Jewish Resistance During the Holocaust (21 page)
Read Jewish Resistance During the Holocaust Online
Authors: James M. Glass
Rabbi Chaim Ozer urges students fleeing from the Nazis to ‘dedicate yourself to studying diligently … in this time of
churban
[disaster], the sounds of Torah study have been dimmed. It is our obligation, we who still have the ability to pursue our studies, to dedicate ourselves to it with added energy and diligence.’
34
Here he addresses spirit, not politics – not the political reality of annihila
tion, but a spiritual universe, which prayer affirms, saving souls from extinction. Hasidic rabbis believed God would rescue the Jews; but in the absence of God’s rescue efforts,
Kiddush haShem
replaced the coming of the Messiah. Faith struggling against reality, verbal injunctions like ‘don’t open your mouth to Satan,’
35
prayer recitations, or repetitive moments like ‘springing’ on one’s toes
36
before attempting to jump from a transport train, were thought to have
power. Faith sanctified God’s goodness, no matter what the external events revealed. Or, according to Rabbi Ozer: ‘When a battle is waged against Jews, it is also being waged against
haShem
and against Torah – can there be any doubt, then, as to which side will persevere in the end?’
37
There is no evidence to suggest that younger Jews became more religious during the Holocaust, although some took considerable risks in attempting to observe traditional holidays such as Yom Kippur or Passover. Cultural identity could be reinforced and affirmed, although
ritual
practices like bathing in the
mikvah
, light
ing candles, baking
matzah
at Passover were not the same as
theolog
ical
practice, for example, the study of Torah. That dimension of faith, study as action, seemed to intensify in some ghettos such as Kovno.
Martyrdom for God has a long tradition in Jewish history; it is central to the teachings of the Talmud. ‘You may kill my body, but not my soul.’ Some survivors, however, felt differently. Abraham K.: ‘I hated the orthodox rabbis. They sat in their studies and rendered judgments; we came to them and asked for their help, money, or influence with the
Judenrat
in helping the resistance. They just said nothing in the Torah could justify that course of action.’
It is doubtful, however, if financial support for buying weapons would have drawn more religious Jews into the fold of active partisan or underground movements. While younger Jews tended to be more mobile, and secular Jews less inclined to religious dress, habits and practice, the Germans made no distinction about who was to be annihilated. No belief, concept or class status assured a greater prob
ability of survival. Surviving in the ghettos depended mostly on contingency, will and the ability to withstand disease and starvation and avoid the omnipresent selections and random killing that made the difference between life and death. But for those who perished, the theology of
Kiddush haShem
may have made a difference. History, tradition, culture and theology made it impossible for the Jewish community to make the leap from
Kiddush haShem
to politi
cal
resistance
. So sacrifice for God and the historical community took on extraordinary significance. Rabbinical authority followed the ancient words of Maimonides: ‘When Israel is forced to abolish their religion or one of the precepts, then it is the duty of the Jew to suffer death and not violate even any of the other commandments,
whether the coercion takes place in the presence of ten Jews or in the presence of non-Jews.’
38
To die for Israel, therefore, is purposive, meaningful. ‘If one is enjoined to die and not to commit the transgression and suffers death and did not transgress, behold, he has sanctified the Name of God.’
39
Partisans, underground fighters, of course, saw it differently. But outside the gas chambers, parents made children recite
Viddui,
confession of sin, to be in proper spiri
tual accordance with the sanctification of the Name of God.
It would then be wrong to see
Kiddush haShem
as symptomatic of cultural abjection or psychological death. People believed God would eventually take revenge; to be able to utter the name of the Lord on the threshold of the gas chambers, to project a conscious
ness of faith in the face of the enemy, suggests an aspect of the Jewish self that, given the presence of German power and its effects, should be accorded respect as a form of resistance. Ritual practice continued, on rare occasions, even in the death camps; for example,
tfilin
became prized articles of possession in Auschwitz, usually worth three or four portions of food in trade. A survivor remembers a
Succah
erected in a corner of a camp workshop; others recall
matzah
prepared during Passover, a
shophar
blown during
Rosh haShanah.
