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Do Not Harm the Child

Selected Excerpts from Rabbi Israel Meir Lau’s Newly Translated Memoirs Translated by Shira Leibowitz Schmidt and Jessica Setbon

In this remarkable autobiography, Rabbi Israel Meir Lau tells the story of how herose from the ashes of the Holocaust to become the chief rabbi of Israel. As a youngboy nicknamed Lulek, he is saved from the Nazi inferno by his older brotherNaphtali, who fulfills their father’s dying wish to ensure the continuation of thefamily rabbinic dynasty. At age eight, Lulek, the youngest survivor ofBuchenwald, sails to Israel, where he begins his life anew. Encouraged in his stud-ies by such rabbinic giants as the Rebbe of Gur and Rabbi Shlomo ZalmanAuerbach, young Israel Meir enters the yeshivah world and is eventually appoint-ed Ashkenazi chief rabbi of Israel. In his book, he recounts fascinating vignettesfrom his career that reveal his life-long mission of commemorating the Holocaustfrom the standpoint of deep faith. The excerpts that follow offer the reader a tasteof Rabbi Lau’s memoirs, which are soon to be published in English.

Shira Leibowitz Schmidt has six children and eight grandchildren … so far. She is a lapsed engineerand co-authored Old Wine, New Flasks: Reflections on Science and Jewish Tradition (New York,1997) with Nobel chemist Roald Hoffmann. She is currently affiliated with the Haredi College inJerusalem and writes polemical articles on controversial issues for The Jerusalem Post.

Jessica Setbon, a native of San Antonio and a former member of the Harvard Sailing Team, is a moth-er of five who studied comparative religion in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Tel Aviv. She has lecturedon translation challenges at Yad Vashem and the Israel Translators' Association conference.

Shira and Jessica run a translation center in Netanya, Israel, called Mother Tongue.

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First Memories:Devastation, Autumn 1942

At the beginning of the book, RabbiLau discusses his experiences when theNazis invaded Poland. He speaks of thedeep impression made upon him by hisfather, Rabbi Moshe Chaim, chief rabbiof the Polish town of Piotrkow. In thisscene, the esteemed community leadermaintains his dignity in the face of humil-iation by the Gestapo.

The nightmare had begun toaffect us in Piotrkow as well.

It is the autumn of 1942. I,Lulek, am a boy of five years and fourmonths, short in stature, terrified. Istretch my neck as far as it will go inorder to catch a glimpse of my father.He is standing in the Umschlagplatz,the assembly point for deportation,which is next to the Great Synagogueof our town, Piotrkow, Poland. Father,with his impressive beard and blackrabbi’s suit, stands in the center, sur-rounded by Jews.

We felt enormous tension thatday as we stood in the assembly squarein front of the synagogue. A threateningsilence surrounded us. The captain ofthe Piotrkow Gestapo approached myfather, a deadly look in his eye. Hestopped, and pulling out his maikeh—arubber club about three feet long—hebegan to beat my father on the backwith all his might. When the first blowstruck my father from behind, the force

of it made him stagger forward. Hisbody bent over as if about to fall. Andthen, in a fraction of a second, hestraightened up to his full height,stepped back and returned to where hehad been standing. There he stooderect, making a supreme effort to hidethe physical pain as well as his intensehumiliation. I could see Father muster-

ing all his strength to keep his balanceand avoid falling at the German offi-cer’s feet. Father knew that if he fell,the spirit of the Jews in our townwould break, and he was trying desper-ately to prevent that.

Everyone there knew why theGerman had beaten him. When theNazis had ordered the Jews to shave offtheir beards, many of the Jews ofPiotrkow had come to ask Fatherwhether they should follow the order.His answer was firm: do it in order tosave yourselves from punishment. Buthe was stricter with himself; he kept hisbeard and sidelocks, his peyot, not onlyto safeguard ancient tradition but alsoto preserve the honor of the town rab-binate. His defiance of this order result-ed in the maikeh on his back.

