I had the honor during Chanukah of visiting the Esther and Sam Schwartz Building (Miriam Apartments II) of the Daughters of Miriam Center/The Gallen Institute in Clifton, New Jersey, with my school, Bruriah High School for Girls.
As head of the school’s chesed choir, I sang various Chanukah songs and Hebrew melodies with my schoolmates.
Once we finished our performance, we had the opportunity to converse with the elderly residents. I made my way around the room, making small talk with whomever was available. They mostly spoke about their grandchildren and hobbies.
I eventually came to a quiet couple sitting together. I always introduce myself as “Emmy,” but for some reason my Hebrew name, “Shulamis,” slipped out of my mouth.
“What a beautiful name,” the man said. “My name is Akiva.”
I turned to his wife. “What’s your name?”
“Miriam,” she whispered.
Miriam had light blonde hair and wore a white blouse with a red sweater. Akiva had a full head of gray hair with a shirt and jacket to match. Akiva was born in Poland, Miriam in Germany. They told me they were both survivors of the Holocaust. Miriam’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke of her childhood, and I quickly reached for her hand.
She grew increasingly more emotional as she related the horrors of the Holocaust and the concentration camps.
“They sent me to Bergen Belsen.”
I looked into Miriam’s tear-filled eyes, and mine too began to tear up.
“My grandmother, unfortunately, was also in Bergen Belsen.”
While the room was hustling and bustling with much conversation between nearly 35 high school students and dozens of Daughters of Miriam residents, it felt like Miriam and I were the only two people in the room.
Even during the occasional moments of silence between us, it was as though thousands of words were being spoken. I inquired about Miriam’s family.
“We have three kids, and we have grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”
I looked at her with a sense of deep respect and awe.
“You built a legacy. You and your husband rose from the ashes.”
I then wished her much nachas from all her children and grandchildren. Miriam placed both her hands on my face as she slowly made her way to stroking the hair on my head.
“Thank you,” she said through the tears.
Miriam and I quickly wrapped up our conversation as we hugged and kissed.
When I looked into Miriam’s tear-filled eyes I didn’t just see a survivor. I saw a warrior. A nation of warriors. After the recent Chanukah celebrations, I can’t help but acknowledge not only the miracle of Chanukah but the miracle of Jewish survival throughout history.
To quote the Al Hanissim prayer: “You delivered the mighty into the hands of the weak, the many into the hands of the few, the impure into the hands of the pure, the wicked into the hands of the righteous.”
Unfortunately, there have been several recent tragedies that could have stopped every member of Klal Yisrael in his or her tracks. If you look at our history, we are a nation that has endured endless cycles of suffering and survived them all. The longer we are in galus, the greater the miracle of that survival.
We make up approximately 0.2 percent of the earth’s population and yet we are the longest-surviving religion and nation in the history of the world. When we encounter struggles on an individual level or as a klal we need to react properly and allow ourselves to grieve, but we must keep moving.
Every member of Klal Yisrael has a tremendous inner wellspring of strength to draw on. The proof lies in our ancestors. I never understood how it was possible for someone to experience hell on earth and still maintain a sense of belonging and perseverance. And then, during that Daughters of Miriam visit, it struck me.
