Chapter Ⅰ: In the Beginning

So spoke the Chronicler:

Long is the history of the eternal people, extending for millennia, including good years and bad years, tranquil years and dreadful years. In its own land and in Diaspora lands, among the nations and as a free people, it enjoyed long periods of repose during which it contributed of its endowments to fellow mortals, bestowing upon them the Sabbath and faith in one God, the Book of books and the teachings of the prophets. At times, however, in darkened and difficult days, it struggled under the burdens imposed by vanquishers and subjugators. It was afflicted, body and soul, by religious wars and persecutions, burnings at the stake and being crowded into ghettos, blood libels and pogroms, expulsions and exiles, degradation and derision. The people had neither serenity nor tranquility; and the monster of Jew-hatred again and again threatened to swallow it whole, rose up against it in every generation attempting to destroy it. Nevertheless, the people gritted its teeth, accepted the heavenly judgment and, groaning, even at times stretched its neck on the sacrificial altar. Homeless and hunted, it sought a safe haven, a refuge for resting a while until the time of wrath had passed.

[From here to the end of the chapter is chanted in the mode of Eikhah.]

What befell the people Israel in Nazi Europe, however, is beyond classification, and what confronted its sons and daughters defies description. Untold numbers were forced out of their homes, torn from their families, trampled in the dust, worked to death. Six million created in the divine image were strangled, cremated, shot, buried alive; they died of starvation, of thirst, and of the cold. This time the monster stretched open its mouth beyond bounds, with a blood-curdling shriek and with stinking breath, and sought to eradicate everything. Without mercy it set out to destroy, to slaughter, and to lay waste the entire people, from those nearing the end of their days to embryos in their mothers’ wombs. Countless trains stuffed with human cargo sped to the camps, where from chimneys smoke ascended to God; but the heavens were brass and the firmament iron. The click-clack of boxcar wheels blended with the barking of dogs, and the clank of iron doors merged with the stomping of hobnailed boots. Like a gigantic thundering orchestra, all of these sounds silenced the thin, small voice bursting out of the hearts of the precious few, the righteous of the world’s nations who had been touched by the word of God. May God recall their deeds in their favor.

So much have I seen and so much have I yet to see, but what was revealed to me there I never could see again. All of the words in the world, created and yet to be created, in every single language, will never be able to describe even a small part of what was displayed before my eyes. And this too do I know: Never will I be able to forget, and never will I have the power to understand.

Chapter Ⅱ: The Earth is Filled with Chaos and Confusion

From the journal of a journey to another world:

I was part of a small delegation of journalists that stole into the ghetto in order to see what was happening behind its walls. I stayed there for eight hours, during which I aged ten years. On our way there, we stopped at a church to worship, since it was Sunday. When the last notes of the organ had faded, we listened to the words of the priest. He spoke of suffering and affliction, of love and compassion, of pity and kindness, and sent us on our way with the blessing, ‘‘May God be with you.’’ But when we passed the guardhouses placed in the wall surrounding the ghetto, we were left with the suffering and the affliction, them alone.

As we entered, a cart was coming toward us, pushed and pulled by three men. Bloated corpses were heaped upon it, their heads bouncing to a rhythm determined by muddy ruts in the road, as if they were greeting us. Thus for the first time we met death’s partner, famine. It was impossible not to feel its presence in every corner, and it was the force endlessly propelling streams of weakened people through the streets, their faces filled with despair. Wherever you looked, terrifying sights: a dead body, its face covered by a newspaper, and a man hastily removing its overcoat while digging in its pockets with anticipation; a young girl, holding tightly her infant sister who was weeping out of hunger listlessly, maybe dying, maybe sleeping; an elder crowned with tefillin stretching out a feeble hand, his eyes reflecting the peace he had made with the most dreadful of all; a boy who had tried to smuggle potato skins into the ghetto surrounded by a group of guards reveling with coarse laughter as they stripped him before he was beaten to death.

