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The response of praying and crying is a beautiful sight. Elie is thanking God for his life, and crying over all the lives that were lost. Elie carries with him all the deaths and horrors that he ...
Elie's faith was a significant part of his being, of his heart. He watched me one day as I prayed at dusk. “Why do you cry when you pray?” he asked… “I don’t know,” I answered… “Why do you pray?” he asked after a moment. Why did I pray? Strange question. Why did I live? Why did I breathe?
"Why do you cry when you pray?" he asked, as though he knew me well. "I don't know," I answered, troubled. I had never asked myself that question. I cried because because something inside me felt the need to cry. That was all I knew. "Why do you pray?" he asked after a moment. Why did I pray? Strange question. Why did I live? Why did I breathe?
Suddenly a cry rose up from the wagon, the cry of a wounded animal. Someone had just died. Others feeling that they too were about to die, imitated his cry. And their cries seemed to come from beyond the grave. Soon everyone was crying out. Wailing, groaning, cries of distress hurled into the wind and the snow.
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My parents ran a store. Hilda and Bea helped with the work. As for me, my place was in the house of study, or so they said. “There are no Kabbalists in Sighet,” my father would often tell me. He wanted to drive the idea of studying Kabbalah from my mind. In vain. I succeeded on my own in finding a master for myself in the person of Moishe the Beadl...
SPRING 1944. Splendid news from the Russian Front. There could no longer be any doubt: Germany would be defeated. It was only a matter of time, months or weeks, perhaps. The trees were in bloom. It was a year like so many others, with its spring, its engagements, its weddings, and its births. The people were saying, “The Red Army is advancing with ...
My father’s voice tore me from my daydreams: “What a shame, a shame that you did not go with your mother…I saw many children your age go with their mothers…” His voice was terribly sad. I understood that he did not wish to see what they would do to me. He did not wish to see his only son go up in flames. My forehead was covered with cold sweat. Sti...
I listened as the inmate’s voice rose; it was powerful yet broken, amid the weeping, the sobbing, the sighing of the entire “congregation”: “All the earth and universe are God’s!” He kept pausing, as though he lacked the strength to uncover the meaning beneath the text. The melody was stifled in his throat. And I, the former mystic, was thinking: Y...
YOM KIPPUR. The Day of Atonement. Should we fast? The question was hotly debated. To fast could mean a more certain, more rapid death. In this place, we were always fasting. It was Yom Kippur year-round. But there were those who said we should fast, precisely because it was dangerous to do so. We needed to show God that even here, locked in hell, w...
For more than half an hour [the child in the noose] stayed there, struggling between life and death, dying in slow agony under our eyes. And we had to look him full in the face. He was still alive when I passed in front of him. His tongue was still red, his eyes were not yet glazed. Behind me, I heard the same man asking:
Jul 7, 2016 · “Why do you cry when you pray?” he asked, as though he knew me well. “I don’t know,” I answered, troubled. I had never asked myself that question. I cried because . . . because something inside me felt the need to cry. That was all I knew. “Why do you pray?” he asked after a moment. Why did I pray? Strange question. Why did I live?
