Leah Gitl Shukhman
Dear friends!
I want to share a story I heard about five years ago and have remembered every Hanukkah since. Unfortunately, I do not remember the details, so if anyone knows more precisely, especially the names of the storyteller and the rabbi in question, I would be glad to hear from you.
This is the story of a Jew who survived the Holocaust—and remained a Jew.
"Like many others, I found myself in the most terrifying place on earth at the time—Auschwitz. The main goal was to survive. Simply to stay alive. To achieve that goal, people were ready to do anything—betray, kill…
I had begun having doubts about my faith long ago, even before the war. And after what I saw here, they grew even stronger. Does G-d exist at all, if people have ceased to be human and behave worse than wild beasts?
One of the most horrifying sights I remember was the distribution of margarine. Once a week, an SS officer came to our barrack and handed out small cubes of margarine. But how did he do it? In Nazi fashion. To get as much pleasure as possible. People gathered and approached him, and he simply threw pieces into the crowd. A terrible scramble began. People fought, beating one another bloody to get that piece of margarine. They completely lost all semblance of humanity. And the German stood there with a broad smirk, as if to say: here it is, proof that Jews are second-class people. Not people at all. Then he threw another piece, and another… Everything began again. The lucky ones who managed to get hold of the margarine either swallowed their prize immediately or ran off to some corner to savor it alone… It was understandable; sometimes a piece of margarine like that saved a life. But I did not take part. I preferred to make do with dry crusts of moldy bread, while keeping at least a shred of human dignity.
Besides me, there was one other person who never took part in these fights. He was a rabbi. He was an extraordinary man. While everyone else had already sunk below the human level, he was far above it. As thin and exhausted as the rest of us, he always found the strength to smile at one person, encourage another with a kind word, and gently stroke a third person's hand. If he saw that someone was simply dying of hunger, he shared his meager portion of bread with him without a second thought. A few crumbs a day seemed to be enough for him. When everyone else collapsed in exhaustion after the hard work and fell asleep, he would sit down and begin studying in a barely audible voice, so as not to disturb the others. When I sometimes asked him what gave him the strength to live as though outside this horrifying reality, defying every law of nature, he always answered: “Torah, my son, only Torah. Only faith that G-d is with me and will never abandon me…” Thanks to him, I was still somehow holding on. If such angels in human form exist, then there really must be something in the Torah. That means G-d really exists. Otherwise, such people simply would not exist…
One day, the door of the barrack opened, and an SS officer entered with a packet of margarine in his hands. As usual, he wore his disgusting smirk, anticipating the “show” that awaited him. Everyone stood up and crowded around him. As usual, I moved farther away, at least to avoid being near the flailing arms and legs.
And suddenly… I could not believe my eyes: the rabbi was in the crowd too! When the German began throwing those pieces, he lunged forward like everyone else, trying to catch one. I turned away, unable to watch. I felt the world collapsing. So a human being really is an animal, and all the rabbi's heroism had merely been a performance. Now he had stepped off the stage and shown what was really inside him. If even the rabbi had become a captive of animal instincts, there was no longer any reason to live.
Meanwhile, the SS officer finished his weekly entertainment and left. Slowly, with groans and sighs, people began to return to their places. Beaten and bloodied, the rabbi stood in the center of the barrack, holding the coveted piece of margarine in his hands.