The following words, delivered on Passover before the memorial service known as Yizkor, elicited some of the most powerful reactions I can recall from any talk I’ve ever given. If emotionally you do not feel ready for such an experience, Please do not read further. I mean that.
Mingled Memories Pesach VIII 5785
Today we will recite Yizkor for two groups of people. The first group is the relatives, friends, and loved ones whom we have recalled for years, some for many years. The other is comprised of the holy souls of Operation Iron Swords - the soldiers, hostages, security forces, and residents of all Israel, who were murdered over the last almost 600 days.
I’d like to ask a peculiar question: What would happen if the people for whom we’ve recited Yizkor for many years were to meet those for whom we have said Yizkor and prayed these last two years, since October 7, 2023?
Now I know it is impossible for anyone to know for sure. We do not know what goes on in the celestial spheres, and there are so many factors to consider, but just for the sake of a spiritual exercise, let’s explore some of the possibilities. What would such a conversation be like? Who would teach a lesson to whom? Which group would benefit from the conversation, and how?
To begin with, it is possible that no one will be granted the privilege of beholding the holy martyrs of Iron Swords. Some souls are so lofty that one must be righteous indeed to gaze upon them.
But let’s assume that the relatives and friends for whom we have always said Yizkor, are granted a dispensation to meet the chayalim and shotrim and kedoshim and chatufim who are now in Gan Eden. One possible conversation would be based on the famous story, available on Aish.com, of the Rabbi and the Professor.
The year was 1982. Once again, Israel was at war. Soldiers were mobilized, reserve units activated. Among those called to duty was a Reserves soldier, a university student who made his living as a high school teacher: Shlomo Aumann, Professor Yisrael Aumann's son. (Prof. Aumann was later to become a Nobel Laureate in Economic Sciences - 2005) On the eve of the 19th of Sivan, in particularly fierce combat, Shlomo fell in battle.
"They are all holy."
Rav Gustman mobilized his yeshiva: All of his students joined him in performing the mitzvah of burying the dead. At the cemetery, Rav Gustman was agitated: He surveyed the rows of graves of the young men, soldiers who died defending the Land. On the way back from the cemetery, Rav Gustman turned to another passenger in the car and said, "They are all holy." Another passenger questioned the rabbi: "Even the non-religious soldiers?" Rav Gustman replied: "Every single one of them." He then turned to the driver and said, "Take me to Professor Aumann's home."
The family had just returned from the cemetery and would now begin the week of shiva -- mourning for their son, brother, husband and father. (Shlomo was married and had one child. His widow, Shlomit, gave birth to their second daughter shortly after he was killed.)
Rav Gustman entered and asked to sit next to Professor Aumann, who said: "Rabbi, I so appreciate your coming to the cemetery, but now is time for you to return to your Yeshiva." Rav Gustman spoke, first in Yiddish and then in Hebrew, so that all those assembled would understand:
"I am sure that you don't know this, but I had a son named Meir. He was a beautiful child. He was taken from my arms and executed. I escaped. I later bartered my child's shoes so that we would have food, but I was never able to eat the food -- I gave it away to others. My Meir is a kadosh -- he is holy -- he and all the six million who perished are holy."
Rav Gustman then added: "I will tell you what is transpiring now in the World of Truth in Gan Eden -- in Heaven. My Meir is welcoming your Shlomo into the minyan and is saying to him ‘I died because I am a Jew -- but I wasn't able to save anyone else. But you -- Shlomo, you died defending the Jewish People and the Land of Israel.' My Meir is a kadosh, he is holy -- but your Shlomo is a Shaliach Zibbur – a Cantor in that holy, heavenly minyan."
Rav Gustman continued: "I never had the opportunity to sit shiva for my Meir; let me sit here with you just a little longer."
Professor Aumann replied, "I thought I could never be comforted, but Rebbi, you have comforted me."
Yet there is another possible scenario: Some of our parents and grandparents were so broken by their experiences in the Holocaust, that they, perhaps, through no fault of their own, were not the best parents they might have been, and, nebech, left scars on those closest to them. Imagine their meeting some of the soldiers who, despite all hardship, went to their deaths with faith and courage, even writing letters of faith to those left behind:
Like Staff Sgt A. : Staff Sergeant A. - 20 years old (from Tzahal’s site - only the initial “A” is provided.)
