In commemoration of International Holocaust Remembrance Day on January 27, one of our members, Bernice (Bernie) Mazor, shares this personal story of her time on an Israeli kibbutz and relates the importance of never forgetting. The Jewish religion and community are built on our shared stories. We feel that we owe it to those who came before us–and those who come after us–to tell stories like this one. The Micah community values these stories to connect to our past and to each other. We will not become the darkness of the past, and can instead become beacons for the future!
When I was 15, I spent a summer in Israel on a kibbutz, a communal farm.
One day, I was working in the kitchen. The women I was working with were a lovely bunch of grandmotherly and motherly types. They had been teasing me about my boyfriend, making me blush and making me laugh. I was surrounded by loving warmth and acceptance, something unusual in a teenager’s life.
The door to the kitchen flew open, and a man stumbled in. I had heard of people’s gray faces, but this was the first time I had ever seen it. He just screamed, “We have captured Eichmann!” I really had no idea who Eichmann was. Even though I knew a lot of Biblical history because I was a voracious reader, I had not been exposed to much about the Holocaust. I was the youngest in a VERY large family, and the topic didn’t arise. Either everyone else had already heard the stories, or my family was protecting me from the harsh reality of being a Jew.
The women in the kitchen dropped everything, sank to the floor and began to keen–a moaning combined with a screeching, an almost inhuman noise. I had never heard a sound like that and I hope to G-d I never do again. These wonderful, warm, and loving women had turned into something alien and horrifying. Then they began to talk about what the punishment for this Eichmann should be. Their Hebrew was replaced by Yiddish. My Yiddish wasn’t that good, but I got the gist and it was horrific.
I remember stumbling from the room onto the loading dock, crying, confused, and, frankly, sickened by the inhumanity. Yossi, the shepherd of the kibbutz, a very aloof-seeming loner, came up to me and put his arms around me and let me cry myself out. When I was calm, he gave me the words that I will carry, etched in my memory, to the end of my days:
We can never forget. We will never forgive. But we must NEVER become THEM!
Much later, I learned that he had been in Auschwitz where he lost his entire family, including his baby daughter, his wife, and his parents. With all that pain and suffering, this quiet man refused to descend to the bestial levels of his torturers. To me, he has become the embodiment of the best part of the Passover Seder, when we dip out a drop of wine as we recite the 10 plagues to remind us that our masters suffered horribly while we fought for our freedom. We must never become them and we cannot enjoy their pain. He is why I became a civil rights worker in the 1960’s, participated in lots of non-violent protests, and continue to volunteer in organizations that help others.
I became close to Yossi and spent a lot of time with him that summer. He never talked about his past, but painted a wonderful picture of his life in Israel. He had his sheep and a very few good friends, and time to read and listen to music. While he never talked much and kept to himself, he always had time for me. He lived his life simply and honestly and, above all, peacefully. I kept in touch with him after I left Israel to go to college. We wrote at least once a month. One day about two years after I had left Israel, my last letter was returned with a note attached telling me that Yossi had died. He was 48.
He was my friend, and I loved him. I will always remember him and what he taught me about living. His memory is a blessing.
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