A Reason to Rise

By Rabbi Jeremy Barras

Miami Beach, 1946. For Rabbi Sam Groh, the sparkling waters and sandy shores of Miami Beach should have symbolized salvation. World War II was over, but his personal success as newly anointed head rabbi of Miami’s most esteemed reform congregation could not be enjoyed in the wake of the Holocaust’s devastating toll on his people. When given the chance to help survivors leave Europe for a new homeland of their own in Palestine, Rabbi Groh is desperate to join the cause.

Generations later the torch Rabbi Groh once ignited finds its way to his successor, his grandson, Rabbi Eitan Groh. Plagued with virulent antisemitism, the Jewish community of Europe is once again the target of hatred and bigotry at the scene of one of its darkest memories. Inspired by the bravery of his grandfather, Eitan is determined to go to the center of the controversy and do his part to prevent another mass Jewish tragedy on European soil. A turn in world events thrusts Eitan into battle against one of his people’s darkest enemies, and powerful forces he knows little about. Racing against the crimes of the past in order to prevent crimes of the future, Eitan sets out on a journey that could prevent catastrophe. That is if it doesn’t get him killed in the process.

In A Reason to Rise, The Groh rabbinic dynasty takes the reader on an international journey of the Jewish experience in the 20th century. From the depths of the Holocaust to the establishment of the state of Israel, to the systemic rise of antisemitism across Europe, one family does their part to keep Judaism alive. In the spirit of Leon Uris and Daniel Silva, A Reason to Rise challenges readers to consider how and if Judaism outside of the State of Israel will continue to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369401194

Rabbi Jeremy Barras

Rabbi Jeremy Barras is the senior rabbi of Temple Beth Am in Miami, Florida, the largest Jewish synagogue in the Southeast United States. He is an active member of AIPAC’s National Council, a board member of the Central Conference of American Rabbis and AJC Miami. He serves as a leader on the executive board of the Rabbinic Council of the Greater Miami Jewish Federation and has been recognized for his volunteerism in helping support Jewish orphans in the former Soviet Union. Rabbi Barras descends from a long line of distinguished rabbis who have passed on the traditions of Jewish scholarship throughout the generations. Rabbi Barras is married to the light of his life, Jodi, and has two children, Ella and Ethan. In his spare time, he enjoys playing golf, tennis, reading, and writing. Rabbi Barras has published many educational pieces. This is his first work of fiction.

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Copyright © 2023 by Rabbi Jeremy Barras.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/20/2023

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CONTENTS

Prologue: Odessa, Ukraine 2020

Chapter 1     Amsterdam, 1946

Chapter 2     Miami Beach, 1946

Chapter 3     Miami Beach, 1946

Chapter 4     Miami-Nova Scotia, 1946

Chapter 5     Loma, Poland, 1898

Chapter 6     Somewhere Over the Eastern Seaboard, 1946

Chapter 7     Thessaloniki, Greece, 1946

Chapter 8     Nova Scotia, 1946

Chapter 9     Thessaloniki, Greece 1946

Chapter 10   The Maharhash, 1946

Chapter 11   Auschwitz, 1944

Chapter 12   The Maharhash, 1946

Chapter 13   The Maharhash, 1946

Chapter 14   The Maharhash, 1946

Chapter 15   Mauthausen, 1944

Chapter 16   The Maharhash, 1946

Chapter 17   The Maharhash, 1946

Chapter 18   The Maharhash, 1946

Chapter 19   Haifa, 1946

Chapter 20   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret, 1946

Chapter 21   Odessa, Ukraine

Chapter 22   Odessa, Ukraine

Chapter 23   Kiev, Ukraine, 1941

Chapter 24   Odessa, Ukraine

Chapter 25   Paris, 1959

Chapter 26   Odessa, Ukraine

Chapter 27   Odessa–Miami

Chapter 28   Kiev, Ukraine

Chapter 29   Kiev–Israeli Embassy

Chapter 30   Jerusalem

Chapter 31   Jerusalem

Chapter 32   Jerusalem

Chapter 33   Miami

Chapter 34   Washington, DC

Chapter 35   Washington, DC

Chapter 36   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 37   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 38   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 39   Jerusalem

