The Scar On Shloimele's Arm

Little Shloimeleh was the youngest of the family's nine children. He had a quick smile and intelligent eyes. Shloimeleh's favorite time was Friday afternoon, when his mother lit the Shabbat candles. He loved to watch them burn in their polished candlesticks.

But one Shabbat eve, when his mother had closed her eyes to recite the blessing, one of the candles fell on Shloimeleh's arm, badly burning him.

Time passed, and the burn eventually healed. But little Shloimeleh was left with an ugly scar on his forearm as a reminder of the incident.

Then WWII broke out, and Poland was invaded by the Germans. As part of the "final solution," all the Jews in Shloimeleh's town were rounded up and sent to concentration camps. Reb Avraham, Shloimeleh's father, was forcibly separated from the rest of his family. It was the last time he would see his wife and children. Reb Avraham was later interred in a labor camp. Miraculously he survived the Holocaust, and eventually found himself in Russia.

Reb Avraham was now alone in the world. Physically exhausted and consumed with grief, he tried to lessen his pain by learning, praying, and teaching Torah and mitzvot (commandments) to Jewish children, many of whom had never been exposed to Judaism. Aside from organizing a secret yeshiva, he also served as a mohel (ritual circumciser). But of all his religious achievements, the tiny synagogue he established was closest to his heart.

Needless to say, Reb Avraham's activities were completely illegal; time and again he was cautioned by the Communist authorities. But Reb Avraham felt he had nothing to lose. After going through everything he had, what else could they do to him? He continued to spread Torah and mitzvot, and spent even more time in his little shul.

The most persistent of Reb Avraham's tormentors was a young Communist named Natishka. Reb Avraham could hardly take a step without being followed by him. Natishka repeatedly warned him that he would end up before a firing squad if he didn't shape up.

Around this time Reb Avraham decided to apply for an exit visa to Israel. He was very surprised when his request was approved. In truth, Reb Avraham had mixed feelings about leaving Russia. On the one hand, he was grateful for the opportunity to spend the rest of his days in the Holy Land. Yet on the other, he worried about the fate of his brethren. Who would keep the embers of Judaism burning after he was gone?

As the date of his departure grew near, Reb Avraham spent most of his time in his beloved synagogue. Emboldened by the prospect of imminent freedom, he abandoned some of his usual precautions.

One evening Reb Avraham entered the shul and lit several memorial candles in remembrance of his family. His eyes filled with tears as he recalled their faces. In a voice choked with emotion he began to recite Psalms, and the sound carried out into the street...

At that moment, Natishka happened to pass by and decided to investigate. When he saw what the Jew was up to he became incensed.

"When will you ever learn?" he screamed at him. "When will you finally give up your obsolete practices?" Once and for all, he would teach the Jew a lesson. He began to roll up his sleeves...

Reb Avraham remained tranquil. Having already been beaten many times, there was nothing new about the prospect of physical violence. "Shema Yisrael!" ("Hear O Israel"), he called out in a clear if somewhat trembling voice. "The L-rd is our G-d, the L-rd is One!"

It was then that he looked up and noticed Natishka's bare forearm, poised to strike. A long scar, evidence of an old burn, wound its way down his arm in a very familiar pattern...

"Shloimeleh!" Reb Avraham cried out. "Is that you, my son?"

The young Communist's face drained of color as his hand froze in midair. Inexplicably, his eyes were drawn to the candles' flames, as if they reminded him of something long hidden and repressed... A cry erupted from his throat as his eyes filled with tears. He embraced the elderly Jew and began to weep like a small child.

"Tatteh (father)!" he wailed inconsolably. "Tatteh, forgive me!"

Father and son marveled at how Divine Providence had brought them together. Not long afterward they both emigrated to Israel. And each week thereafter, as they gazed into the Shabbat candles, they pondered their indebtedness to them for their reunion.

