To Possess A Seat

[ShuutokuTentei]

To Possess A Seat

As I sit in this most hallowed place of God I see before me two
distinct candles, their flames flickering casting a faint shadow
barely visible to my eye. Behind the two are seven, as if to give
support and destiny to their collective meaning. The seven are but
half of the fourteen that sanctify and complete that which lay in
between. Central to my vision is the doors that consecrate the Holy
of Holies. The sacred place of Gods existence. Inside lay the
cherished scrolls of life, most venerated, loved without question, and
feverishly protected. All of which fall under the everlasting eye of
Adonai by the presence of the Ner Tamid. Second only to God is the
abiding patience and perseverance of the Rabbi as he offers his hand
to the men and his cheeks to the ladies. To my right is my cherished
friend Nathan Swerdlow. His greeting is always friendly, his hand
shake firm full of meaning, and with a smile he reminds me to choose
the proper seat or I will get boils on my butt. How can I but obey
his words.
Mr. Swerdlow is ninety two years young, yet if I did not know the
same, I would swear him to be quite the opposite, a man of twenty
nine. Since the first day we met, I have been blessed with his help,
his guidance, and his knowledge. Most of all, I have been blessed to
meet such a man who cherishes and loves God with an passion that
defies explanation. It has taken me some time to understand how one
can get to such a point in life, and yet I am not sure I truly have
the answer. Perhaps the secret of longevity and love of God is found
somewhere between hard earned wisdom, and the experience of years,
both of which he has been blessed with abundantly.
Mr. Swerdlow was born November 7, 1918 in Kaukauna, Wisconsin.
When he was eight, his parents packed up and they moved to Manitowoc,
Wisconsin. As a young adult, while going to the University of
Wisconsin in Madison, and working for The Whitehouse Milk Company, a
subsidiary of the A&P company, he received a piece of paper that found
its way into the hands of many young men of his day, a draft notice.
This time he was the one doing the packing. Packing for a visit with
Uncle Sam and the United States Army. After being buffeted from
pillar to post compliments of the U.S. military and officer candidate
school, he finally mustered in for the second time at Fort Polk
Louisiana in 1942, followed by a whirlwind courtship with his wife Eva
of sixty five years. Unknown to him, was a series of events that no
one could forsee, except God himself. It is a simple fact of life
that we cannot know what the future holds for any of us, but for Mr.
Swerdlow the future he had yet to experience would have a profound
impact on him to this very day.
By way of the Battle of the Bulge, General George Patton, and as
a second Lieutenant, did his tank battalion roll into Mauthausen
Concentration Prison Camp one fateful day in 1945. This event would
change his life forever. As I sat and talked with this gracious and
most gentile man, his mind was as clear, and his wit every bit as
sharp as the day his wounded knees transgressed the front gate of the
prison camp. I asked him what he felt, what he sensed, at that moment
in time. He looked directly at me and remained silent for a long
period as if somehow I had triggered a mental time machine. I could
tell by the look in his eyes he had instantly traveled back there to
that day. He told me that the five senses we all take for granted
were magnified far beyond human understanding, especially those of
sight and smell. I could tell he was struggling for the words that
would adequately convey what his heart was telling his lips to
confess.
He grieved most vainly for the supine rows of those who had
succumbed to the horror of their imprisonment, but was terribly
anxious to begin to help the ghost like, shoddy clothed people who
were still alive. Some were half dressed, many with tattered rags, a
few with the stripped uniforms that tell a story of their own. I
recall him looking at me and saying just four words, “They were human
beings.” As Mr. Swerdlow approached them, each recoiled fearfully in
spite of his best efforts to reassure they came to help. It was only
when the prisoners saw the American Flag hovering high on the back of
one of the tanks did they realize that God had sent liberators such as
he.
When I thought there was nothing left to share, he shared with me
his ascent to the rank of Captain, then took me to a room where all of
his collective memories were carefully lined, hung, and rowed. There
was one half of an entire shelf dedicated to the medals and
decorations he was honored with. The walls were filled with degrees,
and awards. The back of his sofa was lined with caps each signifying
a particular distinction. A lifetime of memories were at my disposal
as I sat down on his sofa. He sat next to me and shared what people
see on the many cable television stations, but rarely see first hand
in their original sepia color. Picture after picture left me
speechless, full of anxiety, and without understanding how such horror
could have ever occurred. It was then my eyes fell upon something
most symbolic that represented a microcosm of what he was trying to
convey to me.
It was an arm band that he took off of one of the prison guards.
The arm band was blood red, with a large white circle. Within that
white circle was the black mark of the Nazi regime. I asked if I
could hold the arm band, whereas Mr. Swerdlow handed it to me. The
moment the band touched the flesh of my hands, I felt an instant
presence of the soldier that carried it upon his arm so proudly. I
saw the red as the blood of the many who fell to such oppression and
hate. I saw the black mark as the darkness that surely dwelled in the
hearts and souls of those who were part of such transgression. I saw
the pure white as the intervention of God who in his compassion ended
such tyranny. Of all my eyes found in the room, their was one object
that Captain Swerdlow prized above all others. In a finely crafted
case was The Freedom Medal. “He who saves a life, saves the world.”
It is a large unassuming medal that offers no glitter or
garishness. It is heavy, perhaps somehow to signify the heaviness of
a mans heart to see such carnage. It is simple, yet conveys a story
without comment or question. On the front of the medal is a soldier
carrying in his arms, the broken and limp body of a nameless human
being. It was hard to take my eyes off of the medal, and once
returned to its place, I yet wanted to see it, if just for a few more
moments. Strange how something so simple can have such an impact.
Freedom is so ever elusive, and vigilance so feverishly demanded.
Mr. Swerdlow has survived his wife and son whom he loved
dearly. So as I end this short story of a mans life, I cannot help
but wonder. As we all sit down to worship God, who really is the
person in the seat to our left, to our right, to the front of us, and
to the back of us? Has God put us there? What have we missed since
we had no care to ask? As for me, God graced me with a gift I will
cherish and pass on the rest of my life.

ShuutokuTentei RS2011
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