Rosh Hashana - Parshas Ha'azinu 5785
- Torah Tavlin
- Oct 2, 2024
- 10 min read
תשובה תפילה וצדקה מעבירין את רוע הגזירה ... (סדר מוסף לר"ה)
The following story is told by R’ Yitzchok Zilberstein shlita in his sefer, Aleinu L’shabeiach. Meshulam was a star pupil in his cheder, and his parents had enormous nachas from him. Unfortunately, Meshulam’s spiritual descent began at age 17, when his mother passed away. One day, he informed his father that he was taking a trip to India together with a few friends. His father was heartbroken, and his anguish over Meshulam’s spiritual deterioration compounded the grief he felt over the loss of his wife. “Meshulam,” he said in a defeated voice, “what does a frum bachur have to do in India?"
Meshulam laughed cynically. “Do you think I’m still frum? I’m looking to find meaning in life elsewhere.”
His father could not believe his ears. He had known that Meshulam was wavering, but never thought he had deteriorated to this level. Meshulam, for his part, was unmoved by his father’s distress. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said impassively.
His father’s face reddened in fury. “Forgive you? After everything I did for you? After the chinuch that your mother worked so hard to give you? That’s how you say thank you? I’m done with you! If you throw away everything that’s important to a Jew, you’re no longer my son. I will never forgive you!” These were the last words Meshulam heard his father say.
Three years passed. Meshulam did whatever he pleased while in India. But his trip was marred by the nagging memory of his wrenching parting with his father. Since that time, he had tried calling his father on the phone dozens of times, but his father had not answered, nor had he responded to Meshulam’s letters. One day, as Meshulam was traveling through a city in India and shopping at the local market, he met an old friend from New York who had been in cheder with him.
The two enjoyed a warm reunion, reminiscing about old times and exchanging experiences. At some point during the conversation, the friend’s face took on a serious expression, and he said, “Meshulam, I am very sorry about your father.”
“My father?” Meshulam asked in confusion. “What happened to him?”
“You mean you don’t know that your father died of a heart attack six months after you left?” the friend asked in disbelief. “They say that he died of a broken heart because you left him and traveled to India. You didn’t know?”
Meshulam felt as though he had been stabbed in the heart. From that moment, something changed in Meshulam. He couldn’t stop crying. Finally, he decided to travel to Israel to pray. His friends made fun of his decision, but he ignored them, and booked the next flight to Israel. When he landed, he headed straight for the Kosel HaMaaravi.
On his way, he began to wonder whether he was even worthy of praying at the Kosel, after having abandoned Judaism and having caused his father to die of a broken heart. Haltingly, and with deep emotion, he approached the weathered stones of the Kosel. He placed his head upon the stones, and his tears blended into the many other tears that had soaked the Kosel’s stones before. He cried for his past, for his present, and for his uncertain future. Most of all he cried for having caused his father such pain. How could he ever find forgiveness for his sins? How could he ever forgive himself? His tears flowed unrelentingly.
A person standing near him took note of his distress and suggested that he write what was bothering him on a note, a kvittel, and place it between the stones of the Kosel. Meshulam liked the idea, and he wrote a note that came from the depths of his heart. “Father, I am here in the holy city of Yerushalayim, at the Kosel HaMaaravi. If your soul sees me from on high, I ask you to please forgive me! I did not mean to hurt you; it was only my yetzer hara that made me act so foolishly. I promise you that I will do complete teshuvah, and from now on I will follow the path that you and my mother taught me. Father, can you forgive me? Your son, Meshulam.”
A fresh wave of tears cascaded down Meshulam’s face as he slipped the note into a crack in the Kosel, but he did feel much better now. The note fell to the floor, however, and when Meshulam picked it up and tried to put it back into the Kosel, it fell down again. As much as he tried to get the note to stay wedged inside the Kosel, it would not remain in place.
