When Tragedy Strikes
A horrific tragedy took place within the community of
Boca Raton, Florida, last April. A 12-year-old girl, Shoshie Stern, was killed
in a traffic accident. At an emotional communal gathering, one of the rabbis summed
up everyone’s feelings:
We reel from this tragedy. It
feels like it was just moments ago, hours ago, that we received a phone call or
text message informing us that a 12-year-old girl -- a precious neshamah -- has been lost. The pain is
still so acute, the grief is so overwhelming -- and it could not have happened
to a more special family.
As those who spent time in the shivah home have come to realize, Rabbi Michael
Stern and his Rebbetzin, Denise, are incredibly special people. Tonight, at
their home, they spoke to two people from our community who saw the entire
horrific event unfold. I heard Rabbi Mike turn to Denise and say, “We need to
be here for those who witnessed it. They really went through a very difficult
thing. We have to lift their spirits; we have to give them comfort, because
they are really going through a horrible time.”
Can you imagine! What
extraordinary people -- to think of others even as they are going through this
themselves.
Nothing is
coincidental. Rabbi Paysach Krohn had been called to perform a bris in Boca Raton. Incredibly, the bris turned out to be during the shivah for Shoshie Stern. He was thus asked to
address the community the night before the bris. A large crowd gathered in one of the community shuls. The following
is taken from his words.
We have come together in a week of anguish and in a week of
heartbreak. What happened this past week will affect all of you forever. As a
New Yorker, I can tell you that years ago, 9/11 affected us, and it still
affects us to this day. Similarly, all those who live in Boston will be
affected forever by what happened at the Marathon. And all of you here in Boca
Raton will be affected forever by the sudden terrible, tragic loss of that
special girl, Shoshie Stern.
In Boca, the sun set prematurely, and it cast a pall of
darkness on the entire community. The shadows of this darkness spread across
Jewish communities throughout the world. So many of us who do not live in Boca
feel your pain and share your grief, because whoever we speak to tells us about
the greatness of Shoshie’s parents, Rabbi and Mrs. Stern.
As I was being driven here from the airport, a friend who
knows the Sterns called me and said, “Rabbi Stern was my closest friend growing
up. He is the embodiment of Avraham Avinu. He has an organization called Rabbi
Without Walls, which does just what it says: He does not wait for unaffiliated Jews
to come to him. He goes out to people and is mekarev them.”
I want to tell you a very painful lesson I learned as a
young man. My father passed away when I was only 21. I am the oldest of seven
children. I had known for a while that he was sick. One day, my father was
taken to the hospital in Washington Heights. He had been a talmid of Rav Shimon Schwab, so my brother, Kolman, and I stayed in
the Rav’s home for Shabbos. After having
visited my father in the hospital, we went back to eat the seudah with Rav Schwab and his wife. The Rav asked how our father
was. I answered, “I have bitachon (faith)
that he will get well.”
Rav Schwab became very serious, and taught me a lesson for
life. “Bitachon in Hashem,” he said, “does not mean that your
father will necessarily recover and get well. Faith in Hashem means that we understand that Hashem has a master plan, and He knows what He is doing. It does
not mean that only good things happen.”
Tragedies happen, r”l.
Bitachon means having faith that Hashem knows what He is doing, and that
perhaps one day we will understand. That is why we get together to give each
other chizuk, so that we will not be
broken. At the end of time, we will find out why it happened, but until then,
we face the reality that difficult things occur.
A New Person
A neighbor of mine, Mrs. Gitty Lipsius, teaches in Shevach
High School in Queens. She had a number of children, and then it was a few
years before she was expecting another child. She went through a full-term
uneventful pregnancy, but tragically, the child was stillborn. She was
devastated and sank into depression.
Mrs. Lipsius told me that her father, R’ Gershon
Yankelowitz, had lost his entire family in the Holocaust, and after the war, he
and his wife had trouble having children. After years, they had their first
child, a little girl -- who died only four months later. He had suffered so
much. Eventually, he and his wife had a family. Now, years later, he called his
daughter Gitty and asked her how she was doing. She replied that she was doing
terribly; she could not find herself and did not know how she would ever be the
same again.
Rabbi Yankelowitz said, “My dear daughter, you will never be
the same. You are a new person. Find your newness. Get used to it, and live
with it. When you accept your new situation, you will be able to go on.”
When her father gave her that insight and direction, Mrs.
Lipsius realized how right he was. She told me that once she accepted her new
reality, she felt liberated. From that point on, she was able to return to
being a functioning, accomplishing person.
That is what we must learn to accept here in Boca. We will
never be the same. Once we learn to accept that, and live with that newness, we
will be able to grow.
A Cup of Blessing
A while ago, I got a call from Rabbi Yisrael Rosenfeld who had
been a wonderful mechanech and principal
in Denver, Colorado for many years. I personally have a great debt of gratitude
to him because he was the teacher of my wife, Miriam, who grew up in Denver. Rabbi
Rosenfeld said to me, “In the past, you have done the brissen of a number of my grandsons who live in New York. But now I
have had my first great-grandson! Please come to do his bris at the White Shul in Far Rockaway.”