But the beating was for other rea-sons as well. The captain had singledout my father for abuse because he wasthe chief rabbi of the town. Father wasthe representative of the Jews to theGermans. Furthermore, much of theGestapo’s contact with the Jews ofPiotrkow took place through himbecause he was fluent in German. Hewas a highly respected figure in theJewish community. Beating him, andespecially humiliating him, meant moreto the Germans than beating justanother Jew; it was an act of enormoussymbolic meaning, one that had a pow-erful effect on morale.

Many years later, I heard the fol-lowing from survivor Dr. AbrahamGreenberg, who had been standing nextto my father in the synagogue square.He heard Father remark to the Jewsnext to him, “I don’t know why we’restanding here with our arms crossed.Even if we don’t have weapons, weshould attack them with our fingernails.

I don’t think standing around can saveany of us. We have nothing to lose bytrying to fight them.” He had just fin-ished his sentence when the maikeh ofthe Gestapo captain struck him on hisback. As a child, I did not understandthe issue of the beard so well or the sig-nificance of the order to shave it, but Idid understand that they were beatingmy father.

I knew my father was the town’schief rabbi, and was admired and lovedby all. I could not bear to see the beat-ing or the degradation. Today, lookingback on the six years of that war, I real-ize that the worst thing I endured in theHolocaust was not the hunger, the coldor the beatings. It was the humiliation.It was almost impossible to bear thehelplessness. Throughout the war years,a Polish word went through my head—lachago, meaning “why?” What did wedo to you to make you stomp on oursouls in this way? How great was our

Rabbi Lau’s father, Rabbi Moshe ChaimLau, the chief rabbi of the Polish town ofPiotrkow. When the Gestapo captain beathim in front of the whole town, RabbiMoshe Chaim stood erect, making asupreme effort to hide his pain as well ashis humiliation. If he fell, he knew itwould break the spirit of the Jews in town,and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.Photos courtesy of Rabbi Lau

Throughout the war years, a Polish word went through myhead—lachago, meaning “why?” What did we do to you to make

you stomp on our souls in this way?

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crime that this is our punishment?There was no answer. Only this: wewere Jews, and they, the Nazis, saw us asthe source of all evil in the world.

When a child sees his father beingkicked with a Nazi’s boot and publiclyhumiliated, he carries that terrible pic-ture with him for the rest of his life.Yet, on the other hand, I carry in mymind another memory as well—thatinstant in which Father, with astonish-ing spiritual strength, braced himselffrom falling and, refusing to beg for hislife, stood tall once again before theGestapo captain. For me, that image ofhis inner spiritual strength completelyeradicates the helplessness that accom-panied the humiliation.

Herded into the SynagogueSoon after the incident with Lulek’s

father, the Nazis rounded up the Jews ofPiotrkow and packed them into the town’smain synagogue. There they called out thenames of those who were allowed to leave;those remaining inside were to be deport-ed, destined for death. Through his moth-er’s resourcefulness, young Lulek’s life issaved, but his thirteen-year-old brother,Shmuel, is condemned to a bitter fate.

As order and discipline were sec-ond nature to the Germans, one ofthem shouted, “One of the peoplewhose names I called did not go out!”Then they made an exact count of allthose who had left, and checked themagainst their lists. One person had notleft: my mother. Her maternal instinctaroused, she scrutinized the narrow pas-sage between the two guards at thedoor. She planned our moves quicklyand precisely. She grabbed me with onehand, and Shmuel with the other.“Come here,” she ordered. We jumpedto her. We didn’t need to be told thatwe must remain completely silent, andmore importantly, keep as close as possi-ble to Mother. The three of us had tomeld together as one. She planned tosmuggle us both out under the cover of

darkness, as if we were part of her body.To keep the Germans from closing thedoor, she shouted while moving towardthe exit, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”Walking sideways as one body, we shuf-fled out the door. But a group of threecould not possibly pass through the nar-row opening the Germans had left. Iwent out first, with Mother closebehind me, and Shmuel behind her.But one German noticed that there wasa bit more movement than there shouldbe. Facing us, he raised both his armstogether, and swung them down withall his might, one to the left and one tothe right. Shmuel, who was on the leftside, fell to the synagogue floor and hadto go back inside. On the right sidewere my mother and I. The force of theblow hurled us into a puddle in front ofthe synagogue. The two of us weresaved, but we were separated fromShmuel, and we never saw him again.Later we learned that he was sent toTreblinka that same day.

