A New Beginning: The Four Promises of Survival and Renewal

It’s difficult not to draw parallels between the redemption of the Israelites and the liberation of Holocaust survivors, especially when I reflect on the experiences of my own parents. The Four Expressions of Redemption, recited every year at the Passover Seder, were a part of my childhood—repeated words that symbolized hope and the promise of freedom. But as I grew older, I began to realize that these words spoke directly to the journey of my Holocaust-survivor parents, echoing the path they walked from unspeakable darkness toward the difficult road of rebuilding and belonging.

Throughout my years at Jewish day school, we memorized these words each year.
“I will take you out.” This phrase speaks to physical removal from oppression.
“I will save you.” This suggests protection or rescue.
“I will redeem you.” Redemption implies restoration, a return to dignity.
“I will take you as My people.” This represents belonging and a renewed identity.

For years, these words were just a familiar part of our Passover ritual—a litany of hope and promise. But as I matured, I began to see them as something far more personal: a mirror reflecting my own family’s story. My parents’ experience in the Łódź Ghetto and Auschwitz was a story of survival, not unlike the Israelites’ own journey through hardship and struggle. It was a journey of liberation, loss, and rebuilding.

“I will bring you out”
This first phrase represents liberation from oppression. For my parents, the experience of being “brought out” was not only a physical escape from the horrors of the Łódź Ghetto and Auschwitz but also a traumatic separation from everything they knew and loved. The ghetto itself was a place of forced isolation, deprivation, and dehumanization, while Auschwitz was a death factory. To be “brought out” from those places meant surviving the brutality of the Nazis, escaping the nearly certain death that awaited them. However, the physical act of liberation didn’t immediately equate to emotional freedom. The scars of their experiences—seeing loved ones murdered, living in constant fear, and surviving horrific conditions—remained with them long after they left the camps. The liberation that came at the end of the war in 1945 did not mark the end of their trauma, but rather the beginning of a complex and painful journey of survival.

“I will rescue you”
The second phrase of redemption speaks to rescue, both physically and spiritually. For my parents, rescue came in the form of survival against all odds, but it was not a straightforward act of salvation. After the war, they were displaced, wandering in search of safety and stability. They didn’t have the experience of living in multiple displaced persons camps, but their lives were marked by a constant search for a place to call home. They eventually found refuge in New York City, where they tried to rebuild their lives, but even this “rescue” came with its own set of challenges. Although they were physically removed from danger, the trauma of their experiences remained a heavy burden. For my parents, being rescued was not simply about escaping physical danger—it was about finding a new place to live, to find some sense of normalcy, while still carrying the pain of their past.

“I will redeem you”
To be redeemed is to be restored, and for Holocaust survivors like my parents, this concept of redemption was fraught with complexity. They had lost their families, their homes, and their entire way of life. The horrors they experienced in the ghetto and in Auschwitz were not easily erased. However, after the war, they sought to create something new. In New York, they worked tirelessly to rebuild their lives, starting from scratch with nothing but their strength and resilience. While they never fully escaped the psychological scars of their trauma, they found a form of redemption in their ability to rebuild. For my parents, redemption wasn’t about returning to what was lost, but about reclaiming a sense of dignity and identity amidst the destruction. They found healing in their families, in their work, and in their community, despite the grief that would never fully dissipate.

“I will take you to Me as a people”
The final phrase speaks to the spiritual and communal aspect of redemption—the idea of being accepted and loved by God as a people. For my parents, this concept resonated deeply as they began to rebuild their Jewish lives after the war. In New York, they connected with a Jewish community that gave them a sense of belonging and continuity. The synagogue, a symbol of Jewish life and community, became a cornerstone of their post-war identity. For them, finding a community of survivors and other Jews in America was an act of spiritual redemption, one that allowed them to reclaim their identity and pass on traditions to their children. Despite the trauma they had endured, they found strength in the ability to continue the Jewish story and in the resilience of their people. Their connection to Jewish traditions and the community provided them with a sense of meaning and continuity, which they had lost during the war.

The four expressions of redemption—bringing out, rescuing, redeeming, and taking as a people—reflect the stages of my parents’ journey. They were brought out of the ghetto and Auschwitz, rescued from the brink of death, and eventually redeemed as they rebuilt their lives in America. Their journey to find belonging and restore their sense of identity is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Through the rebuilding of their lives, they found a way to “take” their place once again within the Jewish people, continuing the legacy that had been nearly erased by the horrors of the Holocaust.

These expressions of redemption are not just words recited at the Seder—they are a living reality for Holocaust survivors like my parents, who experienced each stage of redemption in their own lives. Their story is a testament to survival, resilience, and the power of community in overcoming the darkest of times. And as I reflect on these four expressions each year, I see them not just as part of an ancient ritual, but as an ongoing promise of hope, survival, and renewal that continues to shape my family’s story.