I was honored to get that call, and so on the designated day,
I arrived early to the White Shul to prepare for davening and the subsequent bris. Before davening, Rabbi Rosenfeld showed me the becher they would be using. He told me that it was very special to
him, because when his parents married in Chust, Hungary, the Satmar Rebbe, Rav
Yoel Teitelbaum, zt”l, gave them that
cup as a wedding gift.
I was impressed, but Rabbi Rosenfeld was not finished. He
continued and told me that he had been in Auschwitz. I was shocked. I had
thought that he was born in Denver. No, he told me, he had been born in Chust,
and when he was 15, the Germans surrounded Chust and turned it into a ghetto.
The Jews learned that they had four days until they would be deported. Rabbi
Rosenfeld’s parents thought they would be sent deeper into Hungary; they had no
idea that they would be sent to Auschwitz.
Yet despite the fact that he was a teenager, Rabbi Rosenfeld
realized that they would not be allowed to take their valuables with them, so
he asked his father to allow him to bury some of their family’s precious possessions
until the time when he would hopefully return and dig them up. His father
consented. He took the atara of his
father’s tallis, his mother’s
candlesticks, his father’s pocket watch and the becher, and ran with them to the area behind his grandmother’s
house, where the ground was very soft (because they had chickens there). With
his hands, he dug as deep a hole as he could and buried those four items.
Four days later, they were sent to Auschwitz where they
stayed for a year and a half. Rabbi Rosenfeld’s father and brothers were murdered
there. He, a sister, and his elderly mother survived. It took months for him to
return to Chust, and when he finally got there, he ran into his home -- but he
was thrown out and threatened with arrest if he came back.
He ran behind his grandmother’s house and tried to remember
where he had buried those precious articles. The ground had hardened, but he
took a piece of wood and started digging. Sure enough, he found all four of the
possessions. The becher had been
flattened by the weight of people stepping on the ground above where it lay
near the surface, but sometime later, Rabbi Rosenfeld had it repaired.
“This cup,” Rabbi Rosenfeld exclaimed, “has been used for
every wedding and every bris in the
family! Today, for the first time, it will be used for the bris of my first great-grandchild. That’s why it’s so special.”
I took the becher
and kissed it, and asked Rabbi Rosenfeld to give the cup to me before the bris because I wanted to address the
crowd before we even started. Thus, after davening
but before they even brought the infant in for the bris, I held the becher
up for all to see and told them its story.
“I believe this becher
represents Klal Yisrael,” I said. “This
becher was buried. This becher was trampled on. This becher was given up for lost -- just
like Klal Yisrael. We have been
thrown out of so many countries, we’ve been beaten and we’ve been given up for
dead after pogroms. But today, here we are, stronger than ever. To me it would
seem that this kos shel brachah is so
special that after the bris,
everybody should line up to sip some wine from this precious becher.”
Sure enough, after the bris, close to 20 people lined up to
drink from that cup of blessing.
And that is what I believe each of us here in Boca tonight must
do. We must strengthen ourselves and become like this kos shel brachah. That is our obligation. From tonight on, each of
us must make a commitment that we will be a cup of blessing for others
in Klal Yisrael. Each of us has
certain talents. Each of us is accomplished in his or her own way. Tonight, we
must look into our hearts and ask ourselves, “How can I become a blessing?”
Tuition Situation
None of us would have wanted this to have occurred, but each
of us will now become a kos shel brachah,
because now we will feel pain for others as never before. Now we will become more
compassionate people. We will do more chessed.
We will understand what it means when a community comes together and the people
give chizuk to each other.
Let me give you an example. There is a fellow named Shabsi in
London who has a job as the head of the tuition committee of a local yeshivah. It
is a job nobody wants. Shabsi told me that as the tuition committee leader, he called
a wealthy fellow, Feivel, a few days before Pesach to remind him that he owed the school £2,000, which the
school needed desperately to pay the staff before Yom Tov. Feivel said that he would take care of it that day and
promised that he would come to Shabsi’s home later that afternoon. Shabsi waited,
but Feivel did not show up.
A few weeks passed. Now it was a few days before Shavuos. Shabsi made another phone
call to remind Feivel of their previous conversation. Feivel protested that he
had indeed come to drop off the money that day, but he had not been able to
find parking, so he gave an envelope with the money in it to Shabsi’s eight-year-old
son who had been playing outside the house. Shabsi went to ask his son about
it. The boy said that he did not remember any envelope.
Shabsi called back Feivel and said that it was pretty
irresponsible to trust a youngster with so much money, but before going to a din Torah to work it out, he would go up
and down his block to see if anyone found it. The block was full of frum families, and he asked everyone if
they had found a white envelope. Finally one neighbor, Henoch, responded by
asking, “Do you mean the one with £2,000 in it?”
“Yes, exactly,” said Shabsi. He went on to tell the finder
the whole incident.