Into Hiding: 1942Lulek’s childhood

becomes a nightmare of hidingand fear, leaving an indeliblemark on his memory and shap-ing his consciousness. As anadult, Rabbi Lau recalls thetaste of the honey cookiesmentioned here as symbolicof his Holocaust experience.

Father was not withMother and me whenthe two of us hid at 12Jerozolimska Street, abuilding near ourhouse, where he hadarranged a hiding placefor us. This largebuilding hadbeen filledwith Jewishresidents, whothen aban-doned it for

reasons unknown to me. The floor ofone room in the top story was litteredwith wooden boards; the entry to theattic was through this room. Motherand I crowded into the attic along withabout ten other Jews. They were con-stantly darting frightened looks at me,as if threatening me to keep silent, andat my mother, as if blaming her forbringing me to the hiding place andpossibly endangering their lives. At leastthat is how it seemed to me. I was bare-ly five-and-a-half, and they feared Iwould cry noisily, or else call out“Mameh, Mameh,” giving them all awayto certain death. They were busy think-ing of ways to make the child keepsilent, but the child never even made apeep. Before leaving our house, mymother had foreseen what was ahead ofus, and baked my favorite honey cook-ies. She knew that when I ate them theywould distract me. More importantly,they would fill up my mouth so I

would be unable to make a sound.Even today, many long years

after those days of horror,when I close my eyes andyearn for those honeycookies, I can remembertheir wonderful taste.During trying times, thismemory is my consolation;it is the drop of honey withwhich I sweeten bitter days.

At the same time, Iremember clearly that I

would look at my mother,my mouth full of cook-ies, with a penetratingglance that seemed tosay, “Mother, this whole

business of using the cook-ies to silence me is unneces-sary. I know I mustn’t say aword, and therefore Iintend to keep quiet. We

have already been through allkinds of ‘selections’ and although Iam a child, I understand exactlywhat’s going on.” Like an animal withan acute survival instinct, I under-Lulek on June 2, 1945, soon after he was liberated from Buchenwald.

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stood that I had to keep quiet until thefury subsided, and I had no intention ofbehaving like a small child in our hide-out.

Buchenwald: January 1945When Lulek and his nineteen-year-

old brother, Naphtali, arrived inBuchenwald, Naphtali feared that hewould not be able to save Lulek’s life as hehad succeeded in doing so far.

The rules of the camp were iron-clad, and chances were slim that theywould allow a child of seven to staywith the men. But as usual, Naphtali

1

did not give up. With the help of twofriends, he wrapped me up in the feath-er quilt that Mother had supplied uswith, and put me inside the sack he hadcarried with him ever since we had part-ed from her. As I was already used totransitions, to entering and exiting laborcamps, he had no need to warn me tokeep my mouth shut until it was safe toleave the sack. Despite my being soyoung, the procedure was clear to me.Like a rabbit, I jumped into the sack,curling up as small as possible, and thatis how I entered Buchenwald with mybrother. The Germans made the newly-arrived Jews stand in formation, arrang-ing them in threes. From inside thesack, I heard the familiar commotion:the shouts of schnell, schnell—hurry,hurry—the maikeh club beatings andthe barking of the dogs. I hunched ontop of Naphtali’s back, motionless as ablock of ice. Then I felt Naphtaliremoving the sack from his back andputting it down at his feet. A sharp,strange smell reached my nose, one thatI did not recognize. Later I learned thatthis was chlorine, which the Nazis usedas a disinfectant.

The Germans placed us all into alarge hall, where they began separatingthe inmates into groups. Controlling hisgrowing fear, Naphtali studied what wasgoing on around us. Very quickly hedeciphered the method used in catego-rizing the inmates. The Nazis orderedthe Jews to strip. Medical personnel

inspected them and administered vari-ous inoculations. And then, to his hor-ror, he discovered that the Germansthrew all the Jews’ possessions—includ-ing the clothes they had removed—intothe oven, where they were incinerated.In this manner, the Germans thought,they would prevent contamination bythe Jews. Naphtali would also have todispose of his sack of belongings. I’llnever forget his cry: “Lulek, hutch totai!Lulek, come here!” I peeked out in dis-belief, suspecting I had not heard cor-rectly. From the sack at my brother’sfeet, I raised my head carefully andlooked around. Previously, I had heardthe voices and smelled the odors. Butnow I also saw the sights from which Ihad been spared.

