Story: Yiskor for a living son

A Jewish observant Jew was once on a flight in the US. He struck up a conversation with the man
sitting next to him who also happened to be Jewish, by the name of Mr. Weinstein. When the
meals were served, he took Kosher, but Mr. Weinstein didn’t. He asked Mr Weinstein in a casual
way, why it was that he didn’t order Kosher? Why would he eat bacon?
Mr. Weistein pulled up his sleeve and showed his neighbor the number tattooed by the SS on his
arm. He shared how lost his family in the war, besides for one son who survived the selections
with him. But then, near the end of the war, they took his son away to another camp, and he
never ever saw his son again. That was the last straw that killed my faith. Why should I keep
Kosher? The man was startled and remained silent.
Four years passed, and one Yom Kippur whilst he man was going to Shul, he noticed an elderly
Jewish looking figure smoking, sitting on the bench. As he approached he was surprised to see it
was the same man he had met a few years earlier on the plane. Mr. Weinstein. He saw this as no
coincidence, and decided to go up to him and strike a conversation. He told him that today was
Yom Kippur, and in a few minutes they would say yizkor for all our loved ones who have passed
on. Weinstein did not want to hear from it. He said that he never been to a synagogue since the
Holocaust. “I have nothing to find there.”
But this other Jews pleaded: What can you lose? It will be a comfort for you to be with many
other survivors who remember and pay tribute to all of their loved ones who perished. You will
say a kaddish for your son. You know what? I will ask the cantor to do a special service, a Kel
Maleh Rachamim, for your son, since you have never been to shul since the Holocaust.
The man reluctantly agreed. They entered the synagogue and for the first time since the war he
said Yizkor for his beloved family.
Then the Jew who brought him in, approached the Chazan to say a prayer for his son.
The cantor began the prayer: E-l Maleh Rachamim, Shochen Meromim… Compassionate G-d,
please remember the soul of… and the cantor turned to the Jew to tell him the name of the boy
and his father’s name. The Jew said: Kasriel Menachem ben Yechezkel Shraga.
The Chazan heard the name and turned white like a ghost.
People ran over to support him.
The cantor asked who is the father of this child, and they pointed to the man, the survivor, who
just came to shul for the first time.The cantor ran over to him, screaming: Tate, Tate, Tate --- Father, father, father. As father and
son embraced.

Story: Hope in Auschwitz

Rabbi Hugo Gryn. Hugo Gryn (1930-1996), was a Holocaust survivor, a community
leader, educator and broadcaster for the BBC, was born in Berehovo,
Czechoslovakia in a home filled with great warmth.
Hugo Gryn was 13 years old when he, among 10,000 Jews confined to the
Berehovo ghetto in April 1944. All were sent to Auschwitz on May 28, 1944.
He and his father were sent to work; his brother and grandfather were sent to the
gas chambers.
Hugo Gryn and his father, together with 2,600 Jews were later sent to the death
march from the Lieberose camp to Mauthausen. Less than a thousand survived that
march. Hugo was freed in on May 4, 1945, but his father died a few days later from
typhus and exhaustion.
Rabbi Gryn once related: When I was a young boy my family was sent to Auschwitz. For a while my father and I shared a barrack.
In spite of the unspeakable horror, oppression and hardship, many Jews held onto
what scraps of Jewish religious observance as they were able.
One midwinter evening one of the inmates reminded us that tonight was the first
night of Chanukah, the festival of lights. My father constructed a little Chanukah
menorah out of scrap metal. For a wick, he took some threads from his prison
uniform.
For oil, he used some butter that he somehow obtained from a guard.
Such observances were strictly “verboten,” but we were used to taking risks.
Rather, I protested at the “waste” of precious calories. Would it not be better to
share the butter on a crust of bread than burn it?
“Hugo,” said my father, “both you and I know that a person can live a very long time
without food. But Hugo, I tell you, a person cannot live a single day without hope.
This Menorah is the fire of hope. Never let it go out. Not here. Not anywhere.
Remember that Hugo.”

Rabbi Cleans Streets

On the Tel Aviv street next to the Sadigerer Shul, an elderly Yemenite Jew
worked diligently, sweeping the street. He worked quickly and methodically,
sweeping first one side of the street and then the other. When he approached
the entrance to the shul, however, he stopped sweeping and passed by the
building with his broom aloft. Then he continued sweeping the road.



