That Simchas Torah morning, arriving in shul for Shacharis after a night of dancing, we had no idea that at precisely 6:34, dozens of terrorists infiltrated Kfar Aza and continued on to other kibbutzim, unleashing a horrific massacre. At 6:50, vans crammed with terrorists rolled into Sderot and dozens of civilians were brutally murdered.

We recited Hallel and then danced through the hakafos. During Tefillas Geshem, as we recited the words lechayim velo lemaves, we had no idea that our Jewish brothers were being slaughtered en masse.

Gaza was cordoned off by a “smart fence.” Billions of dollars had been poured into its construction, and it was a source of pride, hailed as a technological marvel. On the day of the attack, however, it became a laughingstock. The fence was breached 120 times — one breach every few hundred meters.

First came the trained militants, armed with rifles and machine guns. These were followed by the so-called “uninvolved” Gazan civilians wielding kitchen knives and axes. By noon, the mosque loudspeakers across Gaza blared: “Go to the Jewish settlements — they’re empty.” And the frenzied, bloodthirsty mob responded.

It was only during hakafos shniyos that word of the catastrophe began spreading through shuls across the country. We stood there, shocked and confused. Should we dance? Cry? Pray? Rejoice? Continue? Go home?

And then my mind leaped ahead: What about next year? Will we dance hakafos on the yahrtzeit of 200 Jews? (That was the number we had heard on Motzaei Yom Tov. We had no idea of the magnitude of the massacre at that point, and as the numbers rose throughout the week, it was hard to wrap our brains around the scope of the horror.)

I was holding a small sefer Torah that had survived the Holocaust. Embroidered on its mantle were the words, “This Torah scroll was used by Jews in the Czestochowa camp under the Nazi boot.” They had smuggled it into the camp and risked their lives to read from it, dancing silently around it on Simchas Torah of 1944.

And so I had my answer regarding Simchas Torah of 2024. I embraced the sefer Torah and returned it to the aron kodesh, whispering a promise: We will dance with you again next year.

Three days after Simchas Torah, I moved out of my apartment and handed it over to the Mualem family from Netivot. The Mualems had been living in an old ground-floor apartment in Netivot, directly in the line of fire from Gaza and without a safe room. Sirens blared every few minutes and the city had suffered several direct hits. Like so many others living near the border, the Mualems had fled with nothing but the shirts on their backs. They arrived in Bnei Brak, where they were welcomed with open arms.

The Klil Hamalchut wedding hall in central Bnei Brak was transformed into a temporary “refugee camp.” Kindhearted Jews set up hundreds of folding beds, partitioned off spaces to give families a sense of privacy, brought hot meals, and took bags of laundry home to wash. Teenage girls volunteered to babysit and help out in any way possible.

Volunteers began searching for apartments to house the families until it was safe for them to return. I packed up my family and moved in with my in-laws, offering the Mualems the use of my apartment.

It’s not that I’m exceptionally generous; my decision stemmed mainly from a sense of historical awareness.

I often lead group tours in Treblinka, and I always pray that no one will ask: “When the hundreds of thousands of Polish and Lithuanian Jews were murdered here — what did the Hungarian Jews do?”

And when I’m in Auschwitz, I pray that no one will ask: “When the Nazis gassed the Hungarian Jews here what did the Jews in Eretz Yisrael do?”

It’s not that they were indifferent. At first, they were unaware. Later, they dismissed the horrific rumors that reached them as wildly exaggerated. And finally, they were unable to absorb the magnitude of the truth. When the war ended, people tore their hair out in grief and regret. So many Jews were murdered and I was preoccupied with nonsense!

I knew that one day, I would be asked what I had done during the winter of 5784.

AS the enormity of the tragedy began to unfold, the entire country was plunged into mourning. Hundreds of families sat shivah. Dozens of funerals were held each day. Hundreds more gathered outside Shurah, the IDF’s Casualty Treatment Unit, hoping to learn whether the remains of a missing family member had perhaps been found. Others waited in anguish, unsure whether their missing relative had been murdered or kidnapped to Gaza. Every few days, Hamas would release a clip — a Jew tied to a motorbike; a Jew beaten in the streets of Gaza; a hostage handcuffed and thrown into the trunk of a Nukhba van. Hundreds of thousands of Jews, from both the north and south, were uprooted from their homes. It was impossible to remain indifferent.

I knew that one day, I’d be asked: What did you do? So I prepared my answer: I gave my apartment to a family from the south.

Two days later, I received a phone call from a friend.

“Is it true that you gave your apartment to a family from Netivot?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s true.”

“Is there a stipend involved or something?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I didn’t ask.”

“So why did you do it?”

“What do you mean, why?” I asked him. “I gave it to a relative from Netivot.”

“Ah,” he said, the puzzle pieces apparently falling into place. “What’s their name?”

“Mualem,” I replied.

“Oh.” Then, cautiously, he asked, “How are you related?”

“Through Avraham Avinu,” I replied.

There’s no question that our sector practices chesed with unparalleled dedication. During those very dark days, ZAKA volunteers risked their lives and confronted scenes of incomprehensible horror solely to perform chesed shel emes for their fellow Jews, regardless of affiliation or background.

Our community is overflowing with chesed organizations, tzedakah funds, and aid initiatives. So much so that an outsider might mistakenly think that chesed is something that belongs to a particular group — and that anyone who helps another Jew must wear a name tag with a logo.

But when chaos strikes, the truth is revealed: We are all, each and every one of us, anshei chesed.

Rabbi Yisrael Goldwasser, a Gerrer chassid, is a well-known lecturer, historian, and veteran tour guide who accompanies groups to the death camps in Poland. His recent book, Your Children Shall Return, chronicles the last two years accompanying survivors and families of hostages.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1082)