The Germans waved the maikehthreateningly, their ferocious dogs bark-ing and biting. Veteran Jewish prisonersshaved the new arrivals and disinfectedthem in a filthy chlorine bath. When Igot out of the sack, one of the guards,also apparently a prisoner, noticed me.He approached Naphtali and asked himwhat a boy like me was doing in thisplace, which was meant for adult men.Naphtali looked into his eyes andexplained that the child had neither afather nor a mother. “What was I todo?” he asked. “Leave him outside inthe snow, by himself?”

That guard gave us the firstauthorized proof of the methods ofkilling in the camp. In this place, heexplained to Naphtali, there are no gaschambers, but there is a crematorium.“From that furnace,” he said, glancingtoward it, “smoke billows twenty-fourhours a day. All the muselmen, thosewalking, robot-like skeletons, die there.Everyone who comes to this campbecomes a muselman,” he said. “It does-n’t matter if he’s five or fifteen, seven orthirteen. But,” added the prisoner-guard, “you should know that if thischild can get to block number eight, hewill be okay.” When he finished whathe had to say, he turned his back on us,as if he had not seen a thing.

As he walked away, a Germanguard caught sight of me. Naphtali wasterrified when he saw the German focuson me, and even more so when heasked, as the other guard did, what Iwas doing there. Accustomed by now tobeing in mortal danger, Naphtali tookoff his shoe and folded it in half, remov-ing Father’s gold watch from the sole. Itwas the last remaining item from thetreasures Mother had given us for emer-gencies. Naphtali threw the expensivewatch at the guard, who bent down as ifto tie his shoelace, and picked up thewatch. Then he continued his patrol,ignoring the two of us.

A group of orphans from Buchenwald and Bergen-Belsen, wearing Hitler-Jugend (the Nazi youthmovement) uniforms because there were no other clothes available. Lulek is the third from the right.

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Other guards took me along withthe entire group to block fifty-two. Thesight before our eyes was horrifying.Thousands of people inhabited thatcrowded place, most of them muselmen,suffering from hunger and disease.People relieved themselves inside theblock, and the stench was insufferable.Each morning the guards removedabout forty corpses, the bodies of thosewho did not awaken.

Liberation: April 1945Thanks to Naphtali and to a

Russian inmate protector, Lulek survivesthe horrors of Buchenwald. WhenBuchenwald is liberated by Americanarmy forces, Lulek is discovered by ArmyChaplain Rabbi Hershel Schacter.

In full army uniform, RabbiSchacter got down from his jeep andstood before the pile of bodies. Many ofthem were still bleeding. Suddenly hethought he saw a pair of eyes, wideopen and alive. He panicked, and witha soldier’s instinct, he drew his pistol.Slowly, carefully, he began to circle thepile of bodies. Then—and this I recallclearly—he bumped into me, a littleboy, staring at him from behind themound of corpses, wide-eyed. His facerevealed his astonishment: in the midstof the killing fields, from within that seaof blood—suddenly, a child appears! Idid not move. But he knew that nochild in this place could be anythingbut Jewish. He holstered his pistol, thengrabbed me with both hands andcaught me in a fatherly embrace, liftingme in his arms. In Yiddish, with aheavy American accent, he asked me:“Wie alt bist du, mein kindt? How oldare you, my boy?”

I saw tears dripping from his eyes.Still, through force of habit, I answeredcautiously, like someone perpetually onguard: “What difference does it make?At any rate, I’m older than you.” Hesmiled at me from behind his tears, andasked, “Why do you think that you’reolder than I am?” Without hesitating, Ireplied, “Because you laugh and cry like

a child, and I haven’t laughed for a longtime. I can’t even cry anymore. Sowhich one of us is older?”

Then he introduced himself tome, and the tension subsided. RabbiSchacter asked who I was. “Lulek fromPiotrkow,” I replied.

“And who is your family?”he inquired.

“My father was the rabbiof Piotrkow.”

“And you’re here all alone, with-out your father?”

