This article originally appeared in Yated Neeman, Monsey NY. and is reprinted here with their permission

When the Nazi henchmen arrived at the doors of the famed Kelm Talmud Torah, all those inside knew the fate that awaited them. Yet before the men were to be led off to the killing fields, Rav Doniel Movoshovitz asked his executioners for one minute to make a final preparation. The request was granted, and Reb Doniel used this brief moment to brush his teeth and cleanse his mouth with mouthwash.

Why, with certain death looming before him, did he perform this particular act? Reb Doniel explained that since within minutes he was going to become a korban, he wanted to make certain his offering would not emit an unpleasant odor.

I recently came across this amazing story in a book of inspirational tales that a person who was preparing for surgery was reading. Since then, I can't seem to be able to get it out of my mind.

How could anyone, when faced with such a situation, have the presence of mind--the inner calmness, the absolute bitachon--to perform such an incredible act of sanctification?

For the average person facing such a death, it would perhaps be natural, even forgivable, to experience a moment of confusion or grief. From a tzaddik, one would expect a little more: that he accept his fate with love and, perhaps, even joy. But to go that extra step; to actively prepare oneself so that the sacrifice of one's life is as perfect as possible-is such a level of messirus nefesh really possible? Is that something that a human being can realistically aspire to?

That was Kelm, and that was Reb Doniel.

I know this because my grandfather, Rav Leizer Levin, zt"l, the late rav of Detroit, learned in Kelm. He had the privilege of being a talmid of Reb Doniel for seven years. When I was young, I was aware of my zeide's tremendous awe for his teacher, and so I would often ask him to tell me about Reb Doniel.

"What can you, a young American boy, understand about Kelm?" my zeide would reply. "Maybe one day, when you're older, you'll be ready to hear."

Needless to say, I was always disappointed when I got this answer. What I didn't know at the time, but which I now understand, is that every time I was in my grandfather's presence, I was actually getting to know quite a lot about Reb Doniel.

My grandfather used to say that during the seven years he spent learning at Kelm he worked on just one middah. That middah was savlonus-patience.

I was a witness to the fruits of his labor. I never saw my grandfather get angry. Not even once. In fact, I never saw him even on the verge of anger.

He never lost control of his emotions. He never lost his ability to think clearly and calmly before reacting. He never lost his desire to ensure that his every word and his every action would be a pleasing offering to Hashem.

He had learned this from his great mussar teacher, Reb Doniel. And then he passed on what he had learned to the many people with whom he came into contact.

But I am not writing this just to speak about the past-about my grandfather and Reb Doniel. I am writing this to speak about the present. About us, who are so, so far away from Kelm that we cannot even imagine how distant we are.

Baruch Hashem, we have not been tested as was the previous generation, and hopefully we will never undergo such horrors again. Yet every day, in our own little way, each one of us confronts trials. And every day we have to ask ourselves, how did we fare? Did we pass the test, or did we fail?

Every morning when we wake up, we thank Hashem for returning our souls to us and for having enough faith in us to give us yet another day of life. We thank Him because we know that each and every day is a unique gift. Yet seldom do we think about what we do with this precious gift.

When the brand new, sparkling, clean day is over and it comes time to hand it back to Hashem before we go to sleep, can we look back in satisfaction and say that this day-with all its actions, large and small-is suitable to give as an offering to Hashem.

Think about Reb Doniel. With his great strength of character he could elevate a mundane act such as cleansing his mouth into a spiritual act that shook the very foundations of the universe.

We live in troubled times, and every day seems to bring yet another test.

There seems to be so much that is bombarding us, distracting us, pulling us in a million directions. The day rushes by, and we didn't accomplish half of what we wanted to. There never seems to be time to stop, and to think, and to consider. And precisely because we feel so exhausted and so anxious and stressed out, we are in danger of getting even more lost and confused.

The baalei mussar point out that such confusion is a prime weapon in the arsenal of the yetzer hara. By diverting us-spiritually, emotionally and intellectually-the yetzer hara can jump in and make us lose total control.

When this happens, instead of using our mouths, our gift of speech, to elevate ourselves and others and come closer to Hashem, we get mixed up and do the exact opposite. The energy we should be investing in the words of our tefillos and brochos gets used up instead in speaking lashon hara. Instead of carefully considering how we can use our words to encourage our children, give support to our spouses or show honor and respect to others, we get frustrated.

Such thinking had no place in Kelm. There was no such thing as a word that didn't count, an action that was insignificant. There were no allowances for a momentary loss of control. A plea of temporary insanity was not accepted within the walls of the Beis Medrash.

My grandfather's path was to practice savlonus-to learn how to be patient with himself and with others. He learned in Kelm that, before he spoke, he had to take the time to compose his thoughts and consider his words. He had to learn how to resist the temptation to get caught up in the tumult of emotion-the desire to make the point, win the argument, prove the rightness of his position, no matter the cost. He learned how to stay in control, how to remain silent, how to keep focused on a higher goal.

Speech in Kelm was refined, pure. The goal was to make every word of every conversation a fit offering to Hashem. It took tremendous strength of character to achieve such an exalted level, and yet we have reliable testimony that such a level was, indeed, achieved. And not just by one or two men, but an entire community.

So even though it may seem to us that those giants from another age are way beyond us, there is one aspect of Kelm we can try to emulate even here, on our distant, arid shores. We can try to take the time, before we speak, to pause for a few moments and consider our words. We can try to cultivate the quality of patience so that we will have the ability to treat others as we would like to be treated.

And we can ask ourselves one simple question, a question that also has the power to elevate the world: Will what I am about to say to my fellow man find favor with Hashem? Are my words as clean and perfect as they possibly can be?

Kelm may be gone. My grandfather passed away nine years ago, and there are only a few survivors of the Kelmer Talmud Torah still alive.

Yet all is not lost. The path to Kelm is still here; the path of serving Hashem through constant refinement of our midos, speech and all facets of daily life, even if the place that was Kelm is only a memory of the past.