“That’s my father, and that’s me, at my bar mitzvah,” he explains. This is, in fact, the only remaining photo of his father, Myer Kraus, that the chazzan has. Reb Myer was murdered in Auschwitz, together with his wife Henya and five of their nine children.

“My father was a real erlicher Yid, a Spinka chassid. Actually, he was a Ziditchover, but when his rebbe was niftar, he had the choice of traveling to the Rebbe’s son and successor across the border, or the Rebbe’s son-in-law, the Chakal Yitzchak of Spinka, who was in Czechoslovakia, like us. Crossing the border was difficult, so he became a chassid of the son-in-law.”

Reb Myer Kraus had been raised by his mother’s second husband — the founder of the Kerestirer chassidic dynasty, Rav Yeshayah Steiner, to this day affectionately known as “Reb Shayele.” Reb Shayele passed on years before his step-grandson’s bar mitzvah, but Moshe still recalls a story about the Rebbe that his bubby told him on that long-ago special day. Prior to their chuppah, the Rebbe told her a strange chassidic tale about an innkeeper being given preference for entry into Gan Eden over one steeped in Torah learning, albeit not lishmah; it emerged that the innkeeper had provided free bread to guests embarking on long journeys. “We must always remember to be generous with our hearts and our bread,” the Rebbe told his kallah. It was a lesson that stayed with the bar mitzvah boy.

In the photo with his father, the slim, black-clad Moshe exudes intelligence and confidence. Other than that, there is little indication of the wunderkind who, from the age of nine, was sought throughout Eastern Europe for his cantorial prowess.

“My father started out as a shochet, but he was too sensitive for the job, so he became a sofer. He had a beautiful handwriting and was quite successful, so we managed. There was always lukshen to eat.” He smiles. “But that was only until I was discovered. After that, we had plenty of money.”

Young Moishele Kraus would go to cheder all week long, but would often travel away for Shabbos. Once he reached bar mitzvah and he was able to lead the davening, the demand for his services increased. At the tender age of 13, he was better traveled than most of the adults in Ungvar. Where would he go for Shabbos?

“Oh, everywhere. Vilna and Lodz and Nitra and Klausenburg and Warsaw and Pishtan. Wherever I was invited.”

A Golden Age

Rivka Kraus — daughter of Gerrer chassid Reb Chaim Yitzchak Deutsch, she met Moshe and married him in Israel when she was 17 — explains how this memoir came about. Her husband, a natural showman, was regaling Rabbi Moshe Berger of Torat Tzion Kollel in Cleveland, Ohio, with personal stories from over the course of 80 years, especially his relationships with the rebbes, when his host persuaded him to record them on tape.

“For the next six years, every time we or our friends remembered another story, we wrote them down,” she says. These transcripts became the basis for the book, which was ultimately compiled and written by Lynne Cohen.

Chazzan Kraus is eager to share the highlights of his remarkable but challenging life. Foremost, he says, he sees himself as a Munkacser chassid. His eyes alight when he recalls the many zemanim he spent studying in the Minchas Elazar’s yeshivah.

“I adored my rebbe. I have never met a man like him, not before I went to his yeshivah, and not since he died in 1937. To me, he was the greatest man in the world. I sang to him every Friday night at his tish. There were thousands of chassidim there. In Munkacs, they sang songs with no words. Ayy, ayy, ayy.” The chazzan begins singing the melody. “They told me that the alef-yud-yud represent Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov.” He sighs. “It was my rebbe who nicknamed me Moishele. Later, in Bergen-Belsen, when everyone had no name but only a number, somehow people got hold of this name.”

Rav Meir Shapiro, the Lubliner Rav and founder of the Daf Yomi movement, left a similarly indelible impression on the child prodigy; they both shared a deep love for Yiddish music. Young Moishele was privileged to sing privately for the Rosh Yeshivah and his rebbetzin as a reward for performing a song Rav Shapiro had composed at a concert in Lublin’s great synagogue. Over the decades, the words and melody — from the well-known “Zera shel Kayama” — still reverberate.

Kinder tzim leiben ihn tzim gezint,

Bett’n mir fin Dir atzind,

Gitte kinder, erliche kinder,

Vus zol’n hub’n far Dir moira…

“When I sang the Yiddish parts, he cried,” the elderly chazzan recalls. “Is it any surprise that I loved this sensitive and brilliant tzaddik?”

