Yesterday, on the eve of Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day), my son, who is eight, came home from school holding a small candle. On it was written the name “Ella Newburg.” The candle had a simple label with Ella’s even simpler biography. She was killed in 1943. She was from Poland. She was a doctor. She was Jewish.
We don’t know anything else about her. But we lit her candle. Together, my son and I sang “Ani Ma’amin,” a rendition of Moses Maimonides’ 13 Principles of Faith: “I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah, and, though he tarry, I will wait daily for his coming.” A song we traditionally sing in somber moments like this. Moments where hope is mandatory – especially in the shadow of a great tragedy.
My son and I said Ella’s name aloud. We wondered what kind of doctor she was – maybe a pediatrician, kind and sweet like our own family doctor. “Do you think Ella was a mom?” my son wondered aloud. The question hung in the air, unanswerable yet profound in its simplicity.
In the Book of Joshua, when the Israelites crossed the Jordan River, Joshua commanded that twelve stones be placed as a memorial. But the text reveals something rarely discussed: there were actually two sets of stones with distinct purposes. One set was removed from the riverbed and carried forward to their destination. The second set was placed directly into the river to remain there forever.
The first stones represented Israel’s own initiative in crossing the waters: “When your children will later ask their parents the meaning of these stones, then you shall say to your children ‘Israel traversed this Jordan on dry land. God your Lord dried the waters of the Jordan from before you until you crossed, just as God your Lord did to Yam Suf, drying it before us until we traversed'”.
The second set testified to divine intervention: “Let this be a sign among you for the time that your children will ask ‘what then is the meaning of these stones?’ You shall explain to them that the waters of the Jordan divided before the Ark of God’s Covenant, when it passed into the Jordan the waters divided”.
Together, they formed a complete narrative: both divine providence and human agency.
These two approaches to remembranceādivine providence and human agencyāmirror my own parenting during this time of war. My children have developed their own form of resilience. They run to bomb shelters without question. They duck and cover at the sound of sirens. Yet I struggle with how much of our collective history they should carry at such a young age.
How do I tell them about the millions who had no shelters, no sirens, no warnings? This is the delicate balance: honoring our history while protecting their childhood.
The candle with Ella’s name offers a perfect solution. One person. One story. One manageable piece of our vast history that an eight-year-old can hold without being overwhelmed. In lighting it together, we participate in remembrance that respects both truth and innocence.
The simplicity of stopping, of naming, of questioningāthis builds a spiritual resilience different from anger or fear. It teaches that remembrance itself is an act of resistance. That speaking names aloud defies those who would erase them.
When we light candles for people like Ella Newburg, we mirror Joshua’s act of placing stones in the riverbed. When we teach these rituals to our children, we entrust them with stones to carry forwardāpreserving memory while continuing the journey.
And so we lit Ella’s candle together. “Ani Ma’amin,” we sang. We believe with perfect faith in light that persists even in darknessānot as poetic metaphor, but as practiced remembrance. One doctor from Poland. One Jewish woman. One name spoken aloud that might otherwise have been forgotten. This is our resistance, our remembrance, our stone laid in testimony.
This is how we ensure that when they ask about the stones, they will also know the stories.
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