Just Revenge

by Alan M. Dershowitz

  “That’s not funny,” Abe chided.

  “It’s fine,” Max said, pinching Emma’s cheek. “As long as Jacob over there doesn’t mind.” Jacob blushed and shook his head as Max continued his story.

  “My grandfather and grandmother were known for their grand seders, to which they always invited the extended family.

  “Our seder was a combination of prayerful spirituality, intellectual debate, and childish fun. A lot more prayers than yours, Abe. And more people. But the rest was not so different. My grandmother had been taught by her mother an old Sephardic trick for ‘parting the Red Sea,’ in commemoration of the biblical story. By carefully adding pepper, red dye, and liquid soap to a large dish of water, she could create the illusion of the water parting. The children loved it. I wish I remembered how to do it. I would teach it to you for your children,” Max said to Emma with a broad smile.

  “After each prayer was recited, Grandpa would turn to the assembled guests and ask, ‘Nu, does anyone have an interesting interpretation?’ A flurry of responses would follow. About halfway through the seder, just prior to the meal, Grandpa asked about the ten plagues. ‘Why was Egypt punished?’ Grandpa asked. ‘After all, it was God who hardened the heart of Pharaoh. If Pharaoh had no free will, how could he have done otherwise than refuse to free the Israelites?’

  “Sarah Chava was the first to attempt to answer. I remember her saying that if God was both omnipotent and omniscient, then Grandpa’s question had no real meaning, because what God did to Pharaoh was no different from what he does to everyone. Then she made the mistake of comparing Pharaoh to Hitler.

  “ ‘Do not utter that name in this house,’ Reb Mordechai announced sternly. ‘That monster is not invited to our seder.’

  “Sarah Chava apologized and tried to refocus the discussion by asking Grandpa whether Jews believe in heaven and hell.

  “My father insisted there was no mention of an afterlife in the Torah, but Grandpa said it was in the Talmud.

  “The argument became contentious. Everyone around the table worried that it might escalate into a scene.

  “My father gave me a gentle kick under the table, signaling me to suggest a compromise. I remember exactly what I said. ‘Is it not true that one’s descendants are their life after death? As long as a person has living descendants, part of him remains alive through them.’ Reb Mordechai told me I was right and complimented me on my interpretation because it reinforced his commitment to the importance of yichus.

  “The seder continued without incident until after the meal. The women had prepared a feast of gefilte fish, stuffed cabbage, chicken soup, roast chicken, honeyed carrots, and matzah kugel. As every dish was brought out, Grandma Blima proudly announced who had assisted in its preparation. The helper stood and made a polite curtsy, as the rest of the family applauded. The meal was accompanied by songs and spirited conversation.

  “The highlight of the seder—in addition to stuffed cabbage—was always the arrival of the prophet Elijah, who never missed a Menuchen seder. No one could actually see him, of course, but Grandpa Mordechai could ‘prove’ he had been there. The tradition was to prepare a special chalice for Elijah, with each male contributing some wine from his own cup. We always used the ancient Marrano chalice, which contained a large wine cup. Grandpa Mordechai would show the children that Elijah’s chalice was full, but then, at the appointed time for Elijah’s appearance, the children would go to the door and open it for the invisible prophet. When the children returned, Grandpa Mordechai would show them that some of the wine was being consumed before their very eyes. ‘See, Elijah is drinking it,’ he would say with a smile. The younger children believed, while the older ones knew there must be a trick. At their Bar Mitzvah, Grandpa Mordechai would always confide the family secret. Several hundred years earlier, one of Grandma Blima’s ancestors had fashioned a small valve in Elijah’s chalice that permitted the wine to drain into the stem. Grandma Blima’s ancestors had a sense of humor about their holy traditions.”

  For a moment Max smiled as he recalled the happiness of his family seder. Then, suddenly, his entire body went rigid.