But side by side with
Kiddush haShem
is the story of emptied-out selves, the diaries describing the catatonic, the aimless wanderings in the street, the lost and homeless, those whose being-in-the-world progressively comes to resemble madness, forms of human behavior that in a more ‘normal’ environment would be labeled psychotic or dissociated. That too needs to be acknowledged. Facing total psy
chological collapse, some rabbis counseled active resistance; for example, Rabbi Yitzhak Nissenbaum of Warsaw exhorted Jews to survive and resist the oppressors. ‘Jews should do everything – by flight or bribery – to live.’
40
A somewhat different picture was given to me by a survivor of the Warsaw ghetto, David L.: ‘Yes, one or two rabbis, after the fall of 1942, counseled resistance; but the vast majority did not. Most rabbis were dead by summer of 1942.’
s
With a long tradition in Judaism, responsa (rabbinical judgments on issues pertaining to moral and community life) and their commen
tary constitute much of Talmudic content. During the Holocaust, rabbis wrote judgments regarding marriages, living arrangements, the burial of the dead and attendance at burials; they recited prayers at funerals, presided over ceremonial occasions, officiated in the
shul,
and supervised the slaughtering of animals for meat. The responsa constitute an intimate glimpse of how rabbis organized moral life and the assumptions used to guide individual and group behavior, particularly regarding compliance with German regula
tions.
Judenrat
leaders, as well as ordinary citizens, consulted the rabbis, who provided moral coherence for a universe rapidly disinte
grating under the force of German rule. Many of the surviving responsa deal with petitions for remarrying without proof of death of the former spouse; during and after the war, they provide detailed glimpses into the human and social devastation imposed on Jewish life. The following example is typical of responsa regarding remarriage.
David wished to marry a woman he had known for a few months; his wife and five children had disappeared on a transport to the East; her husband was shot in a mass grave in a forest near the ghetto. David lacked proof of death, but knows his wife’s destina
tion was Auschwitz. Should she be considered dead? Evidence of death, of course, is nonexistent; but many people in the ghetto saw her pushed into the boxcar. David asks for the rabbis to rule for a presumption of death.
155
The Kovno
Judenrat
brings before Rabbi Abraham Shapiro, Chief Rabbi of Kovno, a request to decide if the council should hand out yellow labor cards; cardholders will be exempt from any future selection. Those not holding cards face an almost certain death. The
Judenrat
office is besieged by hundreds of people demanding labor cards. The
Judenrat
asks the Chief Rabbi to decide whether labor cards should be distributed. ‘If the decree to destroy an entire Jewish community has been determined by the Enemy,’ Shapiro writes, ‘and through some measure or other it is possible to save part of the community, its leaders are obliged to summon up their spiritual strength and take upon themselves the responsibility of doing what
ever needs to be done to save a part of the community.’
1
The philo
sophy of ‘saving the remnant’ guided Shapiro’s deliberations, even though, in retrospect, it could be argued that these kinds of deci
sions fell into Primo Levi’s ‘gray zone.’
In Auschwitz, a young boy asks a rabbi to bless his decision to substitute himself for another boy in a group selected for the gas chambers. A group of several hundred children between the ages of nine and fourteen will be killed the following morning. He wants rabbinical sanctification for the act, but is prepared to go ahead even if the rabbi refuses judgment.
Every day rabbis faced the prospect of bending traditional sources to the needs of the moment and to write decisions consistent with the imperative of survival. In this respect, the responsa indicate how close the rabbis were to the moral and psychological hammers inexorably destroying the Jewish community. For example:
‘Rabbi, my only son is in that cellblock [in Auschwitz]. I have enough money to ransom him. But I know for certain that if he is released, the
kapos
will take another in his place to be killed. So Rabbi, I ask of you a
she’elah le’halakhah u’lema’aseh
(a question which demands an immediate response to an actual situation). Render a judgment in accordance with the Torah. May I save his life at the expense of another? Whatever your ruling, I will obey it.’
2
Rabbi Meisels refuses to make a judgment, arguing that the situation is so unprecedented that, without proper source books, it would be impossible to make a ‘reasoned’ decision. But the man
insists: ‘Rabbi, you must give me a definite answer while there is still time to save my son’s life.’ The rabbi again declares nothing in the Talmud sheds light on this situation; the father takes this to mean that the rabbi will not sanction a ransom attempt. ‘Rabbi, this means that you can find no
heter
[permission] for me to ransom my only son. So be it. I accept this judgment in love.’ But the rabbi argues his silence should not be construed as disapproval: ‘Beloved Jew, I did not say that you could not ransom your child. I cannot rule either yes or no. Do what you wish as though you had never asked me.’
