Another Letter to My Children

What could I do? How could I find out whether this elegant gentleman was really one of the thousands of beasts of the Holocaust?

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J. Philip Rosen

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Arutz 7
Dear Children,

First of all, I want to remind you how much I love you; your mother and you are my world.

He sat there like a prince, straight and upright in his chair, slim and fit, the bright sun reflecting off his gleaming white hair as it does off a shining new airplane on a runway. He was loving life ? his exquisite meal on his plate, his fine wine, his female companions, one about 20 years younger than him, perhaps a second wife, a woman of style and leisure, elegance and grace, the second, perhaps a daughter , pretty and young. He had it all and was still just 85 years young. And oh the arrogance; screaming at the poor waiter, who spilled a droplet of wine on the tablecloth. I watched and wondered, as I do when I see any German male 80 and over, what did he do? Please don't tell me he was at the Russian front; it can't be that all Germans who survived or missed the Nuremburg trials were assigned to the Russian front during the war.

Was he the one? Was he the guard who tortured by grandparents, who subjected my uncles and aunts and cousins, dozens of cousins, to unimaginable degradation? Was he the beast who humiliated so many Jews until their will to live left them forever? Could he be the one?

We were sitting in a lovely outdoor caf? in that city in which the unimaginable crimes against humanity were revealed to the world in painstaking detail, Nuremberg. My colleagues were enjoying a pleasant and tasty dinner while all I could do was stare.

What could I do? How could I find out whether this elegant gentleman was really one of the thousands of beasts of the Holocaust?

No, I couldn't find out, I would never know. But I had an idea.

As the sun began to set, I excused myself from my colleagues and stood up. I walked to the corner of the well-trimmed garden adjoining the caf?, to a spot which could be seen by only one table - that occupied by my white-haired obsession and his dining companions. I stood there and took out of my pocket my yarmulke; a big black, velvet yarmulke, unmistakable, identifying its owner as a Jew. Not just any Jew, but a Jew proud of his heritage, proud of his background, proud of his future. And I stood there in full view of his tiny audience, and began my afternoon (mincha) prayers, slowly, passionately, with a concentration I find I can muster up only on the high holidays, shuckling oh-so-slowly, oh-so-discretely, but oh-so-noticeably.

As I finished I looked toward the table and caught the three of them staring; the young girl with a look of bewilderment - what is he doing, why is he mumbling to himself and swaying front and back, left and right, and what is that funny hat on his head? The wife, or mother, or living companion, looked away immediately with no perceptible reaction whatsoever. But he - he glared, with a clearly identifiable, unmistakable stare - a hatred I can't imagine I ever saw, I ever experienced.

And that was when I knew. Yes, I knew. We had won. I knew we had won. When the Nazis, G-d curse their names forever, began their period of torture, degradation and destruction leading up to the near annihilation of European Jewry, they began by destroying (or attempting to destroy) our religion - filling in our mikvahs (ritual baths), burning down our shuls. Without their G-d, the message was, the Jews can and will be destroyed.

The anger that burned in the man was a recognition that he may have survived; there may not be a single Jew left in Nuremburg; six million Jews may have been destroyed, including 1.5 million children, but the Jewish people survived. And he - he failed in his mission.

As I sit here on my plane back to the U.S. of A, thinking about that event twelve hours ago, I think as well of the current attempts to destroy our beliefs, our religion; the Arabs call this war the al-Aqsa Intifada - named after the mosque they built over our holiest place in the world. Their first targets were our holy sites - Joseph's Tomb, Rachel's Tomb, the Western Wall, the Cave of our Forefathers in Hebron. This is, was, and will always be, a holy war.

Mr. Abbas, the new (supposed) leader of the Arabs living in Judea, Samaria and Gaza, I have a message for you. All attempts to destroy the Jewish people have failed, as will yours if you try to force Israel to give up our holy cities, if you try to destroy our religion, our belief. Just as the Nazis failed in their holy war, so will you.

And I'll bet my life on that!
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J. Philip Rosen is the Chairman of American Friends of Likud , a member of the Conference of Presidents of Major American Jewish Organizations, and the Chairman of Media Watch International.

Mr. Rosen?s first open letter published on Israel National News.com, ?A Letter to My Children - From Hell to Heaven?, can be found in our archives at http://www.israelnationalnews.com/article.php3?id=1545.


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