CHANUKAH IN BERGEN-BELSEN

In one of the last groups to arrive in Bergen-Belsen towards the tail end of World War II was a 
Jew of charismatic appearance who became known to all the other inmates as Reb Shmelke. His full name was Shmuel-Shmelke Shnitzler, a chassid and Torah scholar from somewhere in Hungary. He was very tall and distinguished looking, with strikingly warm and penetrating eyes. Most amazingly, he maintained a mood of genuine cheerfulness, a rare disposition to find in the hellish environment of the camp.

He underwent the harsh terrors and the suffering, the hunger and the abuse, that was the daily portion for the Jew's in the camp, just as all the other prisoners. But, somehow, his demeanor and behavior seemed to indicate that he wasn't affected the same way as everyone else, almost as if he weren't really there.

How was he able to live in such a manner under such conditions? Nobody knew. But it was clear, nevertheless, that he was he drawing immeasurable fortitude and inspiration from some unlimited source.

He even was able to be a fountain of encouragement for his fellow prisoners. He would say to his companions at every opportunity, "A Jew and despair are contradictory in essence; they cannot co-exist." Whenever possible he would organize a minyan for prayer, especially on Shabbat. At nights he would enliven all those around him with stories of the great Chassidic rebbes, momentarily transporting them to other worlds and places, enabling them to temporarily forget their sufferings of body and soul.

To the amazement of all, Reb Shmelke even found favor in the eyes of a few of the cruelest S.S. guards in the camp. Through these connections he was able to aid a number of the inmates.

He was assigned the job of removing from the barracks the dead bodies of the many who died from starvation. He would try to treat them with as much respect as possible, considering this to be the ultimate of holy work that he could do under the circumstances.

In addition to the prevailing conditions of horror in the camp under which the Jews barely managed to survive, Reb Shmelke was nagged by another compelling problem, one that was increasing in urgency with each day that went past: how could he possibly obtain oil with which to kindle the lights of Chanukah. The holiday was only a few short days away.

He consulted everyone with whom he came into contact that he thought might be able to help, but no one had any oil or even anything that could be substituted for it. All said that to obtain anything flammable in the concentration camp was unimaginable as well as impossible.

Still, Reb Shmelke did not give in to despair. The mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah lights was much too important to him. He also realized how much encouragement and hope it would offer the Jews in the camp-to shine light into the deepest of darknesses, to celebrate the victory of few over the many, the pure over the impure….

On the day before Chanukah, Reb Shmelke had to hurry to one of the barracks near the end of the camp, where someone had died just that day. Not far from the fence at the edge of the camp, he stumbled when his foot sunk into a patch of red earth that turned out to be covering a small hole. It was clear that someone had dug this hole on purpose.

He gazed at the shallow depression, and after a moment perceived the sun reflecting off something in it. He looked closer and saw there was a solid object buried there, now slightly revealed. He knelt down and scooped out some dirt with his hands. It was a small jar, half-filled with congealed liquid! Could it be? Could it possibly be!

He removed its cover as quickly as he could and dipped his finger in gingerly. It was oil! He thoughts immediately flashed to the original Chanukah miracle of the finding of the single flask of oil. How could this be happening? Was he dreaming?

Then he noticed that the jar had been concealing other objects beneath it. He dug some more with his hands and uncovered a small package wrapped in a swatch of cloth. In it were eight small cups and eight thin strands of cotton!

Now convinced that someone had intentionally buried this Chanukah stash, Reb Shmelke quickly replaced everything back into the hole and filled it in with the dirt he had removed, carefully smoothing the surface. It would be too dangerous to keep the materials in his possession until Chanukah began the next day in the evening. Besides, perhaps it belonged to someone.

After he completed he job he had been sent upon, Reb Shmelke circulated among as many of the inmates he could during the rest of the day and the, casually asking with an air of innocence if anyone had concealed a quantity of oil in a hiding place. Everyone stared at him as if he were out of his senses.

