Letter from America: Lessons for today from the spring of 1945

That day called for a realistic appraisal, not a false tonic, of where the world stood and what it faced.

By MICHAEL M. COHEN
THE FORMER Nazi concentration camp in Sachsenhausen on the 75th anniversary of its liberation by Soviet and US troops, during the spread of the coronavirus disease (COVID-19) near Berlin, Germany, on April 17. (photo credit: REUTERS)
THE FORMER Nazi concentration camp in Sachsenhausen on the 75th anniversary of its liberation by Soviet and US troops, during the spread of the coronavirus disease (COVID-19) near Berlin, Germany, on April 17.
(photo credit: REUTERS)
Seventy-five years ago this spring Allied forces made their way across Europe toward Berlin. In the middle of April the British arrived at Bergen-Belsen, two months after Anne Frank had perished there.
Ninety-one years ago my mother was born in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, three days after Anne was born in Frankfurt, Germany. With the close proximity of their birthdays, from time to time I have thought of my mother’s life, my life, and that of our children as reminders of six million stories that were not to be lived and not to be told. On April 29, 1945, Dachau, the first concentration camp established in 1933, was liberated by US forces.
Three months before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Rabbi Israel Levinthal, rabbi of the Brooklyn Jewish Center, addressed the “darkness everywhere. There is not a spot in all the world where there is undisturbed, undiminished light and sunshine. It is a blackout of civilization which threatens us.”
In citing the Talmud (Yoma 20b), Levinthal spoke of “voices or sounds that resound throughout the whole world, from one end to the other.”
Those included ancient Rome, made manifest in 1941 by Benito Mussolini’s Italy and Adolf Hitler’s Germany. As the gas chambers were at work, “the sound the soul makes when it leaves the body.”
That day called for a realistic appraisal, not a false tonic, of where the world stood and what it faced. Levinthal provided that but as all good leaders are called upon during such trying moments, he also wove a palpable sincere glimmer of hope into his homily.
“But the Talmudic comment does not stop here. In describing the voices that resound throughout the world it adds v’yesh omrim, ‘And there are other rabbis who say, Af ledah, there is another voice that is also heard from one end to the other, the sound of birth.’”
HUNDREDS OF thousands of stories are woven into the fabric of the Second World War. One story that does not receive enough attention is that of the “four chaplains.” On the night of February 3, 1943, the US Army transport ship Dorchester was hit by three torpedoes from a German submarine in the freezing waters of the North Atlantic. One third died in the first moments after the explosions.
Amid the pandemonium, four chaplains calmly went about helping and offering comfort. When there were no more lifejackets, the chaplains each removed their own lifejacket and gave them away. Engineer Grady Clark, one of only 203 out of 902 who survived the attack, recalled when they gave away their life jackets. Rabbi Goode did not call out for a Jew; Father Washington did not call out for a Catholic; nor did Reverend Fox or Reverend Poling call out for a Protestant. They simply gave their life jackets to the next man in line. As the ship sank, the four chaplains linked arms praying and singing out loud together in the final moments of their lives. In 1948 a stamp honoring the four chaplains was issued with the words, “These Immortal Chaplains… Interfaith in Action.”
Rabbi Max Wall, a mentor of mine, was also a chaplain during the war. One day, walking with a Christian chaplain, they came across the body of a dead soldier. The body was badly disfigured. No dog tags remained and they could not determine the religion of the soldier. So they each performed the last rites of their respective religions over the body.
In a debate (Genesis Rabbah 24) about determining the most important principle in the Torah, Rabbi Akiva says, “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18), while Ben Azzai and Rabbi Tanhuma say the most important is that humans were “created in the image of God” (Genesis 5:1).
The discussion concludes that being “created in the image of God” is the cornerstone of how we must relate to each other. While Rabbi Wall and the other chaplain could not determine the religion of the soldier, they both instinctively and deeply understood the need to treat the body before them with the dignity of having been created in the image of God.
In mid-March we brought my mother to our home in Vermont from her house in New Jersey, soon followed by our niece who moved from New York City to her house in New Jersey. These are coronavirus refugees in this war without bombs and missiles, but still with an anxiety that often comes with war.
Like during the Second World War, these days call for leaders who are unafraid to paint a true picture of what we face and the self-sacrifice we are called upon, though not always easy, including when the campaign takes longer than most would wish.
Being created in the image of God is not only the great equalizer of humanity but compels us to act responsibly to and for each other.
Journalist Eric Severaid, one of “(Edward R.) Murrow’s Boys,” titled his wartime memoir, Not So Wild a Dream, reflecting his assessment coming out of the war of what we can achieve. How we continue to deal with the coronavirus and how we address the fissures the virus has revealed within society will determine if that becomes a dream deferred or a dream fulfilled.
The writer teaches at the Arava Institute and Bennington College.