The Torah luminaries Moshe Kraus met in that era made a lasting spiritual impression. That period between the two world wars also saw an abundance of vocal talent. Cantors such as Yossele Rosenblatt, Joseph Schmidt, Mordechai Hershman, and Leibele Waldman presided over a “golden age of chazzanus.” It was an exalted period when these magnificent singers, backed by professionally trained choirs, gave voice to the deeply felt spiritual and emotional longings of their generation by creating some of today’s most majestic and widely used melodies and techniques.

“Rosenblatt was one in a generation,” Chazzan Kraus states. “Josef Schmidt, on the other hand, was an amazing tenor, the greatest in the world in his time. When I first heard him, I told my parents that I wanted to learn his technique. But it was not until a few years later, when I was 16 years old, after my voice changed practically overnight from an alto to a tenor, that I was able to receive such professional training.”

These were peaceful — and to the young Moshe — idyllic times. Excited by the acclaim and the professional challenges that he easily met, there was little thought given to the horrors that were encroaching rapidly. These were, in fact, swept aside, hidden behind a veil of disbelief.

“They [fleeing refugees] would describe unimaginable atrocities being perpetrated against Jews in Poland and elsewhere, but we could not accept their words as truth,” the chazzan states in the memoir. “We thought they were making up false tales because they wanted rachmanus… We wanted to help them, but we didn’t know how, because we just did not believe them.”

Moishele, Go Daven

Reality inevitably burst through — with a vengeance. After the Nazis took power in Germany, young Moshe had managed to stay one step ahead of them as they planned their advance over Europe. He had gone to Vienna to receive vocal training from the renowned operatic teacher Werner Wolff, who had also taught the great tenor Joseph Schmidt. “But the Nazis marched toward me, so I ran to Prague. Then they came there, so I hurried to Budapest. There, they caught me, and took me to Bergen-Belsen.”

It was Chazzan Kraus’s ability to emulate Schmidt that would save his life in the notorious concentration camp, when Commandant SS-Hauptsturmführer Josef Kramer — “the Beast of Belsen,” fortuitously a great admirer of Joseph Schmidt — took a liking to the young chazzan’s singing. Subsequently, Kramer ensured that this chassidic youth was never included among the thousand Jewish inmates who were murdered there daily. It was in Bergen-Belsen where Kraus acquired the nickname “Moishele der Zinger,” after going from barrack to barrack singing happy songs to fellow prisoners, “to make people smile, even if just for a few seconds.”

Overwhelmed by the intensity of the evil, the 18-year-old Moshe vented his anger at G-d for allowing these atrocities to happen. The Munkacser Rebbe’s son-in-law, Rav Baruch Yehoshua Yerachmiel Rabinovich — known as Reb Burech’l — together with the Klausenburger Rebbe would later help Kraus recommit to Yiddishkeit. In 1941, the young chazzan helped save Reb Burech’l’s life — which, in turn, helped save Moshe’s spiritual life.

Once, before he was incarcerated, Kraus was singing in Khust, and was informed that a train carrying Rav Rabinovich and his son — the current Munkacser Rebbe — was to stop in that town. As native Poles, they were being deported from Hungary, together with all other noncitizens, and they were on their way to Kamenets-Podolsk, a notorious death camp. Without hesitation Kraus volunteered to bring the Rebbe $1,000 bound in the front and back covers of a sefer, even though this meant crossing over a dangerous no-man’s-land to get to him.

Once there, he asked the tzaddik the question that had been hammering at his heart: “Why does Hashem require so much kiddush Hashem?”

The Rebbe’s response mesmerized him. “There is no kiddush Hashem here,” he declared. “Kiddush Hashem only happens when one has a choice…. There will be kiddush Hashem again when the war is over, when you keep Shabbos, eat kosher, and behave the way a Jew is supposed to behave.”

This insight impacted Moshe greatly. “After the war, one of the biggest questions we survivors struggled with was why we survived when so many of our loved ones didn’t.” In the midst of this existential inner struggle, the Rebbe’s words would serve as a magnet that secured Moshe’s emunah in G-d’s ultimate purpose.

