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Happy Chanukah - The Jewish Georgian

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November-December 2011 THE JEWISH GEORGIAN Page 9<br />

One good reason to observe<br />

the High Holidays<br />

BY<br />

Ron<br />

Feinberg<br />

I received an e-mail solicitation recently<br />

and was just about to tap the delete button<br />

when I noticed it was from Yad Vashem,<br />

the world-class Holocaust Museum in<br />

Israel. <strong>The</strong>y were asking for money and<br />

sharing a story. It’s a story worth repeating<br />

and remembering.<br />

Naftali Stern visited Yad Vashem on<br />

Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance<br />

Day, in 1978. He had a gift, a few pieces of<br />

crinkled paper filled with Hebrew prayers.<br />

It was a precious gift, something he had created<br />

years earlier, when the world had gone<br />

momentarily mad and a little light was<br />

needed to brighten the darkness.<br />

In the spring of 1944, Naftali, his wife,<br />

and four children were swallowed up by the<br />

Holocaust, arrested in their little village of<br />

Satu Mare, in Romania, and deported to<br />

Auschwitz. His family was murdered when<br />

they arrived at the Nazi death camp in<br />

Poland, and Naftali was shipped off to a<br />

forced labor camp in Germany.<br />

He was depressed and alone, each<br />

moment filled with memories of all that<br />

was lost. His world had become a nightmare—little<br />

food, no shelter, brutal guards,<br />

and backbreaking work digging tunnels and<br />

trenches around German fortifications.<br />

Surrounded by misery, a vague and distant<br />

memory took root in Naftali’s mind.<br />

<strong>The</strong> days were growing shorter, and there<br />

was a slight chill in the air. Something<br />

stirred inside his heart, and Naftali recalled<br />

that soon it would be Rosh Hashanah, the<br />

<strong>Jewish</strong> New Year. Many would have easily<br />

pushed that thought aside, buried it along<br />

with their families, neighbors, and villages.<br />

Naftali clung to the thought, a very<br />

small light in a very gray world. He sold a<br />

bit of the food he received one day for a<br />

pencil, sold a bit more and managed to purchase<br />

some sacks that had once held<br />

cement. He ripped the sacks into small<br />

squares then slowly began to write the<br />

entire Rosh Hashanah service.<br />

Perhaps it was simply something that<br />

was meant to be. If not, why then did the<br />

thugs running the labor camp allow Naftali<br />

and other inmates to hold a short service? It<br />

was Naftali, of course, the chazzan in his<br />

little village shul, who led services that holiday<br />

season, his sweet voice chanting the<br />

words he had scrawled from memory.<br />

For three decades—years after being<br />

liberated, starting a new family and immigrating<br />

to Israel—Naftali held onto his special<br />

mahzor, bringing it out on Rosh<br />

Hashanah to both mourn and celebrate his<br />

life and faith. Three months after he donated<br />

the document to Yad Vashem, Naftali<br />

died.<br />

It was okay. He knew that his special<br />

mahzor—timeworn and frayed, created<br />

with love for a people and faith—would be<br />

protected. Now, three decades later, it<br />

remains on display at the museum.<br />

“I pray,” he told Yad Vashem officials,<br />

“that each subsequent generation will stay<br />

true to their <strong>Jewish</strong> identity and be a link in<br />

a long chain.”<br />

It seems to me, if nothing else, simply<br />

sitting in shul will honor Naftali’s prayer.<br />

That’s a good thing. I’ll worry about figuring<br />

out the more cosmic issues next year.<br />

May we all be inscribed and sealed for a<br />

good year.<br />

AMERICA’S<br />

BEST<br />

CLEANERS TM<br />

4455 Roswell Road<br />

Atlanta, Georgia 30342<br />

404-255-4312<br />

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