Nozek

First published  1994

At the far end of the Nozek synagogue in Warsaw, Poland (the last standing shul in the city after the Shoah) stood a slight man with a thin beard.  He shifted uneasily from foot to foot.  Slight wisps of hair rose upon his head like strand of cotton.  His eyes betrayed a nervousness that made him stand out, rather than shrink into invisibly as he seemed to want.  Half trying to hide behind one of the shul’s columns he seems almost tempted to push his way into the group of visitors but too frighted to take that step.  So, there he remained shyly gazing at the visitors into his home.

“Shalom,” I said offering my hand.  He returned the greeting and his Hebrew sounded good so I continued, “I don’t understand.  All the other synagogues in Warsaw, some thirty-five, were razed by the Nazis.  Why did they save this one?  Why is Nozek still standing?“ He looked confused.

“Do you speak French,” he asked.

I was more than two decades since I last uttered any semblance of French.  About all I remembered was “Where is Jean-Pierre?”

I tried to dredge up memories but came up empty.

So I tried again.  Finally, he understood and conveyed through our minimal language that the shul was preserved to be used as a stable for the horses of the invaders.  The synagogue structure still had use for the Nazis after they desecrated it.  Nothing else remained of the once magnificent synagogue.  It was stripped bare.  Where the sacred Torahs once graced the Holy Ark in regal splendor with the finest silver and gold ornaments, there stood an empty cove.  Shreds of prayer books littered the floor.

“I am a rabbi.”

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

“Ah.”

My thin companion brightened.  He leaned over and whispered, “My name is Christopher. But,” he glanced around to seek out teacher standing by the door,” my name is now Israel.  Shh.”

He was studying to become a Jew.  One of the last ones.

“Are your parents Jewish?”

“Well, yes and no…,” he answered.  “My parents were communists.” I could barely hear his words.

“I understand.”  I gazed at him for a few moments and wondered, what words of encouragement could I give this young man on his journey to reclaim his lost heritage?  It was a long road ahead and I wondered where he was on this pathway.

“Good,” I said.  “Very good.”

He smiled.  “Thank you.”

I held him another moment. “Do you know what teshuvah means?  Yes? You understand that it means you are here.” I pointed.  “And then you go over there.  When you come back here it is called teshuvah.  Return. Welcome home, Israel.”

His eyes grew moist.

“Shalom,” we bade one another.

Amping the dead and dying of Warsaw there are a few lives reaching out from the depths of annihilation.  

Survivors all.  Our obligation is to revitalize our most precious possession.  Be Jewish.  Do Jewish.