Chazzan Kraus kept closely in touch with Reb Burech’l after the Holocaust. They met in Brazil and in Israel, among other places, and the chazzan had the privilege to sing for him. The Rebbe was very aware of the impact he had had on the young chazzan; they discussed it many times.

But it was his unexpected encounter with the Sanz-Klausenburger Rebbe, Rav Yekusiel Yehudah Halberstam, after liberation that reconnected him to chassidus. It was in a DP camp in Fernwald, Germany, while working for the Joint, that he was informed that the Rebbe, who knew him and his father well, was at the camp and was conducting services. Moshe no longer wore a beard, he had replaced his yarmulke with a beaver hat, and his tzitzis were tucked into his trousers. Ashamed of his appearance, he hid among the congregants, hoping to avoid the Rebbe’s gaze.

That was not to be. He soon felt the Rebbe’s gentle touch on his shoulder and heard the words, “Moishele, Kabbalas Shabbos,” directing him to the amud to lead the services.

“But Rebbe, look how I am dressed. I am not for you tonight.”

“Moishele, your essence is holy, go daven.”

The following day, despite hiding in the wings, he again felt the Rebbe’s hand on his shoulder. “Moishele, Shacharis and Hallel.”

During Hallel, he heard the Rebbe, who was standing beside him, translate the verse “Yasor yisrani Kah, v’lamaves lo nesanani [G-d has punished me, but He did not let me die],” as “G-d, You punished me so bitterly. You took away my dear wife and my dear children [11 of them]. Why didn’t You also let me die?”

Reminded of his own immense personal losses, Moshe burst out crying and couldn’t continue, at which point the Rebbe took over.

“After Havdalah, the Rebbe shepherded me into his room and spoke at length about how there are no answers to our questions; regardless, we must continue in the ways of our parents.” Chazzan Kraus was deeply moved by their talk, which so eloquently articulated his inner existential struggles. “I’ve since discussed the purpose of our survival with great people — such as my late friend Elie Wiesel, who was one of my choir boys in Sighet — and none of them explained it to me better.”

Singing as if Speaking

After the war, survivors sought to reestablish their devastated communities. Moshe reconnected with his surviving siblings — two sisters and later a brother in Israel. For Jews living in Soviet-held territories, their problems didn’t cease with the end of the war. When he learned of Moscow’s intentions to secure the borders of the Iron Curtain, preventing people from entering and leaving, he gave up a prestigious position as chief cantor of the Malbim shul in Bucharest and traveled with his sisters back to Germany, where he resumed his job as chief secretary of the rabbinate for the Joint Distribution Committee.

The decision to move to Palestine was an easy one for him to make; he longed to be there at the establishment of the state, which took place three weeks after he arrived. He made history shortly afterward by becoming the IDF’s first cantor. The position brought him little peace. “There were so many funerals and memorial services to attend. I cried for the young soldiers who died defending Israel, and at the same time I shed many tears for my own immense losses.”

Happily, he met Rivka there at a Modzhitzer wedding, and proposed to her 15 minutes later. (She waited a year before accepting.)

After four emotionally stressful years, he decided to accept the post of chief chazzan of Antwerp, which allowed him to sing in the great synagogue. Living in Belgium also afforded him the opportunity to travel. He gave concerts in England, the Netherlands, and throughout Europe.

His chazzanus deeply impacted many of the people who heard it, one of whom was a prominent lawyer and confirmed atheist living in Grenoble, France. A mutual friend hosted a Shabbos bar mitzvah for his son, and invited the lawyer together with the Krauses. The chazzan conducted the services much the same way he always did, clearly enunciating and putting his heart and soul into every word. As the services continued, the lawyer became more and more excited until he burst out crying: He was so inspired by the prayers, he said, that he wished to become observant. This extraordinary event made its way into the local media. What was it about Chazzan Kraus’s davening that was so inspirational?

“I used the Chortkover nusach that sings words as if they are spoken. This is called parlando. As a chazzan, I spoke to Hashem as I’m now speaking to you. Yes, I could also reach the high C’s. But that’s not what Hashem wants. I didn’t daven to entertain people. I davened for Hashem.”