Chapter 40   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 41   Miami

Chapter 42   Kiev, Ukraine

Chapter 43   Athens, Greece

Chapter 44   Miami

Chapter 45   Tel Aviv

Chapter 46   The Road to Jerusalem

Chapter 47   Tel Aviv

Chapter 48   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 49   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret, 1952

Chapter 50   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 51   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 52   Tel Aviv

Chapter 53   Tel Aviv

Chapter 54   Tel Aviv

Chapter 55   Bat Yam

Chapter 56   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 57   Tel Aviv

Chapter 58   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 59   Bat Yam

Chapter 60   Kibbutz Nof Kinneret

Chapter 61   Jerusalem

Chapter 62   Jerusalem

Chapter 63   Miami Beach

Chapter 64   Miami Beach

Chapter 65   Sautee Nacoochee, Georgia

Chapter 66   Miami Beach

Chapter 67   Sautee Nacoochee, Georgia

Chapter 68   Miami Beach

Chapter 69   Miami Beach

Chapter 70   Miami Beach

Chapter 71   Miami Beach

Chapter 72   Brickell Key, Miami

Chapter 73   Miami Beach

Chapter 74   Miami Beach

Chapter 75   Miami Beach

Acknowledgements

For my wife Jodi, my children Ella and Ethan,

and my parents David and Shelley Barras

Zionism finds in it, for the Jews, a reason to raise

their heads, and, taking their stand upon the past,

to gaze straightforwardly into the future.

Louis Brandeis

PROLOGUE

Odessa, Ukraine 2020

The rash of antisemitic attacks sweeping the nation had nothing in common with what had just happened. Two foreign rabbis, one Israeli and the other American, stood in the street waiting to be interviewed by local police. It was the flat they were sharing into which someone had just thrown three Molotov cocktails. As the fire department was finishing off the last of the flames, Eli, the Israeli rabbi, broke the silence.

This is not a random incident, he said to his American colleague, a well-known rabbi from Miami named Eitan Groh.

How do you know that? These attacks are like a nightly occurrence these days.

You think thugs randomly targeted the flat of an American rabbi and an Israeli rabbi employed by Israeli intelligence?

It’s possible, Eitan said.

Trust me, this is not a coincidence. You will see. The police aren’t going to find any fingerprints. There aren’t going to be any skid marks from a car skidding away. No witnesses will have seen anything useful. Whoever did this knew well what they were doing, and what message they were sending, Eli explained.

What message?

A message to us. That we better find what we need and get out of this country before it’s too late.

Well, it’s either that or just another random attack on the local Jewish community, Eitan responded.

The two men stood quietly for several minutes before a local policeman approached them.

Well, gentlemen. It seems someone doesn’t like you very much, he said with a healthy hint of sarcasm.

Really, there is someone who doesn’t like rabbis in Ukraine? Eli answered.

Keep your comedy to yourself, the policeman said changing his jovial tone to anger.

We will investigate further, but so far, we see no clues here. I hope you have somewhere else to stay tonight, the policeman said unempathetically.

Eli glanced at Eitan. Eitan wasn’t convinced that this was anything more than a random antisemitic incident, but he was certain that the police were not at all interested in their plight.

You don’t have to say it, Eli. I know, our time here is coming to an end, Eitan said.

It’s not just us. Once again, the presence of our people is no longer tolerable in this land.

PART I

Palestine

CHAPTER 1

Amsterdam, 1946

No matter how much Jan Gruber looked forward to the end of each day, when night fell, he could never fall asleep. During the day, the other broken souls around him kept their silence about the horrors of the past. At night though, they were betrayed by the world of the subconscious. Their dreams rattled their being, and details of their unimaginable ordeals were released bit by bit. For any human being with a shred of emotion remaining, falling asleep was no simple exercise.

The first night amongst the cots in Amsterdam’s once-grand Portuguese Synagogue was tense. Jan lay awake in the middle of the night surrounded by various other lost souls with nowhere else to turn. The ray of moonlight beaming through a cracked stained-glass window provided enough illumination for Jan to notice that the young man across from him was awake as well.