The next night, all the Jews of Reb Shmelke's barrack crowded around him as he stood poised to light the first candle of Chanukah. He struck the match, and then recited the blessings with great emotion before touching the tiny flame to the thin strands of wick projecting out of the little cups. It was a scene from a storybook in stark contrast to the dour, harsh environment of the concentration camp, a ray of hope that repeated itself for a total of eight nights.

The elderly Reb Shmelke managed to survive the next few months until finally the conquering Allied forces liberated the camp. His faith and hope had proven victorious. After the official conclusion of the war, he returned to his town in Hungary, to try to reassemble the pieces of his broken life.

Several years later, he was able to make the journey to the United States of America. One important stop for him there was to visit the Satmar Rebbe, Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, who lived in Brooklyn. The Rebbe, it turned out, already knew of Reb Shmelke and his deeds, and welcomed him with great warmth.

After they conversed for a while the Rebbe suddenly switched subjects and said to him, "I hear that you had the great honor of lighting Chanukah candles in Bergen-Belsen."

"How does the Rebbe know that?" sputtered Reb Shmelke in wonderment.

"I heard, I heard," replied the Rebbe, smiling mysteriously.

A few moments later the Rebbe bent over to his astonished visitor and whispered in his ear, "I am the one who hid the oil, the cups and the wicks in that hole next to the fence. I did it when I was imprisoned in the camp the year before you, before my miraculous escape.

"At the moment I did it," the Rebbe added, "I believed with all my heart that at the right time it would be found by the right person who would know exactly what to do with it."

[Translated and adapted by Yrachmiel Tilles from Sichat HaShavua #468. ]

Biographical note:
Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum [1888-26 Av 1979], miraculously escaped from Bergen-Belsen in 1944, after which he went to the Holy Land. In 1947 he moved to the USA, where he established himself as the Satmer Rebbe, in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, doing extensive work in establishing Torah education networks. Famed as the leader of Hungarian Jewry and the largest Chassidic group in the world, and as the spiritual leader of the opposition to a secular-based Jewish government in Israel, he was also one of the greatest Torah scholars of his generation.

THE DARKEST BUSIEST SUKKAH IN JERUSALEM

All the Jewish inhabitants of the Old City of Jerusalem in the early 1940's were well acquainted with the uniquesukkah of Rabbi Shlomo-David Kahane, the Chief Ashkenazi Rabbi of the Jewish Quarter. It was so special that even many New City residents made a custom of dropping in during Sukkot on their way to the Western Wall, in order to imbibe of its beauty, its special spirit of holiness and festival joy, and the inspiring Torah words of the rabbi.

Despite his advanced age (70's), Rabbi Kahane always expended major effort in the mitzvah of building his sukkah. He would start, with the help of some of his students, immediately after having something to eat and drink after the 26 hour Yom Kippur fast. He wanted to be sure that it would be large and spacious enough for all the guests who always wanted to come. His young grandchildren and great grandchildren could hardly control themselves in anticipation until the sukkah was ready, so that they could make it even more beautiful and glorious with their innocent festive decorations.

While everyone was fascinated by the Rabbi's magnificent sukkah, one custom of his in it perplexed them. Indeed, it seemed almost bizarre. On the first night of the holiday, the time of the only meal of the Sukkot festival obligated by the Torah, all the Sukkot in Jerusalem were filled with light…except the famous one of Rabbi Kahane, where the meal was conducted in great joy, but in near total darkness relieved only by the dim light of a few candles. And when those candles dimmed and extinguished, the Rabbi, accompanied by some of his students, sat in the pitch blackness the entire night, energetically discussing Torah topics relevant to the festival, and in particular to the commandment of dwelling seven nights and days in a sukkah. In a later year, on one of the days of Sukkot, Rabbi Kahane agreed to explain the background behind this strange custom of his.