Treasured Guests

Chazzan Kraus longed to remain in Belgium; unfortunately for him, Rivka couldn’t acclimatize. Having come from Israel, she found the constant rain to be a huge irritant. He therefore jumped at the opportunity to become chief cantor in sunny Johannesburg, South Africa, when the opportunity was presented to him. It proved to be just what the doctor ordered, heralding in a period of creativity unhampered by external tensions.

“In Belgium, 90 percent of the people were survivors, everybody there was nervous,” Rivka recalls. “In South Africa, it was different. The community had never experienced war. The quiet and calm relaxed us. Moshe started seeing life in a more positive light.” The emotional healing had begun.

Johannesburg also proved to be a major hub for international visitors, who descended on this popular, world-renowned personality to help secure introductions to wealthy individuals. The Ponevezher Rav, Rav Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman, was among the many “treasured guests” he was privileged to host. Chazzan Kraus recalls the Rav’s encounter with a Port Elizabeth multimillionaire known for giving generously to Jewish causes. Seeking funds for the Ponevezh yeshivah, Rav Kahaneman and Chazzan Kraus were cordially admitted into the man’s exquisite home.

After listening attentively to the Rosh Yeshivah’s appeal, however, the man refused to donate. “Rabbi, yeshivos don’t talk to me. Feel free to approach me for anything else but that.”

Before leaving, Rav Kahaneman assured the millionaire that he was not upset with him; rather, he was angry with himself. He then explained. “Every day I say an added prayer to G-d to help me raise the money I need to enable my students to study Torah. Today, I didn’t say that prayer, because the townspeople assured me that your donation was guaranteed. Therefore, the blame is entirely mine, since I had neglected to say that prayer. I wish you good health and all the best.”

The man immediately wrote out a check for 10,000 rands, then equivalent to $30,000.

Another incident concerned Rabbi Shemaryahu Gurary and the mysterious Sam Cohen from Kimberley, South Africa. The Lubavitcher Rebbe had sent Rabbi Gurary, his brother-in-law, to South Africa to collect a large sum from this gentleman. But the only known Sam Cohen who could afford to donate generously resided in Johannesburg, not in Kimberley. Neither the chief rabbi nor any of the congregants in Kimberley had heard of this particular Sam Cohen. After some frustrating hours of fruitless inquiry, Chazzan Kraus suggested returning to Johannesburg.

Rabbi Gurary refused. “The Rebbe sent me and he knows,” he insisted.

Sure enough, on their way back to the hotel, they were approached by a shabbily dressed individual. “The Rebbe sent you,” he informed Rabbi Gurary. “I am Sam Cohen, and I am to give you two bags of money.”

This mystery man apparently lived outside Kimberley on a mountainside, far removed from the Jewish center. He had made his fortune by supplying essential goods to blacks working in the diamond mines there. He then brought the two men to his humble home and gave Rabbi Gurary the equivalent of $3 million.

Nerves of Steel

At the height of the Cold War in 1964, Chazzan Kraus and his wife were invited by World Jewish Congress president Dr. Nahum Goldmann to participate in a three-month concert tour behind the Iron Curtain. Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev had requested that a Jewish artist perform, so he could show the world that the USSR wasn’t anti-Semitic. Chazzan Kraus was to give a series of concerts in Budapest, Prague, Warsaw, Leningrad, and elsewhere, as a guest of the Soviet government. Behind the scenes, though, he was recruited by leaders of South Africa’s Jewish community to do whatever possible to help free certain Jewish refuseniks.

“All I needed were nerves of steel,” Chazzan Kraus recounts.

And in case the dangers involved were not already obvious, the Israeli consul in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, in no uncertain terms informed the Krauses — who were traveling on Israeli passports —that they were completely on their own. Should any complications arise; the Israeli government would be in no position to help them out. Chazzan Kraus and Rivka assented to the mission nevertheless.

Difficulties immediately arose. If the KGB weren’t enough, nature itself seemed to conspire against them. Their Friday morning flight from Belgrade to Bucharest, Romania, was canceled. A snowstorm hit the city; all roads into the city were blocked. Chazzan Kraus was slated to perform Motzaei Shabbos in Bucharest to a sold-out audience.

