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By Beis Moshiach Magazine

Inspiring and heartwarming Chanukah stories from “The Inside Story” — a book which presents Reb Sholom Mordechai Rubashkin’s life for seven years “in a place called prison” until his miraculous release on Zos Chanuka 5778

First Chanuka

Chanuka was fast approaching. While I fully expected a miraculous release, Torah demanded that I make arrangements to do the mitzva. I’d long been acquainted with the work of the Aleph Institute, a wonderful Jewish organization dedicated to helping men and women in prisons and in the US military. Among other things, they help Yidden with their religious needs, which are often not granted easily.

Rabbi Mendy Katz, Aleph’s director of prison outreach, was someone we came to know very well. He went above and beyond the call of duty to ensure I was able to connect to Hashem through His Torah and mitzvos. Throughout my ordeal, I was surrounded by reminders of his ahavas Yisrael in the many mitzvos he helped me fulfill, and I will always be grateful to Aleph and to Mendy himself. I have to also mention the Chabad shliach to Iowa City, Rabbi Blesofsky, who helped with these matters and visited me a number of times while I was in Cedar Rapids, which gave me a lot of chizuk.

I asked my family to contact Aleph and have them advocate on my behalf in this instance. Specifically, I requested that they get permission for me to light the menorah with olive oil, which is the preferred way to light and how I’ve always performed the mitzva.

It didn’t take long to hear back. Aleph was willing to do whatever it took, but they foresaw a battle. I’d be very fortunate, they said, to even receive permission to light the menorah at all, for which they could lobby based on precedent and policy at other jails and prisons. They had little hope I’d be permitted to light with olive oil, which had never before been allowed in places of incarceration, but they were still willing to fight for it.

They reported back a few days later that even lighting candles would not be allowed. The warden, who’d been very accommodating when it came to my religious needs, was deferring in this case to the fire marshal, who rejected the request.

I wasn’t willing to give up on fulfilling the mitzva. I suspected that the warden was envisioning something very different than what a menorah actually is, so I asked Aleph to send Rabbi Kalmanson, a Chabad shliach in the Midwest who was also a chaplain, to meet with the warden. He could show the warden the pre-filled olive oil cups and demonstrate that the size of the flame in question is not a real fire hazard, especially since it would be monitored at all times.

Baruch Hashem, this approach was blessed with success and the warden reversed his decision—not only about the menorah in general, but about the olive oil as well. He informed Aleph about his decision, adding that he’d identified a fireproof room in which I could light. Aleph was happy to relay the news. I was overjoyed and looked forward to Chanuka with the anticipation of fulfilling its mitzvos properly even under these difficult circumstances.

The Medrash tells us about the obstacles Avraham Avinu and Yitzchok encountered on their journey to the Akeidah. As they traveled, the Satan placed a river in their path. There was no way to safely cross the river and fulfill Hashem’s direct commandment, but instead of concluding that the mitzva was impossible, Avraham Avinu concluded that the river was impossible.

Avraham and Yitzchok ignored the dangerous-looking river and walked forward, as if unopposed. The waters swelled and threatened to drown them, but they persisted—and the river suddenly vanished as if it had never been there at all. We often relive this experience, faced with obstacles to doing a mitzva. It’s up to us to react the way our Forefathers did, recognizing that any resistance to a mitzva is only a test, a moment of truth. Will we be discouraged by fear or discomfort and abandon or compromise on the fulfillment of the mitzva or will we fix our sights on the mitzva and push through?

Now that I’d pushed through, the truth was revealed. The initial resistance to the proper lighting of the menorah was not real. It was a scenario contrived by Hashem to test my reaction, and with a little effort and persistence, the “river” vanished. As it turned out, this was only the first river I would have to cross to do this mitzva correctly that year.

The first night of Chanuka finally arrived and I was eagerly looking forward to lighting the menorah. An hour and a half before the designated time, the door to the cell opened unexpectedly. A guard came in with bad news. The warden had left the jail for holiday vacation (it was December 21st) and had forgotten to give them the menorah and oil cups, which were in his now-locked office.

