Survivor: Poland

"One of the best Seinfeld episodes."

That's like saying one of the best Dylan songs.

There's just too many to choose from to say "one of the best."

But one of the best Seinfeld episodes was when Jerry took a date to see Schindler's List.

Yada yada yada.

They started making out.

THEY MADE OUT AT SCHINDLER'S LIST?

Oh the sacrilege.

Not since Mel Brooks and The Producers had someone successfully made something funny about the Holocaust.

Marge Schott tried.

But only few have succeeded.

After all, let's be very clear here, there is nothing funny about the Holocaust.

From what people remember.

As a proud Jewish person, the Holocaust is worse than any moment in time that this world has ever experienced.

But the bottom line is the Holocaust is history.

Just a part of the past.

And that's a tragedy in itself.

Despite the bumper stickers and post cards, people have forgotten.

People have moved on.

That's what people do.

For many, the Holocaust is nothing more than a made for TV movie.

I'm not minimizing the tragedy or significance in any way shape or form.

But as we creep farther and farther away from the end of World War II, the memories will fade even more.

And so will the people who survived the wrath of Nazi Germany.

The number of Holocaust survivors still alive today is somewhere between 100,000 and 350,000.

This according to the trusty internet.

But no matter what the real number is, one thing for sure, it’s not going to go up.

Last year my daughter’s 8th grade class took a trip to Washington DC.

And as part of that trip, we visited the Holocaust Museum.

It was, BY FAR, the most emotional stop on our four-day trip.

Parents, teachers and even kids were clearly affected by what they saw.

And ten minutes after we got on the bus... the giggling started again.

I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.

But I’m not sure it’s a good thing either.

Next year my 7th grade son will make that same trip.

But recently his class got an up close and personal introduction to the subject.

Her name is Estelle Nadel.

She is a survivor.

For 37 minutes Mrs. Nadel addressed our middle school.

She told us her story of growing up in Poland.

And the story of her father being shot to death by the Gestapo.

Along with her sister.

She told us about the time she and her brother were captured by the Nazis.

Thrown in a jail.

At the age of five.

“We knew we were going to be shot the next morning,” she said.

Matter of fact.

Like we would say, “change the channel”.

She told us about how they successfully escaped from that jail.

Barely squeezing their undernourished frames through the iron bars on the window.

Somehow landing in a friend of a friend’s attic.

An attic where “you couldn’t even stand up because the floor was too weak.”

They stayed there for two years.

Until the war ended.

She has probably shared these stories at least six million times.

But several times during her speech tears formed in her eyes.

And she wasn’t the only one.

I made a point to sit alone, in the back of the room.

So that I could listen to her every word.

While watching the reaction of the kids.

I wondered how much they would really take from it.

Her speech ended at 10:34am with what appeared to be her signature out.

“That’s my story and that’s my life.”

She then opened it up to questions.

Questions that quickly confirmed a few things.

Kids are kids.

And yes, they were paying attention.

“Are you still mad at Germany for what they did?”

“What did you do in the attic all day?”

“Have you been back to Poland?”

The questions continued.

For 18 minutes.

Not 17.

Not 19.

18.

Which in Judaism means Chai... or life.

Living in white bread suburbia, I may have been the only one in the room to pick up on that.

But I found it symbolic.

Always the journalist I went up to her after the speech and asked her if she had seen Schindler's List.

"Yes," she said.  "It was the first movie of its kind I ever saw."  

"It was terrible...."

Just then, before she could say any more, she stopped.

Midway through her sentence.

A group of teenage girls had come up to thank her.

And one-by-one, they hugged.  

I never got the rest of the answer to my question.

But I didn’t have to.

Her mission was very much accomplished.

Never Forget

Hanging on a bus with the same group of people for a week.

You really get to know them.

(And they get to know you too.)

One night at dinner we went down taboo avenue.

Talking religion.

AND politics.

I learned that I was the only one who voted for Obama.

Or so I thought.

The next morning, one of the moms quietly walked up to me.

Like we were buying a Gucci purse in Chinatown.

And she whispered -- “I voted for Obama too.”

Shhhh.

(Why is that such a bad thing?)

Anyhoo...

We also had a long talk about my Jewish upbringing.

And the lack of religion currently in my life.

There were a lot of different beliefs represented in our group.

Which I always welcome.

But I learned quickly that I was the only who stopped at the Old Testament.

If you know what I’m sayin.

So when we made our final stop of the trip, my feelings were the center of attention.

The stop was at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Or the USHMM for short.

Not exactly ending with a smile.

But one of the most powerful experiences.

And learning experiences.

You could ever ask for.

The museum is loaded with incredible images.

And videos.

And displays.

From the worst of times.

Like every other museum we had seen, this one was well thought out.

And presented with tremendous class.

But unlike most every other museum.

This one grabbed me by the throat.

And the gut.

I had been to similar museums in LA.

And in Israel.

And I have learned quite a bit about the atrocities.

But clearly not everyone at the museum had.

I rode up the elevator with a different tour group.

A group that was talking.

And joking.

And in some cases laughing.

It told me they did not know where they were.

Or what they were about to see.

But when we got off the elevator that all changed.

In a hurry.

The room fell quiet. 

So quiet, you could hear your heart drop.

As I walked around, I saw people looking at the pictures.

AND reading the stories.

Children were staring.

As if they had seen a real life ghost.

I told my daughter she was going to view things she had never viewed before.

Not exactly the museum of modern art.

And as we sat in a room listening to audio accounts from survivors, I saw the confusion of her face.

How in the world did this happen?

How did the world let this happen?