  “This year it was different. Grandpa Mordechai showed the children the full chalice and told Sarah Chava to greet Elijah. As my sister opened the large wooden door, she jumped back. ‘Gottenyu!’ she screamed. ‘My God!’ Someone was actually at the door. It was not Elijah. The man at the door politely introduced himself as Captain Marcelus Prandus of the Lithuanian Auxiliary Militia. I will never forget how he looked. Captain Prandus was a strikingly handsome man, tall, with neatly trimmed blond hair and deep blue eyes. He was accompanied by a group of blackshirted Lithuanian militiamen, wearing swastika armbands and carrying German machine guns.”

  Chapter 5

  CAMBRIDGE

  THE SAME NIGHT

  “I need to stop for a few minutes. I’m sorry. This is difficult for me,” Max said as he wiped the perspiration from his brow.

  “Take your time. Do it at your own pace. We’ve got nowhere to go,” Abe said gently, holding Rendi’s hand.

  Everyone was anxious to hear what Prandus and his men had done, but they all sensed a need in Max to take a break and bring the discussion back to the present.

  “Your family sounds so much like ours,” Emma said with a smile. “Constant friction among the generations, a father who thinks he knows everything. Even the issues—is there a heaven or hell? We argued about that when I was ten.”

  “Yes, all that is true,” Max interrupted. “Like me, you love your father dearly—and you respect him.”

  “But in my generation, the parent and the child have to earn each other’s love and respect, mutually,” Emma said pointedly.

  “In our generation, it was required that we show love and respect, even if we did not always feel them,” Max said, a gentle smile crossing his face.

  “Now I know why I always liked your generation,” Abe quipped.

  “I now understand why you shouted out the name Prandus. I still don’t know why you called me by your sister’s name.”

  “I called you Sarah Chava because you remind me so much of my little sister. When I saw you going toward the door, I flashed back to Sarah Chava going to the door, and I became frightened for you—for her. You are a few years older than she was, but she was small like you and smart. And also beautiful. You would have loved her.”

  “I know I would have,” Emma said.

  As Max gathered his thoughts, Rendi poured him another cup of tea. “It’s impossible for people like us to imagine what you are describing—ghettos, shootings, Hitler—it’s all so alien to our experiences,” she observed.

  “As it was to ours,” Max replied, his voice bitter. “We had nothing to compare it with. We had read about occasional pogroms. But this . . . it was so different, so unprecedented. No one was prepared for what was to come. It happened so quickly. One moment we were together as a family, and then . . .” Max could not go on. He buried his head in his hands, trying to muffle the sobs he could no longer control.

  Abe reached across the table to Max’s arm. “You don’t have to go on if you don’t want to,” he said softly. “I think we all understand now.”

  Abruptly Max sat up. “Understand? You cannot begin to understand.”

  Abe was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  “I’m not angry with you. It is important to me that you do know something of what it was like, though it is impossible for anyone who wasn’t there really to understand.”

  Chapter 6

  THE PONARY WOODS

  MEMORIES OF VILNA, LITHUANIA: APRIL 1942

  Max took a deep breath and continued where he had left off.

  “Marcelus Prandus ordered us to walk quickly to the large open truck parked in front of our house. We had to huddle together to fit into it for the half-hour drive to Ponary Woods. We were in a state of shock. Children were crying. The smell of urine was everywhere. It was terrible. We were all so f
rightened. The adults remained silent, clutching each other and the children.

  “When the truck stopped in a glen in the Ponary Woods, I saw eight other trucks, each loaded with families. Although the family groups were kept apart, I recognized several of the people. They were all Jewish—from prominent families—everyone was dressed in their holiday finery. Men were wearing white kittels, the robelike vestments that are worn for seders—and burials.

  “I later learned that the Nazis often selected Jewish holidays for their roundups, or aktions, as they called them. They knew that families would be together on these holidays, and it was rare for anyone to try to escape when the entire family was taken away together. Also, on the holidays, Jews used their best silver, which was taken as booty by the police. Marcelus Prandus had personally confiscated the Marrano chalice while his men were leading the family into the trucks. He told us it was to become part of a museum being planned by the Nazis to document the customs of the Jewish race.