I asked if the warden could be contacted and asked to return and open his office. The very idea was so preposterous that their only response was to burst out laughing. The difference in position between warden and inmate is so vast that it would be like calling the President back to the Oval Office because an intern might have dropped his keys there.

 R’ Sholom Mordechai Rubashkin In 770 – The Day After His Release

This was a real misfortune, so, like any Yid in a bad spot, I turned to Hashem and davened that He help me in this time of need. At the same time, I was grateful to Hashem for this relatively early notification, which gave me time to do something to address the situation. I called my family to tell them what had happened and see if there was something that could be done from the outside to channel Hashem’s imminent salvation.

Until today, I don’t know what channels were made or if Hashem just resolved this one without our involvement. Not much time passed, and the guard returned with good news. The warden had returned to take the menorah out of his office and I’d be able to fulfill the mitzva after all. The guards were all astonished and impressed—it was a real kiddush Hashem.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, two men came and took me out of the cell. One was dressed in a very sharp uniform, clearly a man of rank in the jail. The other wore the simple uniform of a regular prison guard. I followed them through a maze of hallways until we reached a large black steel door. The door opened with the loud clanging characteristic of prison doors and we entered a large cell. The floor and walls were cement and there were no windows. Attached to each wall were benches, enough seating for fifty people. There was a low, L-shaped partition in the corner of the room. The guard walked over, placed the menorah on this partition with a mock flourish, and said, “Go ahead, do your thing!”

I approached the menorah with great joy and prepared to fulfill the holy mitzva. Chanuka is a time of miracles and illumination. Lighting the menorah would both metaphorically and literally bring the light and warmth of kedusha into this cold and dark place. I was grateful to Hashem that I would merit not only to fulfill the mitzva in its basic form, but to continue my lifelong hiddur to light with olive oil. I placed a single pre-filled oil cup into the menorah and picked up the beeswax shamash and the matches. As I was about to strike a match, I glanced down. It took a second to register what I was looking at. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was a toilet behind the partition! I had been so caught up in my excitement that I didn’t realize the obvious purpose of the partition. Of course, they would have a toilet in this cell, as they do in every cell, and they had placed it behind this waist-high partition.

Could I possibly recite a brachah with Hashem’s holy name and light the menorah on the partition of a toilet?! I dismissed the intellectual gymnastics that sprang to my mind unbidden. Even if there was a heter, a way to excuse that decision under the circumstances, I was preparing to do a mitzva and connect with Hashem. This was not a place where holiness can dwell!

I turned to the guard, who was standing there watching my every move and said, gently indignant, “I can’t light the candles here!”

He looked puzzled. “Why not?”

“I am about to fulfill G-d’s commandment. I need to say a blessing before I do so.

“Do you think it’s respectful to say G-d’s holy name in front of a toilet?!”

He didn’t immediately respond, but I could see that he understood and possibly even agreed, so I powered on. “Listen, these are holy lights, lights that proclaim and publicize the miracles G-d performed for His people. Do you want me to light these holy lights to shine on a toilet? To proclaim the miracle over a toilet? That would be beyond disrespectful.”

He could have easily said, “Rubashkin, you’re wearing this bright orange jumpsuit because you’re a prisoner. You’ll do what we tell you to do!” But he didn’t. He simply asked, “Well, what should I do about it?”

Since he asked, I offered a suggestion: “Look, I’m taken every day to pray and to eat my kosher meals in a small side room. Why don’t you allow me to light the menorah there? I’ll sit near the candles and ensure there’s no fire hazard.”

His initial reaction was to dismiss the idea. He had his own orders, and due to the legal holiday, there was no one in the office who could sign off on a change. He didn’t want to make the call himself. I continued pressing, and he turned to the other guard for his opinion. I said a silent tefilla to Hashem that their hearts be opened, although they had nothing to gain and something to lose by taking the initiative.

Miraculously, after a quick consultation, they agreed. The officer picked up the menorah, the guard picked up the olive oil cups, and they led me out.

Seeing that Hashem was helping me to fulfill the mitzva in the best possible way, with olive oil and in an appropriate place, I worked up the courage to ask for the one thing still missing. As we walked down the hallway, I said, “Officer, I have another issue.”

