THE HOLOCAUST IS OVER WE MUST RISE FROM ITS ASHES

The door became a gate. The Midrash says that Rabbi Abba bar Cahana said: Twogates lead to the Netherworld, one internal and one external. Everyone who waskilled wrongly comes and sits his years by the external. The European Jews werekilled wrongly, and my father was saved by the skin of his teeth. His life is half buriedin the ash of Europe. The other half he lived in this world, which is also quite hellish.Many times I thought to myself that my father must have lived so many years onbehalf of those who died ahead of their time. We once discussed life expectancy,and he told me that life expectancy means that for someone like me to live ninetyyears, someone like Tzviya, my daughter and your sister, has to die before the age offifty. His longevity was a retaliatory strike against the Nazis and their collaborators.In the remaining months of his life we spoke a lot, more than ever, abouteverything. The well-trodden stories, which every family has, found their way into ourconversations. What is the meaning and what is the moral? This would be the lasttime these stories are told. Therefore they should be understood as they are and asthey can be interpreted, as in the Talmud. My father’s waking time was diminishing,as well as his voice, and his eyes became grayer and extinguished. In the end, at thevery last of our conversations, in his last sentence to my ear, as if he knew it wouldbe his last, he said, “Avraham, I’m worried. Who will take care of the Jewishpeople?” The bells were ringing, and I did not ask. They rang for me, Father. Youhelped me find my way in this matter.Several days passed, my father was sleepy, preparing himself for his eternal sleep.He would sigh every once in a while, and we were there to interpret: does he mean “Iam thirsty,” or “It hurts,” or “Plump the pillow under my head,” or “This side hurtsme, please turn me over?” He sighed and we interpreted. He sighed and we did ourbest. He sighed, and we sighed with him. There were no more words, just syllablesand a few vowels.The evening after Yom Kippur we found ourselves around his bed in a small roomfeeling much sorrow. Suddenly, we started humming a Jewish tune, a nigun, withoutthe words. I do not recall that my father ever really sang. Now and then he wouldhum, but never sing. He was musical, though. His old violin’s strings broke and werenever reattached. I think that he stopped singing after the Shoah. Only on Sabbatheves, after Mother’s chicken soup, did he sing from beginning to end, alphabetically,his father’s nigun, Kol Mekadesh Shvi’i, meaning “whoever hallows the Sabbat asbefits.” These were the only notes that survived Avraham Burg of Dresden. I had not