My grandfather, Rabbi Chaskel Besser, who resided in Tel Aviv at the time
and frequented the shul, noticed this odd behavior and wondered about it. He
approached the street cleaner and asked him how come he had not swept in
front of the shul.



The gentleman looked at my grandfather. "The rabbi doesn't allow me to."



My grandfather's curiosity was aroused, and he approached the Sadigerer
Rebbe and asked for an explanation, but the rabbi only smiled. My
grandfather asked again, and then again, until finally, the rabbi told his
story.



The rabbi had been visiting Vienna in 1938 when the Nazis entered Vienna.
They immediately sought out the prominent Jews and arrested them, among them
the Sadigerer Rebbe.



In a chilling hint of the humiliation and degradation which they intended to
visit upon the Jews, they took these Jewish leaders and found different ways
to publicly disgrace them.



The Sadigerer Rebbe, a man of regal bearing and conduct, was given a little
brush and stood in front of the great Vienna Opera House. They placed a
small street cleaner's hat on his head, and ordered him to sweep the stairs
of the building with this ridiculously ineffective brush.



As this holy rabbi stooped on those ornate steps, tears streaming down his
cheeks, he whispered a prayer, and a vow, to God:



"Almighty, save me from these beasts. Lead me out of this country and to
your home, the land of Israel. And I promise that there I will sweep the
streets with delight and gratification."



The rabbi smiled at my grandfather. "Thus, I insist that the street cleaner
leave those precious few yards of sidewalk, the entrance to God's house, for
me to sweep."

Yizkor Story: Life is a play

Yizkor Story:

I was visiting  Jewish patients in S. Francis Hospital some months back,
when I walked into  the room of an elderly Jew named Irving, a holocaust
survivor, who was  obviously quite sick, surrounded by his entire family. I spent
some time with  him. We talked about the horrors of his youth, and how he
managed to continue  on living. He told me it was his mother?s words to him
on the last night  before we were separated. ?She sat me down and said to me:
Life is like a  play. (My mother loved the theater). Every one of us plays
a part. Not just  us, but our parents and grandparents, they?re parents and
grandparents, all  the way back to Abraham and Sarah. They?re all part of
this production. Each  of us plays a part, And then, when your part is over,
you go backstage. You?re  not gone, you?re still there, looking, cheering,
helping out in any way you  can from behind the scenes?

And then mama grabbed my hand, looked  me in the eye, and said: ?Yisrolik?
le, I don?t know what?s going to happen,  how long we?ll be together,
whether I?ll survive this. But one thing I ask of  you, If you survive. Don?t
give up, play your part. You might feel sad and  lonely, but I beg of you- don?
t give up. Play your role as best you can. Live  your life to the fullest.
I promise you, you won?t be alone. Tate un ich, babe  un zeide, mir velen
aleh zein mit dir oif eibig, Daddy and me, grandma and  grandpa, we will be
with you forever, we?ll be watching you from backstage.  I?m sure you won?t
let us down and you?ll play your part.? It was those words  from Mama that
got me out of bed on many a difficult morning.

By  the time the man finished the story, there wasn?t a dry eye in the
room.

A few days later the man passed away. At the shiva, the  family kept
repeating the story about the play. It was clear they took comfort  from knowing
their father was still there, behind the scenes. Still, there was  a profound
sense of pain and loss.

They asked me to say a few  words. So I got up, turned to the family, and I
said: There is a postscript to  the story. What happens at the end of the
play? All the actors comes back out?  Right? Everyone comes out on the stage
to give a bow.  It is a basic  Jewish belief that all the neshomos, every
soul will come back and be with us  once again, right here in this world. I
assure you, I said, with G-d?s help,  you will soon be reunited with your
father.?

My dear beloved  friends, my fellow yiden, we?re about to say the Yiskor
prayer. Remembering  our loved ones whose souls join us right here in shul. Let
?s promise to make  them proud.Let?s make this the year when each of us
reaches our potential,  when each of us lives each day to the fullest, When we
realize the beauty of  every moment. when we appreciate the G-dly purpose
we have been privileged to  be a part of.

