A Ceremony in Auschwitz

By: Paula R. Stern

May 2005

Have you ever been caught up in the drama of a scene so much so that you speak to the characters, order them to perform a certain action, say or do what you want? I watched the ceremony broadcast live from Auschwitz on Yom HaZikaron, Holocaust Remembrance Day. I listened to the stories, the voices, the prayers. I watched the audience, feeling pride at seeing an Israeli soldier in uniform, Israeli flags and hundreds, even thousands dressed in blue and white.

They lit the large torches in memory of the children, the mothers, the righteous gentiles, the educators, and ultimately for the State of Israel. And then the unthinkable happened. The master of ceremonies thanked the audience, closed the ceremony, and asked that everyone stay in their places until the Prime Ministers had left.

When I was in Poland two years ago, every ceremony ended with our singing Hatikva, the national anthem of Israel. We sang it at Auschwitz and Maidanek, Treblinka and Chelmo. We sang it at the Children’s Forest, where 800 children were separated from their parents and murdered, and we sang it in Jedwabne, where 1600 Poles rose up in 1941 and murdered their 1500 Jewish neighbors without a German in sight. It all begins and ends with The Hope, Hatikva. Ceremonies in Israel always end with Hatikva.

As long as deep in the heart,
The soul of a Jew yearns,
And forward to the East
To Zion, an eye looks
Our hope will not be lost,
The hope of two thousand years,
To be a free nation in our land,
The land of Zion and Jerusalem.

How could they end a ceremony in Auschwitz, the most notorious of death camps, without Hatikva? Without thinking, I said aloud, “Hatikva” and it seemed that they heard me. Suddenly, I could hear others screaming “Hatikva, Hatikva” and the broadcaster even announced that there were calls for the national anthem. But Prime Minister Sharon was already being escorted away, the ceremony had ended.

“Sing it,” I commanded. “Just sing it,” I begged them. And amazingly enough, as if they’d heard me hundreds of miles away, they began singing it anyway. The camera remained focused on Ariel Sharon who was still walking, but the voices were clear. “Stay there,” I commanded him. “Please, stay there.” And again it was as if he heard me. Suddenly, Ariel Sharon stopped, having heard the song and realized what was happening. The broadcaster even announced it, “He’s not going to leave until they finish.” And then, amazingly, through my tears I could see that the choir had joined the audience. And then the orchestra joined in as well.

How can I explain the amazing scene that played itself out spontaneously? Had proper diplomatic protocol been followed, the Polish national anthem probably would have been scheduled before or after the Israeli national anthem. But when you are standing in Auschwitz, you do not care about diplomatic protocol. What you care about is what little you can give to the memory of the victims. Nothing was done for them when they were murdered, but each visit is a testimony to their memory and a promise that they will be remembered.

What thousands gave to those victims today, was a promise that the hope of the Jewish people would be cherished, that the army of Israel would stand in defense and that never again would the Jew be helpless. After two thousand years, we sang to those who had perished, the hope had come alive.

Copyright: Paula Stern 2005. All rights reserved.