Earlier this week, many of us packed into the chapel to hear our beloved Rachel Shankman tell the story of her family’s experience in the Shoah. Her story, like all of the stories of those who perished in the Holocaust, is unique and meaningful. As a grandchild of a survivor, I grew up on the stories of my grandfather and on understanding the power of a personal narrative in transmitting the horrors of the Holocaust.
Of course, as the years go by and fewer survivors are able to tell their stories, the loss brought on by the Shoah feels all the more palpable. And I know that our role is to continue to tell their stories, to share individual narratives of those affected by the Shoah as well as ensure that the world knows the vast magnitude of pain that this monstrosity brought to our people. Though whether you have a story like Rachel’s or you are a 5th generation American, whether you are a Jew by choice or by birth, the Shoah is woven into the fabric of who we are as a Jewish people.
My grandfather’s story is a part of mine, and this time of year I am especially cognizant of his experiences. My Zayde, Leon Cooper z”l, got sick four years ago at the beginning of Pesach, and he died on Shavuot. The counting of the Omer, punctuated in the middle by Yom HaShoah, has taken on new meaning for my family. And the message of my Zayde’s life, the message he would always share in his speeches, was to treat every single person with dignity and respect, that no human being was inherently better than another. That message feels incredibly relevant today.
In memory of my Zayde, and in memory of all those affected by the Shoah, I share with you an essay that my Zayde wrote in January of 1948, less than three years after he came to America. He won 2nd place in a county-wide high school essay contest, on the subject “What Freedom Means to Me.”
It is difficult for a person who has never in his life endured slavery to appreciate freedom. Freedom means more to me than money or anything else. It is my greatest happiness, and I will explain why. I spent three years in a German concentration camp, and went through horrible experiences. I was taken prisoner from my home in Poland in my 13th year. I was forced to do the work of a man. I was hungry all the time. I was beaten for nothing, and faced death constantly. Finally, I was liberated (by the American troops) and I realized what freedom means. It is the most wonderful feeling to know that one is free, can go wherever he pleases, can say whatever he wants, can write whatever he thinks without being afraid of anybody like the German “Gestapo” or the Russian NKWD.” When I was in Europe, my only dream was to come to the United States, the mother of freedom and liberty. It is a pleasure to breathe the American air, so full of freedom, and feel that I am equal and free like any self-respecting person should be.
May we all be inspired by my Zayde’s words; may all people in this world feel such freedom.