And while we?re at it, let?s ask our loved one?s  to send an email or put
in a phone call to the producer, Or maybe even pay Him  a visit. Tell Him,
please. We?re ready for Moshiach. We?ve done our job.  Enough with the
yiddishe tzoros, shoin tzeit, it?s time already. The Rebbe  told us to prepare
for Moshiach, that we?re this close to completing the task  for which we were
chosen. We?re ready for the time when ? lecho tichra kol  berech ? all
creations will bow to you, We?re ready for the final bow. We?re  ready for the
time when G-d will call this place His  home.

Story: Mute Boy

Mute Boy


After the war a rescuer who was looking for hidden children survivors came

across a 11-12 year old boy who was raised in a non Jewish home and was

known as a mute. No one had ever heard him speak. The boy when he saw this

man was Jewish asked him"is the Gerer Rebbe still alive?" The rescuer

reassured the child that the gerer Rebbe was alive in Eretz Yisroel. The

boy lifted his shirt and showed him under his clothing wrapped around his

frail body was a pair of teffilin. These teffilin my father gave me the last

day I saw him when he gave me to this non Jewish family to be saved and he

told me that I should wear them when I have my bar mitzvah. I wrapped the

teffilin around my body in order that I should never lose them or be

separated from them. "Why have you acted mute all this time"? asked the man.

The boy replied "the non Jew who took me in as his own told me that if

anyone asked my religion I would have to say I was a non Jew. I decided that

I could not do that and from then on I would never talk in order that I

should never ever have to say that I was not Jewish. Since that day I have

never spoken to anyone you are the first person I have spoken to. Please

take me to see the eretz Yisrael I want to see the gerer Rebbe."



The vows the untruths we say in our actions and our deeds we act as maaranos

etc.hiding jewishness

Why Should I buy Tefillin?

Why Should I buy Tefillin?


In answer to a number of emails sent to me privately – in case anyone is wondering if the historical/holocaust emotional stuff really works let me tell you of something that happened to my son R’ Eli Gutnick here in Melbourne this past Elul.

Eli is our sofer here in Melbourne and he regularly speaks to Bar Mitzvah boys and their fathers about Tephilin – shows them how they’re made etc. After addressing one school group during this past Elul one very sceptical father talks to him and finishes with “Give me one good reason that will convince me, a totally non-practicing Jew, to fork out money to buy a pair of tephillin for my son.”

Without saying a word Eli takes out his iphone and brings up the famous picture of the barefooted yid standing next to a line of bodies (he was reportedly reciting Kaddish) He is wrapped in a Tallis and broken-open tephillin are prominently on his head and arm. A group of grinning and laughing Nazi soldiers are standing around him posing with the Jew they are about to murder.


The father looks at the picture for a good few minutes then looks up at Eli and says “How much is your most expensive pair....?”

It’s an appropriate thought for Yizkor – with the usual lesson that we who say Yizkor should reassure the neshomos of our parents and Kedoshim who join us for those special moments that we and our children are Thank G-d able to put on Tallis and Tephillin and pledge greater commitment to do so and to generally carry on the heritage we have received from them. We need to be able to tell them proudly that we are part of assuring that “Am Yisroel Chai....”.

Good morning Herr Muller

In a queue waiting
to step up to the scales of death was an older Jew, a Rabbi
Rabinovitz, who understood well that his frail frame would serve no
use to these beasts. He knew that his scale should tip to the left.
Before the war, before this madness Rabbi Rabinovitz enjoyed a
tranquil life with his non Jewish neigbours. In fact the Rabbi was
maddeningly polite and would always greet his younger neighbour Herr
Muller with a smile and a tip of the hat. ?good morning Herr Muller?!
He would say, and Muller would respond with a ?good morning herr
Rabbiner!? proud that the Jewish Rabbi paid him such deference. But
then the madness began and suddenly there were no friends for the Jews
and then there were no neighbours and now, now there was a queue for a
scale that inevitably tipped left. As the Rabbi approached the scale,
he dared to look up into the angel of death. Suddenly he stood up
straight, doffed his hat and quietly, imperceptibly, said, ?good
morning Herr Muller?! The scale froze and then very quietly it said,
?good morning herr rabiner? and (make with the hands) tipped right.

we prayed to a G-d who had abandoned us

Eli Wiesel – (describing what happened after the Americans liberated
Buchenwald) What we wanted to do first before eating is to have a religious
service. And we had a religious service. So instead of committing acts of
anger we prayed to a G-d who had abandoned us. To this day I don’t
understand why we did it.

