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million of us.
”
    He pulled out his handkerchief and tried to staunch the tears. “Women, little children,” he went on with anguish. “They all turned into wisps of smoking from the ovens.” His voice grew hoarse. “I saw this, boys. I saw them kill my wife and children. They wouldn’t even do me the kindness of exterminating me. They left me living on the rack of memory.”
    No one in the classroom breathed. We were overwhelmed by his speech, not merely for its content but because Rabbi Schumann, normally a stern taskmaster, was now sobbing helplessly.
    Then, still weeping, he continued. “Listen—we are sitting here today to show the Christians that we’re still alive. We were here before them, and we shall endure until the Messiah comes.”
    He paused, regained his breath, and some of his composure.
    “Now let us rise.”
    I always dreaded this moment when we had to sing the slender verses chanted by so many of our brethren as they entered the gas chambers:
    I believe with all my heart
    In the coming of The Messiah
,
    And though He may tarry on the way
    I nonetheless believe. I still believe.
    The afternoon sky was a gray shroud as I walked home, shaken. Once again, I passed all the Christmas lights. But this time what I saw in them were the shining, indestructible atoms of six million souls.

6

Timothy
    O n a hot afternoon in the summer of 1963, fourteen-year-old Tim, Ed McGee, and their perpetual cheering section, Jared Fitzpatrick, were passing through alien territory—the neighborhood adjacent to St. Gregory’s, which was the center of the
B’nai Simcha
community.
    When they passed the home of Rav Moses Luria, Ed sneered, “Look, that’s where the head Hebe lives. Why don’t we ring his doorbell or something?”
    “Good idea,” Tim agreed, but Fitzpatrick had qualms.
    “Suppose he answers? He might put a curse on us.…”
    “Aw, c’mon, Fitzy,” McGee jibed. “You’re just a lily-livered chicken.”
    “The hell I am,” he protested. “It’s just that ringin’ bells is kids’ stuff. Couldn’t we do something more interesting?”
    “Like what?” Ed countered. “We ain’t got a hand grenade.”
    “How about a rock through his window?” Tim suggested, pointing to a Con Edison excavation a few dozen feet down the road. The workmen had gone for the day, leaving potential missiles of all sizes.
    Fitzy rushed over to the site and selected a stone slab roughly the size of a baseball.
    “Okay, guys,” Ed challenged, “who’s gonna be the first-string pitcher?” He fixed Tim with a stare. “I’d do it for sure, but I’ve still got a kinda sprain in my arm from beating up those niggers last Thursday.”
    Before Tim had time to protest, Ed and Fitzy had elected him. “C’mon, chickenshit, throw the goddamn thing!”
    In one furious motion he snatched it from Ed’s hand, cocked his arm, and hurled the stone at the rabbi’s largest window.
    The noise was deafening. Tim turned toward his companions.
    They were already halfway down the street.
    Three hours later, the Lurias’ doorbell rang.
    Deborah answered, still in a state of shock, and was now further taken aback at the sight of the two callers. She immediately went to inform her father.
    The Rav had been deeply engrossed in a difficult passage of a legal
midrash
when the enemy missile had pierced the sanctuary of his household.
    Ever since that moment he had been standing immobile, staring through the few angry slices of glass still clinging to the window frame, his mind tortured by images of pogroms and goose-stepping storm troopers.
    “Papa,” Deborah said haltingly, “there’s a policeman at the door … he’s got a boy with him.”
    “Ah,” he murmured, “perhaps we might receive some justice this time. Ask them to come in.”
    Moments later they appeared.
    “Good afternoon, Reverend,” the policeman said as he removed his cap. “I’m Officer Delaney. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m here about the damage to