Along with most of the barracks, the gas chambers and crematoria of Birkenau had been dynamited and left in ruins. Fortunately the SS were not able to silence survivors like my father who would later tell the world what these ruins once were. Just to the left of the selection ramp, I was shown the ruins of a gas chamber in which it is almost certain my grandparents were put to death on the day of their arrival. I had brought two memorial candles from home and lit them in a niche between the fallen brickwork. Although I had never known them, the kaddish I recited for my grandparents was long, halting and tearful.
Trudging farther down the rail track, I could see the blue-clad ranks of IAF officers and cadets standing to attention at the end of the line. Alienated by all that I had seen so far, I was overcome with emotion at the sight of that bright blue Star of David fluttering against this awful grey landscape. All I wanted to do right then was rub my cheek against that flag.
Holding a small sefer Torah, the chaplain was reciting Tehillim. As the cantor recited the hazkarah (memorial prayer) I saw that rows of memorial candles had been placed on the rusted rails at the head of the track. I stared fixedly at their flickering lights as the kaddish was recited. The Israeli ambassador spoke movingly of the powerful message being brought to Auschwitz today. He said it was for Yankeleh and Moisheleh, for Soroleh and Rivkeleh and so many of the little children who might now have been proud citizens of Israel.
In the stillness of the next few moments, three black specks appeared in the sky above the main watchtower in which I had stood minutes before. A man-made thunder echoed from all corners of the camp as the F-15s raced towards us in an arrow formation. As they streaked overhead, a loudspeaker on the ground crackled into life and Commander Eshel spoke from the lead jet:
“We pilots of the air force, flying in the skies above the camp of horrors, arose from the ashes of the millions of victims and shoulder their silent cries; we salute their courage and promise to be the shield of the Jewish people and its nation: Israel.”
There was hardly a dry eye in our gathering as the three jets banked across the sky for a return pass. The rolling thunder of jet engines echoing above the heavy blanket of cloud made it feel like an almighty fist was being shaken in the heavens. As the fighters returned I thought of Commander Eshel and those like him who are now the guardians of our nation. I recalled the words of Menachem Begin in the introduction to his book The Revolt:
“… I have written this book also for Gentiles,” Begin wrote, “lest they be unwilling to realize, or all too ready to overlook, the fact that out of blood and fire and tears and ashes a new specimen of human being was born, a specimen completely unknown to the world for over eighteen hundred years: ‘the Fighting Jew.’ ”
I thought to myself: Commander Eshel, you are one of that new breed and we are immensely proud of you.
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On the flight home, I re-read some of the chapters of my father’s book, now that I felt familiar with some of the settings he had described. I came across the part where my grandfather, the much-loved Rabbi of Pressburg, had tried to pacify some of the passengers in the cattle wagon heading for Poland. He swore to them that everything would be all right: ”I swear on my place in olam habah — the world to come — that we will survive this.” My father recorded his surprise that, even for such short-lived comfort to others, a rabbi might swear falsely.