I never imagined I would have to write something like this in my life. I tried pushing this off time and time again but I was told we’ll be entering Gaza tomorrow and there’s a chance we won’t be back, and there are a few things I need you to know before this is over.
Dear Mom and Dad, though I don’t show you a lot of love and don’t spend a lot of time with you, know that I appreciate you so, so much. Even when I was going through a tough time you never stopped trying to help and get close to me, even when I spoke to you disrespectfully and gave up on everything you didn’t give up on me…
Little Ori, my little sister, I don’t think God can create another such adorable, perfect thing like you. I am writing this after not having seen you for two weeks and it feels like forever, I wish I could hug you just one last time.
I don’t know how a girl your age is meant to read such a thing, or how you’ll take it, but always remember I love you and I miss you. If you’d like, you can speak to me in your thoughts, I will listen to you from above…
I am going into this war knowing I might not be coming back, but I believe wholeheartedly in what I am doing. We have no other country, and now it is my turn to defend it, and fight the battle of all the civilians, soldiers, babies, elderly and women who were helpless in the face of Hamas’ brutality.
This is the way my parents raised me, this is what I believe in, I hope you will remember me,
A.
I’d like to offer one final possibility:
In 2004 I wrote a song called Yeshivat Tanchumin. Its premise was that there are some neshamot that are too mired in sadness and questioning to accept their rightful reward from heaven. To sooth them and prepare them to rise, there is a Yeshiva in which children who were victims of terror are the teachers. Their love and lessons take the edge off of the anxiety of the questioning souls. At that time, the children included Koby Mandel, Shalhevet Pass and others kedoshim.
Yeshivat Tanchumin
©2004 Moshe Rosenberg
I
One aching soul
Ascending on high
Hitchhiking on clouds
Too tired to fly
The hum of the hospital
Fading away
The last of his tubes
Disconnected that day
Why all the suffering?
Why all the pain?
What did I do?
He pondered in vain
II
A young mother’s plea
Don’t take me away!
My children still need me
Each passing day
Who’s going to dress them?
Cradle their head?
Offer a band aid ?
Tuck them in bed?
How can my husband
Be left behind?
How can G-d do this
And call Himself kind?
III
And a little hand took theirs and said “you’ve really got to stay.”
“The shiur is beginning and it’s my first turn today.”
She walked on pudgy baby feet through pairs of golden doors.
“What’s your name, sweet little one?” “Shalhevet Pass—What’s yours?”
Before he could respond, a speedy figure whizzed on by.
“That’s Koby on his skates,” she giggled. “What a crazy guy!
You have to meet my friends Shaked and Noya and Liran,
Tehilla, Shmuel, Binyamin, and on and on and on.
(REFRAIN)
This is Yeshivat Tanchumin
First stop for the most battered soul
Where tears will be dried as love is applied
And shattered lives once more made whole
IV
When Hashem first took me in his lap, my questions went away
But it hurt me that my Ema cried about me every day
“Couldn’t I just speak to her to say that I’m OK?”
“Not directly, shayfaleh, please find another way”
So last night while my mother slept, I crept into her bed.
Smoothed the tension in her face, and then caressed her head.
She won’t remember when she wakes how I combed out her hair.
But deep down her neshama knows: her Shalhevet was there!
(REFRAIN)
This is Yeshivat Tanchumin
First stop for the most battered soul
Where tears will be dried as love is applied
And shattered lives once more made whole
V
Each talmid successively told tales of comforting.
Anonymously helping parents cope and live and sing.
Listening their visitors felt all their sadness lift.
Receiving from the purest lips this holy precious gift.
The last one turned and faced the group with stark simplicity:
“I’ve no one to visit ‘cause my parents came with me.
So I spend my time consoling the Ribono Shel Olam.
Did you know He cries each day until Mashiach comes…
(REFRAIN)
This is Yeshivat Tanchumin
First stop for the most battered soul
Where tears will be dried as love is applied
And shattered lives once more made whole
VI
Two graceful souls
Ascending on high
Lighter than clouds
Eager to fly
Inspired by children
No longer glum
Ready to sample
The World to Come
Looking to lessen
Somebody’s fears
Hoping to dry
The Almighty’s tears
Twenty years later, is it too much to picture little Ariel Bibas fluttering on wings of the butterfly named after him, visiting his parents and siblings to offer comfort, to teach them and us transcendence, to help us dry the Ribono Shel Olam’s tears.
And our own.