By Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel
CHULA VISTA, California — Our tradition is a tapestry of stories. Every generation weaves its own unique color and threads as we make a mosaic about our history and family memories.
Whenever our family of survivors told us about their experiences in the concentration camps, I used to marvel at their courage and moral fortitude. Despite their experiences, they continued to live positive lives and raised children with a strong Jewish identity; they taught us what it meant to have an indomitable spirit that refused to give in to despair and hopelessness.
Martin Gilbert in his book, The Holocaust, tells the story about a young sixteen year-old named Zvi Michalowski. On September 27, 1941, Zvi was supposed to be executed with 3,000 other Lithuanian Jews. He had fallen into the pit a fraction of a second before the Nazis shot their guns. That night, he crept out of the pit, and fled to the closest village. He knocked on a door of a peasant, who saw this naked man, covered with blood.
- He begged the elderly widow and said: “I am Lord Jesus Christ. I came down from the cross. Look at me—the blood, the pain, the suffering of the innocent. Let me in.” The widow threw herself at his feet and begged for forgiveness and she hid him for three days. The young man managed to survive as a partisan.[1]
One cannot help but compare this anecdote to the passage one of the most famous of the pastoral parables:
- “You may remember, I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me” (Matthew 25:35‑40).
What does the human face say to me when no words are ever verbally said? The human face says, “Look at me; treat me with humanity; I am like you.” In the parable of Jesus, the 1st century rabbi gently reminds his disciples that kindness and compassion must find tangible expression in the language of good deeds.
It is amazing how the stories of our past continue to resurface in the collective unconscious of the human race. Reverberations of history continue to manifest their presence and the memories of our wise forbearers.
When we look at the children who Hitler killed in the millions, what do their faces say to us from their pictures? The human face, as you know, is capable of almost infinite expressions; the face is the mirror to the soul. According to the French philosopher and Holocaust survivor Emmanuel Levinas, the human face always challenges us to respond ethically toward others. No commandment even need be given, when I see the human face looking back at me, I cannot deny his humanity without destroying my own in the process. In the age of push-button warfare, it is so easy to kill millions without ever having to look at the human face that commands us to be aware of our mutual humanity.
Remembering the victims of the Holocaust must be more than a sentimental recollection of lives that were lost. The act of memory in the Bible is always dynamic as it is transformative. How we remember the death of the six million is important, for as the philosopher George Santayana said, “He who forgets the past is condemned to repeat it.”
All human beings have basic needs that must be met. All of us are fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as William Shakespeare wrote in The Merchant of Venice, “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?” continues Shakespeare’s famous passage. “And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.”
The most important lesson the school of history has to offer goes back to the dawn of humanity. It is the golden rule, karma, the principle of reciprocity: Treat others as you would be treated. Yet, we struggle still to internalize this message, even though the future of the human race depends upon the simple ethic of consideration.
Yet, as we listen to the voices of the survivors, we have learned that it is possible to find friends among our enemies if we take the risk of looking. Gazing into each other’s faces — the eyes, mouth, nose, ears—the common humanity that we all share.
My father Leo Israel Samuel’s experiences in Majdanek and Auschwitz did not scar his buoyant spirit like it did with other survivors. No, father’s face always had a smile; he exuded a sunny disposition.
It has been about 16 years since my father passed away. Although my father told us many stories about the Holocaust and his experiences in the concentration camps, there was one story he never told us. Fifty years later, my Aunt Miriam (who recently celebrated her 87 birthday) told us a dramatic story that almost died in silence.
Here’s what happened . . .
One day, after backbreaking work, young Leo received 40 lashes for insubordination. Throughout the beating, he did not cry out in pain. The Nazis found my father’s stoic demeanor amusing, and so they gave him another 40 lashes. At the end of his beating, the commandant went up to him and punched out his front teeth.
Like Jacob’s nocturnal battle with the angelic assailant, father also walked away alive but injured. I will never know how he found the inner strength and will to survive.
I am thankful he wasn’t killed; otherwise, you would not be reading this story.
After hearing Aunt Miriam’s story, I decided to write a new poem in honor of Father’s memory. I realize poetry is not one of my strengths, but the words came to me in a moment of inspiration.
THE GOLDEN SMILE
When I was a young boy Father possessed the beauty of the golden smile He had grace, laughter, and style.
I will never know the degree of his pain, Even as tears from Heaven, dripped like rain. When the Nazis whipped him while he stood immobile, His character intact and with dignity remained ennobled.
Wincing in pain they gave another forty lashes, He felt the lashes cut into his body, but not into his soul, Father stood strong and defiant, determined to survive He felt his breath, he was still alive!
Afterward, the commandant punched him in the mouth, Knocking his front teeth, from north to south.
So after the war, he had his teeth capped with gold Demonstrating strength and a spirit bold!
Father, I miss your strength and wisdom, But memory of your smile etched in my soul, Will forever remain beautiful and winsome.