R Moshe Erlanger was travelling during the aseres yemey teshuva via Frankfurt, Germany. Unfortunately, at the very last moment, his fight was cancelled and he was forced to stay in Frankfurt for Yom Kippur. Although he was given a nice hotel room which was close to the great synagogue, the thought of spending Yom Kippur away from home, without his tallis and kittel, and without his familiar shul and its niggunim bothered him a lot. Little did he realise that he was about to experience an exceptionally inspiring Yom Kippur.
On Kol Nidrey night, wearing his weekday clothing he entered the beautiful Great Synagogue of Frankfurt (destroyed by the Nazis but rebuilt in 1946) and sat down in one of the thousands of seats, hoping to make the most of the holiest night of the year despite being so far from home. He was approached by the gabbai who inquired where he was from, and who, upon hearing his story, gave him a tallis and kittel to use.
Kol Nidrey Away from Home
As the chazan began the holy words of Kol Nidrey, “Al da’as haMakom, al da’as ha’kahal”, R’ Moshe was sure that it would not only be very different, but also far less inspiring than he was used to. However, as the chazan began humming, “aha, aha, aha, Kol Nidrey”, he felt the tune and the words penetrate deep into his heart. It was the most amazing, inspiring, and heart-rending moment he had experienced, eclipsing the wonderful Kol Nidrey he was used to at home. The Chazan proceeded through the wonderful melody, and broke out into sobs His voice ascended each time, finally arriving at the bracha of she’hecheyanu. It was an unforgettable experience.
Following a meaningful and special Ma’ariv R’ Moshe approached the chazan, eager to understand what made his Kol Nidrey, so special, so unique, and so heart-rending. The chazan smiled, and told the following remarkable story:
My name is Tzudek Greenwald, and I am the child of Holocaust survivors. To be able to stand in this blood-soaked country that wiped out a third of our nation, and stand in front of thousands of Jews and say she’hecheyanu is extraordinary. For many years I have been the chazan here in the great synagogue in Frankfurt. One year, after a special but strenuous fast, having lead the davening, not only for Kol Nidrey, but also for Ma’ariv, Shacharis, Mincha, Neilah and finally Ma’ariv, everyone had left the shul, and I felt tired, weak, and ready to break my fast.
As I switched off the lights and left through a side door, I saw an older German Jew wearing a silk, white yarmulke standing by the closed gates in front of the shul. He turned to me in surprise. “Farvos zenen der toyren farmacht, is es nicht Kol Nidrey haynt banacht - Why are the doors closed, isn't it Kol Nidrey night tonight”, he asked? I was stunned and did not have the heart to respond. But he persisted. “Enfer mir”. I had no choice but to tell him: “Kol Nidrey was nechtan barnacht - today the gates are closed.” The man broke out into tears. “I have never missed a Kol Nidrey”, he said. “My parents were survivors who drifted away from Yiddishkeit, but before my father died he turned to me and said: ‘My dear son, how do you know that you are a Jew? As long as you go to shul on Kol Nidrey night you are a Jew.’ Until today I knew I was Jewish because I came to shul on Kol Nidrey night. Tonight, as I realize that I have missed Kol Nidrey, I also realize that I am no longer Jewish, no longer part of the Jewish nation.”
The Most powerful Kol Nidrey
I stood there looking at the sobbing elderly Jew in his silk white yarmulke. I knew what I had to do. I turned to the man and said, “I am the cantor of the great synagogue of Frankfurt. No, you have not missed Kol Nidrey. Come with me.” I returned to the now pitch black shul, switched on a small light, gave the elderly Jew a kittel, tallis and translated machzor, and began, “aha, aha, aha, kol nidrey, v’esorey...”
As I uttered these words without a crowd in attendance, I felt that it was just me and Hashem. I felt the dveykus like never before and began to cry. After crying through Kol Nidrey we davened Ma’ariv. When we finished the man removed of his kittel and said to me: “I will always be grateful to you. Now I know that I am still part of the Jewish people”. Then he hugged me.