“You won’t believe this,” Henoch said. “A few days before Pesach, I was laid off. I had no idea
how I would make Pesach. I
didn’t want to go home and tell my wife. I walked around, trying to decide what
to do, and there on my lawn was an unmarked envelope with money inside. Like
manna from heaven. That’s how I covered our Pesach expenses. However, now that you tell me that it is money
that belongs to the yeshivah, of course I will pay it back. But it can only be
in increments as I still don’t have a job.”
Shabsi called Feivel to tell him what had happened. What Feivel
said was remarkable. “Tell him to keep the money. I’ll give you another £2,000.
I was once in his position as well, and I can understand what he is going
through.”
And indeed, Feivel brought the money over right away. Why
did he do that? Because he had gone through a similar terrible experience of
being without an income and had learned from it. He had become a kos shel brachah.
That is how we grow. From adversity we feel pain, and that
helps us relate to others in a similar situation. This, then, is a moment of
growth.
Of Chariots and Horses
Finally, I believe that when a tragedy of this scope occurs,
we need perspective. I had a friend in Detroit, Elya Shoenig, who had a son named Chezky. In the winter of 1966,
shortly after his bar mitzvah, Chezky became very ill. He was a wonderful,
respectful child, loved by everyone. By January 1967, the doctors realized that
Chezky had leukemia. Everyone was especially
frightened, because Chezky had had leukemia when he was two. For ten years, it
had been in remission, but now it had returned with intensity.
Chezky’s father did everything he could to
pursue treatments for his son. One day, someone approached him in shul and
said, “Elya, I want you to know that your son will be fine! He’s going to be
healthy again!”
“How do you know that?”
“There is a pasuk,”
the man said, “‘Eileh varechev v’eileh vasusim,
va’anachnu b’sheim Hashem elokeinu naskir
-- Some [the non-Jewish world] with chariots and some with horses,
but we, in the name of Hashem our
G-d, we call out (Tehillim 20:8).’
“The pasuk says that non-Jews rely on ‘chariots
and horses’ to fight their battles, but we call out to Hashem; we’re on a higher level. It’s the same in medicine. Your son is fighting a battle with leukemia.
Perhaps for a non-Jewish child, leukemia would seem hopeless because of
the limitations of medicine, but your son will get better because Hashem is fighting his battle.”
Elya was moved. The more he thought about it, the more
encouraged he became. Soon, he felt positive
that Chezky would get better. Every day, he kept saying the pasuk over and over and convinced himself that this temporary
nightmare would soon be over. Even after Chezky became more ill and needed a
bone marrow transplant at the Harper University Hospital in Detroit, Elya
Shoenig did not lose hope. Interestingly, when the doctor said to Elya, “Mr.
Shoenig, your son is doing better than everybody else on the ward,” he thought,
“Of course, ‘eileh varechev v’eileh vasusim….’”
Tragically, Chezky’s
situation got worse, and a few months later, on an erev Shabbos,
he passed away. The whole Detroit community
was devastated. They had a heartbreaking funeral, just as you had here in Boca.
Every child who knew Chezky was crying, just like every girl here who knew
Shoshie cried.
For weeks
afterward, every time Elya Shoenig said that pasuk during Shacharis
it pained him. And every day the pain grew worse. Wasn’t that the pasuk
that assured him of healing? He was distraught until one morning, he suddenly came
up with this understanding: What was Dovid Hamelech telling us in this phrase?
It is not the battle plan during the war, but the approach after
the war that Dovid was emphasizing.
After the war, when
a non-Jew loses, he says, “If only I would have done something different. If
I’d had a different strategy or different weapons, I could have won.” “Eileh
varechev v’eileh vasusim”
-- if only this, if only that…
However, a Jew does
not look back. He does not say, “If only I had used a different doctor,
different hospital, different treatment…”
Now, he understood
the next pasuk: “Heimah karu v’nafalu -- they slumped and they
fell,” because they thought that they controlled it and could have caused a
different outcome. But “Anachnu kamnu v’nisodad -- we got up and felt invigorated,”
because we knew that no matter what we would have done, the outcome, which was the
will of Hashem, would
have been the same.
Some people may think that maybe Shoshie should not have
crossed that street, maybe she should not have been in that area at that time or
maybe she should have stayed home. But that is not how we should look at it. No
matter what she would have done, and no matter where she would have been
playing, it was going to happen. We can look at the Sterns and say that they
raised a beautiful child. They and their precious daughter did everything they
were supposed to do. We can all be proud of her, proud of her family and proud
of her community.
That’s why we can say with confidence, “‘Ananchnu kamnu v’nisodad’”; we rise and are invigorated, because
she was raised in the most magnificent way. The Sterns did everything they were
supposed to do. And if you do everything that you are supposed to do, you cannot
feel inconsolable about it. You should be proud that such a child was raised in
your wonderful community of Boca Raton. The family, the school and the
community should be proud.
Hashem should help
all of you c
ontinue to be that
kos shel brachah, that
lev
tov to each other, and know that though you have gone through a difficult
time, you will not be broken. You will build yourselves and rebuild the Stern
family; you will give them and anyone, anytime, who may find themselves in
their position
chizuk. May
Hashem bless all of us with strength and
perseverance, for they are the hallmarks of Jews through the ages.
