A couple of years ago, we had the honor of hosting Eva Schloss, the stepsister of Anna Frank for a talk in Tucson. At the very start of the evening, a song called “Ani Maamin — I believe” was played on a piano. It is a tune often sung at Holocaust memorials and I often wonder how many of us take the time to appreciate the true meaning behind this poignant melody.
It was composed by Azriel David Fastag, a chassidic Jew from Warsaw, on the last train ride of his life.
Crammed into a cattle car with dozens of his brethren, he knew well the fate that would befall him in the Treblinka death camp. He had little hope, but he had faith. And as the wheels turned, bringing another trainload of Jews to their slaughter, Azriel David did not weep.
He sang.
He sang a song to the words of one of Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles of Jewish Faith: “I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Moshiach; and even though he may tarry, nevertheless, I wait each day for his coming.”
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The coming of Moshiach — the messiah — is a cornerstone of Jewish faith. It means that we believe that the world will one day enter an awaited era of world peace, prosperity and wisdom, when pain and suffering will cease to exist and nations will live in harmony.
It will be a time when every person will act altruistically. Each of us will achieve our full potential, and the world as a whole will reach its intellectual and spiritual apex. Humankind will be preoccupied with only one pursuit: the study of Godly wisdom. “The earth shall be filled with knowledge of God as water covers the seabed,” the prophet Isaiah said (Isaiah 11:9).
The Messianic Era will be ushered in by a Jewish leader generally referred to as the Moshiach (messiah: Hebrew for “the anointed one”), a righteous scion of King David. He will rebuild the Holy Temple in Jerusalem and gather the Jewish people from all corners of the Earth and return them to the promised land.
But in that cattle car somewhere in Europe, the promised land felt very far away indeed.
As the song of faith spread throughout the crowded car, Azriel David made a promise: “I will give half my portion of heavenly reward to whoever will bring my song to the Modzitzer Rebbe (Rabbi Shaul Yedidya Elazar, who had fled Europe).”
Two young men said they’d do it. They found a crack in the roof and jumped from the speeding train. One died instantly from the fall. The other did not. He brought the song with him as he made his way through occupied Europe and eventually to Israel, where he fulfilled his promise and brought the song to the Modzitzer Rebbe.
And from there, it eventually made its way around the world, including Tucson.
It’s more than a haunting melody — it’s the very essence of what has kept the Jewish faith alive through thousands of years of persecution. The unshakeable belief that however bad things may be now; however long our suffering may last, there will be an end to our hardship and loss. The world will change for the better, and “Nation shall not lift the sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.” (Isaiah 2:4)
When Azriel David sang “I believe,” there was precious little reason to believe. The Nazi juggernaut had swept aside army after army and seemed unstoppable. Their horrific “final solution to the Jewish problem” seemed attainable. They’d bombed and invaded Azriel’s hometown. He’d seen his family and friends beaten, shot, and herded like livestock to be slaughtered. And yet, he believed.
He believed that as hopeless the situation was, the world could change in a blink of an eye, however unlikely that seemed.
If he could sing “I believe” on a freight car on the way to the death camp, we can certainly sing “I believe” today.
So when the reality of our imperfect world strikes us, let’s remember the “Ani Maamin — I believe” sung in that cattle car. Let’s remember that a time of true goodness is not that far off.
Rabbi Yehuda Ceitlin