1938 Chanukah Miracle

It happened shortly after Kristelnacht in 1938 that a Jewish family was
trying to escape Germany on a train bound for Holland. They worried that the
Gestapo agents at the border would find fault with their papers and find an
excuse to detain them. This was the last night of Chanukah and the family
had not had a chance to light the Chanukah candles. When they arrived at the
border a long line of Gestapo agents boarded the train, but as they began to
examine the passports the lights in the entire station went out. The father
of this Jewish family pulled out his Menorah and quickly lit eight candles
in succession.

The lights attracted unwanted attention and the little cabin quickly filled
with unsmiling Gestapo agents. But these agents did not pay the Jews any
attention. They simply used the candle light to perform their duties and
inspected the passports of the train’s passengers. When the last passport
was examined the agents turned to the Jewish family and thanked them
politely for providing emergency lights. So grateful were they that they
forgot to check the passports of the Jewish family thus saving their lives.

As soon as the agents left the train the lights in the entire station came
back on and the train crossed the border.

A modern Chanukah miracle. The lights went out to save this family and so
long as their Chanukah lights burned they were safe. It is truly an amazing
story. But for our purposes this story has a message. So long as the
blinding lights of the station burned the Jew was in danger. So long as the
lights of economic success burn we live in a bubble of illusion that
jeopardizes the true purpose of life. The glittering lights of success blind
us from the inspiring message of life’s true meaning and we continue to live
the illusion. Once the lights go out, the new realization can dawn. The
former false lights are replaced by lights that illuminate the true meaning
of life. The former lights of transient value are replaced by lights that
allow us access to eternity; lights that radiate a heavenly message and
impart a humble truth.

Story: I'll put on Tefillin BUT NO KIPA!

One of Anash in Johannesburg did his Purim seuda this year with only peoplethat he and his wife knew normally wouldn't have a seuda otherwise. One ofthe guest called up a day before and said their friend wants to bring aJewish friend from their public school and he happily agreed. A day laterthe guest calls to say that the parents of this friend wanted to know ifthey could come to as they are Jewish but never attended anything Jewish atall and since their child was going they would like to come along, and ofcourse the parents are invited too...
At the party he notices that this parent of the friend is standing on theside somewhat lonely and goes over, says L'chaim and while talking theydiscover that their offices are right near each other. "okay, I'll cometomorrow to put on tefillin with you!" The guy, who didn't even know whatTefillin are laughingly agrees, joking that you wont even remember tomorrow.
He shows up in the office the next day and the guy, surprised to see him,welcomes him inside to his office - which is full of buddhist getchkes. Whenhe asks him if they can perhaps go somewhere else the guy says no, notreally and so they agree to do it on the side.
When he pulls out the Yarmulkeh, the guy says "that I won't do, becausealthough I know nothing about Judaism, the one thing I know is that the headcovering is supposed to symbolize belief in G-d, so if you want to put onTefilin with me anyways then fine, but no Yarmulkeh. After debating in hishead whether or not to do it, the orayso of tefilin wins and he says, okwe'll put it on anyways"
"Really, you'll let me put it on anyways?, ok, do you have a yarmulkah forme to wear..." So they start putting on Tefilin, the guy (wearing ayarmulkeh...) repeating word for word, not recognizing the brochos, thelanguage etc.
As they start saying the words Shema Yisroel however, the man starts gettingvery emotional and by the time they reach Echod he's broken down inuncontrollable sobbing... When they finish Shema, he asks to see thetranslation in english of the words he said but when reading them doesntseem to be moved by their content in any significant way.
After they finish taking off the tefilin the man explains.
My parents were German holocaust survivors of the concentration camps. Afterthe war they got married and in their disdain for anything Jewish theyescaped to South Africa and with German names were never identified as Jewsand never associated with anything Jewish. The only thing Jewish of myupbringing was that any time anything Jewish was mentioned or discussed myparents would get very angry and it was something we never discussed orengaged in.
My one memory though, is that as a child I remember my mother waking upnight after night, shrieking in horror through the nightmares that wouldrevive the horrible memories of her experiences. Through all the screamingthe only thing I would hear besides for her sobbing was her screaming aloudthe words "Shema Yisroel Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echod...."
(...The koach of Shema Yisroel to pierce through the rishus of the nazis,the assimilation of the diaspora and the eternal struggle of the neshomo...)

