December 15, 2025 
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As told by Rabbi YY Jacobson
Some stories are not merely remembered — they are carried.
They pass from soul to soul, refusing to be extinguished, insisting on being told.
The following story was shared by Rabbi YY Jacobson, who heard it from his brother, Rabbi Simon Jacobson, who heard it from the man himself: a Jew who survived Auschwitz-Birkenau.
It was Chanukah, 1944 — the final Chanukah in Auschwitz.
The survivor recalled that in those days, life was reduced to one singular obsession: survival. Hunger consumed every thought. Starvation was so unbearable that time itself disappeared. Days, weeks, months — they no longer mattered.
And yet, even in that hell, there were people who seemed to live on a higher plane of consciousness. Despite the horrors, they somehow remembered when it was Shabbos, when it was a Yom Tov. They carried time, holiness, and meaning within themselves.
One morning, the survivor attempted to steal a small amount of balm from the infirmary. His father was suffering terribly, his body covered in painful sores, and he was desperate to relieve even a fraction of his agony.
He succeeded in obtaining the balm and rushed back to the barracks.
But his father was gone.
To this day, he never learned what happened. Whether it was a Nazi bullet, typhus, or another brutal cruelty of camp life, he would never know. In that moment, his world collapsed. He had been holding onto life for one reason — his father — and now even that was taken from him.
As he stood there, broken and frantic, an older man approached him. The survivor did not know his name, but he had often seen him speaking with his father. The man looked him in the eyes and spoke gently:
“Son, I don’t know where your father is. I don’t know what happened. But I do know one thing — today is Chanukah.”
He explained that Chanukah represents the victory of light over darkness, the few over the many, the weak over the strong, the righteous over the wicked.
“We are now in the greatest darkness in human history,” the man said.
“But your father would be so proud of you, knowing that you will live — and that through you, light will defeat darkness.”
Those words brought comfort. They offered solace where none should have been possible.
And suddenly, an idea sparked.
“Let’s light the Chanukah menorah here,” the young man said. “Here in Auschwitz.”
The older man smiled — a smile that masked deep grief.
“It’s too dangerous,” he said. “This is not a place to light a menorah.”
But the young man was determined.
He ran to the factory and managed to obtain a small amount of machine oil. Someone else found a few wicks. All that remained was fire.
At the edge of one of the buildings, they noticed smoldering cinders. They decided to wait until evening, when the camp was quieter, and then attempt the impossible.
At the right moment, the two slipped out of the barracks.
But an SS guard caught them.
This was a man known for his cruelty — sadistic, barbaric, ruthless. He screamed at them, cursed them, and snatched the oil and wicks from their hands.
Then, suddenly, something unexpected happened.
A superior officer barked an order. The guard was forced to leave.
As he walked away, he turned back and snarled:
“I’ll be back for you.”
The young man was shaking. Certain they would be killed.
The older man, however, remained calm.
They returned to the barracks.
That night, the older man turned to the young survivor and spoke words he would never forget:
“Tonight, we performed a miracle greater than the miracle of Chanukah.”
He explained:
“In the original Chanukah story, they had oil. They had wicks. They had a menorah. They had fire — and the oil lasted longer than expected.”
“Here in Auschwitz, we had none of those things.”
“And yet, we lit a menorah.”
“We lit the ninth flame.”
Not a visible flame — but a deeper one.
“A flame of the human spirit.
A flame of the Jewish soul.
A flame that cannot be extinguished.”
He told him:
“You will leave this hell alive. And wherever you go, tell the world — and tell God — that in Auschwitz, in the deepest darkness imaginable, the fire of the Jewish people could not be put out.”
“Carry this flame with you. Share it. Teach others about it.”
Moments later, the SS guard returned. He dragged the older man out behind the barracks.
The young survivor never saw him again.
A few weeks later, on January 27, 1945, the Soviets liberated Auschwitz.
The survivor lived — carrying the ninth flame with him.
Decades later, Rabbi YY Jacobson shared this story while standing in Auschwitz himself, surrounded by sixty secular Jewish college students on a freezing Chanukah day. Two grandchildren of Holocaust survivors lit a menorah in front of one of the barracks, battling the wind to keep the flames alive.
When asked to speak, Rabbi Jacobson told them this story.
And then he said:
“I’m telling you this because I want you to know who you belong to.”
“You come from a people who can light hope in the darkest night.
A people whose flame never dies — even when there is no oil, no wick, no fire, and no menorah.”
He urged them to become ambassadors of light, faith, love, and hope — and to teach every person who believes their life has no potential for illumination that this is not true.
“Your flame never dies.”
That is the legacy of Chanukah in Auschwitz.
That is the power of the ninth flame.
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