I knew he was from the precious few.

I began walking Henry home in the evenings and eventually I was privileged to hear his story.

He was from Lodz.

In 1939 Henry was 19.

He was sent to Auschwitz. He was liberated by the Russian army.

Henry immigrated to the US and married but because of the heinous cruelty of the Nazis he never had children.

His wife died in 1980 and when he could no longer fend for himself he moved in with his closest relatives his niece and her husband.

One day Henry said to me “Rabbi I know no one lives forever. Can you please do me one favor after I leave This World?”

Of course I agreed.

“All of my possessions are in a few boxes by my niece” Henry told me. “In one of those boxes is a suit — you can’t miss it because it’s a suit from the 1930s. That suit is the only thing I have left from my father.

“After the war I went back to Lodz and asked the local non-Jews now living in our house if I could look around just one more time. They allowed me to enter and watched my every move. I saw the candlesticks my mother used to bentsh the Shabbos licht. I saw the becher my father made Kiddush on every Shabbos.

“I knew these goyim wouldn’t give those back to me for nothing and I had no money to offer them. Then I noticed my father’s one suit still on its hanger. I offered them one dollar for it and they jumped at the offer.

“I’ve had that suit now for over 70 years.

“Rabbi I realize I cannot be buried in that suit but I want you to at least know why I saved it and what you can do for me.”

I nodded listening intently to every word.

“When the Germans invaded Poland” Henry said “my father went into hiding in the hope of securing for all of us safe passage out of Poland. After two weeks of unsuccessful attempts at false papers he sent word to my mother that he would be arriving home that night and she should leave the door unbolted.

“He arrived while my mother and I were out attempting to purchase bread as we knew he’d barely eaten for two weeks. My mother left some meat and potatoes cooking on the stove.

“When my mother and I returned with the bread Father opened the door for us. As we entered we noticed that he hadn’t touched one morsel of food but had changed into his Shabbos suit.

“My mother asked ‘Why didn’t you eat and why the Shabbos suit?’

“My father smiled and said ‘I waited for you to eat and wanted to greet you as is worthy of greeting a queen.’

“Years later I realized my father knew then that our fate was sealed. He knew his unsuccessful attempts to get us out of Poland had placed us in mortal danger. Nevertheless he was doing his best to lift the spirits of his wife and child at a very perilous time.

“Rabbi please do me one favor. When I leave This World hang my father’s suit in the room. Just knowing it is there will give me peace and comfort.”

A month later after a short illness Henry Spiegelstein left This World. His last words to me were “Don’t forget about the suit.”

His last wish was fulfilled.

Never has a suit looked so ragged yet so regal.