A Spark Reignited: Tefillin, Tears, and a Long-Lost Jewish Soul

Rabbi Moshe Yaakov Kaner shared this touching story, originally written in Yiddish for Das Yiddishe Vort. It was later adapted into Hebrew by H. Arbel and published in Yated Ne’eman’s Shabbat supplement on Parshat Terumah.

In Toronto, Canada, lived Rabbi Pinchas Feinstadt, a warm and humble Jew from the Gur Hasidic community. A Holocaust survivor from Belitz, Poland, he lived a life full of courage, Torah, and kindness.

On the 4th of Sivan, just two days before Shavuot—the holiday when we celebrate receiving the Torah—Rabbi Pinchas, nearly 90 years old, was hospitalized for heart problems. His health had been fragile for some time, and Rabbi Kaner came to visit him at Sunnybrook Hospital, bringing a tallit (prayer shawl) and tefillin (leather boxes containing Torah verses, worn during weekday prayers).

Rabbi Pinchas was lying weakly in bed, his spirit low. “Shavuot is coming,” he sighed. “The Torah, the Akdamut poem, the Ten Commandments... and I’m stuck here, far from it all, in a non-Jewish hospital.”

Rabbi Kaner didn’t know what to say. He sat quietly beside him, feeling helpless. Then, almost without thinking, he whispered, “Rabbi Pinchas, we never know what good might come from being here.”

He meant the medical treatment, of course—but in Heaven, those words had a deeper meaning.

In the same hospital room was another patient who looked, spoke, and acted like a non-Jew. That wasn’t surprising—Toronto is a very mixed city. But suddenly, this man joined their Yiddish conversation. “Ich bin a Yid,” he said. “I’m a Jew. My name is Meir Mandel. I was born in Siedlowce to a Gur Hasidic family. My grandfather was a follower of the Ostrauetz Rebbe. Before my bar mitzvah, he took me to the Rebbe to put on tefillin for the first time. Not long after that, the war began…”

The horrors of the Holocaust tore Meir from his roots. Over the years, he drifted far from Judaism. A heavy silence filled the room.

Then, Rabbi Pinchas—despite his weakness—removed his own tefillin, looked at Rabbi Kaner, and gently said, “This Yid hasn’t put on tefillin since his bar mitzvah. Maybe he’d agree to try again?”

Rabbi Kaner suggested it to Meir, but Meir politely declined. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.” It was a kind way of saying no.

But suddenly, something changed in Rabbi Pinchas. It was as if a fire had been lit within him. The years dropped away, and the spark of his youth returned. The light of a mitzvah—of doing something holy—shone in his eyes.

“Meir,” he said, “this is your moment. Even in business, you have to grab an opportunity when it comes!”

Still, Meir hesitated.

Then Rabbi Pinchas turned to Rabbi Kaner and said quietly, “Moshe, if you can help him put on tefillin, the angels in Heaven will dance. It’s almost Shavuot! Take his hands, do something—if not now, when?”

The image of the Ostrauetz Rebbe—who was killed in the Holocaust—flashed through their minds. That holy man had once helped young Meir put on tefillin for the very first time. And now, almost seventy years later, would anyone help him do it again?

Suddenly, an idea came to Rabbi Kaner.

He sat close to Meir and said softly, “There’s an old, tired Yid here who’s been through so much. You can lift his spirit. If you’re not ready to put on tefillin as a Jew—do it as a man. Be a mensch. Do this to bring joy to someone who needs it.”

Meir was quiet. Then, slowly, he nodded. He rolled up his sleeve.

Rabbi Kaner looked at his arm. This was the same arm where, long ago, the Ostrauetz Rebbe had placed tefillin. A holy memory came rushing back. Rabbi Kaner gently wrapped the tefillin and helped Meir say the first verse of the Shema: “Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad.”

At that moment, Meir seemed to tremble. He leaned back and let out a cry—not in his usual voice. The fear and awe of something deeply spiritual washed over him. Right there, in a quiet hospital room, the hidden Jewish spark inside him burst into flame.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he said with tears in his eyes. “You brought my childhood back. I see my father, my mother, the shtibel (little synagogue), the zeides (grandfathers), the Rebbe who first helped me with tefillin…”

Meir turned to Rabbi Pinchas. “Thank you,” he said, his voice choked. He couldn't say more—just lay there, crying from the depths of his soul. It was a holy moment.

A few minutes later, Meir’s children arrived to take him home. He looked once more at Rabbi Pinchas and whispered again, “Thank you.”

Half a year passed. Rabbi Pinchas passed away at the age of 100. A few months later, Meir Mandel also passed away.

“Two souls from a different time had to meet,” said Rabbi Kaner, “so one could help the other return home.” And so, in a hospital room far from any synagogue, two elderly Jews helped light a spark that had been hidden for nearly seventy years.

Perhaps the angels in Heaven did dance—but in that room, there wasn’t a dry eye.