Life is so mysterious
Human beings are attracted to mystery. I'm not sure why, but it's strong. The attraction to mystery is strong. There are so many things in this life which don't seem to make sense in any logical, rational way, but in some way, in the grand scheme of the universe, in the laws that govern our existence, there must be an answer. For every cause there is an effect. Which means for every effect there must be a cause right? I guess sometimes we just don't have access to the greater operating forces that govern the very things that often seem so..unknowable to us.
Destiny, free will, fate...how that all intermingles is probably one of the biggest unknowns in this plane of existence. But that doesn't mean it's all random, or that there isn't an answer. It's just not...accessible to us.
In any event, a friend forwarded me this story which is apparently true, and it gave me goosebumps!! One of the most incredible things I've read. Would make even the most cynical person question the existence of fate and destiny... Here 'tis:
August 1942. Piotrkow , Poland . The sky was gloomy that morning as
we waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's
Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. Word had gotten around
that we were being moved. My fathe r had only recently died from
typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest
fear was that our family would be separated.
'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me,
'don't tell them your age.. Say you're sixteen.' I was tall for a boy
of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as
a worker. An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the
cobblestones. He looked me up and down, then asked my age. 'Sixteen,'
I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other
healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right with the other women,
children, sick and elderly people. I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?' He
didn't answer. I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with
her. 'No,' she said sternly. 'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with
your brothers.' She had never spoken so harshly before. But I
understood: She was protecting me. She
loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was
the last I ever saw of her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany .
We arrived at the Buchenwald conc entration camp one night weeks later
and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued
uniforms and identification numbers.
'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call
me 94983.'
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a
hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a
number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's
sub-camps near Berlin .
One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice, 'Son,' she
said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an angel.' Then I woke
up.
Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this place there could be
no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear..
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around
the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not
easily see. I was alone. On the other side of the fence, I spotted
someone: a litle girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was
half-hidden behind a birch tree.
I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly
in German.
'Do you have something to eat?' She didn't understand. I inched
closer to the fence and repeated question in Polish. She stepped
forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but
the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life. She pulled an apple
from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the
fruit and, as I started to
run away, I heard her say faintly, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every
day. She was always there with something for me to eat a hunk of
bread or, better yet, an apple. We didn't dare speak or linger. To be
caught would mean death for us both. I didn't know anything about her,
just a kind farm girl, except that she understood Polish. What was her
name? Why was she risking her life for me? Hope was in such short
supply, and this girl on the
other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the
bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a
coal car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia . 'Don't
return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.' I turned toward
the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say good-bye to the
little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the
apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down
& gt; and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May
10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM. In
the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death
seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived.. Now, it was over.
I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.
But at 8 A.M. th ere was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw
people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my
brothers. Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open.
Everyone was running, so I did too.
Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not sure how. But
I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival.
In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had
saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My
mother had promised to
send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish
charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the
Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America , where my
brother Sam had
already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War, and
returned to New York City after two yea rs. By August 1957 I'd opened my
own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me. 'I've got
a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.'
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me. But Sid kept pestering me,
and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and
her friend Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad.
Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart.
Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped
eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island . Roma was easy to talk
to, easy to be with. Turned out she was wary of blind dates too! We
we re both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by
the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat.
As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had
been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were
you,' she asked softly, 'during the war?'
'The camps,' I said, the terrible memories still vivid,
the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never
forget.
She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany , not far
from Berlin ,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us
Aryan papers.' I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a
constant companion. And yet here we were, both survivors, in a new
world.
'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a
boy there and I would throw him apples every day.'
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy.
'What did he look like? I asked. He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I
must have seen him every day for six months.'
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it. This couldn't be. 'Did
he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving
Schlieben?'
Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes,' That was me! ' I was ready
to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn't believe
it! My angel.
'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the
car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.
'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents
for Shabbat dinner the following week. There was so much I looked
forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always
knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst
of circumstances, she had come to the fence an d given me hope. Now
that I'd found her again, I could never let her go.
