he Pesach Yom Tov we recently celebrated afforded me the opportunity to daven Shacharis on Chol Hamoed in the shul of the Bostoner Rebbe shlita. I was an occasional mispallel there after my family moved to Brighton when I was all of seven years old. Looking around the shul I waxed nostalgic, taking in the sights: the same benches I had sat on more than half a century ago, the social hall where I bested a bochur a number of years my senior at the Pirchei table-hockey championships, and, of course, the matzah bakery where my father and the previous Rebbe zichronam livrachah baked matzos on Erev Pesach. Then, I took a long, hard stare at a plaque above the chazzan’s amud that, when I was a young child, seemed to be the most puzzling thing I had ever read. The simple marble slab reads, “In sacred remembrance of our six million brethren who were murdered during the Holocaust 1939–1945. Eretz al techasi damam.”