How a chanukiah defied the Nazis
Many of us are familiar with the iconic black and white photograph of a chanukiah on a windowsill with an ominous Swastika banner flying above the street behind it, but how many of us know its story?
Rabbi Yehuda Stern, the associate rabbi of Sydenham Shul, was determined to uncover the truth behind the iconic image. To his amazement, he discovered that the chanukiah not only still exists, but it remains in the possession of the same Jewish family who took the photograph almost 100 years ago.
This miraculous story was recounted last Thursday in a webinar hosted by Sydenham Shul, with Stern interviewing Rabbi Yehuda Mansbach, a 69-year-old resident of Beit Shemesh, Israel, the grandson of the man who originally owned the chanukiah.
It is with Mansbach’s grandfather that the story began.
“My grandfather, Rabbi Akiva Baruch Posner, was born in 1890 in a town on the border of Germany and Poland,” Mansbach explained in Hebrew. “As a boy, he moved to Berlin with his parents where he joined a training programme for rabbis, going on to join the German army as a chaplain to serve in World War I.”
After the war, Posner attended university, earning a doctorate on first-century Jewish historian Josephus Flavius, before going on to be appointed the rabbi of Kiel, a port city in the north of Germany. In 1922, he met his future wife, Rachel, and the couple married soon thereafter.
Said Mansbach, “At the time, there were 500 Jews in total in Kiel (ranging from Orthodox to completely secular) but Rav Akiva was insistent that there should be only one shul in the city and one community. He spoke in German at shul, his sermons drawing even non-Jews and priests.”
Three children were born to the couple (among them Mansbach’s mother), and they were all enrolled in Sunday classes where they learnt Hebrew, Torah, and a love of Israel. It’s at this point that the chanukiah made its first appearance.
“On Chanukah in 1931, grandmother put the chanukiah on the windowsill in her home,” said Mansbach. “Across the road was a Nazi party headquarters, the flag with the Swastika flying above, but the Nazis weren’t yet in control.
“On the final night of Chanukah, grandmother took out a box camera and took a photo of the chanukiah with its eight candles. She finished taking the photos, removed the film, and sent it away for development.”
The famed photograph was developed in January 1932, and mindful of the conflicting Swastika and chanukiah (with a Magen David on its stem), Rachel inscribed the back of the image: “’Death to Judea,’ so the flag says. ‘Judea will live forever,’ so the light answers.”
The Nazi party came to power the following year, and amid the closure of shuls and Jewish shops across the country, the Posner family decided to leave Kiel in June 1933.
Said Mansbach, “Grandfather spoke to his congregation one final time, telling them that there was no future for Jews in Germany. He told them that whoever could flee must do so, and that wherever they should end up, they must always remain together.”
“Until today, there are communities around the world that stemmed from Kiel because their founders stuck together at the instructions of their rabbi.”
Mansbach said that when the shul was razed in 1938, only 250 Jews remain in Kiel, and by the time the Nazis were rounding up Jews for extermination in 1939, a mere nine Jews were left in the city.
“Not all of them could flee Germany, but almost all of them left Kiel,” he said.
After stopping in Belgium, the Posner family left for Israel in 1934 with the help of Rabbi Abraham Kook, the first Ashkenazi chief rabbi of Israel, who arranged the necessary certificates for their immigration. The Posners arrived in Jaffa in November that year, before traveling to Jerusalem. In that same week, Mansbach’s father’s family also arrived in the Holy Land, and settled in Haifa.
Of course, the famed chanukiah had come with the Posner family to Israel and was used annually at Chanukah.
Said Mansbach, “In 1960, when grandfather turned 70, the family bought him a silver oil menorah, but he passed away two years later. Granny Rachel moved to Haifa, and when she passed away, my mother passed the chanukiah on to my son, Akiva, named after his grandfather.”
This wasn’t the end of the story, however.
Mansbach explained that in 1932, Rachel had sent a copy of her photograph to a local Jewish newspaper in Kiel.
“When the Nazis took over, they took ownership of all Jewish possessions [the photograph among them],” he said. “When Yad Vashem was established in Israel, it purchased the picture from the Germans and designed a window exhibition to house it.
“No one knew where the picture was from, who took it, when it was taken, where the chanukiah was, or what happened to the photographer. They knew nothing.”