“What’s your issue?” he asked, more patiently than I’d expected.

“I’m scheduled to light the candles, recite the prayers, and sit near the candles for thirty minutes. That follows the letter of the Jewish law, and I appreciate the accommodation, but it’s the custom in my community to sit by the candles for no less than fifty minutes. Would that be possible here?”

The officer stopped walking in order to process the new information. Each step of this process had only revealed another requirement. First came the initial request to light the menorah, then it needed to be olive oil, then the toilet is causing problems, and now the time allowed is insufficient. Going by prison norms, he should have angrily dismissed my pestering requests, but the hearts of rulers are in the hands of Hashem. He looked at me and said, “Rubashkin, just tell me, how did you do this in your home?”

My heart twisted suddenly at the thought of Chanuka with my family. Each night of Chanuka I would completely clear my schedule, go home, and gather my children around the menorah. Together, we would light the candles, sing the Chanuka songs, and dance in front of the menorah. Then we would sit at the table nearby and eat latkes, play dreidel, and share thoughts about the Yom Tov until the candles burned out, some two and a half hours later.

The words just tumbled out. It was more information than he asked for, but I told him how I did it in my home. Much of it was gibberish to him, I’m sure, but I made sure he understood the important part: At home I would sit by the candles until they went out.

I stood there as he thought about it, fearing I’d gone too far. Perhaps I should have just asked for fifty minutes instead of the half hour. After what felt like an eternity, he reached his decision. He looked at me and said, “Okay. You’ll do it here the way you did it in your home.”

Grateful that he’d agreed, I was also strengthened by the extra words Hashem had put in his mouth. He didn’t just say “okay” or “permission granted.” He said, “You’ll do it here the way you did it in your home.” In those few added words, I heard a message from Hashem. You need to do it, here, there, or wherever you are, the way you do it at home—you need to be an immutable and enduring Yid.

When we’re out of our comfort zone, away from home or just out of our element and off balance dealing with life’s many adversities, our instinctive thought is often to adjust our behavior. “In my home,” we say to ourselves, “when things are stable, I’d certainly do the mitzva in the best possible way, but under the circumstances, it’s okay to do less, especially when the hiddurim require additional sacrifice and I’m under fire.”

Hashem had put the right words into the mouth of this guard. Be the same Yid here as you were in your home. I tried to do exactly that throughout my ordeal, and, baruch Hashem, that Chanuka my efforts were successful. Each and every day, I was permitted to light the menorah in that small room and sit by its light as long as the oil burned. When the candles went out, I would bang on the big metal door, the noise echoing through the jail as one last flourish of pirsumei nisa, and the guard would open the door and return me to the cell.

This episode was more than just a victory in one specific area—it set me on the right track more generally. When you do your part to fulfill Hashem’s mitzvos fully and properly, He will be with you and grant you success.

Chanuka During Lockdown

In Dubuque, in a place called jail, getting permission to light the menorah had been a battle. In Otisville, a federal prison, religious accommodations were more readily made and menoros were issued to all Jewish inmates, but there were still some aspects that needed improvement.

The standard-issue menoros were the familiar tin kind with thin colored candles. Fulfilling the mitzva with those candles is very difficult, because Chanuka candles have to burn for a minimum of half an hour and those candles will only last that long if the wicks are carefully trimmed before lighting. Besides, I’d always followed the hiddur of using olive oil and I wanted to continue. I made a request for an oil menorah and it was baruch Hashem granted.

It took a few years, but the other Yidden developed a taste for lingering over the warmth and light of the mitzva as well. Noticing that the oil burned longer, they all gradually switched to oil menoros too.

Scheduling was the other aspect of the mitzva that required initiative. Ideally, we’re supposed to light the candles right after shkiah and I was very grateful that the chaplain scheduled the candle-lighting to accommodate that. The problem arose when the 4:00 p.m. count was prolonged for one of the seemingly endless list of reasons, delaying us past the scheduled start time.

One year, the count finished without incident, but a fog had rolled in during the count and the compound went into adverse weather lockdown. No movement was allowed, with the exception of an abbreviated forty-minute meal-time release to the chow hall.