3
And the father’s final response:
‘Rabbi, I have done what the Torah has obligated me to do. I have asked a
she’elah
[question] of a
rav
… . In your own mind; you are not certain that the Halakhah permits it. For if you were certain that it is permitted, you would unquestionably have told me so. So for me your evasion is tantamount to a
pesak din –
a clear decision – that I am forbidden to do so by the Halakhah
.
So my only son will lose his life according to the Torah and the Halakhah. I accept God’s decree with love and with joy. I will do nothing to ransom him at the cost of another innocent life, for so the Torah has commanded.’
4
God is never questioned in the
Halakhah
; His ‘judgment’ remains pure. ‘For the believer there are no questions; and for the unbeliever there are no answers.’
5
Yet, suicide and death rates dramatically rose. In January 1942, 5,000 died on the streets in Warsaw or in tiny apartments crowded with fifteen or twenty families. But the faith of the rabbis in the ancient biblical injunction never wavered: ‘The secret things belong unto the Lord our God, but the things that are revealed belong unto us and to our children forever, that we may do all the words of this law’ (Deuteronomy 29: 28). In Lodz, distraught parents, losing children to starvation, illness or random selections, throw themselves out of three-story windows; men and women, disheveled, covered with lice, roamed the streets asking to be shot. In Warsaw, totally withdrawn, disturbed children, in the gutters or door wells, lay in their own waste; the elderly dropped dead on side
walks. These conditions had no effect on rabbinical judgments. The rabbis who were still alive affirmed what God means as majesty and power. The following from the
Hekhalot Rabbati
, an ancient mystical
text, describes this unshakeable faith: ‘Wonderful loftiness, strange power, loftiness of grandeur, power of majesty.’
6
While the
Hekhalot
is a mystical text from a different rabbinical tradition than the
Halakhah
or traditional law, both insist on an unquestioning, uncritical attitude towards God.
In 1939, outside Lublin, a group of Hasidic Jews forcibly assem
bled by the Germans was ordered to sing a light, popular Hasidic melody. Someone, however, initiated the more solemn song,
Lomir zich iberbeten, Avinu shebashomayim
[Let us be reconciled, our Father in heaven]. An observer at the scene describes the reaction:
‘The song [initially ordered by the Germans], however, did not arouse much enthusiasm among the frightened [Jewish] masses. Immediately Glovoznik [the troop’s commander] ordered his hooligans to attack the Jews because they refused to comply fully with his wishes. When the angry outburst against the Jews continued, an anonymous voice broke through the turmoil with a powerful and piercing cry: “We will outlive them, O Father in Heaven.” Instantly the song took hold among the entire people, until it catapulted [them] into a stormy and feverish dance. The assembled were literally swept up by the entrancing melody full of
devekut
[strong spiritual adherence] which had now been infused with new content of faith and trust.’
7
A rabbi exhorts the few thousand left in the Warsaw ghetto after the mass deportations of 1942 to guard ‘against dejection and depression, and to support ourselves in God,’ even when God demonstrates no interest in protecting His people. ‘True,’ he says, ‘this is very, very difficult, since the suffering is too much to bear.’ By now, almost every survivor in the ghetto had lost a family member; death wagons daily picked up piles of corpses; the few thousand left lived in fear of selection and transport; food supplies were almost nonexistent; fuel had disappeared; apartments were unheated and had no running water or functioning toilets; human feces lay in apartment hallways. The stench of rotting and diseased flesh permeated the ghetto. The rabbi continues: ‘However, at a time when many Jews are burned alive sanctifying God, and are murdered and butchered only because they are Jews, then the least we
can do is to confront the test and with
mesirat nefesh
[dedication] control ourselves and support ourselves in God.’
8
One rabbi in Warsaw in the spring of 1943, however, staked out a different theological position. Rabbi Menachem Zemba rejected the notion that death itself sanctifies God’s name: ‘I insist that there is absolutely no purpose nor any value of
kiddush haShem
inherent in the death of a Jew.
