Dancing Before the Nazis

Yechezkel Gewertzstone* flew to Eretz Yisrael for Yom Tov of Sukkos, overjoyed at the thought of spending Simchas Torah in the presence of his Rebbe. Each passing day of Sukkos filled him with greater anticipation of the dancing, the singing, and the electrifying kedushah of his Rebbe's beis midrash. It was what he lived for.

But Hashem had other plans. Shortly before Simchas Torah, Yechezkel fell ill. His plans, his dreams, and his joy all collapsed in a moment. While that alone was painful, what tormented him even more was knowing where he would now be spending Simchas Torah: in the small local shul of the moshav where he was staying. The place was lifeless — no fire, no simchah. For Yechezkel, it was as though his world had turned upside-down.

And indeed, that night, the hakafos were subdued — routine, almost dreary. That is, until one man changed everything.

An elderly Jew suddenly came into shul, leapt into the center of the circle, and began to dance. His feet barely touched the ground, and his eyes burned with light. Though well into his seventies, he moved like a young man of twenty, radiating ruach and chiyus. Before long, his energy had swept through the entire tzibbur, lifting them higher and higher.

Yechezkel was transfixed. Who was this man?

When the hakafos ended, he couldn't contain himself. He approached the dancer, his voice trembling with curiosity.

"Tell me," he said, “where do you get such strength, such simchah? It's something deeper...”

The man smiled softly. “Ah,” he said. “You want to know? Then listen."

The man paused, his eyes distant.

“As a child,” he began, “I lived through the war. It was Simchas Torah, 1940, in Łódź. I was on my way to shul for davening and hakafos. In the street, I saw a Nazi dragging a Yid by his collar. I couldn't look away. Something inside me broke. I ran to him and overpowered him."

He closed his eyes. “The Nazi, humiliated, turned to me and said, ‘Your end has come.' I'd received a death sentence for a capital crime.”

The old man's voice dropped to a whisper. “The Nazi raised his revolver...then paused. ‘One minute,' he said. ‘If I kill you, I'll have to bury you. And I don't want to waste the effort. Dig your own grave. When it's ready, I'll pull the trigger."

The man's eyes glistened as he continued. “I took the shovel. I dug a few inches, and then I stopped. I thought to myself, ‘These are my final moments in this world. Should I waste them digging a hole, or should I dance my last hakafos before my Creator?'

"So I dropped the shovel...and I danced.”

His voice shook. "I danced in front of that Nazi — my feet flying, my soul on fire. I danced as though Heaven itself was watching. The Nazi was furious. He screamed, cursed, threatened — but I couldn't stop. I was already in another world."

“When he finally dragged me away, he said, ‘You think you're free because I didn't shoot you right away? I'll make your punishment worse.' He took my name and address, and he handed it to the commander."

The man's voice softened again. “But Hashem, in His infinite mercy, arranged that my case was lost in their files. The Nazis never came for me. And that year, I had my Simchas Torah — not in a shul, not with a Rebbe, but in a ditch before a Nazi with a gun.”

He smiled at Yechezkel. “So, my friend, tell me — after you've danced before death itself, after you've learned that simchah is stronger than fear, after you've seen what it means to be truly alive — is it any wonder,” his eyes twinkled, “that even seventy years later, I'm still dancing?!”