I woke up in a panic a week ago. Israel was burning. People were dying
My family was there.
Like so many European Jews, my relatives, what were left of them, found safety during the Holocaust in a small land in the middle of the desert, surrounded by enemies.
Israel.
There, they prospered. Had children and grandkids. They survived.
Until one Saturday in October when thousands of innocents, too many to count, were slaughtered by Hamas monsters.
Rape. Murder.
The ghouls fired guns into a rave where beautiful, young adults came to dance.
There were reports of babies being kidnapped. And beheaded.
I try not to think about it. I know I must.
What kind of evil being does that?
As the death count rose, I reached out to my family via telephone, email, social media.
Were they OK? I needed to know.
But there was no answer.
The story of my family is a common one. My Austrian mother was a teenager in 1939 after Adolf Hitler took over that country, intent on exterminating every Jew.
Her parents boarded her onto a cruise ship bound for what was then known as the British Mandate of Palestine.
She lived on a kibbutz, excited about her new adventures, thinking she’d be reunited with her parents and siblings in a few months.
Then months turned into years.
She learned her father survived and moved to America.
Her mother was murdered in a Nazi death camp. It was then that her innocence was stripped away.
In the army, my mom met my German dad, whose immediate family immigrated to Palestine ahead of Hitler’s rise.
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They married, then moved to New York City, had my sister and me and started all over.
What would they make of this savagery?
I nervously checked and rechecked my messages, looking for word from a clan which had grown exponentially since my last trip to Israel more than a decade ago.
But I got no reply.
I soothed myself with the belief that the internet or phone lines were down or overloaded.
That my first cousin, a prominent orthopedic surgeon, was crazy busy tending to the wounded in what Israel’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and other government officials termed Israel’s 9/11.
And still no response.
My mind started traveling to dark places.
What if my family is not OK?
What if my relatives, who’ve lived peaceably alongside their Arab friends and colleagues their entire lives, got caught up in the Hamas madness?
All over America, particularly in New York City, home to more Jews than any place outside Israel, many people, like me, are waiting desperately for news of their families’ survival.
Of Israel’s survival.
Of Jews’ survival.
Early Tuesday, I received this email message from my surgeon cousin Amos Peyser, 66:
“Happy to hear from you. We are all OK and even have a new grandson who was born yesterday. The
son of our son. So there will be another Peyser in this generation. … About what happened you know of course and we all pray that this nightmare will end soon. Our son in law is currently drafted in the north and another family member in the south. Hope you are all OK.”
A great relief.
The terrorists have not won.
This story originally appeared on NYPost