He whispered carefully, I’m Jan. Does anyone ever fall asleep here?

I’m Samuel, the man whispered back. I don’t know. I’ve only been here a few days. But I haven’t fallen asleep here yet. Well, actually, I do get tired during the day, and sometimes I daydream about Palestine and where I am going…

Where you are going to what? Jan asked, eager for Samuel to finish his thought. But it was no use. Samuel was in a daze. Even though his eyes were open, he was lost in another world.

Jan looked around to see if there was anyone else with whom he could make conversation. He wanted to talk but was afraid to wake any of the lucky survivors who had succeeded in falling asleep. Instead, his only option was to stare at the artistry on the synagogue ceiling until the sun rose.

In the breakfast line the next morning, Jan again encountered Samuel, but Samuel did not seem to remember him. Nevertheless, Jan engaged him in conversation, and the two sat down together. At a long table where others were drinking coffee and eating pastries and fruit provided by the Red Cross, Jan and Samuel skirted around their pasts. They didn’t need to ask each other much. Without one question, Samuel had a good idea of where Jan had been. The tattoo on his forearm also betrayed his past.

No other background was needed. It wasn’t necessary for Jan to tell Samuel about his first deportation to Westerbork, the transit camp in the northeastern part of the Netherlands where Jews worked as forced laborers. Or that after that he was sent to Auschwitz just in time for his sixteenth birthday. Or that after that he was shipped to another hellhole known as Mauthausen.

Normal people might have asked about each other’s families and the cities that they came from, but Jan and Samuel knew that the past was off-limits. It was a lot easier to discuss the future. Remembering what Samuel was saying before he lost consciousness, Jan asked, So where do you want to go from here?

There’s only one place for us now: Palestine. I am going to go there and become a farmer and a soldier and help to build a country, Samuel explained with color returning to his cheeks. As he spoke, his tall, lanky frame came to life, and he began to use his hands to express himself.

I am fascinated about Palestine too, Jan added. My father always used to talk about what it would mean for Jews to have a home of their own.

Samuel was about to inquire about Jan’s father and the rest of his family, but then remembered that subject was off-limits. After all, what did he expect to hear? Did he really want to make Jan tell him what had really happened to them? Did he really want to hear that the last time Jan saw his father was very early after the Nazi invasion? Did he want to know that Jan’s father Aharon was a tailor whose shop served Amsterdam’s Jewish elite until it was shut down by the Nazis? Did he want to hear about his father’s non-Jewish friend who offered him odd jobs as a maintenance worker for very low pay? Certainly, he did not want to hear about the one night Jan’s father was walking home from work and was attacked and killed by a few Nazi hoodlums out playing drinking games with Jewish skulls. Certainly, he didn’t need to ask about Jan’s mother, who died in Auschwitz, or about his gentle and sweet ten-year-old sister, Aliza, who was murdered as well.

Instead, they talked about Palestine, and football, and after getting to know each other, they talked about women and what it might be like to have a relationship someday. Do you think people like us could ever get married? Samuel pondered.

I don’t know, said Jan. Maybe to someone who is one of us, but I am not sure anyone else would understand… Jan caught himself before accidentally stumbling into what had actually happened to them, and instead of referring to themselves as camp survivors, he simply said, I am not sure anyone else would understand the war the way we do. Samuel’s gentle smile acknowledged the bond that these two young men shared, without even having to delve into the trauma and devastation they had each endured.

For the next couple of days, Jan spent most of his time regaining his strength. He spent time each day walking aimlessly around the interior of the large, beautiful synagogue. Most of the young Jews who made their way back to Amsterdam like Jan spent the majority of their time in and around the Portuguese Synagogue. In better times, the synagogue, which had housed the oldest Jewish library in Europe, had been a testimony to the vibrant and successful Jewish community in the city. The synagogue had been built by Spanish Jews who fled the Inquisition, first in Spain and later in Portugal. In the seventeenth century, when oppression from the Portuguese Inquisition chased the Jews out of the region once again, some of them emigrated to Amsterdam. In 1675, the Portuguese Synagogue was completed by some of those refugees. It remained as a testament to the survival of the Jewish community in the face of incessant oppression for nearly three centuries. By some miracle, the Nazis decided not to destroy it, and after the war it served as a triage center for lost Jews with nowhere else to go.