Kiddush haShem
in our present situation is embodied in the will of a Jew to live.’ To live in Warsaw in the spring of 1943 meant, according to Zemba, not just to survive, but to fight. ‘This struggle for aspiration and longing for life is a
mitzvah
[religious imperative] [to be realized by means of]
nekamah
[vengeance],
mesirat nefesh
[extreme dedication] and the sanctifica
tion of the mind and will.’
9
Zemba provided both a theological and political contrast to Rabbis Shapira, Oshry and Meisels.
Compare Zemba’s position with the proclamation of Rabbi Yehezkiah Fisch who, it is reported, prior to entering the gas chamber of Auschwitz, cried out with a joyous clapping of hands: ‘Tomorrow we shall meet with our Father,’ or Rabbi Shem Kling
berg, in Plazow, who prayed before his death, ‘May it be thy Will that I have the privilege of atoning for all Jews.’
10
Kiddush haShem
had little to do with Rabbi Zemba’s vengeance,
nekamah.
Hasidic theology saw the Holocaust as ‘the descent for the sake of the ascent,’ the darkness of suffering that precedes redemption.
11
In the Jewish messianic tradition, central to Hasidic belief, each generation creates its own martyred Messiah to prepare the way for the final redemption. Periods of suffering, therefore, in the history of the Jewish people, beginning with the binding of Isaac, that have long preceded the coming of the final Messiah, comprise integral parts of the Hasidic story; and it is probably true that many Hasidic Jews went to their deaths believing the Holocaust to be part of that mes
sianic hope,
Hevle Mashiah,
another agonizing trial preparing the Jewish people for the coming of the final Messiah.
12
Nothing in this mystical theology would suggest a natural affinity for more activist forms of political resistance, although themes in Hasidic texts suggest that Zionism and Hasidic theology have affinities in common. ‘God,’ the theology proclaims, ‘will bring you together again from all peoples where the Lord your God has scattered you … . And the Lord your God will bring you to the land.’
13
Rabbi Levi Yitzhak: ‘God took the Israelites out of Egypt in order for
you to inherit the land. With your coming to the land, you will have achieved completeness.’
14
But unlike the Zionists’ political position, the Hasidim believed prayer – not action – would make that union into a reality.
Hasidic tradition believes that, by fulfilling God’s will, the self joins with holiness. In striving for
devekut,
by merging with God, the community of believers sanctifies holiness. The self seeks the divine through prayer, which is active joyousness, a celebration to God. While all human souls have the capacity to serve God and be with Him, much Hasidic ritual is devoted to dissolving the self, as a way of reaching the divine state of
Ayin
or total submersion in God. In Hasidic religious practice, ritual, particularly singing and dancing, moves the self closer to the realization that God’s justice is absolute and unquestioned. For example, the Piasezner Rebbe proclaims: ‘Although nothing shall remain of me but bones, they will still continue to proclaim “Lord, who is like unto Thee!”’
15
Moral law originates in heaven and emanates from God’s will; evil and suffering possess agency in God’s plan; suffer
ing becomes purposive and reflective of God’s intent. Acceptance of God’s will, with bountiful love, no matter how obscure that will seems to be, serves as the prime requirement of faith. This relationship to God is not rational but a complete giving over of the self to God’s will.
Emunah
[belief] defines the intimate con
nection between man and God, an unflinching compact, absolute in its meaning and intent.
The historical and popular confusion over why Jews so ‘willingly’ went to their death overlooks this aspect of Hasidic theology practiced by millions of Central and East European Jews. The Belzer rabbi whose firstborn son was killed in a synagogue burned down by the Germans, expresses his loss in terms of religious belief: ‘It is indeed a kindness of the Almighty that I also offered a personal sacrifice.’
16
The Hasidic self is literally ruled by an absolute commitment to God’s will and a horror at even the possibility of disobeying God’s injunctions regarding unquestioned faith: ‘Suffering glorifies the self, sanctifies the community and affirms the chosen people’s place in history … the greater the darkness and suffering on the eve
of Sabbath, the more brilliant the light of the Sabbath.’
17
It is a sign of religious sacrifice. ‘[I]f we truly conceive the ultimate purpose of all as is, we would most certainly accept all of suffering with longing and love, since it is by means of these beatings that the Name of our Creator will be magnified and sanctified.’