A group of young people was assembled around a bulletin board. One of the announcements, written in Yiddish, drew my attention. It was explained to us that this was an announcement about a concert to be held that very day, a small choir and a violinist. Other announcements told about Torah instruction and lectures on current events. Did these have the power, even if momentary, to silence gnawing hunger or to stifle the dread of what the future held? Whence did this nation draw the strength to stare into the eyes of the destroying angel‽

We also met with members of the Judenrat, community leaders, those unfortunates into whose hands were entrusted the lives of their brothers and sisters without the power to save them. Once again they were forced to organize people for a transport, while the motors of the trucks already were roaring in the central square. With shoving and shouting, mothers and their children were forced – along with the elderly holding their canes, the ailing and the crippled and the feeble – into the cavernous maws of the trucks, and all their eyes were filled with nightmarish terror. On their way to the nearby train depot, the trucks left behind them a silent scream shrouded in black smoke, and the painful certain knowledge that tomorrow and the day after tomorrow this scene would be repeated until the ghetto’s last breath.

The return to the city’s main street, with its traffic and tumult, crowds and carousing, brought me at once from one world to another. A narrow wall and a few gates separated worlds that were so different. What do the dwellers of one world know about their neighbors in the other one? And if I were to tell, would they listen? And if they were to listen, could they believe? And if they were to believe, would they not attempt to explain, or to cleanse their consciences, with scores of different and differing rationalizations? And if they were to ask me why all of this befell the Jews, how would I answer?

Chapter Ⅲ: The Darkness Spread Over All

Written upon a scrap of paper found between two wooden beds:

Gertrude is my name. There were many Gertrudes in our town, but in this long, cold barracks there is no Gertrude but me. There is an Anushka here who comes from the Ukraine, and Gittel from Poland, Helen from Germany, and Gratzia from Greece, and a continuing long list of those who once were women. What cruel, callous magnet drew us here from all corners of the continent, and cast all of us into one mold: wooden shoes and a dress of coarse fabric, a blanket to cover our body in a cold that knows no mercy, and a tin plate and a spoon that never could hold enough to satisfy the incessant gnawing hunger. The past is becoming blurred, replaced only by the present, today, right now, this moment, the sewing machine, a portion of foul soup, the lineup where some of us collapse and from which others are plucked away to disappear, accompanied by shrieks and dogs, and no one knows where.

The present fills all of our existence. About the future no one speaks, and with difficulty I remember the past. O, how shortsighted and innocent we were! We rejected the advice to abandon the homeland, to emigrate to the distant east, and we hid ourselves from the signs, ‘‘No Jews Allowed.’’ Our ears we sealed from hearing the hateful speeches, for they were just words and what can words really accomplish? With all our might we wanted to believe that if only we would humble ourselves a short while, the storm would pass and be no more. Even after the night of the burning synagogues, when the streets were covered with shattered glass, we continued hoping for the best, since nothing worse could come to pass and, after all, everyone was cultured there.

Alas for the blind fools who did not know what the future held. It was on a Friday night. We were sitting in the salon and my crippled, wheelchair-bound father, Manfred, was singing along with the choir being broadcast on the radio. Suddenly the door was broken down and they entered, black uniforms and shining boots. They shoved father into an adjoining room, and they commanded us to pack a suitcase within ten minutes. ‘‘Where you are going is safe and sheltered,’’ they said. ‘‘Hurry! Hurry!’’ Later, only interrupted images and fragmented sounds: an isolated rifle shot, the vacant stares of the neighbors, the frozen city square, a mother’s farewell cry, the filthy truck, the boxcar with not a breath of fresh air, the long barracks with nothing but wooden beds, and the sour-faced Kapo.

Our hair they shaved when they brought us into the barracks, and in place of the six-pointed yellow star they burned a blue number into our arms, and from that moment only sewing and sewing from morning to night, without rest, day after day, hats, coats, shirts, and trousers appropriate for the shining boots. At first I still asked ‘‘Why?’’ Why me? Why us? Why now? But I stopped asking. The question is more painful when there is no answer.

