Our first Seder night in the Soviet prison was "festive"—a true Leil Shimurim (Night of Watching)... our hearts pounded with fear, trembling with sorrow. Right after the guards distributed the meager evening meal, we—just over twenty Jews—sat on the floor in a semi-circle to celebrate the Seder. Sweetened water served as our four cups—metal cans that we carefully cleaned and kashered for Passover. When we emptied the first cup, we refilled it with our tears and continued reading the Haggadah and telling the story of the Exodus. Never before had we understood so clearly the meaning of slavery and redemption as we did on this Seder night. One of the prisoners, blessed with a pleasant voice, led the reading of the Haggadah, and we followed in hushed tones, ensuring the Soviet guards would not overhear what was unfolding within the prison walls—deep in the sacred territory of Stalin. The same occurred the next night, on the second Seder. Our meal was a pinch of sugar we gathered from our meager rations, mixed with a bit of water.
No Chametz
On the fourth day of Passover, as the other prisoners were drinking their lunchtime soup, the door suddenly burst open. Several uniformed guards stormed in, as if rushing to extinguish a fire. "Who are the ringleaders of this hunger strike?!" one shouted wildly. "Who refused to accept their daily food ration?!" bellowed the highest-ranking officer, scanning the room and counting the prisoners who weren’t eating. We exchanged anxious glances. One by one, we stood up and explained that this was not an act of protest but rather a religious observance—an abstention from eating chametz. We assured them that we would resume eating normally as soon as Passover ended. The squad commander, who already knew that I and two of my fellow inmates were "counter-revolutionaries," called our names and warned us of the consequences. We understood that we were facing severe punishment. I encouraged my two friends, reminding them that "those who fulfill a mitzvah will not be harmed"—especially when they are being tested.
Solitary Confinement
About an hour later, the chief guard returned and ordered the three of us to follow him "with our belongings." This was the phrase used by the guards when summoning a prisoner for interrogation or to be sent to an unknown destination. We were led through hallways and doors until we stood before an officer—high-ranking, judging by his epaulets and the pristine state of his office. He interrogated us for two hours straight. "Three days in solitary confinement—no food, only hot water!" he finally declared, ringing the bell on his desk. Immediately, a tall, thin officer in NKVD uniform entered and stood at attention. We were once again led through dimly lit corridors, descending floors until we reached a small isolation cell with a tiny window near the ceiling and a single bed. We did not lose our resolve. We comforted one another, telling ourselves that it was worth suffering for our faith—especially for the mitzvah of not eating chametz on Pesach. We even told ourselves that, at times, hunger itself can be "sweet."
The Mysterious Bundle
At midnight, as we lay squeezed together on the single bed, the door suddenly opened. Standing in the doorway was the same senior officer who had interrogated us and sentenced us to solitary confinement. As he entered, the door behind him shut with a movement from outside. "Woe to you if you dare rebel again!" he called out loudly and sternly, ensuring that his words echoed down the corridor for the guard to hear. His tall figure blocked the tiny window in the door. A shiver ran through us.
We were sure that at any moment he would pull out his pistol and shoot us. Instead, he slipped his left hand under his military coat and pulled out—at that moment, our souls nearly left our bodies in shock—a bundle wrapped in an old Russian newspaper. He gave us a quick, friendly wink, then, in a loud voice, barked, "Scoundrels!" and banged hard on the door, which swiftly opened. As he exited, he cast us a menacing glare. We stood there, stunned and terrified. We were afraid to touch the bundle—who knew what kind of trap he might be setting? Slowly, we calmed down. With trembling hands, we unwrapped the package, making sure the guard couldn’t see us through the peephole. To our amazement, we found inside... three small, round, handmade matzot! From our parched throats, we wanted to cry out—"Elijah the Prophet!" Tears streamed from our eyes. We were too afraid to whisper even a word. No human language could express the emotions that overwhelmed us as we ate those matzot.
The next morning, we tried to unravel the mystery behind the officer’s actions. We came to the conclusion that he had deliberately placed us in solitary confinement, with "no food, only hot water," as a way to help us avoid eating chametz. Our astonishment only grew with the following two nights. Each night, precisely at midnight, the door to our cell opened, and the officer appeared once more—shouting, cursing—but secretly handing us another small bundle of matzot. The day after Passover, we were returned to our cell. Our fellow inmates couldn’t understand the euphoria that surrounded us. We couldn’t explain a thing. We were forced to keep the unbelievable secret locked within our hearts.
the story of Dr. Leib Shachkets, published in Sha’arim, Erev Pesach 1969; translated from Sichat HaShevua
