Last Sunday I attended the annual Holocaust Commemoration at Temple Emanu-El. As in recent years, for me the ceremony accentuates the fact that the number of survivors is decreasing every year. My Mother lights one of the thirty-six memorial candles and, unfortunately, there were not enough survivors to light them all.
As I listened to the stories of survivors, I reflected upon an old theme. Every survivor had an angel. I had noticed this many years ago when hearing the stories of survivors in my family. The angels re-appeared in the stories told on Sunday.
For my mother, the angel was the guard who told her to stay on her line when she was separated from her mother after arriving at Auschwitz. A similar story -- of the person who kept someone from leaving a line to be with her loved ones -- was repeated at the ceremony. For Flo’s aunt, the angel appeared to keep her from moving to pick up bread that had fallen nearby.
A momentary appearance that saved a life.
An angel who knew that this person would survive to bear witness.
And, as I think about it, I allow myself to wonder whether we all have angels.