* * *

Poland had been beaten into submission by the brutal Nazi war machine. Heavy artillery and rocket fire had devastated all the major cities, especially Warsaw. It was September 1939. The High Holiday season was just beginning. Rabbi Shlomo-David Kahane was then Chief Rabbi of Warsaw. He was well aware that he would not be able to fulfill the two Sukkot festival commandments of Dwelling in a Sukkah and Waving the Four Species in their full glory, as he was accustomed to. Not even a single lulav (palm branch) was available, nor any suitable myrtles or willows. In all of Warsaw there was one etrog (citron fruit), in the possession of Rabbi Meshulem Kaminer, the man in charge of the Jewish cemetery in Warsaw.

After Yom Kippur, with the Sukkot festival only four days away, it seemed that it would not be possible to erect asukkah for the week-long festival. True, Rabbi Kahane had in storage all the wooden boards necessary for the walls and the roofing of a sukkah, but to dare to actually build a sukkah would be to seriously endanger his life. Warsaw was occupied by blood-thirsty Nazis, who patrolled the streets voraciously. Any visible sign of Jewish observance could whet their appetite for another blood bath. No one in his family would be safe - not in the sukkah and not inside the house.

Nevertheless, despite the difficulties and the dangers, Rabbi Kahane was not willing in the slightest to give up themitzvah so precious to him. In the days preceding Sukkot, he prowled all over the area, looking for a spot in one of the Jewish courtyards that was sufficiently concealed for him to risk constructing a sukkah there.

In the end, he decided on a location in a courtyard only three houses away from his own dwelling. With the help of some of his students, he succeeded in removing the wooden walls and the thin strips of wood for the roof from storage, quietly transporting them to the chosen spot, and quickly erecting a sukkah that fit all the requirements of Jewish law. Around it he hung wet sheets and clothes, so that a casual glance would register only laundry hanging to dry.

On the first night of the festival, the Rabbi surreptitiously entered the sukkah with two of his students. They recited kiddush over two slices of bread, and discussed Torah topics relating to the holiday and the mitzvah of dwelling in a sukkah in as low tones as possible. There were no decorations in the sukkah, no delicacies appropriate for a festive meal to eat or drink; no visible signs of the holiday at all other than the bare sukkah. Still, Rabbi Kahane felt as happy as he ever did in his life, filled with joy and gratitude at being able to fulfill the mitzvah of dwelling in a sukkah in such extremely difficult conditions.

In order not to arouse the suspicions of the Nazi beasts, who patrolled everywhere in the area until there was no one left on the streets, the rabbi and his two students remained in the sukkah the entire night. That whole time they didn't discuss even once the political situation and its continuous terrors; they continued with enthusiasm to analyze the holiday and its mitzvot from all the various aspects of Torah. One point which the Rabbi emphasized to his two students was the following:

"There is one question I always ask myself: when will I be able to fulfill the commandment to 'rejoice in your holiday' purely and in its entirety? Holidays contain many elements besides the mitzvah itself - eating, drinking, fancy desserts, resting, socializing, etc. Tonight we have learned that when we sit in a sukkahdevoid of all these components - no delicacies to eat and not even any light, overshadowed by an environment of dread and terror, yet still we make every effort to instill and feel joy in our hearts, this is true, pure, unadulterated joy in the mitzvah--the real thing!--an inner joy, stemming from the actual fulfillment of the mitzvah in the most antagonistic of conditions."

A basic motif of Nazi activity in conquered cities was actions to depress the spirit of the Jewish community - to humiliate them, to subjugate them, to crush any remnants of Jewish pride and personal self esteem. One of their favorite methods for this was to topple the rabbi; it was on the top of their "to do" list. They well understood the role the rabbis filled in encouraging the people, strengthening them, and lifting their spirits.

So it happened that on the first night of Sukkot, in the middle of the night, while the Rabbi and his two students were still sitting and conversing in the blacked-out sukkah, a small group of uniformed Nazis came banging loudly with their gun butts on the Kahane family door. When the terrified Mrs. Kahane finally opened the door, the vile Germans burst in and amidst much cursing began a thorough search in every room and corner of the house, pausing only to present blows with their gloved fists to any family member who came too close.

