Yom HaShoah

I did not want to go to Temple on Friday night. I was tired, the daughter was irritated from her  6 month shots, the son was not acting right; in other words, a recipe for disaster! The wife was insistent that we go and that is what happened. Sometimes in the face of impending doom, a miracle occurs.

Grouchy, visably moody and slightly gassy from not eating a proper meal, I settled into my seat and prayed for a quick service. The daughter was already crying and the son was getting tired and anti social. Great!

The Rabbi approached me and asked if I would do one of the evenings readings. Glancing at the snipet and seeing the name of a politican I abhor, I politely declined. "Oh No"said the Rabbi " You are not reading his words, this was his part at the ceremony today, he has nothing to do with what you will read" " Ok" I said.

Putting the paper with the words down on a nearby seat, I did a half glance to see what it was about. The words talked of freedom and liberation and thanking of soldiers for humanness. I am not very familar with Yom HaShoah. I have a short cut version for most Jewish holidays and festivals " Some one did us wrong, we killed them, then we ate." But this not a holiday or a festival. It is a remembrance, a sad but important rememberance of enslavement, inhumaity, evil and the eventual victory of the human spirit for good.

The piece I was to read was touching in the way it recognized the soldiers for their job of liberation. I could almost see the joy on the face of the writer in welcoming the troops who brought freedom. And as soon as I did that, I saw my Uncle Billy.

My uncle was a soldier during that time and one of his duties was the liberation of the camps. As a child, I was never told of his role and as an adult, it  was simply "something he doesn't like to talk about". I wish now he had, because I feel such kinship to the Jewish faith by my marriage and children . My mother would only say that he saw great horrors and it is best not to ask or talk about it. Thats the stoic Irish way of dealing with bad things. But for all he saw, my uncle was the most compassionate, faithful and honest man I knew. He was a bit of an icon to all the kids because of his public service as a police officer and the way he dealt with everyone in a dignified, humble manner.

He also showed that he could see the big picture in life. Just before his death, a few years ago, he lay on his death bed going over the status of all the kids, wanting to be assured that all were well. When he got to me, my aunt and cousins stumbled a little because they did not want to talk about the strife that being gay and married to a Jew had caused. He didn't want to hear of it. He instructed them to make sure I knew that he gave me his blessing and that he wished he had met my son.He also wanted anyone who wanted to make trouble to know that as far as he was concerned, love was all that mattered and if I had created a family with love at its root, thats all he ever wanted for me. Gay or not, Jew or not. Quite a death bed blessing from an consersvative Catholic. The cousins and my aunt could not wait to be the first to tell me of this conversation and this is the first time I have spoken of that publicly.

So it was with gripping emotion that I embraced this short but powerful quip that I felt in some way was also a fitting respect for my uncle. But my emotional uneasiness was about to get a greater test.

As I finished reading the piece, I noticed who the author was. My eyes brimmed with tears, my throat waffled with emotional swallowing. The author was Gerda Weissman Klein. My personal hero.

Oh my god, there was no way I was going tp be able to read this piece.

Mrs. Klein is a Holocaust Survivor. But to me and millions of readers, she is the author of many books. The one that touched my life and directed me into a life of Special Education service is " The Blue Rose", the first picture book for children on the subject of develpomental disabilities. From that book I read all her others. The most note worthy " All but my life" the chronical of her life in and out of Nazi labor camps.

One of my most cherished possesions is my first edition copy of " The Blue Rose" that my Aunt Mary gave to me and which Mrs. Klein signed for me 20 years after I recieved it. I used to bring that book with me to her lectures and after one at U.B., some years ago, I reminded her of how much the book had meant to me, how my Aunt had given it to me and had given me other books of Mrs. Klein and that she, Gerda, was my hero.She stopped me mid sentence and said " Your Aunt is a hero for giving you books to read and encouraging the reading of a child"

So here I was with this big emotional basket of memories, meanings and lets not forget, I really didn't want to go to Temple this night.

But I summoned all I could to do proper justice to Mrs. Kleins words, my uncles memory and to all who fight for the liberation of the oppressed. I got through it, a little teary and wavering as I said her name as the author. But my pain was nothing in comparison to all those who did and do struggle for freedom. May we all know peace, justice, safety and resolvement and may it never hurt more than....just a little prick.