A slight noise was heard from the street below. The daylight,
as well as the noise, filtered in through the broken pane of
the small window. The public life of the Warsaw ghetto street
seeped along with the noise and cold air into the small room
upstairs. As the street life began its pulse, the privacy of
Rebbetzin Brocho Raizel, wife of the deceased Admor of
Kolovail, was forcibly invaded.
She blinked her eyes open. "It is day already," she sighed.
"I must get up and pray; this is the first duty of a good
Jewess."
Slowly, she removed the thin and shabby coverlet, stretched
her cold hands over the side of the bed and poured the icy
water over her hands into the small basin. "How cold! Just as
freezing as this room!" Again she shivered, musing, "The rag
I used to plug in the hole of the broken window has frozen
stiff, letting the cold and moist air freely in."
She sighed deeply but with determination, making up her mind
to ignore the chill. She said the blessings with deep
concentration and slowly rose from her bed. But suddenly, a
terrible pain struck her and again, she became aware of the
intense chill. Needles of pain pricked her and her legs
refused to budge. She pulled the thin blanket off the bed and
wrapped it around the coat she had slept in and slowly
started moving towards the bookshelf. She stood in front of
it, trying to reach a shoulder-high shelf but her back
refused to straighten up.
As she stood, bent and aching, she tucked her frozen hands
into the pockets of her threadbare coat and, bent and frozen,
inched her way a bit closer, trying again and again to
straighten up her back, but to no avail. She moved sideways
and leaned against the wall, trying again to pull herself
upright. Her body refused to obey. She shrugged her shoulders
with resignation and finally managed to pull a siddur
down from the shelf. She put it on the nearby table.
She looked at it gloomily and tried to clear her mind of all
thoughts but couldn't. Finally, she declared to herself,
"Nothing is going to stop me from doing my duty." And that
duty was to pray to Hashem. She removed her hands from the
coat pockets and tucked them deep inside the sleeves, which
were somewhat warmer.
"First I must chase away the thoughts of pain, cold and
misery. At this point in time, here and now, there are no
troubles; neither hunger, nor cold, nor suffering, nor pain.
Neither sickness or even death."
"Here in this world," she convinced herself emphatically, "we
get from Hashem only what is good and wholesome, what is best
for us." A Kabbalistic idea intruded. "There are no broken
pieces or peels strewn about in the universe. From the A-
mighty, we are dealt with through mercy and goodness. And now
I must thank Him for having kept me alive this morning and
for enabling me to pray. The dead are no longer able to
thank Hashem. Look, I am alive and praying! And so long as
there is life, there is hope."
When she reached the Shema, she paused again. "Why am
I so sad?" she asked herself. She rallied and in a vibrant
voice, she said aloud, "Shema Yisroel." She could even
detect a trace of joy in her voice, and was glad for it.
She was finally able to straighten up her back and continued
praying for a long time, feeling good to be alive. In her old
home, she would have been busy now preparing breakfast for
the Rebbe and the hungry people who needed sustenance. But
here in the Warsaw ghetto, they ate whatever was available.
This morning, there was nothing to eat.
"I will go visit my sons and their families and see if I can
help them in any way." All at once, her miseries enveloped
her again -- the pain in her back, the hunger, the cold, her
frozen hands, her widowhood... But when she looked out the
window, pure white snowflakes were falling.
The door shook slightly. Was it the wind causing a draft from
the broken windowpane? She noticed the doorknob turning. Who
could be trying to enter without knocking first? Could it be
the police, calling everyone to go to the Umshlag Platz, the
city square from where the transports were organized? But
then there was a knock, like an afterthought.
Hershel stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. "Mazel tov!"
he said. He had asked the rebbetzin to pray for his wife the
previous night when she had gone into labor.
"Mazel tov! How is Bashe?"
"Weak."
"Stay here. Soon my soup portion will arrive and luckily, I
still have some bread which I keep hidden for just such a
case." She moved slowly towards the closet and pulled out a
piece of cloth, wrapped around some dry bread. Hershel's eyes
opened wide. His wife would celebrate.
"How is the baby?"
"Very small. What could you expect?"
"As they say at the bris, `Zeh hakotton, godol
yihiye.' He has time to grow. I pray this come true. I,
myself, lost six of my eight sons."
They heard footsteps and in came Avrohom, carrying a cup of
soup under his coat. "Take this to Bashe," said the
rebbetzin. "I'll manage to get some more for myself and for
her."
"But I brought this for the rebbetzin!" Avrohom the chossid
protested. "You won't get another portion until tomorrow! If
at all..."
"G-d bless you. I am truly grateful to you, but Bashe just
gave birth and besides, I'm not hungry." Her pale face,
sunken eyes and her bent back belied her statement. Hershele
stood hesitating. His wife needed the nourishment, but so did
the rebbetzin. While he stood pondering, more footsteps were
heard climbing up. In came the rebbetzin's two sons, the
Admor Yaakov Tzvi and his younger brother, Elimelech Arye
Leib. A group of chassidim followed close behind and crowded
into the room.
"Umshlag Platz," droned the Rebbe.
The rebbetzin's eyes clouded over, unwilling to comprehend.
But then she moved slowly to the closet, took out some candle
stubs, stuck them unto the table and lit them. All gazed at
the valiant little flames.
Brocho Raizel looked at all the sad faces. She closed her
eyes, trying to conjure up some Kabbalistic verses on
redemption. Where were all those encouraging words? Her mind
was a blank.
She stood there with her eyes closed and thoughts flitted
through her mind. Broken pieces... peels... destruction of
the Beis Hamikdosh... decrees... the Ten Martyrs...
golus and more golus. When will all these
troubles end? When will the broken pieces be mended?
The Redemption will only come after a terrible disaster. The
Umshlag Platz...
"Pray!" she said to the chassidim.
Her son, the Rebbe, began reciting Tehillim. "Fortunate is
the man who did not listen to the counsel of the wicked..."
The chassidim followed closely in a background murmur.
Many scenes passed before her mind's eye. Happy ones, sad
ones, the births of her eight sons, the passing of six of
them. Weddings. Births of grandchildren. Would there be any
continuation? She relived the publishing of her husband's
sefer, Imrei Yehoshua, and that of her son, the Admor
of Sabin's work, Migdanot Elazar. He, too, had passed
away. Would there be anyone left to study those works?
Her thoughts dwelled upon the coming redemption. "It must be
close..." She could see the little flames through her closed
eyelids and a sad melody echoed in her soul.
Suddenly, footsteps stomped up the stairs and German soldiers
burst in.
"Say El molei rachamim!" she cried to the chassidim.
The soldiers began herding them brutally together, pushing
and shoving them. The rebbetzin broke away from their vile
grasp. She would not let them touch her.
One S.S. commander lunged forward and thrust a knife in her
back. The rebbetzin cried "Shema Yisroel" and managed
to complete the verse, "Hashem echoooood!" and fell to
the ground.
The rest were marched off to the Umshlag Platz...
