The first time Sergiu called me, I was in New York for the annual kinus hashluchim. I told him I’d be able to speak to him more when I returned.
He called back the next week and we spoke for a long while. He lived in Satu Mare (originally called Satmar), a three hour drive from Cluj. He asked to meet face-to-face.
I agreed, but told him I’d need to clear my schedule for the long drive.
Two days before Chanukah, I finally met Sergiu. His hair was grayed, and his back was bent with age. He told me he’d read about Chabad of Cluj somewhere, and wanted to meet with an Orthodox rabbi.
“Here I am!” I said, cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”
Sergui shared his life story with me. He’d grown up in Transnistria, a German-occupied strip of land between Moldova and Ukraine. Many Romanian and Hungarian Jews were transported to Bogdanovka, a labor camp in that area. He’d led a fascinating life, eventually joining the Securitate, the secret police of the Communist regime.
“I called you because I wanted to reconnect with my Judaism,” he concluded.
“What made you seek me out now?” I asked him.
“Last Yom Kippur, I attended synagogue for the first time,” he explained. “It woke something up inside of me, and I decided to contact you.”
He refused my offer of tefillin, and all other suggestions of practical mitzvos he could do. I left feeling like I’d wasted a day, just listening to an old man recount his life.
Two days later, Sergui sent me a picture of himself and his wife next to a lit up menorah, along with the caption, Rabbi, you’ve warmed my heart.
Seems it hadn’t been a waste after all.
