My visit to Poland

On the far side of the Nozek Synagogue in Warsaw, the last and only standing shul in the entire city, there was a slight man with the tender beard. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Wisps of hair rose like thin strands of cotton from his head. His eyes betrayed a nervousness that made him stand out. He looked like he was half trying to hide behind one of the shows calms and at the same time tempted to push them to the incoming group of rabbis. Shyly, he gazed at the visitors.

”Shalom,” I said, offering my hand. He returned the greeting. His Hebrew sounded good so I continued, “I do not understand. All the other shuls in Warsaw - some 35 of them  -  were razed by the Nazis. Why did they save this one?  Why is it still standing?”

He looked bewildered.

He spoke.  “Parlez vous francaise?”

God.  It was only decades ago that I studied French to the degree where I could ask, “Where is Jean-Pierre?”  I only wish I could remember something, anything. But no.

So we tried and tried again. Finally, he understood and using his fingers and making neighing sounds my companion indicated that the shul was a stable for the Nazi horses. The synagogue had no real value to them after they desecrated it so they turned into something useful.

Nothing else remained of this once magnificent Synagogue. It was stripped bare. Where the holy Torahs once rested in the regal splendor of the finest velvet and gold and silver ornaments, there now stood an empty cove. Shreds of prayer books littered the floor.

”I am Rabbi.”

He looked puzzled.  So I repeated, “I am a rabbi.”

“Ah.”

My thin companion looked brighter before leaning over and whispering to me, “My name is Christopher.  But,” he said after glancing over toward his teacher standing a few yards away, “My name is Israel.  Shhh.”

He was learning to become a Jew.  One of the last.

“Are either of your parents Jewish?”

“Well, yes … and no,” he answered.  “My parents were communists,” he practically whispered into my ear.

“I understand.”

I gave gazed at his face for a good long time. What words of encouragement or warning could I give this young man? He was on a journey to find himself. It was a long road ahead, perhaps it was best if he did not know how long.

”Good. Very good.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

I held Christopher a moment longer.  “Do you know what the word teshuvah means?  Yes?  That is why you are here.  You are coming home, to the place where you once stood.  Returning is teshuvah.

His eyes grew moist.  “Goodbye,” he said.

Among the vast numbers of dead of Poland there are a few lives still tentatively reaching out from the depth of destruction.

As the living, it is our obligation to revitalize and renew what we possess.  Judaism.