From Auschwitz to Service & Pride
Eighty years have passed since prisoner 71153 was pulled from a cattle car by a liberating army, the sealed wooden doors groaning open to a world he could hardly believe still existed. The train had been bound from Auschwitz to Germany, a journey that was a one-way trip to guaranteed death. Yet he survived, my father survived, the impossible. Through slave labor, two death camps, and the endless hum of fear and deprivation, he found a reason to keep breathing. That reason was hope. Hope for a life beyond barbed wire and numbers tattooed on skin. Hope for days when the sun would rise and he would be there to see it, free.
The story of my father is woven into the fabric of my family, the kind of story that sits heavy in the room during holidays and quiet dinners, a shadow and a blessing at once. He built a life in the wake of so much loss. He married, had children, watched those children grow and start families of their own. Against all odds, he lived to see great-grandchildren, to hold their tiny hands and marvel at the simple miracle of their existence.
One of those great-grandchildren, my granddaughter, has inherited something fierce from him. It’s not simply a stubborn streak or a quick mind, lots of people have those. No, what she carries is deeper, something elemental: a resilience that was born in the ashes and forged in hope. I saw it most clearly today, the day she decided to serve her country.
She could have chosen another path. In Israel, there are options. She could have done Sherut Leumi, national service, a meaningful and respected alternative. She could have found a way out, as so many do, for reasons I would never judge. But when it came time to decide, she looked at her choices and said, quietly but firmly, “I want to serve. I want to protect.” She signed up for the IDF, not because it was required, but because it was right for her.
Standing beside her as she logged in, as she took that first official step, I felt a swell of pride I didn’t know I was capable of. I saw, reflected in her, the same will to survive, to do more than survive, to stand up and be counted, that same energy that saved my father all those years ago. My granddaughter is not just brave. She is kind, thoughtful, determined. She does not shrink from responsibility, even when it would be easier to look away.
Our whole family is proud of her, not only for her decision, but for the person she is and the journey she has already walked. She has faced challenges, met them head-on, and kept her integrity intact. She is, in so many ways, the answer to my father’s prayers, and to the prayers of every survivor who wondered if their suffering would mean anything in the end.
We all want peace. Every day and night, every holiday, every gathering, we pray for it. We pray that our children, and their children, will never have to know the kind of fear that haunted my father’s dreams. But the world does not always give us what we want, and so we prepare. If peace does not come, if the world is slow to change, then it falls to our children to stand ready. My granddaughter, and so many like her, have chosen to show up, to serve, to carry the weight of history and hope.
They do not look for excuses. They do not hide from what is hard. They have the courage to do what must be done so that “never again” is not just a phrase, but a promise. Never again will there be a Jewish nation without an army to protect her. Never again will our people stand defenseless in the face of hate.
As a son, as a father, and now as a grandfather, I am humbled to witness this. I see in my granddaughter the living legacy of a man who refused to surrender to darkness. I see the future shining in her eyes, and I am grateful beyond words. The world can be cruel, but it can also be beautiful, and it is people like her, people who choose hope and action, who tip the balance.
May peace come soon. Until then, I am proud, and I am thankful.
