There was a deeply religious man in Bnei Brak, a kind and pious soul. His grandson noticed something strange about him—unlike most men, his arms were completely hairless.
“Zaidy,” the boy would ask, “why don’t you have any hair on your arms?”
His grandfather always gave the same answer: “When you become Bar Mitzvah, I’ll tell you.”
The mystery stayed with the boy for years. Finally, the day of his Bar Mitzvah arrived. After the ceremony, at the celebration that night, he eagerly approached his grandfather.
“Zaidy, you promised—now you have to tell me.”
His grandfather smiled and said, “Wait just a little longer.”
The hall was filled with family and Torah scholars, a joyous gathering in Bnei Brak. Then, suddenly, a man entered the room. He was completely bald—no hair on his head, no eyebrows, no eyelashes. At first glance, the guests assumed he must be recovering from chemotherapy. People whispered “Hashem should grant him a refuah sheleimah.”
But the grandfather, the one with the hairless arms, saw him—and without hesitation, he ran to him. The two elderly men embraced, sobbing.
The room fell silent. No one knew who the man was, but the bond between them was undeniable. The grandfather led him to the front of the room, seating him among the rabbis. Then, he turned to the crowd and said, “My friend Chaim would like to say a few words to the Bar Mitzvah boy.”
Chaim stood up. His voice trembled with emotion.
“This is one of the greatest moments of my life,” he began.
He turned to the Bar Mitzvah boy. “Let me tell you our story.”
A Promise Made in the Darkest of Times
“We were both young boys when we were taken to Auschwitz. The Nazis killed our parents, our brothers, our sisters. I came with my entire family—my mother, my father, my little siblings. At the selection, they separated me from them. My mother, desperate to hold me one last time, ran to hug me. They shot her in front of me. Then they shot my father. Then my brothers and sisters. I was nine years old. In a matter of moments, I lost everything.
Then, they lined us up.
Your grandfather and I were among those selected to be ‘deloused’—because, as they claimed, Jews were filthy, full of lice. Their method? A pit filled with water and acid. They would push us in for a few seconds, let the chemicals burn, then pull us out.
One by one, the boys went in.
When my turn came, I was already broken. I had no reason to live. My family was gone. My home was gone. My town was gone. I had lost everything.
So, I made a decision: I wasn’t going to come out.
As I stood there, burning, I thought: The Nazis have taken everything from me—my family, my dignity, my very name. But then another thought struck me: They haven’t taken Hashem [from me].
I still had Hashem.
I raised my arms, trying to pull myself out—but I was too weak. The acid was eating away at my flesh.
And then—your grandfather ran to me. He knew the risk. The Nazis would kill him for trying to save another Jew. But he didn’t hesitate.
He plunged his arms into the pit. Into the acid. He grabbed me under my armpits and pulled me out.
...But He Didn’t Let Go
His arms burned. But he didn’t let go.
The Nazis didn’t notice—perhaps they thought he was just doing his job, helping move the process along. But I knew the truth.
He saved my life.”
A Promise Fulfilled
Chaim looked around the room, his voice breaking.
“I was badly burned. If the Nazis had seen my wounds, they would have killed me on the spot. But your grandfather hid me, cared for me, kept me alive.
And I remember... we were lying in the barracks, two little boys, battered and broken. And he turned to me and said:
‘One day, you and I will be in Israel. We will have children. And one day, my grandchildren and your grandchildren will celebrate a Bar Mitzvah together.’
And today—today, that promise has come true.
That’s why your grandfather has no hair on his arms. Because those were the arms that stayed in the acid... so he could pull me out.”
Chaim turned to the Bar Mitzvah boy, his eyes filled with tears.
“What your grandfather did for me—that’s not human. That’s godliness.
And every single person in this room, every single Jew, every single human being—has that within them.
You just have to be willing to put out your arms.
You can’t just sit back. You have to do something.”
A Powerful Testament to Self -Sacrifice and Faith
This story is a powerful testament to self-sacrifice, faith, and the unwavering bond between Jews. It reminds us that no matter how dark the world may seem, we must always reach out to help another—even if it comes at great cost. That is the essence of being human. That is the essence of being a Jew.
Reprinted from the Parshat Yitro 5785 email of Rabbi David Bibi’s Shabbat Shalom from Cyberspace.