The Martyrs

Auschwitz. It is so difficult to find words. The sheer enormity of the site. The sinister efficiency. The heartbreaking piles of shoes, the hair, the children's toys, the suitcases. We walked through the freezing cold for three hours. The fog so thick it seemed like we were walking into nothingness. Through the barracks, the gas chamber, the crematoriums. Along the railroad tracks and past the cattle car.

We heard the stories of resistance; we needed to hear those stories. About the prisoners who blew up the crematoria. The story of the Jews who buried notes and evidence so that the world would know what happened to them. The stories of the woman who managed to make matzah for Passover and the rabbi who carved a menorah for Chanukah, lit it and placed it in the barracks window.

We lit memorial candles at one of the ponds where the ashes were thrown. Mark Lazar, our guide blew the shofar and its sound, the allying together of Jews for millennia, echoed through the fog. We recited the kaddish, then we walked out of the camp together, arm in arm, carrying the Israeli flag. We had fulfilled our obligation to visit this cemetery for hundreds of thousands of Jews, each with stories, each a parent or a child, each a teacher or a merchant, each who lived a life and had dreams of tomorrow.

Soon we will be lighting the candles of Chanukah. This year, I know I will be remembering the untold millions of Jews who cannot light the menorah. I will think of how much the world has forever lost. And I will commit myself to telling the stories, working on programs that give us a chance to learn and remember, and helping make it possible for others to have the kinds of experiences I am so fortunate to be having on this journey.

Jill and I, together with our colleagues, end our day with a five hour bus ride to the airport in Warsaw and we cross into tomorrow on our flight to Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. Coming home to a new day.