Tonight they will take all of us to another location. This is what the Kapo told us, and she did not add another word, but her face was gloomy. I am writing all of this on scraps of paper. And if a human being should ever find them, perhaps he will have the strength to ask for a reason why there was no

Chapter Ⅳ: Confronting the Abyss

The last words of Yaakov-David Ben Yoel-Tzvi Halevi:

Four times was I born, and once already have I died. My first birth was accompanied by the joyful voices of my parents and my eight brothers and sisters when I came into the world, with the help of God, may He be blessed, twenty-five years ago. I was born three other times over the past ten years, during which time I also died once. After that death, no death could ever frighten me.

The second time, I was born on the night of the Selection, when they gathered us, all the males in town, to the central square. The stars had disappeared and only the yellow patches flickered in the darkness. We were told to form a long line and strip to the waist. One by one we passed by the light of a dim oil lamp near a devil dressed in black who with the wave of a hand directed to the left or to the right. At once I realized that the strong and the sturdy were being sent to one side, and the young and the aged to the other. Hastily I filled my shoes with dirt, to gain a few centimeters in height. Swelling my chest, I even walked on my toes as I passed by him. I was sent with the sturdy. Later we heard the shots and I knew that my life had been given to me as a gift. Blessed be His name.

The third time I was born when one thousand of us were taken to walk in front of soldiers on a battlefield. The area was full of mines and we formed a living wall before the troops. Each and every day our number diminished as comrades ripped apart were left behind as food for the birds of the heavens and the beasts of the field. Seventy-eight of us survived the march. I felt that our lives began anew when we finally reached the barn where we were favored with our daily portion of thin soup. Blessed be the Lord each day.

The fourth time, I was born later that night. I had left the barn for the yard behind it, where I managed to catch sight of a spark from a match and the sickening smile of the one who had lit it. Since the living wall had fulfilled its mission, it was no longer needed. The barn went up in flames and all my comrades soared heavenward on the flaming pyre, a sacrificial offering ascending to God, may He be blessed.

Whoever has been born four times will not die only once. My death came to me after I had fled from the site of the fire. I was captured by locals and forced into a boxcar on its way to the place where ‘‘work makes one free.’’ An orchestra greeted us, and all of us were led, holding soap and a towel, to wash our sweat-covered bodies. The smell of flesh on fire confused our senses. The soap seemed to be burning in our hands, and the orchestra was playing. Thanks to God’s mercies for me, I was removed from the line at the last moment, and did not become part of the naked mass shoved into the room so savagely. The door slammed with a deafening noise and from the room burst forth sounds that no words can adequately describe: the howling hiss of gas streaming in accompanied by a mingling of faint and feeble cries: ‘‘Sh’ma yisrael’’ and ‘‘mameleh,’’ ‘‘the Lord our God’’ and ‘‘madre mia,’’ ‘‘the Lord is One’’ and ‘‘tateleh,’’ followed by a low, murmuring sound. Here my task began: to remove the bodies, to pull out gold teeth, to shove the dead into the oven. When I pulled out the teeth of my brother Lazer, whom I had not seen for years, my heart died within me. My body continued to live, but I became one of the walking dead. The Lord gave me life, and the Lord took it away, may the name of the Lord be blessed. How the Master of the Universe has taken such trouble to ensure that we would lose our faith in Him! Yet, in spite of His wrath and His rage, we have refused to succumb.

When I die again, tear not your garments; mourn not, for there is no death after death. Do not even attempt to ask why. What I have not accomplished for myself, let others not try to accomplish on my behalf.

Chapter Ⅴ: A Heavenly Voice, Hovering, Cries Out

[This chapter, except for the final passage, is chanted in the mode of Eikhah.]

A heavenly voice cries out: For these do I weep.

For Gertrude’s parents, who were torn away from each other
Congregation: For these do I weep.

For Gertrude and Anushka, Gittel, Helen, and Gratzia, whose vitality came to an end in labor camps
Congregation: For these do I weep.

For members of the Judenrat and for the Jewish Kapo, who were asked to fulfill a task that no human being could fulfill
Congregation: For these do I weep.

