The long train let out three piercing whistles as it pulled into the station in the Romanian town of Suplacu de Barcău on the night of June 22, 1944. On the platform, between two rows of local gendarmes, stood the Jews who had been driven from their homes, residents of the town and nearby villages (Borumlaca, Leşmir, Balc). They murmured prayers under their breath; only the cries of children could be heard. A heavy fog blanketed the sky, as if shielding it from witnessing the suffering and humiliation of its tormented children.
The train that had just arrived was already packed with Jews taken from villages in the Crasna and Şimleu Silvaniei regions. It stopped once more, to take on additional victims.
As the train came to a halt, SS soldiers leapt out, shouting harsh commands and pushing aside the gendarmes on the platform. They quickly seized control of the situation. Shouting “Schnell! Schnell!” they forced the terrified crowd of Jews into an empty freight car, then hurled their belongings in after them. From the overcrowded cars came desperate cries for water, but no one responded.
Lajos Bagossy, a local worker at a lime factory near the station, did not return home that night due to the curfew imposed on the town. The night shift workers never arrived, and he remained there alone. The commotion at the nearby station drew him in, and under cover of darkness he approached the train cars.
At the third car, through the wooden boards blocking the train window, he saw an outstretched hand holding a small bundle wrapped in newspaper. He stepped closer and heard a strained voice whisper: “I know they are going to kill us. What’s in this paper is all that remains of my life.” The man inside asked Bagossy to take it.
Bagossy took the bundle and hid it beneath his shirt. He reassured the man and promised it would be kept safe. The elderly man, speaking with difficulty, blessed him: “Dear sir, may God’s blessings be upon you all your life if you safeguard this package.”
With a heavy heart, Bagossy parted from the man, and from his townspeople, who were being taken to their deaths as the train continued on to Auschwitz. He slipped away unnoticed. The train, with its eleven overcrowded cars, pulled out of the station, leaving a trail of tears behind it. Only when Bagossy reached a safe place did he unwrap the newspaper, revealing a handwritten notebook in a script he did not recognize.
The Bagossy family preserved the notebook with devotion from that day on. Everything we know about this story comes from a letter written by Bagossy’s grandson, which was attached to the notebook when it reached us. The notebook and the story of how it came into their hands, was passed down from father to son, until the moment came to give it a new ending, with the help of Avraham Ohlbaum.
Architect Avraham Ohlbaum, who was also a distinguished Torah scholar, was born in 1937 in Cluj-Napoca, Romania. At the age of seven, he and his family were forced into the local ghetto. While most of its inmates were sent to their deaths in Auschwitz, Avraham and his family were placed on the Kastner train and survived. After a brief stay in Switzerland, the family immigrated to Israel and settled in Tel Aviv.
Many years later, during a visit to Budapest, a tour guide introduced Ohlbaum to a local man known for his affinity toward Jews, who came from near Ohlbaum’s hometown. The man was the grandson of Lajos Bagossy and bore his grandfather’s name. He had inherited the notebook and continued to safeguard it faithfully.
Over time, a bond of trust and friendship developed between the two. Bagossy eventually entrusted the notebook to Ohlbaum, along with the letter recounting the manuscript’s remarkable journey. Sixty-nine years after the elderly Jewish man had placed his treasure in the hands of a compassionate stranger, the notebook made its way to Israel, to the place where the treasures of the Jewish People are preserved.
In 2025, following the passing of Avraham Ohlbaum, his widow Ora entrusted the notebook to the National Library of Israel. When it was opened, it became clear that it contained the Torah insights of Shmuel “Shmelke” Klein. Shmuel was born to his father Moshe, the rabbi of Cehu Silvaniei, though his exact year of birth remains unknown. He wrote this notebook of insights in 1897, while in the city of Šurany. From its pages, we learn that by 1909 he was in Oradea, and by 1920 he was serving as rabbi in the nearby village of Aleșd. We were unable to locate his name among the victims listed at Auschwitz, but it is likely that he perished there.
Shmuel was the younger brother of Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Klein, who succeeded their father as rabbi of Cehu Silvaniei. Shlomo Zalman Klein is the great-grandfather of Knesset member Yair Lapid, and his manuscripts were donated to the Library several years ago. Now, with the arrival of this notebook, the writings of the two brothers are reunited under one roof.
Was the elderly man on the train Shmuel Shmelke Klein himself? And if so, why did he choose to take with him, on his final journey, this particular notebook, his youthful writings from 1897? Of course, he could not carry all of his works with him. Yet this choice invites reflection. Did he wish to preserve the first fruits of his early days of Torah study? Did it contain insights that were especially dear to him? Sadly, we will never know. We are left only to wonder.
This modest notebook stands as testimony to a final human decision made in the face of death, to preserve one’s spiritual creation so that it might endure. It is also a testament to the power of human kindness: a simple factory worker who chose to risk himself and extend a hand, and a family that honored that promise and safeguarded it across generations. Sent out through the window of a death train, the notebook has now reached the National Library of Israel, where it is preserved among the treasures of the Jewish People.
