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Bernie Farber
In other words, not only does intent count but so does the
alignment of inner intent with outward practice. It is almost as if
Hashem is saying “You act perfectly because people can see
what you do, but you don’t give a 100 per cent when only I can
see what’s going on. How can such service be acceptable?”
1
We are being told something very important here. In our everyday
lives we speak of observing the spirit and/or the letter of the law
as if these represent two separate and viable choices. The Torah
begs to differ: outward observance without inner intent is a sham;
the spirit and the letter must coincide.
2
Held as it is in the shadow of the Holocaust Memorial, literally in
the shadow of the chimney, it represents a precious opportunity
for reflection, meditation and mourning – both public and private.
But it also represents a challenge for us, the very challenge that
Parsha Kedoshim sets out for us in the form of piggul. I can
assure you that every element of the program has been
considered and implemented with the proper degree of
commitment and sensitivity. But what will we bring to the service?
Will we see this as an opportunity to honour our precious
survivors and our perished brothers and sisters or will we fret
about the cold (or the wet) and shake our heads because the
sound is to loud or too soft. Will we bring the proper intent to this
moment? It is an opportunity to transcend the moment, to rise
above the moment, and to be in the moment. It requires a
supreme act of concentration that we do not always achieve.
3
The similarity of these words suggests to me that holiness and
immorality are not simply opposites but rather they exist at
opposite ends of the same continuum.
The difference of a few vowels explains the ease with which we
can slide from one extreme to the other. But what it also suggests
to me is that while we can never take our current status for
granted, we can also hope and work to improve our status. We
can renew ourselves and perfect our service in both letter and
spirit.
4
The profundity of this statement was brought home to me just a
few weeks ago when I attended the funeral of Esther Freiman, the
mother of our National President, Mark Freiman.
Mark told his mother’s story, from her youth in Jaroslav to her
desperate survival in Sambir, and the life that followed here in
Canada. What struck me about Mark’s eulogy was not that he
was repeating the story that his mother had told to him, but rather
that he was recounted a story that his mother had never told him;
one that he had only over the years been able to piece together
through chance comments and his own research. In the Book of
Job, a servant comes to Job and tells him of a terrible disaster:
In the Shoah there was no tale to tell. Those who had seen knew
that there were no words to truly describe what had befallen them,
leaving those who had not seen with imperfect words to describe
what they could not possibly understand.
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And those who survived the darkness must ask, as did my father
a survivor of a small Polish shtetle, How could this have
happened? Why me? What does it mean? What lessons can we
learn?
Almost 2,000 years ago the poet Ovid sadly observed “how much
blind night there is in the minds and hearts of men.” The
observation is true, yet it takes us no closer to the truth of the
matter. Perhaps Elie Wiesel brings us closer when, in one of his
essays, he suggests that there is little point in asking the question
“where was G-d” when a far more important – and answerable –
question is “where was Man?”
6
Each victim of the wider Kingdom of Death, of the European war,
had a name, felt love, was loved. Laughed. Cried. And ultimately
was murdered by the Nazi hordes. Were all the names of these
victims known I would say to you, let us sit on the ground, pour
ashes on our head, and read these names until, weary with
speech and parched of throat, we would fall into silence. And in
that silence, in that absence of speech, we would come to
feelingly know what it is that has been stolen from us.
7
Stand in Treblinka or in Chelmno or Auschwitz or any other
outpost of the Kingdom of Death and you will feel the silence
press down on you, robbing you of speech.
The Shoah is the triumph of Nothingness. We perhaps cannot
realize today how nearly complete that triumph was. It was only in
1993 that I finally learned the fate of my father’s family, and the
approximate day of their death at a chance meeting in Bad
Arolsen Germany with the director of the International
headquarters of the Red Cross. It was there where I found my
father’s DP Camp file with bits and pieces of information I never
knew before. A few years later I was overwhelmed when casually
browsing through the London Jewish News Book Review to find a
book on my father’s shtetle written by a former Jewish inhabitant
who left Poland years before the Holocaust began. The postscript
to the book written by the author’s daughter after his death and
just prior to publication reads as follows:
“Wellie Farber has not figured by name in this book, but was
one of Dovid’s English students in the late 1920's. He and
one companion jumped off a transport train on the way to
Treblinka and hid in the forests for the remainder of the war
after which he obtained a visa for Venezuela, together with a
brief transit visa for the United States. While there, he
managed to locate my father in Washington and told him of
the fate of the Botchki Jews. All had been transported to
Treblinka on November 2nd 1943. So far as he knew all had
gone immediately to the gas chambers. There were no other
survivors.”
8
Wellie Farber was my father’s nephew. While foraging for food
outside the Ghetto that fateful November night they were captured
by the Gestapo and put onto the cattle cars to death. He and my
father were the only two Jewish survivors of the Bocki ghetto.
Sadly, Wellie lost much of his memory of that horrible time and
was never able to tell my father his story of survival after they lost
each other in the woods of the Bielski forest. When my father
found him years after the war living in France he was no longer
the man he use to be.
It is too late for the murdered Jews of Europe. The world had its
opportunity to save them and did too little, too late. The deeds of
the righteous among the nations, represent a flickering spark of
humanity in a world gone dark, and offer a sharp rebuke to those
who say “we had no choice” or “we did not know” or “it was not
our business”.
9
No words of mine can bring meaning or sense to the Shoah. But
commemorating the Shoah can bring hope to those who survived
and those who remember. We do not have to hate. We do not
have to kill. We do not have to destroy. We are not, as individuals
weak. We are not, as individuals, powerless. We can, as
individuals make a vital difference in the world around us. And in
so doing, we can at least show the victims of the Nazi madness
that their deaths had some effect on us, caused us to reflect,
reconsider, and dare I say it, hope?
10
They were and are the true heroes of this sad epoch in history.
Through their courage they found the strength where little was left
to start over again; to build new families and to leave a legacy of
hope, love and determination for their children and their
descendants to follow. To you I say thank you. To you I say Kol-
HaKavod. May your spirit and strength be as a light unto the
nations and a clarion call for all of us.
Shabbat Shalom
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