Remembering

Yesterday, here in Los Angeles, the annual Holocaust Memorial Day, “Yom Hashoah”, took place. In a city that is home to one of the biggest Jewish populations in the world, this is bound to be a big, impressive event. It was more than that.

Held in the Pan Pacific Park adjacent to the Los Angeles Holocaust Monument. It was attended by most of the local and state civic dignitaries and a large crowd, all covered by a huge tent shading them from the bright Spring sunshine. The theme this year was to commemorate 70 years since Kristallnacht, The Night of Broken Glass – Shattered Hopes.

During the speeches Britain got a special mention because it was the only country that allowed Jewish children from Germany into our country on the famous Kindertransport. No one else, including America allowed large Jewish groups, of any age, an escape from the Nazis.

The speeches, particularly those by Jacob Dayan, the Israel Consul General and Rabbi David Wolpe from LA’s Sinai Temple, were spellbinding, powerful and compelling. I had the good fortune to have had a meeting with the Rabbi a couple of days previously and I know him to be an extremely thoughtful and incisive man. Listening to him make a speech we all realized why Newsweek magazine had recently selected him as the top pulpit rabbi in America.

There was a beautiful musical interlude featuring the cellist Barry Gold from the Los Angeles Philharmoic Orchestra. In addition The Tova Concert Singers were excellent. There were so many outstanding speeches and presentations it seems wrong to select just a few. But special mention should be made of the Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, who made his understanding and support for this event and Israel, from a Gentile, American perspective, clear and unequivocal.

The Rabbi told his audience that the one thing we must do, as a minimum, if we are not to repeat these horrific mistakes in the future, is remember the name of one person who perished in the Holocaust. I turned to my sister to remember the name Weisberg, the name of my father’s mother’s family who were all lost in the Holocaust, in Warsaw. None of us know their first names, what they looked like, what were their dreams and aspirations, what football team they supported, what music they listened to, or anything else, other than that they were our family. They were killed because they were Jewish. We ended with the words, Never Again.