As soon as we were released for supper, I ran to the chow hall. I had an idea that, if we asked, we might be allowed to make a detour to the chapel during those forty minutes. It would mean skipping a meal, but that seemed an insignificant sacrifice. As I walked toward the chow hall, I scanned the grounds for someone with the authority to make a decision and noticed a senior officer standing near the entrance to the chow hall. I started explaining our predicament and my proposed solution, but his facial expression and body language made it plain that he was hearing me out only because protocol demanded it.

Just at that moment, by clear hashgacha pratis, a chaplain walked by. I signaled to her that we would benefit from her participation and she joined the discussion. I quickly recapped the situation and explained that I was requesting permission for the Jewish inmates to go to the chapel to light the menorah and watch them for thirty minutes.

Recognizing its religious importance, she added her weight to the request. After considering it for a moment, the officer relented and gave us permission to go to the chapel for the amount of time we needed. I thanked them both and hurried off, thanking Hashem for enabling me to fulfill His precious mitzva.

I lit the menorah, and was soon joined by other Jewish inmates, whom the chaplain had informed of the arrangement. We decided to daven Maariv first, after which we each lit our menorah. We sat together near the candles, savoring our own little Chanuka miracle, when the chaplain stepped into the chapel with new orders. We were to return to the barracks immediately, although only twenty minutes or so had passed.

Without objection or request for clarification, a number of those present stood up and walked out. I wasn’t willing to give up so easily. I knew that the moment we left the chapel, the candles would be extinguished as a fire hazard, but the candles hadn’t burned for the minimum of thirty minutes necessary to fulfill the mitzva. The officer had given permission for the time required for the menorah, so I asked the chaplain if she could check with him if that permission exempted us from the recall. Even if the answer was negative, I hoped that the delay in getting a response would carry us over the thirty-minute mark.

Of course, communication was suddenly and remarkably efficient, and she returned after only three minutes with word that we were not exempted and needed to leave immediately. We were so close! I couldn’t just give up. I explained to her that we only needed seven more minutes to do our duty to G-d, and asked her if she could make our case to the officer. She was uncomfortable pushing it, but reluctantly agreed to make the call from the chapel phone. She told the officer we only needed five or ten more minutes and listened to his response with a look of surprise. She was happy to inform us that we’d been granted permission to stay the necessary minutes. Our Chanuka miracle was complete!

Hashem Provides Tefillin

I was kept in the county jail for months after the sentencing. One morning, out of the blue, a guard came into the cell and coldly informed me to hurry up, pack, and be ready to go. He felt no need to say more—after all, I was only an inmate, not entitled to know what was happening to me. I hurried to pack my tallis, tefillin, the few sefarim I had, and my legal notes and papers. I fit it all into the few plastic bags they provided, and I was taken down to the waiting prison van.

One of the guards, seeing the bags I was carrying, informed me that I wasn’t actually allowed to take anything with me. I was supposed to leave everything behind and my family would come and take it. With no choice, I put the sefarim and legal papers down where he indicated, although this exposed my legally protected confidential notes, but I wasn’t letting go of my tallis and tefillin.

“This is a religious item which I must have with me at all times,” I told him, showing him the tallis bag. I had seen inmates traveling with small medical devices before and tried to draw a parallel. “You wouldn’t take an insulin shot from a diabetic, in case he needs it en route. This is like that. A tallis and tefillin are critical to the life of a Jew.”

Nodding his head in assent, the guard reached out for the bag. “Okay. It can’t travel with you, though. Give it here and I’ll put it in the back of the van.” Relieved that this was so quickly and painlessly resolved, I gave him the bag and got into the van.

The naive trust we place in the system is layered. Clearly, I had another layer to work through. During one of the stops, I caught a glimpse of the back of the van and saw, to my horror, that my tallis bag was not there. When I asked the guard where he’d put it, he brazenly and matter-of-factly informed me that he’d lied in order to get his hands on my tallis and tefillin without a fuss. As soon as my back was turned, he had put my tallis and tefillin on the pile of other stuff that I’d so obediently left behind. There was nothing I could do with this information until we reached a phone, which left me in a state of concern and uncertainty.

