Through it all my father remembered his promise, what he’d taken upon himself on that long ago night of mourning on a hilltop
As told to Rivka Streicher by Surie Kaszirer
Men working in the night, digging, digging, six feet down. In that makeshift grave they placed the scrolls — scraps and tatters of sifrei Torah.
For 50 years my father was haunted by the memory of that night.
My father, Reb Berel Ostreicher a”h, was born in 1922, in Helmec, Czechoslovakia, a small town near the Hungarian border, the youngest of eight in a warm, chasiddish home.
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