Shortly before my father’s yahrzeit, I managed to find the only remaining minyan where I could still say Kaddish. I prayed, gave tzedakah to a few different causes, and was just about to leave when a few people came over to exchange blessings and kind words. I listened, appreciated the warmth, and then made my way out of the Kotel plaza, only to find there were no cabs.
My plan was to make my way back to my hotel. I headed toward Shaar Yafo, where I saw a couple of security guards, and asked if any cabs were coming. “Yeah,” one of them said, “about one every ten minutes.” I nodded and began walking away.
Just then, one of the guards called out, “Where are you headed?” I told him the name of my hotel. At that moment, an older Jewish couple happened to walk by, who must have overheard what he had said. “Oh, we're heading to that hotel,” they said. “Do you want a ride?” I thanked them and accepted the offer. As I was walking toward their car, the man turned and asked, “Wait, who are you again?” I smiled and said, “I don't know... maybe Joey Haber?” He laughed warmly. “Oh, we love your messages. Beautiful stuff.”
I got into the car, and as we started driving, the man said, “Can I share a story with you?” I nodded. That’s the price of hitching a ride with strangers, but it turned out to be more than worth it.
He began:
“My wife’s grandfather was a Holocaust survivor from a town in Romania called Sighet. He was a wealthy man and had gone to Budapest on business. While he was there, the Nazis invaded Romania, and he was forced to remain in Budapest throughout the war. After the war, he returned to Sighet and found that many Jewish children had been left orphaned and were now in Romanian orphanages. Romania was under communist rule at the time, but since he had both the means and the heart, he took it upon himself to rescue these children. Quietly, he began smuggling them out and sending them to safer Jewish communities.
Eventually, the Romanian authorities caught him. They gave him a choice: either betray the others involved in the rescue effort or go to jail. Without hesitation, he refused to turn anyone in. A court case followed, and the judge sentenced him to 27 years in prison. Upon hearing the verdict, he actually smiled. The judge, puzzled, asked, ‘Why are you smiling?’ He replied, ‘Because I’m not a young man. I didn’t know I’d live another 27 years. Thank you for telling me I have that long left.’ And with that, he was taken to prison.
In the end, he served seven years. The Vizhnitzer Rebbe and Skulener Rebbe worked together to have him released. But here’s the extraordinary part: this man knew Mishnayot by heart. All of Shas. His whole life, people would see his lips moving, constantly reviewing.
In prison, he found a bar of soap and used it to write a new Mishnah on the window each day. He would then teach that Mishnah to the other Jews in the prison. Every day, a new Mishnah. He would review it, teach it, and move on to the next one.
We only learned about this after he passed away in his 80s. During the shiva, people came and shared their memories: ‘I learned the entire Masechet Peah with him,’ one said. Another, ‘I learned Bava Batra.’ Some had learned entire Sederim—multiple Masechtot—with him. Six days a week, for seven years, he wrote and taught a Mishnah.”
The man paused, then added: “I’m sure he davened to leave prison. I’m sure he begged Hashem. But Hashem’s response was: ‘Leaving prison may be what you want. But staying—and giving of yourself with mesirut nefesh—is what others need from you. It’s what you are needed for.’”
After his release, the man rebuilt a life. He raised children and grandchildren who brought light to the world through Torah and mitzvot. In fact, he had grown up in the same neighborhood as Elie Wiesel. Years later, he bumped into Elie and said, “Elie, you were a chasidish boy once. What happened to you?” That comment planted a seed. Slowly, Wiesel began reconnecting with his Judaism.
Another time, he was walking on Shabbat when a car pulled over. A man jumped out, shook his hand, and said, “Do you remember me? From Sighet?” The man looked at him and said, “Do I remember you?! You’re driving on Shabbat! You were a religious Jew!” He pointed at the car and said, “Leave it right there. Don’t move it until after Shabbat. You’re Shomer Shabbat—I don’t want to hear anything else.” And the driver listened. In time, he came back to full observance, even wearing a shtreimel and embracing his chassidish roots.
Sometimes, Hashem decides that your path leads out of the jail. And sometimes, He says: You’re not done here yet. There’s something greater waiting to emerge from your darkness. Just like Esther Hamalkah. Just like Dovid Hamelech. Just like countless Jews throughout history.
In the end, we don’t want Hashem to give us what we want. We want Him to give us what we need. We may think we know where we’re going, but we’re oftentimes running around a maze. Only Hashem sees the full picture. And that is what tefillah is—asking not for our will to be done, but for His.