[…]

I was taken to a regional airport and flown on a special prison transport plane to the Federal Transit Center in Oklahoma City — the Bureau of Prison’s transfer hub and holding facility, where inmates await long-term assignment.

During the intake process,  a non-Jewish chaplain came in and asked if anyone had any questions. I told him that I’d been informed that my tallis and tefillin would be brought with me from Cedar Rapids. I would need them in the morning, and would appreciate if he could check up on that and facilitate it to the best of his ability.

He told me that I had been misinformed (lied to, in English) and my tallis and tefillin were not there. There was a tallis and tefillin in the chapel that I could use, and he would be happy to bring them to me in the morning, but he warned me that they were the property of the chapel, available to anybody, and they might not be in the best condition. I asked him to bring them anyway. They were my only option at this point, and I just hoped that they were kosher.

The next morning, I waited impatiently for the chaplain to bring the tallis and tefillin as he’d promised, but when he finally arrived, I was severely disappointed by what he brought. The tallis was little more than a white scarf with frayed tzitzis strings and the tefillin’s knots were jumbled and unrecognizable. The appearance of the tefillin, compounded by their dilapidated condition, gave me no reason to believe they were even remotely kosher.

I just stood there looking at these unusable tefillin, more than seven hundred miles from home and family and my own precious tefillin, contemplating the possibility of going the first day of my life without tallis and tefillin. It was too much for me to bear, and I broke down crying.

Suddenly, I heard a guard call my name. I put down the alleged tallis and tefillin, caught my breath, and wiped my face before going out of the cell and down the steps to see what the guard wanted. Without a word, he led me to a room on the bottom floor of the unit and motioned for me to enter. I walked in, and to my shock and surprise, I saw a Lubavitcher Yid standing there with a big smile, his hand resting lightly on a tallis bag lying on the table next to him.

We greeted each other with a warm hug and a hearty, “Shalom aleichem!” His name was Rabbi Goldman and he was the shliach in Oklahoma. When my family came to Cedar Rapids to collect my belongings, they were surprised to find my tallis and tefillin. They immediately realized that I would need help and phoned Aleph. Aleph reached out to the chaplain at Oklahoma and arranged that Rabbi Goldman be permitted to bring these precious mitzvos to me.

The deceitful act of cruelty by the prison guard was actually guided by hashgacha pratis to help me in an unexpected way. Rabbis are generally not allowed to visit prisoners in the Oklahoma Transfer Center, because they have a (non-Jewish) chaplain on staff. It was only because I’d been deprived of my tefillin that the rabbi was allowed to enter. Because of these events, I was not only able to daven with a kosher tallis and tefillin, I was also given the opportunity to spend time with a fellow Yid and take the strength and encouragement I sorely needed.

Noting Hashem’s orchestration of events that I’d initially thought were a setback was an even greater encouragement in the face of my difficult nisayon. It reminded me that even what seemed to be painful and unnecessary acts of evil were from Hashem and for my good. It may take some time for things to play out, but Hashem was reminding me not to misjudge the painful moments. He had not abandoned me, chas v’shalom. He truly loves me, and allows me and wants me to do His holy mitzvos with which I connect with Him.

Rabbi Goldman continued coming every weekday until, with Aleph’s help expediting things, my own tallis and tefillin were delivered, five days later.

The Big Nes

I awoke early on the morning of Zos Chanuka 5778. I had received the denial of my appeal the day before. It was the final possible appeal, but instead of being dejected by the news, I had concluded that now there was nothing left do do and I would soon experience a direct intervention by Hashem – as it says Hashleich al Hashem Yehavicha V’Hu Yichalkilecho, from the word Keili. When there’s nothing left to do, Hashem will even make the Keili. I looked forward with firm bitachon to the miraculous salvation I was certain would now unfold.

At that time, Wednesday was a minyan day. We were, baruch Hashem, able to gather in the chapel to daven, read the Krias HaTorah for Chanuka, and say Hallel with a minyan. As I often did, I headed from davening to the computer room to read any correspondence that had arrived overnight.

