By Elisabeth Hinze
I’ve been to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum in Jerusalem, twice. Neither was a quick trip. For one, the museum is huge. And so it should be. Because it tells a huge story. Or rather, it tells millions of smaller life stories slotting into one another. Tiny fragments interwoven, yet somehow still distinct. Because the Holocaust isn’t simply a collective noun, the assembly of similar events and biographies into a horrific whole. It’s about the people who lived, suffered, died and survived it. It tells of the names, the faces, the hopes and the fears that translate into a life story. To show the beauty that was as proof that evil didn’t triumph.
Which is why the trip through Yad Vashem takes some time. Because you want to hear every story, see every picture and listen to every voice. And you want to whisper comfort over every life cut short, “It’s okay. You are not forgotten. You came home – just like He promised. God brought your people back. Am Yisrael chai! The nation of Israel lives – still, again. And your God is in the midst of you (Joel 2:27).”
The trip through Yad Vashem ends on a high point. Literally. You emerge from the darkness of history into glorious sunlight on a lookout point perched above the city. Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the sudden shafts of light. And then you see it: the hills of Jerusalem rolling gently towards the horizon. The brilliant flashes of white limestone through the pines and shrubs and cypresses. The sight stills your heart. Because beauty won. After all the evil and darkness there was still the light. It’s not a sight you grow tired of easily, I presume. And so I stay to gaze.
Tour groups come and go. Stand for a while and then move on. But one lady comes to stay. To gaze. Her dress tells me she’s Orthodox. We smile at one another shyly. The way strangers who share the same space are known to do. After a while she speaks in Hebrew, “It’s pretty, right?” I agree. Things progress from there. I’m a big fan of talking. So, apparently, is she. And so we talk. About the deep things – what we just saw, how we feel about it, how everyone should see it. And about the everyday things – where I come from, what we do, my family, hers. About her son who was drafted into the Israel Defense Forces a month ago.
“Are you scared?” I ask. She laughs, shakes her head. “Ah a mother’s heart!” Then she grows serious. “Yes, I’m scared. Of course I am. And a little bit sad. For 18 years he was my boy, my child. But when he comes back the boy will be gone. He’ll come back a man.”
She shakes her head again, as if slightly surprised. “But most of all, I’m proud. We took him to the meeting point, where the busses come to take the new recruits to base. So many families bringing their sons. We stood almost huddled together, all the mothers watching their sons getting on the bus. Seeing them as boys for the last time. It’s necessary, I know. But my mother heart didn’t want to let him go. None of us did. So we held onto them with our eyes. And then one of the boys stopped, turned around. His eyes sought out his mother among us. She was crying. He smiled at her. And then he shouted, his voice carrying far beyond the group of tearful mothers, “Am Yisrael chai!” And I understood. I understood what he was saying. And his mother did too. The tears stopped. And that is why I’m proud. Of her son. Of mine. Of all the sons of Israel.”
I shake my head, slightly confused. I don’t understand. So she continues. “There’s a story. It happened in the Second Lebanon War. A family was sitting shiva (seven-day formal mourning period) for their son killed in the war. It was already late, the family on their way to bed, when an ancient rabbi knocked on the door. The family invited him in of course. He stood around awkwardly for a time, saying nothing. But when he spoke his voice was strong. “I envy you,” he said to the father. There was a shocked silence. And then the rabbi spoke again. “I too had a son. And like your son, mine also died much too young. He was only a baby when the Nazis came. They held me down. And then they killed my son. He was a baby. He couldn’t fight. I couldn’t fight either. We’ve both lost our sons. But yours died proudly, part of the army of Israel, defending the one place where we as Jews have a hope of being safe. Your son died fighting. So that what happened to my son will never again be the fate of any Jewish child. And for that, I envy you.”
I swallow at the tears that threaten. Because I understand. And I share in the pride that the lady next to me has for her son. For all the sons of Israel who leave their mothers as boys and return as men. She takes my hand, squeezes it. Together we turn back to gaze at the hills of Jerusalem.
“Just as the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds his people, both now and forever” (Psalm 125:2).
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Juanita Bonde says
Love your writings…….thanks for sharing!
Elisabeth says
My pleasure Juanita! Thank you very much – it means a lot to me.
Tom Brennan says
You are very brave, visiting that shrine. Even today it is hard to imagine how people could “follow orders” and murder millions of men, women and babies and still defend their actions as a matter of loyalty to their country.
As anti-Semitism seems to be on the rise, men and women of conscience must act and contradict it no matter where or when it occurs. Never again must be on the lips of all.
Excellent, heart-felt story. I still envy your courage.