The Rabbi’s Books
Inspired by a True Story
By Nancy Reil Riojas
U.S. Copyright Office, Washington, D.C.
2010 Literary Works by Nancy Reil Riojas
2012 Smashwords Edition
The Rabbi’s Books
A True Story
By Nancy Reil Riojas
Temple Beth El
~ ~ I protect and appreciate these two books about the Holocaust from the office of Rabbi Abraham Stadt. One of the books has no copyright page, no author’s name, almost as if written anonymously yet privately compiled and printed to include lurid photos that even books recently written on the subject do not portray. My hope is that whoever inherits these books cares for them. They will forever present a detailed picture of racial, religious, and ethnic hatred that can overtake any society or nation, which can lead to disastrous consequences such as the crimes of genocide. ~ ~
**~ ~ ~ ~**
During the winter of 1981, my husband missed his family so that we returned to Dallas from Houston, where we both left promising jobs. After we moved into a triplex in the central part of the city, I was quickly on a quest to find a new job. I truly wanted the first one I applied for at Valero Energy, yet seven applications and two months later Valero didn’t call and neither did any other business. One boring day, I was driving down Belton St., where the beautiful Jewish Temple Beth-El caught my eye as it always had even during my childhood years. That day was my luckiest, for after I interviewed with Rabbi Abraham Stadt, he hired me at once.
My new boss was a gentle, kind man who devoted more hours to his job than most. At dusk, hours after the work day was over, there were times I drove by the temple while running errands, and I would see Rabbi Stadt through his office window, speaking on his phone still reaching out to others.
After only one month on my job, the Rabbi said, “Janet, this Wednesday, we are having several dignitaries for a luncheon here at the temple; I would like for you to join us.”
“Me? Why Me?” I thought to myself. He knows I am not Jewish. What could I possibly contribute to the conversation? Besides I am but only his administrative assistant. Later that day, after my nervousness subsided, I realized that luncheon could be an interesting experience, indeed.
On the morning of the luncheon, I chose to wear the most conservative, puritan-like suit. At twelve o’clock sharp, a group of cheerful men walked into the Temple Beth-El waiting room. Since I was not assigned to perform any assistance for the luncheon, I volunteered to escort them into the lunch room, where the maid and servers draped the tables with starched white linens and perfectly set the flatware next to silver-trimmed china. They cut fresh flowers from the garden behind the temple and arranged colorful clusters in small crystal vases, one for each table.
“Janet, please sit to my left and Assistant Rabbi Jacobs will sit to my right,” the Rabbi said.
Suddenly I was very much at ease and confident as I sat down. The men immediately began speaking to one another about upcoming events, especially university lectures and the Bar Mitzvahs in the synagogue. The Rabbi stood up and introduced me as his assistant and all of the men smiled, tipped their heads, and were extremely cordial. Having me present enabled his associates and myself to become acquainted since we would be communicating very often as well as this was the Rabbi’s manner of religiously influencing one more person, Jewish or not.
After the luncheon, one of the dignitaries started speaking to Rabbi Stadt and handed him a folder that I could see had a small, crudely shaped Star of David such as the Jews in the ghettos wore on their clothing during the war. That’s all it took . . . . . . . to suddenly lift me back to 1970 . . . as the Rabbi and the dignitaries froze in time . . . . . . . . . . .
At the County Adult Probation Office where I worked as a stenographer, a probationer made a comment to another in the waiting room, “. . . . you’re so skinny you look like a Holocaust victim.”
“What is a Holocaust victim?” I thought to myself. Upon returning home from work that day, I couldn’t wait to look up the dictionary meaning of Holocaust. That was an evening I would never forget. The definition read, “Holocaust (noun) the systematic extermination of millions of European Jews, Romany people, Slavs, intellectuals, and political dissidents by the Nazis and their allies during World War II.”
I sat at my kitchen table staring down at the dictionary feeling robbed of my right of knowing about this atrocity. I was 18 years old in 1970 and had graduated from Thomas Jefferson High School one year prior. Why did the Texas School Board keep this particular part of history from students? They taught us about atrocities in other wars.