Ripping Off the Kittel - Story

Ripping Off the Kittel
Yom Kippur 1945


The account below was related to me personally by Reb Leibel Zisman, a living witness to these unforgettable events. Leibel was 14 years old at the time, and his birthday is on Yom Kippur.

Yom Kippur Eve 1945/5706, Foehrenwald DP Camp, Germany.

The sun was about to set on Yom Kippur eve, the holiest day of the year.

But for us… For us it felt like Tisha B’av. Just a few months earlier we were living, if you can call that living, it was actually dying, in the unspeakable horror that was called the Gunskirchen Lager (concentration camp) in Northern Austria. It is impossible to describe the hundreds of dead bodies strewn about everywhere you turned throughout the camp. The hunger, the stench, the death, the insanity was everywhere. The Nazis, may their names and memories be forever erased, dehumanized us, turning us into ravenous sub-humans, desperate for a drop of water. Days would go by between a morsel of bread and paltry sip.

I was 14 years old when we were finally liberated on May 5, 1945. Orphaned, widowed, homeless – completely alone with no place to go – we wandered in what now appears a complete fog. But it all comes back to me as I tell the story.

We – some 5000 of us survivors – ended up in the Foehrenwald DP (displaced persons) Camp in Germany (southwest of Munich), where we spent Yom Kippur, together with the Klausenburger Rebbe, Rabbi Yekutiel Yehudah Halberstam, who tragically lost his wife and 11 children to the German beasts.

As night was falling that Yom Kippur eve all 5000 of us gathered in a makeshift shul for Kol Nidrei. As is the custom in many communities, the Klausenburger Rebbe stood up on the bimah (the platform in the center of the congregation) to share a few pre-Kol Nidrei words to awaken our hearts and prepare us for the awesome day ahead of us.

I will never forget what the Klausenberger Rebbe said that Yom Kippur eve 61 years ago. The moment was overwhelming.

With tears in his eyes he began by thanking G-d for saving our lives from the Nazi hell.

He then pointed to his kittel – the white linen robe that we traditionally wear on Yom Kippur – and began to speak (in Yiddish), slowly, deliberately, tearfully:

“One of the reasons we wear this kittel is because it is the traditional burial garment, in which we wrap a body before laying it to rest in the ground, as we do when we bury our parents and those that came before us. Wearing a kittel on Yom Kippur thus reminds us of our final day of judgment when we will be laid to rest. It therefore humbles and breaks our hearts, stirring us to do complete Teshuvah (return). The white, linen kittel is a symbol of purity that we achieve through our introspection and efforts to repair all our wrongs.

“Since the kittel reminds us of the burial shroud of those that passed on before us,” continued the Klausenberger, “why are we wearing a kittel today? Our parents and loved ones were just slaughtered without tachrichim (burial shrouds). They were buried, with or without clothes, in mass graves, or in no graves at all…”

Suddenly, the Klausenberger Rebbe began tearing off his own kittel, literally. “No kittel!” he cried out in an anguished voice. “Let us be like our parents. Let us remove our kittels, so that can recognize us. They won’t recognize us in kittels, because they are not wrapped in kittels…”

I have no words to capture the emotions pouring out of the grand Rebbe that first Yom Kippur after the horror.

Everyone gathered in the shul began to weep uncontrollably – men, women, old, young, every single person in the large hall. All our anguish, all our unbearable losses, all the humiliation and senseless dehumanization came spilling out of our guts.

It was an unforgettable sight: 5000 people sobbing. Nit geveint. M’hot ge’chlipet. Not sobbing; bawling. The floor was wet with the tears gushing from all our eyes.

What a stirring hisorerus (awakening) we experienced that Yom Kippur eve, what a remarkable hisorerus – it was unbelievable.

