Teshuvah is more than saying ‘I’m sorry’

Or maybe it was the fact that, knowing his history as a Holocaust survivor, it seemed so powerful that on a day such as this, he could tell his story, with such a smile.

It was Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av, the anniversary of the day our Temples were destroyed, the city of Jerusalem ransacked and hundreds of thousands of Jews murdered or sold into slavery, and he was being interviewed on Israeli television. A day full of painful memories for the Jewish people and yet here he was, smiling; so I stopped to hear his story.

“How old are you?”

The question hung in the air as the Kapo in concentration camp uniform with the authority over life and death stared down at the frail little boy in front of him.

Normally, an innocent question, yet in the camps, it was a question that could get you killed.

“Fifteen,” answered the boy, who could not have been more than eight. There was no room for little Jewish boys in the Nazi world of death camps, and his older brother Naftali had warned little Srulli to lie.

The Kapo glanced down at the boy with a skeptical look and asked again: “How old are you?”

And again, little Srulli answered: “Fifteen.”

At which point he asked the fellow behind the boy: “Is he your son or your brother?”

“My brother,” answered Naftali.

“Well, how old is he?” asked the Kapo again.

“He already told you, he’s fifteen,” answered Naftali, trying to stay calm.