My name is Shmuel Halevi Rosenholtz.

I am 23 years old.

My friends and classmates call me ‘The Masmid,’ which means a devout and smart student because I study at the Yeshiva in Hebron, and I love to learn Torah! My teachers and peers say I have a special relationship to the Jewish faith and its books. I try to live by example and am committed to an exceptionally virtuous life. I learned this from my father, the Rabbi Avraham Yaakov Rosenholtz.

 

It was late in the afternoon on Friday, August 23, 1929 as I began my weekly preparations for Shabbat at the Hebron Yeshiva. I had walked over to the school, as was my duty and tradition, despite rumors that danger was brewing in the nearby Arab villages. I wasn’t too worried as we had lived side by side with no conflict for some time now. I arrived at the Yeshiva and sat alone, peacefully studying the Gemara, an ancient Hebrew text, in the solemn halls of this holy place. The silence was shattered when a mob kicked in the door and stormed into the school. Whipped into a frenzy of false reports of Jewish committing atrocities against Arabs, the mob was looking for any Jew they could find for their ill-informed vengeance. I was brutally beaten with stones and knives and my blood poured over the sacred texts from which I read. The mob stabbed me to death and left my body left on the floor where I had spent much of my life in prayer. I was the first of 67 deaths that occurred during the proceeding Hebron Massacre.

My name is  Shmuel Halevi Rosenholtz. I am 23 years old.  And I am one of The Fallen Faces.

 

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