Among the dramatic tales in 90 Seconds by Nachman Seltzer, one story has stood out as foundational in the way United Hatzalah presents its origin: the tale of a Holocaust survivor saved by a teenage Eli Beer.
The narrative is cinematic. As Seltzer recounts it:
“Blood was gushing out of the man’s neck as if a faucet had been opened and couldn’t be closed… Suddenly Eli had an idea. Reaching up to his head, he removed his kippah and folded it in half. Then he shoved it into the hole in the man’s neck, trying his best to stop the blood from spurting out.”
According to the book, Eli’s improvised action worked. The man survived long enough to be transported to the hospital. Days later, Eli receives a call:
“‘It was my father who was injured in the car accident two days ago.’ … ‘I just wanted to let you know that he woke up today. During the conversation, someone mentioned that you were the one who stopped the bleeding. We wanted to thank you for saving his life.’”
When Eli visits, the story reaches its emotional climax.
“The old man, who must have been around seventy years old, was propped up in bed… His face was pale but his eyes were clear and he said, ‘Come here, young man, I want to give you a hug.’”
And then, the symbolic reveal:
“Then he noticed something else. The man had a number on his arm… And if that was the case, then I knew that I needed to reach for the sky.”
This story has been repeated in speeches, interviews, and fundraising appeals as proof of Eli’s destiny and the spiritual foundation of United Hatzalah’s work. It is easy to see why: the child of Jerusalem saving a Holocaust survivor is the perfect bridge between past catastrophe and future redemption.
But here is the problem: the book never provides the survivor’s name. Not in this chapter, not in a footnote, not in a caption. The story even hinges on his tattooed number, yet the number itself is never printed. For a book otherwise packed with names, photographs, and celebrity encounters — a book that documents “every handshake and snapshot with influential figures” — the absence of even the most basic identifying details is glaring.
This raises obvious questions. If the encounter was as pivotal as the narrative insists, why not name the man? Why no photograph from the hospital, when the book is overflowing with pictures elsewhere? Why is there no testimony from family members, no record of the date, no medical detail beyond Eli’s own description?
These questions do not prove the story false. But they do underscore that it cannot be independently verified. That matters, because this episode has been used again and again in fundraising contexts to establish Eli Beer’s credibility and inspire donors. If a single story is leveraged as the symbolic foundation of an organization’s mission, then the minimum standard should be transparency.
Without a name, a number, or any verifiable record, the “Holocaust survivor story” remains a narrative device rather than a documented fact. And that leaves donors and readers with the only questions that matter: Who was this man? What was his name? What was the number tattooed on his arm?
Plug an artery with a kippah? Was it phelt? or srugha? mmmmwwwaaahhhhh. What a salesman.