In between his walks around the synagogue, and the occasional meaningless conversations he would have with Red Cross staff, Jan took daytime naps that made up for his lost sleep at night. He had only been in Amsterdam a few days when Jan was awakened by a squeeze on his right shoulder.

Get your paw off me. Who the hell are you? Jan cried as he opened his eyes and made out a khaki-clad soldier standing before him. As Jan shook himself out of his fog, he noticed that the soldier was not alone. He quickly noted the British uniforms, and his fear transformed instantaneously into awe. On the shoulder of the soldiers’ jackets, Jan saw something he’d never thought was possible. Sewn hastily onto their sleeves were blue Star of David patches. Jan was not aware that Jewish soldiers from Palestine had been fighting alongside the British against the Nazis, but when he saw the Star of David, he knew something was unique about the men who were staring at him.

Do you have a place to go? You have family in Holland? the soldier asked in Yiddish.

Does anyone anymore? Jan replied wryly.

Then I think you should come with us, the solider pronounced with a sense of pride and independence.

As he spoke, the solider turned to his mates. Each one of them was distinctly battle-hardened with experience fighting the Nazis. For many years, their only purpose in life had been to fight the enemy, but recently their will to fight in Europe had waned. They had achieved a drop of revenge, finding former SS officials and concentration camp guards and assassinating them in their homes. But that couldn’t go on forever, especially when a greater cause was emerging. Instead of chasing the devil, they would rescue the angels, and bring them back home.

The soldier stood over Jan and looked back at his fellow soldiers. Jan heard him say to them that he found a Jew who looked healthy enough to travel. Jan looked up at him and asked, Where are you going?

Palestine was the only word Jan needed to hear.

CHAPTER 2

Miami Beach, 1946

Every synagogue has characters. Temple Brit Kodesh on Miami Beach was no different. Though he was only forty-six years old, Rabbi Sam Groh had learned this well after twenty years on the pulpit. He was known among his congregants as kind and affable, with a sharp sense of humor. He was beloved for his ability to make Judaism relevant in their lives. And he always knew what to say even in the most trying times. Rabbi Groh may not have had movie-star looks, but he was well put together, and always dressed in the latest fashions. His trademark tortoise-shell glasses gave him a look of elegant sophistication without sacrificing his boyish looks. It was not unusual for someone to comment how incredible it was for a rabbi of his age to already be leading such a large congregation. Like any pulpit rabbi, he sometimes found his congregants overly and unnecessarily demanding. But that was the business he’d chosen, and he never shrank from the opportunity to stand up for his people and his congregation.

The Jews of Miami were making significant advances in society, but for the survivors of Hitler’s inferno and the Jews fighting for survival in Palestine, life was far different. The devastation of the war in Europe weighed heavily on Rabbi Groh’s mind even a year after German surrender. He felt guilty enjoying the good life on Collins Avenue while his brothers and sisters were fighting to get out of Europe and into Palestine. Rabbi Groh felt guilty not volunteering to serve in the Haganah himself. Why should some Jews have to defend the Land of Israel while others refused to a lift a finger? Such guilt dogged him wherever he went.

It was that passion for his people that convinced him to meet one of his synagogue’s greatest characters for breakfast that morning at the Canopy Diner. Rabbi Groh entered his favorite diner at ten past eight in the morning. Through all the grey-haired men in shorts and sandals staring carefully at their newspapers, he spotted Al Farber sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the noisy dining room. Al was a seemingly successful salesman, though it was hard to say for sure. He was seventy years old and scruffy looking. He wore large black glasses that he hoped would hide his wandering left eye.

Al was always at shul. Not a huge donor, as the rabbi knew, but he always seemed to be in the mix. And boy could he talk. He often monopolized the rabbi’s time before and after services with his inane stories about his family, his job, or his past. The rabbi needed an extra hand to count how many times he’d heard the story of how Al grew up living next door to Lou Gehrig back in the Bronx. You would think Al himself played for the Yankees with how often he would mention those stories.