“Without my father, without mymother. But I have a brother. He col-lapsed and is lying sick, here in thecamp.”

Rabbi Schacter gained my fulltrust when he told me he had heard ofmy father. He had also heard of Father’scousin, Rabbi Meir Shapira, the rabbiof Lublin, who had initiated the DafHayomi daily page program of Talmudstudy. I was thrilled.

Then the American rabbi took meby the hand, and together, we made therounds of the bunkers, announcing theliberation. I remember the people lyinginside the bunkers, with blank stares.

They did not even have the strength toget up from their beds. “Jews, you areliberated!” called out the Americanrabbi in Yiddish. The inmates gazed athim, incredulous, as if to ask, “Who isthis crazy meshiggener standing here inuniform, screaming in Yiddish?”

At the Rebbe’s Tisch: 1950After the war, Lulek makes his way

to Eretz Yisrael and begins his schooling.Just after his Bar Mitzvah, he enters KolTorah Yeshiva in Jerusalem. After his firstShabbat dinner there, his yeshivah school-mates invite him to the tisch of the Rebbeof Gur. He has no idea what is in storefor him—he finds the Chassidic customsand clothing strange. Even more puzzling,he discovers that the Rebbe recognizes himat once.

Then I understood the reason forthe human wave flowing through thehall: the Rebbe had entered, handsclasped behind his back like a general.As soon as he walked in, the crowdparted like the Red Sea, allowing him topass. As he walked by me, he looked atme, and his gaze was unique and unfor-gettable, riveting. In all my life, I merit-

ed only two such looks—one from theRebbe of Gur, and the other twenty-four years later, from the LubavitcherRebbe. Throughout those twenty-fouryears, I never met another person with alook as penetrating as that of the Rebbeof Gur. And there I was, this young boyin short pants with a beret on my head,standing out in this crowd of Chassidicmen all wearing black silk robes withsashes and high fur hats. The Rebbepassed through the throng, his eyes sur-veying each individual, registering exact-ly who was present. In seconds, theorder was transmitted to add me to thelist. To my complete surprise, I heard

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Lulek gives his Bar Mitzvah devar Torah.

Like an animal with an acute survival instinct,I understood that I had to keep quiet

until the fury subsided.

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my name called out along with the oth-ers: “Srul Mayer, son of the rabbi ofPiotrkow.” I did not respond. No onehad ever called me Mayer. It had beenfive years since I had made aliyah, and Ihad always been known as Yisrael orIsrael Lau. Occasionally, some peoplecalled me Lulek, but “Srul Mayer”? ThisYiddishism was completely foreign tomy ears. I did not think they were refer-ring to me, but the words “son of therabbi of Piotrkow” echoed in my ears,and I told myself there could be noother. He couldn’t mean my brotherssince Naphtali was working in Paris,and Shiko, my newly-found half-broth-er, was in Tel Aviv. Still, I did not daremake my way to the Rebbe’s table.

A few minutes later, YehoshuaKleinlehrer, my friend from Kol Torahwho had accompanied me to the tisch,came up to me. His voice shaking, hesaid that in case I hadn’t heard, they hadcalled my name. I shared my astonish-ment with him: Why were they callingmy name? I had no answer, but heinsisted that indeed, my name was theone they had called and I was the onethey meant. He said I must go up tothe Rebbe’s table. Embarrassed and con-fused, I asked him what I should do.Yehoshua explained the details calmlyand clearly. “You see those steps wherethe gabbai is standing? Go up thosethree steps and look toward the tablewhere the Rebbe is sitting. They’ll giveyou a small cup of wine in one handand a slice of apple in the other. You saylechaim, directing yourself at the Rebbe,and the Rebbe will answer you, lechaim.It’s a very great honor. You’ve been cho-sen out of hundreds in this room.” As Ilistened to him, I felt weak in the knees.Of all the hundreds of people crowdedinto that suffocating room, I thought tomyself, I know only three. So how isthat I have been chosen, and I am theone who has been given this greathonor that Kleinlehrer is describing? Irealized I had no choice but to respondto the call.