Immediately, I grabbed my car keys and drove to my father’s home only two miles away. He never talked about the war, but would refer to some of those surviving men, who always spoke of their darkest war experiences, as “Glory happy bastards.” He served in the Army during World War II as a private first class messenger. That is all I knew about his involvement in the war, until I knocked on his door.
Father said, “It was May of 1945 when we arrived at the death camp, Buchenwald. What a gruesome site. The world had vaguely known, but not until after we soldiers saw the first stack of humans, did it increase our sense of dread. The bodies were stacked like wafers and the stench was overbearing, so overbearing that some of the soldiers threw up and some cried, including me. None of us could believe that humans would do this to other humans. Movies have been made about World War II, but I do know this: no one can ever duplicate the horrors of that war. You know I refuse to patronize those movies because it’s wrong to make millions off the thousands of American men who died in agony defending this country and . . . they depress me.”
Father continued, “I didn’t know that you children were not taught about the Holocaust in school. You seem to be upset about that fact. Believe me, you were being politically protected. The school board already contends with whites and blacks. It could have created additional racial divide, those with Jewish backgrounds against those with German backgrounds, and they probably figured that the Holocaust would be too frightening or shocking for the textbooks. Also we need to keep in mind just who the decision making people are; emotions control more than we know.”
I kissed him goodbye, then walked down his sidewalk to the street where my car was parked, stepped in and sat for a few minutes. I never argued with my father, but at this moment his explanation supporting the school board did not settle well with me. He saw it as a form of protection for school kids; I surmised that it was as damaging as not teaching us nationwide “sixty-five (65) million baby boomers” about the war at all. Yet, as days passed, I understood my father’s philosophy, for that disturbing anger I felt in the beginning made itself at home and never left.
All I knew was the dignitary and Rabbi Stadt had a long conversation, none of which I heard. As if in perfect timing with my returning to reality, I awoke to the dignitary departing, and the Rabbi turned toward me and said, “Well, I’m leaving early today, Janet. Please lock up and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
While driving home from the temple that evening, I recalled the countless letters I had written over the years to the Texas Education Agency, our governor, and our senator as I practiced my rights to communicate the necessity of teaching the Holocaust in our schools. Even hunting for reliable books on the subject in public libraries proved futile. I drove home without recalling a moment of the ride.
**~ ~ ~ ~**
As I was greatly intrigued by the facts of the Holocaust for so many years, I waited weeks, hoping for the right opportunity to ask the Rabbi my question, which surely he could satisfy. On this hot summer morning, the bright sun shined thru his tall office window as he stood in the warmth of the sun rays. With hands behind his back, he stared out at the meticulously maintained lawn.
“Rabbi Stadt, I have a question for you,” I said.
He turned to look at me, “What is it?”
“Why did the Holocaust happen?”
The Rabbi’s demeanor changed, folding his arms at his chest and lifting his glasses to rub his nose where they had rested. Moments were passing like minutes as I patiently sat at my desk waiting. He looked out the window once again and said, “I do not know. . . . . I have two books here in my office that I would like for you to read, but please do not remove them from the temple. Better yet, copy them, that way you may read them at your leisure. Return the books when you’re done.”
Words could not express how disappointed I was with his answer, for was he not one who could best articulate that phenomenon, which undoubtedly touched him deeply, that phenomenon of (40) forty million deaths? When he walked toward his shelves of books that spanned the entire wall from top to bottom, he knew exactly where they were; then, while locking his eyes with mine, he placed them on my desk. That was almost eerie. I believed that he had his opinions, but chose not to share them. Why? At that moment I knew the Holocaust subject would intrigue me until my death.
Every day that week, instead of leaving for lunch, I would Xerox copy as many pages as possible on the slowest copier I had ever used. By the third day, every page of each book was copied, including the front and back covers. My father’s recollection, describing the Holocaust victims, was horrific enough. Yet, while reading these two shocking books, I realized why these grisly murders would unveil deep-heated anger and heartache in any person of any race, particularly the relatives of the victims and the surviving victims themselves.
