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Lessons In Emunah
By: Dr. Elie Feuerwerker
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
The Blind Man And The Accordion
Before World War II, my aunt Rose Warfman, nee Gluck, a survivor of Auschwitz, now living in Manchester, England, worked in a social-services agency called COJASOR for a period of six months in Paris in 1942 with Lucie Dreyfus, Captain Dreyfus’s wife. My aunt, who was a nurse before the war, got this position through my father, who was a rabbi in France. They worked there until the Gestapo closed the office.
Lucie Dreyfus, a benevolent person, was in charge of the office. The role of this office was to help those in need. People applied for help. My aunt went into the field to check the claims and report her findings. Weekly meetings were held, in which the claims were examined. Lucie Dreyfus, as the person in charge, would make the final decision.
My aunt told me the following, moving story. A man called to apply for financial assistance, stating that he was blind. My aunt went to visit him. He didn’t want to be supported. All he asked was for enough money to buy an accordion. With it, he would be able to play and support himself.
Finding his cause worthy, my aunt presented the new case of the blind musician at the weekly meeting that was to take place that same day,` At first, Lucie Dreyfus was not moved, but with my aunt pleading for this man, she relented. Money would be made available. My aunt couldn’t wait to announce the good news. She went straight back to the man’s home to let him know.
Some time later, on the steps of the subway in Paris, she heard music – someone was playing Hatikva on an accordion. She came closer and recognized the man she had helped. When she identified herself, he was so happy to meet her again, that he decided to play especially for her. He played niggunim, and zemiros. (Some 64 years later, she still recalls how beautiful they were.) Passers-by stopped to listen. They left more money than usual for the musician. When she got home, my aunt told this story to her parents. They were so proud of their daughter.
Not long after the war, my grandfather was walking on one of the boulevards in Paris. He stopped when he heard a street musician. He remembered the story told to him by his daughter. It must be the same man, he thought. It turned out that it was he. The man kissed my grandfather, when he told him who he was.
He then played Jewish songs for my grandfather. Then he asked: “How is my protector doing?” Recalling, that his daughter’s encounter with the blind musician took place during the war in 1942, my grandfather answered, “She was deported.”
Both men cried. The musician then said, “I am sure, she will return.”
Thankfully, she did return!
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