Remembering

A man came to see me and said, "I was born in 1938 in Romania."  Or maybe it was '39.  It wasn't later.

That was a kind of miracle.  How many Jewish children born in Romania that year lived?

He was very small.  That was because he was hiding with his mother and never had much to eat.  He did not speak until he was six years old.  He always had to be quiet.

After the war he traveled in a boat from Europe.  He arrived in Trinidad and young boys with black skin threw oranges at the boat.  He had never seen a Black person.  He had never seen an orange.

His parents had more children in their new life in South America.  He felt he reminded his parents of the war, that they wanted him to disappear.  He wore his childhood in his size.

When he grew up, he moved to the US.  He avoided synagogues, Judaism, G-d.  Then many years later his daughter got involved.  One day she had a baby boy, and she wanted him to read the priestly blessing at the bris.

So he came to shul to learn to read it.  And he told me his story.  And he stayed in shul and "took a chance on G-d".  He raked the leaves.  He joined the board. 

He died but his story did not die.  Today, on Yom Hashoah, I remember him.

Yehi zichro baruch.