For Yaakov-David ben Yoel-Tzvi Halevi who died twice and was born four times
Congregation: For these do I weep.

For nine hundred and twenty-two comrades who from mine fields ascended the heavens
Congregation: For these do I weep.

For the seventy-seven who were saved, whose dust was gathered in the barn
Congregation: For these do I weep.

For Lazer, who in his most terrifying nightmares never saw his brother pulling gold teeth from his corpse
Congregation: For these do I weep.

For these do I weep, and for the millions crowded in ghettos and in detention camps; for those wandering in forests and those hidden in attics and in underground bunkers, for those who found refuge in the bosom of another faith or who lost their God; for those who were given over to experiments at the hands of wild beasts called doctors and scientists; for those who died of hunger and of thirst, smothered to death in freight trains or in gas chambers, shot, buried alive or cremated; for those who were brought out to be killed by hanging so that they would be seen, and for those who sanctified God’s name and the name of the people Israel, refusing to be subdued, fighting to the death. For those who lost their homes, their dignity, and their hope, and for those left alive to live the horror anew, day after day, moment after moment.

For these do I weep, for infants who never learned to say ‘‘Mommy,’’ for boys and girls whose youth was stolen from them, who withered before coming to blossom; for young men and women who never were blessed beneath the wedding canopy, for the elderly denied the privilege of a gracious old age; for the orchestras and for the music, and for all the world’s beauty whose rainbow of colors was lost, replaced by only brown and gray and black. For all these do I weep.

I struggled so hard before the veiled curtain, before the merciful and gracious One, of great kindness and truth. How I pled and how I begged, how I wanted to understand. Was all of this known on high? Was this the decree of God who is filled with compassion? This was the reward of such a nation? But there was no sound and no response, only an exasperating silence. The Most High abides in secret, God dwells in the shadow of silence. Deep, hidden, and awesome are the events; no one understands them, not even echoes of the heavenly voice.

Chapter Ⅵ: Let There Be Light Again

Again did the chronicler speak:

At the edges of the night, the first rays of dawn could be discerned. They shone upon the remnants of human beings in striped clothing who stared at their surroundings with dead eyes. They have forgotten how to be happy, and their bodies reject any food offered them. Bulldozers thrust into gigantic pits thousands of thin, naked corpses that fall, one atop the other, their limbs withered.

In camps of the uprooted circled human streams, searching in despair for members of their families, and they were afraid to hope lest their hope be lost. The unfortunates who tried to return to their homes found in them hostile neighbors from time to time, and more than once they were saved only by a miracle from murder following murder. People who did not know or who had sought not to know, who refused to believe or who forbade believing, stood with tearful eyes, not knowing where to direct their gaze or how to cleanse their conscience.

Slowly, slowly, people returned to their homes, and family members were reunited. People married again, and children were born. Wave upon wave poured into the East and the State of Israel arose, and centers of Jewish life flourished throughout the world. Trains traveled to resorts once again, and orchestras were making joyous music in all corners of the land. Perhaps this is the way in which Heaven sought some consolation for those who suffered and mourned.

The heroism of courageous resisters was revealed and proclaimed, and Mourner’s Kaddish was recited for the dead, memorial books were written, monuments were erected so that finally mourners could find a place where they could weep for their dead, criminals were punished, and those who were afflicted in body or soul received help. Nevertheless, it was impossible to restrain the angel of dreams who continues to terrify the rescued night after night, impossible to silence the gnawing voice of conscience, which demands an explanation for satanic evil, and for apathetic hearts. Such questions ‘‘Why, God, why? Why us? Why them? Why now? Why in that way?’’ are left suspended in midair, hovering over all human deeds, and there is no response.

Time will tell what we have learned; only time will reveal whether we truly have listened to the voice of the blood of the slaughtered crying out from the earth.

Do not mourn too much,
but do not sink into the forgetfulness of apathy.
Do not allow days of darkness to return;
weep, but wipe the tears away.
Do not absolve
and do not exonerate,
do not attempt to understand.
Learn to live without an answer.

Through our blood, live!