18
Rabbi Yehezkiah Fisch, the Matislaker Rebbe in Hungary, asks on the eve of the deportation of Hungarian Jews to Auschwitz: ‘Is it not worth suffering prior to the coming of the Messiah?’
19
Ministering to the flock occurred in many different ways in the Jewish spiritual sector; the following responsa, for example, indi
cates the desperate pressure the Jews faced. It is also curious why Hannah Arendt’s harsh condemnation of Jewish traditionalism in
Eichmann in Jerusalem
failed to acknowledge the effort of spiritual leaders to respond to human suffering.
In 1942, Rabbi Oshry was asked by a member of his congrega
tion a question relating to forced labor. Labor brigades were pro
scribed from bringing any food into the camps; further, the Germans strip-searched all prisoners returning to the camps to make sure no food had been smuggled in. Because his children were starving, one man, on one of his work assignments, smuggled six pieces of bread in his pants. The Germans discovered the bread, then beat and mutilated his genitals. When the wounds healed, he consulted the rabbi and assured him he would still be attending morning and evening services, even though he was in a great deal of pain. His question to the rabbi involved the mutilation of his genitals; he believed this would preclude his being honored as a
kohen,
and therefore receiving ritual privileges. A passage in the Bible (Deuteronomy 23: 20) prohibits mutilated persons from par
ticipating in any official capacity in services. The rabbi assured him participation still was possible and yes, he could be included in the services as a
kohen
. Later, the petitioner was shot by the Germans.
This man’s wish to act with his congregation, to be spiritually alive in the face of his terrible physical trauma, shows a self actively moving away from passivity or acquiescence, even as he suffers the death of his children and the mutilation of his genitals. Such examples must be considered when making interpretations about spiri
tual resistance. This wish to be
kohen
is not ‘active’ in a strictly political sense, as Rabbi Zemba’s call for vengeance in the Warsaw of
1943 was. But the responsa shows a self struggling against spiritual death. Or in Berkovits’ words:
‘There were really two Jobs at Auschwitz: the one who belatedly accepted the advice of Job’s wife and turned his back on God, and the other, who kept his faith to the end, who affirmed it at the very doors of the gas chambers, who was able to walk to his death defiantly singing his
Ani Mamin
–
I believe
.’
20
Yet, doubts remain about the truth of Berkovits’ assertion, ‘If God was not present for many, He was not lost to many more.’
21
I put this proposition to a survivor of Auschwitz. Her response: ‘I never stopped being a Jew, but I hated God every minute of my stay in that place.’ When a starving inmate of Mauthausen, near death, eats human flesh to survive, God’s presence may be difficult to find. How does a child of seven or eight find ‘truth’ or ‘fulfillment’ in
Kiddush haShem
? Martyrdom is the furthest thing from the mind of the young girl who cries out outside the gas chamber, ‘Please God; let me live’; who bitterly laments never having experienced love or motherhood; the father who watches his four-year-old hauled away by the Germans thinks not about God’s sanctification but about his own powerlessness. For the mother who jumps from an upper floor after watching the last of her children die from starvation, God lacks immanence and refuge. If a Jew, Berkovits argues, ‘is able to accept his radical abandonment by God as a gift from God that enables him to love his God with all his soul, “even when He takes his soul from you,” he has achieved the highest form of
Kiddush haShem
.’
22
For many, however, that was a very difficult proposition to accept.
Even Ringelblum’s admiration for orthodox Jews degraded by German soldiers becomes for Berkovits a sign of the ennobling effects of
Kiddush haShem.
But the theology paints only part of the picture; the diaries draw another, as with the father in Lodz who, forced to turn over his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter to the Germans, can no longer bear to think of himself as a human being.
23
A survivor, Miriam K., lost her entire family: ‘For me, God has no existence; He is neither alive nor dead; he just was not there.’ Ringelblum rarely speaks of religion in his diaries; for him, too, God remains hidden. Yet the surviving responsa apparently indicate terrible moral conflicts facing the Jewish community and the few
remaining spiritual leaders attempting to adapt Jewish law to the circumstances. Law and prayer were all the rabbis had to offer.