Meshulam was deeply distressed by what he saw as Heaven’s refusal to accept his teshuvah. Again, despair swept over him. In a last-ditch effort, he decided to try to insert the note between the next layer of stones in the Kosel. He climbed onto a chair and pushed the mote deep between the stones. This time, to his relief, the note remained in its place. But another note that had been wedged in that same place fell out just as Meshulam was placing his own note there. He picked up the other note to put it back into the Kosel, and to his shock, he saw that the word “Meshulam” was written on the outside of the note.
He took a closer look at the note and realized that the handwriting was familiar. This was the way his father had always written his name! With trembling hands, he opened the note, which was already tattered and yellowing. These were the words he read inside: “Ribono Shel Olam! Have pity on Meshulam ben Rivka, my young son who traveled to India two months ago. Watch over him so that he remains a faithful Jew and forgive him for all of his sins. If I could, I would tell him, My Meshulam, I love you and I forgive you for everything you did. It is true that when we parted, I was very angry at you, and I said that I would never forgive you, but you should know, my dear son, that I have changed my mind, and I do forgive you. I hope and pray to our Father in Heaven that He forgives you as well, and draws you back to Him in complete teshuvah. I hope that when the day comes, you will marry a G-d-Fearing Jewish girl, and you will merit to raise holy, pure children to a life of Torah and mitzvos. Your father who loves you dearly, Yaakov ben Sarah.”
Now, the floodgates opened in Meshulam’s heart, and he cried his heart out, like a young child. When he left the Kosel several hours later, he was a complete Baal teshuvah. Today, R’ Zilberstein concludes in his sefer, Reb Meshulam has four beautiful children, who are following in the ways of the Torah.
כבקרת רועה עדרו מעביר צאנו תחת שבטו כן תעביר ותספור ותמנה ותפקוד נפש כל חי .... (סדר נתנה תקף במוסף ראש השנה)
For the better part of thirty years Reb Gershon was a permanent fixture at the entrance to the private quarters of R’ Tzvi Hirsch Spira zt”l, the Munkatcher Rebbe, devotedly serving as his Shamash, supervising the Rebbe’s comings and goings from daybreak to late night, day in and day out, season after season. He and his wife had no children and lived near the outskirts of the city from where he made his way to the Rebbe’s residence early each morning.
And then one day Reb Gershon, a man of wide build and few words, was simply not there anymore. The towering figure had vanished from his Shamash post like a piece of furniture gone missing. Prior to his sudden disappearance, Reb Gershon had been absent only when the Rebbe had personally summoned him inside. With honed intuition, he knew precisely when the Rebbe could be seen and when he needed to be left alone. But now, out of the blue, another man stood in Reb Gershon’s place.
Reb Gershon could later be spotted in the Beis Medrash walking its floors to and fro, occasionally settling into a corner to learn some Torah before resuming his pacing. Anyone daring to inquire of Reb Gershon about his sudden departure from the Rebbe’s court would be met with silence. On one occasion, a revered elder took up stride alongside Reb Gershon in the Beis Medrash, the two quietly walking in step to-gether until Reb Gershon stopped in his tracks, faced the elder squarely and said, “Since I am no longer the Rebbe’s Shamash, it would appear that this is the way it is supposed to be.” No one brought the matter up to him again.
Many years later, when R’ Tzvi Hirsch returned his pure soul to its Maker, his son and successor, R’ Chaim Elazar Spira zt”l, renowned for his sefer Minchas Elazar, took over the mantle of leadership. Still recognized by his statuesque build, though the black of his beard had by now turned starkly white, Reb Gershon was one among the many thousands who would flock to the home of the new Rebbe for advice, counsel and blessings. To the older Chassidim, Reb Gershon was cloaked in a veil of secrecy that still piqued their curiosity. In fact, the mystery surrounding Reb Gershon inevitably made its way into the many stories exchanged among the Munkatcher Chassidim about their previous Rebbe. One night, following a day of fasting and devout praying by countless followers who had converged on the court of the Minchas Elazar a small crowd of Chassidim gathered in a corner of the Beis Medrash. They partook of a L’chayim and shared feelings of contentment, trading Chassidic narratives and anecdotes. Absorbed in one another and infused by the warmth of the atmosphere, they failed to notice Reb Gershon taking a seat at the edge of their table. When they spotted him, it was with a certain degree of incredulity - for all these years he had steadfastly kept to himself. As Reb Gershon sipped the schnapps he was offered, he felt himself become totally at ease. The years seemed to melt away.
