Dark clouds covered the European skies, threatening us all in the fall of 1939. The Nazis tightened their grip over Eastern Europe and nature acted unfriendly toward the oppressed. A cold winter came upon us, the refugees, after the traumatic and dreadful fall, when the German occupation began.

Jewish refugees who barely escaped the Nazi savage were not met with open arms by the Soviet authorities. The Soviets had recently invaded the eastern part of Poland. They turned every public building into a temporary prison where refugees from the Nazis were incarcerated under the suspicion that there might be German spies among them.

My older brother, Simcha, and I were lucky to be imprisoned in a real prison, the infamous "Brigidkes," in Levov (Lwow). This was where political prisoners were kept during the Polish fascist regime till the outbreak of W.W.II. Fifty-eight people were deposited in one cell that could hardly hold 25. The majority of the prisoners were Jews detained while crossing the San River, which became the newly established border between the Soviets and Germany.

We suffered horribly, morally and physically. The Soviets stripped us naked while searching our belongings and confiscated every valuable, including items that were close to our souls. They confiscated all our prayer books, prayer shawls and tefillin. This added to our depressive mood when our thoughts were with our beloved ones. Our only happy moments were the times we spent wearing the tefillin one man successfully smuggled into the cell. The pleasure lasted only a minute or two because everyone was eager to partake in the mitzvah daily. Most of the refugees were religious, and it was hard for us to digest the non-kosher food served. Only a few holdouts survived on bread and water only.

Among us was one unique personality. His name was Reb Shmuel Nachum Emmer, a pious Chasid, an angel from Heaven. He supported us spiritually, and consoled us. His love for a fellow Jew was immeasurable. He never became angry with people who weren’t observant. On the contrary, whenever he talked someone into reciting a blessing over food, or not to smoke on the Sabbath, it made him the happiest man in the cell.

But when Chanukah came, Reb Shmuel's face filled with sadness. "How in the world are we going to light Chanukah candles?" he lamented.

We all felt his pain but could not help him. We found no words to cheer him up. Unless another miracle occurred, we had no chance to observe Chanukah in a Soviet prison.

Everyone was heartbroken the first night of Chanukah, Reb Shmuel more than anyone else. After the whistle that signaled that it was time to lie down on our bare beds, the lights in our cell were left burning, as was customary around the world that in prison the lights never go out.

But around midnight the lights did go out. A power failure occurred in the prison compound. Soon after, the guard ran from cell to cell distributing candles so the prisoners should not be in the dark. When the guard opened our cell door with a box of candles in his hands, someone sneaked behind his back and pulled the bottom flap of the box open and the candles spilled all over the floor.

Needless to say, the guard never collected all the spilled candles. As soon as the guard left, we quietly gathered in a corner, and Reb Shmuel, with a radiant face, lit the first Chanukah candle with great devotion. We quietly sang Chanukah songs, and the stronger believers were convinced that it was a Divine act, that a real miracle had occurred.

We managed to light a small candle each night during the eight days of the Festival of Lights. Believe it or not, in a certain way, we had a happy Chanukah.

Sadly, Reb Shmuel did not survive the Soviet labor camps. However, he did leave us a prayer book handwritten on small pieces of paper in the Zhitomir prison, which remains in the hands of my brother, Simcha. Reb Shmuel remembered all prayers by heart. The prayer book went through many searches and was never discovered. It is a work of art, which my brother cherishes to this day.

Harry Langsam, 82, lives in Los Angeles.