  “The family groups were standing around, huddled together against the chill of the spring night. It was hazy, and the lights from the trucks created an eerie glow. I was holding my son, Efraim, with one hand and gently rubbing my pregnant wife’s stomach with the other. I was scared. Everyone was scared. No one dared to speak above a whisper. The Lithuanians were businesslike and polite. They, too, seemed to be waiting for some signal. It was a long time in coming.

  “Finally, after more than an hour, Prandus announced, ‘It is time to dig.’ The Lithuanians retrieved six old shovels from the truck. I was given one, as was my father and four of the other men. ‘Papa, I’ve never used a shovel before. I’m scared,’ I whispered to my father.

  “ ‘Just watch me. I’ll show you how to hold it,’ my father whispered back.

  “The Lithuanians led us to a small hill and ordered us to start digging a ditch at its base. The earth was cold and hard at the surface, but it grew softer as the men dug deeper. I had difficulty with the shovel. Twice it fell out of my hands. Both times I quickly picked it up and continued digging. Then my shovel hit a rock, denting it. My father exchanged shovels with me.

  “After a while, Prandus came to inspect the project. He seemed dissatisfied with the progress of the hole, but he declared it acceptable. The shovels were gathered up, and the men were taken back to the larger group. Again, there was waiting, whispering, shivering. Nobody mentioned death, although I now find it hard to believe that nobody was thinking about it. Why else the digging? Why else the entire trip? But it seemed inconceivable at the time. Prandus was so polite, so matter-of-fact. Could any of us have actually believed that nine family groups had been taken from their Passover seders to dig holes and then go home? Nothing was too absurd to believe in those terrible days.”

  Max paused and turned to Abe, as if seeking his approval. “For years, I have tortured myself for my failure to recognize the obvious. Had I known, could I have done something? Could I have shouted warnings so that some could have escaped? But who? I would never have abandoned my pregnant wife and child. Nor my elderly grandparents. Maybe my father? Or my mother? My sister? A cousin? An uncle? A child? Escape was unlikely. There were more than a dozen armed militiamen. They had a truck, while our family was on foot. But escape for one or two was possible, if unlikely. At least they could have tried.”

  Max began to shake. He put down his cup to avoid spilling the tea.

  “You did everything you could,” Abe said in a gentle voice. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “I do not blame myself. I just wonder whether it could have been different.” Max paused for a moment. Then, putting two fingers around his chin and nodding his head, he said, “I think I now understand my outburst. Tonight, I did what I did not do then—warn my sister. I’m so sorry to have inflicted that upon you.”

  “It’s not an infliction,” Abe said. “It’s an education.”

  “Then I must complete the education,” Max said, and he resumed telling his story.

  “We stood silently, huddled together, until finally Marcelus Prandus spoke. ‘I have selected your family to be first,’ he said as if he were talking about some special privilege. ‘You have a right to know what awaits you. It will be over for you in a matter of minutes.’ Then he took out a written statement and read from it. It went something like this:

  “ ‘The Fuhrer has determined that the Jewish problem can be solved in only one manner. The seed of Abraham must be destroyed forever. It is not a question of individual guilt or innocence. It is not your fault that you are Jews, but the fault lies within your genes, within your seed.’ As Prandus read, he directed his words as much to his fellow Lithuanians, some of whom were teenagers, as to his intended victims. ‘What we are about to do is for the good of all humankind. You are about to fulfill the destiny assigned to you by the Third Reich. You may regard yourselves as soldiers dying on behalf of the Fatherland.’ Prandus uttered these words without any semblance of apology or regret.

  “Now there was no mistaking Prandus’s intentions. Still, there was no panic, no shrieking, and no attempts to run.

  “Prandus led Grandpa Mordechai to the pit that the men had dug.

  “ ‘This man is the patriarch of the Menuchen family. Who are his children?’

  “No one responded.

  “Prandus pulled a typed list from his pocket and looked at it. ‘There is no reason to make it more difficult or painful than it has to be,’ he said almost apologetically. Perhaps because he thought he could protect his family, my father stepped forward and said, ‘I am Reb Mordechai’s only son.’