But even though he annoyed the rabbi, the rabbi suffered his routine because he knew that Al really did mean well. So when Al requested that the rabbi meet a friend of his from Palestine that morning, the rabbi’s interest was piqued. He willingly put aside the skepticism usually reserved for Al’s ridiculous ideas and stories.

Trust me, Rabbi, this meeting will be worth your while, Al had promised the previous week. This friend of mine, he’s a do-gooder. He wants to help our brothers and sisters overseas. Just a quick breakfast is all I’m asking. At mention of this topic, Rabbi Groh was intrigued. Plus, he loved the Canopy’s French toast.

The rabbi approached Al’s booth, extended his hand, and said, Morning, Al, good to see you. The rabbi didn’t love wasting time, but maybe this was a chance to do some good for the Jews of Palestine.

Rabbi, I’m glad to see you, Al said in a less blustery tone than usual. For such an outgoing guy, he sounded as if he was standing among mourners at a funeral. My friend will be here any minute, and I really hope you can help him. These Jews are in rough shape, and they need our help. It’s amazing what they are doing over there, and if we aren’t going over to help them fight, we might as well help them the best we can from here.

Al, I can’t believe you have a friend who knows what’s happening on the ground over there. I’m amazed that someone who has been there and knows what is going on is here now in Miami. It’s incredible—their will to survive after what so many of them have been through. I wish there was more we could do to help.

Well, maybe there is. I know how much you want to help, and I think there might be a real role for you to play in all of this, Al said, knowing he was speaking the rabbi’s language.

Al, like almost everyone in the congregation, truly respected Rabbi Groh. Rabbi Groh had been with the shul for about five years. In that time, the Temple had grown into the biggest reform synagogue in Florida. It was flooded with former GIs who had gotten their feet in the sand during the war and found that Miami Beach was a much nicer place to raise their kids than dreary Baltimore, Philadelphia, or Brooklyn. Rabbi Groh was the right guy for them. He was kind, but funny. He was politically adept at navigating the different segments of the shul’s population. And he was a pretty damned good golfer, a nice skill to have for a Florida rabbi. He knew how to talk to and cater to the machers, but he was truly a rabbi of all the people. And he was fiercely loyal to his people. Nobody took more pride in being Jewish than Rabbi Groh. He was the perfect clergyman for Jewish soldiers returning shaken from what they saw in the camps and the ghettoes. Even though he had not been there in Europe with them, the rabbi was thoroughly preoccupied with the fate of the Jews of Europe. It was all he ever thought about.

Rabbi Groh looked over the menu as they waited for Al’s friend. When the waitress came to take down their order, a slender, middle-aged man was weaving through the restaurant towards them. Even from afar, the rabbi could intuit a stern, no-nonsense expression on his sun-tanned face. He walked briskly and with purpose. He was dressed neatly in a grey suit and carried a brown leather briefcase, which he dropped on the seat as he extended his hand to Al.

Good morning, Al. Rabbi, the serious man said tersely, greeting both men in one fell swoop. Waitress, a black coffee please. The rabbi respected his style. This was a man on a mission. He also envied a man who could get right to business without any need for pleasantries. The rabbi wished more conversations in his life were this pointed.

Rabbi, thank you for meeting with me. I am only in Miami for two days, and I know that you are someone who can help us.

The pleasure is all mine. Welcome to South Florida. We are glad you are here and eager to hear about your work, the rabbi said earnestly.

The man responded, "Thank you, Rabbi. I don’t know what Al has told you about me, but I was fortunate to meet him on my last trip to Miami a couple of years ago. My name is David Peled, and I’ve just come from Palestine. I have been living there on a kibbutz for a number of years now. Our people are doing incredible things there, and we will continue to do so until we have a Jewish state of our own. We have built cities out of sand dunes. We have the makings of a formidable army that can defend us. We are irrigating fields, draining swamps, and raising our children as free Jews. You wouldn’t believe it, but we