The Lonely Kiddush Cup

It occurred to me this week that this spring marks the 10th anniversary of my trip to the Jewish cemetery called Poland. I spent seven days with a group touring Poland, and seeing the blood stained sites of our fallen brothers and sisters of Europe. We combed the country visiting large empty buildings. One would never have guessed that these old and decrepit buildings used to house major centers of prayer and Torah study.
We walked through a forest and were told in the place that we were currently standing, thousands of Jews were murdered in cold blood. We stood next to a broken brick wall and were told this wall was the last vestige of the cage called the ghetto. The ghetto was where an untold number of Jews were forced to live in horrific conditions. As we exited an old Jewish cemetery one of the gracious Polish natives was kind enough to personally greet us with the hand gesture of a machine gun. We also had the opportunity to enjoy the modern artwork found on buildings depicting a gallows with a lifeless Jewish star dangling from it. Of course the evil swastika was not to be out done and was given prominent recognition.
Then there were the gas chambers. I still remember the anger that burned inside of me as I stood in the confines of the room of death. We walked on the very platform in Auschwitz where the notorious selections occurred. The platform was the place where the Germans decided who would be sent to immediate death and who would live a little longer. We saw the piles of hair, shoes and ashes. I was speechless and unsure how to react.
To be honest, throughout the week I struggled with the inability to emotionally grasp the Holocaust. I wanted to connect myself with the victims of the Holocaust on a personal level. I tried to imagine their faces, but I could not. Finally, on one of the last days of the trip, it hit me like a ton of bricks. We visited a museum. This museum was unlike any museum I had ever visited. This museum was a shul, which the Nazis desecrated and depleted of all its splendor. The Poles collected all the kiddush cups, havdallah sets and menorahs which their former owners left behind before being marched off to their doom. The centerpiece of the museum was a display case of all these holy vessels. I looked at a kiddush cup that seemed familiar to me. It looked similar to the kiddush cup I grew up watching my father use at the Shabbos table weekly. Suddenly it hit me that every one of these kiddush cups had a family and a story to tell. Every one of these cups had a family that congregated around it and sanctified the holy Shabbos with it. These families used their kiddush cups, havdallah sets and menorahs just like my family.
I realized the only difference between us is, the opportunity to use these holy vessels was taken away from these innocent victims against their will and we are still free to use ours.

Questions for the Shabbos Table: Are we taking our freedom to practice religion for granted? Do we appreciate that every Shabbos we have the opportunity to fill our kiddush cups with wine and sanctify the holy Shabbos? If we are taking the opportunity for granted, what can we do to better appreciate our freedom to perform mitzvos?