  “Prandus looked down at the list and said, ‘There is another son, named Moshe. He, too, must step forward.’

  “No one moved. Prandus pointed his rifle at Grandma Blima and said, ‘Unless Moshe Menuchen identifies himself immediately, I will shoot his mother.’

  “Moshe stepped forward.

  “Still pointing the gun at Blima, Prandus called for grandsons.

  “I joined my father near the pit, along with Moshe and his two sons.

  “ ‘And now the great-grandson.’

  “With that command, my family began to scream, ‘No, no!’

  “Desperately, I appealed to Prandus. ‘He’s a baby. He doesn’t even know he is a Jew. Please spare him. Take him. You can’t hurt a baby.’

  “ ‘You don’t understand,’ Prandus replied evenly, meeting my gaze with steel blue eyes that I will never forget. ‘The children are the most important. All previous attempts to end the existence of a race have failed because of an unwillingness to kill children. We will not fail on account of such cowardice. The children are the most important,’ Prandus repeated, looking directly at baby Efraim.

  “I began to shake in fear. I could not even cry. Dizziness and nausea immobilized me. I felt helpless. Others were shrieking. I could see them flailing about in a frenzy of utter desperation. I could smell their fear. I could do nothing but look into the innocent eyes of my doomed child.

  “Prandus walked among the remaining family members, inspecting each of them. He stopped in front of Sarah Chava and signaled one of his militiamen, who grabbed her forcefully by the arm and led her to the truck. ‘She will be spared,’ Prandus said.

  “Two Lithuanians then gently nudged my wife, Leah, who was screaming as she clutched the baby Efraim next to the pit.

  “Grandpa Mordechai pleaded with Prandus, ‘Please, I beg you. Shoot me first, so that I do not have to see my family killed. The Bible—the one that you believe in as I do—commands that when a person takes a baby bird, it must first send away its mother. Please send me away first.’

  “ ‘No,’ Prandus said flatly. ‘Our orders are to kill the youngest first. They are the most important.’

  “As Grandpa Mordechai began to cry, I thought about my grandfather’s great love of yichus—of his family’s contributions to the Jewish people over so many generations. Now it would all end, forever. It was like extinction.”

  Max turned to Emma with an apo
logetic look. “It may sound strange now that this is what I thought about, but it is true. There would be no one to carry on the family name. Grandpa Mordechai would have no afterlife through his descendants, because there would be no descendants. Maybe Sarah Chava, I remember thinking. At least there was some hope for her.

  “Grandpa Mordechai understood there would be no survivors here on earth as he turned his head upward and began reciting the words Ani ma-amin, b’emunah shlaima, beviyas ha-Mashiach. ‘I believe, with complete faith, in the coming of the Messiah.’ I looked into my grandfather’s eyes and saw belief. I looked into my father’s eyes and saw terror. At that moment, I understood the power of faith. At that moment, I also understood that I could never again believe. I felt the same terror as my father when I saw Prandus aim his rifle at my wife.

  “It all happened in quick succession, amid screaming, shrieking, and futile attempts to resist or run. First Prandus shot my wife, Leah, in her pregnant stomach. Efraim fell to the ground. I covered him with my body. Prandus kicked me away with his heavy boot and aimed the rifle at the crying baby. I reached for Efraim, shouting, ‘No, no!’ as Prandus shot him in the head. I saw his tiny skull explode. An instant later he pointed the gun at my head and fired. The last word I heard was my grandfather shouting, ‘Nekama!’”

  Chapter 7

  CAMBRIDGE

  THE SAME NIGHT

  “He shot you, Uncle Max? How did you survive?” Emma asked, her eyes filled with tears.

  “I tried to save him. I did everything I could. But it wasn’t enough,” Max cried, not even hearing Emma’s question.

  “There’s nothing more you could have done,” said Abe.

  “But I lived and he died. Everyone else died.”

  “How did you survive?” Emma persisted.

  This time Max heard her question.

  “If I believed in God, I would tell you it was a miracle. But it was just dumb luck. That is how most survivors made it—by luck.”