The truth emerged years later during the construction of the Holocaust museum in Washington.
Said Mansbach, “They heard that the chanukiah was still around, and was in my mother’s possession. They visited her in Haifa, took photos to Washington, and notified Yad Vashem that the chanukiah was still being used and that the family had survived.
“Yad Vashem came to my mother and said it wanted to place the chanukiah in the museum so that people could learn about what had happened. She refused, saying it belonged to her grandson who lighted it annually and continued the legacy of the family.”
A compromise was eventually reached in 2016, and the family agreed to have the chanukiah housed at the museum throughout the year. Come Chanukah, however, they collect it and take it home for lighting.
This remains the arrangement today, and on every night of Chanukah, the chanukiah sits in the Mansbach’s window, looking out over a Beit Shemesh skyline instead of a Nazi office.
“The chanukiah remains ours,” Mansbach said. “It remains a part of our family.”
Looking devastation squarely in the eye
“How can we be brave enough not to look away?” These were the words that writer and thought leader Beth Amato asked on Facebook after yet another tragic loss was announced in the midst of this savage third wave.
With all the suffering, the growing despair, the loss of so much life, and the poverty, she was asking about our courage to bear it all, to “see” what’s happening. At times, the immense losses and despair feel like too much. And yet, as humans, how dare we turn away from the horror we see unfolding?
In the fifth chapter of Tractate Gittin in the Babylonian Talmud, we find a number of aggadata (stories) which recount the destruction of Jerusalem, Betar, and the Temple. Indeed, the rabbis wrote searing accounts of that time. They had the courage “not to look away”. Yet, the stories aren’t only about the rivers that run red with the blood of the Jewish people, the devastation is also described in terms of the loss of daily rites of passage, the blows dealt to communal life.
In one story, we are told that when a Jewish bride and groom would walk towards their chuppah, it was customary for a rooster and a hen to be included in the procession as a positive omen for procreation. One time, a Roman troop came upon a Jewish wedding procession, and stole the fowl pair. Enraged, the Jewish community attacked the troop of Romans, provoking the Roman emperor to bring an onslaught on the Jewish people.
A further story recounts that trees were planted upon the birth of every Jewish boy and girl. When they got married, boughs from these trees would be intertwined to build the chuppah, symbolic of the bride and groom’s intertwinement. One time, the emperor’s daughter was passing by a grove of these trees when her carriage broke. Her soldiers hacked down one of the trees in order to replace the shaft. The Jewish people were so angered, they attacked the daughter’s attendants, leading the emperor to attack Betar.
If the Ninth of Av is linked in our minds to the destruction of the Temple, here we read that it’s also about desecration of the precious traditions that enriched the daily lives of the Jewish people – chickens and roosters at a wedding, cedar and cypress trees at births.
It’s hard to quantify loss in a pandemic. On one level, if we are alive and healthy, we might whisper dayeinu, and thank G-d for our fundamental existence. Yet, as these stories teach us, life is made up of more than mere survival.
During this pandemic, we have been robbed of the experience of living on all levels: weddings and B’neimitzvah are postponed, a simple birthday which a child anticipates all year around is celebrated on Zoom, we are denied our usual rites to comfort the mourner, and our Jewish holidays are celebrated alone.
As with these aggadata, we can affirm that the loss of a tree or a rooster, a school play, or a long-anticipated birthday party are part of this suffering and part of this story.
As we move into the heart of these stories of killing and destruction, the rabbis recall how in an act of deep perversity, Romans compelled Jewish children to watch while they engaged in sexual relations. Again, the horror feels too much to witness.
Yet, we read of a story where two children who are forced to watch this degradation open their mouths and speak. Their response is surprising, they turn to text. One of them says to the other, “Where is this terribleness written in our Torah?” The pathos of the question is felt keenly. The child is both protesting this suffering and seeking to draw some meaning from it. The other child responds, “It is written about in Devarim.” The first child then responds, “Why haven’t I reached that sentence yet?”, to which the second child responds, “You are one and a half pages away.” The first child then responds, “I’m glad I haven’t reached it yet because had I reached it, I wouldn’t have needed you to answer the question.”
At the pinnacle of their despair and humiliation, these children turn to the ageless Jewish practice of Torah learning and chavruta (friendship). The first child asks a quintessentially Jewish question about meaning-making: “Where is this written?” The Romans incorporate the Jewish children in a perverse sexual relationship, enacting the very antithesis of connection and ethical relatedness.
