It was after the meal on Friday night,
The house still filled with Shabbos light.
At the candles stare a boy of three,
He watches the lichtelach lovingly.
Suddenly a cry was heard,
The candles tipped his hand was burned,
It left on him a scar so deep,
A memory he knew he’d always keep.
At five years old he was taken away,
From the derech of Torah he did stray,
Taken to the army as captive,
As a Jew he could not live.
His parents davened for him each night,
That the KGB he’d be able to fight.
Their mesiras nefesh was burning strong,
How long will it last, Hashem, how long?
His father’s emunah would never dim,
He continued teaching his talmidim.
Spreading the warmth of yiddishkeit,
Till the ominous sound of a knock one night.
To Siberia he was forced to go.
But still in the icy wind and snow,
He continued his work that was forbidden,
In a small cold shack that was much hidden.
He gathered men, they sat and learned.
In each a flame of bitochon burned.
One Friday night, there deep in thought,
A soldier barged in the chossid was caught.
In a rage the soldier lifts his arm,
He’s stopped by the chossid’s cry of alarm.
The chossid sees the scar within,
Memories flash before him.
He starts to hope, oh, could it be,
My only son returning to me?
Oy vay, Hashem what have they done?
Shloimele...you are my son!