As instructed, I went up the threesteps. Someone gave me a wine cup and

filled it halfway, and a slice of appleappeared in my other hand. Then theRebbe in all his glory directed his pene-trating gaze toward me. High fur hatperched on his head, surrounded leftand right by his elderly disciples, henodded his head up and down andtoasted, “Lechaim.”

Meeting the Rebbe The young yeshivah bochur is again

taken to meet the Rebbe of Gur, this timefor a short conversation.

The door opened and someoneled me into the room. I saw the Rebbepacing back and forth like a caged lion,

his gaze fixed on the ground. In his lefthand, he held a pinch of tobacco, whichhe occasionally brought to his nose andsniffed. With his right hand, he liftedhis high velvet kippah and fanned hishead, cooling himself from the late-summer heat. I stood by the door, buthe did not even glance at me. I thoughtto myself that perhaps they had broughtme in by mistake, and that he had notmeant to invite me. As these thoughtsraced through my head, the Rebbestopped and stared at me and my outfitwith his serious, penetrating gaze. Heasked in Yiddish: “Who lent you thoseclothes?” “Simcha Eidelman,” Ianswered. He smiled warmly, then

added, “I am used to seeing your broth-er Naphtali here more often than I seeyou. What is your uncle, RabbiVogelman, up to these days?” With onequestion, the Rebbe of Gur covered myentire world: Naphtali, my brother andprotector, and Rabbi Vogelman, myuncle and foster father. This man towhom I had never spoken, who wasresponsible for tens of thousands of fol-lowers, knew exactly who the centralindividuals in my life were. I kept myanswers concise and to the point, fol-lowing the accepted conversational styleof a Gur Chassid.

The Rebbe continued, “You wereprobably surprised to be called up at thetisch. I remember when your brotherNaphtali came to visit my father, theImrei Emet, five years ago. At the tisch,I passed through the rows in the halland all of a sudden, I saw you. It wasimpossible not to notice you. You lookvery much like your brother Naphtali. Iremember the name your father gaveyou at your circumcision ceremony inthe Piotrkow synagogue. He said he wasnaming you Israel, after his rabbi, therabbi of Chortakov, Rabbi IsraelFriedman, and also after his father-in-law from his first marriage, Rabbi IsraelHager, the rabbi of Vizhnitz, called theAhavat Israel. Then he said he was alsonaming you Meir, after his cousin,Rabbi Meir Shapira of Lublin, who hadno children. And, he added, he wasnaming you Israel Meir after theChafetz Chaim, Rabbi Israel Meir ofRadin. He had deep familial and spiri-tual ties with all four of those greatmen. The rabbi of Chortakov, the rabbiof Lublin and the Chafetz Chaim diedwithin three months of each other,although the youngest was forty-six andthe oldest ninety-four. As your fatherheld you in his arms, he prayed to theMaster of the Universe that a spark—Iremember the exact word in Yiddish, afinek—from each of those souls wouldenter the soul of his child. I never for-got his words. When I saw you amongthe crowd on Shabbat eve, I realizedthat you were the brother of Naphtuli

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Rabbi Lau in the National Library of Vilna,visiting the 300 sifrei Torah from Lithuaniathat were hidden there for fifty years.

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[that’s what the Rebbe called him, witha Yiddish accent], and I rememberedyour name, after all this time since yourcircumcision.” Again he transfixed mewith his penetrating stare. Then he gaveme an apple and said, “I hope to seeyou here more often.” I nodded, realiz-ing that coming from him, such a pro-nouncement meant a serious obligationon my part.

Israeli Chief Rabbi MeetsEgyptian Chiefs: 1997

As chief rabbi, Rabbi Lau represent-ed the State of Israel in countless meetingswith world leaders. In 1997, he traveledto Cairo to meet with Egyptian PresidentHosni Mubarak. At the president’s request,he also visited the grand mufti of Egypt,Dr. Mohammed Tantawi, also known asSheik Al Azhar, Egypt’s most senior reli-gious representative. In their discussion,the sheik challenged the status of Jerusalemand Rabbi Lau took up the gauntlet. Thisis only one example of how, as chief rabbi,Rabbi Lau used his role to defend theState of Israel as the Jewish homeland.

