Reb Azriel Dovid's Last Song

Cheshvan is the month most closely associated with Mashiach (the Messiah). Jews have always longed for the coming of Mashiach, and the Holocaust was no exception - as this story so poignantly shows.

It was quiet now. Too quiet. Only a few minutes before his ears had been filled with a myriad of sounds: the shrieks and wails of his fellow Jews as they were mercilessly forced onto the waiting train, the barked out commands of the German brutes, the drunken cheers of the jeering Polish crowd. But this nightmarish symphony had now been replaced by an eerie silence, as hundreds of Jews stood pressed together in the dark and stifling boxcars. It was practically impossible to breathe, let alone find the strength to cry out.

Reb Azriel Dovid Pastag, a prominent chassid of the Modzhiter Rebbe, knew, like all the other Jews on that train, where he was headed. The Holocaust was still in its beginning stages, but word had already spread to the Polish Jewish community about the evil place that lay at the end of the journey. As the train hurtled towards its destination, the sound of its wheels clattering against the tracks seemed to hammer out with a demonic relentlessness the dreaded name: Treblinka, Treblinka, Treblinka.

Reb Azriel Dovid could just barely make out the features of the men who were standing closest by him. One man, a chassid he knew, was deep in concentration as he soundlessly uttered a heartfelt prayer. The face of another man seemed happy, as if he was genuinely pleased that he would soon be returning to his Father in Heaven. But on the faces of the others – the majority - there was nothing but pain and sadness and fear.

The heat was becoming even more unbearable. The fear was becoming even more palpable. Even though there was barely room to move an eyelash, despair had managed to slip into the boxcar. It threatened to displace every last trace of emunah (faith in God) as Warsaw – and all that was dear and precious – receded further and further away.

Reb Azriel Dovid knew that he must raise himself from this dark pit of despondency. And once he had made the decision to fight back, inspiration came. It was not for nothing that he numbered himself among the Modzhiter chassidim, who were famed for their love of song. Back in Warsaw he had been known for his sweet voice. Perhaps everything else had been taken away from him, but that voice was still his.

And so there, in a boxcar on its way to Treblinka, Reb Azriel Dovid, began to sing.

"Ani Ma’amin…Ani Ma’amin…Ani Ma’amin," he chanted, at first slowly, calmly, deliberately.

Ani Ma’amin – I believe.

Almost one thousand years earlier the Rambam (Maimonides) had articulated thirteen basic principles of the Jewish faith - belief in God, belief in the authenticity of the Torah, belief in the coming of Mashiach (Messiah) and the resurrection of the dead - and started each one with the words "Ani Ma'amin." I believe with perfect faith.

Throughout the centuries and in every country where the Jews made their home, the words had been put to song. Now, as one thousand years of Jewish life in Europe was coming to a close, Reb Azriel Dovid was adding the final notes to this symphony of heartfelt song.

I believe that Hashem has forged a covenant with us that no human force can shatter. I believe that Hashem will not forget his promise to redeem us. I believe that as we approach our earthly deaths, we are moving forward to eternal life.

"Ani Ma’amin," he sang, again and again.

At first Reb Azriel Dovid sang alone. But as he sang his face glowed like a torch. And as he continued to sing, fears of the burning furnace that lay ahead proved to be no match for the deep faith of his fiery soul.

When he began his haunting melody for a third time, a man at his side joined in.

"I, too, believe," the man’s song seemed to say. "Ani Ma’amin."

The fourth time, the duo was now a small chorus. By the fifth time, everyone in the boxcar had joined in.

"Ani Ma’amin." Even the clattering wheels of the train seemed to be now singing this niggun. It traveled from one compartment of the train to another, and soon everyone – observant and non-observant – was lifting up their voice in song, as they were given renewed strength by the pure and holy tune.

"Ani Ma'amin. I believe with complete faith in the coming of Mashiach. And even though he may tarry, still, I believe."

Somehow this melody must be preserved, the chassid thought. This moment must be remembered.

"Do you have a pencil, a piece of paper?" Reb Azriel Dovid asked his neighbor.

No, but the request went from one person to the next. Before the Jews had been shoved on the train, practically every material possession had been taken away. But one man had managed to hang on to a pencil. Someone else had held on to a scrap of paper. They were silently passed to Reb Azriel Dovid, who began to write down the notes of the melody he had just composed.

Then he asked for silence.

"I need a volunteer," he told the hushed group. "This piece of paper must reach the Modzhitzer Rebbe in America. Is anyone willing to try to escape?"

Two young men immediately accepted the challenge. One of them took the paper and carefully hid it inside his pocket. Someone rammed open the window of the compartment and, with the help of a few other men, the two volunteers were hoisted up and pushed out of the speeding train.

One of the young men survived.

After the war, the man made his way to the Modhziter Rebbe. He told the Rebbe of all that had happened on that fateful day, how Reb Azriel Dovid’s song had moved from boxcar to boxcar and rekindled the emunah of his dispirited companions. How that melody had accompanied the Jewish people as they were driven from camp to camp.

And then the young man began to sing. "Ani Ma’amin."

After singing just a few words, the tears welled up in his eyes. Painful memories of years of torture and starvation threatened to overcome him and choke off his voice. But then the sound of Reb Azriel Dovid’s sweet voice came back to him and seemed to echo in his ear.

The young man was no longer singing alone. Six million voices were now singing with him.

"Ani Ma’amin," he sang to the Rebbe, "still, in spite of everything, Ani Ma’amin."

(Reb Azriel Dovid's version of Ani Ma'amin can be found on Volume 3 of "The Songs of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov and Others," sung by David Raphael Ben Ami.)