The entire time of the search Mrs. Kahane stood stone still. When they were not able to find any trace of her husband, one of the Nazi soldiers placed the barrel of his revolver between her eyes and barked, "Tell us immediately where is the Rabbi, or else…."

It was with great difficulty that the terrified Rebbetzin managed to squeeze out a few words in reply. "He disappeared as soon as the explosions started."

This explanation made sense to the Nazi murderers because at the time of the explosions many people ran off. So he lowered his gun, and they wrote in their report "the Rabbi fled," implying there was no need to search the house any more.

While the Rabbi was sitting in his sukkah with his students that night, he heard the screaming, the curses and the tumult, but it never occurred to him that he was the main cause of it. It was only early the next morning when he managed to sneak home that his wife told him about the miracle that had taken place the night before. Subsequently, at the Festival Morning Torah Reading, Rabbi Kahane said the "Gomel" blessing, thanking the Almighty for the kindness of His intervention.

* * *

Only after a long arduous journey with numerous potential pitfalls did Rabbi Kahane finally succeed in escaping the claws of the Nazis and reading the shores of the Holy Land. He decided that as a reminder and an expression of appreciation for the wondrous salvation that had occurred for him, every year he would continue to sit in a darkenedsukkah, to remember and re-experience how it is possible to capture the true essence of the mitzvah of sitting in asukkah, even without light or any of the other usually available pleasures.

Into his remarkable story Rabbi Kahane managed to weave the pithy explanation of the Chasidic rebbe and tzadik,Rabbi Meir of Premishlan about a law of the festival as stated in the Mishna: "One who is suffering [from illness or from conditions in the outdoor sukkah] is freed from [the obligation to dwell in] the sukkah."

Commented Rebbe Meirl: "One who is suffering, the sukkah frees him" - the sukkah can free us and save us from all of our sorrows.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Source: Translated-adapted by Yerachmiel Tilles from Sichat HaShavua #1344.

Biographical note:
Rabbi Shlomo-David Kahane (1868 - 27 Kislev 1943) was considered a leading rabbinical authority in his generation. He was the Chief Rabbi of Warsaw and its rabbinical court for many years until the early years of WWII, when he managed to escape the deadly clutches of the Nazis who were hunting him and eventually arrive in Israel. He became the chief rabbi of the Old City of Jerusalem until his death in 1943. His "Committee of Polish Rabbis in Israel" and his "Committee of Polish Rabbis for Freeing Agunot" saved literally thousands of Jewish women whose husbands' whereabouts were unknown as a result of WWII horrors, and enabled them to remarry.

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How Tzitzit Scared A Nazi Away

This story, condensed from Talks and Tales, is a first-hand account by a survivor of Hitler's war on the Jews.

"I was lying in a ravine, by the side of a railroad embankment, in the dead of night. All my bones ached. I had just escaped from the train carrying hundreds of my brethren to the death camp of Auschwitz. The rattling sounds of the train were dying in the distance.

"I had been stunned by the fall, and I don't know how long I had been lying in the ravine. When I regained consciousness and realized that no bones were broken, I thanked G-d for being alive. Raising my head a little I looked around. Hundreds of yards away, along the track, I saw the silhouette of a Nazi guard on duty, clearly outlined between me and the woods. A large field lay between me and the woods. I had to get there before dawn. Already the stars were fading.

"Cautiously I began to creep towards the woods. Every movement was agony. At last I found myself among the trees, and could breathe with relief. The trees would give me shelter. Under a cluster of low fir trees I lay myself down in hiding. With a prayer of gratitude to the Almighty on my lips, I fell asleep.

"I woke up in the advanced hours of the morning. Very cautiously I stole a glimpse around. There was neither sight nor sound of man or beast. I should have preferred the latter, anyway. Suddenly I felt very hungry. For three days I had had no food or water. The pangs of hunger became unbearable. I thought I would die in agony if I did not get some food soon.

