Everyone aboard the Maharhash felt a huge sigh of relief as the rickety old ship pushed away from the dock. The coral blue water of the Mediterranean was a welcome sight for the survivors. They had come from some of the dreariest places ever known to man, but they were now traveling on one of the most visually appealing routes past the majesty of the Greek isles. For the first time in longer than any of them could remember, their destination would bring freedom and independence, and not torture and degradation. Yet amidst the joy and excitement that pervaded the passengers, Rabbi Groh paced the length and breadth of the ship wondering how he could possibly be helpful on this mission.
Other than a few words of encouragement from the Haganah commander, no one offered Rabbi Groh any directives or advice. As far as they were concerned, rabbis were to be respected. But on this mission, his job was to comfort if any of them became overcome by their nightmares from the ghettoes and the camps. Rabbi Groh desperately wanted to feel useful, but as the ship pulled away from the port, he observed that all of the passengers were in good spirits—not that this was a bad thing, of course.
The rabbi tried to strike up conversations with some of the passengers. One young man from Poland spoke to the rabbi for a little while. The rabbi gathered that he’d been in the camps, but he could not ascertain which one. He also didn’t glean any information about what had happened to the man while he was there. The man had a gentle smile, but no matter what the rabbi asked him, all he would talk about was his parents. He didn’t mention what had happened to them, and the rabbi assumed that they were dead. The man simply recounted stories of his youth. His mother’s cooking. His father’s writing at his desk. The trips they shared together into Warsaw. The plays. The concerts. One story after another about pre-war life. Nothing about the war. After a while, the man excused himself and walked away. Rabbi Groh was pleased that he could lend a kind ear and non-anxious presence for this man. He hoped others would take advantage of his pastoral skills as well.
When the sun began to go down and dinner was served, one of the Haganah soldiers became the first to offer the rabbi some insight.
“Get ready, Rabbi,” he said nonchalantly.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been on a few of these missions, and when it gets dark and they start to fall asleep, that’s when the memories come back. On my last mission, we had to physically restrain one of them because his night terrors were so bad. Be prepared if that happens. It shakes everyone up,” the young, bronze-skinned Haganah soldier said.
“I appreciate the heads-up. I’m here to help any way I can,” the rabbi said.
The soldier smiled. He didn’t need the rabbi to tell him it was his first mission. That was obvious. The rabbi was pleasant, and it was great that he’d volunteered to help, but it was obvious he was out of his element.
“I am sure they will need you when the moment overcomes them, but I don’t know if you can really help them,” the Haganah man said.
The rabbi noticed that although the Jewish soldiers were friendly, they were also very direct.
“Why don’t you think I can help them?” the rabbi asked, trying not to take offense.
“They just are living in a different world. They are in a struggle to find a home, to rebuild what they lost.”
“Yes, so? But why can’t I help them when they need a rabbi?”
“They don’t need bar mitzvahs and circumcisions, Rabbi,” the soldier said, trying not to be rude.
“Agreed. But that is not all that rabbis do,” Sam responded.
“True. I think it is probably because you aren’t in the same struggle that they are. You have a home, and you haven’t lost anything. I mean, I haven’t lost anything either, but I think they see that people like me are fighting for them on the battlefield, and we are going to have to do it again soon in Palestine.”
“So they don’t see me as part of the Jewish struggle, is that the issue?” the rabbi asked with genuine concern.
“Look, Rabbi, you are here. We appreciate it. Most American rabbis are not. But we are engaged in a struggle for survival. You are either completely immersed in the struggle, or you aren’t. These survivors don’t relate to people who can just go back home whenever they want. Their homes have been burned to the ground.”
Grasping the soldier’s point, the rabbi shook his hand and nodded as he got up to walk the narrow walking lanes that snaked through the sprawled-out passengers. He looked at them closely, wanting nothing more than the opportunity to help them. But it was true. They were on a different mission than he was. Their only option was Palestine, and Jews who weren’t onboard to help build a new Jewish state might just as well be on a different planet.
Nonetheless, Rabbi Groh was not deterred. He was here to do good work, and that was what he was going to do. If he had to win the soldiers and the survivors over, then so be it. He may not have lost his home or his family, but it pained him deeply to see what had happened to his people. There was one thing he had in common with every one of them, one thing that bound them to each other no matter what anyone said. They were Jewish. And he was a Jew.