Smuggling Kosher into Prison

11 Shevat, 5708 / January 22, 1948

Food packages – but not on Shabbos!

For five months, I searched in vain to pinpoint my husband’s whereabouts, and also tried to ascertain whether he received the packages that I sent to Kiev and Dnepropetrovsk in his name. They would always respond, “He is not here.”

While seeking solutions—no one would advise me, for everyone was afraid to get involved—I received a notice from the Yekaterinoslav 18 prison informing me that Levik Zalmanovitch Schneerson is being held in cell number…, and that I have permission to supply him with food and money.

First and foremost, I was overjoyed to know that my husband was alive. Furthermore, I would be able to bring him whatever possible. After all the difficulties and formalities that I had been forced to endure, I supplied him with a package of food.

The day for receiving packages at the prison was determined by the alphabet, divided over the course of ten days. The first time I gave them a package, he did indeed receive it, and I received a receipt with his signature. His second turn, determined by the first letter of his name, occurred on Shabbos. I prepared everything on Friday, and on Shabbos morning I took along a Russian girl to carry the package to the prison. Now, more than four kilograms of food, including bread, could not be sent, and if I didn’t go on the allotted day, I would have had to wait another ten days.

Also, of the four kilograms of bread that I had brought, the guards “took tithes” twice. I was also certain that he did not eat any of the prison food. Taking all this into account, I reasoned that it was permissible to do this on Shabbos.

Yet, after waiting from seven in the morning until seven in the evening—by which time it was completely dark—I received a note which the commanding officer read out aloud in the presence of many others also standing in line (although they didn’t understand its message): “Since today is Shabbos, I did not take the package.”

To cope with such an experience one needed my husband’s resoluteness and piety. This, despite the fact that for six months he had existed only on black bread and water, living through incredible suffering, and knowing that he would need to wait quite a while until he could receive another package.

After great effort I managed to convince the prison administrator to give him the package in three days’ time—although my husband derived more pleasure from refusing to take the package on Shabbos than of receiving it ahead of his next turn.

From then on the staff dubbed him: “The man who refuses to receive packages on Shabbos.”

For the full diary entry please click here.

To read the first installment, click here.