Yet, in the midst of that evil, the two children remember the perennial Jewish practice of meaning-making through text and chevruta. Theirs is a profound form of protest and hope in the middle of despair.
Wherever we are, we have the capacity for consciousness and connection. I like to imagine that as the rabbis recounted this story, they too felt a shift. They were “seeing” the devastation of this time with unflinching courage. And at this moment, like the children, they recalled that as humans, we can seek meaning, as humans we have each other. Even now, all isn’t lost.
What these stories seem to teach is that the courage to look suffering in the eye is the very place from which hope can emerge. In mourning our losses and crying our sense that the world we once knew is gone, we begin the process of dreaming and re-building. Richard Tarnas writes that hope isn’t a flimsy rainbow-in-the-sky experience. Rather, hope is a spiritual discipline.
What’s more, when we engage in the spiritual practice of hope, we’re no longer victims to the whims of history. Hope allows us to become participatory actors in the unfolding of reality. The Jewish people have always embodied hope as a spiritual practice. We look at suffering on Tisha B’Av squarely in the eye, and from that place, we remember Torah study and relationships, we remember who we were, are, and who we can become.
We will come out of this wave, and this time, as the Jewish people and humanity, we will pray and dance together, we will learn and we will befriend. Nachamu, nachamu, ami (Take comfort, oh my people).
- Adina Roth is a clinical psychologist in private practice, and a teacher of Jewish Studies. She runs an independent Barmitzvah and Batmitzvah programme in Johannesburg, and teaches Tanach to adults.
Purim: a four-point plan for embracing uncertainty
As we approach Purim this year, it’s hard to escape the feeling of disappointment. This is the second Purim since the beginning of the pandemic, and the world remains upside down. Our lives at the moment seem reduced, our Purim celebrations muted.
But maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe this is the year for a Purim like no other.
Think about what we are all grappling with at the moment – the pervading sense we have is of living in a world of uncertainty.
Purim is all about embracing uncertainty. In fact, the very word “Purim” means “lots”, referring to the lots Haman cast randomly to select the day to carry out his genocidal plan.
In a world so full of threats and danger, Purim gives us a game plan. In fact, the four mitzvot of Purim constitute the perfect formula for coping with an uncertain world.
First, the mitzvah to hear the reading of the Megillah in the night and again on the day of Purim teaches us about faith. The Megillah inspires us to see Hashem’s presence everywhere, even when it isn’t obvious. The name Esther – the Megillah’s chief protagonist – comes from the word hester, meaning “hidden”, a hint at G-d’s hidden presence in the world (Talmud, Chulin 139b). Famously, the Megillah, which relates the miraculous story of how the Jewish people were saved from annihilation, doesn’t mention Hashem’s name once. Even when we cannot see Him, we are reminded that He is there, looking out for us every moment of every day.
He was in ancient Persia when Haman rose up against us, and He is here with us in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. We can take comfort in knowing we are in His loving embrace, and that everything He does is ultimately for our best.
The third mitzvah of Purim – matanot l’evyonim (Esther 9:22), giving money to those in need on the day – reminds us of the power of giving. There are many who have been hit financially by COVID-19. Our incredible institutions, too, are buckling under the strain. This year in particular, when so many of us are vulnerable, we need to reach out and give according to our means.
Then there’s mishloach manot (Esther 9:22) – sending gifts of food to our friends and family on Purim. Now is the time to invest in our relationships. We need them more than ever. We need to lean on one another. Our relationships feed us, giving us the strength and emotional well-being to withstand these difficult times. At a time of isolation and dislocation, mishloach manot remind us to fortify our connections to the people around us as we draw strength from them and they draw strength from us.
Finally, there is the seudat Purim, the celebratory meal on Purim day. The Purim seudah is a feast of gratitude and thanksgiving. We are grateful to Hashem for our miraculous deliverance on Purim, and it reminds us to offer thanks to Him also for the daily miracles we all experience, to truly savour the divine blessings we have in our lives, and to live with gratitude.
And so, as the world gradually moves to the next phase of this great global health struggle, let’s embrace Purim. Not with big gatherings, but with immersive engagement in the four mitzvot of the day which, together, provide a game plan for living in a world of uncertainty, guiding us to the four things we need right now: faith, kindness, love, and gratitude.