That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years
of marriage, two children and three grandchildren I have never let her
go.
--Herman Rosenblat, Miami Beach, Florida
**This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman Rosenblat as he was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75. This story is being made into a movie called The Fence.
Destiny, free will, fate...how that all intermingles is probably one of the biggest unknowns in this plane of existence. But that doesn't mean it's all random, or that there isn't an answer. It's just not...accessible to us.
In any event, a friend forwarded me this story which is apparently true, and it gave me goosebumps!! One of the most incredible things I've read. Would make even the most cynical person question the existence of fate and destiny... Here 'tis:
August 1942. Piotrkow , Poland . The sky was gloomy that morning as
we waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's
Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. Word had gotten around
that we were being moved. My fathe r had only recently died from
typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest
fear was that our family would be separated.
'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me,
'don't tell them your age.. Say you're sixteen.' I was tall for a boy
of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as
a worker. An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the
cobblestones. He looked me up and down, then asked my age. 'Sixteen,'
I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other
healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right with the other women,
children, sick and elderly people. I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?' He
didn't answer. I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with
her. 'No,' she said sternly. 'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with
your brothers.' She had never spoken so harshly before. But I
understood: She was protecting me. She
loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was
the last I ever saw of her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany .
We arrived at the Buchenwald conc entration camp one night weeks later
and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued
uniforms and identification numbers.
'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call
me 94983.'
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a
hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a
number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's
sub-camps near Berlin .
One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice, 'Son,' she
said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an angel.' Then I woke
up.
Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this place there could be
no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear..
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around
the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not
easily see. I was alone. On the other side of the fence, I spotted
someone: a litle girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was
half-hidden behind a birch tree.
I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly
in German.
'Do you have something to eat?' She didn't understand. I inched
closer to the fence and repeated question in Polish. She stepped
forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but
the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life. She pulled an apple
from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the
fruit and, as I started to
run away, I heard her say faintly, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every
day. She was always there with something for me to eat a hunk of
bread or, better yet, an apple. We didn't dare speak or linger. To be
caught would mean death for us both. I didn't know anything about her,
just a kind farm girl, except that she understood Polish. What was her
name? Why was she risking her life for me? Hope was in such short
supply, and this girl on the
other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the
bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a
coal car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia . 'Don't
return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.' I turned toward
the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say good-bye to the
little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the
apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down
& gt; and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May
10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM. In
the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death
seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived.. Now, it was over.
I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.
But at 8 A.M. th ere was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw
people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my
brothers. Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open.
Everyone was running, so I did too.
Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not sure how. But
I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival.
In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had
saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My
mother had promised to
send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish
charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the
Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America , where my
brother Sam had
already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War, and
returned to New York City after two yea rs. By August 1957 I'd opened my
own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me. 'I've got
a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.'
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me. But Sid kept pestering me,
and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and
her friend Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad.
Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart.
Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped
eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island . Roma was easy to talk
to, easy to be with. Turned out she was wary of blind dates too! We
we re both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by
the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat.
As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had
been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were
you,' she asked softly, 'during the war?'
'The camps,' I said, the terrible memories still vivid,
the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never
forget.
She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany , not far
from Berlin ,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us
Aryan papers.' I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a
constant companion. And yet here we were, both survivors, in a new
world.
'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a
boy there and I would throw him apples every day.'
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy.
'What did he look like? I asked. He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I
must have seen him every day for six months.'
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it. This couldn't be. 'Did
he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving
Schlieben?'
Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes,' That was me! ' I was ready
to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn't believe
it! My angel.
'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the
car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.
'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents
for Shabbat dinner the following week. There was so much I looked
forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always
knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst
of circumstances, she had come to the fence an d given me hope. Now
that I'd found her again, I could never let her go.
That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years
of marriage, two children and three grandchildren I have never let her
go.
--Herman Rosenblat, Miami Beach, Florida
**This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman Rosenblat as he was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75. This story is being made into a movie called The Fence.
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