The Rebbe’s words rang in our ears, in every fiber of our broken beings – every one of us had just lost our closest relatives: fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, uncles and aunts. We were indelibly scarred. The words rang out: “What do we need tachrichim for?! Your father, mother, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, zeide, bobbe – they are all lying mangled in mass graves. Or in no graves at all – burned to ashes… What tachrichim? What clothes? What kittel?!...

Picture the scene: The holiest night of the year. The awesome moment just before Kol Nidrei. All the Torah scrolls lifted out of the ark. 5000 broken Jews, left shattered, orphaned without families. The saintly Klausenberger Rav standing on the bimah, ripping off his kittel – “We don’t need it…”

A Sidder for Bread

I would like to conclude with a story that the famous Nazi-hunter – Simon
Wiesenthal – told when he once spoke at a conference of European
Rabbis in Bratislava in Slovakia. The rabbis presented the 91-year-old Wiesenthal
with an award, and Mr.Wiesenthal, visibly moved, told them the
following story.
It was in Mauthausen, shortly after liberation. The camp was visited
by Rabbi Eliezer Silver, head of Agudas Harabonim (Union of Orthodox
Rabbis of North America), on a mission to offer aid and comfort to the
survivors. Rabbi Silver also organized a special service, and he invited
Wiesenthal to join the other survivors in prayer. Mr. Wiesenthal declined,
and explained why.
“In the camp,” Mr. Weisenthal said to Rabbi Silver, “there was one religious
man who somehow managed to smuggle in a siddur (prayer book).
At first, I greatly admired the man for his courage -- that he’d risked his
life in order to bring the siddur in. But the next day I realized, to my horror,
that this man was ‘renting out’ this siddur to people in exchange for food.
People were giving him their last piece of bread for a few minutes with the
prayer book. This man, who was very thin and emaciated when the whole
thing started, was soon eating so much that he died before everyone else
-- his system couldn’t handle it.”
Mr. Wiesenthal continued: “If this is how religious Jews behave, I’m not
going to have anything to do with a prayer book.”
Wiesenthal turned to walk away, Rabbi Silver touched him on the shoulder
and gently said in Yiddish, “You silly man. Why do you look at the
Jew who used his siddur to take food out of starving people’s mouths?
Why don’t you look at the many Jews who gave up their last piece of bread
in order to be able to use a siddur? That’s faith. That’s the true power of the
siddur.” Rabbi Silver then embraced him.
“I went to the services the next day,” said Wiesenthal.

Faith on the Death Train

Faith on the Death Train
The Rebbe of Modzitz, Rabbi Shaul Yedidya Elazar, had Chassidim
throughout the major towns and cities of Poland. One of these was Reb
Azriel David Fastag, who was noted for his exceptional voice throughout
Warsaw. Many came to the shul where Reb Azriel David and his brothers,
who were also blessed with lovely voices, would pray on the High Holy
Days. Reb Azriel David would lead the prayers, while his brothers accompanied
him as a choir. His crisp, clear and moving voice had a profound
effect on all who heard him.
Reb Azriel David lived simply, earning his livelihood from a small clothing
store, but his happiness and fulfillment came from another source -- the
world of Chassidic music. His moving tunes made their way to Otvoczk
(a suburb of Warsaw), where his Rebbe, Rabbi Shaul Yedidya Elazar appreciated
them immensely. The day a new niggun (melody) by Reb Azriel
David arrived was a festive day for for the Rebbe.
Dark clouds began to cover the skies of Europe -- the clouds of Nazism.
In spite of the terrible decrees, the yellow patch and the ghettoes, most
Jews could not fathom what was about to befall them. Only a few managed
to escape the clutches of the Nazi occupation to safe havens. One of them
was the Modzitzer Rebbe, Rebbe Shaul Yedidya Elazar, whose Chassidim
made a tremendous effort to save him. As the Nazis entered Poland, the
Chassidim smuggled him out of Poland to Vilna, in Lithuania, and from
there he made his way across Russia to Shanghai, China, eventually arriving
in America in 1940.
Meanwhile in Poland tens of thousands of Jews were being shipped off
daily to their death in cattle cars that were part of the railway system.
Roused from their warm beds in Warsaw in the middle of the night, husbands
were separated from their wives, children wrested from the arms
of their parents. The elderly were often shot on the spot, in front of their
loved ones. Then the Jews were gathered and sent off in those trains to a
place where their existence would no longer trouble the Nazis -- to Auschwitz,
Treblinka, Majdanek.
Inside the crowded cars, over the clatter of the cattle cars’ wheels, rose
the sounds of people gasping, sighing, weeping and dying. One could hear
the stifled cries of children crushed together. But in one such car, headed
toward the infamous death camp Treblinka, the sound of singing could be
heard.
It seems that an elderly Jew, wrapped up in his ragged clothing, his face
white as snow, had made his way over to his neighbor on the death train,
begging him to remind him the tune of Ma’areh Kohen sung by Modzitzer
Rebbe during the Yom Kippur service.
“Now? Now, what you want to hear is niggunim?” answered the other,
with a hard look at the Chassid, thinking that maybe all the suffering had
caused him to lose his mind.
But this Modzitzer Chassid, Reb Azriel David Fastag, was no longer
paying attention to his friend, or to anyone else on the train. In his mind, he
was at the prayer stand next to his Rebbe on Yom Kippur, and it is he who
was leading the prayer before the Rebbe and all the Chassidim.