One email that morning was from a very close friend whom I had never met—one of thousands I had heard from over the years. This particular friend was a Yid from England with whom I shared a warm and frequent correspondence. He would send emails full of encouraging words of chizuk, divrei Torah, and stories, along with his personal brachos and tefillos that Hashem would free me very soon.

About a week before Chanuka, he had sent me a long email with a geshmake dvar Torah of the Vilna Gaon along with a bracha that, “Bayamim haheim, b’zman hazeh,” Hashem should perform the miracle I needed and free me in these days of Chanuka, just as Hashem had performed miracles for the Chashmonaim. This letter, so full of love, Jewish faith, and words of Torah and encouragement, refreshed and reinvigorated me, as these letters always did.

His latest email, which I received in the pre-noon hours of Zos Chanuka, had been sent after Yom Tov had already concluded in England. In his email, this precious Yid consoled me that although Chanuka had come and gone without my miracle, I should not lose heart and instead know that Hashem will make a nes for me and free me very soon.

Here’s the email, dated Tuesday, December 19, 2017:

Dear Sholom,

I always write to you on Chanuka. This year I wrote eight days before Chanuka, as I explained in the letter, but I cannot allow traditions to fall away so I must write at least a short note to mark Zos.

My eight lights have just gone out and we are in darkness again, but very soon, long long long before next Chanuka, there should be a brilliant light in the world when justice is done […] and Sholom can go home to his family.

Kol tuv,

Don

I wrote back. Chanuka was not yet over in New York and b’ezras Hashem, we would yet see Hashem’s miracles:

B”H

Tayere Reb Don sheyichye 🙂

Happy Zos Chanuka 🙂 Even though your eight lights have gone out physically, the illumination of Chanuka will be with you and me and the whole Klal Yisrael for the whole year 🙂 Kedusha is a nitzchi 🙂 and it’s the Chanuka lights which will bring the brilliant light you are talking about 🙂 Thank you for your updated Chanuka message for this year and b’ezras Hashem, we will see great miracles from Hashem Yisbarach and I will be freed to farbreng with you whenever we want and face to face 🙂

May Hashem give you all His brachos and hatzlacha in everything you do 🙂

Sholom Mordechai Halevi ben Rifka sheyichye 🙂

Leaving the computer and turning to my handwritten correspondence, I decided to respond to a class from Vizhnitz Talmud Torah and their rebbi, Rabbi Nitzlich.

The children had all written warm letters with words of chizuk, encouraging me to be strong in my emuna and bitachon. One note, written in Yiddish, read:

Reb Sholom Mordechai,

I feel very much for you. Strengthen yourself with emuna! Hashem is able to help in the last minute. Don’t give up! You can still be freed!

Thank you,

Mechi

I wanted to connect with the purity of these children, so I sat down and wrote a few pages addressed to all of the children in the class. It was almost 2:30 p.m. by the time I finished. I never rushed to post letters early, because the mail wasn’t picked up until after 9:30 p.m., but by hashgacha pratis, I decided to mail this letter before the 3:30 lock-in.

After dropping off the envelope, I headed back to cell 307 for the 3:30 lock-in and count. The cell was empty – my cellmate was in the infirmary for a serious infection. The lock-in began and the guard made the rounds, locking each cell from the outside with the—sadly familiar—sound of metal sliding on metal, ending with an emphatic thud. I was locked in for the next hour. Or so I thought.

I put the letters I’d been answering on a pile of other letters on the small table and opened my Tehillim, beseeching Hashem Yisbarach, “Please make the nes today, Zos Chanuka, beis Teves. Beis is for bitachon and I have complete bitachon that You will free me today!”

After a few kapitlach, I checked my watch to ensure that I washed for my meal before shkiah, linking Chanuka and its miracles with the rest of the year. I put some matza and tuna fish on the table, washed my hands, and sat down for a Zos Chanuka seuda.

I had barely eaten enough to justify the bracha when the door suddenly swung open. It startled me. Cell 307 was quite far down the hallway and the guard unlocking the cells after the count always went from cell to cell in order. There were two other floors and a number of other cells on the third floor before he reached 307. I would always hear the noise of the keys jingling as he worked his way toward me, but this time, clearly, he had come straight to me. I didn’t know what to make of it.

