"The Warsaw Peddler Lives"

In Memory of Anne Frank

I made a new friend this week.

He was standing near a table of exhibits at a birthday party held in honor of someone we know.

Sad. Desperate. Alone.

Yet somehow, he and I made a connection. In the old country, he was a peddler. And his image immediately spoke to me, perhaps because my own grandfather Nissan, of blessed memory, traveled as a peddler when he first landed here from Russia.

No sooner did my grandfather arrive in 1915, he was sent with a pekele (backpack) into northern Quebec, selling combs, underwear, socks, and toothbrushes to families in a sparsely populated area.   Many miles on foot, in unbearable conditions.

On his first day, with temperatures hovering around minus forty, my Zaidie knocked on the door of a farm house just outside of Grondines, Quebec and, burning with a 104 degree fever, collapsed in the arms of the woman who answered.  The French Canadian woman took in the stranger, and she and her husband nursed him back to health.

That friendship lasted many years.  But that's a story for another time.

My new friend had no such savior.

I imagine he was born in Poland in the early 1900's. Soon after Adolf Hitler came to power and the Nazis took control of Poland, my friend was confined to the Warsaw Ghetto. And that's where I saw him, standing sadly on the street, his right hand looped in the handle of a small basket, a yellow star wrapped around his left forearm.

He was captured in a drawing by artist Anna Walinska, which rested on a silent auction table at this past Wednesday's Gala Dinner marking the birthday of Anne Frank.

Later in life, he was likely referred to by a number.  And soon after, his hopes, dreams, and God's spark within were reduced to smoke and ashes.

Oh, my friend, my friend, my friend.

There are many times during the year when the Cantor and I are invited to attend important dinners and fund raisers.  We are honored to attend, and indebted beyond words to those who make it possible for us and others to do so.

It is not always easy to travel into Manhattan, especially on a Monday night.  Yet, accompanied by three of our Limud High students, we attended the 17th annual Anne Frank Gala Dinner, in honor of Anne Frank, whose words and memory continue to inspire a new generation.

During my formative years, Anne Frank and the Holocaust were not topics I thought about often. 

While studying for my journalism degree in Ottawa during the late 1970's, my apartment faced the front of the Jewish Community Center where, once a year, the local community marked Holocaust Memorial Day.

And I remember thinking at the time, "enough with the Holocaust.  It is time to move on."

But that changed one day when a friend living in Los Angeles called to inform me that he had attended a lecture delivered by Holocaust survivor Robert Clary, who most of us recall as the actor who played Cpl. Louis LeBeau on Hogan's Heroes.

When I heard about the topic of Clary's speech, I shook my head in disbelief.  "He says there are some who claim the Holocaust never happened," my friend reported.

And I vowed never to forget the Holocaust again.

We live in a world which is obsessed with the future. We spend a significant part of our life keeping up with technology, and planning for our security.  Many of us feel entitled.

But Wednesday night's dinner provided an antithesis.  It recognized and rewarded three students who reached back into the lessons of the Holocaust, and projected them forward.

Julia Joy McBee of Jupiter, Florida was honored for her activism in the prevention of human trafficking.

Kathryn Butler of Plymouth, Michigan spoke about her activism in the anti-bullying movement.

Janet Chen of Broomfield, Colorado was featured for her activism regarding suicide prevention.

Each of these projects was inspired in some way by another young woman, Anne Frank, who kept a diary during the 1940's, in the years and months before she was consumed.

It was a monumental evening. 

With so much of the world around us in disarray, it is easy for our generation, and the one following, to become bystanders.

Yet here were three young persons declaring through action that the world can be fixed, and that each of us can make a difference.  And our CTI contingent, both adults and youth, were inspired to do more.

As the meal was served and speeches delivered, attendees hovered around the silent auction tables.  There was a Coach handbag, Salvador Dali artwork, and dinners for two -- each of which garnered generous bids.

Yet resting on a small plastic stand sat that sketch drawn in 1945 by Anna Walinska, depicting a sad peddler with a yellow arm band, waiting in solitude for someone to approach.  People walked around him-understandably so.  A Holocaust drawing does not provide the most uplifting image for our homes.

So now he hangs with me.  He rests on my office wall, above my certificate of rabbinical ordination.

I've looked up from my desk a number of times while writing this.  Through his sad eyes, he provides a link between then and now.

He reminds me that out of humankind's darkest hour, the spirit of humanity can claim higher ground.

He reminds me of Anne Frank, a courageous 15 year old whose body was absorbed by evil, but whose spirit endures.

He reminds me of three young women from Florida, Michigan, and Colorado who refused to be passive.  For it is incumbent upon each of us, as Jews and as citizens of the world, to become participants in life as we strive to repair its cracks.

Indeed, if there is one person we can encourage, one life we can save, one spark of hope we can instill, then in the words of the Talmud, we have "saved a universe."

Happy Birthday, Anne Frank.  You wrote that "paper is more patient than people."  You were right. Through your words, you continue to inspire humanity.

For there is still more good in the world than evil.

We need to remember you, and those others who were taken from us, to encourage us to be better and kinder and more loving.

The Peddler lives.  And you can come visit him any time.

His image is everlasting.  And his spirit eternal.

May the memories of those who perished always be for a blessing. 

For we continue to be blessed by them.

And as long as we breathe, they will never die.


Shabbat shalom, v'kol tuv (With all goodness).

Rabbi Irwin Huberman