I will tell you a story, although you won't believe it. I wouldn't have believed it either, had I not seen it with my own eyes. But it happened, I was there.

The year was 1942, Poland, in the camps. I was in Auschwitz. We were so many poor souls clinging together, hungry afraid. We could barely find enough support for ourselves, much less anyone else. But there was one man in our bunk different from all the rest. He was a tzaddik. More than that, until today I believe he was one of the thirty-six. You know, the thirty-six hidden tzaddikim on whom the whole world stands. His name was Reb Naftali. For the entire time I knew him, I never once heard him complain. It was the deepest hell, yet he never uttered a bad word. In fact, he managed to give help to others. There was a small group of us who clung to him, followed him around. What could we do? He was the only warmth and light we had.

Winter came, and it was bitterly cold. There was such a hopelessness in the air. Then came the announcement. Several days before Chanukah, the Germans declared that anyone found lighting candles would be shot. Well, for us, we could not dream of facing that threat. But what about Reb Naftali? We whispered among ourselves. Could it be that Chanukah would pass and Reb Naftali would fail to bless the lights? No, impossible. But where would he get the candles?

The first night of Chanukah arrived. Our little group kept our eyes on him. We weren't going to let him out of our sight. All night you had to stay in the bunker, if they caught you outside, they would shoot you. 9:00 p.m., 10:00 p.m., 11:00. I started to doze off. When I caught myself, I realized that Reb Naftali had slipped out. I roused the others and we stole out after him. We followed his tracks in the snow, somehow they looked strange. We found him by a little bunker, protected from the wind. He wasn't wearing shoes. Auschwitz in the winter without shoes.

"Reb Naftali, where are your shoes?"

"I traded them in for a candle."

"Please, Naftali," we begged, "don't do it. They'll kill you."

"Listen," he said sternly, "Tonight is Chanukah. On Chanukah, Jews light candles. That's what we do. The Chashmoneans weren't afraid, why should we be?"

He took out a little pencil-thin candle, made the blessings, and lit it. We all stood there, frightened, excited. Who would have ever dreamt that one small flame could give so much light. But there was a tension in the air, as though we should run.

Then, suddenly, a German soldier comes walking out of the night. In one hand he held a whip, in the other, a pistol.

"Who lit that candle?" he barked at us. Reb Naftali stepped forward, "I lit it," he said.

The German whipped him across the face. "Blow it out!" he yelled. "Blow it out!"

Reb Naftali just stood there. He didn't move. He didn't even lower his eyes. Then the German took out his gun and shot him. That was it. He killed him right on the spot. We stood in fear, not believing our eyes.

"You," he shouted at one of my friends, "drag him this way." He dragged poor Naftali through the snow into the darkness. The German walked away, but you know, he forgot to blow out the candle; it was still burning.

Now, you won't believe me when I tell you this, but it's true, I saw it myself. The next night, when we walked by the place Reb Naftali was killed, we looked over at the small candle -- it was still burning. Flickering away in the darkness. It lit up such a flame of hope in us. "Do you see it?" we asked each other. "Do you see it?" We all saw it. The candle was still burning.

(C) Eliezer Shore, Bas Ayin

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