"I got out of my hiding place and for a moment I stood, not very steadily, inhaling the fresh morning air. I knew that I was yet far from free. I would be hunted like an animal or die of starvation. The woods which had seemed so friendly, seemed friendly no longer. Fir and pines and nothing else, not even a berry or a blade of grass.

"I started walking. In the distance I saw a farmhouse. Would I find a human being who would take pity on me? I decided to chance it. I knocked softly on the door. When it opened I saw a peasant woman stare at me. Then I felt my blood curdle. For over her shoulder appeared the face of a Nazi in uniform.

"I turned and fled, but it was too late. A loud shout of 'Halt!' sent the chills down my spine. I collapsed like a bundle of straw.

"The Nazi kicked me viciously. 'Get up, Jew!' he yelled. 'Come on, Jew, step lively, march!'

"I was now marching back to the woods, with the Nazi following a few paces behind. As I walked I recited the 'Aleinu' prayer:

It is our duty to praise the L-rd of all things, To ascribe greatness to Him Who formed the world in the beginning Since He has not made us like the nations of other lands, And has not placed us like families of the earth...

"A serene calmness began to descend upon me. I was not afraid to die.

"'Halt!' came the order. 'About face!'

"I turned around. For a moment the Nazi paused. If he expected me to fall on my knees begging for my life, he was going to be disappointed.

"'Dig!' roared the Nazi.

"I was wondering what I was to dig with.

"'Dig!' he roared again.

"I dropped on my knees and began to dig with my fingers. The soft earth yielded freely. At last my grave was ready.

"Then he order me to strip. I took off my boots, and began to take off my clothes. When I reached my tzitzit I stopped.

"'Strip!' roared the Nazi, hoarse with rage.

"'No!' I said defiantly. 'I want to die with this garment on me.

"The Nazi drew his pistol and aimed. I closed my eyes and whispered the 'Shema,' and waited for the shot, but it didn't come. I opened my eyes.

"The Nazi was still aiming. His hand was not very steady. 'What is this, and what are you whispering?' He asked, pointing to my tzizit.

"'These are my sacred witnesses,' I said, 'and they will accompany my soul to the Heavenly Court and bear witness before the Almighty how I met my death. They will demand retribution for my innocent blood, and the blood of my innocent brothers.'

"The Nazi hesitated. His cruel face became visibly worried. He was thinking - something he had not done since he had joined the Nazi youth.

"'Suddenly he roared, 'Scram! To the devil with you! Run before I change my mind!'

"I stood still. My feet seemed glued to the ground. 'Run, idiot,' I was saying to myself, but still I could not move. I just stood there, my eyes wide open, staring at the Nazi.

"Suddenly, he turned and fled..."

