Selichos, 1939

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September 1 marked 70 years on the Gregorian calendar since the German invasion of Poland that began the Second World War and the destruction of Eastern European Jewry.

The war’s outbreak rudely interrupted the plans of millions, including those of a 14-year-old boy in a Polish shtetl. The boy – my father, may he be well – had been scheduled to travel to Bialystok to attend yeshiva.

He would eventually make it to yeshiva, in Vilna, but not before he, his family and all the townsfolk of Ruzhan would flee their town ahead of the advancing German army. On Friday, September 8, they found themselves in a town called Govrov, just before the Germans arrived there. The following Saturday night was the first night of Selichos – the special pre-Rosh Hashana supplications asking G-d’s forgiveness recited late at night or early in the morning before services.

I am preparing to publish my father’s memoirs (with G-d’s help, this winter) – about his youth and flight from the Nazis, his yeshiva days, his war years’ sojourn in Siberia (as a guest of the Soviet Union), and his subsequent emigration to America and service as a congregational rabbi in Baltimore for more than 50 years

When I attend this year’s first Selichos services, on September 12 – actually, the 13th, since the special prayers will begin after midnight – my thoughts will be drawn to that first night of Selichos in 1939. I will be standing in a comfortable, beautiful shul in Staten Island. But I will be envisioning a place thousands of miles distant in space and seventy years in time.

I will see a scene in my father’s memoirs:

… My family and I were lying on the floor of a local Jew’s house when we heard angry banging on the door and the gruff, loud words “Raus Jude! Raus Jude!” – “Jew, out!”

These visitors were not simple German soldiers, but member of the SS, the Schutzstaffel – the Nazi military organization that operated separately from the regular German army. SS members swore allegiance to Hitler, and they hated Jews.

The SS men chased us from the houses, prodding us with bayonets to raise our hands and join the town’s other Jews – several hundred people – in the middle of the town’s market area. As we walked, hands raised, the Nazis photographed us.

Some of the Germans approached the men among us who had beards and cut them off, either entirely or purposely leaving an odd angle of beard, just to humiliate the victims. One man had a beautiful, long beard. When he saw what the Germans were doing, he took a towel he had with him and tied it around his beard, in the hope that our tormentors might not see so enticing a target. But of course, they went right over to him, removed the towel and shaved off what to him and us was a physical symbol of experience, wisdom and holiness. He wept uncontrollably.

We stood there and the smell of smoke registered in our nostrils, becoming more intense with each minute. It didn’t take long to realize that the town’s homes had been set aflame. Later we heard that a German soldier had been discovered killed nearby and that the SS men had assumed that the culprits were Jews… We Jews were ordered into the synagogue… It became clear that all of us remaining in the synagogue were being confined there – the doors were locked and SS men stood outside to ensure that no one managed to escape – to be roasted alive… The town had been set afire, and the Nazis clearly intended to let the flames reach the synagogue. Houses nearby were already wildly burning…

The scene was a blizzard of shouting and wailing and, above all, praying. Psalms and lamentations and entreaties blended together, a cacophony of wrenched hearts. Everyone realized what was in store and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that any of us could possibly do.

The smell of smoke grew even stronger as did the cries of the hundreds of Jews packed in the synagogue awaiting a terrible death. And then, a miracle occurred.

How else to explain what happened? Those in the synagogue who were standing near the doorway and windows saw a German motorcycle come to a halt in front of the building. A German officer – apparently of high rank – dismounted from the machine and began to speak with the SS men guarding our intended crematorium. The officer grew agitated and barked orders at the other Nazis. After a few minutes, the doors to the synagogue were suddenly opened and, disbelieving our good fortune, we staggered out…

What made the officer order them to release us we did not know and never will. Some of us suspected he was not a German at all, but Elijah the prophet, who, in Jewish tradition, often appears in disguise.

We were ordered across a nearby brook… and were told to sit on the grass and to go no further. And so there we sat, all through the Sabbath, watching as the synagogue in which we had been imprisoned mere hours earlier was claimed by the flames and, along with all the Torah-scrolls and holy books of both Ruzhan and Govrov, burned to the ground…

That night was the first night of Selichos…

© 2009 AM ECHAD RESOURCES

[Rabbi Shafran is director of public affairs for Agudath Israel of America.]

All Am Echad Resources essays are offered without charge for personal use and sharing, and for publication with permission, provided the above copyright notice is appended.

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3 Responses

  1. CJ Srullowitz says:

    It is difficult to believe, lulei demistafina, how dramatically the world has changed in just seventy short years.

    Jews ought to remind themselves every day of the great fortune that God has blessed us with, living as we do in relative freedom and material comfort. We must also recognize that the Nazis did not care whether you were Secular, Modern Orthodox, Chareidi, Chassidish, or somewhere in between – all were locked up together in the synagogues and in the cattle cars.

    We should encourage the same achdus for living, as others did in trying to decimate us.

  2. Chaim Wolfson says:

    What a small world! My brother-in-law’s grandmother also comes from Ruzhan. She should be about the same age as your father. I must tell her about him; she would WALK to Baltimore to meet a fellow Ruzhaner.
    Chief Rabbi Goren also came from Ruzhan, and my father is also from that neck of the woods.

  3. L. Oberstein says:

    How many stories and how few writers. For every Avi Shafran, there are many other children of survivors, grandchildren ,even great grandchildren who could have a precious legacy for their progeny if they would record the stories of the survivors, while they are still among us. The time for holding it in, for silence, is long over. By personalizing tales of our forebearers , we make their lives more relevant to our children. There are two divergent streams in Holocaust rememberancem, those who leave Hashem out and those who show His presence even in the worst of places. Which version our children learn and emulate depends on who tells the story. I think the Agudah should have a project where all children have to interview a survivor and then put it on a web site (when that becomes permissible).