This morning here in Eretz Yisroel, a remarkable thing will occur. At 10am sharp, Jews of all kinds – from every type of upbringing or background – will stop whatever they’re doing, wherever they may be. At 10am, a sudden hush will fall upon our homes, our classrooms, our marketplaces and our playgrounds. Pedestrians will stop walking. Joggers will stop running. The typically bustling streets and highways will come to an eerie standstill. Drivers will shift to park and step out of their vehicles. Buses will pull over to the side of the road and everyone aboard will rise to their feet and stand in complete silence.

This morning at 10am, a distant siren will wail. And say what you will about the day’s debatable designation, but for a few short moments – moments that seem to just hang in the air, suspended in time – amidst a medley of mixed emotions, there is an inexplicable, undeniable feeling of unity and oneness. It’s hard to describe but I assure you it’s real. By making the smallest of gestures, we, the 6 million living, recognize and remember the 6 million lost.

Hashem Yikom Damam – May Hashem avenge the blood of His children, shed mercilessly by the hands of their enemies.

There is a particular piece of music that has become synonymous with the Holocaust. I am of course referring to the Ani Ma’amin. There certainly have been others, but this one has remained above them all – and there’s a reason for that, as I will explain. I would even opine that if there was one tune that could capture and encapsulate the entirety of our extensive Exile – from beginning to end – this would be the one. In addition to the original, 1947 rendition by Seymour Silbermintz & Chorus below, I’ve included a sefirah alternative option from the album called Vokalish, an a cappella production from 2004 by the talented composer, singer, choir leader and musician Dudi Kalish.

This memorable melody is attributed to R’ Azriel Dovid Fastag, Hy’d, a Modzitzer chossid whose compositions were regularly sung in the court of the Modzitzer Rebbe, Reb Shaul Yedidya Elazar Taub, zt’l in pre-war Poland. R’ Azriel Dovid had a beautiful voice and was a well-known chazzan and composer. And although the Modzitzer Rebbe had managed to escape Poland (eventually arriving in New York in 1940), R’ Azriel Dovid would not share the same fate. On an ominous day in July of 1942, he, along with thousands of other Yidden in the Warsaw Ghetto, was put on a train and sent off to Treblinka.

Inside the crowded boxes, over the clatter of the cattle cars’ wheels, rose the sounds of people gasping, sighing, weeping and expiring. One could hear the stifled cries of children crushed together without an inch to move. But in one such car, headed toward the infamous death camp, the sound of singing could be heard.

אֲנִי מַאֲמִין בֶּאֱמוּנָה שְׁלֵמָה. בְּבִיאַת הַמָּשִׁיחַ. וְאַף עַל פִּי שֶׁיִּתְמַהְמֵהַּ. עִם כָּל זֶה אֲחַכֶּה לּוֹ בְּכָל יוֹם שֶׁיָּבוֹא

I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Moshiach. And even though he may delay, nevertheless, I wait each day for him to arrive.

It was on this train, in the darkest, most foreboding of times, that a melody for the words of the twelfth “Ani Ma’amin” was composed. R’ Azriel David, the beloved chazzan of Modzitz, closed his eyes and began to sing the tune. At first, he did so quietly, until eventually coming to sing using his full and rich voice. Soon everyone on the train was singing the haunting melody along with him – all at once they transcended the carnage and transformed themselves into beacons of eternal hope and faith.

After some time had passed, and they had sung the melody many times, R’ Azriel Dovid opened his eyes, asked for silence. In a choked voice he cried out that he would give half of his heavenly reward to anyone who would deliver this new melody to his venerated mentor, the Modzitzer Rebbe.

The idea seemed fanciful and far-fetched. How would any of them – prisoners in a locked train on its way to a death camp – manage to get this song to New York? Nevertheless, although the train was locked from the outside, two young boys managed to escape the train through a gap in the roof of one of the carriages. Tragically, one did not survive the fall. However, the other boy did manage to withstand the plunge, and eventually – miraculously – brought the tune to the Rebbe’s son in Palestine, who then sent the written musical score to his revered father in America.

When the Modzitzer Rebbe received the letter, he called for R’ Ben Zion Shenker, z’l to interpret the notes and to teach him the song. When the Rebbe heard niggun he announced: “When they sang Ani Ma’amin on the death train, the pillars of the world were shaking. Hashem said at that moment, ‘Whenever the Yidden will sing Ani Ma’amin, I will remember the six million victims, and have mercy on the rest of My children.’”

Continued the Rebbe, “With this niggun the Jewish people went to the gas chambers, and it will be with this niggun that the Jewish people will march to greet Moshiach.”