The Hidden Door In Haditch

It was Elul, 5701 (1941) when the Germans invaded the town of Haditch and forced the Jews out of their homes. The unsuspecting Jews followed orders and filed to the outskirts of the town, where they were massacred. A handful of them, however, fearing the worst, had fled to the Jewish cemetery. They hid themselves in the small synagogue which was attached to the Ohel (the building housing the grave) of the founder of Chabad-Lubavitch, Rabbi Shneur Zalman, known as the Alter Rebbe.
Lookouts were posted outside the synagogue, while inside, The Hidden Doorz the little band of Jews tried to sleep. They hoped to make contact with nearby partisans who could lead them to their forest hideout. Suddenly, the guards saw a wagon approaching filled with Ukrainian police. They dashed to the synagogue to warn the others, but the police had seen them. The Jews were trapped inside with Ukrainian police guarding the locked doors of the synagogue building.
There was no escape, and the terrified survivors of the massacre at Haditch waited in the darkness. In the adjacent Ohel, the Eternal Flame flickered as always above the grave of the Alter Rebbe. Aharon Ginzberg, the old caretaker of the cemetery, entered the Ohel and wept. He contemplated what lay ahead. Tomorrow would be the last day of his life, he thought.
"Holy Rebbe!" a cry escaped from his lips. "Your children are in desperate danger! You must pray for us! 'If not for the prayers of tzadikim in the Other World, this world could not exist for even one second...'"
Although Aharon Ginzberg's eyes were closed, he felt rather than saw a swell of brilliant light filling the room. It was emanating from all sides -- from up, from down, from the very walls of the structure itself. Then he heard a voice, a heavenly voice reverberating in his ears.
"I cannot bear it any longer!" the voice said. "The attribute of Yaakov is the attribute of mercy. Open the cave under the Eternal Flame."
Suddenly, the door to the synagogue was thrown open and three members of the S.S. and two Ukrainian policemen stormed in. "Here they are!" they cried triumphantly. "You will remain here until morning," the S.S. man snarled. All of the Jews who had been in the synagogue were now shoved into the Ohel. Locking them in, the murderers went into the synagogue, to wait for dawn. While the Jews spent the night immersed in prayer, their tormentors wiled away the hours drinking and laughing.
Aharon Ginzberg whispered to their leader, Binyamin: "Binyamin, I heard a voice telling me there is a cave under the eternal light." Binyamin had no idea what to think of these strange words. He walked over and moved the wooden desk which stood beneath the light. There, to his utter shock, was a trap door. He lifted the lid and peered into the mouth of a hidden cavern.
It was decided that Binyamin would lead the procession, with the women and children in the rear. Everyone descended the rickety steps into the dark tunnel except the old caretaker, Aharon Ginzberg. He had remained above and had carefully and silently replaced the wooden desk which had covered the cave's entrance. Then he resumed his recital of Psalms.
His son Leibke began to weep when he realized what his father had done. "Tatte," he sobbed, but he was quickly silenced. The group moved steadily through the thick darkness, stopping every so often to get their bearing. But then -- disappointment -- the exit was completely sealed with earth and gravel. They began to scrape at the loose earth with their bare hands. They dug until they were bathed in sweat, but their labors were rewarded, for just when they could dig no more, they found themselves standing beneath the cold night sky.
Only Leibke Ginzberg hesitated. How could he leave his father behind?
The others faced another kind of trial. There, before them, a freezing river separated them from the forest and the partisans' den. Binyamin was the first to spot a small, half-rotted boat on the other side of the river. He managed to bring it across and two by two, he ferried the survivors to the other side. Though exhausted, they continued on until they found the partisans' hideout.
Binyamin told the partisans of their narrow escape and that Aharon Ginzberg had remained behind. The partisans made their way through the forest until they reached the Ohel. There they found Leibke Ginzberg lying outside the building undetected by the soldiers but helpless to save his father, who had been discovered by the loathsome killers.
Finding their prey gone, the soldiers had turned their wrath on the old man. When he didn't respond to the curses and beatings, they shot him three times and he returned his holy soul to his Maker.
Leibke and the partisans had been the powerless witnesses of the murder. Now that the killers' weapons had been completely discharged, they waited for them to emerge. Five minutes later it was all over. The bodies of the soldiers were stripped, their weapons and uniforms confiscated. By the light of the partisans' lanterns, Leibke Ginzberg wept over his father's remains.

Reprinted from Reaching Out Newsletter

Seder In A Nazi Prison

The men sat together, crowded and bent in the large prison room. It was a common ward for Jews and Poles who were locked up for diverse and unusual reasons. Among the prisoners was an aging Rabbi caught by the Germans teaching Torah to his students in a secret basement.

In that dull, harsh dungeon everything had a dingy gray cast about it, as well as an aura of timelessness. It was impossible to distinguish between day and night. There were neither days of work nor days of rest, but rather each day brought with it its own torture. The only way to note the passage of time was by the arrival of the guards who came in to take one of the prisoners on his last ominous walk.

One day the entire jail room was aroused. Through the high, narrow window penetrated a pale ray of light. At that moment, the voice of the Rabbi was heard as he called out, "Gut Yom Tov, Jews! Why are you so quiet? Today is Passover! It's the first seder night!"

