The Moth's Plight
In my Vermont house, I recently watched a moth fluttering wildly. It was trapped between the glass of the skylight and the insect screen. It had been a rainy day, and the glass window was shut against the rain. Somehow, the moth had become trapped and was desperately seeking an exit, an escape. It moved up and down the skylight, looking for any opportunity, any slight opening that would allow it to escape. Little did the insect know that the skylight was controlled by a handle that could easily open the glass window and allow it to escape. Should the handle have been used to open the window? Was letting rain into the room worth it? The moth’s plight was a solitary event. What was one less moth? Who would know or even care of its existence?
The moth had neither the opportunity to cry out for help nor the ability to identify an escape. All it could do was frantically search the window screen for some way to escape. Its existence, its desperate winged quest for survival, was a frightening display of panic, and yet, did it really matter? It was only an insect. Of no particular use or value to anyone.
Many of us pride ourselves on the strength of our self-determination, resilience, intellect, or physical attributes. These qualities offer a feeling of competence and independence, armor against threats and dangers. Yet how effective are these attributes when others deem our existence to be of no particular use or value? Especially if the proscribed destruction is sanctioned and glorified by society and government? By what stroke of whim, viciousness, goodness, or evil do we find ourselves subject to the choices of others? As in the case of a moth trapped in a window, a choice was made, and the Jews were doomed. A window was rarely opened; a stairway led to a dead end.
The trip to Warsaw and Auschwitz was not an Alcatraz experience. It was not a pleasant ferry ride across the San Francisco Bay. It was not a decrepit fun house where children and adults could play in abandoned cells. As Primo Levi said of Auschwitz, “This is hell.” I had visited the remnants of that inferno. As I was leaving the Auschwitz barrack honoring the murdered Jews, I noticed two elderly men standing at attention in front of the memorial candle. Both had medals pinned to their rumpled suits. Not a word was said, but tears clearly streamed down their cheeks. Never again.