Ani Zocher:
Pilgrims' Stories

Poland Seminar 2004,
by Zach Roseman, METNY

A lush green hill lies in the center of a drab grey city, serving as a beacon for all those who walk along the cold and uninviting cobblestone. How did this hill, more than eight feet high, end up here, on otherwise flat land, with a bustling metropolis surrounding its neatly trimmed outer edges? Why does this monument to fallen fighters that symbolizes fortitude, courage, strength and defiance stand so tall despite its stumpy stature compared to the sprawling apartment complexes across the street?

This hill, this monument, this tribute to the undying human spirit was once the central command post for the organized resistance in the Warsaw Ghetto. Jews, fighting for their honor, their dignity, and their very lives organized an uprising against their Nazi oppressors while starved, sleep-deprived, malnourished, and facing impossible odds. On this hill, Mila 18, Mordechai Anilevitch fought his last battle against the Nazi murderers. Here I stand now, bearing witness to the incredible actions of the Jewish rebels and marvel at their achievements.

Emotion runs rampant through my crowded mind. I glance from side to side, sweeping my head back and forth trying to sort out the feelings that I cannot control. The smell of fresh cut grass fills my nostrils as the sun gently slides out from behind the miserable clouds. The morbid sensations from earlier in the day fall from my consciousness, drifting away into the abyss, leaving a smile on my ebullient face.

Here, on this very spot, Jewish fighters, clothed in faded and torn rags, atrophied muscles, and ragged hair began a rebellion that lasted for a month's time and required the strength of three full German battalions to quell. Here, tired and starving young boys and girls listened to the uplifting words of Mordechai Anilevitch as they prepared for what they knew would be their final mission. With shoddy, homemade pistols in their oil-stained hands and belief in God in their word torn minds, these young Jews faced an evil that is difficult, if not impossible, to imagine. My mind races trying to give me insight into their morbid thoughts and undying hope. I try to cope with the conflicting feelings of intense pride dignity, honor, bravery, fortitude, strength, power, humiliation and degradation all at once, but each is like a rope, pulling me in separate directions.

I try to imagine the unbearable weight of fifty-six thousands souls on my young and broken shoulders as I walk into an underground bunker. I think of the fighters burrowing into small holes, desperately wanting to cry but instead finding themselves with guns in hand and grim faces, ready to attack at any time.

This hill is the final resting place of many heroic Jewish fighters who made a conscious decision to stay and fight, rather than surrender and die. Would I be able to make that agonizing choice? Would I be able to choose fighting over food, even when I have not eaten for over a week? How much suffering did these brave souls submit themselves to so that many more could live to see another day? They forsook the option of surrender and fought the Germans with every ounce of courage that they could muster. They were Jewish, and they were proud.

I am a Jew. I am a Jew who is proud to be a Jew. I am a Jew who will not forget Bar Kochba and his revolt, or Rabbi Akiva's cry of the Shema, or Alfred Dreyfus being railroaded by the French government, or the Damascus affair, or the Nuremburg laws, or the Holocaust, or the bravery of the heroes of the Warsaw uprising. The heroes who fought in Mila 18 were Jewish and so am I. I am a Jew.

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