would be safe now, and I had the ability to do whatever I wanted.
So, after participating in the programs for the DPs a while and recuperating fully, I took what little money I had left from working and made my way back to the place all of the other, older Jews had talked about–here in Jerusalem. I went along with some other, fellow camp survivors. they helped me get connected enough to follow after my dream–of becoming a rabbi.
From the memories of happiness and family, I always remember my mother whispering to me that she knew I was destined to have big dreams and pursue them… And that, I did. However, the rest is just more stories on how it was to be a rabbi and go to rabbinical school. Now, that wouldn’t be very interesting to you, now would it, Sebastian?” He chuckled.
“Basically, after a while, I’ve now stopped serving in the synagogue much, to give the younger rabbis a chance!” He chuckled to himself a bit for some unexplained reason, and Sebastian, glad to see the rabbi happy, joined in.
After a while, Sebastian’s eyes darted around, taking in all that he was seeing, yet landing on places where he saw new interesting things. “Rabbi Jacob, who are those men over there?”
A heavily-dressed, middle-aged man stood very nearby, having stopped to courageously say a prayer aloud. He continued doing so for a while, thus allowing Sebastian to properly observe him.
He wore a large, extravagant head-dress of sorts, and he was adorned with many various colors. He wore layers of clothing, but one of his most notable aspects was his prayer mantle, whose blue fringes were excessively enlarged compared to most other men’s. His prayer-shawl was draped around him, as is the Jewish tradition. However, even after praying, he did not remove it, for as is custom, this kind of religious man keeps it on all day. Another most interesting aspect about his clothing was that he wore a phylactery, which looked like a black jewelry box; this box held Scriptures in it from the Old Testament/Law. This phylactery was strapped to the Pharisees’ heads or on their left arms.
The rabbi spotted the man Sebastian motioned to. “Ah, yes,” he said, “Those kinds of men are Pharisees.”
“Pharisees,” Repeated Sebastian. “Where does that word come from?”
“Well, the origin of the word means “separatist”, or “exclusively religious”. That refers, I believe, not only to their notorious attitudes and beliefs, but the word can also be used as an adjective to describe certain people in other religions.
Some, especially the Gentiles and Christians, consider Pharisees to be testy and judgemental; this is based on the fact that they are careful to adhere to the traditions and laws of the Torah or Law–so much so that they usually appear to be selfish and proud, not selfless and humble as they hope to look. They seek to realise God the right way and consecrate themselves to Him. They want to be good examples…that is part of the reason they pray publicly.
I remember one Pharisee saying that “The Pharisees live thriftily, giving in to no luxury. For they follow what the Word* (of God) in its authority determines and transmits as good. They believe that to keep what (God) wished to counsel is worth fighting for.”
The Sadducees, on the other hand, were, as one writer puts it, “extremely self-sufficient, to the point of denying God’s involvement in everyday life”! They were so lofty in their beliefs and ways; the “common man relates better to the Pharisees.” ’ The rabbi was more and more animated as he spoke.
“So the Sadducees really are not similar to the Pharisees, is what you’re saying, Rabbi?” piped up Sebastian.
“No, of course they aren’t! In fact, they are enemies. Don’t mix them up, Sebastian. A Mr. Julius Wellhausen said it well: “…the Sadducees live, not in the world to come, but in this world, and they are not in heaven, but on earth.”
“I think I understand,” said Sebastian. “Now I just wonder how you know all of this, Rabbi? It is amazing!”
“Well, when you’ve lived for 82 years, you get to learn a lot, you know. But even before then, I’ve been to Rabbinical school–plenty of years to learn lots of things– and I’ve taught others myself, in synagogues. It was a fascinating experience. I’ve met plenty of Pharisees–however, the Sadducees aren’t even around anymore, so I haven’t met them.”
“Hmm… but what do you do? Or what do Rabbis do? I know a bit about them, like that they’ve been around for thousands of years, teaching in tabernacles and synagogues and all, and that they’re really influential to Jews…but I don’t know very specifically what they have to do to be a rabbi and all, even though I think I want to be one when I grow up.” Sebastian placed his hand under his chin and looked up at the rabbi expectantly.
“Ah, my boy, I’m not sure you should aspire to that, because there are really too many rabbis without occupation!”
“Really? Well, my father says they are really important to our people, to direct them and help guide them. Who are some famous, important rabbis today?”
“The ones I can think of now are the Rabbis Joel Roth, David Wolpe, Jason Miller, Einat Ramon, and Bradley Shavit Artson. They’re especially well-known in the U.S.”
“Oh yes,” said Sebastian, “I think I’ve heard of some of those rabbis…So how do you become one?”
“To be an accredited or ordained rabbi, you will need around 5 or 6 years of study. To be ordained, you will need to pass extensive examinations–and even thereafter, you may still need to study more…
You’re quite the sharp one, Sebastian, aren’t you? I’ve always wanted a son who would seek after becoming a servant of God as you do.”
Sebastian’s mother had hurried up to retrieve Sebastian a while ago, and thereafter listened quietly to the rabbi. However, upon seeing the time, she began to gather up her things.
Sebastian saw his mother’s hint and knew he would be needing to say goodbye soon.
“Rabbi,” he said, softly, “Thank you for telling me about your life and the incredible hardships you have gone through…I see your story and I am encouraged to seek after my dream, too, like you did–to become a rabbi.
Even before I met you, I had this dream; but now, though I see that it will be a hard road there, I want to be like you–a person who, simple as he may be, endures through the trials, regains his strength again and again, and acknowledges that he did not do it alone–God did some unbelievable miracles to bring you through… You’ve been the strongest among anyone alive today, I think.”
The rabbi merely chuckled and smiled again, feeling new: Upon telling this young boy, who understood so much, his story–he realised that, though much of his past life had been difficult, that meeting young boys like Sebastian made him see where he could find his hope: in the Jewish people that remained, like the song his mother had once sung to him of the people he belonged to, speaking of how God valued, loved and had great plans for His People, the Jews, and for him, even at his age.
“If the whole new generation had kids like Sebastian in it,” thought the Rabbi, “I’m sure nothing like the Holocaust would ever happen again. They would be young people who would stand up and defend the helpless, and guide the world in a peaceful way. But if no-one remembers, if no-one recognizes the wrong, he thought, then we will keep repeating ourselves.” So, maybe his little conversation with Sebastian would make a difference one day. In this, he was comforted.
Afterward. The Rabbi and Sebastian have remained close friends–so close, that now, because the Rabbi has no family with him, Sebastian has come to think of him as a grandfather, and he now lives with Sebastian’s family in Jerusalem. The rabbi continues to tell his story.
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To tell of His Promises 