All at once I noticed a few Jews who seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. The were walking quickly...I did the same. They made a right turn...I turned right. They went left....I went left. Finally they turned down a side street, and stood before a small wooden house. They went in....and I followed.

I found myself in a small, tidy House of Study, that a few dozen cantonists had built many years ago in this out-of-the-way place, so as not to be overly conspicuous in the eyes of their Russian neighbors. With the arrival of the recent waves of Jewish refugees, the Exile of Lithuania, this peaceful little synagogue, which used to be closed all week long, had suddenly come to life. Those few remaining families of Russified Jews, sons and grandsons of those unfortunate conscripts, who had maintained their Jewish faith through fire and water, now felt, with the arrival of the Lithuanian Jews, that they were once again re-united with their brothers. Their longing for Jews and Jewsishness had finally been satisfied.

The small community of cast-away Jews welcomed their poor, fleeing brothers with open arms. In honor of the new-comers, they prepared their little House of Study, which had also, like them, longed these many years for a Jewish sigh, a Jewish melody, a real Jewish prayer. Now, in this holy place, after two or three generations of isolation, they were once more together with the Children of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, who carried with them the continuation of the same Jewish fate that had brought their grandfathers here.

The little synagogue was packed with Jews. In front of the podium, there burned an eternal flame...here and there, a memorial-candle. I was overcome by a sweet, comfortable feeling of warmthortable. All at once, I saw all around me down-home Jews, familiar faces!

Right beside the Eastern Wall, by the Holy Ark, there sat a Jew with a fine countenance, poring over a thick Gemorra. In another corner, beside the stove, there sat a little round-bearded Jew, probably a tradesman back home, reciting his prayers with a soft, wavering melody. On the other side of the Holy Ark, there sat a Jew with a long blond beard, speaking before a small group.

I approached closer to this small gathering to lend an ear. Their Rabbi was reading them an passage about "The Ten Martyrs". He spoke with heart and feeling, with a bittersweet melody, much the same as I remembered hearing long ago from my father. More than once I myself had, in the same way, mourned over an passage from the gemorra.

The rabbi described for his listeners, in a most moving way, the dreadful sufferings of the "Ten Martyrs" at the hands of their executioners. The crowd huddled together, hanging on every word. One let out a sigh, a groan....another wiped a tear from his eye. It was just as though the holy martyrs were standing before their eyes, and the listeners themselves were re-living their sufferings. They forgot that they were off somewhere in a little House of Study in a strange, Chtristian city ... instead, they were now far away, in the Holy Land, the Land of Israel, under the cruel government of the Tormenter of the Jews, Adrianus the Roman Caesar...

Outside the synagogue, the church-bells could be heard chiming. The Rabbi raised his voice higher still. His song penetrated throughout the synagogue, as though he could thereby drown out the ringing of the bells, which was getting louder and louder. His listeners huddled closer together. The evening shadows had begun to spread over the walls, casting an air of gloom.

"The enemy", shouted the rabbi, "had bound the holy prophet, Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradion.....they wrapped him in a Torah-scroll, and laid dried brandhes about him, and ignited them. Pieces of wool, soaked in water, were laid on his breast to prolong his suffering.. His students, who stood there watching, asked him:

"Rabbi, what do you see?"

"I see", he answered, "how the parchment burns, and the holy letters fly up to heaven...."

The Lithuanian rabbi’s voice shook with feeling, as he spoke to the congregation with more fervor:

"Gentlemen! Our enemey can burn our communities, our Houses of Study, and our Torah scrolls....but he can never burn the holy letters from the Torah! Because the parchment is no more than the body of the Torah. The body, the material can be burned....but the letters, they are the sould of the Torah. No enemy in the world can ever burn them...they fly up to heaven to be reunited with their source."

Those flying letters, from Rabbi Hannaniah ben Tradion's burning Torah-scrolls, spoke directly to my own soul. Sparks of hope were re-kindled in my heart. The Lithuanian rabbi was right, when he said that the enemy can burn only the parchment, but not the holy letters. nd if that were the case, then it was also a consolation to me, in my misfortune:

"Only the paper from my manuscripts, which were stolen from me, has been burned...but not, God forbid, their contents. Sooner or later, the words will find their way back to me, their creator. Who knows, perhaps they are longing for me in their own wanderings this very minute, just as I long for them!"

The nearby church-bells rang again, announcing that prayers were over. The observant Christians could go home with their minds at ease, to eat their good-tasting dinners.

In the House of Study, it was also the end of prayers. Soon it was quiet everywhere. Somewhere in the congregation, a man stood up and began to sing with a broken voice:

"Al yisroel ve-al rabonnan..."

When I left the little House of Study, I felt comforted, uplifted....