Kol Nidrei in a Russian prison camp

Reproduced from Time For My Soul: A Treasury of Jewish Stories for Our Holy Days

American Jews take religious freedom for granted. On the other side of the world, in Soviet Russia, religious freedom is denied to two and a half million of our brethren. Let me tell you a story that took place in Moscow, during Simchas Torah, 1967, to illustrate how some Jews struggled for religious freedom.

Simchas Torah, celebrating the conclusion of the Torah reading cycle and the resumption of a new Torah reading cycle, is a time of great joy in Moscow. Joy permeates the air as young Jews, unafraid of the Communist regime, emerge from every corner of the city to identify with their people, to sing, to dance, to rejoice.

Torrential rains poured down upon the heads of the dancers who gathered in front of Moscow’s Choral Synagogue on Arkhipova Street to celebrate Simchas Torah. It seemed that the more intense the rain, the more intense the dancing. Yet, one middle-aged man was dancing with even more gusto than the other dancers. His face sparkled with ecstasy.

Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, the chassidic folksinger, scholar, and storyteller, was visiting the Soviet Union at the time. He approached the middle-aged man and asked: “My friend, do you dance with such enthusiastic fervor every year on Simchas Torah?”

The man was not afraid to talk to Shlomo, even though Shlomo was dressed in typical religious garb—yarmelke, tzitzis, and a Magen David.

He answered: “My name is Josef. Many years ago I was incarcerated in a Siberian labor camp, serving a life sentence at hard labor. I never believed I would be released. I have so much to celebrate. Let me tell you my story.”

Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, always the good listener, gently led Josef away from the dancers so he could concentrate, because the fervor of the Simchas Torah dancers had made it impossible to hear.

“This is what happened,” Josef began.

“I was incarcerated because I am a Jew. I knew the charges were false, but I had no defense. I spent almost ten years in a Siberian labor camp. For most of those long, cold bitter years, I had no contact with any other Jews. Then, one day, I heard that another Jew had been incarcerated in a cell on the other side of the same prison camp. I decided to seek him out, despite personal danger. I desperately wanted to see another Jew, to talk to another Jew, to say “Shalom Aleichem” to another Jew before I died in that forsaken wasteland.

I made plans to sneak to the other side of the prison camp. I knew that what I planned to do was against prison camp rules, but I did not care. I had to see another Jew. When I found him, I tiptoed over to him.

He was walking in the courtyard where the prisoners exercised, and I fell into step beside him. I whispered: ‘Shalom Aleichem, landsman (my friend and neighbor).’

He turned his head slightly and whispered: ‘Not now! We are not permitted to talk. The soldiers on the ramparts can shoot us at any minute. They know we are Jews. They will not hesitate to shoot if we break the rules!’

I ignored my fellow Jew’s plea and continued to whisper to him. ‘Do you know what tonight is?’

‘How am I supposed to know what tonight is?’ he demanded.

‘Tonight is Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar year,’ I continued.

‘So what!’ he exclaimed, his whisper growing louder and more agitated. ‘What good does being Jewish do for us? Where has it gotten us? So what if tonight is Yom Kippur! I’ve been in one prison camp after another. I just don’t care anymore.’

I persisted. ‘Listen, I’ve been in this prison camp for almost ten years. All this time, I’ve searched for another Jew. Knowing that tonight is the holiest night in the Jewish calendar year, we must share this night together in some way. Let’s sing Kol Nidrei together. Do you remember how the melody is chanted?’

Tears filled my friend’s eyes. He whispered, ‘I used to sing Kol Nidrei with my father in the synagogue as a young boy. I haven’t heard it chanted since then.’

I begged him to join me in singing. He began to hum the melody softly. He hesitated with the words. Finally, he recalled them.

As he sang, his voice grew louder and more distinct. We did not notice the commotion in the watchtower, for we were so absorbed in what we were doing.

It seemed that the guards were aiming to shoot us for disturbing the peace. Then we heard shouting. The captain was ordering the guards to halt.

‘Let them be,’ he ordered.

He descended from the watchtower and walked over to us.

We trembled when we saw him standing beside us. He aimed his gun but held it steady. Then he demanded gruffly: ‘What are you two Jews doing?’

I answered as politely as I could. ‘We are singing a song.’

‘Then sing more,’ the captain commanded.

‘Please don’t disgrace us by making us sing more. We know you will shoot us. Do it now. Get it over with!’ I pleaded.

The captain’s voice suddenly became more amicable.

‘I am not going to shoot you,’ he said. ‘Please continue to sing that melody. I want to hear it.’

We resumed singing.

As we sang, we saw tears fill the captain’s eyes and roll down his cheeks.

When we finished, the captain spoke.

‘As you began to sing,’ he said, ‘I had a vague recollection of hearing that melody before. Suddenly, memories of going to the synagogue with my father swept over me. I pictured myself as a little boy, huddled underneath my father’s tallis. When I was twelve years old, I was forcibly conscripted into the Tzar’s army. I had no connection with my family for years. I was promoted in the army until I reached the rank of captain and have made a career of serving my country. Now I realize that I am still a Jew, although it has been at least forty five years since I had anything to do with my people. Tonight I understand that I am still part of the Jewish people.’

Spontaneously, the three of us began chanting Kol Nidrei again. Our eyes overflowed with tears. I do not know if I will ever experience such a holy moment again.

After we finished, the captain promised that he would do everything in his power to hasten our release from the Siberian labor camp. It took time; the waiting was interminable. I even doubted the captain’s sincerity. We waited the better part of a year. Then, a few weeks ago, orders for our release were received. I came here to Moscow to celebrate Simchas Torah with my people. Bless me that next year I will be free like you. Bless me that next year I will be able to dance in the streets of Jerusalem on Simchas Torah.”