Countless times over the years, I had wondered whether or not those German people who I had met, a friend, a neighbor, or a church member were related to any of the Germans who committed or took part in the slaughter of the Jews and were ashamed to admit it. After 36 years was the Holocaust still at the forefront of the German spirit, or did it remain an unspoken secret?
By the end of the summer, Valero Energy called me. I had to follow through with my original plan to work there, yet that meant confronting the Rabbi and telling him the truth about why I was leaving. I knew he would not be pleased, for he expected me to be loyal to my job and to him. I sat in the plush chair in front of his grand desk. As anticipated, he made me feel somewhat guilty about my decision.
He dropped his chin so that eyes could bypass glasses on the tip of his nose when he said, “All that glitters is not gold.”
I worked at Valero for several years until 1984 when the oil companies started losing money and work slowed: I recalled the Rabbi’s last words. And in time, as Rabbi Stadt’s unspoken words expected me to do, I developed my personal view of the atrocity of the Holocaust: during the 1920s, 1930s and 40s those intelligent, desperate German citizens listened to the ideals of a vile madman who was full of empty promises and who ultimately destroyed their cities, their country, their families, and their righteousness for decades after the end of World War II, yet we still could not have placed all the blame on one man, alone. My hope was that God helps us, everyone, to make better decisions.
In 1993 when the Holocaust Museum opened in Washington, D.C., I felt confident that I could have absorbed the horrific artifacts and displays. But after having invested much time in reading books, magazine articles, newspaper articles, and websites which provided further education on the Holocaust, they weakened my ability to face up to those displays.
And so over time, my letters to educators and politicians continued yet were more sporadic as the gnawing interest of Holocaust teachings in schools was nearer in thought during previous years. Later, life’s duties came often enough for that interest to drift even further away until one day in 1996. All was quite normal when my twelve year old, high-spirited daughter came home from school.
She plopped her books onto the kitchen table and said, “Mom, I’m really hungry.”
I served her an early dinner and sat down at the table. While I glanced at her pile of books, words grabbed my attention. Sitting at the top of the heap was an assignment called “Night.”
As I turned it around toward me, she said, “Oh, Mom! That’s about the Holocaust. We were told to use every letter of the alphabet to retell the story in our own words.”
I was excited while I read, and at the same time, all came full circle: the discussion with my father, the memories of the letters I wrote, the Rabbi, and the Rabbi’s books that were so safely tucked away, I rarely saw them.
NIGHT by Andrea H.
“A cry in the night
B eckoning for God to help. People
C ounting on their faith to lead them while
D oing the order of the Nazis.
E ating is nothing but a
F ight to stay alive.
G oing from place to place on foot that lasts for
H ours seeming like forever.
I nto the boxcars they go.
J ews being loaded like cattle.
K nowing not what’s lying ahead. Some
L earn the tricks of the trade while some
M ope around losing their minds. The
N ights are torcher,
O pening doors of death and horrible thoughts.
P eople, having the
Q uestion “Where’s God?”
R attle through their minds and bodies.
S truggling
T o protect and stay with fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers.
U nderstanding nothing except the
V iolent blows and harsh expectations of the Germans
W hile the life inside them is being
eX tinguished.
Y oung and old being turned into
Z ombies because of this living nightmare.”
Maybe today, in 2012, she will understand why I had immediately framed and prominently
displayed this quantum leap, as it brought joy to my heart . . . . tears to my eyes . . . . and a smile to my face.
The End
Author’s Note
The two, my daughter and son utilized the Rabbi’s Books in both high school and college literary compositions.
Thank you for reading The Rabbi’s Books.
Other stories available:
Monster at My Window ~ Novella
Moonshiner The Wolf ~ Short Novel
Hannibal A True Story ~ Short Story
Veil of Doom ~ Short Story
Flood of 1965 ~ Short Story
Visiting Mary ~ Short Story
Lucky ~ A Children’s Short Story
U.S. Copyright Office, Washington, D.C. 2010 Literary Works by Nancy Reil Riojas