As if in a trance, he suddenly began to speak without focusing on anyone, as the others at the table huddled closer together so as not to miss a single word. “Thirty years I served the tzaddik, as thousands upon thousands stepped over the threshold. They came for advice and guidance from near and far - the weary, the heavyhearted. Thirty years.”
As Reb Gershon gripped his glass, the wide-eyed listeners held their collective breath, waiting for more. “Among them was a woman, obviously well-to-do, who would arrive in a horse-drawn carriage. She’d step into the antechamber and anxiously ask for a private audience with the tzaddik. Inside she would break down with great heaving sobs, barely able to get her words out. ‘Rebbe, I have no children,’ she would cry pitifully. ‘Please pray for me. I would give anything; no amount is too steep!’
“But the Rebbe ever moved. It was as if the tzaddik didn’t see her standing there. With a defeated demeanor, she would be escorted out of the room. This scene would repeat itself every couple of months. And who could know her pain better than I, being childless myself? Her anguished cries would rip into my innards, and yet the tzaddik remained unresponsive.”
Reb Gershon sighed heavily, as though the events were just unfolding. “Once, as I stood by the tzaddik’s window, I saw her carriage pulling up. She dashed right past me, before I could stop her. In the Rebbe’s room she fell to her knees and whimpered, ‘This time I am not leaving until you assure me that I will have a child!’ She wailed bitterly and collapsed. I ran to summon help and arranged for the poor woman to be taken to the Rebbetzin’s private chamber.
“When I returned to my post, the tzaddik asked me to relay a message to the poor woman. ‘Tell her that during this coming Rosh Hashana, she should come to our shul to daven; she should stand in the right-hand corner of the women’s section during shofar blowing. With Hashem’s help, she will be blessed with a son.’
“As it happened, I could not transmit the Rebbe’s message straightaway, for I was told to wait outside while the woman regained her composure. As I paced outdoors in the evening air, I pictured how she would return home to her husband and how excited they would be at this great new development. And then, in my mind’s eye I saw my wife and the stillness that prevailed in our own household for so many years now. An inner voice goaded me: ‘Head on home and relay the Rebbe’s instructions to your wife; tell her what the tzaddik said.’ No matter how I tried to quell that inner force, it was of no use.
“The Rebbetzin interrupted my thoughts. I went in to face a broken woman with tear-stained, swollen eyes and couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I escaped the premises and ran home.”
The lights in the Beis Medrash had already gone out. The Chassidim at the table were barely visible to Reb Gershon, who could feel their breath and the palpable tenseness. “That night when I asked my wife whether she desired to have a son, she thought I wasn’t feeling too well. But from the moment I gave her the tzaddik’s instructions, our lives changed and the world took on new meaning for us.
“One day, the woman in the fine carriage showed up at the Rebbe’s court again. She approached me as she had so often in the past and beseeched me to allow her an audience with the tzaddik. I was shocked to see her and began to shake. I hesitated and stalled - and then I heard the Rebbe call my name. He stood in the doorway for long moments that seemed like hours and then motioned for me to come in.
“With eyes averted, he intoned, ‘As of right now, you are no longer my Shamash. You are hereby dismissed from your post.’ I never saw the woman again.
Some weeks later my wife gave birth to a stillborn child. An air of gloom and darkness settled heavily upon us; my despondent wife practically stopped talking to me altogether. Since that day, I have guarded my terrible secret of having snatched away a blessing a blessing that belonged to another.”
Stillness reigned as the first light of daybreak cast its rays through the windows of the large shul. The Chassidim were rooted in their seats, gripped by Reb Gershon’s pain. (Excerpted from “Forever in Awe” by R. Weiss)