Mourning over a lost sister

I have lived in Israel for 23 years now, i.e. twenty-three Holocaust Remembrance Days. Twenty-three times I read and heard survivor accounts, stories of murdered relatives and friends, shattered communities, mass murder and genocide.
Anti-Semitism is raising its monstrous head once again. Most Europeans would like to bury their part in wiping out European Jewry by giving blind support to the Arab propaganda that would make even Goebbels proud. Therefore I have decided to dedicate part of this blog to testimonies of crimes committed against the Jews of Europe during WWII as they are published in Israeli newspapers. This is the story of Esther Weiner, by Avraham Tirosh.
(The Weiners, Esther seated in the middle, her brother Joseph standing behind her).

My aunt Esther waited for three years for her permission to join her two brothers in Palestine, until she was deported to Treblinka. My father never forgave himself for failing obtain the certificate that would have saved her life. This is what he wote sixty years ago: "I had but one sister, sweet and pure, but she did not have wings, and I couldn't save her."

Although I was born before WWII in mandatory Palestine, I sometimes define myself as a Holocaust survivor, no offense to those who have "earned" this title in earnest. I was pulled at the very last moment from that "Valley of Death".
My late mother came to the Land of Israel in 1930 at the age of 21. She rebelled against her non-Zionist ultra-Orthodox family and persuaded her equally Hassidic uncle, who was less opposed to the Zionist idea to pay for her ticket in utmost secrecy. Six years later, in Palestine, she married my father, Joseph Weiner (Tirosh). I am their first born son.
I was almost two years old at the beginning of summer 1939 and my mother decided to travel to her native Bialystok, to proudly introduce me, the Land-of-Israel grandson to her parents. We were ready to leave in August, but due to the imminent war my mother decided to put off the voyage. Luckily! War broke out on September 1st. Other Land-of-Israel mothers, I don't know how many, who wanted to show off their children, were stuck in Poland. Some managed to flee, others perished.
But this is not what this story is about. Neither is this story about my family solely, although so it might seem. All of my mother's family perished in the Shoah, except one of her sisters who followed her to the Land of Israel. On my father's side, his brother was here, and they both helped their widowed mother to travel to Palestine. Only Esther, their younger sister stayed behind and was murdered together with her husband and infant son in Treblinka, in all likelihood.
My late father was involved with bringing legal and illegal immigrants to Palestine/Land of Israel, but despite being well-connected, he couldn't obtain the necessary "certificate", the immigration visa from the British Mandate officials, so Esther had to stay behind. My father never got over his tragic failure and he never forgave himself.
During the 1940's and 1950' my father was writing for "The Tzofeh" (The Onlooker) under his nom de plume J. Tirosh (although his name was still Weiner). This newspaper had a large Zionist-religious audience. Although being a young child at the time, I remember the "celebs" among them. But I was taken by surprise when I found out what had happened to my aunt.
My father passed away eleven years ago. Among his belongings we found a number of articles and letters, most already published by different newspapers and magazines. A few months ago, I went through his papers once again, and found an old edition of the newspaper, and among its yellow pages the following article, published 60 years ago, on February 28, 1947. This was my broken-hearted father grieving over his younger sister's death and agonizing over his own inability to save her.

This is the article "I Had One Sister":
I had one sister, sweet and small, my beautiful young sister. But she didn't have wings, she didn't know how to fly. We grew up as two soft chicks in the loving nest of a pair of lovebirds: mother and father.
I grew up and became a man. I grew wings and I thought I had to fly away from the nest, far far away, to the land of the sun and the azure. My younger sister pleaded with me and begged: please take me with on your wings. Wherever you shall fly, I shall fly. Wherever you shall dwell, I shall dwell. How shall I eat and breathe alone, on my own, with no-one beside me, when your soul is my soul?
I encouraged her, I promised to take her with me later on: wherever I shall go, you shall go. But I didn't keep my promise. With God as my witness, accursed evil stopped me and stood in my way. The gate was locked behind me. High walls stopped me in my tracks and wouldn't let me pass. My powers failed me.
I sent her messages to comfort and encourage her: I will bring you over, I will help you leave. Tomorrow we shall receive the good sign. I will build a paper bridge for you. I will send you your "certificate". It will allow you safe passage to me, to the land of sun and azure, and you shall find peace.
I had this sister, my one and only sister. But she didn't have wings, she couldn't fly away. She stood by her window every evening, looking into the twilight, waiting for the letter man. She stood there wishing him to come, waiting for the sign, for the paper bridge. She stood there for one year, two years, three years, but the sign didn't come. Yet she didn't despair. She grew up, became a woman, a few gray hairs found their way among her curls. She got married and still she waited, wished for the sign.
My wings were severed, there was no wind beneath them. I had no power to send her an eagle. I had no power to bring her to the promised land, close to me, to my home, to the safe nest. The wind didn't help her, she had no power to fly like a dove, to fly far away. To find refuge from the coming storm. She was waiting for me, for a sign from me. She was hoping I could save her. Even though the sign was long in coming, she kept on waiting.
Treblinka was not far away. In fact it was very close, in place and time. Too close. She could almost see and feel it. About one hour away from her home. There sat my fragile sister, lonely
and forlorn, so close to Treblinka, swallowing her tears and waiting. Humming a soft tune and waiting. Eating her bread in sorrow and lying in her bed in grief. She was so sad, so sad, but she waited. She sat in her home, but she did not despair. She looked out the window and waited, tapping on the window sill and wondering: "Why is the postman late? Why is he always late?"
She waited one year, two years, three years. She sat there feeling sad and abandoned, but she didn't despair. She was still waiting for a miracle. Still praying. Until the man from Treblinka came for her and took her away, along with the rest of the children of Israel, and led them to the fires of Treblinka, which sucked her bone marrow and smashed her bones, until she and the baby in her arms were no more.
And still she laughs, hope hovers on her scorched lips: a paper bridge will be built and salvation is near. Very near. It is nearing my house, it is by the gate.
But alas, I had but one sister, fragile and pure. She didn't have wings. And I couldn't lift her to fly on my wings. Let her soul, holy and untainted, rest on the wings of heavenly angels. Glorified and sanctified be the great name of the Lord (mourning prayer).
When is my sister's yearly commemoration (juhrzeit)? When is your sister's commemoration, or that of your brother, your mother or father? Even this "pleasure" has been denied us. My sister died without a name, without a date. She left nothing behind and nothing remains of her. Not even the day, not even the month. Alas!"

As I said, this is not only the story of my family. I am sure many Jews in wartime Palestine were grieving and agonizing over the fate of their helpless families, over the unsuccessful attempts to bring them over to Palestine and save their lives. Instead, those left behind in Europe went up in the smoke of the crematoria. The scars in their hearts must have never healed, just as my father's heart bled to his very last day.
All that is left of my aunt Esther, my father's younger sister, is a tiny book-shaped tombstone that my father left on his father's grave, dedicated to the memory of Esther and Ephraim Ditkowsky, her husband, and their infant son Avraham Shmuel, named for our grandfather, just like me. Except I have no idea how old he was or what he looked like when the murderers took his young innocent life.