Dear Mendele,

Pinchas Menachem Mendel Hakohen Levin, Hy”d
Pinchas Menachem Mendel Hakohen Levin, Hy”d

The brother I never knew,

 

Who, after more than two years in a civilian exchange camp in France, was sent to your death, together with your mother, aunt, uncle, cousins, close relatives and good friends.

Very precious people to you, who hoped and believed that maybe there would be an exchange deal. Perhaps, against all odds, you and the rest of the 181 captives in the camp would manage to survive the bitter fate of Polish Jewry, Hy”d.

But it didn’t happen, Mendele.

Four months before liberation, yes, only four months before the Americans liberated the camp in France, the Nazis decided to act on the fact that your South American passports were forged.

With the exception of four, they sent all of you to the infamous transit camp — Drancy.

And from there, loaded onto a cattle car, straight to Auschwitz.

 

Our zeide, Harav Itche Meir Levin, zt”l, found out about it within two weeks.

He tried to turn over the world.

He cried, he begged, he pleaded for help to find out where you had been sent.

He sent letters and telegrams in every direction.

But the only answer he received was the echo of the bitter silence.

Our zeide didn’t give up.

He continued to hope — maybe, just maybe.

You didn’t have to be too much of genius in those days, Mendele, to know that, after the sweat and blood invested in obtaining them, the owners of the false passports had been transported to the valley of death.

 

When did I find out about you, Mendele?

Too late.

Do you understand, Mendele?

Our father did not talk.

He wrote.

He told the story of a thousand years of Polish Jewry in so many different ways.

On the pages of Hamodia.

In his books.

 

But the one thing he could not get himself to share with his daughters,

Me being the youngest,

Was the story about you, Mendele.

The bleeding wound never healed.

 

It wasn’t only him, Mendele.

It was Sabba and Savta,

Relatives and friends.

They spoke among themselves.

But never to us.

When we walked into the room, they changed the subject.

They spoke in code.

But for the most part they remained silent.

The bloody saga of those who were left behind,

Those who did not manage to escape the blood drenched country,

Allowed them no peace.

 

How did I find out about you, Mendele?

By accident.

One day I discovered a hidden drawer on the bottom of a closet. After a little exploring, I came across two pictures in an envelope. One of a beautiful baby boy and one of the child with his mother.

I was about to ask my mother who they were, but something made me stop short and ask myself, “If they wanted you to see these pictures, why would they have hidden them”?

Upon further inspection, I understood that these pictures had been used for ID in an application for a certificate to enter Palestine.

A certificate, Mendele, that was never used.

 

After digging a little deeper, I realized that what we knew about our cousins pertained to us as well.

That our parents had families before the churban.

That you, Mendele, were the cherished ach bechor that I never knew.

No. I never ended up discussing the pictures with my mother.

All her life she believed that we knew nothing about you.

I will never forget the day someone who worked with Abba told me that when my father left Poland he took with him one little shoe of yours.

I searched all over the house, but I never found it.

 

Many years have passed since then.

Our father was taken away from us very suddenly.

Too young.

So many of his friends and acquaintances have left us.

Leaving us with memories, only.

 

Seventy years have passed, Mendele.

Since you were sent to your death.

7 Iyar, 1944

The world has turned over a few times since then.

 

How good it would have been

For the whole family to sit together

To enjoy our ach bechor

To build together

To continue the mission

That our father, grandfather, and great-grandfather started.

But Hashem wanted differently.

 

Today, seventy years later

Your youngest sister is trying to continue

What you would probably have been doing.

Seventy years later, Mendele,

Your “passport” is engraved in my heart.

Never to be forgotten.

 

There are many who hardly remember
churban yahadus Europa,

Yet they attack me, as a publisher,

“Why don’t you chareidim do more to
commemorate Yom HaShoah?”

My answer, Mendele, is:

To me, every day is Yom Hashoah.

Every day I remember the churban.

Every day I work on rebuilding the binyan.

Every day I try to add another brick to the future of Torah Jewry.

 

Rest in peace, my dear little brother.

As long as I live, you will never be forgotten.

 

Pinchas Menachem Mendel HaKohen Levin

ben Harav Yehuda Arye Leib HaKohen, z”l

Hashem yikom damcha.

 

Your youngest sister,

Ruth Lichtenstein née Levin

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