My Bridges of Hope by Livia Bitton-Jackson

can such unstinting beauty share the planet withAuschwitz? How can it coexist with the specter of the Holocaust?
    Suddenly, I remember: This is the route our boxcar traveled to Auschwitz. Two years ago, these very tracks carried the train from our hometown eastward toward its destination in the death camp. Just like then, the train snaked ever upward on fabulous mountain passes.
    I need answers. I need to understand. I need to understand.
    It is late at night when we arrive at VyÅ¡ne Ružbachy. At the dark, deserted station a row of open carriages wait to take us into the hills. The horses battle a cold wind as they plow ever higher, ever closer to the brilliant starry sky. On the peak of what must be the tallest mountain, the carriages halt. We are on top of a dark, blustery world under a shimmering sky. The sheer expanse of star-studded sky above and the infinite depth of darkness below us are overwhelming. We have arrived at our destination.

The Certificate
    The Tatras, July 7, 1946
    Brilliant sunshine and the chirping of a thousand birds wake me. What time is it? I hop out of bed and run to the next room. The beds are empty. I run down the corridor and find every room empty. Where is everybody? On my first morning I have overslept!
    Alarmed, I run downstairs and follow the sound of soft chanting. In the large hall, the girls are in the midst of morning prayers. One girl serves as leader, or pre-cantor, and the others chant the verses in response. I have never seen anything like it . . . adolescent girls conducting communal prayers in Hebrew.
    Watching the scene, I feel like an outsider. Silently I withdraw and continue my search for the little children.
    As I pass the dining room I see Mrs. Gold busily setting long tables for breakfast, in thecompany of my little charges, still in their pajamas.
    â€œGood morning! How long have you all been down here?”
    â€œOh, the bright light woke us all early.” Mrs. Gold smiles. “The little ones have been helping me set the tables.”
    I herd all six of them to their rooms to wash and dress; and then down again for breakfast in less than half an hour. At the breakfast table Frieda leads the children in reciting the blessings for the food, then explains the meaning of each blessing. I am familiar with the various blessings for food, one for bread, another for cakes and cookies, a different one for milk and other drinks, and one for fruit and vegetables. This morning, however, I learn that there is also a blessing,
brakhah
in Hebrew, to be recited when encountering natural phenomena like thunder and lightning, or when seeing the ocean for the first time.
    How fascinating . . . this impromptu affirmation of a phenomenon when experiencing it. As a child, I remember the terrifying impact of a sudden thunderclap. By recitingthe
brakhah,
“blessed be you, our God, king of the universe, whose power and might fill the universe,” you sublimate your fear into a dialogue with God.
    Here in these fabulous mountains I encounter a new spiritual dimension. I realize that Judaism is in essence an ongoing dialogue with God. As a matter of fact, all human experience is an ongoing dialogue with God.
    I am infatuated with the mountains, the green forest, the radiant sky, and with knowledge. I learn to love Frieda, my intermediary to all the new things I am learning. There is a magic circle about her. During meals, during formal class periods, and on long walks in the hills, she dispenses knowledge—lessons in the Bible, Jewish ethics, history, and rituals. She also teaches us modern Israeli dances and songs.
    My responsibility is to care for the two little boys and four little girls. During the older campers’ formal class periods, I play catch and tell stories. During rest periods, I practically devour the books in Frieda’s personal library.
    After dinner the boys’ camp joins us, andthe two counselors, Frieda and Sruli, conduct shared study sessions. At