Then I asked, out of politeness, ifhe would be willing to pay me a visit inJerusalem. I promised to receive himwith the same degree of respect that hehad shown us, but his answer wasabrupt: “Only if my passport is stampedwith the seal of a Palestinian state. I willnot have my passport stamped with theseal of the State of Israel.” I was unwill-ing to let this extremist view pass, and Ipressed him. “Here we have been talk-ing about friendship and good neigh-borliness, so why does the stamp botheryou? My passport has the Egyptianstamp, and I am proud to have visitedPresident Hosni Mubarak. Everyattempt to advance peace and under-standing between us is welcome.”

But Sheik Al Azhar did notchange his position. In his eyes, theIsraelis had stolen Jerusalem from theMuslims. I could not allow such a state-ment to go unchallenged. “I have donea little ‘homework’ on you,” I admitted.“I know you have a doctorate, and Iwas curious about the topic of your dis-

sertation. I found out that you wroteabout Jews and Judaism in the Koran.So I conclude that not only do youknow Islam, but you know aboutJudaism as well. I also know somethingabout Judaism, but I don’t know any-thing about Islam. So please permit meto ask, how many times does Jerusalemappear in the Koran? After all, we’retalking about the holy city, Al Kuds.Islam’s fundamental text must surelymake mention of such a holy city,” Isaid. The sheik gave me a long, silentlook. I continued to press my point: “Inour Bible, the word ‘Jerusalem,’ and itssynonym ‘Zion’ appear not just once ortwice, but 821 times. This proves thecentrality of Jerusalem in the Jewishfaith and consciousness.

“So tell me,” I repeated my ques-tion. “How many times does the wordJerusalem appear in the Koran?” Againthe sheik held his tongue. “I can make aguess,” I said, and he looked at me insilence. “Is the answer zero?” I asked.Zafzaf, his deputy, nodded his head.With that unforgettable affirmation, Ileft for the synagogue to recite the after-noon and evening services with the tinyJewish community of Cairo. I had thefeeling that despite Israel’s official peacewith Egypt, we had a long way to go toachieve a stable and lasting peace,because some people, parties and move-ments still refused to accept the exis-tence of the State of Israel as a fact.

After my return to Israel, ArielSharon told me that an Oman newspa-per had published a political cartoonlampooning this meeting. It depictedtwo pigs, one wearing the Islamic cres-

cent and the other, a Star of David. Thecaption underneath read: “Sheik AlAzhar meets with Hakham Akhbar[great sage] Lau.” The news reachedMubarak. In fury over this blow to thesheik’s honor, he issued a new lawrequiring citizens of Oman to apply forvisas in order to visit Egypt.

Our Response to the HolocaustRabbi Lau often emphasizes that

the “revenge” for the Holocaust is in therebuilding of Jewish families and Jewishlife. He himself sets an example.

My oldest son, Moshe Chaim,became a Bar Mitzvah on the Shabbatwhen we read the Biblical account ofthe Israelites’ battle with Amalek. Ispoke about the last verse in the chap-ter: “The Lord maintains a war againstAmalek, from generation to generation”(Exodus 17:16). We cannot fight theenemy Amalek, the nation or the phe-nomenon, with weapons or withammunition. Rather, we are obligatedto fight this battle in every generation,each generation passing on our heritageto the next. The struggle for the conti-nuity of generations is the true battleand the great spiritual-Divine victory ofIsrael against the adversary Amalek. Ourvictory in the war against Amalek is thatmy son, Moshe Chaim Lau, is continu-ing the heritage of his grandfather, myfather, Rabbi Moshe Chaim Lau, whowent up to Heaven in a tempest.

Our son Moshe Chaim is the firstcandle in the private Chanukah meno-rah I have been privileged to create. Mywife is the base of that menorah, fromwhich the candles, our eight children,went out into the world. And I am theshamash, whose role is to help lightthose candles so that they will spreadtheir light and proclaim, each in a spe-cial way, the miracle of the victory ofeternal Israel. �JA

Note1. The story of the boys’ survival is

told from Naphtali’s point of view in hisbook, Baalam’s Prophecy: Eyewitness toHistory, 1939-1989 (New Jersey, 1998).

Rabbi Lau with a victim of a terrorist bombingat the Bikur Cholim Hospital in Jerusalem.

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