the Thirteen Principles of Jewish Faith: Ani ma’amin b’emuna sheleima,
b’viat hamoshiach; v’af al pi she’yismamaya, im kol zeh, achakeh lo
b’chol yom she’yavo -- “I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the
Moshiach; and even though he may tarry, nevertheless, I wait each day for
his coming.” Closing his eyes, he meditated on these words and thought,
“Just now, when everything seems lost, is a Jew’s faith put to the test.”
It was not long before he began to hum a quiet tune to these words.
There, amidst the death and despair on the train to Treblinka, the Chassid
was transformed into a pillar of song, bringing forth out of his bloodied
lungs the song of the eternity of the Jewish People. He was unaware of the
silence in the cattle car, and of the hundreds of ears listening attentively
in amazement. He also didn’t hear the voices as they gradually joined his
song, at first quietly, but soon growing louder and louder.
The song spread from car to car. Every mouth that could still draw a
breath joined in Reb Azriel Dovid’s Ani Ma’amin.
As if waking from a dream, Reb Azriel David opened his eyes to the
sight of the singing train. His eyes were red from crying, his cheeks wet
with tears. In a choked voice, he cried out: “I will give half of my portion
in Olam Habbah (the World to Come) to whoever can take my song to the
Modzitzer Rebbe!”
A hushed silence descended upon the train. Two young men appeared,
promising to bring the song to the Rebbe at any cost. One of them climbed
upon the other, and finding a small crack of the train’s roof broke out a
hole from which to escape. Poking his head out under the open sky, he
said, “I see the blue heavens above us, the stars are twinkling and the
moon, with a fatherly face, is looking at me.”
“And what do you hear?” asked his companion.
“I hear,” the young man answered, “the angels on high singing Ani
Ma’amin, and it’s ascending to the seven firmaments of heaven!”
Bidding farewell to their brothers and sisters on the train, the two proceeded
to jump off, one after the other. One was killed instantly from the
fall. The other survived, taking the memory of the song with him. He eventually
found his way to Land of Israel (perhaps to the Modzitzer Rebbe’s

son, the author of Imrei Aish, who was in Tel-Aviv), and the notes were
sent by mail to Rebbe Shaul Yedidya Elazar in New York.
Upon receiving the notes and having the Reb Azriel Dovid’s Ani
Ma’amin sung before him, the Modzitzer Rebbe said: “When they sang
Ani Ma’amin on the death train, the pillars of the world were shaking. The
Almighty said, ‘Whenever the Jews will sing Ani Ma’amin, I will remember
the six million victims and have mercy on the rest of My People.’”
It is told that on the first Yom Kippur that the Modzitzer Rebbe sang
the Ani Ma’amin, there were thousands of Jews in the shul. The entire
congregation burst into tears, which fell like water into the pool of tears
and blood of the Jewish people. The tune soon spread throughout world
Jewry.
“With this niggun,” said Rebbe Shaul Yedidya Elazar, “the Jewish people
went to the gas chambers. And with this niggun, the Jews will march
to greet Moshiach.”