A Night of Remembrance and Music in a Wisconsin Chabad
One hundred and twenty people filled the Chabad, creating an atmosphere thick with anticipation. As attendees entered, stamping snow from their boots and unwinding woolen scarves, it became clear this was the largest gathering of Jewish individuals one might find in this particular Wisconsin town. Among them was a Christian woman seated at the keyboard, surrounded by a group of musicians preparing to perform Jewish songs. The scene was both intimate and profound, setting the stage for an evening where history, music, and personal discovery would intertwine.
Instruments with a Haunting Past
The violinists were positioned so close that their century-old instruments felt within reach. These were no ordinary violins; they were part of the Violins of Hope project, each once owned and played by Jewish individuals during the Holocaust. Rescued and meticulously restored, these instruments now tour the globe, serving as both a summons to remember and a stark warning: forget history, and it may repeat itself. Before the concert, they were displayed, each a silent testament to the musicians who once drew music from their strings, now revived to speak again in remembrance.
A Personal Journey of Ancestral Discovery
Several years prior, the author had sent a DNA sample to a genealogy company, uncovering a surprising result: she was 9% Ashkenazi Jewish, likely inherited from a grandparent or great-grandparent. A call to her brother initiated a search through DNA relatives, tracing this heritage to her father's side. Yet, those who could have illuminated this family history had long passed away. Raised Catholic, with piano lessons from nuns and hymns at Sunday Mass, she now realized her hands, familiar with chords like those of "Hava Nagila," also carried Jewish genes. It felt akin to inheriting a masterpiece without knowing its provenance—a beautiful, mysterious legacy.
The Concert: Light, Song, and Shared Tradition
As the crowd settled into silence, the rabbi stepped forward. He spoke of traditions while his wife lit candles at the end of each row, inviting the audience to pass the flame from one to another. "The most beautiful thing about light," he remarked, "is you can share it and it won't diminish anything from you." His singing began, and voices softly joined in the refrain: Dai, dai, dai, dai, dai... Then, Hal, the director and emcee, stood to play the shofar, wearing his yarmulke—a sight unusual in rehearsals, but tonight it felt essential. Hal's background added depth: his father hailed from Bialystok, Poland, where a once-thriving Jewish community of 55,000 had dwindled to 2,000, and his uncle survived Auschwitz while an aunt and cousin did not. The raw notes of the ram's horn echoed, a tradition meant to shake complacency, making the music deeply personal for him.
Musical Unity and Historical Echoes
The performance unfolded with pieces like "Osie Shalom," where unison violins leaned on each note like family, gradually joined by clarinets, trumpet, cellos, and bass. These were love songs, wedding melodies, folk tunes, and dances—a celebration of life once silenced. A violinist nearby had requested a ¾ size violin, prompting thoughts of the little Jewish child who might have last tuned it. As a single violist opened "Hine Ma Tov," and others layered in, the heated hall and pre-concert buffet of soups and sweets contrasted sharply with an image that came to mind: a black-and-white photo of camp musicians in brutal cold, perhaps playing the same song, its words ironic—"How good and how pleasant it is for brothers and sisters to dwell together in unity."
Reflections on Modern Parallels
Twelve pieces culminated in a final number led by Hal on trumpet, with instruments joining like clasped hands. The Violins of Hope, with their curved lines, refurbished finishes, and inlaid Stars of David, could be museum pieces, but as living artifacts, they narrate the resilience of those who kept music alive in darkness. A week later, carpooling with Hal to another event, conversation turned to news of another protester's death in Minneapolis, streets the author had driven. This tragedy, involving someone from a nearby high school, echoed the concert's warning: the Holocaust began not with camps, but with language, blame, and normalized cruelty. Listening to updates from Minnesota, the question lingered: are we recognizing the signs, or repeating mistakes?
A Message of Hope Moving Forward
The Violins of Hope have since departed Wisconsin, carefully packed in their cases, awaiting new musicians in new locales. One envisions future players tuning pegs, sweeping bows across strings, and perpetuating a message of hope. Starting May 1, they will reside in Minnesota, continuing their journey as beacons of remembrance and caution in an ever-changing world.