But the fact is, this did happen.

And the more people who visit this museum.

And other museums like it.

The more they will learn about it.

There were new things I learned about the Holocaust during this latest visit.

But there was plenty I already knew.

Before we entered the building, one of the parents in our group asked if anyone from my family was in the Holocaust.

“No,” I said.

“My mom and my dad had no brothers and no sisters, so we had a very small family.”

But I shared the story about the mother of one of my closest friends.

She grew up in Europe.

And as a young girl she watched.

Watched as the Nazis entered her house.

And watched as they exited with her father.

Never to be seen again.

Unfortunately her story was far from one of a kind.

I think I heard six million of them in the museum.

One more heartbreaking than the next.

Disgusting.

Outrageous.

Revealing.

Scary.

Sad.

Pick a word.

For me it was all of the above.

Plus one.

Light Bulb.

Actually that’s two.

It came at an exhibit of pictures.

Pictures of arms.

Jewish arms that were tattooed by the Nazis.

They tattooed numbers on the arms as a form of ID.

And to make it worse, Jewish people are forbidden from getting tattoos.

When I saw the exhibit a light bulb went off in my head.

A light bulb that showed me a picture of my great aunt.

My dad’s aunt.

His mother’s sister.

I was very young when she passed.

But seeing the pictures almost instantly reminded me.

Reminded me of the tattoo on her arm.

I remember seeing it there.

But we never talked about it.

I was too young.

I don’t know if she ever talked about it.

But it was there.

I had forgotten it was there.

But it was there.

Never forget.

I shared the story with my daughter.

That was the least I could do.

Never forget.

Win One For The Kippur

Saturday was the holiest day of the year in the Jewish religion, Yom Kippur.

The day of atonement.

I spent the day at the Temple of the Doomed, Citi Field, the home of New York’s OTHER baseball team.

The Mets have enjoyed two World Championships since joining the league in 1962.

But when you play in the same city as the Yankees, a team with 27 World Championships, two is too few.

This was my first trip to Citi Field, which opened just last year.  

The Mets used to play right next door at Shea Stadium, but they paved Shea and put up a parking lot.

Now Citi Field stands where you used to park for Shea.

The new stadium is completely different than the old one, but there is one thing that remains the same.

The trademark jet planes that fly literally right over your head throughout the game.

LaGuardia Airport is just minutes away and the planes are so close, you can almost see what movie they are playing.

It’s a good thing the planes do scream by or there might not be any noise in the stadium.

You see, there’s very little to cheer about this year if you are a Mets fan.

Unless somebody hits a home run.

Its not the home run that gets people out of their seats, it's the ceremonial rising of the “big (red)  apple”, located in center field.

Whenever a Mets player puts one out of the park, the apple pops up and the fans go nuts.

It happened twice on Saturday.

That’s the most work that apple has had all year.

I’m not sure if the apple is Jewish, but if it is, it really was not supposed to work on Saturday.

Sandy Koufax, perhaps the greatest Jewish player of all-time, made headlines many years ago when he refused to play for the Dodgers on Yom Kippur.

Shawn Green, also with the Dodgers, also chose to do the same several years ago.

But this year several Jewish baseball players decided to work on the holiest of holy days.

In the Jewish religion, the new day begins at sundown, so even though Yom Kippur was on a Saturday this year, it technically began on Friday night.

Jason Marquis, a Jewish pitcher with the Washington Nationals, decided to tempt fate by making his scheduled start on Friday night.

Not a good choice.

He didn’t even make it out of the first inning, giving up six runs on six hits, while posting just one out before he was removed from the game.

Coincidence?   You make the call.

According to www.jewishmajorleaguers.org, yet another reminder that there is a website for EVERYTHING, there are just 14 Jewish players in the major leagues right now.

Upon further review, I actually found three more.

14?  17?  What’s the difference. 

(The line is a lot funnier if you read it with a Jewish accent.)

A pair of all-star hitters, major league all-stars, not just Jewish ones, Milwaukee’s Ryan Braun and Ian Kinsler of Texas, both chose to play on Friday and Saturday.

Braun had three hits on Friday, but went 0-4 on Saturday, while Kinsler got just one hit in his seven at bats during those two games.

Minnesota’s Danny Valencia was born to a Jewish mother and non-Jewish father, who reportedly converted, according to www.jewishbaseballnews.com.

Did I mention there is a website for everything?

Well, Danny was bar mitzvahed when he was 13, so he is officially a member of the team, but you wouldn’t know it by his performance on Friday AND Saturday.

Danny homered both days, while picking up four hits in seven at bats.

Then there is Ike Davis, the rookie first baseman with those New York Mets.

His mother Millie is Jewish, which makes him Jewish in our world, even though his father Ron, a former major league pitcher, is not.

Ike, born Isaac Benjamin Davis, oy, has enjoyed a fantastic first season in the major leagues.

He is a promising star for the Mets.

But he had a very tough decision to make when it came to playing this weekend.

You see, a large portion of his mother’s family from Lithuania was killed in the Holocaust.

And even though Ike doesn’t practice Judaism, he is certainly respectful to the people that do.

Especially his mom.

Not to mention the huge Jewish community that lives in the New York area.

So like any good Jewish boy, when you have a tough decision to make, you ask your mom to make it for you.

Even though she admitted that she “leaned” towards Ike sitting out, Millie handed the hot potato right back to her son, saying that he should do whatever he felt like.

So Ike played on Friday.

And he played on Saturday.

And he had seven at-bats.

And in those seven at-bats, he got a hit in exactly none of them.

Striking out five times.

Coincidence?

I think not.