All the prisoners, including the Poles, treated the Rabbi with respect. He, the Rabbi, knew the reckoning of the Sabbaths and the weekdays, and even of day and night, and he would pray quietly, morning, afternoon and evening. At the time of even the most terrible tortures he would draw joy from his hidden, inner wellspring. This time he apparently sought to share his joy with all the Jews in the jail.

Some derisive remarks were heard in the crowd. "Nu, a Seder yet!" "Nu...and four cups of wine? Or at least one sip..." "And a piece of matza, if only for remembrance..."

The Rabbi did not seem to hear them. "My dear brother, Jews! The Hagada I know by heart. What does it say in the beginning of the Hagada?--`This year we are here, next year may we be in the Land of Israel! This year we are slaves, next year may we be free men!' Do you hear? We Jews, we are not slaves! A man is only a slave if he admits it, and we do not admit it! Next year free men, Jews!" The Jewish prisoners, old and young, religious and free-thinking, began to gather around the old Rabbi who had stirred them up, infusing them with hope for deliverance. At one corner of the room a "Seder table" was set up. There was no sign of the holiday, not even a single solitary candle, only the festive voice of the Rabbi reciting the story of the Exodus.

The old man recited the words of the Hagada and the entire assemblage repeated them after him, as if they had all been transported to an enchanted world.

Suddenly the chanting stopped. The Polish prisoners seemed to have been startled by the strange scene in front of their eyes. Some of them jumped up from their seats, madly furious. "That's Jewish impudence for you! Bojnitza (synagogue) you are making here?"

The head of the guards, a Storm Trooper, came in with a few soldiers. "Jews!" he snapped. "You can still think of praying and singing!"

And he turned to the loudest of the Polish prisoners and said to him, "Keep an eye on them! I appoint you supervisor of all the inmates. I have no time or patience for them now. But tomorrow I will let them have it."

An oppressive silence ensued. Even the organizer of the ruckus did not feel at ease. The voice of the Rabbi broke the silence, soft and tremulous. "Woe to him who of his own free will becomes a slave to the wicked."

"Shame on you, hiring yourself out to the henchman!" One of the young men suddenly stood up and faced the new "supervisor" of the jail.

After a long pause a voice was heard "Go ahead and pray as much as you want. It was the new "supervisor." A moment later he added, "But at least explain to me what you are saying with such enthusiasm!"

"By all means!" the young man responded. "That old man will continue and I will explain his words in Polish, so that everyone may understand."

The Seder celebration was resumed with renewed vigor.

"And this, this great faith, is what has kept the Jews going during the most difficult times of oppression, 'that not only one foe,' not only one Hitler has arisen to destroy us, but in every generation new enemies rise to wipe us off the face of the earth."

"We, the Polish people, we too are persecuted! We also have enemies on all sides!" the chief screamer interrupted him, all excited and agitated. "Boys! he turned to his Polish brethren, "listen to these wise words! The main thing is not to lose faith and hope! Let's learn from the Zhidki..."

Jews and Poles sat huddled together, listening to more of the story. "Aha!" the Pole interrupted in excitement, "how similar that history is to what is happening around us!"

"Blood, and fire, and billows of smoke...".

"Forgive me, old man," said the loud-mouthed supervisor. "You are a holy man," and he threw himself at the feet of the Rabbi.

The old man looked at him with eyes full of compassion, and began singing an old Chasidic folk song in Polish. Slowly, all of them, Jews and Poles, learned the old man's tune, and the melody passed from mouth to mouth, from heart to heart.

Suddenly, a shot was fired, and all eyes turned to the wide door. There stood a guard, gun in hand, mad with anger. "You are having a party, eh? To bed, or I'll empty all my bullets into your heads!"

No one was afraid of him. And no one, Jew or Pole, slept all night.

It was Layl Shimurim, the night of Pesach, a Night of Watching.

Excerpted with permission from Sparks of Glory, Moshe Prager, Mesorah Publications.