May we all merit the “light and joy and celebration and glory” (Esther 8:16) which the Megillah tells us filled their world after the miracles of Purim, and may these divine blessings flow into our lives and into our world.
Valiant heroes and dark villians – why Purim is like COVID-19
We all love fairy tales. Beautiful, clever heroes who use their charm to bring frightening dramas to a quick denouement after which everybody lives happily ever after.
From nursery school, this is how the story of Purim has been told to us by well-meaning educators: gorgeous young Esther, blessed to have won an empire-wide beauty contest to become the new Queen of Persia, lives in wedded bliss with the King. As soon as a threat is levelled against her people, she manages to sweet-talk her husband, Achashverosh, to nullify the plan. And they all live happily ever after.
I apologise in advance if I’m spoiling a childhood dream. A thorough reading of the Book of Esther, aided by the commentary found in Talmud Megillah, shows each of the statements in the above paragraph to be untrue. Esther was neither young, gorgeous, nor happy. She was dragged, against her will, to join the King’s harem. Though she secured the role of spouse, she still lived a miserable double life, and had to vie for the monarch’s attention against many rivals.
By the time she heard of Haman’s evil plan, she hadn’t seen the King for more than a month. And here’s a little challenge: for an audience with the King, you need to be invited. Nobody, even Achashverosh’s wife, simply marches into the throne room and says, “Howzit!”, as Mordechai expected Esther to do. Trespassers are executed!
Esther’s approach to the King could only have disastrous consequences for her. At worst, she would lose her life for her breach of royal protocol. At best, the King would extend his golden sceptre to her, signifying forgiveness for her breach (which, as we all know, is what happened). This outcome would actually be far from pretty. But first let me introduce you to another fact you are unlikely to have been taught by your nursery – or even primary – school teacher.
As per the Talmud, prior to her abduction to the harem, Mordechai and Esther were husband and wife. For years, she lived a double life, halachically married to one man while prisoner to another’s whims. Yet, from the moment she volunteered to approach the King and seduce him into saving her people, her marriage to Mordechai would have to end by Jewish law (which tragically is precisely what happened).
Mordechai’s request of Esther was to make an ultimate sacrifice for both of them. It involved pain and deprivation for individuals for the sake of the entire nation. A sacrifice Esther took upon herself, with the famous words, “Thus I will come to the King, contrary to the law, and if I perish, I perish.” (Esther, Chapter 4). A verse heavily loaded with double meaning. “Contrary to the law” – Persia’s or G-d’s? “I perish, I perish” – in this world or in the world to come.
The past year has been no fairy tale, just like the Purim story. But these magic stories often involve villains and heroes. Here the parallel applies.
The hero and heroine of Purim are Mordechai and Esther, a couple prepared to make huge personal sacrifices (hers far greater than his, of course) for the benefit of a community.
So many heroes have emerged in the past year and a half. These are good men and women, giving up what’s precious to them for the common good. Tribute has been paid to the angels of Hatzolah and to frontline health workers who have worked tirelessly under horrid conditions to save lives and minimise pain. In my position of chairperson of the South African Rabbinical Association, I also want to make mention of the heroic efforts of my colleagues to give spiritual guidance and hope to our community, this with our sanctuaries shuttered for the greater part of the past year.
The real hero is each one of us, in our own personal life, who has made and continues to make huge personal sacrifices for the good of the wider community. The many of us who stay home, cut down on socialising, give up on parties, glamourous weddings, Barmitzvahs and Batmitzvahs, and other life-cycle celebrations, and have radically modified our lifestyle to save others’ lives. Not to mention the wretched mask wearing, an altruistic act, according to experts, who say that most of the benefit is for those around us. The cost to this year’s Purim observance has been huge, accustomed as we are to large, merry gatherings.
The mortal danger in the Purim story took close to a year to disappear. To be exact, from Pesach to Purim. (Haman’s edict was promulgated on the Eve of Passover; the threat ceased about 11 months later, on 14 Adar, later to become Purim.) That’s the precise timeline of the current peril we are facing. We pray for Hashem to give us another Purim miracle, with total and complete deliverance from the current danger. As we read in the Book of Esther (Chapter 9), may we experience “transformation from sorrow to gladness, and from mourning to festivity”.
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