“We stayed in the Belgrade airport the entire Shabbos without food, drink, or beds,” he recalls. After Shabbos, passenger flights to Bucharest were still not taking off. Demonstrating his quick thinking and ingenuity, the chazzan approached two Polish commercial pilots and offered them $100 to fly him and Rivka to their destination, explaining their dire circumstances. The pilots readily agreed.

“There were no seats — just boxes with ropes. On landing, we dashed to the opera house. I didn’t have time to change until I got there. I jumped into my tuxedo and ran onstage. There was no time to rehearse.”

Chazzan Kraus’s performance moved his audience deeply. Many cried; it was the first time they had witnessed such a well-dressed performer.They were accustomed to artists performing in rags.

The challenges facing them on the tour intensified. In Leningrad, the Soviet censor — himself a Jew — refused to allow the chazzan to sing any songs related to Jerusalem, Israel, or freedom, or else he would “rot in Siberia.” Moshe, though, felt duty bound to sing those songs, and did so without piano accompaniment. He counted on the large number of foreign journalists covering his tour to keep him safe, while Rivka sat in the audience trembling with dread.

Throughout their tour, they were shaken by the poverty and fear permeating the Jewish communities. At the Jewish community center in Prague, the only place where one could eat kosher, the atmosphere was exceedingly uncomfortable. People sat around in coats, there was no heating. Nobody talked to the Krauses. Strangers weren’t trusted; they were believed to be spies. Conversations — what few there were — took place on the streets or in the Krauses’ hotel rooms. They were told horrendous stories about what the government did to those who criticized Communism or the state. In Prague, the couple was under 24-hour surveillance. On one occasion, when Chazzan Kraus was pressed to do something undercover, he had to sneak out a back door to escape surveillance.

Despite the danger, Chazzan Kraus managed, with the help of Britain’s Chief Rabbi Israel Brodie, to help two families leave the Soviet Union. One of the families had begged that their four children be rescued and be provided with a good Jewish education. The families left for England, under the ruse that they would be there only temporarily before returning to Russia; this was made plausible by the fact that London had schools that taught foreign children in their native languages. These schools provided a good cover; since their children were not acclimating to a new culture, professionals could claim they were leaving the Soviet Union for only a short time.

Chazzan Kraus took full responsibility for one of the families, which meant finding the husband a job in South Africa. Because South Africa had no diplomatic relations with any Soviet country, the chazzan appealed to South Africa’s foreign minister, and succeeded in obtaining a special visa for the man.

“Moshe cried when he told the foreign minister the man’s story, and touched his heart,” Rivka says.

A Bowl of Matches

After their tour of service behind the Iron Curtain, the Krauses managed a four-year stint in Mexico City, which served as their home base while the chazzan gave multiple performances throughout Latin America. After that, they moved to Ottawa, where they’ve remained for the last 40 years. It’s one of the smallest cities they ever lived in, but one they’ve grown to value deeply.

“Since moving here, I’ve never once heard an anti-Semitic comment,” Rivka says.

Still, one of the bitter lessons the Krauses have learned over their journey is that in galus, one cannot get too comfortable. Everything can change overnight; a seemingly idyllic existence can turn into a nightmare with no notice. The chazzan carries the painful memories of lost family, murdered friends, and obliterated communities in his heart as a testament.

Kraus remembers a Rosh Hashanah in Bergen-Belsen when word spread that 1,400 children were going to be gassed. These children had only one last desire: to hear the shofar blown. The chazzan accompanied the rabbi of Rotterdam to the children’s barracks, where he blew the shofar for them.

They began to dance, 1,400 children, encircling the rabbi and the chazzan.

“Tzavei, tzavei, tzavei, tzavei, tzavei yeshuos Yaakov…”

The door flew open and there stood Camp Commandant SS-Hauptsturmführer Josef Kramer, incensed.

“Why are you dancing?” he roared. “Soon you will all be dead!”

The chazzan recalls the young boy who answered, filled with sweet confidence. “We are happy, because we are going to our Father in Heaven who loves us.”

Here, now, in their den, seated comfortably on a lounge chair, I notice a large glass bowl filled with matchboxes from all over the world, most from cities the Krauses visited. “That bowl of matches represents our vast experiences — not all good, by any stretch of the imagination, but each of them represents a unique gift from G-d…. I tell people to let Him in through prayer and meditation, that through G-d, they will find a meaningful life full of joy and love.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 670)