I looked up to see who it was and what he wanted. The guard at the door was the one whom I’d nicknamed “Good Shabbos” since he always greeted me with a humorous, “Good Shabbos!” regardless of the day of the week. He was a matter-of-fact sort of person who did his job professionally, without seeking to inflict additional pain or deriving vicious pleasure from his work.

“Rubashkin!” he said. He wasn’t making any joking references that day and his demeanor was very stern. “Get out!” He tilted his head in the direction of the door to underline his command.

Being abruptly ejected from the cell with no explanation could have meant any number of things, most of them not good. I asked if this was a shakedown. “I’ve washed for a meal and it would be best if I didn’t leave the room. I’ll sit quietly and not interfere,” I offered.

“No,” he said, “you need to go downstairs and you’ll be escorted from there.” My release was never far from my mind or my lips, so I asked, “Where am I going —home?”

He didn’t immediately respond. After a pause, he evasively said, “You’re changing your location.”

I left the cell and began descending the stairs to the open area in the center of the barrack where I was to meet my escort. As I went down the stairs, his words replayed in my mind and I stopped mid-step. “You’re changing your location,” he had said. Wherever my new location might be, whether it was home or a stay in solitary, I would need my tallis and tefillin. I dashed back up the stairs and into cell 307 and grabbed my tallis bag. Already conspicuously late, I quickly headed back down the stairs. A guard was waiting to escort me.

The guard escorting me also refused to give me any information. We walked past the chow hall and barber “shop” and slowed near the lieutenant’s office, where the assistant warden was standing, waiting for us. He fell in step with us and we continued walking, following the guard to the building which housed offices of the executive officers.

The assistant warden was unusually quiet. It was out of character. Only the day before, he’d come into the chapel and chatted with the Jewish inmates for quite a long time. Now he was very quiet. He kept staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. It was clear that something out of the ordinary was going on, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. “You’ll be told when we get where we’re going,” was all he would say.

Where we were going, it turned out, was to one of the executive offices. After I was brought into the office, the warden herself came in. I didn’t break the silence, and, for a while, neither did she. We stood silently for a few moments, the warden and assistant warden just looking at me with the most baffled look on their faces. Whatever they were about to say or do, it was obviously not something they did every day. They seemed to not know quite how to proceed. I remained quiet and calm, telling myself that they would say what they had to say when they were ready.

Finally, the warden broke the silence. “Congratulations, Mr. Rubashkin.” Mr. Rubashkin… I hadn’t heard that basic title, a simple mark of respect, cross the lips of anyone in authority since I’d left the sentencing in Cedar Rapids, seven and a half years earlier. “The President of the United States of America has granted and signed your clemency petition. You’re now a free man. You can go home.”

Although they still didn’t have the actual clemency decree, President Trump had instructed that I be released “with all due speed” so they had begun the process. The first step was removing me from the prison cell and informing me what had happened, which they had now done.

“Hodu laShem ki tov ki l’olam chasdo!” I exclaimed, my heart full and overflowing with gratitude and praise to Hakadosh Baruch Hu for this precious and miraculous gift. I felt so small and insignificant, unworthy of the infinite kindness Hashem was showing me.

As the reality of the moment fully sank in, the events of the last two days replayed in my mind. I marveled at the sequence of events, as clear and obvious a signature of Hashem scrawled across this news as a Yid can hope to see.

Little more than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d been given notice that the US Appeals Court, the highest court to which I had access, speaking for the most powerful nation on earth, had decreed that I would remain in chains for another eighteen years. Those who had been involved in putting me there no doubt celebrated the news of their total and final victory. There was no mistaking it. This was total and final victory by the rules of the game that they were playing. Checkmate.

I had taken the news as a Jew must, actively rejecting their claims of control. I knew that my involvement was only required when it was possible. Now that there was nothing to be done and I threw the burden on Hashem alone, it was a certainty, based on emuna and bitachon, that Hashem Himself would save me—and that is exactly what Hashem did, not twenty-four hours later.

*

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